Rubbish service

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

No passport control

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

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

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

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

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

- One of that school’s text-books

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

- A sleeping bag

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

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

- No passport

I’m keeping the ninety pence.

The old paperclip cure

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

Interesting

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

Ferry 'cross to Jersey

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

Lost

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

Sock it to me

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

Money laundering

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

The Christmas Show

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

____________________

The Christmas Song Guessing Game

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

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

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

(Stand completely still and say nothing)

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, here’s the next one…

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

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

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

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

(Bow – or possibly duck)

____________________

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

Ups and Downs

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

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

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

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

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

Ups

* Takings.

Tra la!

My memory serves me right

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

Travelling companion

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

Sadness

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

No problem

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

Weekend frolics

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

Upgrade

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

On reflection ......

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

The Spy Who Tagged Me

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

When is Page 123 not Page 123?

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

At last - a blog!

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