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!