Blokes live in delusion- they do. Blokes say things like
’I’m going shopping’
Excuse me? What is this ‘Shopping’?
I’ll tell you. It consists of buying socks, just bloody socks.
This is how it works.
Walk in to the store. Turn left, go to sock counter, obtain black/brown socks, which are IDENTICAL to all the other socks that are nestling in the cupboard back home.
For you Yanks, I’m talking about your bedroom closet. Got that? Good.
Then they look at you and say they’ve been shopping – for God’s sake, you could get that much of a thrill going to Tescos (Yank-speak= Grocery Store, Wal-Mart, whatever)
Try saying words like “And what about looking around the store?” and you are an alien. What for? Why look, when I, (The Bloke) know what I want.
Yeah, yeah, we know – Black Socks
Oh sorry – I forgot. Sometimes blokes branch out… and guess what?
They buy ‘Black Shoes’ just like the shoes that they..yes, you have it, just like the ones they bought last year.
Walk in to the store. Turn left……
Yep.
What planet do these Television morons inhabit? I am really hacked off with switching on the box and frantically channel hopping, just to avoid one of those sodding TV Cookery programmes.
Not only are there more of the bloody things, but they have got worse. Confronted by some silly bint called ‘Jilly’ who runs around like a hysterical chicken, I knew my blood pressure was shooting off the scale. ‘Silly Jilly’ did I hear you say, bloody right.
Silly Jilly seems to think that it's necessary to scuttle from pot to pot, screeching as she goes, things like ‘Oh well done!’ and ‘I say, isn’t that fabulous!”
(These remarks are for the benefit of two 'Celebrity' assistants, who smile inanely every time the camera swivels in their direction)Let me just add, she has a voice like a corncrake, and you get the picture. For Christ’s sake, it’s not rocket science to put foodstuffs in a pot, and friggin’ cook ‘em. Is it?
Of course, we had to be socked with one of the ‘Celebrity’s’ giving us his earnest opinion on how ‘Life-changing’ all this had been, and ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, I have learnt such a lot’. All delivered in one of those extra low voices, that indicate profound emotional bullshit.
If Mr Celebrity has learnt how to be a complete prat, then I’m very happy for him.
Today was no better. Thinking I might check the news, I got blasted with yet another TV Cook slot. Bloody hell, three guys sitting in a studio discussing the ‘motivation’ of their ‘cooks’ who were trying to prove who should win the competition. It seems that ‘Roland’ was a hot contender, as he had….wait for it kiddies, as our Roland had ‘Grown so much in his personal development’. Perhaps we should engage in meaningful interaction with the boiled cabbage, or something. I vote for the carving knife, myself.
Only one judge even mentioned the food, and wanted the best cook, to win. Isn’t that surprising? Of course she didn’t win, far too normal, was our Helen. She said sadly ‘I thought my food, looked like food.’
Quite so.
All the judges were men. Bunch of farts.
Yep.
On the way back from Bally Scotland, I wandered into ‘Asgard Crafts’ and had the good fortune to meet ‘Jim the Viking’. Well, his name is Jim, and he sells Viking things. Obvious, in’it? And here he is.
He proved to be knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the warriors and their lifestyle. Great stuff. We had an entertaining chat with the Viking, before the Pirate started to ‘harumphh’ about having to drive a few hundred miles back home. (If you think, I meet some interesting people, you are so right.)
A ‘young’ business, the shop is full of some lovely things…..
And the shields are really spectacular….
Very impressed by his commitment to making the products for real, and even more impressed by the way Jim researched the production of Viking combs.
He makes them out of bone, like this one, found in York…
Time to go, miles to cover so it was goodbye to the Viking- but not before buying a pendant. Of a Valkyrie. A shield maiden, you know.
Quite so.
Asgard Crafts
The Smithy Heritage Centre
Strathcarron
Wester Ross
IV54 8YS
www.asgardcrafts.co.uk
I came back from bonny Scotland all right- but not alone. I swear that some of those blasted midges came over the border with me.
Snuck their evil little selves onto my person, and enjoyed a good chew. Evil buggers.
Forget about admiring the scenery, just run for the bar.
No wonder, all the locals go around, muffled head to toe. I soon found out why I never saw anyone outside the pub. The midges, always on the lookout for some juicy flesh, descended in a swarm on any idiot who took a moment to admire the sunset.
Do what the locals do. Hug the bar, and look out the window.
Of course, my researches have uncovered the origin of the Highland fling – the midges. Lets face it, the poor wee Scots had to do something.
For some reason, the pesky critters took a liking to the Pirate. Yum, yum, cordon bleu time. Sure thing, they eat anyone, but what a Scotty midge likes best, is ‘Pirate’.
The rotten sods even bit him up the nose – well, I can think of worse places.
A warning to all you blokes, ‘Don’t wear your shorts.’ Sun shining…? Heed my warning.
I’m sure you get the picture.
A final kindly word from your Aunt Fred. Don’t despair, I found the answer for you. This is ‘The first line of defence.’
I kid you not. This contraption is available from ‘Any good retailer’.Yep.
I 've run away - off to bally Scotland, sorry, I mean 'bonny' Scotland.
And if I come back to the merest whisper of a 'hawhaw' or a derisive cackle, there will be trouble.
Yep.
You know what they say. So glad to be in Glastonbury. No? That’s where I was, and first stop the Tourist Info people. Me and the Pirate had managed to pick the ‘Musical Extravaganza’ weekend to enjoy ‘Avalon’, and guess what? Jools Holland was appearing. Insincere apologies to those of you who like the gent and his music.
“Oh dear” sez the tourist lady. “Everywhere is so so, busy!” Her eyes did the round saucer thing, and she got on the phone.
“Do you” she asked “Require twin or double?” Hell's teeth, lady, all I want is to avoid sleeping in the car.
“Anything” I muttered “And sharing the bathroom is OK.”
Unwashed is not beautiful, and doesn’t get you any closer to the Goddess, believe me.
The town was full of Goddesses. Walking round the place, looking distinctly smug, and easily spotted – carrying tambourines and flowing in …um..flowing robes. Orange or red is the ‘In’ colour, and a head-dress of plastic flowers.
The Pirate thought the Goddesses were predominately fat-arsed: well they did rather fill the up the pavement.(for you Yanks, that's the sidewalk, yep)
Even the guide at the Chalice gardens was a bit sceptical “I dunno” he muttered “Thought there was only one Goddess.” Me too.
Of course, he wasn’t just the guide. Our chappie was an Arch Druid, and ‘Very very busy’.
“Thank god I’m retired” he said happily. And proceeded to tell us about the naked ladies, that like to swim in the pool.
No wonder he’s enjoying his retirement.
I quite understood why the Arch Druid said he had to get out of the place occasionally, to keep hold of his sanity.
His eyes swivelled round behind the glasses “Of course if you touch the Thorn tree And the stone…”he paused “You go into another dimension.”
Right. I think we do.
I guess a Goddess deserves a knight in shining armour, this is Glastonbury.
He clanked down the High Street, just about managing to pick up his winkle picker shoes, followed by the obligatory maiden.
Good job none of the Goddesses got entangled with the Knight in Armour.
That would have shredded their drapes.
Very picturesque, is the George and Pilgrim Hotel. Only trouble was, finding anyone alive. Crept through the passage, nobody there; Find the restaurant, empty. Fifteenth century, it may be, but surely someone is still around?
We find the bar, lights, people, oh goodie.
I guess the staff were alive, hard to tell really - at last one of 'em bothered to look round, and looking vaguely disturbed, said the beef was off, which left the fish.
Guess what we had? So right.
We had the fish.
The cutlery and our dinner were dumped on the table with a complete lack of savoir-faire. Plonk, thump. Maybe they were feeling medieval, or something like that.
Back at the B&B that our Tourist lady found us, I inspected the lavish selection of teas, admired the tin of shortbread…
Lovely, now where was the bog standard PG tips? No such luck.
The Pirate cackled madly and went to sleep, probably dreaming of fat-arsed Goddesses.
It’s all right for some.
It’s a damn good thing that the summer season of sandal wearing is nearly at an end. A sentiment that blokes will never understand, and that includes those weirdoes who wear socks with sandals.
The number of times some wanker in his size twelve’s has stood on my bare toes, this summer, is past counting. As I hobble off the bus, I mutter imprecations that would make their cotton socks curl up and die.
And top of my list is the friggin’ dickhead, that told me to stay cool; for God’s sake, why do these blokes spend all the seasons of the year, in their clumpers?Anyone would think they were going off to Boot Camp. If I ruled the world, they would all be on a survival course, and none of ‘em, would sodding survive.
So fair warning to the next idiot who stands on my feet, and crushes all ten toes to pulp. I am going to thump him in the balls, so hard, he won’t be standing upright for the next fortnight.And his girlfriend can go on retreat, as she won’t be seeing any action out of him, in the foreseeable future.
Can’t say you haven’t been warned, can you, so be bloody careful if you get on my bus, really friggin’ careful.
Yep.
What is it about Toasters? I mean, why the hell, don’t they bloody work? Most of the Toasters in my life have been absolute bastards. These mean machines do toast, but in their own fashion, you know.
The first toasting machine I ever bought, just burnt things; never saw the toast, just a plume of smoke from the bally thing, and some cindered remains resting at the bottom. It was like running my own private crematorium.
Time went by…another Toaster in my life; this one had a nasty trick of chucking the toast out, and brother, you sure had to jump fast to catch it. Most mornings, my breakfast landed on the kitchen floor.
The current machine in my life, is a contrary little Miss – some mornings its pops the uncooked bread out, ‘No toast today, thank you..’
I set it at 4, I set it at 6. ‘Nae bother lassie…..go hungry.’
I know someone who has a well behaved Toaster – it does the job, the bread is golden brown. Little does its owner know how much I covet his Toaster. Little does he know.
Don’t take a bloke shopping, don’t. Lock ‘im up, throw away the key, whatever. But go solo, blokes don’t do serious shopping.
Blokes go on a Mission. To go where no female would dream of going.
Walk to shelf. Pick up item. Advance to the cashier’s desk. Go home.
Have a look round the shopping center...what do you see? Sad, sad blokes, parked on little wooden chairs, waiting for the Missus to reclaim them.
I’m always tempted to creep up and whisper “Run away…go on, leave her to it. Run!”
Don’t imagine for one glorious moment, that you can leave a bloke to carry out a few useful tasks around the house. Sure, they will agree, and give you the 'nod' routine. 'Yes dear, no dear, three bags full, dear.'
Get a life.
Something Very Important, will have come up, while you were giving yourself a makeover.
“So sorry dear.” Just had to go and save the world, get anything nice dear? Yep. So sorry we are. Not.
