No passport control

As is quite usual for a 19-year-old, Matt has lost his passport (he is going to Turkey in August with his girl-friend and her parents) and, in the search for it, his bedroom has been given a well-deserved roughing-up and turning-over. One of the things he found was a pair of his dear departed Grandad’s glasses (a souvenir from a previous visit)!

Anyway, after much swearing and grunting, all hopes of retrieving it have now been abandoned. Although about 10 minutes after he had to go to the pub and help in the kitchen, he telephoned, saying that it might be in the glove-box of the Metro. Now, “the Metro” is his old car which died and has been sitting on the drive for months. Various people have given him very helpful advice on what to do about it including the telephone numbers of those who could possibly aid in its disposal. He duly wrote this information down ……… and gave it to me (that’s possibly why it’s still there *ahem*).

So, I duly opened the car and, in the course of the several minutes of ferreting about in the front, back and boot, I found the following:-

- Ninety pence in small denomination coins, nothing more than 20p

- Several pieces of what appear to be homework from the school he left almost a year ago

- One of that school’s text-books

- My golf clubs (I thought they were in the garage)

- A sleeping bag

- A Nintendo Gamecube game (Resident Evil) that he said when he got back he had been trying to find for absolutely ages (it was in the sleeping bag)

- Assorted small objects which I decided I didn’t want to touch

- No passport

I’m keeping the ninety pence.

The old paperclip cure

When we moved to Ringwood, our first house there had a ground-floor extension with a patio door. One day (it was S's birthday and we were going out for a meal at a local restaurant that evening), I came home from work to find that the lad (a mere four-year old whippersnapper at that time) had somehow wedged some small plastic balls inside the track behind the sliding door. This created two problems: (1) they were stopping the door from closing, and (2) the door would have to be removed to get them out. Well, I am by no stretch of the imagination the King of DIY so you can understand how proud I was of myself when I managed to get the door off; you can perhaps also understand how proud I wasn't when I dropped it on my big toe. It hurt. A lot. Didn't you wonder what that noise was? You must remember it: September 14th 1982? A very loud screaming? Yes, that was me! Well, the pain did subside a little and we went to the restaurant. It was not long, however, before the toe had swollen up to the extent that I could not bear to keep my shoe on, so I took it off and spent most of the evening with it hidden under the table (the shoe, that is). This was considerably less embarrassing than having to limp out of the crowded restaurant carrying it. Anyway, over the course of the next few days, I sought medical advice, discovering the bone at the top of the toe had been broken. It was only a minor fracture (so I didn't wallop the little lad too hard) and there was little to do but wait for it to mend itself. After another few days (those of you of a squeamish disposition should probably get ready to look away), the pressure under the toe-nail became unbearable, so I rushed (bah!) to the Health Centre where a nurse performed a minor miracle. She part-straightened a paperclip and, holding the curly end with a clothes peg, heated it until it was red hot. She then inserted (look away now, I did at the time) the red hot end slowly through the toe-nail. If you've ever been with a blacksmith while he was shoeing a horse, you'll be very familiar with the smell. But oh, the blessed relief when all the blood that had built up underneath was released! Marvellous! It was a shame that the nurse got a bollocking from the doctor when he got back from lunch. Presumably, this was not a recognised clinical procedure in the Manual; what the hell, it worked. So, the moral of this story is: don't throw your paperclips away, you might drop a patio door.

Interesting

I just thought you would like to know that two anagrams of "THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST" are "GROOVIEST TUNE IS NOT CHOSEN" and "VOTING NUTTERS CHOOSE NOISE". How about that?

Ferry 'cross to Jersey

See what I did there? Anyway, Jenny’s recent honeymoon blogging has awakened nostalgia and reminded me of my first (and, as I have just realised, my only) visit to the lovely island of Jersey (if I remember rightly, it was in 1972) and many of the places she mentions. It would be remiss of me not to inform you that my companions were my very good friends Andy, Bob, Colin and Dave. I won’t bore the pants off you with a full account but there are salient features of that holiday which are indelibly imprinted in my memory. - We arrive at Weymouth by train to catch a Sealink ferry. Never having been on any kind of ship before, I am apprehensive about the ability of my stomach to retain its contents for any appreciable period. I am even more apprehensive when we encounter a bloke who paints a black picture of Jersey following the recent murder of a young nurse in St Helier, condemning all aspects of life on the island as “bad noos”. - Having consumed a good deal of beer both prior to arriving at the ferry port and on the ferry itself, my earlier apprehension proves not to have been groundless and I am sick at about midnight, amid jeers from my companions (including Bad Noos, whom we could not seem to get rid of). - However, this has been a groundbreaking (seabreaking, surely?) voyage for me and one which appears to have given me sea legs, because I have never been seasick since, and, at about 7 a.m. as we approach St Helier, one by one, all my friends disappear on vomiting duties while I consume a hearty breakfast of tomato juice, kippers and toast! - We hire an “Economy 5” (Austin 1100) from a Lancashire immigrant, Tug Wilson, and wonder how that dilapidated excuse for a vehicle could have engendered such enthusiasm in him (“Eh, lads! This caaar…”) - We had arranged for the tent and all associated equipment – consigned to a large wooden crate - to be transported to the Rose Farm Campsite in St Brelade to coincide with our arrival. Amazingly, it worked! - We had been spending a lot of time on one of Bournemouth’s beaches prior to the trip. The tent (and a lot of the equipment) was Colin’s and, as he was the only one who knew how to erect the tent, it was unfortunate that Dave had to take him to hospital as he was suffering from sunstroke. It was dark (and late) when we eventually put it up! - During our stay, an Irishman called Dennis arrived at the site, carrying a suitcase. Much amusement ensued when he opened it and extracted a small one-man tent. Much, much more amusement ensued when he slept in it: most of his legs protruded from one end! When I say most of his legs, I don’t mean he had loads of legs, but that a fair proportion of the two he had at the time were sticking out. - We visited St Aubin, Gorey, La Corbière, the German Underground Hospital, Portelet Bay, Grouville, Mont Orgeuil Castle, spent a lot of time in St Helier and on the beach at St Brelade and marvelled at the ability to drink during the afternoon, yes, the afternoon! They used to chuck us out at about half-past four for half an hour while they swept up. We also marvelled at the prices! It’s a shame I can’t remember the name of the bar overlooking St Brelade Bay where we spent many a happy hour. It’ll come to me. - None of us was romantically challenged at that time except Dave, who was engaged. I remember he used to sit in the *wiggles two sets of two fingers next to ears* car, while we were in the club roistering the night away (a coloured girl from Durham kept asking me ‘d’ya wanner ‘ave a dance, Naagel?’). And I did.Thanks, Jenny!

Lost

No, not that. I mean effort, time, but not temper, oh dear me no! Last Tuesday night, I went to a football match at Dean Court, where AFC Bournemouth play their home matches, doncher know. The local FA stages an annual game contested between a team of players from the Saturday League and one from the Sunday League; the pub team’s goalkeeper had been nominated by us and was selected by the FA to play. With the intention of presenting him with a DVD of footage from this glorious milestone in his football career at the team’s presentation evening next Saturday, I took my digital camcorder (you remember, the one I bought six months ago, telling myself at the time it was an essential piece of kit to own AT ONCE, YES, RIGHT NOW!). I hadn’t used it until last Tuesday. So I duly shot around 20 minutes of film, soon realising the ineptitude of my camera work and how difficult it was to follow the play. However, I managed to capture three of the goals scored and some sequences involving our goalkeeper, including one where he kissed his girl-friend prior to the match (I want to try and loop this, with hilarious consequences if possible). The other night, I decided to try and edit it using Adobe Premiere Pro which, I am sure you’ll agree, is a top bit of movie editing software. I hadn’t used this in earnest before, so it took a while to get to grips with it. Anyway, after three hours of painstaking work, it decided to stop functioning. There it stood (I could swear I heard a low chuckle from it) locked up, steadfastly refusing to retain the edited material, much less allow me access to it. Needless to say, my calm demeanour helped me through this rather irritating setback, realising that it was but temporary. So I’ve got to start again. *tries to come to terms with the massive calm demeanour lie and finishes cleaning up broken glass*

Sock it to me

Am I the only person in the world who hangs socks on the washing line in pairs and then, when they’re dry, rolls each pair together before taking them indoors?