Miss California Crab

BBC News

California crab is 'fussy lover' Californian fiddler crab females might be the choosiest mates in the world, Animal Behaviour journal reports.
Uca crenulata females will routinely check out 100 or more males before finally picking a mate.



Jeeze, now that's what I call being really 'Picky! Not just the odd 10, or 20, oh no,Miss California Crab sifts through the panting male crabs by the hundreds.

This is a dame with class. Uh huh.

Robin Cook

06/08/2005
Robin Cook, the former Cabinet Minister and MP for Livingston, died today at the age of 59 after being taken ill while walking in the Highlands.



Robin Cook, Foreign Secretary 1997-2001

Tony Blair’s cool response to the death of Robin Cook, his refusal to attend the funeral, shouldn’t be a surprise. Oh dear me no, can’t interrupt our holiday can we?
I don’t think Blair and Integrity get along very well these days.

I’m not the only one who respected Robin Cook for his stance against the Iraq conflict, not the only person to regret the loss of a very rare breed in British politics today.

A politician who had the guts to oppose a war we should never have got into, a war that Blair should not have entered. Perhaps one day we will have a Prime Minister who doesn’t need to hold hands with the USA president all day and all night.

We should be proud we had a politician like Cook. It’s a pity we can’t say the same about Tony Blair.

Let’s remember Robin Cook with some pride.Yep.

Not a Happy Kraut

Watching the news this week , makes for uncomfortable viewing in Britain. It’s over here, it’s a few miles away, places, many of us have used in the past without a second thought.

I think what really pisses me off is the loss of innocence.

Watching the faces of residents evacuated from Notting Hill this week as the police made an armed raid on a block of flats, the bewilderment and the fear made me realise what we have lost.



We know too much about the face of terror now.

You and I won’t be the same, none of us will be the same. Pick up our bags and move on, re-adjust to the world.

On a lighter note, even the humble spud isn’t safe. I have a friend who works in agricultural research, potatoes to be precise. From Germany, comes her anguished email.

Some assehole had stolen her experimental spuds. I expect her prime, disease resistant potatoes disappeared into the evening dinner.

Not a Happy Kraut.

The buggers even stole her scarecrow. Yep.

Singin' In the Rain

The bravura of the reactions to the 7th July bombings has largely dissipated over here, and a very different mood prevails in response to the latest threats. The sense of shock is compounded by the shooting of an innocent man.
A resident evacuated from his flat was quoted as saying that it was all very well being told to soldier on when bombs are apparently being left on his doorstep.


The Mayor of London says that these are difficult times. Yes Ken , they are but forgive us all if we ain’t too happy about innocent people being shot. ‘Executed’ is the right word.

The Lock, Iffley


As an antidote I take some bread down to the river, the geese are greedy sods, beaks wide open at all times. They collect round me with many sharp retorts and pecks, to neighbours. The more savvy ones just park themselves in front and let their beaks hang open.
“Just put it here chum.”
I walked down to the lock this morning in the rain, thinking it would be both wet and peaceful.

Not a bit of it.

A river-boat with a party of very happy and totally sozzled tourists was filling up the lock, creating an incredible level of noise. Bemused, I glanced over at the lock- keeper. The lock- keeper shrugs, it’s party time.

The crew of the preceding boat, stood glumly in the rain, soggy but determined to go boating. The rain drips off sou’westers, and my waterproof has given up being water-proof. As the boat glides through the lock, the Missus does a bit of musical.

“We’re singing IN the rain!” holding her brolly up as they sail down the river. The audience of two, myself and the lock-keeper applaud her efforts.

A fine silver mist comes off the river as the rain pours down but the ducks seem to be enjoying it, bobbing gently in the middle. Nothing like a good downpour say ducks, if you want to relax.
The geese have retired to their homes, fair weather impresarios – as soon as the sun comes out they will showing off with their flotilla parade, sailing majestically in formation.

I stand on the covered bridge enjoying the muted colours, a mixture of silvers and greys, and the cool rain-soaked air.

A squirrel runs along the fence, he has been feeding well by the look of him, nicely plump. He flicks his tail, not liking the moisture and does a vertical climb up the side of the bridge house, seeking shelter under the eaves.

A fisherman sits over on the far bank, he’s going to be there for a while, rain or no rain.

Life on the River

Life on the river is beginning to change. The last batch of chicks are growing up now, taking on their adult colours, we won’t be seeing any more babies until next season.

I notice the youngest goslings are changing. The last of the geese family to have chicks escorts them down the river, and I can see one chick already has his yellow beak, the other one still with a dark beak and his spiky baby hairs.

Only two in this family, which makes me wonder if the parents lost some of their young.


I’ve been watching the bird families on the river since early spring, the geese making the most noise, honking like air raid sirens and flapping wings “Don’t mess with me”.

It’s an impressive sight in the morning as the flotilla of geese parade down the river, with the young positioned in the centre.

Always four adults as guard duty, and no quarter given if anyone gets too near. Wham! The offender gets beaten up, dunked under the water, hit the road Jack.


Photo: Iffley Lock, the Cottage

I sit by the river and listen to geese couples talk, in conversation geese have short deep notes.
One goose doesn’t say so much, I’ll bet my last stick of lip gloss, that’s the guy.
“Yes dear, no dear, of course dear.”
Yea sure, keep the peace dear, and hope she forgets all the other stuff she was laying on me.

The lock-keeper’s cottage is a mass of flowers, the dog a kind of walking carpet, slumps on the path in the heat. The coots splash about near the river bank, preferring the shelter of bushes and reeds.

It’s the end of the year, and the mother coot has had enough, she gets physical with one of the chicks who’s messing about.

Maybe it’s time the kids left home.

Soon the geese will take the migrating flight, but not the Canadian geese.
We will see them on the river over the winter.

Down by the River

All summer long, war has been raging on the river, the backdrop to long sunny mornings, where the bird population guard their chicks, and wait for you to drop them largesse, brown bread, white bread, they don’t care.

The river has also been the backdrop to war waged on us, all of us.

In London on the 7th July, outside London, it doesn’t make a difference – we have all been hurt.

It started slowly – the first report said no more than a loud bang had been heard on the Liverpool rail line. That was around half past nine.

By 12 midday, the world had changed

I came online to some very frightened emails and messages – one in particular from some one who had just woken up in the States, and didn’t know if I was safe.

I work in an Oxford college, stone towers, climbing ivy, green velvet lawns, the lot. I sat at my desk, looking out on the quad, thinking about being alive.


Photogrpah: Iffley Lock, early morning

Down by the river, we have been counting the cost – the mallard hen had produced a brood of 15 bundles of fluff.
The lock -keeper tells me that a magpie had taken out four of the chicks, we both regret the murderous magpie.

“The geese have done well” I remind the lock-keeper, thinking of the daily parade of proud geese parents escorting their young down the river, hissing like kettles at anything that comes near their babies.

The keeper agrees, although ‘they had lost quite a few chicks,have the geese.’

The weeping willow bends down to the river and the geese honk loudly to each other.

Life goes on for them – next year they will be back with a new brood. I look forward to that.

Amid the darker notes

After the events of the 7th July I had to take some time out – rather like many others I suspect.

I am sure many blogs are expressing the anger and the sorrow of that day.

Those of us Brits who live outside London can hardly believe the apparent peace of our surroundings.
News pages, TV newscasts, make for harrowing viewing, the continuing pain of people searching for loved ones, makes your heart ache.

Amid the darker notes, lighter notes can be seen.

In small things.

Two days after the bombs, I walked down to the river, stop to confer with the lock-keeper. We are concerned for the safety of the coots' five chicks.

A seagull attacked last week, and he isn't sure if they survived. I can find two chicks, now so well grown they have gained their adult colouring.

"Not a bad attrition rate" says the keeper when I report the survival of two chicks.


The fate of the moorhens and their babies still cause concern.

Le roast bif!

London joyous, Paris stunned by 2012 vote

LONDON (Reuters) - Supporters of London's bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games reacted with joy and surprise to the capital's shock victory on Wednesday while France struggled to comprehend how Paris had lost.
Thierry Rey, another former Olympic judo champion, summed up the sense of incredulity." "We don't understand...what more could we have done? I wonder if sometimes people don't want us."

Well my froggy friend, you got it in one – no, the IOC don’t want you and maybe yer Msier Chirac will give upon being so rude about ‘Le roast bif’, and the Finns were very unhappy about his comments as well.

Only happened to have a judge on the IOC panel , did the Finns.

Silly buggers, just because we flayed ‘em at Agincourt...sore losers the Frenchies, dunno why they have started making remarks about ‘Just playing the game’

Never knew they felt like that; and they won’t admit we has the most delicious lamb - expect we are in for a season of road blocks and banning of’ ‘Le mutton’ now.
Shucks, I had better sharpen a few arrows. Yep.

It's Looney Tunes

Ok, merely to say that piles of paperwork have morphed into a real job, oh, yes, proper work you know, down the salt-mines again, yep.

On rare moments of breathing in the last week, I caught glimpses of the real world out there – or is it?
At the beginning of the week, get fairly transfixed by Government rumblings on car tax. Rather, use of car to be taxed say the Whitehall bods.

“Motorists to be taxed by the mile!” scream the headlines.

Quick as a flash Railtrack hit back.

‘Due to the expected increase in passenger use of the railways’, they announce without missing a beat ‘We shall have to increase the price of the passenger ticket’.

Game, set, and match.

So, this country wants us to go to work, right?
So, don’t matter if it’s the guzzling car, or the public transport, right?
Us the workers get clobbered both ways. This country is Looney Tunes, how does the economy work, if its folks can’t get to freakin’ work? Huh?

Still, take comfort folks, the Yanks have looney tunes operating over there as well.

My ears are ok, I think they are, but I did hear Georgie Boy announce in a recent address to the Nation, that ‘ The continued insurgence in Iraq is due to 9/11, 2001’.

Ahh, no, no, no. Yes, yes, he repeated the theme, five times in that speech.
He kinda forgot the Yanks (and the Brits unfortunately) invading Iraq, staying in Iraq, not leaving Iraq.

Next time I meet the local voodoo lady in our neighbourhood, I’m gonna shake her by the hand and tell the old witch what a good job she’s doing. Yep.

The Dangly Bits of Mr Gough

"Naked rambler" takes girlfriend on nude UK walk
LONDON (Reuters) - A 46-year-old former Royal Marine who braved 14 arrests and five months in jail to walk the length of Britain wearing nothing but his boots sets out on Thursday to repeat the naked journey -- and this time with his girlfriend.

Well, what's wrong with the odd ramble? Might be rather chilly, after all June in England has not been quite the 'Med' climate the weather bods keep singing about, and the happy couple might end up like a pair of wrinkled prunes.

No law against that.

Given the way the road runners of Britain roar about our highways and byways with intent to deprive the rest of us, our freedom to life, liberty, and all four limbs, I can't see why the guy is a traffic hazard.
Apparently his nude ramblings have earned the intrepid Mr. Gough yet another arrest on that count.

"There are no laws in this country saying you can't walk naked," Gough said. "All it says is that if you are naked and you have an intent to harm, that's a crime. I have no intent to harm. I'm just going to walk from Land's End to John O'Groats."

Yes, that's all he's going to do – ramble a bit, starkers. Fine. Why don't the cops concentrate on the crackpots in their Range Rovers, complete with 'cattle- bars'?

Lock 'em all up and leave Mr. Gough to his walk, with all his dangly bits enjoying the fresh air. That's what I say. Yep.

Burn My Hat!

Thirty-sixth US president Richard Nixon can lay claim to a Welsh heritage, it has emerged.
Nixon, who resigned over the Watergate scandal in 1974, is descended from landed gentry who lived on what is now Wrexham's Caia Park estate
Nixon's genealogy - drawn up when he became president - showed he was a descendant of the 15th Century John Puleston.


Can't say I was very pleased to read this – my dad's family are Welsh, dammit how dare this disgraceful Yank be Welsh, Yakky Dar an' all that?

It just ruins our image as noble Celts, standing up to the Norman krauts, strumming our harps as we get mown down at Offal's Dyke, or somewhere like that.

I'm really pissed off about this, I mean this was the guy that died a political death in his presidential campaign, after we got asked "Would you buy a used car from this man?"



One look at his shifty (now Welsh) face and all the Yanks said "No way."

Everyone in Europe said "No way."

It's enough to make all good Welshwomen (and men) burn their pointy Welsh hats, so it is.

Except for a Mr Ron Saunders of course, who told the BBC

"They do say that he was an excellent president and everybody makes a mistake."

Er, Watergate? Something about criminal behaviour, impeachment, resignation, Hmmmm?

Us Welsh don't, mate, not THAT sort of mistake

In Darkest Brussels

Pausing briefly to lift my head from the pile of papers that represent my 'finding a job' quest, I was somewhat bemused by the latest EU games in darkest Brussels.
Signor Barroso, commission president, it seems is having trouble with his hearing.
I'm sure I heard the French snarl 'Non'.
I'm sure I heard the Dutch sniff 'Nei'.

But, swipe me, the cameras beam in on the EU Palace, out comes the great Broccoli leaf, beaming and nodding.
"Business as usual! " he utters, and all the lesser Brussels sprouts nod and beam in chorus.

No problem, you bunch of cabbage-heads, the totally unwanted European treaty is just as shiny as ever, and we will of course be expecting Britain to have a quickie referendum and ratify, by the weekend would be good.

Uncle Tone is great at skidding backwards. Within hours we were hearing that we wouldn't be 'proceeding' for the time being, nod, nod, and Jack Straw, managing not to look amused, announced a 'period of sober reflection'.

Simon Jenkins, always an astute commentator gets it right when he says in the Sunday Times, that only in Brussels is democracy synonymous with 'disease.' As he points out, these Harvard clones might as well have been on the moon.

What planet are these people on? A thunking great 'No', and we have Jean C Juncker weepily saying that the peasants should be made to vote until 'they got it right.'

Hey? Did he miss the shots of the Dutch jumping up and down in the streets, and screaming with delight as they threw his horrible business plan in the gutter?

Never seen the Dutch so animated in all my life.

Amazing. Gives new life to that saying about 'popping yer clogs'.
Yep.

Reference: Sunday Times News Review 4. The Peasant's Revolt, by Simon Jenkins. June 5, 2005.

Priase the Lord and Surf the Net

BT answers prayers of distracted UK congregation

LONDON (Reuters) - British telecoms operator BT Group Plc has wired up a church in Wales to allow the congregation to hook onto local high-speed Internet connections when they want a break from the sermon.


Jesus, I thought I was fairly bad when it came to hooking up to the net, but it looks like the Welsh are total addicts.

Praise the Lord and surf the Net.

Its true what my mate zaphod said, the Welsh always have the best news.

The vicar said “I have no problem with people quietly sending an email or surfing the Internet in church, as long as they respect the church."

Well, yes, give the good Lord a respectful nod and get on with the surfing.
Like the Vicar said “Got to move with the times.”

Yep, sure do man.

Pizza Rage

What is it about pizza that has people behaving like the insane or something?

I guess we’ve all remember the story about the Aussie convicts who gave up on the hostage, just for pizza??



I came across this:-

Pizza rage lands US woman in jail

Instead of a pizza delivery, Mrs Densmore got a different caller
An 86-year-old US woman arrested for incessantly calling emergency services to complain about a pizza parlour has spent two nights behind bars.
Dorothy Densmore of Charlotte, North Carolina, called the emergency 911 service 20 times in 38 minutes.

This pizza fiend who is all of 5ft, not only demanded that the cops arrested the pizza proprietors, but scratched, kicked and bit the hand of the officer who came to arrest her!

But they did release her from jail pending medical reports.

I’ve been eating the stuff on and off for years – so far, haven’t bitten anyone, at least if I did, in me sleep or something, no one’s complained.
Nope.

Beautiful Boris

Now the dust has settled over the recent election here in Britain, I can see that it was marked by a simply appalling fog of mediocrity, by a mind-numbing procession of politicians who became a blur of ‘sound bites.’

Twitface Howard had his slot, Blair had his slot, with the odd rumble from Two Jags Prescott, but apart from the degrees of insincerity, there was nothing to choose between them.

The only bright spot was ‘Beautiful Boris’ who enlivened BBC Question Time, and if I remember rightly, got sacked yet again for some misdemeanour, in the middle of the election.
No doubt about it, Boris is one on his own.


He simply doesn’t care, he is so politically incorrect that only a madman would include him in an election campaign.

Which is just what Michael Howard did.

I was fairly chuffed to find a website dedicated to Boris and it had some wacky stuff.

When asked about the new 24 hour drinking legislation.
“I’m very attracted to it. I may be diverting from Tory party policy here, but I don’t care."

and

Boris once stated that he had as much chance of being Prime Minister as of being decapitated by a frisbee or of finding Elvis

The only serious facts were these:

Boris Johnson is a Euro-sceptic, British right-wing journalist, Conservative Member of Parliament
and editor of the magazine The Spectator.
Full Name:
Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

Now that’s a name to live up to.

Lets hear it for Boris! Oh yes, he’s written a book called ‘Seventy-Two Virgins’.

He must have enjoyed writing that

Anyone who wants to Boris watch can go here:
http://www.wibbler.com/boriswatch/quotes.php

Designer Dandelions

I didn’t know it, but round where I live, we have designer habitats, here in the land of dog poo. Judging by one of them gardens featured on the telly, us lot are at the height of fashion.

A couple of they designer chappies were waxing lyrical about these gardens in a posh competition, and it did look familiar.

Carefully arranged toilets in a mass of ‘designer weeds’ and assorted rubbish apparently are the new wave idea for gardens. Think they called it ‘urban environment.’

Lots of gardens like that round here. Better even – we got gardens with old cars, and bikes. Some have a few rusty car batteries to add flavour. The really good ones grow lots of dandelions to offset the arrangements of broken chairs and hacked up bits of kitchen.

Those designer chappies should come round here if they need inspiration and mind where you step. The pet life round here has an issue with incontinence, just reminding you like.
Yep.

Stir My Chemistry

Oh Damn, Bother, Blast... I let go of my brain and sat in front of the TV watching Kirstie Allsopp in that property programme

Not the other one, with the other pert property presenter, the one that Mad Dog mentioned and sez he got all them hits.....

Wasted a whole hour watching some obscenely rich designer who wanted two homes... with 'chemistry' you know. And 'features' that 'spoke' to him.

I'll tell the local Council Housing Department that - a designer home with features that stirs my chemistry, is wot I want.

Should go down a blast in Dog Poo land, so it should - watch this space.

Oily Twerps

Good, the election is done with, Uncle Tony is back in Downing Street, well that's just dandy eh?
No Tory government to give us nightmares, so why can't we all sit back and relax? Well folks they are looking for a nice new shiny leader to win all us non-Tory lovers back on their side. Shudder.

But there is one Tory who has taken off his rose-tinted glasses, it is David Willetts MP,Shadow Secretary of State for Work & Pensions.

Never heard of the guy.

But with startling precision for a Tory, Mr Willets writes in the Sunday Times

The Conservative Party does not appear to understand the Britain which it, above all, has brought into being. We have gone from one of the architects of modern Britain - forward looking, individualistic, meritocratic - to being seen as a party that inhabits a different country from most of our fellow citizens.


Got it sunshine, got it! As each new candidate is waved in front of the cameras, all I can do is weep and scream "No, no, not another oily twerp, pleaase!"

Let's hope God and Mr Willets will save us from Oily Twerps. Yep.

We Got Pavements

Round where I live we know how to make the most of our pavements.

Yep, we got back yards, and better still we got pavements. We use ‘em big-time.

Walking down our road, over the last week or so I could have picked up a sports top fleece (black) or a kitchen mop (slightly bent) but usable.
I didn’t much care for the fake Christmas tree, or the tennis racquets, but must admit there were two racquets, very handy that.

Was a bit tempted by the bike, in good condition, one ‘lost’ owner.

When folks round here are bored out of their skulls by the garden, then there IS the pavement.

That’s why I found three lads having a Sunday morning snooze on the pavement, plus a few cans of doubtful origin –a bit of sun, stretch out, legs in the road, lovely stuff.

I walked past them very quietly,and did not even think of kicking a few cans as I passed. Honest.

The Sainsbury’s trolley is still hanging around – by some mysterious means it travels up and down the road, but never strays far from home. It was back down on the 3rd corner in the hedge yesterday.

Jolly good, keep things orderly-like.
Yep

We want a Body, Yes Siree!

Like so much on this planet, it started off as a bit of a news snippet, I refer to the runaway bride in Georgia, USA.
Of course its Hollywood time, young bride (blonde of course) goes missing on eave of big wedding. It may surprise any of my readers (ok they may be a tad invisible) that I smelt a rat.
Yep, when I read the description of this wedding, with 14 bridesmaids and 14 groomsmen, and a tally of 600 guests, I thought "Hey! This spells Trouble with a capital T!"

For God's sake, it's a leg trembler, getting hitched, who was trying so hard to make it a new form of torture? Huh?

The bride's Mummy, I bet you my last dole cheque.

So the bride turns up in New Mexico after scores of folk in her hometown go looking for a body.
Was everyone happy? Like hell they were.
Dig these headlines.


FURY AT BRIDE WHO LIED
Relief turned to rage in an Atlanta suburb yesterday after residents learned vanished bride-to-be Jennifer Wilbanks fabricated her abduction, which caused days of worry among her friends, family and small-town neighbors.


More anger than joy in missing bride's Georgia hometown

County District Attorney Danny Porter vowed to look into whether Wilbanks, 32, violated the law by reporting a crime that didn't exist.

A local resident is quoted as saying that the bride was the most selfish person on the planet.

Jesus, they would rather have found a BODY? Just so it was worth their while to have so much trouble?

Worse was to come, as the Hispanics Group got ratty with the poor girl for inventing an abductor of Hispanic origin. Their spokes person thundered
"We cannot and will not stand for any racial stereotyping of Hispanics as criminals and thugs,"
No siree, we can't have that.

I think the groom's dad should have the last word.

"I think the wedding plans got a bit out of hand."

Some advice for these lovebirds. Run away and get married, try the Outer Hebrides, only the sheep to worry about. Yep.