Happiness is Fun

Happiness may be described as a chimera by the cynical and disbelieving among us. If you believe that, then happiness is a fantasy, but according to Boris Johnson, not so.



For the benefit of you Yanks, I shall digress and explain Boris - briefly. Our Boris is famous for saying naughty things, which wouldn't matter except for the fact that he is also the Honourable Member of Parliament for Henley.

No, I'm not going to explain bloody Henley, it's full of rich tossers, and that's enough for anyone.

What naughty things you ask? He's usually slagging off some town or city and offending everyone who lives there. Portsmouth was the last one, and its ‘depressed’ citizens are feeling pretty sore about Boris.

If you want to read any more, go to
boriswatch

However, I think Boris has got it right this time. (That worries me, but we will move swiftly on) Yes I do.

Putting aside his remarks about our nearly-Prime Minister, dear Gordon – I try not to think about Gordon too much, he bores me to tears - our Boris points out that we don’t work our butts off for the sheer fun of it. The reason is
“We do what we do because we hope to achieve happiness.”

The mop-top is right: except for a few dick-heads, most of us know that there are a lot of fun, worthwhile things to do, instead of spending our precious lives adding to ‘the Gross Domestic Product of UK PLC.’

My only quibble with the thoughts of Boris on this subject is his contention that ‘getting to grips with the emergence of Athenian democracy or the transition of Rome from republic to empire’ is a prerequisite of happiness.

Some how that don’t crack it for me
He’s dead right about the joys of getting sozzled and sitting in the sun though.

Yep.

Notes

Etymology: Latin chimaera, from Greek chimaira she-goat, chimera; akin to Old Norse gymbr yearling ewe.
a capitalized : a fire-breathing she-monster in Greek mythology having a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail b : an imaginary monster compounded of incongruous parts
2 : an illusion or fabrication of the mind; especially : an unrealizable dream -a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayer—John Donne

From Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary


Bibliography

‘The purpose of life is happiness: so fight the new enemies of fun.’
Johnson, Boris. The Spectator, May 26th 2007

http://www.boriswatch.com/

Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary at http://m-w.com/

Be a Corpse, Why Don't You?

It is a fact of life that Blokes don’t listen – unless they want to. I merely point this out in a fairly friendly way. (Anyone who ventures to disagree with me, can take themselves off. Pronto.)

Like I said, Blokes don’t listen, unless they want to. Generally when the wife / girlfriend/ significant other, etc ( take yer pick) is telling them something the Bloke doesn’t want to hear.

Of course, this isn’t undue harassment, it's something you need to know.

The amount of harassment Blokes deserve is another subject altogether, and I’m feeling merciful, well sort of.




Most men are quite skillful in appearing to listen, but not perfect and they do leave a few clues such as, well -spaced grunts of agreement, and far too many “Yes dear’s”.
Bloody obvious they ain’t taking in a cent of it.

The more practised NLB’s (non listening blokes) keep one ear open for the verbal minefields that women are very good at. Anything to do with, hair, weight, new dress, and what Mother said, gets flagged up.

Blokes with savvy, recognise the danger signals of the afore mentioned, especially ‘What Mother Said’

A practised NLB can decode those signals pretty well – and it reads so

"I expect you to notice that I’ve had my hair done, gone down a dress size/ wearing/bought a new dress.”

Well, you get the picture. If you haven’t, you are dead, be a corpse, why don’t you?



This is basic survival stuff for God’s sake, so be grateful I tell you this.

I’m not going into ‘What Mother Said’, enough to say it’s bloody dangerous, I suggest you button up here.

Have I got evidence, of the NLB?

Sure thing – like the bus driver I heard, telling his mate “The wife was going on, telling me about this and that. At the end she says to me “Were you listening to me?” I says ‘No’
That guy was a hardened NLB, I can tell you. Come to think of it, he was probably trying to watch CSI.

Didn’t say what the wife did to him afterwards, and I should think it was painful.

Yep.



Red Fred's Pics

The Baked Bean Hero

I guess when it comes to being original but weird, the British must be near the top of the list.
Who else would think to use Baked Beans as a deadly weapon?
Quite so, no-one would – except Hugh Grant of course.



‘Actor Hugh Grant has been arrested over an allegation he attacked a photographer in London, before throwing a tub of food at him.’
BBC News Online, April 26th, 2007.

Of course, Hugh Grant is not the brightest bean in the can, and mistakenly thought of as the quintessential
Englishman: (feeble of chin and intellect)
But with that ‘boyish charm’ you know. Translation ‘Forgot to grow up’

So to anyone who has the hots for our Hugh… tough luck, and try cuddling a bag of frozen peas. It’ll give you the general effect.

Reading an interview our Baked Bean Hero gave to some newspaper, I was not surprised to find that Hugh finds women ‘Incomprehensible’



Yeah, that figures. Far too many blokes around like him, who won’t make the effort to work it out for themselves. So how do they impress?
Throw a can of beans.
Or ask their Mummy what to do.

Yep.

Don't Sit Next To Me

I think folks should learn the etiquette of how to sit down and not make pillocks of themselves – I am referring to the lack of manners I see every day on the bus.

Let me explain

I am a fairly small person (and anyone who wants to comment on that, can take a hike)

As I was saying, I am a fairly small person, and when some large lout takes the seat next to me, that doesn’t give them the right in invade my personal space, by sitting much too close, or make horrible noises in my ear.

And I don’t want their kids to kick my leg and leave baby sized imprints on my freshly clean black trousers. Go kick your own mother, I’m sure she deserves it.




I don’t want them to chew their breakfast in my face, nor they should gulp, belch, scratch, or do the rhythm thing, because they are listening to some crap on their IPod.

For Christ’s sake, why can’t the idiots just sit there, and stare blankly out of the window, like I do?


And as for the bimbo who sits next to me, and chatters non-stop on her mobile – baby, have I got plans for you.

I have to say, blokes are the worst; just hafta spread themselves about don’t they? Legs, arms….yeah, lets take up all the space we can….Now, where shall I put my size 12 feet?



I could tell you, but it wouldn’t be legal

And to the geek who thought he could flap his newspaper in my face…..think again you friggin’ moron.

So to all of you mentioned here, have a good day. And don’t sit next to me.
Yep.

Don't hold yer breath...

Vatican under pressure in John Paul push

The first stage in the beatification process that could eventually lead to sainthood, closes on Monday, the second anniversary of the pontiff's death.

At the centre of the case for beatification are claims by a French nun that she has been cured of Parkinson's disease by praying to the late pontiff.

BBC News Online


I do like the subtle note of doubt introduced by the BBC’s headline, and would suggest that the whole thing reeks of ‘fixing’. Ahh, you say, an unbeliever.

Damn right.




All very convenient, this sainthood stuff –Jean Paul, who was more or less chained to the Papal throne in his last few years, instead of being allowed some decent oblivion in a nursing home, was rather keen on blessing and holyfying

So now, it’s his turn.

And guess what, with perfect timing, a French nun, declares her self ‘cured.’ (Of Parkinson’s)

Why is it always a nun? Huh? What about the rest of us, don’t we deserve a slice of the cake, or does God just reward the chosen few, the ones who spend all their time paying their religious taxes?

Ok. It’s just the chosen few.




If it’s miracles the Vatican are looking for, I can suggest one – fine, turn me into a tall leggy blonde with legs up to ‘here’
Then I’m a believer

So let’s all pretend that neither politics or pushy Polish prelates have anything to do with this canonisation of a rather conservative and difficult man. Sorry, Pope.

The last word goes to Church historian Professor Michael Walsh
“Saints can be very difficult to live with - they don't go in for compromise."

How true

And I’ll wait for this miracle, legs up to here, blonde, ect – and don’t hold yer breath.
Yep.



Click here to see my pics

Red Fred's Pics

'Dear John...'

Nostalgia can be considered the opponent of factual reporting, rose-coloured glasses obscure harsh reality. Writers are often accused of indulging in nostalgia for a time that never existed, of viewing the past in a soft hue.

Tolkien’s account of the Hobbits, and their cosy life has been described as his view of an England that was little more than a mirage.
No doubt, critics would add, Arthur Ransome’s ‘Swallows and Amazons, or Enid Blyton’s ‘The Famous Five’ to the list.
Enid Blyton became so non- PC, that public libraries banned her books from their shelves.






We laugh at the literature of England in the post war years, and allow ourselves to be faintly amused at the Ovaltineys and their middle class happiness. John Betjeman wrote

'He gives his Ovaltine a stir, and nibbles at a petit beurre.'

By this point, you might be forgiven for thinking that such an England never existed, and laugh at John Betjeman as well.
I don’t think he would have minded very much, he had a fine sense of the absurd, but he knew and described his Middle England with a fine touch.

Without any apology I give you a few extracts from his poem
‘In Westminster Abbey’

(1)Let me take this other glove off
As the vox humana swells,
And the beauteous fields of Eden
Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
Here, where England's statesmen lie,
Listen to a lady's cry.

(4)Think of what our Nation stands for,
Books from Boots and country lanes,
Free speech, free passes, class distinction,
Democracy and proper drains.
Lord, put beneath Thy special care
One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square

And it ends…

And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait
Because I have a luncheon date.



I met John Betjeman when I was a rather gauche teenager and remember vividly his terrible jokes, his beaming smile, and his delight in the absurd. I’m glad I met him.

His England still exists, in a changed form maybe, but it’s still there – just go and look. You’ll find it.

Yep.

Bibliography and Sources

Arthur Mitchell Ransome (January 18, 1884 – June 3, 1967), was a British author and journalist, best known for writing the Swallows and Amazons series of children's books, which tell of school-holiday adventures of children, mostly in the Lake District and the Norfolk Broads areas of England

Swallows and Amazons -1929 The first of the series that made his reputation as one of the best English writers of children's books.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

J. R. R. Tolkien

The Hobbit – published 1937 by Allen and Unwin

The Lord of the Rings.

The story began as a sequel to Tolkien's earlier fantasy book, The Hobbit, and soon developed into a much larger story.
It was written in stages between 1937 and 1949, with much of it being created during World War II.
It was originally published in three volumes in 1954 and 1955

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Enid Blyton
11th August 1897 - 1968
The Famous Five
A series of books on the Famous Five were published betwen 1942 - 1963

The Famous Five are a group of children who have the sort of adventures most kids dream about, in a world where ginger beer flows and ham rolls are a staple diet. Julian, Dick and Anne get together with their cousin George in the first adventure, Five On A Treasure Island.

http://www.enidblyton.net/famous-five/

The Ovaltineys

The Ovaltiney Club, founded in 1935 and broadcasting from Radio Luxembourg every Sunday evening from 5.30 to 6 p.m. became a secret society for children, with its own badges, rule books, and inside codes: by 1939 it had five million members.
Though primarily a children's drink, Ovaltine was supplied to the armed forces in both world wars.
Tommies sang 'we are the Ovaltineys' as they marched, in sharp contrast to the German preference for the 'Horst Wessel Song.

Text from: The English Companion by Godfrey Smith.
http://www.sterlingtimes.co.uk/ovaltine.htm

Sir John Betjeman CBE (28 August 1906 – 19 May 1984) was an English poet, writer and broadcaster who described himself in Who's Who as a "poet and hack".
He was born to a middle-class family in Edwardian London. Although he claimed he failed his degree at Oxford University, his early ability in writing poetry and interest in architecture supported him throughout his life.
Starting his career as a journalist, he ended it as British Poet Laureate and a much-loved figure on British television

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Stay A Frog

Now that Valentine’s day is safely over, I guess all the blokes can go back to their normal slobby selves: not being unkind, well, not very.




I realise that it’s hard on blokes – suddenly they have to change.

One moment, the brain cell(s) of a bloke are safely occupied with getting laid (or not), going for a beer, or escaping from the Missus.

Note, one thought at a time, no multi-tasking going on here.
Valentine’s Day arrives and hey presto…

It’s time to be the great Romantic

Flowers
Chocolates
Underwear

Most guys do fine on the first two items: but when it comes to the Underwear bit, forget it.



Stay a Frog.

Blokes fail big time – I’ve seen ‘em in the shops, terrified, trying to be invisible among the bras and knickers, with the girl at the cash desk having a good snigger.
Go back to the flowers and the chocs, and remember the card.

No card? Big heap trouble. Go jump off a cliff.



Once Valentine's is over, a bloke can relax and be his happy frog self again
‘Ribbet, Ribbet’
Yep.

The Pope's Knickers

Lace makers move into G-strings
Renowned lace makers in the Polish village of Koniakow have found a new way of boosting sales - sexy underwear.
Artisans who used to create gowns and altar cloths for customers such as the late Pope now craft G-strings and other lingerie for sale all over the world.
BBC News

Apparently some people in this region were outraged, and feel that the Pope and underwear shouldn’t ..er.. ‘co-habit’
Surely the Pope has to wear knickers – oh all right, pants, then.
Underpants, if you are going to be pedantic about it.





I mean, can’t wear G-strings can he, not even lacy ones – I am trying to wrench my mind away from that particular vision

Hard though….it’s like trying to imagine your headmistress in a red satin corset, innit?

Don’t believe me? Go here

The Pope’s Lace Pants

See? Told you so.
Yep

Where the Monkey Keeps His Nuts

About time, Channel 4's programme, Big Brother, the pride and joy of media morons has landed in a heap of shit, I am so pleased. It’s such a crap idea for a television programme in the first place, it deserves to get canned, shredded and buried, without a funeral.



It should go where the monkey keeps his nuts.

My mental health is threatened daily by news items about this heap of crap, and promotional clips on television add to the horror. I know it is doing me harm.



Reality television it is not. Come to think of it, television programmers and reality seldom meet. The programmers of BB sure don’t, and they are wise to refrain from too much discussion. Their brain cells (the few they have) would go into meltdown



I would love to think that the current furore signals the end of BB, but that’s overdosing on the hope thing. Remember kiddies, as you go to bed, where the monsters lie in wait, there is NO such thing as bad publicity.

Repeat after me, “There is NO such thing….”

I guess that condemns us all to further gut-wrenching nausea and chronic advanced boredom



That’s how it is.

Yep.

Let's start counting...

According to the BBC News Page, this country is awash with scores of absconding prisoners. I just mention this, in case you Yanks are thinking of having a little holiday over here.

Apparently, our director of the Prison Service had admitted that ‘he does not know exactly how many inmates are on the run from open jails in England’

Oh well, a few hundred criminals on the run, no need to worry eh? If you bump into one of the fraternity, just direct him to the nearest fuzz shop.

‘Phil Wheatley said there was no central system in place to count people who had been recaptured after escaping, but such a database would now be developed’



Ahh this counting business, now that is a tricky one. Lemme see now, how shall we begin …”1, 2, 3..?”

But Mr Moses (now, now, no need to guffaw here, that’s his name) chairman of the Prison Officers Association, is a bright lad.

He said “We know on a daily basis how many people we are locking up, so surely we should know on a daily basis how many people abscond. This is not rocket science."

There you are then, so start counting Mr Wheatley, not so difficult is it?




Maybe the old methods are the best.
Yep.


Want to see some pics? Click here! Fred's Place at Smugmug

Cackles and Whispers

For the last blog of 2006, I have turned it over to some of the comments, various bods have left here - must say some of these visitors seemed intent on overwriting the author (that's me).
The post on Socks, for example, atttracted some very odd folks......I'm excluding MadDog from that description btw. (He's a Scientist)

Featuring (in no particular order) Da Quink, zaphod, lil sis, Gandalf, Mad Dog, Bill the Bagpipe (Sunshine Sam) The Kraut.

Jeeze, is this legal? Doubt it.


Shine Shaun said...
My, what a fine rant you have here, Red Fred. It illustrates wonderfully how the inept female brain does not cope with the ruthless efficiency and economy of effort of the male psyche.To develop such clarity of purpose and effectiveness of acquisition should be the goal of every gal.No more *does the puce or the claret look better on me? Which makes my bum look smaller?*NEITHER! you'll still be a fat-arsed goddess...And don't get me started on women choosing cloaks and hats, 'n dresses, 'n jeans, 'n tights 'n SHOES! Oh my Gawd, how the list goes on...Shopping? Pshaw. The last refuge of indecicive, confused women, I say.Guess I'll sit outside looking glum wiv all the other downtrodden men.Or maybe a quick visit to B&Q? *face brightens* Hmmmmm...Haw, haw... *scuttles towards parking lot* cackle...

At 3:45 PM, Red_Fred said...
There is no such entity as an ‘inept’ female brain, *coldly* and I suggest Sunshine Sam, that you absolutely RUN for the car park, if you want to go on living.I think you would look very nice in a puce dress - *decisive smile *It will do wonders for your complexion.

At 4:38 PM, Da Quink said...
So, you've been shopping? All this time I've been searching for where you put da Sniv and you've been buying socks?! You'd best get that Sniv bum back here, missy!

At 4:53 PM, Red_Fred said...
Bloody Hell... the queen of the Bat Boobs appears; (you need to pump the left one up, btw)I don't go buying socks,*aggrieved*..I do 'serious' shopping, I do!

At 8:57 AM, zaphod said...
Hmmmm..I have to admit that I have never ever not once bought socks. In my entire life I have never done such a thing.My wife does that sort of thing for me.Buy socks ? *cackle* thats womans work.

At 9:15 AM, Shoe Shine Shaun said...
Wot? Wimmin to buy socks? Surely you jest, zaphod old son.You'd have holes in yer socks and scuff marks on yer soles before the'd even decided what color would go wiv yer oil-streaked white T-shirt.Best to do it yerself *soulfully*Heh, heh...

At 10:28 AM, Red_Fred said...
Obviously zaphod's Missus doesn't trust him to buy socks (she's proabably right)As for you Sunshine, you will be getting abrasions that you never dreamed of. *rubs hands*Match those black socks of yours, nicely....Oh yes, I did buy some shoes yesterday; and they wern't black...haw haw hawIt's my blog and I can 'haw' if I want to....

At 11:52 AM, zaphod said...
I finds that wimmen userly buys me socks fer birthday an crimbo prezzies. I get so many I never thought of buying me own.*Ponders deeply*

At 3:10 PM, Red_Fred said...
This is awful - what is it with all this 'soulful' bit....and 'ponders deeply'Is this 'Bonding' or something sad like that?Any way, Blokes don't think deeply...or soulfuly, or at all.They just buy socks.

At 10:03 AM, Gandalf Siduri said...
What is wrong with buying socks??:???!!!!! @@@@@!!!Ask Dumbledore! Wizard wanderers need LOTS of socks (because they wander so much,they USE them!) Sheeeesh!

At 12:34 PM, zaphod said...
Any way, Blokes don't think deeply...or soulfuly, or at all.Oh how can you say such a thing...we think all the time..football.playstations..porn..

At 2:17 PM, Red_Fred said...
Get some boots Gandalf!Think? Blokes don't think, they 'Gravitate'

At 3:54 PM, Mad Dog said...
After reading this post I'm more perplexed than usual. I buy two packs of half dozen black socks once a year. I buy a new pair of Rockport deck shoes once a year. also. This seems an efficient and logical process especially now that I can conduct it online. Does anyone want to "shop" more than this? I throw out (or use as polishing cloths) nasty old socks and if the Rockports have any life in them at all I donate them to Goodwill/Thrift. I don't see the problem other than I'm a bloke...!

At 11:25 PM, zaphod said...
Oh well said Mad dog...myself I prefer trainers though...white ones

At 1:41 AM, shoe Shine Shaun said...
Right on, bruvvas.It is obviously a manly trait to purchase socks 'n shoes of sober and upstanding hue, in an economical, efficient manner.After all, why waste perfectly good drinking/fishing/golfing/car mending time shopping? Pshaw! The ladies are only too pleased to have us out of the shops and at home when the fridge or washing machine breaks. N'est ce pa? Haw, haw... *cackle*

And as for the subject of TV cooks....with every contributer going 'HAW HAW' and 'CACKLE' like there was no tomorrow.... I never knew that Zaphod was such a wizz-kid with elephant steaks. Amazin', it really is.

Kitchener's Kid said...
Whilst I appreciate Red Freds frustration, I think she misses the point of these programmes. They are specifically aimed at us ex grammar school boys who never got the chance to attend a *domestic science* class. As a consequence we are inept *or total incompetents* at the culinary arts. These programmes give us a chance to find out what we've missed, and try to make up the deficit. Take me, for instance. As a result of tv cookery programmes, I've discovered that I am a culinary disaster area. So it has encouraged me to live off burnt porridge, get an elf in to cook at weekends *not good, but better than starving* and I eat out a lot... I wish salmonella and e-coli and dysentery to the lot of the sanctimonious buggers *cackles and stirs cauldron - the cement mixer is out of action*Haw, haw...

At 2:09 PM, Red_Fred said...
I expect you are very very grateful, to this kindly elf .....or put it this way. You had better be very very grateful.Ok Kid? Jolly Good.

At 5:47 PM, zaphod said...
How did you manage to go from celeb cooking to house elfs ( or are they elves) all in one post and two comments.Myself, I am a big fan of Ray Mears bushcraft and I can skin and cook an elephant in ten minutes and provide tv dinners for twemty.And haw haw and a cackle jus fer luck Fred me ole mate.

At 7:21 AM, Delicia said...
We wimin don't unnerstand dis, Freddie dahlint. You see, slave in da kitchen all mornin' and put food on da table in time fer lunch when all dem laddies come scurryin in to devour every bit of it wiv a joyful display of irritatin' table manners, then scurry out as fast, leavin' da empty dirty plates fer ya to occupy another wee hour with, that is unqualified and unpaid and derefore wimins work. Prance in front of a tv camera ruinin' foodstuffs while talkin' rot, then throw the result in da bin an' go home to da angel elf who got real dinner ready in the meantime pays exceedinly well an' therefore is qualified men's work. See now?

At 11:01 AM, zaphod said...
Delicia has gone insane at last. of course us men are the best cooks. *cackles*

At 4:19 PM, Red_Fred said...
Well Master Zaphod, it's like this -our Mr Kid obviously has a very nice and kind elf, who cooks delicious meals for him, without said elf being famous, or on TV.Ten minutes for elephant steaks is 'interesting', but...can you whip up a Moouse pie in 30 nano seconds...I think not.And lose the cackle, mate...Lose it.*polishes knuckle-dusters*

At 4:28 PM, Red_Fred said...
I can see Delicia has a firm grasp of the realities, here. I hope she throws the pots at these bounders, (cads & toe-rags) if they so impose on her good nature..um...well, whatever it is, then.As for you, Zap, since your cooking benefits so greatly from the use of a micro-wave oven, I suggest you scuttle back to your TV dinner a la Sainsbury's....*glare* And not a Cackle from anyone. NO cackle, NO haw-haw.

At 10:32 PM, Kitchener's Kid said...
Er, Zaphod, mate. Can I order up a couple of takeaway moose-on-a-stick for next Friday? So's I can show my kitchen elf how things SHOULD be done. Oh, yes. Maybe an Ostrich Omelette as well *cackle cackle!* sorry *CACKLE,CACKLE* - I forgot Ostriches were bigger birds *and I do like a big bird... Haw, haw* OUCH!!! Who did that?

At 9:42 AM, Red_Fred said...
Me(smile)I did that. Now try breathing(smile)

At 5:55 PM, little sister said...
I'm with you, red fred. We don't need this proliferation of television shows telling us how to cook, though I remember the Galloping Gourmet was fun to watch when I was a kid. Mr. Wonderful insists I'm a great cook, though I'm pretty sure he goes on like that so I'll get dinner out of the way so we can get on to better things...like bed linen ;)no elves or elfs though.

M, Delicia said...
Well I can't guarantee nothing. Depends on how long you intend to be away, I mean a haw-haw-less time longer than say three days max, but max! will pose a problem, yesh it will...

I got back from holidays in Scotland to find this lot, with every correspondant having a great time ignoring my directives...and the Kraut having the last word as usual.

At 6:25 PM, Bagpipe Bill said...
Oh Gawd!Cover yer sporrans, lock up yer haggis an' kindle yer kirtle - a stroppy Elf is on the way to burrow under Hadrian's wall...Wonder how Scotland the Brave will cope wiv that.Still, Oxford will enjoy the week's respite from Rouge Rantings - Haw, haw... Bleeeugh!

At 10:16 AM, Delicia said...
There, it wasn't me who Haw Hawed first, at least not in this blatant manner! I say we can now do as we please here, snigger as derisively as we like, haw haw as loud as we like...

At 10:28 AM, Red_Fred said...
Yes, I'm back..By the time I'm done wiv yer Bagpipes, you won't have any wind left....thnk about it *smile*As fer you Missy,*sniff* - I daresay you wuz led astray by Bellowing Bill. *glare* Don't be.

At 6:17 PM, zaphod said...
haw haw and snigger.....oh I feel better for that

At 2:25 PM, Red_Fred said...
I am going to stamp this out, once and for all.*STAMPS FOOT*

At 10:27 AM, Delicia said...
She's cute when she angry, idn't she, HAW, HAW and likewise ho ho ho!

At 3:18 PM, Bagpipe Bill said...
You're wrong Delicia. She's a real pain when she's angry. Just wait until she finds her knickers and tops have been sharing a washing line with genuine scottish kelp. Then the bladderwrack will really hit the fan... Haw, haw...

At 12:34 AM, Red_Fred said...
Let me point out to you, oh Bloated Bill, that I have photographic evidence of your dabblings in bladderwrack...*coldly* So don't mess with Me.As fer you, Missy....last warning *shakes head*

At 12:54 PM, Delicia said...
Last warnin' is it? Wotcha gonna do, refuse ta eat yer cereals? Make horrible faces? Throw yerself to the floor kickin an' yellin'? Wot? Apprehension is killin' me, HAW HAW!HAW HAW HAW.Now we'll see wot will happen.I guess I will stand near the exit, just in case. I ain't afraid, oh no, I ain't. Jus' careful...Snivs can be dangerous when teased, likely to bite yer ankle they are.

Well, no one takes any notice of what I tell 'em. Thanks to you all, and best wishes for 2007.

All Sorted...

I come back from Rostock to find disrespectful remarks on the blog; well, some bods never learn, no they bloody don’t.

Take Christmas seriously, do the East Germans, so between the mulled wine and the sausage consumption, I began to have serious doubts about my future prospects.

Me and the Kraut revisited the gluvine bar in the Christmas Market, to be met by a chorus of welcome “Oh hallo, hallo, you are back!”
(I translate freely)
Yes, they did remember us, very well indeed, and suggested that no doubt, we would all be seeing each other again, next Jule.
Probably so.



The only thing that saved me and the Kraut from turning into Christmas puddings, was her dog’s unrelenting demands for walkies.

Susi, a hound of great charm and iron determination, expects everyone to do their duty. Walks to be taken promptly, twice a day, and of reasonable length.
I think Susi nicked me gloves, but she (and the Kraut ) deny it.

Nice to see everyone getting ready for the festival, hope Santa’s little helpers don’t forget me.

I’ve sent my letter off to Santa….



All sorted for Christmas then.

Jolly Good.

When I Come Back...

Right

I'm orff to see the Kraut (she of the mad sheep's hat)

In Rostock



And when I come back.....

I don't want to see any tasteless remarks, guffaws, cackles, or anything else.

I expect to find this blog, shiny-clean, and sweetly-polite, just like I left it.

Got that?
Good.

You have been warned.
Yep.