A Cautionary Tale

Once there was a bald publican, and he decided that, as he was beginning to replace previously lost body weight, it was about time he got back on his bike for some regular exercise. One fine morning, he set off to do his 6-mile stint. He had almost reached Poulner Baptist Chapel when there was a deafening explosion from somewhere down between his legs. This violent activity in the nether regions was not something to which he is normally accustomed in these latter days and the sudden eruption of sound rather unnerved him. After a few seconds, he had calmed somewhat and, as he had felt no pain, assumed that his front tyre had ruptured. Upon closer investigation, however, he discovered the cause of all this emotional trauma – the lid of his water bottle had blasted open. The moral of the story? Do not use sparkling water in your water-carrier. Tchoh! Amatuer.

It's Who You Know

Well, would you Adam ‘n Eve it? A couple of weeks ago, during the day that I was sweating through the New Forest with Omally and Loretta, I learnt something which has proved to be to my advantage insofar as my geocaching activities (infrequent though they may be) are concerned. Apparently, the manufacturers of my car deliberately coated all its windows with a special GPS signal-blocking material (or athermic coating) so that I have been unable (for that hitherto unknown reason) to fully enjoy the thrill gained from following a pointing arrow or watching the little triangle moving along a map (as opposed to watching the road through the windscreen). My eTrex Vista would continually lose satellite reception. However, being A Person In The Know, Omally told me what I needed to rectify this and, of course, over the next couple of weeks, I duly forgot what it was. So, yesterday, I had a rare lucid moment and, via the medium of electronical mail, I asked Omally what was the gizmo that he had said I needed. He duly responded with the words: "Well, if I am not very much mistaken, that bad boy would be the RRAD-45 Re-radiating Antenna, available for a mere 37.32 GBP exc. VAT, 43.85 GBP inc. VAT from GPS Warehouse, www.gpsw/thisisthecritteryouneedetc.com." He was right! GPS Warehouse relieved me of the readies (plus 3.95 GBP postage) with little or no pain and they kindly sent me a message this morning saying my purchase had been despatched. I can’t wait to get my hands on its polycarbonate radome enclosure. And, who knows, I may even go out geocaching with it!

An Anagramapoem for LOISINTHEFOREST

THE SINISTER FOOL 

Continues with his plan 

IN FOOLISH STREET, 

While kindred souls log on - 

FOOLISH INTEREST! 

He wishes that one day they all could meet. 

TO THIS FINE LOSER 

Go the spoils of senseless conflict; 

IN TOOTHLESS FIRE 

That burns with empty flame, 

THE LOONIES FIRST, 

And then the sane, achieve his heart’s desire 

SENIOR THIEF, LOST, 

Who steals the love and wanders 

IN THE SOFTER SOIL: 

The dirt that’s left unturned, 

FILTHIEST SOONER, 

Cleanest later, the dream must never spoil. 

ON THIS SOFTER LIE 

Rely, but know the truth of it: 

THE SNORT IF I LOSE, 

The cheer if I win, 

LONER OF THIS SITE 

But owner of the fight that I will choose.

I am not a Number......!

Apparently, I have a Long Penis. Well, it came from the intermanet, so it must be true! Yesterday, I received an e-mail purporting to be from Paypal. It was addressed simply to “2”. It told me that I was to treat the communication as a receipt for the payment of $1,825 which I had just made via my Paypal account to “sexito@yahoo.com” for the undermentioned item. It had the Paypal logo on it and everything and it looked quite plausible. The ’undermentioned item’ was that best-seller, the ever-popular Long Penis / VS 2480 (Item # 75977994). You know the one? And there was a hyperlink to a website with an incredibly long URL. And no, I didn’t! Deep down, I suspected the message’s veracity, but it unnerved me for three reasons: (1) had someone hijacked my Paypal account? (2) would I now have to spend a possible fortune on some Huge Underpants? and (3) would it fit through my letter-box? I must admit I panicked a bit, because I wasn’t really sure what to do next. First, I telephoned Trading Standards and reported it (I should have done that last, really). I then logged on to my Paypal account and changed my password and security questions; while I was doing this, I spotted something that reassured me somewhat: the debit card associated with the account was an old one (I had not used the account for ages) so the money could not have been taken anyway. I then telephoned Paypal where a very nice Irish lady called Anne-Marie told me that what I had done with my account was correct and confirmed that such an amount of money would not have been authorised to be deducted from the account as it was still classed as “unverified”. She also asked me to forward the e-mail to them, which I did. Whilst writing this, I have received a reply thanking me for reporting it, saying that they were investigating the matter fully and confirming that the e-mail had indeed not emanated from them. The people who sent the e-mail obviously hoped to gain information about my Paypal account, and also that, out of the thousands of people the same message was sent to, at least some of them would have a small penis. Ner!

Electric Shopping

Our local Waitrose supermarket recently re-opened after a major refurbishment and I now do my shopping with the aid of electrickery. You have to have a John Lewis Partnership credit card (which a very nice lady let me sign up for when I went in the store a few weeks ago) and you go to a bank of scanners and swipe the card down one of the slots. A screen says “Welcome, Lois!” (marvellous!) and one of the scanner cradles lights up, showing you which one to take. When you pick it up, the display on it says “Welcome, Lois!” (how can it get any better?) The first time you do your electric shopping, they give you 4 jolly good quality bags (2 large, 2 small) into which you bung your provisions after you have scanned each item. How does that nice Mr Waitrose know you’ve scanned everything in your bags? Well, he trusts you. But sometimes, if he’s feeling a bit tetchy and suspicious, he’ll come in unexpectedly and turn your trolley over. He will repack the bags for you, though, and very nicely, I am reliably informed. When you scan certain items, the device will emit a loud danger signal – it frightened me to death the first time it happened – but this simply means the item is subject to some sort of special offer: £1.50 each, buy 2 for £2.75 (ooh, beep! beep!); 3 for the price of 2 (ooh, beep! beep! beep!); I’m sure I can hear Mr Waitrose on his way to the bank, guffawing rather loudly. Well, when you’ve finished cramming stuff into the luvverly green bags, you go to the Quick Check Counter and complete your transaction, all without having to talk to a single soul. You can studiously ignore any of Mr Waitrose’s Little Helpers even if they ask if you need any assistance or wonder if you’re having a nice day. You just stick the John Lewis card in the slot and a message on the screen says “Well done, you’ve finished your shopping, Lois, and Mr Waitrose says thank you and hahahahahahaha!” or something like that; then it tells you to take out that card and insert your payment card (of course, it can be the same one, if you like); it thinks for a little bit, then prints your receipt and gives your card back. Fantastic! You almost want to stay a little bit longer, and you feel as if you’ve been cheated in some way. Which of course you have been, otherwise you wouldn’t have bought 249 items for the price of 250 and loads of food which will be well past its eat by date before you’ve eaten all the other food. Still, it’s marvellous what they can do with electrickery these days.

What's My Line?

Today, I have been mostly losing the will to live. Allow me to elaborate. I am sorry but this blog has ended up quite a bit longer than I anticipated it would be. Many of you know we have a pub. Andrew (First Boy, who used to be Manager but who now has another job) still lives in the flat above. He now has a slaptop and wants to install wireless broadband. Simple task? Hmmm. He has bought a router and made enquiries of BT, whose monthly rate is quite reasonable (£16 or so for a 1Mb service). Snag – because it’s a pub, it’s a business line and the charge will double. Andrew does not want to pay double – I don’t blame him. So what to do? Wannado! (See what I did there?). They won’t know it’s a business line, will they? I dunno, it’s worth a go (look! I did it again!). He telephoned Wannado, who checked the line. Ooh! It’s already broadband enabled for BT Openworld, say Wanadoo. Apparently, someone previously had made enquiries of BT Openworld about broadband but failed to pursue it and, as a result, there is something called a marker on the line which prevents it being enabled for another ISP’s broadband service. He contacted a BT engineer we know for some advice. Acting upon the advice given, Andrew spoke to someone at BT who said that he would e-mail BT Openworld to arrange for release of the marker. Understandably anxious to be up and running as soon as possible, he rang me from work (as he had decided that it was about time he actually did some work) to ask if I could speak to someone at the number he had been given to see if: (1) there was some way to chivvy this along and, (2) how long would it take to do. Because I love him, I did it, albeit with a sense of foreboding. *dials number given* BT Openworld: “Thank you for calling BT Openworld. Calls will be charged at the rate of 50 pence per minute, and will not last longer than 25 minutes. My name is completely unintelligible and I probably will not be able to help you. Please state the e-mail address attached to your intermanet connection.” Me: “There is no intermanet connection here. I have spoken to BT this morning [lie] because we want to set up an intermanet connection here. We want to use another ISP but apparently there is a marker on the line for BT Openworld and the other ISP cannot enable the line for their service because of this marker. The person at BT said he will send an e-mail to the Department concerned, i.e you, so that the marker can be removed. He gave me your number and the reason I am ringing is to ask if the process can be carried out as speedily as possible and, if so, how long will it take?” BT Openworld: “Hello?” Me: “Oh, fucking hell!” BT Openworld: “Pardon?” Me: “Sorry! What’s the weather like in Calcutta, by the way?” BT Openworld: “Pardon?” Me: “Never mind.” *repeats entire paragraph starting “There is no intermanet connection here.”* BT Openworld: “I’m afraid I do not understand your query.” Me: “Right! I will try and use as many words of one syllable as possible!” BT Openworld: “Pardon?” Me: “Never mind.” *largely repeats same paragraph using shorter words* BT Openworld: “I am afraid you need Technical Support, Sir!” Me: “I certainly do and I am sure that is the first accurate statement you have ever made in your BT Openworld career. I was not aware I was talking to the Furniture Polish and Paper Clip Procurement Department.” BT Openworld: “Pardon?” Me: “Never mind. Can you give me their number, please?” BT Openworld: “0906 etc.” Me: “Thank you very much indeed.” BT Openworld: “It has been a pl….” (slam!) *Dials second number* BT Openworld: “Thank you for calling BT Openworld. Calls will be charged at the rate of 50 pence per minute, and will not last longer than 25 minutes. My name is also completely unintelligible and I probably will not be able to help you either. Please state the e-mail address attached to your intermanet connection.” Me: *recites usual paragraph* BT Openworld: “I’m afraid I don’t underst…” Me: “Can I speak to your Supervisor, please?” BT Openworld: “You want to speak to my Supervisor, Sir?” Me: “Yes, that’s right.” BT Openworld: “One moment, please, Sir.” *waits* BT Openworld: “My supervisor is coming right along.” Me: “Good!” BT Openworld Supervisor: “Can I help you, Sir?” Me: “I do hope so!” *repeats paragraph* BT Openworld Supervisor: “So…” *Supervisor repeats paragraph, substituting personal pronouns as appropriate* Me: “Yes, exactly!” BT Openworld Supervisor: “This is the Narrowband Help Desk. You need to speak to BT to ask them to remove the marker.” Me: “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” BT Openworld Supervisor: “Pardon?” Me: “Sorry! Er…can you give me the number, please?” BT Openworld Supervisor:Certainly, Sir, it’s 0800 800 151.” Me:”Thank you very much!” BT Openworld Supervisor:”No problem, Sir! It has been a pl……” (slam!) *Dials 0800 800 151* BT (automated voice): “To have a line tested or report a fault, press 1; for all other repair enquiries, press 2. For all other enquiries, press 9.” *presses 9 without much enthusiasm* BT: “Due to the high volume of calls being dealt with currently, there will be a significant delay and you will have to wait your arse off at our pleasure. One of our representatives will be with you as soon as possible.” *waits* *waits a bit longer* *switches phone to speaker and puts it on desk* *does some work” BT: “Hi! Thank you for calling BT, my name is Lisa, please give the telephone number which has the fault.” Me: “Actually, there isn’t a fault as such.” *again repeats the standard paragraph* BT: “Well, this is Faults, you need Customer Services.” Me: “Oh, f- ! Ahem! Can you give me their number?” BT: “Yes! 0800 800 150, but I can put you through!” Me: “Thank you!” *waits* BT: “Hi! My name is Bob and how can I help you today?” *clears throat and repeats standard paragraph* BT: “OK! I’ll just consult Technical.” *waits* Actually, this BT person was really pleasant and helpful and he had a sense of humour. BT: “Phew! Well, you have my sympathy. I’ve not been with BT that long but I never thought that something that on the face of it was so simple could be so complicated!” Me: “Tell me about it!” Well, one or two further conversations took place and the upshot is we will have to wait about a week to ten days for the marker to be removed, then to ring another 0800 number if it isn’t. That last call took 45 minutes and 6 seconds (true!) and the BT man remarked that, compared to the effort involved in trying to solve my problem, finding the Holy Grail would have been a piece of cake! I thanked him and said he had nearly made everything all right again with that remark! And, no, I don’t know his name, or if he was wearing a mask!

Wonders never cease!

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our Bill’s brother’s trousers! Not only did Matt (1) bother to go and vote for the first time in his life he was able to, but (2) he made a sensible comment upon the laughable security of an electoral system which permits someone to go to the polling station and vote without having a polling card or being required to show any form of identification (when I told him that, he said “Whaaaaaat? That’s ridiculous!” That’s pretty sensible - and mightily restrained - for him!) As long as you know another voter’s name and address, you’re home and dry. And getting a postal vote? Nothing simpler; do what several media people have done (although they might get their just desserts or at least a hefty rap on their naughty knuckles), complete an application form, send it to the electoral registration officer with instructions to send the ballot paper anywhere in the world (yes, true fact) and Robert’s your relative. Photographic ID has been a necessity to vote in elections in Northern Ireland since 2003, and individual voter registration came in at the same time. The latter makes it easier for signatures to be checked. Why can’t those measures be brought in on the mainland? I understand why security is particularly important in the Province but, for years, we have been told by government that there is no evidence of widespread electoral fraud. No-one’s been found out, they mean! Until now; it has been established to have taken place in Birmingham and Blackburn, and investigations continue in Bradford, Burnley, Leicester and High Wycombe. Goodness knows where else, after the dust has settled tonight and tomorrow morning. Whoever is in power after the results for the General Election are declared, GET………IT………SORTED!

Giddy macaws honor rio – pah!

SIMON RICHARD GOODWAY – GOD OR ROWDYISH MANIAC? Will we ever know? Probably not. I’M A WORDY, SARDONIC HOG but I don’t think there is anything sufficiently evocative in the English language to describe him. NOW, HOARY SORDID MAGIC might be able to achieve this seemingly impossible task. OH, ODD MAGICIANS WORRY, too, about its efficacy and I remain sceptical. He has been able to WORM HIS GOOD RADIANCY into the lives of many people – well, perhaps ‘worm’ isn’t a very apt word as it suggests creeping, secretive slitheriness, and it hasn’t happened like that. I am pleased to refute any such suggestion that his intentions are other than GOOD. HORRID MANIC WAYS simply do not exist in his philosophy. He is definitely not SHADOWY, GRIM, OR ON ACID but is neither GAY, MACHO OR SORDID. WIN him over and you have a friend for life. There he sits, in a lonely hotel room, in a Windsor chair - O MY GOD A WINDSOR CHAIR! – his eyes firmly fixed upon his computer screen, working down the list of things to DO AMID WORRYING CHAOS, dreaming up yet another fascinating tale about A COWARD HIRING SODOMY, perhaps, or a happy singing cake keeping itself WARM IN A CHOIR SO DODGY that even a singing cake doesn’t seem out of place. He often reflects upon incidents in his life and realises he ought to have said to himself ‘Following some GRAND WASHROOM IDIOCY, I must conceal my DOWDYISH GROIN OR A CAM might show it to the world.’ When, however, he has amassed millions by dint of his amazing talents and is ensconced in his ivory tower, he can say to himself ‘I’M A WORDY RICH GOON, SAD though that may be for all of you. Take this huge pile of money and convert it to pizza. Oh, and keep the change.’

Ladyblokes and a major cock-up at Channel 4

Yesterday was only remarkable for the presence of men on bicycles dressed as ladies – the men, that is, not the bikes. I was busy compiling Thursday’s pub quiz and looking at some holiday cottages that Loretta had found, many of which she could only have afforded if accompanied by 249 other people (Simon’s suggestion). Upon hearing a slight commotion, I glanced out of the window. The glance was quickly transformed into a good long look, followed by (or even combined with) some baffled staring. Streaming into the Tesco car park opposite were several cyclists. On closer scrutiny, it turned out they were all men wearing women’s clothing! Was it a meeting of the New Forest Cross Dressing Cyclists Society? Were they part of the Tandems For Transvestites campaign? The mystery was cleared up later in the day when I met a couple of them in Tesco. I asked what the occasion was and one of them said it was a stag party for his cousin. I commented that I thought it was a top stunt and wished them all the best. I considered mentioning to the other one that his dress was pretty but that it didn’t go with his complexion or his beard and moustache, but thought better of it. It was pretty, though.

Later, I watched (from Number 30 upwards) the Top 100 Children’s TV Programmes (as voted for by YOU!) and would just like to issue the following statements to Channel 4: (1) I know where you live, and (2) if you continue to maintain that ‘The Simpsons’ is a children’s programme, I will come round there and beat you all senseless until you desist from such ludicrous contentions. That’s all, really.

Life's Like That

Supposing life was like a file system? My housekeeping schedule would contain things like:
Open C:\My Stuff\body\eye\left and C:\My Stuff\body\eye\right

Move C:\My Stuff\body\arse from C:\My House\rooms\bedroom\furniture\bed Overwrite C:\My Stuff\body with selected contents of C:\My Stuff\clothes\clean

If that’s empty, select (in descending order) from:- (1) C:\My Stuff\clothes\dirty\whiff_factor 1 (2) C:\My Stuff\clothes\dirty\whiff_factor 2 (3) C:\My Stuff\clothes\dirty\handle_with_gloves

Extract C:\My Transport\cars\current fromC:\My House\rooms\garage Do not copy anything from C:\My Stuff\breakdowns\cars

Goto C:\buildings\commercial\retail\Waitrose
Run C:\My Stuff\finance\purchase\bin\overspend.exe
Run C:\My Stuff\emotions\bin\panic.exe
Delete C:\My Stuff\age\last_30_years_at_least
Copy C:\My Stuff\body\arm\left\upper to C:\My Stuff\body\bits_not_hurting
Copy C:\My Stuff\body\back\lower to C:\My Stuff\body\bits_not_hurting
Run C:\My Stuff\bin\tchoh!getalife.exe

Writing wrongs....

The nice mechanic who examined Matt’s car for to award it a luvvly crisp VOSA MOT Test Certificate today has just been awarded (by me) the Nobel Prize for the Most Illegible Writing In The Whole Wide World. 

Apparently, there was a problem with all 4 worm and inchkin walls and we have to replace the black hazelnut clam paper as soon as possible. He has also charged us £100 for 4 Wertlab Tyes, £6 for a Tripe Rub and £16 towards a Newt Region. He can bloody well whistle as far as I’m concerned! I'm as keen on the environment as the next man with a woman's name, but I’m not paying more than a tenner towards a Newt Region! What worries me more is that the Certificate indicates that it expires on tfiril 11 2006. Will those in authority accept this as a true fact, whenever that is? 

Who knows, but hope springs eternal……

Dear Powergen....

As a result of the telephone call to Powergen I’ve just had, I would respectfully suggest that they reword the standard letter which we received at the pub recently. “To: The Best Pub In The New Forest Customer Reference Number: 80110cx5 2 u Dear Customer Thank you for changing - without even realising you had - to Business Electricity Plan Flexirate 2. You'll see this change on your next bill from us. As a Powergen customer with a Business Electricity Plan contract, your prices will be fixed for the length of your contract and we're pleased to be able to give details of the Business Electricity Plan you believe you have chosen all by yourself without any help from us overleaf. Remember, if you are a Tesco Clubcard holder and you have a mere 15 minutes 55 seconds to waste, please contact us at the number below to attempt to register your Clubcard with us as part of a promotion which, as you will soon discover, is only available to Residential customers. Please try and ensure that, before ringing, you have a telephone with a speaker button so that you can get on with some work while you wait the 14 minutes 55 seconds it takes to actually answer your call. With this scenario in mind, you will, of course, appreciate that our operative will thereby have actually dealt with your actual call very quickly indeed, actually. Do remember this call will be free but it would be of great help to obviate delays for other customers with genuine account queries if you were to ring on a separate occasion just to thank us for not charging you for ringing us - this usually only takes 12 minutes 40 seconds. You would - if the Clubcard facility were available to you - earn 1 point for every £1 you spend on your energy. That's 224 points a month you will learn you will have lost just by ringing us - free! Yours faithfully, Elaine Harley Customer Service” Tchoh! Guess which two words out of the last four don’t go together!

The Limerick Thingy

Some of you will be familiar with the above feature of a certain rubbish website and the monotonous regularity with which it is hijacked! One such recent occasion has prompted me to complete a quite promising piece of doggerel which was cruelly vandalised by a regular contributor whose good lady is possibly one of the most perceptive people in Devon today. A \/\/311 l33t hax0r c4113d 573v3
r3l83d 2 4d4/\/\ 4nd 3v3
\/\/4z h34rd 70 3xc141/\/\
01 u! \/\/075 uR g4m3?
i/\/\ 4fr41d i /\/\u57 47x u 2 134v3 You may or may not need to go and look at this

It’s plagiarism, but I like it

Well, it’s not full plagiarism, it’s plagiarism of style or method of presentation or something – the content is all mine. I like to think that’s not quite so heinous a crime as the out and out theft of a whole literary opus. It is indicative, perhaps, of a lack of original thought but, well, I’ve done it quite a few times over the years and I’m fairly comfortable with it. You may recall a recent instance. I’ve also done it before that. I’m sure many of you are familiar with The Meaning of Liff by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd. I won’t repeat the explanation given but I did some of my own, using place-names around my local area. Rightly or wrongly, I hereby share them with you. GUSSAGE ALL SAINTS - Gussaging was something unspeakably messy done to a fish prior to its being cooked and, in fact, was a popular torture inflicted upon heretics during the Spanish Inquisition. In such times of tremendous religious intolerance, violent gangs used to march about shouting "Gussage all saints!" and if they found one, this is what they did. Sometimes, individuals were victimised and the mob would go on the rampage, chanting things like "Gussage St Michael!" However, even when in such moods, they would not be too bothered if St Michael wasn't around, as long as they were able to gussage some other poor sod. In a strange way, though, this indicated a degree of tolerance and, over the years, a breakaway faction was formed which considered this apathy to be a weakening of purpose and they began to specialise in wimborning, the word ‘wimborne’ having derived from the last words of the first known victim, St Giles: "Wish I'm born", (as opposed to dead, which state was brought on by repeated blows with stale loaves of bread filled with lead). Ever since then, the group went around chanting "Wimborne St Giles!" whoever they intended to do it to. At about the same time, another group was formed whose firm preference was to charlton all saints, which meant, basically, set them on fire. The group was disbanded after quite a short time, however, because, as matches hadn't been invented, they had to rub pieces of wood rapidly along their victim's body in an effort to ignite him and this was just too much like hard work. In any case, it didn't really instil a lot of fear in those likely to receive the punishment as it was soon realised that the worst they were likely to suffer was splinters and possibly a little light bruising. MONKTON UP WIMBORNE - It is probably best to draw a veil (or, perhaps, a cassock) over this vile practice which was quite common in the late 1500s, some time after the wimborners ceased carrying out their bigoted attacks. The main piece of equipment required, however (and the reason for inclusion of the "wimborne" part of the name), was still a stale loaf of bread stuffed with lead, although the main difference was that it had to have been baked in a thinnish cylindrical shape, rather like the modern baguette. The practice was, thankfully, confined to groups of monks belonging to the Order of Filthy Habits and its popularity slowly waned, disappearing by the end of the 16th Century. Bored with the solitude which was an essential requisite, the monks wished to share some of their dubious "habits" with the population at large and they began to travel round the towns and villages giving the menfolk what became known as "sixpenny handleys". Sixpence was a great deal of money in those days, though, and the monks' customers soon began to subscribe to the increasingly more varied (and much cheaper) services of the local strumpets. Sixpenny handleys were still known by this name but the cost of them, as for many other facilities, had been much reduced. The fee levied for full sex was, for example, a penny farthing, hence the phrase (originally quite complimentary) "she's the village bike", although this did not obviously come into general usage until much later. Interestingly, there are other practices which were given names that have since proved derivational - a very popular one at the time based upon its price was a "deep groat". BUCKLERS HARD – A physical condition, named after one of the monks (Father Damien Buckler, a founder member of the Order of Filthy Habits) which was essential to enable a sixpenny handley to be successfully administered. LIMPLEY STOKE - A very slow, lazy thrusting action with a (usually metal) poker whereby a fire that's burning perfectly well is just gently disturbed. It is really an unnecessary action and quite commonly carried out almost subconsciously as an aid to mental relaxation or meditation. MOCKBEGGAR - A mockbeggar used to be a derogatory taunt directed specifically at a peasant or some other unsavoury low life who accosted you in the street and tried to solicit money or sell you something you did not want, e.g. "Thou foul smelling, noisome varlet; seek remunerative employment somewhere or return to the midden whence ye came - oh, and by the by, take yon mangy wolf hound with thee!" It was then customary for your companion to compliment you by saying something like "Sooth! Thy mockbeggar was most wicked!" The mockbeggar has evolved to cover all kinds of situations and now encompasses such remarks as "Bugger off, sunshine! You must be blind if you can't see the fluorescent yellow notice stuck on the door saying I don't buy stuff from callers and the fact that I've already got double glazing." BEER HACKETT - This was the name given to anything that was used to open a Worthington Party Seven. It was invariably something like a screwdriver or chisel because no one ever had the right tool, especially the sophisticated tap device that prevented beer from spraying up like a geyser all over the ceiling, furniture and guests when you did eventually open it. SHILLINGSTONE - In essence, an early beauty treatment. In the early 1600s, in an effort to improve the general public's moral attitudes, believing that a healthy body led to a healthy mind, local clergy introduced what must have been the first health farms by setting up institutions around the district and encouraging people to attend them regularly. All they had to do was pay a total of one shilling (in instalments) for a course of 6 months' special body toning. The shilling's-tone (later contracted to shillingstone), as it came to be called, rapidly fell into disfavour, however, and everyone soon went back to being fat, lazy and flatulent. This condition must have achieved significant popularity, continuing, as it has done, to the present time. STRATFORD TONY - William Shakespeare's bookie. Although there was no horse racing in those days, a number of opportunities existed for a bookie to rake in hard earned readies from the local populace. There was so much villainy around, it would be more accurate to label these readies hard-pinched or, so far as the landed gentry were concerned, hard extorted. Murder and mayhem seemed to be the order of the day and life was generally terribly unhygienic and pretty unbearable. Everyone was so despicable to everyone else, it was almost worth being beaten to death to be free of it. The longer someone bet they could go without being mugged, strangled or disembowelled, the better the odds Tony would offer. Mind you, nobody ever collected any winnings from him since they were always killed before expiry of the period they had bet on (usually by someone Tony hired to do the job). It is believed that Shakespeare regularly placed bets with Tony and the most common were, for example, that someone would understand one of his plays or that everyone would stay awake during a performance of King Lear. He never won a groat. NETHER WALLOP - As already described, crime of one sort or another abounded in the Middle Ages, particularly the kind whereby bodily harm (grievous or otherwise) was inflicted upon people for a variety of reasons. One of the favourite disabling manoeuvres was the nether wallop which, as the name suggests, would render a (male) victim completely helpless for some time. Less popular was the middle wallop which required more brute force and which only resulted in temporary incapacity, although it provided the perpetrator the opportunity to follow up with something more deadly. An over wallop was really the result of misjudging the power of the blow actually administered. PRESTON PLUCKNETT - A device originally brought into use in the early days of the Preston "Guilds" (held in the Lancashire town during the same week each year) which consisted of a very large string bag made of thin strong cord into which feathers from freshly killed ducks and chickens were stuffed. The cord was closely woven to prevent the contents from spilling out and, when it was full, it was covered in a cotton sack, sewn up, given a "TOG*" rating and used as a bed cover. * Tested On Gabriel - Gabriel Du Vey was a textiles expert who developed a system of certification for this type of bed cover. The test procedure involved him being wrapped inside one wearing only a pair of thin bedsocks and locked in a refrigerated meat cupboard. He would then give a numerical rating based upon the number of his extremities which, after a fixed period of time, had not gone cold. In honour of his work, the bed covers were named after him, and, for years, many people slept with a soft warm gabriel on top of them. The covers are, of course, now known as duvets but the origin of the word is unknown.

Louis Armstrong was right!

Yesterday, I had the signal honour of meeting Lord Hutton and the lovely Mel, who stopped off at the pub on their way back from Bucks to deepest Devon, which, as some of you may remember – and much to Hutters’ disgust – is miles from everywhere. We talked of lots of thisses and thats: thingy, blogging, our common involvement with local government and people all three of us knew because of it (some sad, some happy), not to mention Simon’s chatroom. Tchoh, I mentioned it! Oh! How we laughed and how *I* laughed when, in the chatroom last night, Hutters thanked me for my hospitality; little does he know, it cost him dearly! Hahaha! Hahahahahahahahaha! *stops laughing as everyone in the bank is staring at me* It was indeed an extremely sepcial occasion and one which surely must be repeated soon. I would like to take him up on his kind offer to put me up if I’m down there in distant Devon, but I won’t say anything about that in case he reads this and moves house. What a wonderful world!

Beer, beer and more beer!

You would probably see the title of this blog and shout "Yay!" or give some other equally vociferous indication of accord with the sentiment. However, beer need not be everything it's cracked up to be! The tedium of isolation in the marquee at the pub by reason of the Festival of Real Ales was much relieved by the visit of Loretta and Paul g0tlg on Good Friday. Despite Lorry's rudeness! MD, it makes you want to weep and you immediately stop whingeing. That's all for now.

Sorry, Richmal!

“I’ve gotter chatroom!” said Willsimoniam, triumphantly, “It’s the best one on the world wide web. An’, ….” he muttered darkly, “if anybody says it’s not, I’ll…I’ll…well, they jus’ jolly well better not, that’s all!” His warlike glare defied any of the other three Outlaws to cast aspersions on Willsimoniam’s proudest possession. Domallyuglas, Gingeretta and Henry wilted beneath his stern gaze. “The world-wide web? Wot’s that?” asked Henry, “Is it made by a ‘normous spider?” “Ooh! Is it a massive network of internashunal spies?” asked Gingeretta excitedly. “Is it a huge bit of cloth wot you could wrap the whole Earth up in?” queried Domallyuglas. “It‘s none of those things,” said Willsimoniam, scornfully, “the world-w…..” “Wot’s a chatroom, then?” Henry interrupted, “Is it in the hotel wot you’re livin’ in?” “No,” said Willsimoniam. “Is it at your mother’s house?” asked Gingeretta. “No!” said Willsimoniam, “it’s…” “Is it a speshul meeting place?” asked Domallyuglas, “I know, it’s in the village hall, isn’t it?” “NO!” bellowed Willsimoniam, “It’s not a real room, like you fin' in a house, it’s…” “Huh!” snorted Henry, not waiting for Willsimoniam to finish, “it can’t be much of a room, then, if it’s not a real room an’ it’s not anywhere!” “This must be a chatroom, then,” said Gingeretta, indicating the old barn with a sweeping gesture, “we come in here an’ chat all the time!” “Look! I jus’ said it’s not an akshul room,” said Willsimoniam, “people with a computer can…” “A what?” said Domallyuglas. “A computer,” explained Willsimoniam, “it’s a machine wot can have a chatroom in it an’….” Gingeretta chipped in. “Why don’t you show us, then?” By this time, however, the other two Outlaws were getting bored with the proceedings. “Oh, I don’t want to see some old room that’s not a room ‘cos it’s in a machine or somethin’,” said Domallyuglas, “come on, Henry. Let’s go and chase Miss Dalrymple’s cat!” “Good idea!” said Henry, “I din’t want to see his silly ole chatroom either. Whatever it is, it’s bound to be rubbish!”

I Had A Dream

I had a dream last night – perhaps someone could explain it for me; I can’t remember the details of all of it but..... no, wait a minute, I can! Even though it was an unfinished story in my sleep, I can actually remember everything that happened in it – so I take that back. It is the morning after and I am writing (yes, writing!) this in my A6 Handy Jotter (50 sheets, Wide Ruled, 25p, 5 for a £1) with something called ink – a new invention, I believe; anyway, it seems to work. I am writing because I am having to dispense real ale to the local populace at the pub’s Easter Beer Festival and I don’t have access to my compluter. Ah, yes! The dream. Well, I was just emerging from the hospital in Winchester (It was definitely Winchester - don't ask me why). I say ‘the’ because I remember being imbued with an overwhelming sense of its – well – mainness, as opposed to an institution which would only be likely to earn the prefix ‘sub’. I don’t actually know if there is a major hospital in Winchester! Anyway, my emergency from the hospital had taken place (see what I did there?) and, apparently, it was just after midnight. I needed to get a bus back to Ringwood and, just as that thought struck me, one pulled up alongside me and the driver opened his window, smiling knowingly. I say ‘knowingly’ because something told my subconscious he was well aware of my destination. “There are still buses,” he said, “they go through Numpkeith, Turdlebridge and Goonhandle.” Yes, I’ve never heard of them either. So I was quite anxious to establish whether these buses bothered to carry on to Ringwood after arriving at and possibly sampling the fleshpots of Numpkeith et al. The driver promptly leapt from his seat and headed down the road at a rate of knots – walking backwards. I was desperately trying to keep up with him, but he was always irritatingly out of earshot. When a café hove into view, he turned to walk forwards and dashed in; I managed to catch sight of him joining some kind of queue inside. I chased after him and found myself running around a metal perimeter barrier which surrounded a large wooden-floored area, almost like a ballroom, but which contained a long snaking line of customers. I spotted the bus driver’s uniform and leapt over the barrier, heading towards it. In the meantime, the driver, situated about halfway along the queue, had changed into an old woman. In my dreamificational state of mind, this seemed quite a normal state of affairs and, as such, occasioned no surprise whatsoever. Suddenly, three security guards started yelling and gesticulating at me quite violently, in an effort to stop me from pushing in. I tried to shout that I was simply trying to speak to someone in the queue but, as you might guess, these words were refused audible utterance – a common ploy of the Dreamweaver Bastard! Then one of the security guards caught up with me; he was 3 feet 6 inches tall and shaped like a pear and, when he started raining punches on my midriff, it didn’t hurt………. Now, that’s about all I can remember but, although the nature of her involvement is not entirely clear to me, I am positive that a naked blonde lady figured in it somehow. Well, it was just a dream, after all! Go in peace, my friends, if only to Goonhandle and no further!

Overbeerification

I must just write this little blogette to report that I spent a very pleasant evening in the company of a well-known Swedish monarch and the lovely Loretta in the best pub in the New Forest last night. Much Tanglefoot was consumed – well, not by Lorry – she was driving and was confined to shandy and coke. But I now know why it’s called Tanglefoot – on the way home, it did indeed tangle my foot, well, both of them, actually! Hooray for beer and non-hangoverishness!

French Leave

You’ve heard of shark-infested waters, haven’t you? Well, not being an expert in semantics, I don’t know whether you can have a nostalgia-infested blog. Nostalgia can pervade, I feel, but can it be said to infest? I really don’t know (or care, actually) but, long before I knew what a blog was, I used to dutifully record my exploits in France, where we have spent many a happy holiday. So the events I commence to describe actually happened several years ago, but many emotions have caused their resurrection to consciousness, not only nostalgia. At the end of June in this particular year, I spent a week in a restored 18th Century country manor house in deepest Normandy with My Line Manager, her cousin and his girl-friend. The nearest town was Falaise (some 15km distant), the birthplace of William the Conqueror (or William the Bastard as he was more commonly called by his contemporaries, because of his illegitimacy; to King Harold and his army at Pevensey Bay, Hastings, in 1066, he was actually known as William the Right Bastard). • Pertinent Fact No.1: the Cousin had been beset with serious back problems for several years and had recently retired on health grounds • Pertinent Fact No. 2: I had taken delivery of a brand spankingly new car two weeks before The Diary Wot I Kept Tuesday 0600: Tearful farewells involving M (7), A (15) and temporary guardian, Grandma. These were pointedly one-sided. 1645: Eventually arrived at house, having experienced some difficulty with the directions provided. As we did not bring a protractor, we were unsure which right-turn was at 45 degrees to the road we were on. 1800: Having unpacked, went to nearest supermarket for vital supplies, i.e. swig and burgers. When we returned to the car, one of the front tyres was punctured and I had to change the wheel in extreme heat and violent swearificational conditions. Daily Car Fact: An irritating rattling noise is emanating from the rear end. Wednesday A stream runs through the garden and there is a pond with several geese and a duck on the land next door. The leader of the geese is a vicious creature called Vlad (all right, all right, but it should have been) which constantly hisses at the Cousin. It is lucky a fence separates them from us. DCF: Today, the handle on the outside of the driver’s door broke and I now have to wait while someone opens it from inside before I can get in. Thursday Found a tyre repair depot after making enquiries at tourist information office in Falaise. With fingers crossed behind my back, realising that a conversation in French between me and anyone else about puncture repairs and garages had little chance of achieving a successful outcome, I asked the girl behind the counter (in French) if she spoke English; then things began to look up. She was from Shropshire. Resultant visit to tyre depot very successful. However, had I remembered the French word for ‘invoice’, much time would have been saved. DCF: Rattle from rear of car has become a clank. Friday Picked up repaired tyre. DCF: The clank has worsened but is intermittent so is regarded alternately with annoyance and anxiety. Saturday The Cousin sat on one of the plastic garden chairs and a leg snapped off; his back condition was hardly improved by this; neither was his fall from halfway up the highly slippery stone stairs later that evening. DCF: The strap used to pull the back seat up (to fold down the seats for more storage space) tore off. Sunday Returned from a day out when MLM noticed only one brake light working. While the Cousin was trying to replace the defective bulb, he dropped the new bulb and holder down inside the car body, from where it was impossible to retrieve. DCF: Now only driving in daylight, trying desperately to avoid braking. Monday The bad luck is rubbing off on local residents: one of the cows on the adjoining (apparently unoccupied) property got stuck up the narrow stone staircase leading to a side door. Unsure of the correct procedure for reorientation of livestock in confined spaces (the creature seemed incapable of descending the steps backwards), I took its picture and went indoors. About half an hour later, it had disappeared, leaving a seriously bent guard rail and steaming physical evidence of the anxiety it must have been experiencing. DCF: The clank is no better and, today, the plastic insert surrounding the driver’s internal door handle fell out. Tuesday Returned home to find M full of elation that Grandma, The Vegetable Enforcer, was going back to Manchester the following day. DCF: The steering-wheel lock has stopped working. Happy days!