Notes from a small island

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

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

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

“…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)

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- One of that school’s text-books

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

- A sleeping bag

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

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

- No passport

I’m keeping the ninety pence.

The old paperclip cure

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

Interesting

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

Ferry 'cross to Jersey

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

Lost

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

Sock it to me

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

Money laundering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Upgrade

On Tuesday, as some of you will know, I flew up to Manchester from Southampton to visit my in-laws. This was an extremely effective exercise in time management, since the flight takes just 35 minutes. On the down side, it involved me getting up at 5.00am, an hour considerably earlier than 9.30am, and, as a result, has therefore been seriously detrimental to my metabolism. In my confused state, I’ll swear I passed Simon on his way to bed. Well, to augment a short story long, everything was booked online, including the hire of a car from Mr Hertz, who just happens to prostitute himself on the British Airways website and we took advantage of his blatant commercialism. Before you ponder on this possible extravagance, the cost of a day’s hire of a Ford Fiesta was £35 and taxis to and from Manchester Airport would have been £45. We would have transport throughout the day, so we could go out for lunch etc. Anyway, when we arrived at Manchester, we duly reported to one of Mr Hertz’s lovely assistants who informed us that they would have to change the hire car from a bright shiny Ford Fiesta to a drab brand new top of the range Jaguar XJ loadsmorelettersofthealphabet 3.0 SE Automatic. Just like this:- The last time I saw a dashboard like the one in that was earlier in the day when the pilot left his door open. We spent a good 20 minutes in the car park trying to work out what all the buttons did and it was a while before I discovered that you had to depress the brake pedal before you could set the gear lever to Drive, Reverse, or anything! So I told it that George Galloway could win Celebrity Big Brother and it worked! Hurrah! I pressed one of four buttons on the door which made my seat move backwards and I couldn’t get it to go forwards again. S found some knobs on the side of her seat and got out of the car to come round and fiddle with mine. Once my posture had ceased to resemble that of a hump-backed dwarf with a broken leg, I closed my door and started the engine. S then spent a few minutes banging on the passenger window as her door had inexplicably locked itself and I didn’t know how to reverse this procedure. I discovered this simply involved a slight pull on my door handle. S spent most of the journey to the in-laws reading out appropriate extracts from the Instruction Manual. Oh, and it even had a heated steering wheel! I'm serious! Now, I am not one of those people who drool over Lamborghinis, Porsches and suchlike; in fact, I find that kind of obsessiveness slightly irritating, but …… PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEIWANTONEOFTHOSE!

On reflection ......

So Jenny’s got Painter's Joints! Pah! My left arm, thigh, knee and whole back have been telling me for the last two days to stop installing convex mirrors halfway up the telegraph pole opposite the pub car park entrance, standing on a precariously positioned ladder with its feet in the road. I can only agree never to do it again.

The Spy Who Tagged Me

Jenny is only a spy for the purposes of the title because it seemed to work on a certain level and, since she has tagged me, it would be unchivalrous of me not to respond to the taggification! I will try and be honest about revealing 5 quirks of my behaviour to all and sundry. 1. Like Jess, I am, according to Lynne Truss, a “stickler”. Just read “Eats Shoots and Leaves”, you’ll get the picture. I am fastidious to the point of being obsessive about poor punctuation, spelling and grammar and I agree with her when she talks about the 'terrible abuse and disrespect' for the English language which is disappointingly all too prevalent these days. If, for example, I see a sign outside a shop which reads: "NEW POTATO'S FOR SALE", I will refuse to give it the benefit of my custom. I once saw an advertising poster in the mid-1970s outside the cinema (it was in Hollinwood in Oldham for you Lancashire folk) for a film called "Escape to Witch Mountain"; it encouraged you in unrepentant huge black letters on a luminous orange background not to miss "Escape to Which Mountain?" See what I mean? Makes you mad, doesn’t it? 2. I am enraged by other drivers who …… well, actually, I am just enraged by most other drivers! 3. If people hesitate whilst speaking to me, I try and finish the sentence for them in an attempt to wring some humour from the conversation. You might remember a sketch from "The Two Ronnies" where two blokes in a pub were doing just that. I don't do it to everybody but it's as well to be forewarned! Actually, the habit has rubbed off on one or two friends so now I am careful not to linger too long over my side of a discussion! 4. Victor Meldrew was my absolute hero! I cannot understand why people do not empathise with his sense of fair play and just treatment by being vociferous in upholding those principles. A brilliant comic creation. 5. I don’t really avoid cracks in the pavement, do I? No, I think you are mistaken about that! Well, there you go. I think you were probably right all along!

When is Page 123 not Page 123?

Answer: when you read the unstructured thoughts of a short fat bearded bald bloke! As a few others just left comments on Gottle’s latest blog, despite his explicit instructions, I thought I would go the whole hog and write a blog as directed by that fine chap. Actually, I wish I hadn’t used the hog saying (did you know, by the way, that it originates from the fact that ‘hog’ used to be slang for a shilling and ‘going the whole hog’ meant spending the shilling all in one go?); it brings back painful memories – we could almost have revived the last real one I encountered so it could sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with the rest of the pub. Fortunately, we ate it before it could get a foothold on the edge of the spit. Anyway, I digress. The nearest book to me when I read Gottle’s blog was called “A Thousand And One Limericks”, which is a book containing, er, a thousand and one limericks. I like limericks (did you know that?) and I treated myself to it a couple of weeks ago. I duly turned to Page 123 and then found myself in a quandary. Upon the page were three limericks (actually, they’re still there) and the aforementioned instructions clearly state that you must identify the fifth sentence on the page. Now, the question is, is each line of a limerick a sentence, or is the whole limerick one sentence? I favour the latter, unless the nature of the verse requires appropriate punctuation, in which case, it could be more than one sentence. So, armed with this theory, I counted the sentences on the page and have concluded that the first limerick is one sentence, the second consists of two, and the third also one. Can you see where this is going? No, nor can I. Well, if there isn’t a rule about a page not having five sentences, there should be. Amazingly, the fifth sentence on Page 123 of my nearest book is actually on Page 124! This could affect the time/space continuum, as you might imagine. Still, undaunted by this potential threat to life and limb, I reproduce here the fifth sentence on Page 123 (*coughfirstsentenceonpage124*): A minister up in Vermont Keeps a goldfish alive in the font; When he dips the babes in, It tickles their skin, Which is all that the innocents want Isn’t that nice?

At last - a blog!

Now, I could go overboard and fill your heads with swathes of mundane rubbish about my Christmas and New Year, but then you would be overbored. Haha! See that? So I won’t mention that, on the Thursday night before Christmas, the pub was so full that people were walking out of the front door and coming back in via one of the other two doors to get to other parts of the pub, or that on Christmas Day lunchtime, the place was packed to the rafters with people you've never seen before, although possibly, you did see them last Christmas Day lunchtime (don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining) or that, on New Year's Eve, even after 8 hours, the term hog roast was, for a while, partially disingenuous (it wasn't the 'hog' bit) and, via a human conveyor belt (me), piles of carved pork were being taken to the minuscule kitchen and finished off there – you could hardly hear the music for the rumbling stomachs (and it wasn't a nearby cow) – and I had wasted my time issuing cloakroom tickets (so that batches of 20 punters could assemble in an orderly manner to prevent everyone piling in at once) because the DJ announced the first batch of numbers and, within 15 minutes, everyone was queuing and, possibly the worst catastrophe of all: no crackling. So what could I tell you, then, if I’m not going to mention any of that? I may think of something soon. In the meantime - Happy New Year!

Sweet sweet, the memories you gave to me

What can I do but prostrate myself before you all by way of abject apology? I haven’t blogged since, well, the last time, which was absolutely ages ago. I have no excuses other than to say that nothing much has moved me enough recently to warrant it being broadcast to the four corners of the earth – not that the earth has four corners, of course, or any corners come to that, but you know what I mean. Also, I have been very busy (that might be a feeble excuse, by the way). Sometimes, something prompts me to think about something and, sure enough, a discussion in the chatroom about Sparkly’s uni offers prompted me to think about something. Just goes to show how right I can be! It revived the memory of my eldest son’s three years at Bath. I remember the wonderful time he had. I remember the unutterable sadness I felt when we took him there on his first day and then left him – in a strange place, after 19 years at home (I'll never forget the image of him in my rear-view mirror standing in the car park alone). I remembered how I thought it was stupid that they had to drink loads of vodka BEFORE they went out. I remembered the love and camaraderie they had and that I never experienced in my youth when I was too much of a tosser to realise that I shouldn’t have done what I did at grammar school. And I remembered the pride when we went to his graduation ceremony. His brother is not going to university (and I am no less proud of him because of it); he is by no means stupid, being talented in a different way. They both have the same ability to wring the humour out of a situation; I wonder if that’s all they got from me? Hopefully not - they know right from wrong, and that Manchester United are the spawn of the devil! I am very proud of them both but, regrettably, I could never say to their face that I love them – that would just embarrass all of us. But I do, of course.

A year out

Well, my first blogversary went without incident. Come to think of it, it went completely unremarked – despite being in the Calendar. In fact, I forgot about it myself! So, since the end of November 2004, you have suffered the burden of been deriving enormous pleasure from reading a variety of garbled dissertations erudite and brilliantly written treatises ranging from the unutterably sad to the, well, if I'm honest, deeply sad (that last 'sad' being the meaning of 'sad' which is different from that of the first 'sad'). I wonder what the next 12 months holds? Merry Xmas! Merry Christmas!

Mixed feelings

Last night, we went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It was really very good indeed and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I think I ought to be ashamed to admit that because something happened just before we arrived at the cinema which really unnerved me and did not deserve to be ignored or forgotten in the pursuit of our entertainment. About 500 yards from the turning to the leisure complex is a (quite small) roundabout. There was a large articulated lorry parked on one side and two or three cars parked on the other. We couldn’t see what exactly was happening until we arrived at the roundabout. There were a few people standing around on adjoining pavements. Then I saw the body lying in the road on our left. I think it was a man. He was wearing a crash helmet and he wasn’t moving. The most strangely awful thing was to see the people just standing there on the pavement – one man, possibly the lorry driver, was standing next to the lorry, he was in the road – but the man was spreadeagled flat on his back in the middle of the carriageway and nobody was doing anything, just standing there, and he wasn't moving. I will always have that lasting impression. It was like life had gone into slow motion. He is someone’s son, perhaps someone’s father or brother, someone’s friend, lover, teacher, whatever; I hope he’s all right, but I have a horrible feeling about it. I hope I didn’t see a dead body last night.

Dogged blogging

Whether intentional or not, it looks as though I have been led up the garden path by Omally. He well and truly put the wind up me by telling me that, according to Simon, a kitten dies every day you don’t blog. This was followed by a nervous spate of daily blogs, which feverish essayism, I am ashamed to say, lasted just four days. Now, steel yourself for a blood-spattered visit from the Cat God, you may have warned me at the time. Well, the flappableness of the Great Catflap In The Sky was conspicuous by its absence and, to date, all my organs remain intact and inside, mostly not showing at all. However, and you must make up your own mind as to the importance of that ‘however’, in my aim to read all of Simon’s blogs from Day 1 in 2003, I encountered this one (see the end of the first paragraph), which, I am sure you will agree, is indicative of three inescapable scenarios: (1) I am indeed engaged in reading all Simon’s blogs, otherwise I wouldn’t have found the reference to which I have, er, referred, (2) Omally confuses kittens with puppies, and (3) it would appear I have to expect a visit from The God Of Unnecessarily Dead Puppies any day now which will probably result in more of my organs ending up on the outside than would be healthy. Oh well, you can’t have everything. What’s that echoey growling noise?

Food for thought

Me: “Look, this is about the tenth time today I’ve had to dash to the little boys’ room. And it’s all your fault.” 

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “I’m sorry, it most certainly was not my fault; there is obviously some problem with your digestive system. We have to undergo the most rigorous Quality Control procedures following manufacture and then the ignominy of spot checks by Mr Waitrose and his bullies.” 

Me: “I can assure you there is definitely nothing wrong with my guts – I’ve got the constitution of an ox, and…” 

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “Look, matey boy, how do you (or I) know that? Is it a written constitution?” 

Me: “Don’t be ridiculous!” 

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “Well, there you go, then! You can’t prove it!” 

Me: “But I hardly ever get the sh… er, stomach upsets.” 

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “As I said, you can’t verify that to any acceptable standard of proof. I’ve only got your word for it.” 

Me: “Well, if it wasn’t you, it was you! (points at Pork, Sage and Apple Burger accusingly). You actually tasted quite odd, now I come to think of it.” 

Pork, Sage and Apple Burger: “Oi! Don’t try and blame me. As my colleague has explained to you, the processes to which we are subjected prevent harmful bacteria from being present among our ingredients to any substantive degree. And we are extremely conscientious about hygiene. We certainly don’t want Mr Waitrose and his trained thugs working us over.” 

Me: “I don’t accept that; I haven’t eaten anything else all day, so what other conclusion can I draw?” 

Pork, Sage and Apple Burger: “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I would suggest you should look for the culprit a little closer to home. You’re just looking for a scapegoat.” Me: “I think I’ve had enough meat for one day, thank you! Doh! I’m obviously wasting my time arguing with the two of you.”

Today, my dear friends, I ate something that disagreed with me.

Sumpkin Poop

Have you ever smelt rotten pumpkin? I don’t think you have, because you would quite likely be throwing up by now: I nearly did! As some of you may know, we have had two enormous pumpkins in the pub for a couple of weeks now, for the purpose of running a competition to guess their joint weight and to subsequently sell chunks of them, both for charitable purposes. Well, one of the buggers had given up the ghost in the vicinity of its nether regions and leaked all over the carpet. I think someone at a private party a few days ago who was the worse for alcomohol had damaged it by climbing on it, puncturing it, and then falling off it! Liquid was spreading inexorably toward tables in the back bar that had been reserved for punters taking part in the quiz that night. I had to use our industrial carpet cleaner to try and deal with the ghastly situation and several able-bodied male customers were engaged to shift both pumpkins out of the building. Did we need this on Quiz Night? What do you think? Still, things were accomplished and the evening went swimmingly. Hurrah for brilliant staff and helpers!

Poppycock

When I was much younger, I remember hearing a Rugby Song (no doubt still aired in the bath – I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been in the bath with a rugby player) called “If I Was the Marrying Kind.” Sorry about yet another pome so soon after the last one, but it occurred to me when I was bleeding earlier. It is the time of year when such accidents are all too common, I’m afraid. Actually, the only similarity to the old song is the format of the first two lines, which popped into my head for some unknown reason.

If I was the inventing kind (Which, thank the Lord I’m not, sir!)
The kind of thing that I’d invent
Would be a Poppy Clothing Attacher – It would be a thing
to stop your fing-
-er being attached
to your shirt or scratched
and without a point
that impales your joint-
-ed digit to your nipple
Not designed to cripple
Or make you bleed
But what you need
To fix it safely in –
AND IT’S NOT A BLOODY PIN!

Keeping the Cat God at bay

Omally’s comment about a little kitten dying every time you don’t blog (Simon told him that, apparently, and he should know) has put the wind up me a bit, and I don’t want the God of the Cats leaping down to Earth through the Great Cat-flap In The Sky and then tearing me limb from limb and/or disembowelling me, just ‘cos of killing a few measly lickle kittens. I hate it when Cat Gods do that. So, to avoid all that feline unpleasantness, I thought I had better knock something up to keep the arm and leg totals at the basic level and the old entrails ticking over. But, I ask myself, anxiously scanning the heavens, has anything happened today? Then I realised that lots of things – momentous things – had indeed happened today. I will list some of them (not necessarily in order of importance):-

I woke up this morning alive
I strode purposefully around town without it hurting
I added one or two Limerick lines
I had some lovely comments from some lovely people
I did some work that I love doing and for which I get paid
Sheila and I accomplished a mundane household task together by cleaning the kitchen – both of us smiling, she singing
I did something for my son and he said, “Thanks, Dad”.
I laughed a lot I read about the joy and sorrow in several people’s lives I worried about my niece who lives in Paris

Up yours, Cat God!

Bad timing

Well, it's later on today - yes it is! I know it's not in terms of the previous blog, wherein was contained the promise of a blog later on today, er, yesterday, but I just couldn't manage it, sorry! You'll have to make do with a pome I have wrote.

A Blogger's Lament
Oh! I wish I could blog every day
But my head doesn’t let me, okay?
There are others who do
But I’m just not like you;
There’s a block on my brain
And so, once again,
I can’t think of a damn’ thing to say.

Oh! I wish I could blog every week,
But my life is exceedingly bleak
It drifts by so sadly,
I’d swap it quite gladly
Because, as a rule
It’s distinctly uncool
Writing words that have flimsy physique

Oh! I wish I could blog every quarter,
That interval’s one that I oughter
Attempt to achieve
And, at least, I believe,
I could meet the time scale
And so thusly regale
You with noteworthy essays – well, sorta

But I think I’ll just blog every year
‘Cos I know that I’m no pioneer;
Then more are a bonus
And therefore the onus
Upon me decreases,
I’ll store up some pieces,
Thus leaving me more time for beer.

Empty vessels....?

Right! That's it! I'm sick of not blogging. Why can't I do it? What stays my hand in the hour of need? Even if nothing particularly interesting happens, I can always make something up, can't I? Anyway, I've had enough! So, batten down the hatches, pin back your lugholes and prepare for some shock news.... later on today, I AM GOING TO BLOG! Yes, later on today - after I've seen Adam and Lisa, of course - and after I've compiled Thursday's pub quiz - well, after that, obviously - and after I've prepared the notices that we'll have to display in the pub about ID and parents being responsible for their children and children under 16 having to be accompanied - yes, well, that goes without saying - and after I've done the football team's Christmas Dinner tickets - I've got to do those, they're urgent - and after I've done some new Lottery Syndicate sheets and Weekly Meat Draw Sheets - we've completely run out of those - anyway, make no mistake, after all that, I am going to blog - did I say later on today? - ah yes, later on today. So... see you later. Possibly.

Where To Go!

As some of you will probably know by now, I took delivery of a lovely new Garmin i3 Streetpilot yesterday which that nice Mrs Maplin (I know it’s Mrs because, after I ordered it online, she rang me up to say they were currently out of stock and would I mind waiting or could they cash my cheque, thus ensuring the reservation for me of one that would form part of an imminent delivery? Of course, it might have not actually been Mrs Maplin as I have no knowledge of Mr Maplin’s marital status but allow me to have this one possibly inaccurate but perfectly reasonable assumption in my dotage) let me buy off her and, don’t get me wrong, it is a marvel of modern technermology and I can set it to speak to me in several languages. Not all at once, of course, that would be counter-productive, not to mention unintelligible. With regard to the voice, the only thing I can specify is the style and I have chosen, not surprisingly, British English. However, there is no option to choose the sex of the voice, so I find myself in the continuing life scenario of following female instructions. Back to the Streetpilot. There are other settings that can be, er, set, and one which did intrigue me somewhat was the ability to indicate preferences for what those lovely people at Garmin call ‘avoidances’. You can tell the device to ignore the following in calculating your route: Toll Roads, Carpool Lanes (what the hell are they? damn merkins! Sorry, Scott!), U-turns and Unpaved Roads. But the one which threw me was Highways. If anyone can tell me why, when using an electronic GPS automotive navigational aid, you might need (or indeed be able) to avoid highways in driving from point A to point B (unless, possibly, those two points are a few yards apart on a pavement – doh! sidewalk – although why you would want to drive a few yards along a pavement/sidewalk, I’m not sure), please let me know. There is a feature to set the type of vehicle used, but Jet Fighter, Helicopter or, come to that, any other type of aircraft, are conspicuous by their absence. I have tried it out two or three times and, although I totally disagreed with the route to the Chinese takeaway it told me to take from my house (even though it helpfully avoided Carpool Lanes), I think I’m in love with it and I am fairly anxious to have its babies, so Mr and Mrs Maplin’s (still in assumption mode) original instruction worked!