Frankly, my dear, I'm quite keen...

Road Observations (leaving Rage for another day)

2011-08-19T16:38:00.000+01:00

You will all be familiar with (and, no doubt by now, totally hacked off by) my ramblings about road travel, particularly via the M6; the notorious section just before Junction 15 to Stoke‑on‑Trent and Newcastle‑under‑Lyme is pictured above with, I think I’m right in saying, most of the traffic somewhat disingenuously Photoshopped out. I just can’t help it, though, no more than the motorway itself can help being in league with the Devil – if you ask me (though I know you won’t) it should be called the M666 (or, if you are a pedantic devotee of QI, the M616) but giving one of England’s main cross‑country arteries a bad name is not my current purpose - not this time, anyway.

Some people might think that, whilst driving north and south up and down the highways and byways of the country, all I do is spend my time thinking about what vitriol I can pen in my next highway-related diatribe, and that’s why I have to get Sheila to read out the Daily Telegraph crossword clues several times before properly taking them in. No, no, not at all, I can’t hear them because of the ambient noise of the radio coupled with the constant hum of tyre on road (that’s what I tell her anyway). We finished both crosswords on the way up on Monday, but only one and a half on the way back on Tuesday (I think I had the radio on louder and possibly some more decent resurfacing is required on the southward leg).

The following are simply observations on one or two new initiatives introduced by my very good friends at the Highways Agency (HA) and spotted during our latest trip – quite uneventful as it turned out, except for a new half-hour programme we watched on Monday night, The Sergio Aguero Show, a feature that I hope to be repeated on a regular basis.

The signs which used to say: “Queue Ahead” now read: “Queue Caution” – this has been done, apparently, as too many motorists had been regarding the former as an instruction.

The HA has also instigated new signs at several locations which say: “Bin Your Litter – Other People Do”. The first three words are an admirable suggestion but their effectiveness is considerably lessened by virtue of the accompanying statement which is based, in my view, upon the thinnest evidence. Rather, they ought to say: “Bin Your Litter Even Though Most People Don’t And The Bins At Motorway Services Get So Full That They Quickly Become A Health Hazard What With All The Rubbish Blowing Around The Car Park And Everything Not To Mention Wasps Etc”. I suppose if the signs were too lengthy, everyone would have to slow down considerably or even park up to read them. In which case, maybe they could give us advance warning by changing the signs at appropriate intervals to read “Queue Ahead To Read Next Sign”.

Right, how many words in the answer to 12 down? Sorry? What?

Driving me mad

2011-07-02T11:31:00.000+01:00

After due deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that I am a jam magnet. Before you run away with the idea that, in some strange way, I attract fruit spread, let me disavow you of this misapprehension with the following relevant definitions for ‘jam’ from Dictionary.com: to fill or block up by crowding; pack or obstruct; to make (something) unworkable by causing parts to become stuck, blocked, caught, displaced; and - probably the most relevant - a mass of objects, vehicles, etc., packed together or otherwise unable to move except slowly.

You may or may not have read the sad account of one of my many journeys north-westward when the M6 jumped out from behind a clear road and made me take almost four hours to travel just 20 miles. Well, I am now proud to announce that I was once a participant in the greatest M60 Manchester Ring Road snarl-up in living memory. The traffic lady on the local radio was delivering the news in a most inappropriately gleeful manner, in my humble opinion, saying that she had never seen the like: apparently, the whole circular route had been a massive car park for most of the afternoon. I would therefore dispute the ‘move slowly’ bit of the last part of the dictionary entry above as it engenders an entirely false impression that movement was a regular feature of the affair.

I had travelled from Manchester (where we were spending a few days away from Hants with rellies) to Merseyside for a meeting with a colleague, and this vehicular melée was the culmination of a wonderful day on rain-sodden roads (one stretch of the M56 was far better suited for water-skiing) that included a stop-start excursion through the centre of Liverpool (where, incidentally, I had never driven before) and a surreal episode with my satnav in the Wallasey Tunnel. I was understandably surprised to see my journey under the great River Mersey depicted on its screen all the way through (quite often it goes blank when I drive under a tree) and I assumed that there must have been some sort of signal boosting equipment installed in it (more damned electrickery, you can't get away from it). I did wonder why, though, as soon as I emerged into the open from the tunnel towards the toll booths, it told me the satellite signal had been lost!

Pretty much par for the course that day.

Henners' Day

2011-06-20T17:22:00.001+01:00

On Sunday 19th June, one year and one day after the sad passing of a famous parish nuisance, some of us met up in darkest Surrey to commemorate the event and to visit his very first geocache and where his ashes are laid. By the time we got to within 10 or 12 feet of the spot (according to Omally's GPS), I had been o'er many a hill and dale and was well and truly knackered. So was this poor little creature:-

No, no, not Jan - Daisy! And despite my obvious physical distress, Jan flatly refused to cuddle me on her lap while I had a kip.

~~For about an hour~~ At first, we were unable to locate the sacred spot despite much circular non-environmental thrashing about in the undergrowth - well, it was deep in the woods, hidden among the head-high ferns. And there was me thinking Ned and Marco Polo had been soul mates.

No, Ned - the ground's by your feet - tchoh! Also, I think this was one of the moments when we had to snap Hutters out of his obvious fixation for the forest floor in the region of my right leg and point him in a particular direction whilst reminding him how to move his legs alternately. I swear I could hear Henry guffawing on more than one occasion. Wanna see a good scowl? The geographical challenge was causing desperation to set in:-

All of a sudden, Hutters uttered a 'Eureka'-type exclamation and there it was, about two feet from where I had been standing (or trying to stand without my leg seizing up) for a good half an hour!

Unfortunately, the birch sapling that was originally planted hadn't lasted, so we planted an Acer (Orange Dream variety, I was reliably informed by the label) next to the small wooden cross. Well, I say we, Omally did all the digging with his very own trowel, brought specially for the purpose. Hutters' joke about an Acer spade was beginning to wear a bit thin after the third or fourth time. Here's the plant which we hope will flourish:-

Hutters did the honours and read the very moving pome by Canon Henry Scott-Holland, "Death is nothing at all", which you can read here and cry a bit as well, if you are so inclined.

All in all, it was a very worthwhile day and my guilt has been a little assuaged for having missed the dear old chap's funeral last year.

RIP, David.

The Unsocial Network

2011-06-12T22:43:00.000+01:00

By and large, I think the internet is one of the most significant and influential innovations of the modern age. You can interface with friends and family wherever in the world they might be, via the written word or live audio/video, you can buy and sell all manner of goods and services, and it is a vast source of information on anything you care to name - even donkey porn.

A lot of the time, though, it just gets on my bloody tripe.

You are - by which I mean, one is - well, at least, I am – if you’re still with me? - bombarded with e-mails from banks and building societies explaining that your account has been the subject of unusual activity – it would actually be unusual if I used it seeing as I don’t have an account with you – vital security checks requiring confirmation of your PIN and other account details. What can you do to put a cyber spanner in the works of these thieving morons? It’s a great shame there isn’t an option in Outlook to “reply with 5,000 volts”; that’d make their follicles sizzle. Maybe I should reply to them all, helpfully providing my hat/willy size, inside leg measurement and medical history, hoping they’ll eventually get fed up. Fat chance.

I have recently distanced myself from Farcebollok and disabled my account (it’s not your fault, by the way) – I object to the intrusive, overbearing way it subjects you to an unsolicited barrage of invitations to take part in inane quizzes the results of which are then published to an audience of your friends who are apparently agog with eager anticipation to learn what sort of television set you are (I bet I’m a wide screen) or which member of the cast of ‘Friends’ you would most like to (a) take out to dinner, (b) shag, or (c) punch in the face. No, I’m not going to tell you (although I imagine you could take an educated guess).

I really don’t want to know that someone has just found a three-legged brown sheep wandering (limping, surely? I am a pedant, after all) around the farm – I’m a tolerant sort of bloke and, if they want to play that game, leave them alone to do so, without a commentary which is best suited to a weak plot line in The Archers. The farmer’s wife going missing and a dismembered body discovered in a grain silo would be infinitely more interesting but I still remain unconvinced that I’d want to know about it.

Before I’d ever even countenanced going on Farcebollok (the only reason being that, just prior to taking the plunge, I didn’t fully understand how it worked but some friends persuaded me – to join, that is, not that I definitely didn’t know how it worked), I did have a temporary dalliance with MySpace but gradually became disenchanted with the eerie solitude – I believe it’s now known as MyEmptySpace.

I wonder how long it’ll be before I get fed up with Twitter?!

Lege et lacrima II (Read it and weep 2)

2011-06-03T22:42:00.001+01:00

Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur - Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.

I just wanted to remind you of the campaign I first proposed last year here, in case you had forgotten about it. I’m still keen to revive the so-called dead language and you may remember my outlining the distinct advantages (and some pitfalls, unfortunately) of resurrecting its universal usage.

One of the unfortunate advantages (at least from the standpoint of the drive for awareness) is that, on the assumption that he/she is not fluent (as you are) you can be quite rude to or dismissive of someone without them realising. In fact, because, as I have mentioned before, however banal, surreal or outlandish the statement, Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur - Anything said in Latin sounds profound.

For example – oops, e.g. - Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt - I have twits like you for breakfast; Tua mater tam antiquior ut linguam latine loquatur - Your mother is so old she speaks Latin; Sic friatur crustum dulce - That's the way the cookie crumbles. Nowhere is it more demonstrable then in phrases such as Ubi est mea anaticula cumminosa? – Where is my rubber duck? Semper ubi sub ubi ubique - Always wear underwear everywhere; Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure - I can't hear you. I have a banana in my ear; Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras! - I forgot to polish the clocks! Omnes lagani pistrinae gelate male sapiunt - All frozen pizzas taste lousy; In dentibus anticis frustrum magnum spiniciae habes - You have a large piece of spinach in your front teeth; Loqueris excrementum - You are talking shit.

I have considerable support for the renaissance advocated, in the person of the great Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18) - Ovid to you – who once said: Rident stolidi verba latina - Fools laugh at the Latin language - and everyone, but everyone, always used to listen to him. And they still do - you only have to look at any public school curriculum (see? You can’t get away from it).

In my earlier treatise, I suggested that the dialogue in films could be considerably romanticised by speaking them in Latin; I have found a few more examples to bolster this contention: Ire fortiter quo nemo ante iit - To boldly go where no man has gone before; Te capiam, cunicule sceleste! - I'll get you, you wascally wabbit! Tu, rattus turpis! - You dirty rat! Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert - Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn; Luke sum ipse patrem te - Luke, I am your father; Revelare pecunia! - Show me the money! Pistrix! Pistrix! - Shark! Shark! (shouted in Jaws, surely?); Farrago fatigans! - Suffering succotash! Latro! fremo! - Woof woof! Grrrr! (Lassie).

You may remember that jokes relying on the vagaries of the English language don’t work (remember I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream?); well, neither do tongue twisters: Quantum silvam modio picus si posset picus silvam modio? - How much wood would a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck wood? Pietro Fistulator lectis modii capsicum conditaneum, ubi modii capsicum conditaneum quod lectis Petro Fistulator? – Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper, where’s the peck of pickled pepper Peter Piper picked? Corio rubeus, corio flava, corio rubeus, corio flava… - Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather… Vendit concha mare in litum marum – She sells seashells on the seashore; Vigilum publicorum Lethium nos dimitte – The Leith police dismisseth us. See? Almost ridiculously easy to enunciate, I think you’ll agree.

Well, there you are, keep practising the lingo (from the Latin lingua - tongue or language); It’s got a lot to answer for, hasn’t it?

Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water...

2011-05-30T17:29:00.000+01:00

Many apologies for the long absence - and for the returning blog being about football and traffic, Trouty - you’ll not be too pleased to learn that there’s more where that came from! Today, after due (and, I have to say, hesitant) deliberation I am bringing you more news of my progress through the long and winding corridors of the NHS. I should also apologise for the length of the piece; I had initially decided to split it into two or even three separate chunks, but then changed my mind

As part of my continued healthcare, I was invited to have a CAT scan at Salisbury District Hospital (my second home for various parts of 2010). The notification had been sent to me several weeks earlier and informed me that I needed to present myself one hour before the appointed time so I could be given a contrast drink to improve the pictures produced by the scan. I was familiar with this as I had had one last year. It involves sitting around for up to an hour, sipping a milky substance, being bored out of your skull and trying to concentrate on your book, invariably with little success!

I duly turned up just after 10 a.m., reported to reception and sat in the waiting room. I was so bored, I became enthralled by an episode of Property Ladder. Yes, that bored. At 10.45, the receptionist smiled and said “You were a bit early, weren’t you?” I explained that my letter had instructed me to arrive an hour early for the drink. “Oh,” she replied and strode off purposefully, returning a few minutes later saying that my letter had been sent just before they stopped requiring patients to have the drink! Oh well, the up side of this was that I went to the treatment area fifteen minutes early!

The CT scan experts among you will know that the initial step is to insert a canular into a convenient vein in order that a dye can be injected during the scan. If you are at all familiar with my veins, you will be only too aware that ‘convenient’ is not a description readily applicable to them: they are either extremely shy or just plain bloody rude, because they just don’t turn up to these parties and no amount of violent skin-slapping encourages an appearance. The nurse gave up after one attempt and took me in to the scan room, saying she had called for a doctor to do the dirty work.

The six subsequent failures to effect an incursion (three in each arm) showed - statistically at least – that the nurse was significantly less crap at this than the doc. Anyway, the end result was that the whole shebang had to be rescheduled and I left the hospital self-consciously sporting seven bits of transparent sticky plaster and more cotton wool balls than three teddy bears.

The new appointment was fixed for a week ahead but, in between times, I had a phone call to say that the scanner had broken down and could I turn up two days later than originally planned? So I did and, after three attempts, one was in vein. Ha! See what I did there? After all this hoohah, I saw the oncologist last week who told me that the scan had revealed a small (2cm) growth in my right lung which is almost certainly a cancer but almost certainly removable.

Now I’ve got to have a PET scan tomorrow at Southampton which will give the medics pictures in glorious Technicolor and 3D to indicate whether the little bugger is the result of a spread or completely new and help them decide the best way to deal with it. This time, I’ve got to be injected with a radioactive liquid; wish me luck with the veins. I wonder if I’ll glow in the dark?

So, CAT scan, PET scan, presumably a LAB test is next.

Back on THE road again

2011-05-29T20:21:00.002+01:00

Someone's roused me from my literary slumbers and I've been giving the blog a bit of a short back and sides and checking some notes. The following should have appeared a couple of months ago, just before we went to see City's game against Reading at Eastlands. Prior to that, I had spent about 10 days in Manchester, taking the air in great frigid trouserfuls, and watching four football matches. I won’t bore you with too much of the detail but I will summarise the team’s performances – v. Aris Thessaloniki: brilliant, v. Fulham: dreadful (2 points chucked away), v. Aston Villa: excellent, v. Wigan: mediocre (but 3 points). The Reading game (FA Cup, sponsored, don’t forget, by E.ON), on Sunday 13^th March, 4.45pm. Which would bring me to that road again.

I have previously documented (not here) some quite negative thoughts and views on the M6, but on the various journeys undertaken both north-westward and southward between Thursday 24^th February and Sunday 6^th March, I began to feel that I had been cruelly unfair in my criticisms and – to my surprise – realised that I could compile quite a significant list of positive features. So, here is my *List Of Things I Like About The M6:

The eerie emptiness of the stretch between junctions 14 and 16; it almost makes you hanker for the always incredibly congested M6 Toll.
The inexplicable but comforting friendliness of your fellow road-users which causes them to stay very close (as if they are somehow guarding or protecting you), usually by parking immediately in front of/behind/next to you, but obviously everywhere on the motorway except the section mentioned above.
The disarmingly amusing and always entertaining messages from our friends at the Highways Agency: ‘Queue Ahead’ (I always obey); ‘M6 Toll Clear’ (liars); ‘End’ (when there appears to have been no ‘Beginning’); ‘40’ (when you are stationary).
The population of the road between about 7pm and 9pm on a Sunday night by hordes of dedicated motorists, deliberately and selflessly foregoing their normal end‑of‑weekend home comforts just to experience once more the pleasure of sharing the delights of highway congestion with one additional exciting ingredient – darkness. Being a non-working day does not seem to prevent the endearing jams that prevail for about 2 miles before you are due to exit. Marvellous companionship, wouldn’t you agree?

*may include irony

Your usual bed, sir?

2011-01-18T08:39:00.008Z

I owe you all an account of my recent shenanigans at the behest of the NHS and there follows a summary (somewhat expurgated to avoid Exorcist type vomit being induced) of my merry pre- and post-Christmas horsepiddle holiday.

There I was, lunchtime Thursday 9^th December, lining up a particularly tricky plant into the middle pocket on the White Hart’s pool table, when my phone rang. It was Sheila, saying that the hospital had been in touch – they’d had a cancellation and did I want to go in for my surgery on the Monday (it wasn’t due until sometime this month); errrrm, oh! Anyway, that was all decided (with no little trepidation, I might add) and, probably as a result of this sudden storm in the timetable, missed the shot.

I duly went under the knife on Monday – ileostomy reversed and (unexpected) hernia repaired - and allowed home late Tuesday – marvellous – or so I thought. All went well in the run-up to Christmas (apart from the ambulance a few days afterwards to whisk me back to hospital with yet another few episodes of posterior epistaxis - nosebleed to you - which necessitated another overnight stay – in all the excitement, I nearly forgot about that!) until Boxing Day morning when I realised there was something wrong with the wound; I didn’t think it should have been gushing brown foul-smelling gunge. Back to the hospital, then, and, during the next five days (two of which were a bit like Ray Milland’s Lost Weekend, much of two others spent in theatre), I was treated for a very bad abscess/infection. I came home on New Year’s Eve eve and I’ve seen a nurse every day since then to have the trench in my stomach packed and the dressing changed. Apparently, it’s very clean and healing nicely but I’m saying no more about it so as not to tempt fate!

Oh, and, by the way, when I went to bed at 9.00pm on New Year’s Eve, I told 2010 (rather more succinctly than hereafter described – this is a family audience, after all) that it could go away and have sex with itself.

And a Happy New Year to you all!

When Chris Rea wrote "Road to Hell"...

2010-11-04T10:54:00.005Z

...he must have been on the M6.

Earlier this year (in September), we travelled north from deepest Hants to watch the only league club in Manchester (a status to be lost if Oldham Athletic’s plans to move to a new stadium come to fruition) play Liverpool. Although the pleasing outcome to the game did much to lift our flagging spirits, I shuddered at the memory of the trip, and still do. I’m not good travelling at the best of times.

We left home at 11.15am on a journey which normally takes between 4 and 4½ hours and fondly imagined ourselves checking in at the Oldham Premier Inn (on Broadway, about 15 minutes from Eastlands) at around half-past three, then relaxing for an hour or so before setting off to savour at our leisure (insofar as you can relax with a stoma and a walking stick!) the new delights of City Square (around the outside of the stadium) with its selection of covered bars and cafés, live music and big screens. Instead of which, we didn’t have time to go to the hotel and had to go straight to the game, eventually (having been turned away from four full car parks and leaving the car on the pavement outside one of them) taking our seats ten minutes after kick-off; 9 hours door-to-door – hello, is that Mr Guinness?

Obviously, I hope no-one was badly injured in the accident that precipitated our misfortune (so far as I can ascertain from the Crewe Chronicle, no-one in any of the seven vehicles was) but, surprise, surprise, an HGV was involved; just do a Google search for accidents on the M6 and see how many HGVs play a part in the frightening statistics. Several incidents during the trips there and back certainly didn’t do anything to dispel the notion that the majority of HGV drivers are no longer the ‘knights of the road’ they once were; blights of the road, more like. If I wasn’t in mixed company, I’d say they were, by and large, the biggest knobheads on the roads today. Anyway, it took us 3½ hours to travel the 20 miles between Junctions 14 and 16 but I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Highways Agency for its helpful messages on the information boards as we approached our doom: “J14 - J16 Long Delays” (when we were stuck in it, I phoned my son and asked him to check the Highways Agency website; he reported that they were warning of a 1½-hour delay – blatant lie – not on my son’s part, naturally, he was brung up proper) “Caution – Spray, Slow Down” (actually it had been quite difficult to see this message because of the spray – when we were travelling fast enough to be affected by it, obviously), and as we progressed (‘progressed’ doesn’t sound quite right, somehow) through the queue: 40 – just their little joke, of course; although I did manage the 4 part once or twice.

On the day we returned home, we left Oldham at 9.15am and got home at 1.30pm.

I still hate the M6.

Hello, is that Cross Country Trains – or Virgin – or National Express - or Flybe?

Marvellous

2010-11-01T11:45:00.001Z

I see the Loan Relationships and Derivative Contracts (Disregard and Bringing into Account of Profits and Losses) (Amendment) Regulations 2009 have been brought in. Doesn't it give you a nice warm feeling?

Cars and electrickery

2010-10-29T14:32:00.003+01:00

I think there is too much of it in cars these days and our technological expertise seems to be running away from us; the more there is, the more it’s likely something will go wrong.

So it seemed to be with my 2002 Citroën Xsara Picasso with 52,000 miles on the (electronical) clock – genuine low mileage. I had decided that, because the mobility of my left leg continues to be in a state of flux and, in case it deteriorates to the extent I might find it difficult to operate the clutch pedal, I should look for an automatic. I commenced a trawl of the internet and local advertising media (the latter often containing columns in the classified ads headed “Citreon” and, in one instance “Citron” – just lemon-coloured cars in this one) finally deciding that, being part of a family of Citroën devotees, I quite fancied a C4. I found a couple quite quickly at a main agent nearby and took the Picasso (car, not painting) to let them assess its part‑exchange value and to view the aforementioned C4s. The red one was quickly dismissed (nothing red allowed in our household – surely, you don’t need to ask why) and the Arctic Grey was settled upon, 2007 1.6SX 5-door hatchback model, only one owner and 12,000 miles on the clock (electronical, obviously). The deal was struck and I arranged to collect it the following Friday.

Anyway, I cleaned the Picasso out on the Monday but, when I went to move it, it wouldn’t start (first time in eight years and it had to be this week). My friendly local mechanic, having decided it looked like an electrical fault, sent an auto‑electrician round (an expert in car electrics, not a robot), who spent some time with his diagnostic box plugged in, concluding that the fault lay with the BSI (something-or-other Systems Interface) unit which was causing the immobiliser to kick in for some reason. At this point, I must come clean and admit that, although I have had the car from new, I never knew that there was an immobiliser lurking within the vehicle’s circuitry; you learn something new every day.

So, nothing could be done to rectify the problem and, at 7.30 a.m. on the morning following the electrician's visit, I was given a rigid tow to the garage by my life-saving mechanic so they could determine how much they could fleece me to morph the car into something that moved of its own accord. They have concluded that it needs a new fuel pump, cost £316.41, inc. VAT, fitted. So that was how much the part-ex has been reduced (well, they let me off the 41p – decent of them). In view of their ultimate diagnosis, though, I just wish I hadn’t given a chap there my confident summation of the problem that had produced a fault code on the electrician’s diagnostic unit thus making them aware of a potential new problem. See? Electrickery – it trips you up.

The situation is actually not quite as bad as it sounds – I had previously managed to get the salesman to give me an additional £250 in part-exchange than he offered originally, subject to the road tax remaining (to May 2011) being part of the deal. A nice touch and, in the end, satisfaction all round.

It's a shame that, less than two weeks later, some bastard drove into the back of it while it was parked in a car park in the centre of Malmesbury, Wilts. No note under the wipers, no CCTV, no response to my whingeing letter in the North Wilts Gazette & Herald. £225, thank you very much! There goes my winter fuel allowance - I'll have to wear extra clothes now.

Growing up

2010-08-15T22:11:00.006+01:00

Everyone’s very communicative about their horticultural activities and, determined not to be left out, I thought I’d debrief you all on ours – when I say ours, I really mean Sheila’s, as I am no longer able to take part in anything which departs from an upright or seated position.

Take a look at the picture and I’ll guide you as best I can through the elements from left to right in a 360 degree fashion - not bad, these 10 - 22mm wide angle zooms, are they? Mine ruddy well shouldn’t be, it cost me enough; it makes the garden look bigger, though, doesn’t it?

Starting from the bed slightly north-east of the black bucket, here there be onions (mostly now harvested), leeks and a few spring onions. To the right the bunches of pink flowers are wild geraniums. Heading vaguely frontwards and inwards, round the outside interspersed with blue ageratum and more geraniums are some kind of salvia – they’re the big red buggers. In pots near the bird bath (which, annoyingly, the dog keeps drinking from, leaving masses of disgusting gob floating in it) are pelargoniums and lilies (dead).

Moving round – in the greenhouse are cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers; and heading back towards the louvre door (you haven’t seen that), there is clematis, sweet peas and fuschia, in the trough on the wall are petunias, fuschias and some white flowers which I don’t know the name of. Behind the louvre door is the ubiquitous rhubarb (yum). Things to be careful of

- The giant triffid in the greenhouse which I am expecting to walk out any day now - One of those curly hosepipes that helpfully rebounds back to the tap if you don’t keep a firm grip on it, and which gets caught on anything and everything along its length, e.g. pots, bins, buckets etc., usually knocking them over Things not to be noticed - Louvre door (tip bound - not even Freecyclers interested) - Shelf (same) - Car dog guard (used at certain times of the day at the back door to stop the dog crapping on the onions) - Weeds between flags - Ringwood Brewery parasol (ahem) So there you are.

Lege et lacrima

2010-08-02T11:30:00.004+01:00

Today, I would like to share with you some linguistical research I have been undertaking and talk to you about (and, at several junctures, in) Latin. I hold up my hands and admit that I am not fully responsible for all of the actual translations.

Some say it’s a dead language, but only its usage is dead and I think it should be revived by dragging it into the 21st Century. It’s all very well for people like René Descartes to come up with stuff like cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I am) and in probably quite a smug way, as if to say when people looked mystified, bene, cum Latine nescias, nolo manus meas in te maculare (well, if you don't understand plain Latin, I'm not going to dirty my hands on you). Or even more ancient bores like Horace: aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem (remember when life's path is steep to keep your mind even). What we should be doing is looking at ways to modernise Latin which, you have to agree, has a wonderfully profound feel to it no matter what its meaning: sic transit gloria mundi (so passes the glory of the world) looks and sounds as impressively romantic as sona si latine loqueris (honk if you speak Latin) or braccae illae virides cum subucula rosea et tunica caledoniaquam eleganter concinnatur! (those green trousers go really well with that pink shirt and plaid jacket!)

There will inevitably be some drawbacks to achieving the renaissance I am advocating and I think we’ll have to forget some of the jokes that rely on the idiosyncracies of the English language as they simpy don’t translate effectively: for example, clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis (I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream) – it’s a great shame! However, this sad state of affairs is rescued to a degree by the nature of some of the more bizarre insults I’ve come across in my research, apparently in common use in the ancient Roman culture: such as mater tua criceta fuit, et pater tuo redoluit bacarum sambucus (your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries); or ripostes to recalcitrant Roman teenagers: antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem (in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).

It would be nice to be able to cover many of life’s modern eventualities with a choice Latin phrase; here is a selection of some common ones: Balaenae nobis conservandae sunt! (Save the whales!); Braccae tuae aperiuntur (Your flies are undone); Capillamentum? Haudquaquam conieci esse! (A wig? I never would have guessed!); Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam (I have a catapult. Give me all your money, or I will propel an enormous rock at your head); Da mihi sis bubulae frustrum assae, solana tuberosa in modo gallico fricta, ac quassum lactatum coagulatum crassum (Give me a hamburger, french fries, and a thick milk shake); Die dulci freure (Have a nice day); Ducator meus nihil agit sine lagunculae leynidae accedunt (My calculator does not work without batteries); Duco ergo sum (I calculate therefore I am); Cogito ergo doleo (I think therefore I am depressed); Veni vidi visa (I came, I saw, I shopped); Interdum feror cupidine partium magnarum europe vincendarum (Sometimes I get this urge to conquer large parts of Europe).

So why not join me in attempting to revive a flagging interest in the language and bring it into everyday conversation? When you need an excuse to leave, say Cum homine de cane debeo congredi (Excuse me, I've got to see a man about a dog); after you’ve tried to contact someone unsuccessfully: Sane ego te vocavi. Forsitan capedictum tuum desit (I did call. Maybe your answering machine is broken); when you want to make a wise pronouncement at a summer barbecue party with friends: Animadvertistine, ubicumque stes, fumum recta in faciem ferri? (Have you ever noticed how, wherever you stand, the smoke goes right into your face?); or just an introductory platitude (definitely not a chat-up line, though) Vidistine nuper imagines moventes bonas? (Seen any good movies lately?). On the subject of movies, wouldn’t it be much better if the dialogue was in Latin? "Certe, toto, sentio nos in kansate non iam adesse" ("You know, Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore"); Credidi me felem vidisse! (I tought I taw a puddy tat!); Me transmitte sursum, caledoni (Beam me up, Scotty).

By the way, the heading means “read it and weep” - possibly a warning too late for some!

Back in the forest

2010-05-09T08:26:00.004+01:00

Hello, everyone, I’m home! A few more entries from the diary of medical history to sum up where we are. All did not go as smoothly as one might have hoped!

Monday April 26th – had anterior resection and temporary ileostomy (apparently). Surgeons say the operation was very successful; spend the next few days recovering and trying to count the number of holes that have been made in my skin.

Friday April 30th – I get the word I am to be allowed home today and, having phoned Sheila to tell her, I walk to the ward window to admire the view of the Wiltshire hills in the distance, which is a bit difficult as this is obscured by three massive air ducts and the hospital laundry. Experience a severe posterior epistaxis – sounds better than a “bad nosebleed” doesn’t it? Following a traumatic visit to ENT, I am told I have to stay in. Epistaxis occurs on two further occasions, the second resulting in the on call Registrar having to drive from Southampton to take charge, and a tranfusion of two units of blood.

Saturday May 1st – Am taken by ambulance to Southampton Hospital (“blue-lighted”, I understand! Exciting, eh? Not.) Spend a total of four days (and as many sleepless nights) in Ward F5, not being allowed to eat or drink anything hot because of the epistaxis thing, and not being allowed out of bed.

Wednesday May 5th – I can go!! They tell me at 1.30pm and I ring Sheila with the good news. She arrives at 3.25pm, having queued for 40 minutes to get into the car park, I get dressed, and all we have to do is wait for my sack of medication to come up from Pharmacy. We manage to get away at 6.05pm. No, don’t say it, I already have.

Friday May 7th – Post-op clinic appointment with consultant who confirms that the tumour was self-contained and had not spread to the lymph nodes. The pathologist, however, spotted some minor microscopic vascular invasion which may or may not require chemo. This is up to the oncologist, who I’m seeing next week. So there it is. For the record, and for about two weeks following discharge, I have to:

(1) Avoid blowing my nose
(2) Avoid picking my nose (as if I would)
(3) Avoid strenuous exercise (damn!)
(4) Avoid lifting heavy weights, such as a full kettle (it says that – honest!) (5) Keep baths/showers cool (sod off!)
(6) Avoid bending over (wilco)

See you soon!

Don't say the C word

2010-04-22T10:17:00.003+01:00

I've thought long and hard about this, but have decided to share some recent diary entries with you.

12th March, 10.30 - Go to medical centre and have routine blood test for diabetic check; nurse spots the angry red itchy rash at the bottom of my right arm and makes an appointment with the doc at 5pm the same day.

12th March, 17.00 - See doc, who prescribes penicillin, special soap, skin cream and strong steroid ointment. He asks if I have any other problems and I mention one or two toiletry issues. Before I realise what's happening, he dons plastic gloves, pokes his fingers up my backside and refers me to the bum department at Salisbury Horsepiddle.

22nd March, 11.00 - Have barium enema (*knock knock* - is that a friend or an enema? The old ones are the best) which, if you weren't aware, is quite horrible.

22nd March, 15.00 - Hospital rings to say I have to go back and see the consultant surgeon - "there's a problem".

26th March, 10.30 - See consultant (she is a very lovely person, by the way) who says there is a tumour lurking in the lower bowel and it is cancerous (how did I know she was going to tell me that?). Best case scenario - we cut the little bastard out and rejoin the bowel, but first I must have scans to find out if it has spread to other organs.

1st April, 11.00 - Have MRI and CT scans and spend the days following in a hell in which I am convinced that every spot, mole, ache and pain is raging cancer.

8th April, 12.30 - Consultant tells me it hasn't spread. Am a bit relieved. I then have an examination and biopsies under anaesthetic to determine whether or not the best case scenario mentioned earlier can happen. The consultant comes to the recovery ward to tell me that it can. I kiss her - I did ask permission first.

15th April, 12.00 - I now have a date for the operation - 26th April - and, today, the consultant fills me in on what will happen. I will have to have one of them bags (*groan*) but only for a temporary period and, possibly chemotherapy afterwards. I then go to see one of the stoma care nurses (the consultant calls them bag ladies) with whom I spend a happy hour going over some practicalities. She was very forthright and words like 'wee' and 'poo' slip glibly off her tongue.

25th April, 15.00 - I go to the horsepiddle, have a blood-thinning injection, go home and return on the morrow for the surgery, following which I'll be in for four or five days, then signed off for two weeks. Good job my employer now has a sick pay scheme!

I feel like I've been in a whirlwind; still, given the alternative, I should think myself lucky. See you again soon.

Spring Has Sprung

2010-04-20T15:06:00.003+01:00

You'll all know that Stu had to stop running the Tuesday Challenge for work-related reasons. Well, Jonathan Gazeley, a regular contributor, kindly offered to step into the breech to host a new weekly challenge and jolly good it is, too! It's now up to #20, this week's subject being "Spring Has Sprung". So, armed with an idea (and a new digital SLR), I went out yesterday to search for Spring foals in the New Forest. I only saw one and it was lovely; however, there was nowhere to stop the car and, by the time there was room, it was too far away for my poor old leg to cope! Anyway, I took some more piccies and, after much umming and aahing, eventually narrowed it down to one from the three up there ^^. I chose the top one, hoping that lazing around in the late April sunshine was normal Spring behaviour for deer in the New Forest. Please tell me I was right!

I'm addicted...

2010-02-14T15:27:00.002Z

...to this. Don't blame me!

Panic on the second floor

2010-02-07T12:26:00.010Z

I know a lot of you are pretty familiar with some quite intimate details about me - OCD sock-folding and the like - and I hesitate to provide a further insight into the murky depths of my life, not to mention further ammunition for certain people to extract the *ahem* compost accelerator. Oh well, whatever.

Those of you who were at the Annual Dinner of the association that employs me will have seen – and no doubt admired from a distance (that location seemingly being preferable to some philistines) – the new snazzy waistcoat. I confess I like snazzy waistcoats, but there was a special reason for its last minute purchase the day before I travelled to Blackpool.

It’s my practice to try on the suit (yes, the suit, weddings, funerals, Annual Dinner) well before the trip, but I let things slip a bit – including a chunk of midriff as it turned out – and I hurriedly acquired some trouser waist extenders. I tried one on and soon realised that, even with a belt to cover up the buttonhole flap (aptly named as, unfettered, that’s what it did), the whole mechanism was untidy at best and unruly at worst, not to mention the zip problem. What? No, I said not to mention it. So, I had the brainwave of the snazzy waistcoat to cover the whole sorry mess up. I think I might have got away with it – until now, of course.

Anyway, to those few who were rather rude about it (“does your Mum know you nicked one of her tablecloths?”, “has someone been sick down your shirt?”, “why are you wearing a deck-chair?”) I would say that, sadly, style is obviously a concept entirely unfamiliar to you. Oh yes, the panic. After stepping out of the shower about three quarters of an hour before going down to the wine reception, I realised I couldn’t find the very useful padded hinged box that I had brought as a convenient receptacle for a few small items. It took me thirty of those precious minutes to find it in the very safe place I had hidden it by which time I was very hot and bothered and my three-quarters-packed suitcase (forward planning - leaving the next morning) had reverted back to its empty state.

At first I thought the box had been stolen and I have to admit my fear was not for the loss of the solid gold matching cufflink and tie-clip set my Nan had given me for my 21st birthday, or the expensive gold neck chain Sheila had bought me for Christmas, but the trouser waist extender! Here's a little tip: if you’ve got a memo facility on your phone, add things to it like seekrit hiding places, Chinese takeaway order numbers (don’t ask), PINs (disguised and hidden inside other characters), and items of shopping your wife asks you to get in Sainsbo’s while you’re in town. I know I can rely on you to keep these revelations to yourselves!

Extended training session

2010-01-12T18:03:00.004Z

We had tickets for the first leg of the Carling Cup semi-final for last Wednesday evening at the City of Manchester Stadium but, of course, it was postponed because of some weather or something (tickets still valid for the rescheduled game on Tuesday 19th - more travelling).

This did not prevent me braving the elements on Wednesday morning (actually, at that time, there weren’t any elements) as Sheila was already at her mother’s in Manchester and I was packed and ready to go. Chaos reigned at Bournemouth railway station: trains between Bournemouth and Waterloo (both ways) were being delayed up to 1 hour 12 minutes – somewhat daunting when you consider the total journey time averages only about 1¾ hours - and platform changes abounded, including for my train which involved the rather comical spectacle of me trying to run through the subway to Platform 3 with 4 minutes to spare! When I arrived, the departure board had indicated that the 09:45 to Manchester Piccadilly was ON TIME but every announcement on the PA system seemed to be prefaced by the words: “We are very sorry to inform passengers for the....” and the nearer it got to 09:45, the more apprehensive I became. In the event, we were only 15 minutes late setting off and, despite the increasing arctic conditions the further northish we progressed (and this was between Bournemouth and Southampton, not the real north!), the adverse weather didn’t seem to hinder the train’s speed that much and we made good headway. Until Wolverhampton, that is, when the train manager (guard, in my day) announced: “I’m sorry to report [here we go again] that we will be delayed here indefinitely due to a suspected suicide on the track between here and Stafford, in the Penkridge area...” It could only happen to me! Anyway, as it was the first time I had been able to get a signal on my broadband dongle, I did over an hour’s work while we were stationary - see what I did there?

I arrived at Piccadilly a couple of hours late in the end, but in one piece, well, ¾ of a piece – don’t forget the dodgy leg – and a very nice (brave) taxi driver conveyed me to my mother-in-law’s in Middleton (Rochdale) along snow-covered roads. And my dongle carried on working! Ironically, the journey back home last Sunday took less time than it usually does - just 4 hours!

News from the horsepiddle

2009-11-23T16:54:00.003Z

I hesitate to write this, as it may look like whingeing and I know there are folk a lot worse off but, well, it’s a real life story, so please just treat it as faithful reportage.

As many of you know, I have been blessed with sciatica and, last December, a man with a very sharp knife rummaged around inside my lower back, decompressed two spinal nerves (good job he reads Wikipedia because that says: “Sciatica is generally caused by the compression of lumbar nerves L4 or L5” and those are the bad boys he zapped) and caused half of one of my discs to become the subject of an “ectomy”. I don’t suppose he actually rummaged an awful lot as I would hope he knew precisely the spot to target; I had my GPS with me just in case.
A month or so after that, I was able to drive my car again (the condition had previously prevented my lifting my left leg to operate the clutch) and everything, if not totally dory, was definitely hunky. Sad to relate, things took a turn for the worse about two months ago and I am back thanking Providence for scientific advancement in the field of analgesia (from the Greek an-, without, + algesis, sense of pain). You can learn a lot reading this blog. My GP told me I should have had an assessment three months after the last one (March) but I’d heard nothing and, when I rang the Orthopaedic Department to make an appointment, the clerk confirmed I should indeed have had one in June. I’d heard nothing.

Anyway, I went the other day and, after asking me to roll my left trouser leg up (which is quite difficult these days, since the knee and ankle are often swollen up to about 1½ times normal size), the doctor made me do some pushing and pulling movements with my foot and then discharged me. Apparently, there is nothing more that can be done surgically to rectify the problem and the period since I had the surgery (11 months) is very short in terms of its effects, which can very commonly take 18 months or more to precipitate a marked improvement.

Things seem to have stabilised over the last week or so to the extent that I am able to walk around the house (slowly) without the walking stick and it only hurts when I walk, as opposed to all the time. It’s not so bad. At least I can play games on the new Wii as long as I stand fairly still. I’ve got a wireless nunchuck and everything!

Letter to a dead Goon

2009-11-20T16:30:00.006Z

Dear Mr Milligan,

I am so sorry. I know that you’re dead (and, by the way, I suspect I may be one of the few people who actually believed you when you said you were ill) and I bitterly regret that I never had the opportunity to shake your hand before you shuffled off this mortail coil. I am, and always have been, a great admirer and avid devourer of your work – in literature (Puckoon and the Adolf Hitler series spring immediately to mind), radio (The Goon Show – what else?) and television (too many classic appearances in a multitude of programmes to mention). Make no mistake, you were a comic genius in life and the legacy of your work will ensure the continuation of that status even though you are gone.

I am not necessarily a staunch supporter of the quote of that famous Greek bloke, Chilon of Sparta, popularised by the Italian theologian Ambrogio Traversari in 1432, when he translated it into Latin to the now well-known and oft used de mortuis nil nisi bonum, but I respect its obviously well-meant moral assertion.

However, upon a recent sojourn to town, during which I had occasion to visit the local Sue Ryder shop, I bought a copy of your book Robin Hood according to Spike Milligan, the existence of which I am ashamed to admit I was hitherto unaware and was more than happy to fork out £1.50 for the privilege of owning it. I have now read it from cover to cover, having felt obliged to do so.

It is shite.

Yours faithfully, Lois.

P.S. I am really sorry.

Gateshead

2009-09-13T20:16:00.016+01:00

This is where I went last week for my association's annual one-day seminar. An iconic view. I flew from Southampton to Newcastle in the company of a colleague who had said to me at the outset, “You don’t mind if I don’t talk to you, do you, only I’ve nearly finished my book and it’s really good!” Well, I didn’t mind as I was myself in the final stages of a particularly riveting Jeffery Deaver.

Anyway, despite not speaking to each other, the journey could hardly have been described as quiet – I reckon the volume control for the propellers was broken. The outside toilet was a bit awkward, too. On arrival, one of the first things to strike me was the open friendliness of north-eastern folk, like the Metro employee who took the trouble to come out of Gateshead station to street level with us, just to give us detailed directions to the Hilton Hotel. I didn’t even take offence at the old lady walking behind me who took the mickey out of my suitcase which seemed to have a mind of its own when it rocked on one wheel then the other as I pulled it along. She laughed as she told me she thought it was “contrary” in that wonderful accent.

We arrived at the hotel, somewhat bedraggled – it was cold, wet and windy - and, when I checked in, the receptionist explained that, although there was a room available, it was a disabled one and did I mind? I held up my walking stick in silent affirmation. When I got into the room, the bathing facilities were breathtaking (about the same size as reception, I reckon) with a huge walk-in shower which I used so many times over the two days I was there, I probably won’t need another wash for at least, ooh, five or six months at least.

I was also very gratified to note that, far from having been phased out (I seem to remember there wasn’t one in the last two hotels I’ve stayed in, despite one being there previously), the trouser press is alive and well; my socks were done to a turn - and lovely and warm, too. Something else I thought had also been phased out on health grounds was the mini-bar; the one in my last hotel was empty. Perhaps this was naive of me, but, when I checked on this occasion, the fridge was chock full of goodies - including, of all things, a packet of Mates. Well, it was very warm in the room.

All in all, a very pleasant and interesting trip, but, unfortunately, I saw little of the city. Wuh divvnt gan oot in bad wethah, ye knah. Tara.

You need to keep hold of your widgets

2009-09-13T19:45:00.004+01:00

I decided to tart up the blog with a new template - what d'you think? I quite like it and I tried quite a few before plumping for this one, which is called "Notebook". I got it from this website but I'd like to give you a tip; if you're thinking of mucking around with your Blogger template, copy and save all the scripts and code for your widgets. Because when you download the XML file and upload it to Blogger, it tells you that ~~several~~ most of them are about to be deleted. Why they can't be retained in this process, goodness only knows. Anyway, keep hold of 'em.

Tuesday Challenge #26 - "Summer Holiday"

2009-08-23T20:51:00.016+01:00

At last - an entry! Being away oop north until late afternoon Monday and allowing the deadline to creep up on me unawares has resulted in a somewhat rushed effort, comprising pictures from a recent visit to a museum near me called the Ringwood Town and Country Experience. Good job I had them on my laptop (good job I had the laptop with me). When I'm able to upload it to Flickr (which I spent an hour trying this afternoon), I'm going to call it "Let Bygones Be Bygones". Good, eh?

Here is the News

2009-07-12T20:41:00.018+01:00

I thought it was about time. Look what's in our garden. I know it's a cucumber because of this: I just managed to take the picture before the yellow alien attacked me. There are also chillis: And strawberries - there are (and have been) more than one, honest! And lettuces: And one or two nice flowers: And today, I went geocaching to add two to my massive total of finds (36, now; don't mock, I've got a poorly leg). On the way, I saw this three-on-one action: Haha, fooled you. I found some pizza growing naturally on a tree near one of the caches: Yesterday, I treated myself to something I've been meaning to for a while. A digital compact. I only had the DSLR and you need a wheelbarrow to take it with you to parties, weddings etc. The compact will slip nicely into my shirt pocket. All of the above were snapped with it and I'm quite pleased with it so far. It's a Canon PowerShot A1100 IS (for the uninitiated, that stands for Image Stabilisation) and it's got a 4x optical zoom, video, and everything! Who knows? There may be more news soon.

Tuesday Challenge #22

2009-06-17T14:00:00.005+01:00

Grrr! Oh, sorry, I growled because, despite four attempts, I couldn't e-mail Stu my choice for last week's challenge in time. Apparently, the French internet was being crap when I tried and, when we reached Cherbourg, where we camped for a couple of nights at the end of our holiday, there wasn't even a mobile phone network available! Anyway, I would have submitted this one, which, I think, is the best of my mediocre bunch at the moment. Click for bigness.

Tuesday Challenge #9 - "Vertigo"

2009-03-16T00:52:00.003Z

#9 required the subject to be at least 30 feet below the camera. This is my entry, which was taken at Askerswell, Dorset, on the way back from Teignmouth on Sunday. Sorry to JG, because it is very similar to hers and I fiddled with lens blur etc. but the tilt shift effect isn't very good, I'm afraid.

Keeling Schedules

2009-03-07T01:36:00.007Z

After I retired from local government early in 2004, a couple of very nice people gave me a part-time job as Website Manager for the Association of Electoral Administrators, an organisation of which I had been a member whilst I was working full-time. Yawning already, Omally? Tut, I thought you had an open mind. Oh no, that was last week!

All right, so I could keep mentally active by doing Brain Training on the Ninbongo DS but this is real life and involves real people and I interact with several of them every day and spend time with hundreds of them at Conference (including giving an after-dinner speech to over 400 of them one year concerning my vasectomy; I just tarted up this old blog and it seemed to go down fairly well). I promise I’ll come to the point quite soon.

I send out a newsletter every Friday to all 1,560 members and always include a final item under the heading “Weekly Ramblings”, intended to amuse and prove that there is humanity among the dry-as-dust trappings of electoral administration. I’ve actually pinched a good deal of material from this blog, adapting it as necessary, although I’ve used pretty much all I can and now have to write new stuff; something always seems to come up, though. Like yesterday.

Do you know what Keeling Schedules are? If you are familiar with the law, you probably will. Put simply, they comprise the text of a piece of legislation with bits in bold showing any wording inserted by a subsequent piece of legislation and drawing a line through what’s been taken out. With me so far? I thought I might find out a bit more about Keeling Schedules so I could pass on some interesting information to our members, especially since one had recently been issued which was of significant interest, what with the European elections looming.

I reckoned they must have been named in honour of the chap who came up with the idea and so, very early on Friday morning (about 10, I think), I commenced using the power of the internet to assist my investigations. I got quite excited when I came across the name of Dr. David Keeling linked to Schedules, only to be disappointed to discover that he is merely the head of the Department of Geography and Geology at West Kentucky University, and the Schedules are simply his term timetable; why they are not called that as opposed to “semester schedules” (pron. skedules) is beyond me. I glossed over the flight schedule for the Jet Charter and Air Charter Service to and from Cocos Keeling Island (no, neither do I) as being irrelevant, as was the list of TV Schedules for Liise Keeling, who is, apparently, a stunt woman who has performed in many films and TV series from 2001 to date, including the memorable “Monk”; unfortunately, imdb.com fails to tell us what role she played in the episode “Mr Monk Meets Dale the Whale” (2002). Her listings reveal that she was mostly a “stunt double”, “stunt performer” or “stunt driver” but I did wonder what particular qualities were necessary to bring to the set of the 2008 film The Rocker as a “stunt waitress”. Perhaps, as most American waitresses are, she was adept at juggling with eggs over easy, pastrami on rye, bagels, cookies, and interminable steaming jugs of black coffee, all probably whilst wearing roller skates.

I was becoming a little dispirited by now and the only vaguely interesting information I could come up with was the schedule of rowing events in the 2008 Olympics, involving the South African, Shaun Keeling, all you would ever need to know about scheduling a conference call between the Cocos Keeling Islands and Luxembourg (bearing in mind the time difference) and the service schedule of the funeral for Jimmy Keeling in Allegre, Kentucky, in July 2008. Finally, I had some success. Wikipedia - of all things - tells us that Keeling was the MP for Twickenham between 1935 and 1954, the year of his death. I am unsure of the circumstances surrounding the development of his Schedule (pron. “shedule”) but I found one or two references, despite being riddled with mental fatigue by then. The well-known work Legislative Drafting by V. C. R. A. C. Crabbe explains (at p. 147) that the device is named after Mr E H Keeling (later Sir Edward Keeling) who, with Mr R P Croom‑Johnson (later Mr Justice Croom-Johnson) came up with the proposal.

A bloke called Bennion who subsequently rubbished Keeling’s system in Statute Law (at pp. 278-9) came up with something called a Jamaica Schedule, but I reckon he was just jealous and I dismissed that out of hand as well as a summary of Montesquieu’s Principles, Thring’s Rules and Ilbert’s Questions and Advice. In my book, Keeling is a hero and anyone who can come up with something that can be used to demonstrate the practical effect of the Loan Relationships and Derivative Contracts (Disregard and Bringing Into Account of Profits and Losses) Regulations 2004 and the effect of the Deregulation (Weights & Measures) Order on the Weights and Measures Act 1985 has to be worthy of commemoration. That's what I think anyway.

Tuesday Challenge #7 - "Out of the frame"

2009-03-01T21:58:00.005Z

This is my entry to Stu's Tuesday Challenge #7 ("This week, the subject is absent from the frame. This could be for various reasons - location: your subject is present but off to one side of the frame; temporal: your subject was present but has now gone.") Hopefully, this bird-bath speaks for itself! It looks slightly less rubbish than the original colour version, by the way. I think I'm enjoying this and I'm hoping to come up with a real belter one day!

Tuesday Challenge #6 - "Blue"

2009-02-21T12:36:00.005Z

Well, after driving around forest roads for an hour yesterday with nothing blue leaping out at me, I returned home a little jaded. Then an idea hit me; I had the CD of that name by the great JM so I took a picture of the front cover and one of the back and, with a bit of twiddling with hue, saturation and rotation, I ended up with this. I hope taking a picture of a picture taken by someone else and all the post-production shenanigans won't render it invalid! I've got a horrible feeling about #7!

Tuesday Challenge #5 - One Out Of One (and lamp-post update)

2009-02-13T01:04:00.004Z

This is my entry to Stu's Tuesday Challenge #5, taken from my hotel window early Tuesday evening. I missed out on #4 - "Red", because I haven't seen anything red for - oh - days, now, plus, since Sunday, I've been a very busy boy in Brighton and, anyway, as you all know, there's nothing red there. The only post-production I did was to straighten the horizon (damn that little buoy). In other news, the lamp-post has been taken away!

A little light relief

2009-02-06T23:50:00.003Z

Every Thursday, I meet some friends at the pub and we have a few games of pool, a foaming brew or two, and a laugh. My mate Roy gives me a lift. He duly arrived and, as I left the house, I saw a man wearing a luminous yellow jacket and a safety helmet. He came over to speak to me.

Man: ‘scuse me, mate (pointing to the grass verge next to our house), d’you know if there used to be a street lamp here?

Me: Well, I’ve lived here for 23 years and there’s never been one here during that time.

Man: Only, we’ve been told to replace it.

Me: See my previous remark above.

Roy: Perhaps someone nicked it.

Me: Haha.

Man: Haha. Look at my map – it’s definitely marked as being here. See? Number 5.

Me: So it is, but, as I say, to my knowledge, there’s never been one here.

He then wandered off down the road, looking for the elusive Number 5 lamp-post. We thought no more of it especially as he did not appear to have a replacement street light about his person and went to the pub. We related the incident to our friends with great merriment until, about five minutes later, we saw a lorry go past with a street lighting column on the back. I suggested that perhaps Yellowcoat had misunderstood his instructions and the order was for installation rather than replacement.

Ten minutes or so later, S phoned me to say that she had had a conversation with Yellowcoat after she noticed he was erecting a lamp-post. As far as I can tell, her conversation with him went something like this.

Wife: Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?

Yellowcoat: We’re replacing the street lighting column.

Wife: How can you replace it, there’s never been one here.

Yellowcoat: Well, it’s shown on the map and I’m sorry I’ve got no choice but to do what I’ve been instructed.

Wife: But I don’t particularly want a street light here; there’s one across the road, two behind us at the end of the Close, and one just along the road two properties away. Anyway, I don’t want a light shining into the house all night.

Yellowcoat: Oh, you needn’t worry about that – it only shines straight downwards. Anyway, there’s no electricity.

The whole thing was becoming quite farcical. Resigned to our enlightened fate, S went indoors and telephoned the County Council Highways Department, where a very helpful lady was, er, very helpful indeed and even rang back as promised. Apparently, the previous (non-existent) street lighting column had to be replaced for safety reasons as it was too close to the road. The new one is now closer than the old (non-existent) one was – or, rather, wasn’t. Apart from that, our drop kerb access will have to be dug up to have electrickery installed – we will only be inconvenienced for about a couple of hours and there won’t be any problem as long as we had been given authority to use the drop kerb access – ahem. Well, I spoke to a Highways Inspector yonks ago and he said he would come and inspect – well, that’s his job – and let me know if there was any problem. He never let me know any such thing, so that’s all right, then. I hope. Anyway, the Council are going to write to us with an explanation. They’ll probably just tell us they’ve installed a nice new street light. Let’s wait and see.

With our house as the centre, there are now five street lights within a radius of 150 yards. It’ll be like living in Blackpool.

Hold the front page

2009-02-01T19:30:00.005Z

This is my entry to Stu's Tuesday Challenge #3, "Front Page", and is intended to be for a magazine called, perhaps, "Gun Dogs Weekly/Monthly/Quarterly". Or maybe "Dangerous Toys"; take your pick. As for post-production, I had great difficulty finding a suitable indoor location and had to, er, artificially enlarge (only slightly) the grey board behind the subject, plus cropping and faffing around with levels. This is fun - I think.

Picture it

2009-01-30T23:58:00.008Z

I've always been a keen photographist but have long suffered from apathy, followed by enforced inactivity. However, I have to thank Stu for the weekly (er, what else would it be?) Tuesday Challenge because it has galvanised me into action and, although I missed out on #1 (People at Work) through a bit of silliness, to be honest, I am going to try and put an entry in every week. #2 (Water) was a somewhat hurried effort and I've got an idea for #3 (Front page) for which I had several failed attempts this afternoon - better luck over the weekend, hopefully! Anyway, I've resurrected my Flickr account and uploaded some miscellaneous piccies which you can see here. I need to keep practising!

Val-deri, val-dera, my knapsack on my back

2009-01-26T15:57:00.006Z

Well, this is my last gasp entry to Stu's Tuesday Challenge #2 "Water". I had to deliver something somewhere so I thought I'd take my gert big heavy camera bag (that's the knapsack) with me and try and find some water, bearing in mind time was running out. So this is a view from a bridge on an old disused railway track (now called the Castleman Way) in Ringwood. Not being overly experienced in the photographery department, I had to tweak it by adjusting the levels and jiggered with the saturation a bit. I even used an ND8 filter so I could use a shutter speed of 3 seconds - I couldn't make it longer as that took me up to the maximum aperture of the lens - how about that?! It was possibly my first solo escapade since being challenged in the movement department - and I left my stick in the car! Mind you, it was only about 50 or 60 yards away from where I'd parked. Well, there it is; I wasn't actually singing 'The Happy Wanderer', though I felt like it.

Lightning conductor

2009-01-19T13:51:00.011Z

This is my entry to Stu's Tuesday challenge "People At Work" (nearly too late)! It was taken in the summer of 2006 when I went to see Maris and her band perform in Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens. Whilst I didn't get a model release form filled in, I did upload all the pics to FlickR and send the link to her so the band could see them. I wonder if that's (nearly) OK?

Take one tablet at night – and duck

2009-01-10T23:02:00.006Z

So – the inclination to start blogs with “So” is continuing, as is the medical slant to them. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m just telling it like it is.

So (see?) - my annual diabetic review came up last week and, for the first time, I am now on medication, to add to all the other remedies I’m taking. Blood sugar - slightly up; cholesterol – slightly up; kidney function – very good indeed, actually; liver function – quite acceptable (hmmm); blood pressure – slightly up; weight – one at a time on the scale, please.

My medical centre (particularly the Sister who runs the Diabetes Clinic) is most assiduous in the care of patients with the condition and I have nothing but the highest praise for everyone there (I know nearly all of them by name and they of course know and love me). After all, one of the practice nurses had to handle my bare feet, sloshing blue gel all over them and pushing a pen-like instrument around that amplifies the sound of the pulses; sadly, it drowned out the classical music being piped into the treatment room but all was OK and, although not 100% kicking, I am apparently alive. And I was able to put my socks back on all by myself.

One of the new medications is called Simvastatin which is in tablet form; the label stuck on the box contains the dosage instruction: “Take ONE at night, avoid grapefruit.” Having never been attacked by anyone wielding that particular fruit, I am now on constant alert after taking one of the tablets in case some conscientious objector to statins chucks one at me. D’you reckon I’m being over-cautious?

In other news, my free travel pass came today so I will no longer have to bite the bullet and fork out the £1.20 flat fare to use the local bus to go just one stop to the pub. I’m going to try and drive my car next week – wish me luck with lifting the clutch! Ooh, and I nearly forgot, I also had a letter from those lovely people at the NHS to tell me that I would be receiving a Bowel Cancer Testing Kit in a couple of weeks – I can’t wait to play with that.

Inflatable slippers keep you awake as well

2008-12-30T22:06:00.008Z

So I had the operation - well, this is purely an assumption on my part because I had been asleep for a while, but someone must have done something because my lower back was bloody sore - and I was taken back to Side Room 3, where I had begun my surgical adventure the day before. I had a drip connected to my right hand and one of those nose clip thingies which I never realised before was to supply oxygen; and we used to watch Casualty – tut!

I was initially provided with a bottle to pee in but, worryingly, it was constructed of egg-box cardboard and the nurse told me to press the call button as soon as it had been used, otherwise... well, the consequences don’t bear thinking about. As if it wasn’t bad enough having to try and defy gravity by using the damn’ thing, while I was fumbling beneath the sheet with it, I accidentally pulled the drip needle from my right hand; for an instant, I did wonder where all the blood was coming from. So, fresh sheets, gown etc. I might have been forgiven for thinking it would be quite nice to be sponged down by a nurse; not so, although it might have been because there was another nurse there at the time.

She took the bottle (by this time, I had persuaded them to give me a decent plastic one – gravity still presented a problem, though) and, as she crossed the corridor, I heard her shout to her colleague “I’ve taken his bottle – thousand mil!” I wondered if this was a record for I could think of no reason for mentioning it other than the existence of some kind of competition.

Apart from the old feller further down the corridor shouting “Great Britain!” and “No, get back!” at the top of his voice, the buzzer at the nurse station going off every few minutes (this was immediately adjacent to Side Room 3), the nurse coming in to do “obs”, the raging storm and the inflatable slippers, it was very peaceful.

Inflatable slippers? Ah, yes, these are innovative devices which fit over your feet and are designed to prevent DVT by inflating and deflating constantly, very much like the armband on a blood pressure machine.

The best thing about my hospitalisation? Morphine.

Christmas and infection

2008-12-24T00:08:00.010Z

Inevitable, wasn't it? Well, both of the above, of course. One happens at the same time every year and the other happens to me after an operation.

There is now officially no more room in my tablet box: antibiotics have been added to the Amlodipine, Ramipril, Paracetamol, Codeine Phosphate and Diclofenac. If I could only jump up and down, I would rattle. Still, it's apparently not too serious but I've got to go back to see the nurse to have the wound redressed on Christmas Eve and again on Monday. If only it was my birthday before then, I could go free on the bus! Anyway, with the first part of the heading in mind, I would like to take the opportunity to wish all of you a stupendous Christmas and New Year and desperately hope to be able to make the February meet to see a lot of you again. I've said this before, but you are a marvellous bunch of people who I have been privileged to know during the past few years. It's a great shame the internet wasn't around sooner. Love to all of you.

Confused, Salisbury

2008-12-22T22:41:00.007Z

So there I was on Thursday 11^th December, finally, in hospital, full of apprehension because it would be the first time I would ever be confined in one overnight; it wasn’t so much the fear of undergoing surgery, more the indignities I could potentially suffer. I mean, your private functions go out the window, don’t they? No, don’t be daft, you know what I mean, I had my own side room with a shower and toilet - anyway, the window didn’t open wide enough.

I had received a letter instructing me to make my way to a certain ward at four o’clock but we were a little early, having arrived just after half-past three. We were shown into one of the ward bays (which are a pretty good size, more or less circular and contain four beds and a small seating area with a view of rolling countryside and Car Park 8). At a quarter to five, I was shown to my room by a very pleasant, rather portly black nurse (in case you were wondering, I mention her ethnicity because I would like you to imagine the way she moved, as if a hidden calypso was dictating her gait) who said “Could you walk this way?” I restrained myself; oh, all right, I didn’t. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’m hoping to be able to soon.” She had the good grace to chuckle.

The last thing I expected was a room to myself with an en suite shower and toilet and a considerable amount of the aforementioned apprehension swiftly dissipated. We explored the room and I unpacked my nightie etc. Nobody had yet appeared to tell me what to expect but Sheila had to get home so she left at about a quarter past five and I was left twiddling my thumbs (as far as I was physically able to), wondering what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I fiddled with the overpriced Patientline (now in administration and taken over by Hospedia, I understand) telephone and TV (the radio service was free), read a bit of my book and pondered over the Telegraph crosswords; I finished those at about twenty past seven and, shortly after this – hurrah! - a nurse came in and took my blood pressure and temperature. I thought it would be nice to know the forthcoming routine so I interrupted her conveyor belt and asked if that was all that was going to happen for the rest of the night. “Yes,” she answered. Little liar.

I got into bed quite early, read a bit more and fell asleep unusually early for me, at about ten, but was awoken at midnight by the aforementioned nurse – the mendacious little minx - who visited again to do my “obs” (you do slip into the jargon quite quickly – “obs”, “meds”, “bedpan” etc.

There was no further interruption until twenty to four when the nurse came in to take my jug of water away (you are allowed fluids only up to two hours before surgery but I had been told earlier that I would be able to have a couple of sips to take my normal blood pressure medication). She obviously didn’t trust me and said, “I have to do this because you’re going to theatre in the morning.” This was the first I’d heard of it; it made good sense, though, as I was already there but nobody had confirmed when I was going until then. “I can have a little with my medication, though, can’t I?” “Oh, no.” “Oh, right.”

A little later (about half-past six), while I was having a wash and the nurse was changing the bedding, another nurse shouted through the door that I could have a couple of small sips of water in order to take my medication. I began to feel like those passengers at Terminal 5 on opening day, except I don’t suppose any of them had numb legs.

To be continued...

Shortly = 45 minutes

2008-12-03T17:19:00.009Z

How crap is an almost four month interval between blogs? Utter, entire, total, complete, absolute, comprehensive, full-blown, thorough, unmitigated, wholesale, downright, and many other adjectives too numerous to mention (go on, check with Roget), that’s what.

So, with abject apologies (becoming increasingly all too common) and, as intimated to a mutual friend recently, here is the first since what we only just had time to refer to as summer. That last one recounted the medical position extant at that time. Anyway, things have moved on and I have now been given a date for the operation (Friday 12^th December) when the consultant will perform an L4 spinal decompression and partial discectomy; if you want to know where L4 is, you’ll have to look it up on a map (someone has told me it might be just off the M4).

Last Thursday, I had to go to a pre-admission clinic which I was led to believe would be a quick question-and-answer session but which turned into a marathon, kicked off by the orthopaedic receptionist who, when saying “Sister will see you shortly” omitted to explain what her version of “shortly” meant (see the heading). Anyway, suffice to say that the thoroughness of the staff at Salisbury District Hospital was admirably demonstrated by the number of tests I was subjected to: blood pressure (OK, but the new machine they had only acquired last week was acting up and it was a “best of three” calculation), MRSA test (swab up the nose), weight (best glossed over), *ahem* test (glucose levels, some present, as it turned out but subsequently acceptable), X-ray (the worst part of this was when I had to get dressed and realised that I couldn’t undo the knot I’d tied at the back of the gown and had to try and remove it over my head - try not to think about it), blood (results have proved fine, overnight service!), ECG (no problems) but removal of the ten adhesive contacts afterwards was like how it must feel being waxed. I had arrived at the hospital at 2.45pm and left at 5.15pm, arriving home a bare 10 minutes before Manchester City kicked off in their UEFA Cup game against Schalke 04; it was too late to cook so we had to send out for Chinese – shame!

Also, Sky+ came into its own as the dog had to be walked and horse fed, so the match was put on hold for a good 15 minutes – I turned my phone off to curtail any potential piss-taking: not necessary, as it turned out! I am currently going through a grump phase because of the imminent surgery, the earliness of the date of which has resulted from a cancellation and, if I’m honest, I’m a bit frightened. I attribute the cause of my current absence from anything other than limericks to this state of mind. Copout, perhaps. Sorry and all that. I really hope I can make the next meet but, in the meantime, please bear with me.

Hospital

2008-08-15T16:42:00.006+01:00

You may remember me mentioning my two prolapsed discs. I have been undergoing hospital treatment to relieve their detrimental effect. One of the little sods (T4, I think the doc said) is buggering up my left leg, making it numb and weak (in the region of the knee), causing a number of recent falls (one down the stairs – good job I was only on the second step, the main casualty being the dog who I frightened to death as I knocked over - and fell on top of - the gate which prevents him going upstairs spreading gob and dirty footprints further round the house than he already does).

When he sees me heading downstairs now (backwards, of course), he rapidly vacates his bed before I'm halfway down. Anyway, the treatment recently involved my having something called a farominal root injection in the lower back. Cortisone is now sloshing around my nether regions and, coupled with the rattling of the numerous pain-killers (common or garden Paracetamol (Tesco), Calcium Phosphate and Diclofenac - both on prescription - I wish I hadn't read the leaflet in the Diclofenac box), I sound like a plastic bottle containing water and marbles when I walk (oh, haha!); hopefully, it will do its stuff in due course.

At the hospital, when I was called from the Clinical Radiology waiting area, a nurse took me to a changing room where she instructed me to take all my clothes off, except my pants (that's knickers to all you northern folk). I did wonder why I needed to remove my socks to have an injection in the back but I meekly complied (it's the uniform that does it, y'know) and put on the gown provided. Another nurse then came to take me into to the treatment room. "Doctor Bentley…", she began. "…does it gently?" I poetically suggested with lashings of optimism. "Ooh, I never thought of that before", she said (yeah, right), "he definitely does and he'll explain everything to put your mind at rest." And he did, very succinctly and with a highly commendable bedside manner.

In the end, I don't know why I'd been worried - the worst part of the whole process was one of the nurses having to put my socks back on for me while I was sat on a disabled toilet (all the changing cubicles were taken).

That His Dark Materials bloke...

2008-07-28T15:00:00.004+01:00

Is a bit of a whizz when you think about it - IMHO, of course, to which I think I am entittled – and it was Mort whose entry in Favourite Things made me buy the trillilogy off eBay a while ago and I read it in double quick time - does that make six or one-and-a-half? Ho-hum. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed it and also the resultant fillum 'Golden Compass' but am somewhat irritated to hear that production of 'The Subtle Knife' may be hampered by objections from various religious groups who seem to be contending that Philip Pullman is a heretic who was writing with blatantly obvious relish about the necessity for a war against and the eventual destruction of God. And here's me thinking it was a story.

Anyway, to tone things down a little, I should like to refer to another of Mr Pullman's literary offerings; he also wrote a quartet of novels about a character called Sally Lockhart. Now I am easily led (see the reference to Mort above) and, one afternoon, I chanced to have the opportunity to watch a BBC production of 'Ruby in the Smoke' (the first novel) starring Billy Piper (ahem, crosses legs) as our heroine (apparently, there is also a BBC production of the second novel 'Shadow in the North' which I haven't yet seen – strangely, it has not yet appeared on UK Drama or UK Drama +1, 2, 3 or 4). Billie wasn't bad as Sally but worth particular mention is Julie Walters, who played the thoroughly evil and disgusting Mrs Holland wonderfully.

I also thoroughly enjoyed this to the extent that I bought all four books in the series and read 'em all on holiday. And jolly exciting reading they made, an' all! Would anyone like to read them? I'd be happy to share/donate them; I didn't even realise Philip Pullman had written them until the credits rolled at the end of 'Ruby'.

You may think this was a pointless blog but at least it was a blog. Love to one and all and sorry I missed the meet.

Back in business

2008-07-15T15:02:00.005+01:00

My blogging stats are even worse than Simon G's these days but not much seems worth chronicling. If I go on about my back being, er, back, it'll seem like I'm feeling sorry for myself and whingeing.

Well, all right, then, ever since I did a bit of bending in the garden about three weeks ago my back has been killing me – my own fault, I suppose – and the two most comfortable positions I can adopt at the moment are upright in my office chair and lying down. I've got another appointment with the rheumatologist in a couple of days but it is proving something of a logistical nightmare trying to figure out how I can get to Salisbury Hospital either in my office chair or lying down. Any ideas?

In other news, it is almost sad to relate that little of note occurred to mar the enjoyment of our recent holiday in France (at the same campsite), unlike last year when – as you may remember- it rained continuously and we were exposed to the menace of the oak processionary caterpillar. I am pleased to say that of that wretched multiped there was not a trace and, for me, the holiday was totally spot-free, even from those induced by the mosquito; I attribute that most satisfactory state of affairs to the quinine content of Schweppe's Tonic Water. Apparently, the appropriate authorities and other campsites had begun to take the threat of the OPC in Northern Europe much more seriously and the whole site had been chemically treated via helicopter earlier in the year (with, so far as I am aware, the loss of no clients at all), the exercise being part of an overall scheme to test various methods of controlling the problem. As an aircraft was used, I assume it must have been a pilot scheme.

A bientot!

Dreamland

2008-05-13T17:21:00.011+01:00

I feel like Sandra Bullock. I'm sure I'm not the only man to have said that at one time or another in his life but I'm not talking about a desire to know her carnally or anything like that……ermmm…… well, anyway, for the purpose of this blog, I feel like her because, the other night, I saw the film "Premonition" in which she plays a character who has extraordinarily vivid and disturbing dreams that foresee her husband's death and the aftermath (the beforemath as well, actually) of it. It is a quite entertaining fillum.

Recently, I, too, have been experiencing dreams (at last, the point!) which, although they have chronicled slightly less important issues than my husband's death (you know what I mean), have still induced a strong feeling of unease at the time. These are the ones I can remember:- - I lose a large encyclopedia which I borrowed from the library and which is due back that day - A train drives over my glasses and I have lost my spare pair - I arrive at my local pub and it has been demolished - I suddenly find myself in a totally unfamiliar location (possibly in forrin) wearing only swimming trunks - I wake up suddenly, thinking I have overslept and missed a very important appointment, but it is only 5.45 a.m. I realise this is not strictly speaking a dream but have no doubt it is the consequence of some unconscious thought processes occurring during sleep. Of course, I then can't get back to sleep.

I'm a bit fed up feeling like Sandra Bullock now.

Legging it...

2008-05-12T14:14:00.010+01:00

…or not.

This is not a new shiny I appreciate having, really.

I need it if I know I have to walk more than about 500 yards (i.e. to the pub). Note the go faster stripes on it (they don't work, by the way).

The MRI scan I had fascinatingly showed two prolapsed discs – they've got letters and numbers, you know – and are doing something or other to my sciatic nerve. One of them is responsible for my left leg being (1) partially numb and (2) weak, hence the requirement to employ the aid pictured here.

Also, apparently, I have a something or other shoulder - well, I can't help it if I can't remember what the nice shoulder specialist at the Shoulder Clinic (I kid you not) called it, can I? I'd had an anaesthetic injection in it last November and, until now, it has been marvellous - I've even been able to get dressed by myself.

It's pissing me off a bit but there are folk a bloody sight worse off than me, aren't there? At least I've still got my sanity. *wibble*

Ooh, look - a blog!

Ringing the changes

2008-01-30T20:11:00.001Z

Today, we went shopping in Salisbury and it was a pleasant interlude. Try the warm home-made quiche in Poppy's Tea Shop with lashings of home-made coleslaw – mmm! Anyway, the main point of this blog (the second in two days – are you impressed?) is to tell you about my doorbell episode. Hence the title.

For about two weeks now, our front doorbell has not worked. I bought a new battery for the bell-push, having got the digital meter out and established the presence of insufficient voltage in the current one - see what I did there? It still didn't work.

During our perambulations, we happened upon Robert Dyas (I can never go past the damn shop) and I spotted a wireless doorbell on offer for 15 GBP instead of 30. You can even record and play your own messages or download music to the chime unit. I did toy with the idea of recording a shouted message along the lines of "open the fucking door, someone!" but thought that might upset the Salvation Army if they ever called, so I opted for the default Big Ben chime (in my opinion rather grandly referred to in the manual as the Westminster). This was the least offensive of the 8 pre-loaded tones available included among which is the Lambada and the Mexican Hat Dance. You would probably find people dancing on your front doorstep. Hmmm.

Well, the bell-push already had a nice CR2032 button battery installed but I had to nip over to the Tesco Express opposite to get a couple of LR14s (aka UM2 or C) for the chime unit. Before I did that, however, I was in the kitchen fiddling with the new bell-push. When I pressed it, the old doorbell rang.

Bugger.

We hadn't long eaten meat…

2008-01-29T14:43:00.004Z

…when the dessert arrived.

Hahahahahaha, see what I did there?

Anyway, it was the n^thSimonG meet on Saturday (there appears to be some confusion over how many there have been) and Jenny very kindly offered me a sofa (no, it wasn't from her Mum's flat) for the weekend, so I could attend the Eaton Farm pub in Long Eaton properly refreshed; leaving the pub properly refreshed was naturally down to me! As it happened, Gottle ended up on the sofa and at the constant mercy of nocturnal feline interference. Luckily, the bedroom I occupied had a door that fastened! Hurrah!

Several hours earlier, I had taken the Cross Country train from Bournemouth and, having booked the ticket online before Christmas, benefited from: (1) an amazingly reasonable price (£26 return) and (2) a reserved seat – I commend this system to you all. There was even an electric socket for PDAs and laptops – what more could you ask for? Not a signal failure between Birmingham International and Birmingham New Street, that's for sure.

Being one of the most considerate people of our generation, I relinquished my seat 10 minutes before the scheduled arrival at New Street (14.43) with the intention of enabling someone who had hitherto been standing to sit, and waiting in the passage until we arrived. Within 3 minutes of arriving in the stifingly hot passage with a mass of humanity exuding body odours of varying richness, the announcement of the signal failure up ahead was, er, announced, which meant that we were being diverted and it would take at least another 25 minutes, advancing the arrival time to 15.12; my connection departed at 15.13.

When we arrived at New Street, it would be disingenuous of me to report that I ran to the main concourse; a person in my advanced degenerative condition could at best be described as hurrying (and that would be kind). As I ~~limped towards~~ approached the information board, the announcer told me that there had been a platform change and the 15.13 to Nottingham was now leaving from Platform 11a. I raced (oh, come on!) down the stairs and caught it with a minute to spare. In fact, had it left on time and not 3 minutes late, I would have missed it.

It was great to see members of the fabulous blogring again and to actually meet someone I hadn't met, i.e. Me (I've done all the jokes before so I'll leave it at that), who lives in Welshland and who had arrived at the pub an hour before Paul, Jenny and me!

Many thanks again to Jenny for organising the event, lifts to and from the station, and putting me and Gottle up for two nights at an extraordinarily competitive B&B rate. The ~~mess~~ Mediterranean (or Italian) Beef Casserole on Friday night was superb!

Ooh! I've just done a blog!

Letter to me

2008-01-16T17:50:00.002Z

I'm not sure but I think Hutters put me up to this. This is a letter from me now to me at 13 years of age:

Dear Nigel, You will be called Lois in about 40 years time but that's not important right now. Right now, you must stop hanging around at school with the likes of Jock and Ken and the other wankers. It's easy for me to say now but you really have to learn to stand on your own two feet a lot sooner than you actually will. Just because Mum ran around after all of us and we never lifted a finger to help doesn't mean she liked doing it. Neither, I imagine, did she like the beatings from Dad after closing time while we cowered on the stairs. I don't suppose for a minute that this will stop you from only getting three O-levels and realising too late that you want to carry on in the sixth form but, because you will continue to act like a prick, the headmaster will say "no chance" and you will walk out of school smoking. Don't be too hasty in affairs of the heart and don’t think you must be in love with someone just because she lets you be intimate with her. Down that road could lie endless unhappiness. That will be narrowly averted, by the way. You will agree to accompany cousin Ruth to the Youth Employment Office whence you will be sent to an interview after which you will enjoy – with varying degrees of intensity – a moderately successful 37-year professional career, during the last eighteen months of which you will cope badly with the pressure of work. This unfortunate period will come to an end although various parts of you will start (and continue) to hurt a bit. The good news is that you will have a fantastic family of your own and make a lot of wonderful friends. Finally, the beginning of the year 2009 will herald the award to you of a free bus pass – use it wisely! Yours (mine) very sincerely, Lois

Crimble

2007-12-24T14:11:00.001Z

Just a quick blog to wish all you lovely people a very Merry (see heading). As some of you will know (well, those of you whose telephone numbers I have will know because I’ve rung you) I have already spoken to you (not all of you, obviously, as I don’t have all your numbers, although I’ve got all the numbers of the numbers of those of you I have got). Is that clear so far? Good.

I have continued to be conspicuous by my absence, as you will continue to have noticed, and this has been caused by enormous amounts of work that have been arriving in my IN tray - well, I haven't really got an IN tray as such, I've got one of those five-tray tower thingies which are full of, erm, well, I'd better check, actually, and none of them is marked 'IN', even though new incoming work starts off in the very top one and either makes its way to my desk or falls out of the back and down into the cobwebby detritus that infests the floor behind the little table on which the tower thingy sits (shouldn't that be stands?) and where several extension lead sockets are located - aha! is that what the smoke is?

Are you still with me? Good, because I send all my very best wishes to you and hope that next year is going to be roaringly better than this one, even though this one may have been roaringly good for some of you, or even all of you; well, anyway, roaringly better has got to be good - hasn't it?

Love from me.

Health scare 2

2007-11-13T11:16:00.005Z

You remember I told you about my visit to the Medical Centre recently and my worryingly seamless integration into the New Forest Society Of Infirm, Tetchy and Wizened Old Buggers? In a smallish market town like Ringwood, Hants, lots of people know lots of other people and joining a gathering of local folk in a public place like a surgery will mean you are very likely to bump into someone with whom you are acquainted. Such was the case with me and a few others on that day.

I know it is only a platitude (like the French "Ça va?") but why, oh why, do people say "You all right, then?" when they meet you in a place which you would patently avoid unless you were not all right? "Yes, I am quite tickety-boo healthwise, thanks, but as I had a bit of time on my hands, I felt like popping in to pick up where I left off in the March 1999 issue of Mongolian Paperweights Monthly." I then make the fatal (not literally, of course, but at least I am in the right place) mistake of asking how they are and sit there for half an hour experiencing varying degrees of nausea as they regale you with a vivid description of the particularly repulsive medical condition from which they are suffering, sometimes even showing you the affected part of their anatomy. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief when I hear my name called and wonder if there is another way out of the building which avoids passing through the waiting room. I'm not bloody well going there again if I can help it; I'll have to e-mail Mongolian Paperweights Monthly and order a back issue.

Health scare

2007-11-06T09:55:00.002Z

The other day, I went to our local medical centre for a retinal screening. As you will probably know, it's a common precaution to check for diabetic retinopathy and I have it done every year. The point of this account is not to mention the tiny white splurge near the centre of my left eye which the optometrist (I am making an assumption here – she might have been an ophthalmologist or just a retinal photographer) couldn't identify and said the image would be scrutinised and a report sent to me in due course (I wonder if I'll be able to read it). No, this is about something which began to worry me greatly as I sat musing amid the coughing, sniffing, wheezing, dozing, limping, overweight, twitching, wrinkled throng.

I fitted in.

(makes note to contact highway authority with a view to becoming a road hump)

Knock, knock...

2007-10-31T22:50:00.002Z

So, after a pathetic absence of bloggage lasting some three and a half months, you may think I've got a bloody nerve, springing back on the scene without so much as a friendly warning to alleviate the shock. I still read all the blogs, leave the odd comment or two and add the occasional limerick line but I haven't been in the chat since before MMM went to live in Merkinland. I can't explain it but I almost experience a sense of discomfort sometimes when I hover over the Chat icon (I always check who's in when I peek at the Limerick Thingy) - oh, boy, do I hover - but, as you know, I rarely go in - something holds me back and it's as if I'm afraid I've got nothing interesting to say any more. I could use the excuse that I don't enjoy the amount of free time that I used to have because work is keeping me very busy and domestic life has taken a turn for the normal following the sale of the pub (spending a lot more time relaxing with family) and that I have become a terminal grump because of the continuing physical problems (not serious, but enough to cause frequent pain and constant irritation) but, well, that would just be, er, an excuse. Also, I haven't spoken to some people for ages who I used to phone occasionally - I can only ask that you accept my apologies. Did that sound trite? I didn't want it to. Would somebody please give me a friendly kick up the arse?

Unnerving questions in Barcelona

2007-07-20T16:40:00.001+01:00

The sun shone in that fair city last weekend (32° and counting, with generous helpings of Factor 20 for the top of the head) when I attended Episode One of my niece’s fiancé Charlie’s stag efforts (it was largely a family affair – he is having another one with about 35 of his mates in September, after he’s married!) and a good time was had by all. Imagine, though, the anxiety engendered by the following questions which were asked during our stay:

1. Ten bottles of Magners'. It’s your round, isn't it?

2. The bus to the airport leaves in three minutes. Where's Mike?

3. Does anyone know where I put my passport?

4.Why has that gorgeous lady got an enormous Adam's Apple?

5. My bag's been stolen and I've run out of credit on my phone; can I use your mobile to report my credit cards lost?

6.[This was asked of my brother-in-law by the Visa lady in Calcutta] Are you sure your name is Clarke?

7. Have you noticed the poster of a rather fit-looking bloke with his hand down the front of his pants at the front of the queue to get in this night club?

8. Have you noticed there are only men in the queue for this night club?

We did the northern route on the open-top tourist bus, because we wanted to see the Nou Camp and it stops there. You can get on and off any of the buses up to 9pm. It’s an ideal and comfortable way to see the main attractions and landmarks of the city and there are many impressive sights, all accompanied by an English commentary which you could listen to by plugging in the earphones supplied when you first got on. Nothing, though, can quite prepare you for the amazing Sagrada Familia designed by Antoni Gaudi. We walked up and down La Rambla (of course), had an All Day Full English Breakfast at a port-side café, watched two scantily-clad ladies playing football on the beach, marvelling at their skilful display of ball control (honestly), befriended a young waiter called George at the café next to the hotel; he kept apologising for the fact that my brother-in-law had had his bag nicked whilst sitting outside there and plied us with late night snacks free - we slipped him a folding tip on our last night.

Oh well, back to the weather. *is quite concerned about the possibility of webbed feet*

Attack of the Hundred Foot Caterpillars

2007-06-29T17:34:00.001+01:00

I mean they had a hundred feet, not that they were a hundred feet long, of course. Or is that centipedes? Anyway, are you sitting comfortably, mes enfants? Thaumetopoea processionea is a complete bastard, whether it has a hundred feet or not. The Wikipedia article does not actually refer to the Oak Processionary Caterpillar in those terms but you may take it from me that it undoubtedly merits that base epithet - and probably a lot baser. It inhabits oak trees; guess which type of trees were growing next to our mobile home in France? Ooh, good guess. As you will see if you bothered to follow the Wikipedia link, they have up to 63,000 fine hairs (the caterpillars, not the trees) which are easily shed (usually in the direction of holidaymakers from Hampshire, a fact unhelpfully not reported by Wikipedia) and which contain a substance poisonous to humans (and holidaymakers from Hampshire). Most of us only came out in several tiny spots on arms, legs and neck (strictly speaking, necks, I suppose), but my younger son is more susceptible to allergies, being a hay-fever sufferer, and I ended up having to take him to the local doctor who prescribed some cream, anti-histamine tablets and – to the boy's horror – some special soap to be used in the shower twice a day! It was fun watching firemen shinning up ladders, though, with a kind of mini-flame-thrower, burning the nests. Unfortunately, I couldn't hear the inhabitants screaming, probably because they had already been killed by the chemical spray administered prior to our arrival at the site. In other holiday news, it only rained twice: once from the 14th June (the day of our arrival) to the 18th (the 19th was dry and sunny) and once from the 20th June to the 27th. I went in the pool once and we barbecued once. Guess which day? Ooh, good guess. My older son had organised a tournament for everyone to take part in, having drawn up elaborate rules for each individual element of it; there was table-tennis, pool, petanque, two separate mini-golf games on the site (the brilliantly conceived Birdie Seeker and the Best Score From Three Rounds), a team guessing game called "Who's In The Bag" and the Apremont Open (a mini-golf game at Apremont next to a café at the inland lake there, traditionally played every time we camp in the Vendée); we even had a cup for the eventual winner. Well, the weather put paid to the petanque and the hairy bastards mentioned above put paid to the mini-golf on the site, which was closed off because it is surrounded by certain kinds of tree; guess which? Ooh, good guess. Apathy and late rising on the part of some of the competitors (I'm not saying which) and, to a lesser degree, the rain, as the tables were under cover, although your balls got wet when they shot out of the covered area through the open side – stop sniggering, Omally - put paid to the table-tennis, which involved playing everybody twice. Next year, we may continue with the tournament, but include some more appropriate events, like The Least Time Taken To Suck Out Snake Venom, perhaps, or The Most Number Of Festering Boils On Two Arms. Au revoir!

Eggscuse me?

2007-06-01T10:31:00.000+01:00

For what it’s worth (and to fill a gaping chasm on my blog), I thought I would share this with you. My niece is getting married in August and she recently held a hen weekend in Edinburgh which my wife attended. One morning, at breakfast, she (auntie/wife) decided she would just have scrambled egg on toast and duly placed her order. The waiter returned, saying that, unfortunately, they were out of scrambled but she could have fried. Hmmm…

Phone a friend

2007-05-10T15:37:00.000+01:00

No matter how much you press me, I am not going to launch into a long diatribe on the appalling circumstances surrounding the upgrade to my mobile phone. Suffice to say that, if your network is 3, you will soon be without service because I am going to torch their headquarters to keel all their employees dead. I suppose I’ll have to nuke India, too.

Teach!

2007-04-26T17:18:00.000+01:00

I really like this one!

She wasn't wearing a toga, though...

2007-04-13T14:36:00.000+01:00

I was watching the BBC News at lunchtime and an item about a housing development in Rochester, Kent, was presented by an attractive young lady reporter. Her name? Julia Caesar. I'm just going to telephone her Mum and Dad and have a right go at them!

I love Paris in the springtime

2007-03-22T02:25:00.000Z

Well, we spent two nights in Paris last week (Tuesday and Wednesday). It was a special offer brought to our attention by those very nice people at Travel Zoo. It turned out to be an offer we couldn’t refuse and we duly called in several favours which resulted in our children transporting us to and from Bournemouth station firstly for the 10.59 to London Waterloo on Tuesday and then from the 19.05 from London Waterloo on Thursday, arriving at 21.10 (bloody pathetic – nobody got on or off at Sway, Hinton Admiral, New Milton or Pokesdown). We took the Eurostar to Paris via Lille and, being interested in seeing how fast the train went and following the map to see where we were, I took my lovely brand new Garmin 60Csx and shone it out of the window at the sky. It hadn’t worked on the South West Train earlier, presumably because of the double-thickness-specially-coated-with-satellite-signal-destroying-material carriage windows, which prevented me from recording the mind-numbing speeds sometimes almost exceeding 50mph, I shouldn’t wonder. Killjoys. On the high speed stretch of track in Kent (there is another in course of construction, I gather – no doubt, Hutters or Hoggy could confirm or deny), the driver put his foot down and I watched the numbers on the Garmin slowly going up: 120…150…160…163…167…169…come on, come on…… yes! 170mph! And it was smooth. However, when we emerged from the tunnel on the French side, he really let himself go and, at one point, I clocked him at 191mph! Fantastique! Mind you, there was an announcement at one point informing us that it was the last time that particular driver would be piloting the Eurostar, so perhaps there was a leaving do going on and he was pissed. Anyway, we arrived (and returned home) in one piece. My niece and her partner both live and work in Paris and she had booked a table at a restaurant for Tuesday night; I had foie gras followed by confit de canard, one of my favourites, and at the end of the evening my niece’s partner performed a clever subterfuge by pretending there was an error in the bill and then going to another part of the restaurant to pay it! An entirely unexpected and generous gesture and he flatly refused recompense. On Thursday, we had lunch in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and spent the evening lurching this way and that on a train journey that felt like riding a bike with no tyres along an endless cobbled street. *sigh*

Play Your Cards Wrong

2007-03-05T10:09:00.003Z

I went to Brighton for four days last week, attending my employer’s Annual Conference, during which, I'll have you lot know, I had to give an after-dinner talk to 488 people! It seemed to go down rather well even though I say so myself - well, the Azerbaijani delegation enjoyed it, anyway.

When I came back on Wednesday, I needed to transfer the 60 or so pictures I had taken whilst there to my peecee, which has four assorted card reading slots on the front to facilitate this process. I pushed the CompactFlash card into the relevant orifice but it deliberately lifted itself too high and ended up above the actual bank of slots in which it should have been inserted. I now have a CompactFlash card living inside my peecee. I tried (a) tweezers, (b) a tiny drop of glue on the end of a long matchstick and (c) a cunning device comprising a clothes peg, paper clip and sellotape, but the only consequence of all these efforts was to ram the damn thing further in. Fortunately, other people had provided me with pictures which I can make use of, and I’ve got another card, but I really wouldn’t mind getting the first one back. I think I heard it laughing earlier and I’m worried about becoming rubbish.

In other exciting news, I’ve now got a lovely Garmin 60Csx (thanks again to those responsible!) and, over the weekend, I’ve been busy cluttering its electronical innards up with maps and waypoints. Shame I haven’t been able to use it for geocaching yet. It’s been pissing down since the postie delivered it on Friday! And there’s more to come, apparently. Bah!

*keeps pressing buttons and fidgets*

About time, too

2007-02-16T15:23:00.000Z

Bless me, for I have sinned. It has been almost a year since my last geocaching expedition but …BUT, on Wednesday, I headed for the forest complete with wife and dog and found my twentieth! How great is that? I’ve only been caching since the middle of 2003. I’ll soon catch that Gottle chap up. Anyway, Sophie’s Secret was the one. It involved a fair amount of yomping across a thoroughly soggy landscape but it was no match for my super‑duper waterproof walking boots. At one point, we reached a wide, quite deep and fast-moving stream and the track was blocked with cones and red plastic safety netting where the bridge was being repaired. A large sign said: “If you squeeze past the netting, you could probably walk gingerly across the half-dozen or so pieces of 8x6, although if you have a stupid dog who refuses to put his foot on them you might have to carry him.” Ahem. Good job the Forestry Commission blokes had gone for a cuppa. Sadly, my GPS is ailing as, even though there was little or no tree cover for much of the way, the arrow was swinging around all over the place. I think I need a new one; I must speak to those extraordinarily nice, handsome, lovely people at Garmin. *rehearses begging speech *

A lovely spot in the forest

2007-02-07T16:02:00.001Z

This is to appease MMM, who, since my earlier posting, has been acting like my mum: she used to be keen on squeezing blackheads on people's backs etc. Sorry about the lack of shaveage, by the way, but I'm frightened of making a mess on the bathroom floor.

Suffering

2007-02-07T14:00:00.001Z

Currently, I am suffering with: (1) a stinking cold and hacking cough, (2) a particularly bad bout of back pain which is (a) hindering upright movement and (b) causing me to seize up after being sat down for longer than about 20 minutes and (3) the after effects of cryotherapy (on Monday) to a blemish on my left cheek (the face, the face) which has caused it to swell up and fill with fluid – it looks revolting but is, according to the helpful notes issued to me after the treatment, an expected consequence which must be pricked with a needle (to release the fluid) and a dry dressing applied for a couple of days. Having told a friend on the telephone about all of this, he advised against buying a lottery ticket tonight.

*has generous swig of Glenfiddich purely for medicinal purposes*

The Pelican Brief

2007-01-28T16:53:00.000Z

See what I did there? Well, it was Breakfast in Picasso, Lunch at The Pelican Conservatory and Supper in the Grantham Hilton. It sounds like a day at the Cannes Film Festival, doesn’t it? Allow me to explain. As you (not you if you are a chance visitor looking for donkey porn and don’t know anything about SimonG) will know, the belated SimonG Christmas Meet was held yesterday at The Pelican in Addlestone, Surrey (about a couple of hundred yards from the Charlotte Rose’s mooring – shame on you if you didn’t go and marvel at her). It was great, of course! What else could it have been? I was so determined not to be late and, as I had got up just a leetle bit later than planned, I rushed over to Tesco Express and bought a couple of Sepcial K cereal bars to eat for breakfast in the car on the way; I’ve got a Citroen Xsara Picasso – with me so far? I arrived at the Crouch Oak (the pub where I, Merman, Mermaid and Maris Piper were staying on Saturday night) at about 10.35am and, whilst on the phone to Maris to ascertain her whereabouts, was verbally accosted from the driver’s window of a magnificent motorhome which turned out to be inhabited by Merfolk (it’s got Hilton painted on each wing) and is lovingly (if somewhat grandiosely) referred to as the Grantham Hilton – it turned out to be a fine temporary retreat later in the day. And it also turned out that my room had been occupied on the previous night by Sparkle Princess and Marshmallow! The cleaner hadn’t finished with the room but she let me go in and change before we set off for the meet. The empty Pot Noodle tub was still on the bathroom floor! Oh, and Marshy, I’ll post on to you the (ahem) item that I found under the bed – it didn’t fit on my head either! We were allocated the Pelican’s conservatory which overlooked the Wey Navigation, of which you (again not the other you) will be aware, Cap’n Henry Not The Thirst is the master. Amanda had apparently allocated the conservatory to our party without telling me, and others were aware of this despite my several (ahem) liaisons with her prior to the event. Oh well, I got over it after a few pints of Southern Glory! Anyway, it seems that everyone had a good time meeting folk for the first time (although it almost didn’t seem like the first time) and seeing old friends again. I achieved both! We (that is, me, Maris, Merman, Mermaid and gsyhiap) set off from The Pelican at about 10pm and walked back towards the Crouch Oak with a view to getting some fish and chips from the purveyor of same opposite the Crouch Oak. Well, he was closed but, fortunately (although not, as it turned out, for Maris - see her blog), the kebab house and Chinese takeaway were still peddling their wares to the masses (actually quite conspicuous by their absence, although, of course the pubs hadn’t yet chucked out) so, having acquired our respective dishes of nosh, we all trooped over to assemble in the Grantham Hilton and scoff it. Thanks , Chris and Rosie! A perfect end to a perfect day and you can see some piccies here.

Casey's Tool Works

2007-01-17T14:52:00.001Z

Or so the saucy postcard said. I wonder if it really does. I love English, y’know, and I feel really sorry for anyone from forren who’s trying to learn it. There are such subtle nuances in the pronunciation and spelling and so many things you can do to manipulate it.

I mean, you can pepper food with salt, ponder whether Jonah did in fact have a whale of a time, consider that a good way of making the Vatican smell nice might be to spread a good bit of pot-pourri – go on, say it out loud quick! There are many questions which you may think don’t need answering, but, as I’ve finished a batch of work and have a few spare minutes – and I haven’t blogged for absolutely ages – here are just a few:- 1. If the Prince of Wales had his name put on an item of laydees’ underwear, would you have an Heir On A G-string’? Pardon? No, ‘Basque In The Sun’ does NOT work 2. Are Girls Allowed to sing? 3. If nobody knows about it, would you be able to hear a Secret Policeman's Bawl? 4. Should I feel privileged to have been able to listen as a child to Billy Cotton’s Banned Show? 5. Should a large baby be given a Wide Birth? 6. Should young swans become members of a Cygnet Ring? 7. Would a hymn dedicated to Wyatt Earp’s famous battle be called ‘Gunfight At The OK Chorale’? 8. Could pigeons topple a government by means of a Coo d’Etat? 9. Is ‘Boyfriend in a quiver’ a reasonable clue to ‘Beau And Arrow’? 10. Should Gorilla Warfare even appear on this list?

Right, in closing, remember, if you support Liverpool and smell, you know what they’ll chant at you? ‘You Never Wore Cologne’. Buy for now!

Friends

2006-12-21T01:50:00.001Z

Christmas, I am sure, has a special meaning for every individual. I know someone to whom it signifies nothing but the anniversary of their child’s death; that’s a sobering thought. For most, it’s a time to rejoice with family and friends. Whatever it means to you, it just seems an appropriate time for me to say a few words about some people I have come to know. You know who you are and I must say it has been a pleasure to have been associated with you all in one way or another. You have told me something about your hopes, dreams, successes, failures, your life, and it is somehow uplifting to have been a small part of it. I’m not sure I can remember how it happened now, but I think Omally was involved somewhere along the line! Anyway, thank you for your kindness and friendship; my only regret is that we didn’t meet 30 years ago, although I realise that some of you weren’t even a glint in your Dad’s eye then!

Happy Hogswatch to one and all and I hope I’ll see a lot of you in January!

Sky Blues

2006-12-17T18:27:00.001Z

Well, Sky have done it now, too! They have call centres on the Asian sub-continent. And I couldn’t understand what they were saying when they were in

Scotland

!

Regular readers will know about my relapse into Sky Movies for a three-month period at a reduced subscription. Well, there were one or two paper view (see that?) films that we fancied watching. Obviously, I had forgotten my PIN as it hadn’t been used for about three years (and I hadn’t made a note of it), so I gulped, sat down comfortably and telephoned Sky Customer Services. During the first call, the nice lady recording said I could resolve common queries (actually giving the example of a forgotten PIN) on their website. Aha! Well, you bloody well try it! So I rang them again and sat listening to endless menu options, none of which concerned forgotten PINs, so I just pressed a random number each time and was eventually connected to a human. He listened patiently while I explained my (I thought) very simple enquiry and then told me he would have to put me through to a colleague in another ~~province of India~~ department. Naturally, I had to repeat what I had already told the first person.
Me: “I want to order a Box Office movie and I have forgotten my PIN.”
Sky person: “You want to order a Box Office movie?”
Me: “Yes, as it happens I do, but the point of this call is to set up a new PIN, because I have forgotten the one I have.”
Sky person: “Do you want to order a movie now?”
Me: “RIGHT. JUST TO EXPLAIN ONCE AND FOR ALL, THE REASON I HAVE TELEPHONED YOU IS TO RESET MY PIN BECAUSE I HAVE BLOODY WELL FORGOTTEN IT. I AM HEARTILY SICK OF PRESSING BLOODY BUTTONS TO RESOLVE BLOODY QUERIES WHICH DO NOT APPEAR TO HAVE BUTTONS AND I WAS HOPING TO SPEAK TO A LIVING PERSON WHO I THOUGHT WOULD BE ABLE TO DEAL WITH A BLOODY SIMPLE QUERY. ARE YOU THAT PERSON?”
Sky person: “Do you want to change your PIN?”
Me: “ Hurrah, huzzah and send my pants to an extra-strength laundry!”
Sky person: “Sorry?”
Me: “Never mind! I apologise for shouting at you and I realise that the pathetic standard of training you have been given and, in the circumstances, the much-reduced cost of customer support to Sky that vastly increases their profits is not your fault.”
Sky person (oblivious to irony): “What PIN would you like?”
Me: (Thinks: my bank debit card number would be good) “XXXX”
Sky person: “Does that match any of your bank details?”
Me: “Errm…yes, actually.” (Idiot! What have you just done?)
Sky person: “I can’t give you that PIN. Can you give me another number?”
Me: “XXXX”
Sky person: “Does that number match any of your bank details?”
Me: (lying through teeth) “No.”
Sky person: “OK. I have changed your PIN.”
Me: “How do you really know that’s not my John Lewis partnership card PIN?”
Sky person: “Pardon?” (Those last two remarks didn’t happen)
Me: “Thank you.”

So we watched “United 93” and, despite the fact that you knew what was going to happen, I thought it was very good.

Road works

2006-12-05T14:01:00.000Z

Or to be more precise, information super-highway works; well, there must be something holding up access to almost every website I tried to look at last night. Annoyingly, I have been getting more and more frequent messages about Firefox not being able to find the server at [insert URL here]. Actually, it is a little unnerving, because it probably means that some piece of hardware or other on my network is going to explode soon ("Approaching Menace" by Neil Richardson plays in background). Y'know, I'm beginning to realise that one of the things I probably miss most from when I worked for a local authority is I.T. Support. If something goes wrong now, I have to sort it myself or I'm screwed! In other words, I'm screwed!

Boxing quite clever

2006-12-04T01:09:00.000Z

I am sorry, in a way, to say that I succumbed to a Sky telephone marketing ploy recently and agreed to take a reduced subscription for Sky Movies for a three-month period, with the option of reverting to my previous subscription at the end of that period. I like fillums very much and I used to subscribe to Sky Movies but cancelled the subscription several months ago mainly because of the frequency of repeat showings and availability of DVDs within a fairly short time from cinema release. However, tonight we watched "Million Dollar Baby" for the first time and, as far as I am concerned, it has alone justified the additional fee. I had to get the kitchen roll out. If you haven't seen it, you have missed a treat.

Button

2006-12-03T12:01:00.000Z

We had four power cuts last night (one while the PC was rebooting) and one this morning (while I was in the middle of downloading something). Somebody bought this little button for me last Christmas. I wish it worked!

Cambridge in Colour

2006-11-06T20:43:00.000Z

I'm sorry for the rubbishness of this, particularly as it has been some time since my last one and I know you have come to expect a somewhat higher standard, but I only wanted to show you some pictures I Stumbled Upon earlier today. Have a look here. I think they are rather good, don't you?

Notes from a small island

2006-10-14T22:53:00.000+01:00

My recent holiday on the Greek island of Zakynthos (aka Zante) was one of the best I have had in a very long time. If you are interested, you can see some piccies here. The island is still quite unspoilt and there are no high-rise buildings to mar the landscape. In case you didn't know, every building, bar three, was destroyed in an earthquake in August 1953, and, subsequently, very stringent anti-seismic building standards apparently ensure a good level of safety for residents and tourists alike. You will have to indulge me now. We took a coach tour round the island and the excellent guide recounted a myth which has moved me to repeat it. Olive trees abound on the island and the older ones can be recognised by the splitting into two and intertwining of the trunks. As the story goes, Zeus, the father of the gods, had befriended two mortals, an elderly couple who were devoted to each other and he visited them regularly. One day, he said to them, "It is within my power to grant you whatever you desire. Why have you never asked me to give you anything?" They said that they had everything they wanted – they loved each other deeply and their lives were enriched by that; however, they did ask that, if one of them died, the other should die at the same time, so neither would ever be alone. The next day, Zeus visited the couple and discovered them dead in their bed, their arms clasped tightly around each other. Zeus then decreed that, when olive trees became old, their trunks should split in two and become entwined like his mortal friends on their deathbed. I like that story. There was, however, a fly in the ointment, a nigger in the woodpile, a pube on the bog seat. This was an "entertainer" who figured prominently most nights in a bar about 300 metres away as the crow flies from the balcony of our apartment. Amazingly for an alleged professional, his guitar was permanently out of tune and his amplification equipment adjusted so he could be heard on mainland Greece. He was billed as being 'renowned throughout Europe' – as an inept musician, presumably. Unfortunately, on a couple of occasions, his shenanigans continued until almost 5.00 a.m. Sadly, this will prevent our return to the same accommodation, although not to the resort, which was excellent. If, on your travels, you ever encounter any reference to the likelihood of Steve Gemos appearing at a venue near you, I would strongly advise that you hasten in the opposite direction, unless, of course, you are pissed out of your brains. Ooh, I nearly forgot the earth tremor.

Première

2006-09-06T16:36:00.001+01:00

Pete works for us in the pub and he also makes movies. His company, Gumboot Pictures, has produced “shorts” which I think are excellent and very professional, particularly when you consider the budget they work within (i.e. nil + Pete’s credit card). Just over two years ago, I think, they formed an idea for a film which has now become a full length feature, called "Small Town Folk". We've had a couple of showings on the big-screen TV at the pub and regulars organised a raffle to raise money for it last May. They have already featured on local BBC radio, taken the film to Cannes (and been interviewed there for BBC Radio 1) and made several contacts in the industry, so good luck to them. There are actually two well-known actors making cameo appearances (as the Knackermen) in it: Howard Hew Lewis, who played Elmo Putney, the pub landlord in "Brush Strokes", and Warwick Davis, who plays Professor Filius Flitwick in the Harry Potter films (and, incidentally a goblin bank teller at Gringott's in the first one) and Marvin the Paranoid Android (though not his voice), in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Anyway, last Saturday morning, they organised a showing at the Harbour Lights cinema in Southampton (overlooking the Ocean Village Marina) and about 240 friends, family, cast and crew turned up to see the film get its first major screening. If you ever get the chance to see it, do watch it, it's good fun (and some of it was shot in the pub). Unfortunately, a scene in which I appeared ended up on the cutting-room floor, although it might be on the Bonus Features disc when it comes out on DVD! I had never been to this particular cinema before, so I used my Garmin Streetpilot ("it's only an aid to navigation" © Omally) to take us the last two or three miles. Towards what that damn' Garmin woman indicated was almost the end of the journey, we turned at some traffic lights and entered an estate of new offices and other commercial buildings, eventually turning into a Pay and Display car park. Befuddled, I wound my window down and asked a lady unloading stuff from a van if she could tell me where the Harbour Lights cinema was. "I think you'll find that's it" she replied, pointing to the building I was parked next to.

French Chronicles – II

2006-08-23T02:33:00.001+01:00

At the time of the first joint holiday mentioned in Part 1 of these Chronicles, we owned a caravan and had travelled to France with it a couple of times already. The day we were due to set off for Portsmouth for the evening ferry, it was packed to the hilt (do caravans have hilts?) and strenuous efforts having been expended to wash it as well, equal quantities of sweat and soapy water were now swirling about in our section of New Forest District Council's drains. Further stress was imminent; upon connecting the caravan's electric hook-up to the car, the car's rear fog lights immediately came on and determinedly stayed on. I had not the remotest idea what was causing this but had no time to investigate. We therefore set off. We arrived at Portsmouth without further incident - but with fog lights blazing - at about 6.10 p.m. Nothing much of note happened during our seemingly interminable wait to board other than the man in front of us in the queue for the ferry continually going in and out of his caravan (we never did work out why), all the while making a noise like a trombone: normal people just hum or whistle. The other (slightly more worrying) thing was, inevitably, another caravanner asking me if I knew my rear fog lamps were on. I said I did and (as authoritatively as possible) that there was a short in the electrical system which I intended to repair once settled in France. My fellow traveller seemed satisfied with this totally disingenuous explanation and I fervently hoped he was not going to the same camp site. Some drivers seem incapable of following the simplest of instructions and, while we were following the activities of Mr Trombone Man, one of these drove past the multi column line of vehicles in a large white Citroën, towards a non-existent embarkation point, chased (on foot) by a clipboard-waving Brittany Ferries official, yelling at him to stop. No doubt the stupid idiot wondered what all those cars were doing parked on the quayside when the ferry was parked in the water. As the crossing to St Malo took about 10 hours, we did have a good chance of actually sleeping for a reasonable period; there is little doubt, though, that beer does help.

All Present And Nearly Correct

2006-08-19T16:26:00.000+01:00

“…TWENTY-ONE TODAY, TWENTY-ONE TODAY, SHE’S GOT THE KEY OF THE DOOR, NEVER BEEN 21 BEFORE, LA LA LA LA LA LA LA etc. etc.” Marie is my eldest son Andrew’s girl-friend and, apart from being (in my opinion) the best thing that has ever happened to him, she is, as you might have gathered by now, 21 today! For the last couple of weeks, she has been like a dog with several tails, looking forward to the day and, especially the party at the pub tonight. She did very well this morning, apparently, and, although she woke up at 4.30 a.m., she didn’t get up until 7 a.m. They had watched the first DVD by 9 a.m. Anyway, the point of this is, our gift to her was still at home this morning and, as we have to clean the pub on a Saturday, there it remained. I came back to get changed and my missus phoned saying why didn’t I wrap it up and bring it and the card with me when I returned for lunch, and we could give them to her while it was relatively quiet. OK, for a bloke, I pride myself on being extraordinarily adept at wrapping up parcels; well, the first seven-eighths anyway. When I get to that stage, something goes ping and there is an immediate metamorphosis which results in the parcel looking as if several people have already tried to unwrap it. The item was enclosed in several layers of tissue paper in a cardboard box and required two fairly large sheets of wrapping paper. I had two sellotape-related problems: (1) I couldn’t find any that worked and (2) when I DID find some, it wouldn’t stick to the box properly. I accomplished the mission eventually but I had to stick the curly bow thingy on so as to obscure the yellow insulating tape. Hands up if anyone else sweats while wrapping up presents. She’s worth it, though.

Cut, cut, cut, blood, spurt, artery, murder (ahem)

2006-08-18T13:50:00.000+01:00

I was going to mention this as an adjunct to Number 60 on the list in my last blog but, after someone suggested that posing nude in front of strangers might include having a baby (although she did recall wearing a T-shirt at the time), I thought I may have achieved it upon the occasion of my vasectomy some years ago - I would argue that, as a man, you probably couldn’t get much nuder than that in front of strangers - and the following account would not have sat well merely as an adjunct; I thought it more deserving of a separate blog, but make up your own mind about that. Those of a nervous disposition may like to squint a bit whilst reading. I would like to mention that I had a pre-op examination a few days before and it is the first time in my life (and the last, I hasten to assure you) that I have shaken the hand of an Australian, two digits of which, within seconds, were thrust unceremoniously up my arse. But I digress. Although I was told the operation would be done under a local anaesthetic (phew!), it was a day surgery job, so I was only at the hospital from about 9 a.m. until my sister-in-law picked me up late afternoon. I recall one or two incidents both during the day and the subsequent month I had to take off work. Eh? Well, because of the clot. Yes, the bugger with the knife and the one, er, down there. Think of a tennis ball. No, don’t. For 10 days, I had to sleep downstairs on the settee because I was unable to negotiate the stairs. And they made me take hot baths with salt and told me to squeeze clotted blood out. Excuse me while I wipe my eyes. Anyway, I got a Good Boy Certificate from one of the nurses who said that I burbled incessantly before I went under and, afterwards, I was wheeled into a recovery room with about eight other men, most of whom had had the same operation. A buxom sister would come in frequently and check our, um, bits. By her third visit, we were, in true Folies Bergères style, lifting our gowns in perfect unison – even the bloke in the bed next to me despite the fact he had only had an ingrowing toenail removed. All in all, a rather painful episode of my life which could possibly have been made less so had my sister-in-law not driven me home at about 60mph round country roads with me trying to take my weight on one or other buttock – and failing miserably. She meant well. When I got back to work, a friend of mine asked me where I had had the operation done. When I told him “Salisbury,” he replied “what, Market?” Oh, ha ha.

Are you experienced?

2006-08-16T16:42:00.000+01:00

This list was half-inched from Lord Hutton's blog and some people in the rubbish chat agreed to do it as well. My comments will hopefully indicate whether I've done the thing or not. Maybe. 01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink - Of course I have! When we bought the pub and had a pubwarming party, the first drink for everyone was gratis - how great am I? 02. Swam with wild dolphins - No, nor with calm ones 03. Climbed a mountain - Yes, on a train 04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive - Why would I want to? 05. Been inside the Great Pyramid - Egypt, no; The Louvre, yes 06. Held a tarantula - Noooooooooo 07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone - I would have remembered that 08. Said 'I love you' and meant it - I always mean it 09. Hugged a tree - Is that legal? 10. Bungee jumped - You’ve got to be kidding! With my back? 11. Visited Paris - Several times; I love it to bits 12. Watched a lightning storm at sea - Don’t recall seeing one 13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise - Yes, several times in my late teens and early twenties 14. Seen the Northern Lights - Do Blackpool Illuminations count? What? Oh. No, then. 15 Gone to a huge sports game - Is an FA Cup Semi-final huge? If it is, then Fulham v Birmingham at Maine Road, Manchester in 1975. Fulham won and West Ham beat them in the final 2-0 16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa - I've watched some other idiots do it 17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables - No, sorry 18. Touched an iceberg - Yes, but I'm not really too fond of lettuce 19. Slept under the stars - Been under canvass loads but not in the open 20. Changed a baby's nappy - Countless times 21. Taken a trip on a hot air balloon - See the tarantula answer 22. Watched a meteor shower - No, just the odd shooting star 23. Got drunk on champagne - Definitely not, but everything else, yes 24. Given more than you can afford to charity - I've given money but never more than I can afford 25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope - Yes, I've recently bought a Zenithstar 80 astroscope from a friend with all the bits and bobs but my tripod's not man enough for the job. I've looked at the moon so far - it's great! 26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment - Too numerous to recall even on what occasions 27. Had a food fight - Yes. The food won 28. Bet on a winning horse - On many occasions 29. Asked out a stranger over the internet - Never 30. Had a snowball fight - Yes, before global warming put an end to snow dahn sahf 31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can - I'm sure I did that as a kid 32. Held a lamb - No, but they're great with mint sauce 33. Seen a total eclipse - No 34. Ridden a roller coaster - Many times, but the condition of my back means I am now reduced to guarding the personal belongings of those with me while they ride them 35. Hit a home run - That's that merkin rounders thing, isn't it? No, but I've played rounders loads of times 36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking - I was told about it the following day 37. Adopted an accent for an entire day - Why? 38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment - On many occasions 39. Had two hard drives for your computer - I don't need two, I've got a gert biggun 40. Visited all 50 states - Not even one 41. Taken care of someone who was shit faced - Fairly often, in my youth 42. Had amazing friends - Have 43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country – No, but I'd like to do that 44. Watched wild whales - No, nor calm ones (sorry, fatuous remark repeated from dolphin question) 45. Stolen a sign - Don't remember doing but I must have done once 46. Backpacked in Europe - Never backpacked anywhere 47. Taken a road-trip - Loads of 'em 48. Gone rock climbing - Only small ones 49. Midnight walk on the beach - Many times, again in a bygone age 50. Gone sky diving - Are you mad? 51. Visited Ireland - Yes, we rented a cottage with some friends in Kerry 52. Been heartbroken for longer than when you were in love - Yes, indeed 53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger's table and had a meal with them - Only because it was full 54. Visited Japan - No 55. Milked a cow - No 56. Alphabetized your CDs - I'm not that obsessive, but I did start storing DVDs in alphabetical order until my family used to wind me up by putting them back in the wrong place 57. Pretended to be a superhero - I don't need to pretend 58. Sung karaoke - I have so far managed to avoid it, but came perilously close when we had a Christmas Karaoke Night at the pub when I had to choose between "My Way" and "Smack My Bitch Up". Fortunately, the large number of people who sung meant there was not time for me to perform. I was most upset (ahem) 59. Lounged around in bed all day - Not very often 60. Posed nude in front of strangers - I think I would have remembered if I had 61. Gone scuba diving - I wouldn't mind having a go, but, so far, no 62. Kissed in the rain - Who hasn't? 63. Played in the mud - If you do an Omally cache, it's inevitable 64. Played in the rain - See 62 65. Gone to a drive-in theatre - Never heard of such a ridiculous idea! 66. Visited the Great Wall of China - No 67. Started a business - Helping to run, yes, started, no 68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken - That's not possible, is it? 69. Toured ancient sites - One or two in this country 70. Taken a martial arts class - No 71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight - What a horrible thought 72. Gotten married - I GOT married...GOT, see? GOT, not bloody GOTTEN 73. Been in a movie - I have been in a short but the scene in a feature film in which I appeared ended up on the cutting room floor 74. Crashed a party - Probably 75. Gotten divorced - Doh! No, I haven't bloody well GOTTEN divorced 76. Gone without food for 5 days - When I was a kid with a bad dose of measles and, a couple of years after, whooping cough 77. Made cookies from scratch - No, but I have made biscuits 78. Won first prize in a costume contest - I won the DUG once! 79. Ridden a gondola in Venice - Regrettably, no 80. Gotten a tattoo - NO! 81. Rafted the Snake River - Whatted the what? 82. Been on television news programs as an "expert" - I've been interviewed on local radio 83. Got flowers for no reason - Who'd want to send me flowers? 84. Performed on stage - Oh yes, indeedy! 85. Been to Las Vegas - No 86. Recorded music - Yep 87. Eaten shark - Yes. Oh, sorry, I thought it said eaten BY shark. No 88. Had a one-night stand - One or two 89. Gone to Thailand - No 90. Bought a house - Three 91. Been in a combat zone - Yes, don't ask! 92. Buried one/both of your parents - My dad 93. Been on a cruise ship - No, but I want to 94. Spoken more than one language fluently - I love languages but, whilst I know one or two, I am not fluent in any 95. Performed in Rocky Horror - Seen it a few times and we did the Time Warp at a works do; I was dressed as Andy Pandy (errm, ask me next time you see me) 96. Raised children - My god, yes! 97. Followed your favourite band/singer on tour - Not really 98. Created and named your own constellation of stars - Nope 99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country - Never 10. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over - There was always a reason 101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge - No 102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn't stop when you knew someone was looking - As soon as I see someone looking, I go into ventriloquist mode 103. Had plastic surgery - How dare you! 104. Survived an accident that you shouldn't have survived - It wasn't exactly an accident, but, once, when I was a 19-year-old tosser in my old jalopy, I screeched to a stop at what I thought was the give-way dotted line - it was the centre line of the other road. If the traffic had been heavier, I probably wouldn't be here 105. Wrote articles for a large publication - Local magazine and the one published by the organisation I work for 106. Lost over 100 pounds - Yes, at the races 107. Held someone while they were having a flashback - What? 108. Piloted an airplane - Not a real one 109. Petted a stingray - Nearly 110. Broken someone's heart - Yes, regrettably 111. Helped an animal give birth - Eew! No 112. Won money on a T.V. game show - No 113. Broken a bone – Only a small one in my toe 114. Gone on an African photo safari – I'd love to do that! 115. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced - Not intentionally 116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol – Yes, clay-pigeon shooting and a .22 at a rifle range 117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild – No 118. Ridden a horse – Hundreds of times - my missus has always had at least one horse 119. Had major surgery – No, only minor (and it didn't work 'cos my little finger's still crooked) 120. Had a snake as a pet - Nope 121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon - Not likely 122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours - I can't be bothered to work that out! 123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states - Definitely 124. Visited all 7 continents - You're joking! 125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days - No thank YOU - haven't you seen 'Deliverance'? 126. Eaten kangaroo meat - Not likely! 127. Eaten sushi - Answer to 126 multiplied by lots 128. Had your picture in the newspaper - Yes, a few times 129. Changed someone's mind about something you care deeply about – I'm not allowed to have opinions 130. Gone back to school – Not since 1984 131. Parasailed - You are asking ME, aren't you? 132. Petted a cockroach - Oh really! 133. Eaten fried green tomatoes - I don't like red ones either 134. Read The Iliad - and the Odyssey – Bits of both 135. Selected one "important" author who you missed in school, and read - George Orwell 136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating - I've eaten lots of animals which have been killed prior to my meeting them 137. Skipped all your school reunions - Oh yes, indeed! 138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language – Every time I go to another country! 139. Been elected to public office - D'you think I'm barking? 140. Written your own computer language – I understand one or two, but I'm not clever enough to write one 141. Thought to yourself that you're living your dream - Not really 142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care - No, thank goodness 143. Built your own PC from parts – No, but I reckon I could 144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn't know you - Artwork? Hah! 145. Had a booth at a street fair – Just jumble sales and car boots 146: Dyed your hair - Hello! This is me 147: Been a DJ – Never 148: Shaved your head - About once a month 149: Caused a car accident – Yes, but not serious 150: Saved someone's life – Well, I didn't kill the bloke who I knocked off his motor bike so, technically, yes

Bloggers United

2006-08-10T13:56:00.001+01:00

Bloody hell! This bloke looks scary; I'd do as I was told if he shouted at me! The marching drummers were superb, by the way. Mr Hedgehog and I met Maris Piper on Wednesday at her band's appearance in Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens and I stayed to listen to the afternoon performance, which was brilliant, particularly the Frank Sinatra swing mix at the end and, of course, the theme from Carrots of the Pirabbean, in which Maris and her bass clarinet feature prominently! I'd gone down on Monday as well but, unfortunately I had to dash back to the pub not long after arriving.

French Chronicles - I

2006-08-05T13:15:00.000+01:00

All that blogging by el10t about his French holiday has revived my affinity for the country and I've been coming over all nostalgic and envious. We haven't been to France for almost two years and now I'm itching to go back. I am also reminded that I kept a diary of sorts on most of our numerous trips (well, just notes, really) and, if you're very good, I might revamp them a bit and, over the course of time, use them to try and lift your spirits from the morass of melancholy into which people's spirits do seem to sink on a fairly frequent basis. I look after you lot, don't I?! As a family, we had camped on our own in various parts of France but, one year, some good friends of ours suggested we all go together and we subsequently spent four thoroughly enjoyable holidays on the same site in the Vendée with them. We found that part of the fun of the holiday lay in the planning and we used to hold various meetings to settle important details, for example, which routes to take and how to stay together on the road (ffs, don't mention Rambouillet). Copious quantities of wine were consumed at these meetings, the excuse for which being that it was necessary to ensure our temporary integration into French society was as seamless and unobtrusive as possible. The dangers of this soon became apparent: nobody actually took notes and, inevitably, it was very often difficult for any of us to remember what decisions had been made (or, sometimes, what had even been discussed). This of course meant that further (hitherto unnecessary) meetings had to be convened at which the business transacted was again not properly recorded. The vicious circle continued, although none of us really regarded this aspect of the planning process as at all vicious. It's a wonder we ever made it.

I might almost have been famous

2006-07-31T10:56:00.001+01:00

I had an e-mail this morning from someone who had watched the TOTP programme on the box last night, asking if I was related to the BBC producer Michael Hurll.

Well, I am! We share the same great-great-great-great grandfather. Well, that’s not strictly true – I wouldn’t expect there to be much left of him to share now. I was contacted a few years ago by his sister (Michael’s, not our great-great-great-great grandfather’s) who was compiling the family tree and wanted some info about my more immediate family.

This could possibly be my one claim to fame – except perhaps when Jeremy Bates trod on my foot next to one of the outside courts at Wimbledon.

Pilot scheme, or Your wish is my commando

2006-07-30T11:16:00.001+01:00

I’ve been spending the last couple of days compiling the pub’s fortnightly general knowledge quiz. One of the rounds this week is on literature and one of my regular sources on the intermanet caused me to navigate to a site devoted to the Biggles’ books by Captain W E Johns, a boyhood favourite of mine, although I cannot claim to have read all 98 of them!

Here’s a little test for you. Which of the seven titles below is NOT a real Biggles book?

1. Biggles Flies East

2. Biggles Flies West

3. Biggles Flies North

4. Biggles Flies South

5. Biggles Flies Again

6. Biggles Flies To Work

7. Biggles Flies Undone

Also, I do recall borrowing two books by Johnners (if I may make so bold as to call him that) at the same time from the school library: Biggles Works It Out and Gimlet Mops Up.

Haha! What will those hero boys get up to next?!

Call that Football? – Update

2006-07-21T16:42:00.000+01:00

Just when you thought it was safe to forget about the first blog in this series, I urge you to read the comment added to it by my son, Andrew, here. Very eloquently put, if I may say so. The matter is under advisement and I am considering my legal position.

Drip

2006-07-20T17:50:00.000+01:00

And more drips. We can't get anything right in this country, can we? It's been so bloody humid, I feel as though there is someone with a watering can (large rose) constantly pouring warm water over my head. I honestly find this weather unbearable, to the extent I am considering consulting my GP to see if something's come loose. Talking of more drips, a friend of mine suggested a nifty scheme to me on Sunday (incidentally, before Alistair posted a link the other night in the chat to some home-made cooling device or other) which consists of filling a plastic Coke bottle with water and freezing it - don’t forget to allow for the fact that water expands when it freezes, so leave a space for that - ("actually, I would do two, then you've got one in reserve"), then simply standing it in front of an electric fan, whereupon the fan would distribute cold air instead of the boiling hot air which normally permeates the room where I have to work. Incidentally, my friend isn't one of the other drips mentioned: these are the ones from the Coke bottle which are pooling underneath it. You therefore also need a bowl of some kind to catch them. My office is so small that, with all of the equipment it seems you need, there is not enough space for it, or if I did set it up in the only available spot, it would probably prevent me from ever leaving the room. You can't win.

Call that football?

2006-07-03T12:16:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking about this for a couple of days now. More or less normal service is being resumed in the pub after yet another dismal England failure to win an important competitive match on penalties. Pah! I've lost count of the number of bitter disappointments suffered over the years. It's time to make my resolution public which, by the way, I have been accused of being not likely to stick to, mainly because of similar ones made in the past. However, for some considerable time (as I have intimated before), I have become increasingly disillusioned with the game: the obscene salaries, the yobbishness, the niggling cynical shirt-pulling and violent tackles, inept and inconsistent officials, insubordinate protests and pathetic, childish play-acting. Here it comes - I fully intend never to watch another professional football match at club or international level, in the flesh or on TV. There, and I mean it! If anyone sees me heading towards one, I owe them a big fat drink! I've got better things to do! It's a shame; I used to love football.

Rubbish service

2006-06-08T13:01:00.000+01:00

No, not the local Council’s waste disposal system. I bought a new camera (a Nikon D70S digital SLR) and I wanted to get a couple of filters for it: a neutral density to protect the lens and a polarizer. So I went into our local camera shop, fondly imagining that filters would abound therein. A young man came to the counter and I told him my requirements; he disappeared into a room at the back of the shop and I waited….and waited….and waited….and waited a bit longer….OK, not long now. I wandered round the shop and browsed for a few minutes, then went back to the counter. It was another couple of minutes before I realised he had returned from the back room and was now talking to another assistant in the photo printing area! He eventually came back to the counter, saying that they couldn’t get a neutral density filter but they could get the polarizer in about a week at a cost of £47! “What incredible bollocks you are talking!” I didn’t say, “what kind of camera retailer can’t get a neutral density filter?” I continued not to say, “you are probably the rubbishest camera shop in Ringwood.” Which is as true as saying it is the best one, because there’s only one. “I’ll leave it for now, thank you”, I actually said. Last night, I ordered a neutral density Hoya 67mm filter on eBay for £18.80, and half of that is postage from Hong Kong! I may not go back to the shop. In other news, the passport has been found (and in the nick of time, so Hutters loses his tenner).

No passport control

2006-05-31T20:02:00.002+01:00

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

2006-05-26T21:09:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-23T14:35:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-15T11:29:00.001+01:00

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

2006-05-14T15:22:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-05T18:04:00.000+01:00

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?

Money laundering

2006-04-21T14:02:00.000+01:00

When my mother-in-law comes to stay, the house becomes miraculously cleaner and my wardrobe becomes full of ironed shirts and T-shirts, to the extent that, to make room, I generally end up throwing away the odd garment that has seen better days. Just before she arrived, I had to vacuum the carpet in Matt's room, which she was to occupy for the duration of her stay with us, the room, that is, not the carpet. Not that she was going to stay in the room all the time, of course, that would be madness. Anyway, before commencing to clean, I had to remove various items from the carpet, not least of which was the princely sum of £2.64, made up of various small denomination coins, nothing higher than a 20p. After she arrived, one morning found her cleaning underneath the bed, where she recovered another £4.30 in small change! What's that all about?

The Christmas Show

2006-04-19T12:32:00.000+01:00

All right, I know it’s nowhere near Christmas but I had a clearout yesterday morning and I found a bag containing the remnants of one of the pub’s Christmas shows that we used to put on the Saturday before Christmas Day; I hosted it with a chap called Roly, who has presented loads of events at the pub and does our Music Quizzes and disco evenings. One of the items was the script that I wrote for a sketch which, as it turned out, we didn’t have time to do. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a crying shame (the fact that that we couldn’t do it, not the script, obviously – what? Shut up at the back, you haven’t read it yet)!

____________________

The Christmas Song Guessing Game

Are you all having a good time? Well, we'll soon put a stop to that! Now then, let’s try and breathe some life into those atrophied intellects. I’ve got a guessing game for you with a special Christmas flavour. I’m going to give you a clue to a Christmas song or carol. All you’ve got to do is guess the title. Easy. Right, here’s the first one.

(Produce a sprig of holly and a hospital drip feed which Roly holds in place on your arm – hold up the holly)

That’s the Holly and the I.V. Geddit? Right, here’s the next one. For this, you’ve got to imagine I’m Sir Lancelot. OK? Sir Lancelot, remember that.

(Stand completely still and say nothing)

Don’t you know it yet? Tchoh! It’s Silent Knight. What’s the matter with you lot? Next…

(Say: “It’s bloody freezing here, Alice!”)

That’s Winter Wonderland. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t get that one, Roly, especially as we did a rather revealing version of the song at last year’s show… you remember? When you filled that rather fetching red bra extremely snugly without recourse to any synthetic aids. Did you know that several people asked me afterwards what your secret was?

Roly: Oh, really? And what did you tell them?

Me: I said you had no secret - just big tits!

Anyway, here’s the next one…

(Be very careful and say quite quickly ‘ABCDEFGHIJKMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ’, then ‘ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ’)

Obvious, isn’t it? The First Noel! Look, don’t have a go at me, you should’ve been listening properly. Right, pay attention this time, this is the last one.

(Say slowly in a deep sepulchral voice: “May the Lord let you German lunatics lie down”)

There you are. An easy one to finish on. It’s (peer closely at the paper/card you are holding) Oh dear, there’s a mistake here. Someone’s typed God Rest Ye, Jerry Mentalmen. Sorry!

(Bow – or possibly duck)

____________________

Would’ve been good, wouldn’t it? Hello? Hello?

Ups and Downs

2006-04-18T19:40:00.003+01:00

Hello there, everyone, remember me? It’s Lois. You know, the young good-looking one with the moustache and cheery demeanour. Once upon a time I used to blog and I began to think I was going to live happily ever after within easy reach of red wine and never blog again but here I am, about to recount the ups and downs of the Easter weekend and the 6^th Annual Festival of Real Ales. I'll start with the Downs. Downs * Four 14-hour days on the trot (S frequently does amazingly long hours – I don’t know how).

* Back ache bending to pour ales * Back ache endeavouring to straighten up again * Missing Jan and Ned’s visit. * ~~Knobheads~~ customers congregating inches away from precariously balanced barrels of real ale (even on one occasion leaning on one!!) and who, when asked to move because (haha!) "the barrel's contents are quite sensitive", say, "so am I.

* I produced a laminated list of the ales on offer with images of the pump badges and a short description of each. Towards the end of the weekend, I crossed through those which had sold out. I quickly got sick of giving lengthy explanations after people perusing the list asked what was going well. See those big thick black crosses which have obscured some of the entries? We haven’t got any of those left! D'YOU SEE? (It is probably best not to shake punters by the neck whilst explaining this).

* Constantly having to tell children not to throw bark chippings from the play area onto the garden/slide/at other children; and not to throw stones from the garden pathway onto the grass/play area/slide/at other children. I find it helps to don a Scream mask whilst admonishing the little darlings.

* Telling people that their dog must be kept on a lead in the garden seating area, then watching them sitting down while the dog chases sticks they throw or has a crap up the garden on the end of an expanding lead. Grrr! (That was me).

Ups

* Takings.

Tra la!

My memory serves me right

2006-03-27T19:49:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, Stu and Sarah visited the pub, which was lovely, of course; that goes without saying. Sarah had e-mailed me two or three days earlier, indicating what time she expected they would be there. I deleted the message (obsessive housekeeping), committing the information to what is laughingly referred to as my memory. Needless to say, as Saturday evening approached, I realised I had forgotten what time I needed to be at the pub, having a vague recollection that 8.30pm had been mentioned somewhere along the line (I had even reported that in the chatroom when Gottle asked, as he was going to be in the area, geocaching – hard to believe, that, I know). I'd better ring them, I thought. I haven't got their number, I thought. I'm going to perpetrate another cock-up, I thought. I'll ring some people, I thought. Everyone whose number I've got who I rang didn't know their numbers (Stu and Sarah's, I mean). I'll go in the chatroom, I thought. Nobody in there knew either, but MMM suggested I ring Henry who might know, as they had visited him recently. So they had, I thought, and I did, and he did, so hurrah! It was, by this time, about 5.15 pm and I rang Sarah's number. She answered and I asked where they were. "In the pub car park," she replied. Blimey, I thought, lucky I rang, then. "But," she said, "the barman has told us the kitchen doesn't open until 6pm, so we thought we would find the nearest supermarket to buy tomorrow's breakfast." So I issued directions to the Tesco Express just around the corner and said that I would see them at the pub within the hour, after I had rendered myself presentable to the general public (yes, I had to have a wash and dress; not a dress, of course, I had to have a wash and then had to dress). So I hied myself off to the pub and Stu and Sarah returned at about 6 o'clock; they had some grub, we had a good chinwag and, after a couple of hours, they set off for the Travelodge in Winchester where they were staying. Later, there was an Irish sing-along night in the pub and I, er, sang along; well, you have to, don't you? All in all, a very satisfying evening.

Travelling companion

2006-03-16T19:15:00.000Z

As you will know from the last blog, I had to drive up to Manchester last Thursday morning for my wife’s stepfather's funeral which took place on Friday. I thought it would be a good idea if Matt came with me, instead of going in the evening with his brother, his brother's girl-friend and his cousin, so he could be company for me on the 260-mile journey. Well, he was company in the sense that he was in the car. For the first two and a half hours, he watched '24' on his portable DVD player, then, when the battery failed, he made me stop at Warwick Services so he could get his CDs from his bag in the boot. My heart sank, for I knew Blink 182 were about to rattle my head, thus rendering all conversation impossible. The next incident of note was Matt’s descent into a fairly deep sleep, to wake up only when we were five minutes away from my mother-in-law’s house. So that was nice.

Sadness

2006-03-08T02:10:00.000Z

I have another sad occasion in my life to attend to this coming Friday. My wife Sheila's stepfather died last week and his funeral is taking place in Manchester this coming Friday, which necessitates my travelling up there on Thursday (she is already there, having flown up on Monday night to look after her mother). Matt is coming with me so I will have company; Blink 182 may well also be in attendance on the journey, but I suppose I'll have to put up with that! *packs Nurofen* Some sad things are happening blogwise also and it is upsetting to see people whom I consider friends vilifying each other and messing about moderating comments and the like for reasons which may or may not be right at the end of the day. I suppose I ought to try and distance myself from it and some have already commented (including me, rightly or wrongly), but all I will say is that, among my experiences (during which I have had several of the bitter variety), emotions run very high in matters of the heart and, sometimes, one says and does things in the heat of the moment. I'm not saying that is what has happened and I am well aware that we may not know the full facts now or even ever, but, well, it just makes me sad. However treacly it sounds, time does heal and I hope friendship – something which I have attached considerable importance to over the last 18 months or so – endures. It is a commodity that too few are fortunate enough to enjoy these days. I'm just saying, not taking sides.

No problem

2006-02-27T22:41:00.000Z

You may be forgiven for thinking that, for me, blogging has become a thing of the past; I mean to say, look at the date of the last one – pathetic! And I didn't keep a promise made last night to publish this during the course of the evening. I think I'm becoming rubbish. How can that possibly have happened? Anyway, as I was saying, there is a tiny light at the end of the tunnel – oh, wasn't I saying that? - well, sorry, I'm very tired, the phone made me get up at 8.30 this morning, which, as you will appreciate, is practically the middle of the night. You may or may not know, my ~~line manager~~ wife is on holiday in Tenerife with her Mum, both of them enjoying a well-earned break from their respective tribulations. I went to Blackpool last Saturday for the annual conference of the association I work for, returning on Wednesday evening. S left on the Monday, her absence thus overlapping mine. Nothing really untoward has happened since, other than me doing quite a lot of veering on the motorway, being so tired that I was frequently unable to focus on the road properly during the hours of darkness on the latter stages of my journey back from Blackpool, the mainstay kitchen assistant going down with a highly infectious skin complaint, preventing her from working with food and with no prospect of an imminent return, the cleaner catching a flu-type bug, resulting in pre-opening mopping, bog-unclogging etc. having to be undertaken by others (i.e. me and Matt), bar staff unable to do some shifts, the cellar door incident (there are two locks, a Yale and a mortice, we only use the Yale, and, after Matt had arrived at the pub on Sunday morning, I was feeding S's horse when I had a panicked phone call from him saying that a key had snapped in half and the front bit was left in the Yale; no phone call had been received from staff the previous night, allowing time for earlier remedial action being arranged, nor any informative note left; guess where the Sunday carvery vegetables and all the equipment was stored? I drove furiously to the pub; after being persuaded by Matt that trying to kick the door in was possibly not a good idea either for my back, foot, leg or the door's well-being, I managed to get hold of a locksmith who had done some work for us a while ago at home and he agreed to pay us a visit, which involved him driving some 12 miles from Bournemouth; when the barman who had worked the Saturday night shift arrived, I am afraid I berated him a bit but he said he had put the Yale lock on the catch and we could get in the cellar with the key to the mortice lock, which you may or may not feel we should have tried; well, with no prior warning, the panic engendered was perhaps justified; it may have cost less than £45 in more leisurely circumstances), a large saucepan of peas being placed on the hob on Sunday and the gas left unlit, the peas remaining in a semi-frozen state preventing their immediate availability to the pea-loving public of Hampshire (although there were other vegetables); other than that, it's been really quiet. Oh, I cooked the three joints of meat (hurrah!), and very grateful thanks to S's sister, who came and carved. I paid her in leftover meat.

Weekend frolics

2006-01-29T19:34:00.000Z

At the risk of repeating what many others have already said: yay, woo, yarrrrr, fab and ace! What a corking day on Saturday at the meet, at The Mitre, or was it the mite at The Meeter? Anyway, it was great to see many people again and meet others for the first time, well, in the flesh, at least. In a way, we already knew each other, due mostly, if not entirely, to the Most Entertainingly Rubbish Website of 2005, and quite likely of 2003, 2004 and also many years to come. I was ~~forced by Omally into~~ given the signal honour of awarding Simon the prestigious trophy you see in the picture (next to the car-park bound Maltesers) - unfortunately, the ~~cardboard~~ platinum pigeon appears to have fallen off the top. As you can see by Simon’s expression, he cannot believe his luck! Sparkly and Jess look on in awe. Actually, during the award ceremony, I committed a cardinal sin and there may be a (very) small prize for the first person to mention it in a comment - not you, Henry and Trouty! I told you about it! Which brings me to another staggeringly exciting bit of news. I am officially a boat person! No, not the type that floats over here in a biscuit tin from some civil-war-torn foreign state with dodgy politics, no, a narrow-boat-type person. Yes, on the way back from the Oxford meet, Cap’n H N T Thirst let me get my hands on his rudder and his throttle AND I SAILED THE CHARLOTTE ROSE OUT OF A LOCK! Is that a staggeringly decent bit of intelligence or what? What? Oh, I see. So, despite leaving my digital camera at the restaurant we went to on Saturday night (I got it back the next morning), consigning Omally and Maddy to a fate worse than death on the railway line from Banbury to Southampton and committing the aforementioned cardinal sin, I am a thoroughly competent person in many ways. Well, sorry, but I had a fantastic weekend!