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!

Much More Elaborate, Purposeful And Fulfilling Number Plate Spotting Than That Other Not Clever Or Anything Rubbish Version

I believe I have come up with an idea which could revolutionise the in-car entertainment business. It beats the game of Spotting Car Number Plates By Starting At One Etc into a cocked hat. All you have to do is spot a registration and then think of another (extremely hilarious for some reason, and imaginary, although I accept you could hit on one that does exist by accident – I mean you would have chosen it by accident, not that it exists by accident, not that you’d know that, of course, anyway, if you’re still with me) registration that could satisfactorily either precede or follow the one you spot. Let me give you an example from actual play. On the way back home from Letchworth yesterday I saw a car with the registration 27 DEC. ‘Hmmm,’ I mused, ‘I’ve got an idea for a game’ (go back to read the above if necessary, in case you weren’t paying attention). ‘An extremely hilarious made-up registration which could satisfactorily precede that one would be 26 ANT.’ D’you see? Of course, you would have to have a rule which would forbid making up completely boring registrations, like 26 DEC or 28 DEC, for example, but with a bit of fine tuning, I bet this could rapidly become a nationwide craze, even perhaps an Olympic sport one day. I might write to the Minister of Games about it; does anyone know where he lives?

The Sausage And Mash Award

“And the Lois Award For The Most Disgusting Sausage And Mash goes to……” *pauses for suspenseful effect* “……the [insert name of hotel here] Hotel, Letchworth, Herts! Unfortunately, the Hotel couldn’t be here tonight as it is busy poisoning some other unsuspecting diners, but the award will be received on its behalf by the generous sponsor.” Hello, Lois here. I would just like to thank the first waitress who obviously misheard me when I consulted the Menu and ordered the “Sausages and Mash In A Yummy Gravy” and got the kitchen to rustle me up a dish of sewage instead. Thanks are also due to the second waitress who brought the steaming, er, dish to me, asking if I wanted some tomato ketchup on it! On reflection, this may have improved the taste somewhat. I must take the opportunity of expressing my gratitude to the knife and fork – it couldn’t have been easy for them. And I couldn’t possibly have accomplished any eating without the help of extreme food deprivation brought about by a lack of lunch. And when Stacey… pardon? I didn’t? oh, sorry, that was rude of me… when Stacey came to collect my dish, she asked if everything had been all right for me. I cleverly avoided giving her a direct answer by asking if I could please pay the bill. What I should have said is that, yes, everything had been all right, inasmuch as it is all right to give someone food that has only marginally more flavour than industrial effluent, but it was 7.30 p.m. and I was quite tired and emotional from a four-hour journey that should have only taken two and a half. Thank you, and I love you all!

Vacillation

Today I have been mostly vacillating. Pardon? Well, if you must know, between (1) continuing to read Simon’s blog from its very beginnings and (2) trying to repel the uncontrollable urge to dance naked round Tesco’s with Lemon Strepsils sellotaped to my private parts. As we speak – or rather as I write, in case we are not speaking - I am up to September 2003 and it’s already taken me several hours, during which time the Strepsils urge has become worryingly more intrusive into my thought processes. Funny, that! Especially when you consider the banality of the events Simon describes. I mean, I could read about democratic beards, kamikaze rabbits, foxes called Ursula and time-travelling dinosaurs ‘til the cows came home, not that any live here, you understand. Or be exposed to pornographic vermin. And all without any appreciable effect upon my mental equilibrium, oh no. Or do I mean oh, yes? I’m not sure. I just can’t help thinking that my time might be better spent undertaking more worthwhile projects, like making up anagrams of Agatha Christie book titles, or distributing hundreds of photocopies of my bottom from an aircraft, but, having set myself the task and it having been publicly advertised, I don’t want to let anyone down. And there is every chance it could become a Thing. Oh well. I must press on. ‘September 2, 2003 Nuclear Potatoes’… *sticks pencil up nose*

Caravan

A short while ago, my former GP’s daughter got married and we provided the bar in a marquee in a field at the rear of his house. Behind the field was a caravan, of sorts, and I noted its existence as being somewhat photogenic. Today, I took these pictures (among others).

I used my new tripod!

Unbelievable

Sorry to go on about it but, in case you didn’t know, we had a Dairy-Product-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named and Wine Evening at the pub last night and, as you may or may not be aware, I had to do some tasting notes. Well, I was OK on the Buffalino (despite being sidetracked by some fascinating information on the world-famous tap-dance instructor Brenda Buffalino) and all the other chee… er… relevant foodstuffs but – can you believe it? – New Zealand Anchor Mature Cheddar proved to be a major stumbling block in the search for enlightenment. Yes, Cheddar! I ask you! So I had to make it up. And here’s what I came up with (and considering it was at about 2 a.m.) a valiant, if predictable, effort, though I say it myself:- “What can you say about Cheddar? It comes in many different shades and strengths. Originally a unique English cheese, it is now produced in many other countries. This is just one example, and, on a taste strength scale of 1 (mild) to 10 (ouch!), Waitrose (for example, but we didn’t get it from there, oh no!) grade it a 10! It’s not mature if it doesn’t burn the roof of your mouth!” Oh dear, that’s made me read it again. Still, the punters bought it!

Leicesestershire and Alton Towers Revisited – Part III

This part of the series (you might have missed Parts I and II as I’ve done them all quite close together) is the Alton Towers bit which, as you know, I am only revisiting by virtue of this. I would just like to say that it was great (and just a bit weird at the same time) to meet people who I only knew as names in blogs, and/or rubbish chatrooms (I imagine it was the same for them meeting me, although obviously nowhere near as great). And it was a shame I couldn’t have sat and had a chat and a cuppa with Mort’s Mom and Dad. I met them when they arrived, and that was it! Another time, hopefully! 

I, of course, went on all the rides except, possibly, most of them, but I did have a good excuse as I had to look after everyone else’s bags and loose belongings in case they fell out on the rides – the belongings, that is. In any case, I have a back problem which means I have to actually heed the dire warnings at the ride entrances. You know, the ones which say:- "Please Heed This Friendly Advice – Due to sudden gravity-defying changes of direction and the breakneck speed with which they are executed, normal able-bodied healthy people are only likely to have various internal organs irreversibly rearranged, whereas people like Lois may as well just look after the bags." 

Well, I went on the Flume with Nick the Greek, Sparkly and mcl and took Kouros’s advice about sitting at the back of the bathtub, cunningly concealing myself behind mcl’s *ahem* ample frame. Yes, of course I got completely soaked. I went on the Rapids thingy with Kouros, you know, the round boaty wotsit with a big rubber ring at the bottom. Oh yes, and we shot a few zombies on ‘Duel’. Although Kouros kicked everone’s ostrich the first time round, I kicked his on the third! And I never realised how much shooting zombies hurts your arm; next time you see one, just let it eat you, it's far less trouble. Great fun! 

Except for the 50 minutes it took to get out of Leicester’s gravitational pull – the road to the M1, which had hitherto been the raison d’être of all our route planning and actual movements, had been closed. We got there in the end, though! Here are some piccies from the weekend.

Leicesestershire and Alton Towers Revisited – Part II

This is the Leicesestireshire part, obviously, and simply seeks to fill in some of the gaps in Simon’s version of events of last Saturday evening. Having confirmed my doubts as to the likelihood of the owners of “The Yews” naming their premises after some sheep, its location at Great Glen was established. Or, as we subsequently discovered on our journeys round the Leicesestershire countryside (some, as Simon rightly relates, being duplicated, to the extent that we began to recognise cows as old friends), it wasn’t. In fact, the man with no legs (incidentally, driving an elaborate go-kart thingy with hand-operated pedals) was just one of three near misses, the other two being a man on a bicycle with all his legs (only narrowly managing to retain them, no thanks to Simon) and a car, all of which, whilst on the face of it using the highway in a perfectly legal manner, thoughtlessly arrived at a particular point a fraction of a second before they were about to negotiate a blind corner, but a fraction of a second after we had completed the manoeuvre and arrived at the same point. Thank heaven for the open fields abutting on the roadway. It’s all right, we didn’t frighten the cows, they knew us. At one of several places where Simon decided that we may have been travelling in the wrong direction, he endeavoured to execute a rapid three-point turn, which I thought should have been more correctly called a two-point-one-kerb-collision-point turn. It was a fairly high and robust kerb, I have to say, and I had seen it coming. Kouros, in the back seat, however, had not, and was entirely unprepared for the not insignificant jolt. Only the layers of sandwich cases, food bags and chocolate wrappers saved him from being severely injured. Fortunately, the front wheel didn’t break. However, sheer perseverance and clever guesswork paid off and we found The Yews. Then Stu and Sarah arrived. I won’t say we had a lovely time, because Simon’s already said it, but we had a lovely time! Oh, and Part III will have links to Alton Park piccies.

Leicesestershire and Alton Towers Revisited – Part I

Now, a few words by way of clarification on the title are needed here. The word ‘Revisited’ refers to Alton Towers, not Leicesestershire, because, as I mentioned to Simon on Saturday, when he wasn’t breaking kerbs with his car’s front tyre (more of which later), it was (as far as I am aware) my first visit to that lovely county. The word 'Leicesestershire' is simply intended to lead the reader to expect a descriptive narrative in which it figures prominently. The word ‘Revisited’ in the context of Alton Towers is also possibly somewhat misleading because I personally have never been there either. I simply intended it to mean that I am not the first person to blog about the recent visit. As you will know by now, Simon already has. The words “Part I” are intended to convey the impression that at least one further Part will ensue (I didn’t want one covering the weekend’s events to be too long). Right! That about covers it for the title. And now the blog is already looking about the right length. Hmmm, perhaps I should have called it “Leicesestershire and Alton Towers Revisited – Part I – The Title”. Oh, mongoose it! See Part II, it'll be along soon. (Which just goes to show that my earlier statement about there being at least one further blog in this series was uncannily accurate).

The day I met Chuck Berry and had an Animal between my legs

Something someone said recently prompted me to recall a truly groundbreaking incident in my past. I think it was “Oi! Lois, you gerbilling bushbaby! When are you wombatting well going to start blogging a bit more regularly, eh? You sit there, feeding off everyone else’s, enjoying the fruits of their far more regular labours, and what kind of parrot do we get – no parrot at all, that’s what! Still, p’raps that’s a good thing. Tchoh, I give up!” All right, all right, keep your lobstering hair on! Many years ago, that great purveyor of rhythm and blues, Chuck Berry, was appearing at The Winter Gardens in Bournemouth and a friend and I had front row tickets. He (along with many other great black Merkin blues singers) was our hero at the time. We arrived at the theatre in the afternoon to see if we could catch a glimpse of the great man. To our utter delight, he had decided to take a walk through the Lower Pleasure Gardens to the Lucullus Restaurant at The Pavilion (near the seafront), where, having been followed by an adoring group of fans (not many, only about 7 or 8 – other members of the public didn’t seem to know who he was), he sat down for a nice cuppa. We sat opposite him and gaped and I got his autograph AND….AND…lit his fag (not his friend, obviously)! I kept the cigarette end for ages afterwards! The support band was The Animals and, after their performance, there was a break. To our surprise, the band came out from the wings, into the main body of the theatre and plonked themselves down on the floor in front of us, waiting to watch Chuck Berry! So I got their autographs AND… AND… I had Alan Price between my legs. So there!

Sam The Vacuum and Derek The Dishonest Dustbin

This load of tripe stemmed from a conversation in the chatroom and the gauntlet was thrown down in front of me. I had to write a story about Sam the Vacuum, a character dreamt up by Sparkle Princess. I asked how on earth you could give a name to a lack of air, much less tell stories about it. I was reliably informed that Sam was a vacuum cleaner and, somehow, a brothel came into it, although I’m not sure how that happened – oh yes, I remember now! A simple misunderstanding. Right, here we go. D’you know, I have a really bad feeling about this, but my excuse is that the whole sorry situation was forced upon me.

---

Sam sucked. Yes, he really did. He was a little vacuum cleaner, you see, and he worked in a brothel. One d… what? You don’t know what a brothel is? Well, go and ask Mummy or Daddy. That’ll give them some tough parenting practice. Right, where was I? Oh yes, I was just telling you about Sam. He was a very hard-working vacuum cleaner and his insides quickly filled up with all kinds of things that he picked up on his several daily outings: five pound notes, coins, condoms, pub… what? You don’t know what a five pound note is? Tchoh! One day, Sam was going up and down on the carpet in one of the house’s thirteen bedrooms and…… pardon? No, it probably isn’t an unusual… look, can you stop interrupting, please. Sam was in the capable hands of Betty the cleaning lady, and as she pushed Sam’s spout under the bed, a small round object shot into it and went bobbling all the way down the tube into Sam’s tummy, where it lay buried. Sam had seen it just before it disappeared – it was a small black cherry from the fruit bowl (there was one in every bedroom and it was not the first time fruit had been found strewn all over the floor). “Oh dear!” he thought, “another lost cherry.” Yes, it’s not that common; all right, be quiet at the back! At the same time as the cherry, a small circle of thin metal had been sucked up from under the bed and rattled into Sam’s tube. He knew it had been a wedding ring. He was quite concerned because, deep down, he was an upstanding little Vacuum with morals and knew about the reputation of Derek the Dishonest Dustbin, into whose large interior the contents of Sam’s tummy were tipped when his sack was full and aching to be emptied. Derek stood by the fence which separated the brothel from the house next door; he was an unscrupulous character and had often sold valuable items to the fence - well, who else? He already had large, ornate brass handles and a platinum lid. Now, when Betty took Sam to be emptied into Derek, Sam said to him, “Derek, you can’t have the wedding ring in this lot – I must retrieve it and get it to Madame so it can be returned to its rightful owner.” Derek said, “You must be joking. I could get some sports wheels for that, at least! And maybe an electric motor!” “You’re talking rubbish!” said Sam. “What else would you expect me to talk?” said Derek. But Sam was in a position to do something about the ring and he spat it out onto the ground in front of Betty, who quickly picked it up and put it in her pocket. As she walked back indoors, she was humming and smiling. “Drat!” thought Sam, “Betty’s got her hands on someone’s ring.” He had failed. But he had tried his best. And the moral of all of this? Never ever try and write a story about a vacuum cleaner in a brothel, even in the face of dire threats.

Drink to me only....

Quite frankly, I am sick and tired of the media going on about 24-hour drinking, politicians criticising the new licensing regime, and the police, judges, now magistrates, airing strong fears about the anarchy that will inevitably follow extensions to current opening hours. It is not 24-hour drinking; premises had to apply for precisely the hours they wanted to open. All right, this may mean some who want to be open for 24 hours will have applied for that, but please don’t force people to assume that this will be the norm! It just won’t happen. I am very uncertain of the consequences of longer opening hours: presumably, if people want to go out and drink themselves senseless, they will continue to do so, although it will still be an offence to serve alcohol to someone who is drunk, continuing to place the job of assessing a person's condition squarely on the shoulders of licensees and their staff. And any decision to refuse to serve them will inevitably lead to indignance at best and violence at worst. Oh well, they can stock up during opening hours at the pub or an off-licence and then get as blotto as they like out of hours. The new legislation is not going to stop that and they can do it now! Critics have said that the priority should have been to get to the root of the culture, particularly among younger drinkers, not to be allowing outlets to sell alcohol for longer. I suppose that’s true. But if the police don’t like it, they can object to the grant of licences. If judges and magistrates don’t like it, why didn’t they or anyone else who doesn’t like it kick up a fuss at the consultation stage? The Licensing Act has been around for more than two years so why have they waited until now? And it survived the passage through Parliament, so why are they acting as if the whole thing is a big surprise? Come to think of it, these critics must have a pretty low opinion of us and assume that we’re just in the game to make as much moolah as possible and if the customers start collapsing around us, well, blind eyes will be turning like mongoosery. We’ll do our damnedest to ensure it won’t happen in our pub. Anyway, we only asked for an extra 30 minutes on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, so it will be very much business as usual. Paul G0tlg says in his latest blog: "…the way to stop binge drinking …… is for people to get a grip and take control of their own lives"... Yay to that! Oh, and good luck to whoever is given the job of getting people to do it! Whinge over.

You're telling me

Today, I received a very nice informative letter from MBNA Europe Bank Ltd about one of my credit cards. Here are two extracts from it: “We are writing to you to inform you of important changes to your credit card’s terms and conditions. Please read the enclosed leaflet ‘Important changes to your credit card’s terms and conditions….” “For details on how to make the most of your credit card, please read the enclosed leaflet ‘How to make the most of your credit card’….” Thanks, I'd never have known.