Crash and Burn

I’m sure that everyone has finished Christmas with a credit card that is going ‘crash and burn’ all the way to the bank; but feeling quietly satisfied that they have acquitted themselves with honour in the prezzi department; like a friend of mine who is glowing smugly as her brother wanted a new bird feeder, and that’s what he got – the lucky blighter. Apparently he was thrilled.


Me myself? I am the proud owner of a new ‘hoodie’, it seems I fit the profile, and that’s all I’m saying. I do like the very long sleeves, so I can hunch my shoulders and scrunch my hands together, in approved anti-social mode.
Of course, the vivid stripes of pink and green do make one rather visible




However, I did hit the bull’s eye with this, yes, the glorious Sheep Shaggers’ beer; it made the perfect gift and I expect that the lucky recipient will write a heartfelt letter of thanks to Santa.

Best if he does, eh?

And before anyone replies with indignant and outraged protests about sheep, and their rights, let me assure you that I am very fond of sheep, I think they’re very sweet, and tasty as well.
That's as far as the interest in sheep goes, thank you

Lastly, here is a picture of my latest Hat, which will induce feelings of envy in all who see it. And a Happy New Year to you all.



Yep.

The Ladies

I suspect that the fearsome ladies of my childhood are no more – generally, they were rather well endowed round the bosoms area,: without exception, they had voices that could cut through steel. They certainly found you, wherever you might choose to seek sanctuary.

The preference for pastel shade knits was misleading – there was nothing, absolutely nothing pastel about them. About as comfortable as a dragon breathing fire, if you ask me.
Children never got asked – you got told. In forthright terms, with words of one syllable.

It was better not to be anywhere near the ladies, and then they couldn’t get you.
If one of the ladies said “I was looking for you, Diana, I wanted you to bla..bla.. bla” - it was several hours too late by then.
Good Result.

God help a child who forgot the ‘please’ and’ thank you’ bit; at that point a glacial blue eye swivelled in your direction, don’t know what they did with the other one. A bit like a fish being speared
God help you if you forgot anything, really.

The adage ‘Children should be seen and not heard’ isn’t followed these days –get to see (and hear) the little buggers even when you don’t want to. The truth was that adults didn’t want to lay eyes on you, and if they heard you…it was time to run for the hills.

They are not forgotten, the ladies of my childhood although they have gone–trouble is, I’m not entirely sure about that. You might think I have anxiety issues here and your’re damn right.
Yep.

Zaphod

I am sorry to say that Zap, as we called him, or Zaphod, died on Sunday 27th September. He often wrote here, and was an expert on the Kraken

His friends and his family will miss him - and so will I. I am so glad I got to knnow him, and enjoy his friendship

Covered in Cow Poo

I havn’t been to Glastonbury for a couple of years, which convinced me that the place was quite normal, and my memory had just hazed over. The brain had just picked out the goofy bits.
Not so, it's in a different time warp, all right.



Of course, I enjoyed it, only morons and George Bush wouldn’t
The shops are full of dragons, fairies and green men, but I am made of sterner stuff and concentrated on the things that matter
Eating, yes, eating

I thought we would try the St George and Pilgrim hostelry again. My theory being that it couldn’t be as daft as I remembered.
It bloody was.





Me and the Pirate made our way there one Sunday evening. Most of the hotel was in darkness, no staff, nothing.
We found the bar, it had lights on, there was a human being behind the bar, sort of. Food yes, they had that. I found a table, and cleared the used plates and glasses. It’s like that in the George.
At least I didn’t have to go and cook the damn food; getting too adventurous I asked for dessert.

Big round eyes.



“The kitchen is closed” Past the witching hour of 8 o’clock, you see.
Right….”.coffee?”
He looked sadly at the coffee machine right beside him, conceding that they did coffee.

I have no qualms about eavesdropping on folk’s conversations – if people will talk loudly about their goofs in the George, I’m happy to listen.

“Yeah, he owed me 25 quid for the gig….so I got a string of lights instead” pause “So that was all right”
Going to be hungry, isn’t he?

Being a sucker for punishment, I insisted on going back there for a last cup of coffee before leaving “It might be ok”. Famous last words.
The George was doing well as usual; served the wrong meal to the wrong bod, and tried to give us more coffee, when we wanted to pay.




Of course, I walked to the Tor, all the way to the top.
It was covered in cow poo.
Yep.




And who is this weirdo..huh?

I wanna be a Roman

The long hot summer the weather pundits promised us over here in the UK, has been and gone, all two weeks of it.
The rains are back, the clouds are grey, things are back to normal, and folks are wearing their macks again and clutching umbrellas.
(That’s weather- wear and parasols to you Yanks)

At least we had the European elections.
Elections can be fun before you all start groaning, yes they can.
I encountered the glories of the ‘Roman Party' headed by a certain ‘Jean-Louis Pascual’

‘The Roman Party. Ave!”
Has a certain ring to it, don’t it but that’s all you get, no posters, no leaflets, so I went hunting on the Web.




His web page is a masterpiece of non – information; here it is

Position: Bus Driver
Interesting Fact: Jean Louis was born in France.

His manifesto suggests that

“…we should consider moving British jail to other Eastern European countries to run at less costs for the British tax payers we could seek permission of Vladimir Putin President of Russia. the reason for this is most British jails are run like hotels and sanctuaries.”

I wonder if Mr Putin would be interested in the idea? I rather like it myself.



Some quotes from his fans on the Web

Q: “What did the Romans do for us anyway?
A: Aqueducts and Months of the Year

Q: Does anyone know anything about Jean Lous Pascual?

A: “He is a bus driver from Reading who puts himself forward for elections and gets about 20 votes. “
A: “He likes strutting his stuff in a little leather tunic or maybe a toga turns him on?”

I look forward to the day when Jean Louis becomes President of France. I’m sure he will be a howling success.



And he writes his manifesto in crayon.
Yep.

Cold Times

There is a coldness in the air, here in Britain and I am not referring to the freezing winds of May which will cause Shakespeare’s ‘darling buds’ to become frost bitten if it doesn’t warm up soon.

No, I refer to the ongoing furore over our parliamentary members and their astonishing inability to understand the difference between right and wrong.

Nothing new you may say, and you are right – politicians are not renowned for their morality but I would suggest that their indifference, indeed their blatant lack of interest in the people who voted them into office has reached a new high.



(Denis the Menance , Beano comics, UK)

Some MPs got caught and some owned up; all of them protested that ‘It was within the rules’
Not good enough.

Reclaiming for non-existent mortgages, four thousand pounds worth of electronics, expenses for the wife, the gardener, are not within the rules.





Now it seems, we have to re-educate our politicians in some very basic ethics.
It is not the rule that ‘Thou shalt defraud the taxpayer’ at all times.

Some one ought to point this out to the Prime Minister .

Yep.

Negative Attitudes

There are times, when we need our heroes; this is one of them, not least because we suffer from the officially ‘dullest’ Prime Minister in the last two centuries

We find our heroes as children, and keep them.
I’m sure there are any number of adults who travel to the office, outwardly sober in suit and tie, clutching briefcase.
But in their heads, they are Captain Courageous and they’re gonna save the world in snazzy lycra red underpants and blue tights.

Traditional heroes can be analysed, historically corrected and the myths de-bunked; but it’s too late for you and me, oh yes it is.
The latest casualty of correctness is Robin Hood


(Statue of Robin Hood, Nottingham, UK)

He is now viewed with a….'Negative Attitude’
Bloody Hell, now the academics are telling us that Robin in the Hood , isn’t any good.
A 15C manuscript discovered at Eton College, describes him as ‘infesting parts of England with continuous robberies.’

Dr Luxford, an expert in medieval manuscript studies, said: "Rather than depicting the traditionally well-liked hero, the article suggests that Robin Hood and his merry men may not actually have been 'loved by the good'.
(BBC News Front Page)

Infesting? Heroes don’t infest, they are good and like to help people – or something like that.

I’m torn here; the scholar within admires the academic input, the preciseness of fact. But I still remember the green legged hero who swung through the trees of Sherwood Forest, played by Richard Greene



(Richard Greene in the Adventures of Robin Hood, ATV. 1955 -58)

in the television series produced by ATV and shown every Sunday afternoon. And guess who sat there as Robin Hood, with his Brillcream hair-do and RADA accent put everything to rights and made the Sheriff cry?

Me.
Yup.



For you Saddoes, who want to hear the theme song ‘Robin Hood ’ go to

Adventures of Robin Hood

Take Up Knitting

I’ve come to the conclusion that blokes need something to do with their hands; and if any of you lot are getting the wrong idea…?.
Disappointment is coming your way.
It’s a simple life for the average bloke, and left to their own devices, they go for simple options.





Ferret around under the bonnet of a car, muttering..”Ahhh..” with much intake of breath, followed by trip to B&Q. May return by nightfall.
Watch football on TV.
Watch fishing on TV.
Go to football…. Go…..I’m sure you get the rest.

What blokes need are things to do, you know, stuff like that. Give him something useful to do, and there he is offering to go to IKEA
All by himself.




Just build a fairly elastic time-lapse into the sequence, and I daresay you’ll get results….eventually.
Last point.
Don’t get excited, remember that blokes are one-cell beings who process one thought at a time, multi-tasking is not an option here.


And if you aren’t the patient sort – take up knitting.
Yep.

Snow is for Tossers

It is insane to carry on as though the UK was running a re-enactment of Scott getting lost in the Antarctic. The screams of ‘Chaos and Horror’ are entirely without foundation, and I am pissed off with the media, who have been indulging in hysterics for the past week.

There is no need for journalists to be doing their ‘piece to camera’ from various locations, all suitably covered in snow.




We know what snow looks like, and if you want a reminder, the bloody stuff is all over the place, have a look for yourself.
If it was me, I would keep quiet: weather pundits predicted the snow two weeks ago, so why advertise our stupidity?

The roads could be open, they are not; the schools should be open, they are not.
The kids should be locked up in them, I mean, learning something and giving all the adults some peace.

Adults mutter in chorus, about kids who seem unable to walk anywhere, certainly not to school, hell no.
Remarks about 'wimps 'and 'nannies' abound as snow balls fly through the air and hit us in the face.



Newscasters have forgotten how to use language with intelligence: every night we get treated to prose worthy of the old Penny Dreadful papers.





“With more snow to come” intones the newscaster “many will be anxiously scanning the horizon...”

No we won’t, look out the window. There you are.

“Silently, in the night…it fell!” hisses our intrepid reporter, as he stands in a field of the white stuff
I would be getting worried if it fell any other way.
So should you
Yep.

Santa is a Bloke

Christmas is over, and we can all stop wondering if Santa will stop by the house this year with his list of ‘Naughty’ and ‘Nice’
Being a bloke I expect his prezzie buying was a short lived affair.
“Two boxes of Assorted, three boxes of Brazils, done!” That’s for the Missus, the kids, and the aunts.




When blokes go shopping, they don’t go looking for things to buy; they have already decided. I don’t know how they do it; have they got X-Ray vision?
Beam me up to the store, Scotty.

Men never say “I’m just looking” Oh no, we just go and buy it Mister.
While I was doing my prezzi shopping, what do I hear as a bloke walks past, nattering on his phone “Yes, I’m shopping, I know what I’m buying.”
Of course he does.




And if anyone is guessing which of Santa’s lists I’m on?
Guess all you want.
Yep.

IKEA...arghhhhh

Why is it that blokes start to scream and howl whenever you suggest that a trip to IKEA would be top of the list?



That’s when blokes start to think of something else that must be done, or suggest that the place will be crowded anyway, and let’s go some other time.


Can’t see what the problem is.


It’s cheerful, does mega-catalogues, numbers everything it sells; even tells you which part of the store you find the packs.



Them Swedes don’t leave anything to chance.
Think of those big yellow arrows. 'Go thissa way, not thatta way’.

The only trouble is I always feel that I can’t defy the arrows, and must carry on even when I know that we have just sailed past the stuff I really came in for.


The last time I went there I heard a woman say very deliberately “This time I will buy a colander.”

She seemed to be alone, I couldn’t see anyone. The secret police of IKEA had got to her.
They must be invisible as well.

I suspect that for most blokes, IKEA means that home improvement tasks are coming their way.
Let me tell you something.


THEY ARE SO RIGHT

For once.
Yep.

It's a Big Black Hole...

Somewhere in this world, there is a big black hole where all the lost things go – my favourite pair of boots, some official documents for example


As you might deduce from this screech of woe I have moved house and by the laws of chaos, cannot find anything that I really need to find.

Much to my fury I have found (a) My NHS card (b) My out of date library card
Yipeee

By way of consolation, at least I think it was meant to be consoling, the Kraut suggested that miniature krakens lurked near my new abode, ready to snap my ankles off




"There could be a Kraken...lurking"

Just because I got caught like that on the Christmas Ghost Train in Rostock.


All I got by way of sympathy was a very complacent Kraut pointing out that I should have known that trap doors meant grabbing hands would get me.
“You should have drawn your ankles up, just like I did.”

Yes, I should.

And I have to get back to my boxes – so let’s hope no Krakens are nesting in them
Yep.

Long Live Liverpool

‘Cities in northern England such as Liverpool, Sunderland and Bradford are "beyond revival" and residents should move south, a think tank has argued.
Policy Exchange said current regeneration policies were "failing" the people they were supposed to help.
A mass migration to London, Cambridge and Oxford would stop them becoming "trapped" in poorer areas, it said. ‘




The famous ‘Kop’ - Liverpool’s Football Heaven and Holy Ground

Academics should be made to do community service and find out how most of us live - if you live in Liverpool right now, I expect you would deport them. No, shoot them, good idea

Why the hell would Liverpudlians migrate to Oxford?
The place is a swarming mass of tourists marching round like ants, and offering bus drivers £20 pound notes (about $40 to you Yanks, for a $5 fare)

You should hear what the bus drivers are spitting. ‘Bugger Off My Bus’ is one.



Home of the Beetles - Liverpool celebrates it’s famous sons

One of the Think Tank bods was hauled on to television to explain himself. The best he could manage was ‘Liverpool is a Port ‘and that was all down the cesspit- so there you are - no hope.



The Port of Liverpool

Even worse, is the fact that the Policy Exchange group are being grossly overpaid to produce a report that has been branded as ‘Insane’ by eminent Tories, including Dear David, who plans on being our next Prime Minister.

I tell you, it gives that folk song ‘the Leaving of Liverpool‘, a whole new meaning

Trust not in Experts, they live in Tanks -Long live Liverpool, long live the Kop, the home of the Beetles, and a really nutty brand of humour.

Yep

Underneath the Blanket

President George W. Bush said that the global economy downturn was due to Wall Street 'getting drunk'.
23 Jul 2008


Clunk, clonk, clang… and we all laugh


Most presidents get their brains fried - I think the Shrub must have started life that way. But, no cause to be so happy for us Brits.
We have Grunps Gordon, who exhorted us to “Stop wasting Food!” last week.


Bloody Hell, last heard that one when I was a nipper in School as we chewed our way through leather sausages and soggy vegs.
The Grump definitely belongs to the department of ’ Exhort and all will be well’
In translation: ‘Nag, and believe all will be well’


In spirit and intent, Gordon Browne belongs to the 19C , when moralistic urgings towards the lowly and immoral populace were common practice.




The trouble is that our Prime Minister is full of good intentions, and shit, when it comes to understanding the century he lives in.


Knife killings in Britain?
No problem, everyone who carries a knife will be sent to jail. How simple can you be?
We have a generation growing up who are detached, antagonistic, and live outside the perimeters.


The knife carrying is a result, not the cause, of the violence in our streets. Browne doesn’t comprehend the need to lift the blanket and look underneath; George Bush spends all his time wrapped up in one.





We laugh at our politicians, snigger at the Shrub’s bon- mots and ignore Browne’s pontifications.
In reality, we have leaders who fail us all.
Yep

Poke a Parkie

Us Brits like to queue, it’s a national pastime; for you Yanks, that’s standing in line. I like to offer help to the needful.
Foreign students to Oxford are actually warned not to jump the queue It’s a pity they don’t heed the warning, but there we are.

Let me explain; the bus is late, the queue is long. But we stood in line, and we shuffled on, keeping to our allotted places. No one pushed and no one shoved, and we all felt loved.



Until that is, a bunch of ‘parkies ‘ moved to board the bus, ‘ahead of the queue’.

(Parkies’ are traffic wardens, whose job it is to go round inflicting pain on hapless motorists who can’t find anywhere to bloody park.)

As I was saying, the Parkies decided to get themselves on the bus, without ‘waiting their turn’.

That did it.

A large man in a bright green sweater told ‘em to wait, but one toe-rag decided he was getting on, no matter what. Mutters all round, and he got prodded in the ribs – by yours truly.
“Go and queue like the rest of us have to” I snarled but he scuttled past, regardless. It didn’t end there “Heard of queues have you?” I hissed at him.

The rest of the Parkies had begun a retreat, pretending that the bus wasn’t there and they couldn’t see it.
The battle went on; several passengers complained loudly about ‘people who didn’t have to pay either’ with pointed glares at the criminal who was still on board.

His chums, very wisely stayed on the pavement.



So next time any of you bluebottles think it’s all right to jump in, think again. It ain’t.
And I’ll be happy to remind you.
Yep.

Bah Bah Bus

One of these days I’ll get on that bus and go ‘Baahhh’ at the driver. Like sheep, we herd ourselves into a tin can every morning
No one but no one asks why is the bloody thing late , or where was the last service?
Just get on

I have rules about what folks can do when I’m on the bus.

You may not stand too near me, or swing around with your bags, so that I get biffed in the face.
Go eat your breakfast somewhere else.

Us Brits like to stew in silence: it’s a tradition that anyone standing, does not move down the gangway. Nope.
The blokes like to lean against the rail, being macho and a bloody nuisance, as no one can get past them and their cruddy backpacks..

Of course when a Yank got on, and found no standing room, all that changed.
“Will you guys all move down the bus?”
There was a sort of multiple shuffle and lots of unspoken resentment.

Blokes are the worst, they have to talk loudly, spread themselves over several places, and they like to rest their size 12’s on the opposite seat
Not when I get on, they don’t.

And to the lady who sat behind me, talking for the entire journey about the delights of meditation and lavender oil

Drink the stuff , meditate, whatever.

Either way, we all get some peace.
Yep