About This Blog

This blog was originally started as a thread on the forum pages of an animal rescue site. Now it's here!

The articles you find in here are purely for entertainment (yours and mine) and (with one or two exceptions) are all tongue-in-cheek chronicles of the World (my bit, anyway) as I see it.
No disrespect is intended towards anyone unless I make a mistake and make it too obvious.

I hope you enjoy my offerings. Feedback and comments of any kind are welcome.

Saturday, 30 October 2010

The Day The American War of Independence REALLY Ended!

Everyone knows that the American War of Independence, if not directly started by a minor disagreement concerning tea, certainly was partly fuelled by it.

On December 16, 1773 Bostonians got uppity, threw their dollies out of their pushchairs, and disrupted someone's tea party.  Scones were thrown too, so I've been told. 

Anyway, this amongst other minor things led to the War of Independence, in which Britain finished in a very creditable second place .... or so the history books would have us believe.  The war actually ended on the 4th July 1981 on an American base situated close to the town of Butzbach, Germany .... it took 20 baseballs to win it!

I  was young and very naive and when my Sergeant Major said that I had been 'volunteered' to attend, and assist with, and American-German Independence Day Fete, I jumped at the chance.  

He told me to dress in uniform and look smart because I would be representing the British Army in all her glory.

I had creases in my trousers and shirt that could have cut down trees, my boot were gleaming and had mirror-polished toecaps that could have looked up any woman's skirt and my side-cap was brushed and cap badge buffed to a shine.

I was picked up at 10am by a scrawny looking colonial private in a huge truck that had seen better days and was in desperate need of some valeting.

Once in camp, I was introduced to a Captain Hamilton (the bast%@d) who would show me exactly what was expected of me. I was keen and eager to please and said I would undertake anything to help.  
If I had known what he intended, I would have told him to get stuffed.

But it was too late.  He introduced me to my task by showing me a huge water tank, above which a banner had been stretched with the words "Sink the Brit!" written in large red letters.

There was a seat above the water in the tank and above it, a round red, white and blue target disc.

In case you haven't already guessed it ... it was a dunking stool, and I was the idiot that had to sit on it.

At that moment I re-declared war on the colonial scum and on my Sergeant Major, who I'd declared an honorary 'yank' for day.

The Fete was opened and the dunking stool became a very popular attraction; American's and Germans getting their own back on the dastardly British Empire.

I was seething!  I wanted to kill!  I wanted to slap the living daylight out of EVERY American brat that chose to hit ME rather than the damned target!  

Three hours I sat there ... being brave and gathering bruises (bloody baseballs hurt!) ... until pity was taken on me by a lady who turned out to be the wife of the base commander!  She determined that I'd had enough and ordered (She did! She really did!  She scared me!) that I should be given some nice dry clothes and fed.

That was when I capitulated and the war came to an end for the second time. 

I was given a brand new American uniform and boots for my troubles and was given spare ribs and chicken for lunch.  I was also treated by the local medic for a cut above the eye from one of those bloody baseballs!

Although I was battered and bruised, I did have a good day and that nice (scary) lady saw to it that I didn't have to pay for anything for the whole day.

All's well that end's well.

But if that lady hadn't been there, America would have belonged to us again.

Friday, 29 October 2010

Nothing Like a Dog!

There's nothing like having a dog in your life,
it sure as hell beats having a wife.
You can walk for hours with no complaint,
and a dog won't remind you of things that need paint.
He'll stick with you through thick and thin,
and won't run to a lawyer when you occasionally sin.
He'll always be there when you need a friend,
and he'll give you loyalty that won't waver of bend.
All you need do is give him some love,
and in return you get all of the above!

Thursday, 28 October 2010

Why Do People Fart When I'm around?

At 08.45 hrs this morning, we (my client and I) infiltrated the coffee shop at the corner of Albany and Alfred Roads.

We nipped in under enemy travel agents radar and slunk our way to the counter.

An female enemy sentry was ordering coffee directly ahead of us ... we watched and listened ... awaiting our moment to strike.

"Can I help you?" asked the young man behind the counter.

"Oh! Ya! Lartay and a scOne, if you would be so kind" replied the enemy.

We noted the mispronunciation of the word "latte" and the over emphasised sound of the 'O' in "scone".

This was, we agreed (due to the snotty manner of speech), obviously no regular enemy travel agent.  This was enemy 'top brass'.

As the patrol moved off, my client moved in for the kill.


The result was devastation!  Coffee all over the floor and a scone left rolling towards the door and then forlornly spinning, like the proverbial wagon wheel, to a halt.

Our little game of soldiers came to an end at that point and the woman graciously accepted responsibility for the little 'incident', which was just as well, because we only had enough loose change for our own coffee's.

Anyway, that is not what I intended to write about.  That was pure and unadulterated 'digression' for which I half-heartedly apologise for.

My point, and indeed the subject of this post, is why do people fart when they sit next, or close, to me in that particular cafe?

On Monday, it was my client who dropped an SBD (silent but deadly) fart that almost caused a mass exodus of customers.

On Tuesday Pete, the local 'bag man', who occasionally sweeps up in exchange for a morning coffee and a bun, let rip with real belter that caused me and my Latte to experience a 'Jurassic Park' moment.  I watched as ripples formed on the surface of my latte, just prior to being engulfed in the most disgustingly foul odour that can only be described as a 'brussel sprout' cloud.

This morning, after our little 'incident',  it was the turn of some guy in a suit.  We sat on one of the low sofa's that they have around the fire place (not lit). Directly behind us and facing the other way was an identical sofa which backed onto ours.

When the guy behind us let rip, it was muffled by the sofa's cushions, so we heard nothing.  But both Wullie (name changed so he doesn't get into trouble) and myself felt the stuttering vibrations of his 'expulsion' like a mini-earthquake through the frame of our sofa.

Being polite, I said nothing and awaited the pong that was sure to come.  Wullie on the other hand, being less     than adept in the politeness stakes, turned immediately to the guy behind us and asked "Have you farted?".

He didn't answer, but supped his coffee very quickly and left.   As he stood up, the gas we were anticipating was released and hit us, causing eyes to water and noses to automatically try to block themselves.  It was so bad that I reckon the it contravened  nearly ALL of the Geneva Convention laws on the use of chemicals in warfare.

It was so bad that we had to move to the rear of the cafe and await rescue.

Wullie was not content with letting him leave without some form of retribution.

As the man reached for the door to leave, Wullie pointed at him and shouted.

"That man did it! Not me!"

This comment seemed to alleviate everyone's suffering somewhat and raised more than few chuckles.

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Sex in the Charity Shop

Ok ... calm down!  Put your hands on the table where I can see them, and relax.  This is NOT one of those stories!

As I was browsing through the book shelves of a charity shop in Albany Rd., Cardiff, I noticed that my client (yes, I was actually working) was idly thumbing his way through the pages of a rather large, but thin book.

I naturally assumed that he had found a book heavily laden with photographs of animals and continued my own search for books of a similar nature that might interest him.  Some five minutes later he was still looking at the same book which, for him, is very unusual.  Having found nothing of interest myself, I sidled up to him to see what was so interesting.

The book he was ogling (yes, that is the right word) was full of naked 'large' people engaging in 'the act'.  That is to say, they were going forth and multiplying, if you get my drift!

There were about 30 to 40 pages of this book and most of it was a re-enactment of the Kama Sutra for those of greater dimensions.

The books title?

I think, if memory serves, it was called something like "A Fatties Guide to Good Sex".

My client should definitely NOT be reading a book of that nature so, we grappled ... he wouldn't let go ... but I eventually managed to liberate the book from his clutches.  I was however too late.  A 'Marquee' had already been built in his 'front garden', if you know what I mean.

I handed the book to a rather red faced and, I might add corpulent, lady at the till and she apologised claiming that it was not their policy to display such a book and that it must have been put on the shelf by accident.

Just then her equally male corpulent colleague came back from lunch and I couldn't help thinking "Keep the book, love!  You and your buddy might need it".

It was a wicked thing to think, but there you go!  That's me all over.

I ushered my client out of the shop and we went looking for bargains elsewhere.


Everyone has fears.

We all have at least one niggling fear that has lodged itself in our brain and refuses to go away until it is faced ... head on, as it were.

My greatest fear used to be a fear of flying ... until I realised that 'flying' wasn't really the problem.  Since that day, I can board any aircraft without a cold sweat forming and without needing to go to the loo.

My problem now is that during the flight, the fear of 'landing' grows and grows until every muscle in my body begins to ache as I begin to tense up.

You see, there is only one correct way to land a plane, but there are so many wrong ways.

Every time a plane graced with my presence on board successfully negotiates a landing, my body takes on the physical properties of a rag-doll as all of my muscles 'un-bunch' at the same time.

When the plane comes to a halt, the urge to run into the cockpit and kiss (in an Italian greeting sort of way, you understand ) the pilot is sometimes overwhelming.

Another fear is the 'job interview'.  Who hasn't sweated blood fearing the interview that may, or may not, land them a dream job?  I managed to get myself over this fear by imagining my interviewer as sitting on the toilet and, having just 'landed a jumbo', has just discovered that the toilet roll is empty!

But, my all-time biggest fear ... which sometimes wakes me at night ... is having to make the decision, when the time comes, to end the life of one of my dogs.

I know that it may be a necessity in order to end suffering or pain ... but they are 'family'!

I know I will do what needs to be done when the time is right.

But it will be hard.

Very, very hard!

Call me a wuss if you like, but I love my dogs!

Monday, 25 October 2010

Waiting For Christmas 1 (Re-post)

This is a re-post of an old article and was prompted by the bloody freezing cold weather that I had to face this morning when I got out of my nice, warm bed .  The BBC news claimed it was our coldest Oct. 25th for a good few years and, they sent shivers up my spine by mentioning the word 'Christmas'! 

If you didn't read it first time round .... why not?


(Originally posted on December 15, 2009 and again on April 4, 2010)

Isn't this a grand time of year?

Christmas trees, holly, mistletoe? Maybe even the chance of snow at Christmas!  The odd's for white one have risen since the news of colder weather coming from northern Europe.

Get your thermal knickers out ladies, 'cos you might just be having snowball fights and sledging trips after all ... while we 'chaps' stay in the warm watching all those winter sports.  Safe in the knowledge that it'll be other people hearing the 'chink, chink' of their spherical objects being frozen off.

Yes, it's (almost) here at last ... doesn't seem like ten minutes ago that we had the last one, does it?

Christmas ... a time of good will and cheer to all men and expensive prezzies to all women.

To all you men out there in 'The Bloggi-verse', how many of you have a pact with their other halves not to buy each other presents?

Let me tell you now, before it's too late ... such pacts are not meant to be adhered to!  If your 'significant other' say's to you "Let's not buy each other anything this year", it means 'surprise me'!

Not that you will be surprised at Christmas, because she will turn around and say "Oh! But I thought we'd agreed not to to the prezzy thing this year" and believe me, she willl feel no guilt ... and will prob'ly look stunning in her new earrings/dress/coat/shoes/necklace.

OK, there are instances where the whole thing works the other way around, but they are really few and far between.  So get yourselves to the shops as soon as possible, because if her Christmas is 'presentless'  your lunches and dinners will lose their flavour/be burnt/not appear and there will be a serious under performance in her other 'wifley' duties too!

I hope you heed this warning ... your quality of life could depend upon it.

Ask yourself;  
   Has she seen something in a shop window lately and said "That's nice!", has she ever said "Mrs So 'n So's
   got a new [insert whatever it was]"?

If any of those, or something similar, is true ... go shopping NOW!!!

To those who ignore this warning ... when your lunch is cold or you are having tuna sanwiches for the third day in a row, remember ...

I told you so!

P.S.  Saying to her "but we agreed ...." could, in the words of  Red Dwarf's Soup Dispenser Repair Technician (third class) Dave Lster, land you in deep smeg!

Saturday, 23 October 2010

Train Deaths and that Mysterious Flying Pig

In 1963 the sleepy little coastal town of Lidley entered the history books for all of the wrong reasons.

Lidley was the only station on the local commuter line running west to Brighton, but it's days were numbered and the events of the 3rd of October that year, were to seal it's fate for ever.

It was a Thursday and, as per usual, the last train arrived from Brighton that evening at 10.25pm.  The ticket collector at Lidley station, Albert Drummond, remembered it as 'an unusual evening', as that night there were nine passengers waiting to board the train for the last run into Brighton. Normally the train would return empty.

When the train pulled into Lidley, three passengers got off; Roger Morton ( a local salesman ), Mrs Jean Cummins ( a hotel chamber maid ) and John Sturrock (railway employee).

Mr Drummond ushered the nine passengers onto the two carriage train and made sure all the doors were closed then waved his flag and blew his whistle.

Drummond recalled how the engine driver and his fireman, George Ridley and Eddie Peaks, shouted "See you to morrow, mate" above the sounds of the train as it pulled out of the station.
After it was gone, Drummond locked up.  He said he was home by 11.15pm that evening, a fact verified by his wife.

The run from Lidley to Brighton takes approximately 25 minutes at an average speed of 30 miles per hour.

On this evening, Albert Drummond and the three passengers who alighted at Lidley, swear the train was 'running dead on time'.  "In more ways than one" it was later commented.

Chief Inspector Noel Hedges said "The journey seems to have only taken 9 minutes.  Someone must have been wrong about the trains arrival time in Lidley or it's arrival time back in Brighton.  I  have been assured that it is physically impossible for a steam train to travel that distance in nine minutes. I doubt if one of those new diesel trains could do it!"

The signalman in Brighton,who was waiting to knock off work after the Lidley trains arrival, logged the train as passing his signal box at 10.39pm ... "According to my railway clock, sir" he told police. "It's never wrong!"

He also noted that the train was doing the appropriate speed for entering Brighton station, but that he did not notice anyone in the cab of the engine, stating that normally they would wave to him as they passed.

The Lidley train pulled  into platform three as normal and came to a halt.

Lionel Preston, the duty porter on that platform said "It stopped at the buffers just as usual, but none of the doors opened, so I thought there was no one on board.  That was it's normally like".

But he also said that neither George Ridley or Eddie Peaks got off and that one of them always got off straight   away because, as it was their last run, they wanted to get the engine put to bed and get off home.

Preston noticed something trapped in one of the carriage doors and went over to remove it.
As he opened the door,  the body of a young woman fell towards him.

The police were quickly on the scene and discovered thirteen bodies in total in the two carriages.  The bodies of George Ridley, Eddie Peaks and Paul Clarke (the ticket collector) were in the first carriage.
The others were Marjorie and Terry Edwards, Joan Saddler, Tom and Linda Lewis, Patrick Cotter, Andrew Coombes, Len and Mary Whitehead and Raymond Smart.

Autopsies carried out on all the dead reported no injuries, bruising, breaks or cuts on any of the victims.  All of the dead had their eyes wide open and a look of absolute terror on their faces.

Every single person on that train appeared to have been frightened to death!

In the hand of one of the dead women a piece of paper was found on which had been written  "They are killing everyone ..." in lipstick.

Months of detective work turned up nothing but more questions;

  • How did the train enter the station without an engine crew?
  • How were thirteen people killed in exactly the same manner? 
  • Who were "they"? 
  • Why did the journey only last 9 minutes?
And many, many more.

This was investigated for almost two years, without progress, before the Lidley line, along with the investigation, was closed.

It has never been satisfactorily explained and no one has ever been arrested for any crime.

It is still an open case to this day.

Police are still looking for a Pearl in a haystack ...

... and that mysterious flying pig!

(copy of an email sent to Pearl)

Friday, 22 October 2010

Biggles Flies Again or Hotrod's Pleasure ... Take Your Pick!

Today I was privileged to meet a little brown and white Jack Russell terrier called Biggles.

Biggles is a two year old cutie belonging to an elderly couple that I met whilst out and about with a client in the town of Cowbridge.

He was named after James Bigglesworth (a pilot and adventurer, who was the title character and main hero of the Biggles series of youth-oriented adventure books written by W. E. Johns) because of the brown markings that covered his head and eyes and resembled old fashioned flying goggles and helmet.

As I watched Biggles interacting with two other dogs, I noticed that he was very, very keen to 'mount' them ... the dirty boy!

As I approached, the old man said "Watch it! He'll have your leg."

He was right too!  I had barely reached them when Biggles made break for it and tried to hump my leg!  After shrugging off his amorous advances, he turned his attention to a shopping bag, my clients leg, his owners legs and finally, as the excitement grew to be too much for him, to thin air .

Passers by were in fits of laughter as poor old Biggles dry-humped himself to satisfaction.

His embarrassed owners hastily explained that they were taking him to the vet as they were at a loss as to why he always did such a thing, especially as he had long ago lost his 'baubles'.

"My son thinks it's funny when he does it" said the old man.  "He's doesn't call him Biggles anymore".

"What does he call him now then?" I asked.

"Hotrod!" came the reply.

Poor Hotrod had to be carried back to their car!  

He was exhausted! 

Bless him ... the randy little sod!

Musical Images

(by Jim Steinman)

This always makes me think of Roman armies preparing for, and engaging in, a major battle.
I could actually imagine this one being on the sound track of one those old Hollywood blockbusters with Charlie Heston or Richard Burton.

by Mason Williams

For some reason I always imagine my dogs running and having fun chasing waves on the beach
(don't know why).
Quiet at the start, exciting in the middle then tired and slow at the end.

Hope you enjoy them.

Maybe you will have your own imaginations whilst listening to them.

Thursday, 21 October 2010

Doggy Report and the Hailey Park Thick Ear

I haven't given anyone an update on our three lil' doggies for a while, so I'll take the time now, if no one minds.

Pull yourselves up a stool, grab a sandwich and listen up ...

Those of you that had met Clover when she first came to TOP would remember a timid and very scared little lady that was afraid of her own shadow.  Now she is a confident (to a degree) dog that actually looks forward to outings in the park.

She has come on in leaps and bounds (literally) over the last year and a bit and is now confident enough to go towards people for a little fuss and attention.  She no longer has her extraordinary fear of cars and vans and no longer attempts to run into every drive way in order to hide or get into someone else's house.  She will run after Sym, or Sox, and has been known to go on her own little explorations into the wilderness.  She always keeps her daddy in sight, though, and comes straight back when she hears a whistle.

I am very proud of her achievements.

Sox, on the other hand, is her usual cantankerous old self.  She always keeps an eye on us when we go out, but likes to be a little way ahead at all times and, although she knows our route well, always manages to look surprised and somewhat annoyed when we change direction and she has to run to catch up.

Sym, of whom I am the daddy in name only, runs around the trees looking for squirrels to aggravate.  After his initial 'scare the buggers to death' charge, which never seems to result in a squirrel snack, he positions himself some distance from me and strikes the typical collie '"I'm waiting" pose.  This is my cue to throw his tennis ball as far as possible for him to chase after.  This routine, minus the squirrel part, is repeated again and again on out circumnavigations of the park and is only interrupted by the discovery of a puddle, new smell or poo-time (yes!  I pick 'em up!).

Today's walk was no different and we were about to set off on our third circuit when I decided to do something I normally wouldn't do ... throw his ball over the bushes to let him search for it (which he would successfully do).

On this occasion I threw the ball and he took off after it.  As I stepped off to follow him, something heavy struck my shoulder then bounced up and dinged me in the left ear!  I nearly sh....had an accident!

At the same time my ear was being dinged,  a voice from behind the bushes said "Oi! Watch what you're doing"!

Still hearing the ringing of many bells in my poor old ear, I set off to investigate, taking the with me the object that struck me: a solid rubber, multi-coloured ball.

On the other side of the bushes, I found not only Sym (ball in mouth), but also an elderly couple with a golden retriever.

"Was that your ball?" demanded the man.

"Yes" I replied.  "Didn't hit you, did I"?

"No, but was damned close." came the vexed reply.

I showed the man the hard rubber ball and asked "Is this one yours?"

"Yes. Thanks" he said, now slightly sheepishly.

My ear was still smarting as I said "I wasn't so lucky and I copped it right in the lug-hole,  mate.  Ta very much"!

We parted at that point.

The rest of our walk was, thankfully, painless and uneventful, 

Traffic woes

Sometimes I get fed up ... really fed up!

I spend most of my working day driving to, from or with, clients.
And there is nothing more frustrating than the agonisingly slow traffic in, and around, the city of Cardiff.

I suffer the coffee-drinkers, painters and tweekers, texters, oldies and sleepers on the roads every morning and it's just too much.

The coffee-drinkers are engrossed in there efforts to prevent the spilling of their Starbuck's skinny latte's;
painters and tweekers attempt to put the final touches to their make-up or hair;
texters are concentrating totally, and exclusively, on the latest gossip being sent to them by their friends;
the oldies seem to think driving at 15  MPH in a 30 zone is acceptable ALL the time;
the sleepers just seem to slip into their own private worlds and forget to drive!

I have nothing against any of the above per se, but it is soooooooooooooo damned frustrating to have them on MY road when I'm working!


It needed saying and, yet again, I feel better for it!


My coffee has gone'n got cold while I was moaning.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

A Giggle A Day ...

The Goons

Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers & Harry Secombe

The Goon Show was, and still is, one of my all time favourites shows.  

Here are a few snippets you might enjoy

Sunday, 17 October 2010

Nostalgia Bites You When You Least Expect It

I like old films and TV shows.

After reading an article by Pearl I was reminded of all those old shows and films that I used to enjoy so much as a kid.

'Thingy' and Wally Brennan
Pearl used the words "dagnab it" in her post and I immediately thought of good ol' Walter Brennan (on the right, in case there is any doubt. I forget the other guys name).

I can remember many a Sunday afternoon watching all those old western's (although they weren't quite so old back then).  I used to own a pair of silver six guns with a studded double holster and I would rescues many a good woman from marauding Indians or dastardly bad guys.  I probably even did that pretend-you're-riding-a-horse kind of run, slapping my backside as I went. If I did, then I was probably no different to any other kid of that time.  Westerns were the big thing in those days, much like the late 70's and early 80's when the Vietnam war dominated the action film scene.

Matt Dillon (James Arness)

TV in that period seemed to be mostly cowboy and detective shows ... Bonanza, Rawhide ... and who could forget Matt Dillon (James Arness) in Gunsmoke.

Amos Burke (Gene Barry)
And Gene Barry strutted his stuff in Burke's Law, The Name of The Game and the Adventurer.

And there was Z-Cars ... our very own home-made police drama. 
Who could forget that famous line "B D to Z Victor one" as they called up assistance when faced with a serious crime ... such as the time Betty Grimthorpe's cat Tiddles was inexplicably late coming home from his night-time wanderings ... classic!

Oh, we had some great shows ... imported and home grown ... which I would just love to carry one listing for you but it's probably better to leave you to your own memories of your own era.

Sometimes, I wish I could re-live those days, but not just for the TV shows.  

Just for the joy of being young again.


Although I can't go back to those days, I am still blessed with a magnificently childish sense of humour and nature that will forever remain unrivalled by the young of 'today' ... in whichever 'today' we happen to be in!


(Originally posted many moons ago of TOP forum)

There once was a doggy called Biff
Who's best trick was playing a stiff.
Then a long came his mum,
With a huge tin of chum
And he wolfed it all down in a jiff.

Now this doggy was stuffed to the brim
But there's nothing that'll escape him.
He saw mum with cake
and followed in her wake.
Now Biff'll have to go to the gym!

Now Biff has a bit of a tum.
It's as big as a horses bum.
He's now going for runs
And stopped eating sticky buns.
And he'll never forgive pedigree chum!

Friday, 15 October 2010

More Dribble From Daddy!

Ok, so it's been a few days since my last post.

I hold my hands up!  I have been very, very naughty!

Everyone will no doubt be pleased that nothing untoward has occurred that has prevented my nimble, if somewhat short and stubby, fingers from tickling the keyboard.

I have merely taken time to scan through some memories that might be of interest to all those who bother to turn up and read this blog.

Sad to say, I have had a surprisingly boring existence, I'm afraid.

Oh, I could entertain you all with the story of how I witnessed someone putting an anti-tank rocket to his shoulder (instead of over it) and proceeded to remove his shoulder when he fired the weapon (messy).

Or I could tell you of the time on the ranges when we were throwing hand grenades and half of the buggers failed to detonate, so we had to find them and mark them for later disposal only to find out that we were s'posed to let the experts do it.

But I won't.  Not today.

Instead, I'll tell you this ...

... I've had a couple of stinking days and I hate EVERYONE!!!

Wiping ungrateful bottoms and taking out smelly people can be a harrowing experience and, for today only, I hate 'em all!


I've said it ... and I feel better already.

To make myself feel even better, here's a little joke ...

The newlyweds are in their honeymoon room and the groom decides to let the bride know where she stands right from the start of the marriage.
He proceeds to take off his trousers and throw them at her. He says, "Put those on."
The bride replies, "I can't wear your trousers."
He replies, "And don't forget that! I will always wear the pants in the family!"
The bride takes off her knickers and throws them at him with the same request, "Try those on!"
He replies,"I can't get into your knickers!"
"And you never bloody will if you don't change your attitude."


Not too bad, so it shouldn't offend anyone!

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

The aftermath of the 'PING'

One week ago my glasses decided enough was enough and the left and right lenses decided to part company.

I have had a week of headaches caused by my 'spares', which were only intended for driving, not reading.

I discovered very early on in my relationship with my 'spares' that things were going to be difficult and that in order to read I would need two metre long arms.  As my arms are of average length (and luckily not in proportion to my stumpy little legs) I was going to have to find an alternative solution to my problem ... because I like to read, dammit!

Coaxing someone into holding my book or newspaper for me proved to be difficult and no willing volunteers were found.  That only left me with one option ... the pharmacy.

So I took myself off to the village and went from pharmacy to pharmacy checking out their cheap reading glasses.  I quickly discovered that the 1.25 and 2.0 rated glasses were not right for me and, after receiving some advice from the sales assistant, found out that I would need glasses of 1.5 or 1.75.

"Ok" I said "Where are they?"
"We don't have any" was the reply

That happened in EVERY pharmacy I visited.


I was desperate.

I took a 2.0 rated pair.

I needed to read!

You know what I mean?

Well, they worked fine ... as long as I didn't read for more than an hour or so ... that's when the headache would start.

As I type this, you will be pleased to know (bet you ain't really bothered) that perched on the bridge of my nose are my new frames (old lenses). The call came through yesterday to say that they were ready, so this morning at 9am, I was standing on the opticians doorstep waiting for them to open.

They had managed to find frames identical to my previous ones and I was over the moon to have 'em back.

No more headaches!  No more heavy weight on the nose! And I can read without chopping and changing glasses all the time.

 None of this will mean much to those who do not wear glasses ... it might not mean anything to those of you who do ... but it was pure heaven for me to have my weightless varifocal glasses stuck back on my face and to know that my week of pounding headaches was over.

Long live my specs!!!

Of course there is a down-side to this story ...

... they cost me £80.

Tuesday, 12 October 2010


I have always wondered how women, when gossiping in the street, can stand there, legs crossed, and not be accused of needing a toilet!

If men did that, we would have people pointing us in the direction of the nearest loo or, which is more likely, have a small crowd gather to await the opening of the flood gates!

And why is it that women can gossip for soooooooooooooooo long?  With men it's a quick case of ...

"Hi!  How'ya doin'?"
"Fine! You?"
"I'm good!"
"Gimme a call sometime and we'll go for a beer."
"Cool! See ya!"
"See ya!"

But with women ...

... it can be endless! And over the most mundane stuff too!

Why is it that old folks never get stopped by the police for not wearing their seatbelts in the car?  I once got stopped for not having my seatbelt on and I was still in my own driveway!

And another thing ...

Why to traffic wardens ALWAYS appear when I have to spend a penny and have parked my car (briefly) on double yellow lines?  And why do they still write you a ticket even when they've said "Yeah!  's  ok" and even though I was only gone for two minutes?


I have a whole bunch of "why's", but I know no one is interested, so I'll show you two of my favourite doggy snaps instead.

Sox (left), Sym (middle) and Roshini (right)

Dinky (left) and Clover (right)


Now I feel better!

Monday, 11 October 2010


You know those jeans?

The ones that sit (sometimes) half way down the arse?

They are the jeans that let you see any 'skid' marks in the boxers of the wearer.

They (the wearers) have to walk around like they have nuts the size of basket balls ... legs bowed, knees pointing outwards ... in a desperate effort to keep them on.

But ...

... have you ever seen one of those guys with Low Waist-Hang-Off-The-Arse-Jeans try to run?


I though my trousers would never dry!!!

Sunday, 10 October 2010

Unfinished Business

There is a screwdriver and a packet of screws sitting on our kitchen worktop next to the radio, which is playing a Whitney Houston warble from the movie 'The Bodyguard'. I hate 'warbling' singers, I really do! I could string 'em all up high and quite happily hang onto their ankles as they swing.

Anyway, the screwdriver and screws have been there for over a week ... just lying there ... and, although I know I put them there for a reason, I can't remember what it is.

My wife, knowing what I'm like, has so far been very good about it and hasn't demanded to know when they will depart the kitchen for the toolbox in the garage and neither has she enquired as to why they are there in the first place ... but I know she will soon!

Several times a day I over the past week I have stood holding that screwdriver and screws in the vain hope that the neurons in my brain will make that vital connection and a spark of recollection will let me know exactly why they are there.  So far ... diddly-squat!  

As my mind seems to work slightly at a tangent to that of you 'normal' folks, I began wondering if there was anything else lying around that I'd started and the conveniently forgotten.

I had a look.

During my search of the house, I managed to locate two more screwdrivers (and screws), a hammer (and some picture hanging stuff) and a small tube of sealant.

I didn't know why they were there either.

I gave up wondering and put them all away ... except for the screwdriver and screws in the kitchen.

I just know I'll remember why they are there ... before Christmas ... maybe ... possibly!

Friday, 8 October 2010

Christmas is coming

Just some rhymes knocked-up (excuse the expression) for Four Paws Animal Rescue (S. Wales)

Christmas is coming,  
but these dogs aren't getting fat.
So please put a penny,
in the Four Paws hat.

(to the tune of "O Come All Ye Faithful")

O Come All Ye Donors
hands stuck deep in pockets,
O come ye, O co-ome ye to sa-ave the pups.
Come and behold them,
Born to be our greatest friends;
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
Sa-ave a dog.

O give us some money,
help us save these do-ogs,
Give the-ese pups a Christmas that they deserve,
Donate today-ay, a dog will be so gra-ateful;
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
Sa-ave a dog.

All Hai-ail the Donor,
Who helps this gre-at cau-ause,
O Donor, for evermore you will be revered.
Your gift wi-ill help us to-o save a doggies life;
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
O come on, please support us,
Sa-ave a dog.


Deafened by silence,
Blinded by sight.
Sometimes it's hard,
To find out what's right.

We walk in the gloom,
Surrounded by mists.
Always too ready,
To use our  fists.

Through closed eyes,
We view all of our dreams.
And learn to soon,
That nothing's as it seems.

When we grow up,
Our senses will be dulled.
And into dark ways,
We soon are lulled.

But we shall walk in bright places,
And stay true to our hearts.
Leaving no stones unturned,
When playing our parts.

We'll stay close to those,
Who mean us no ill will.
Then maybe my friend,
There will be hope for us still.

We'll choose our paths well,
And hold our heads high.
For we are giants!
And we can reach for the sky.

Thursday, 7 October 2010

Gizzy (edited comment that I made on Pearl's blog)

(The following post is  a comment made to Pearl's post The Apres-Bar Will Be Held in the Alley)

Gizmo, or Gizzy as we called him, would have loved your pussy ... sorry, Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys).

In the cat-world he was a hunk; 10 kilo's in weight, 34 cm tall at the shoulder and over 1 metre long from nose to tail tip.

His hobby was terrorising neighbourhood dogs (including a Dachshund and a German Shepard called Titus) and attacking postmen through the letter box.

He was a perfect 'alarm' cat and would wake me up every morning with a heart-felt jump onto my head with claws extended.  What a guy!

He was a non-drinking, non-smoking kitty that was full of muscle and good intentions and would have loved to have worked out on Muscle Beach in the raw.

Local vets trembled when he entered their practices and safety clothing was hastily donned as it was widely known that he loved vets and COULD eat a whole one if permitted.

They did cut his nut's off, after all.

It would have been a match made in heaven but for the fact that my beloved Gizzy had to be helped over the bridge when he was 14 years old.

Just think of the fun they would have had.

Happy Birthday (for  next Tuesday) Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys). 

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Do You Even KNOW How To Make A Comment?

I was wondering ... Am I boring you folks out there in BLOG-Space?

Then I thought "Whoa!  What if they don't leave comments because they dunno how to?"

Just in case the latter is true you can see below a picture of how the bottom of this post will look like.

Click where I have marked if you want to leave a comment (preferably "Brilliant!" or "Fantastic work!" but anything will do really because I get so lonesome in here all  on my own). 
Why do I have feeling this won't help?

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Why do I have feeling this won't help?

When Things Go 'Ping' ....

... things go blurry!

Polo-shirts and spectacles do not go together.

When I dress in the morning, my glasses are always the last thing to be 'put on' ... usually.

This morning (1 hour ago), for some reason that I can only think of, and describe as, a "brain cloud" incident, I put my glasses on before my polo-shirt.

Not a bad thing 'per se'.  With a little care you get the damned thing over your head and pull it down with no difficulties.

Not so this merry morning.

There was a snagging and a tugging and a tussle broke out between myself, polo-shirt and glasses.

It was short and bloodless, but not without damage.

A button 'pinged' off my polo-shirt and flew behind the dresser.

My glasses 'pinged' in the middle and I became the proud owner of a set of monocle's.

That was an hour ago ... now I have a headache.

I knew I should have got some spare glasses instead of cancelling my opticians appointment!

(Apologies for the poor quality of this post, but a combination of frustration,a headache and pure stupidity is very difficult to cope with when you are still half asleep ... and I can't see the spelling mistakes)

Monday, 4 October 2010

Poems Page

I have added a "Poems" page (see above) with links to every poem on this blog.

If you have missed any, or would like to read them again, this will make it easier for you to find them.


Sunday, 3 October 2010

The Queue

Imagine yourself in the Post Office queue.

You are third from the front and at present all three windows are occupied by customers who are overloaded with letters, parcels, vehicle tax payments and, in one case, just being plain cantankerous and obstinate. 

As far as you are concerned, you are third ... and last ... in the queue because, as everyone who has ever stood in a queue knows, you never look behind you to see if anyone is there.

Imagine yourself drifting into a daydream brought on by the tedium of waiting and the lure of Mediterranean holidays advertised by the posters in the neighbouring travel agent window.

There is a noise.

It goes "Paaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrp!"

The two ladies in front of you shuffle as far forward as discretion allows and you follow, almost as if you are glued to their backs.  Halfway glances over their shoulders signal their disgust at you, because it certainly wasn't them, for that disgusting noise and, the soon to be expected odour.

A surreptitious glance over your own shoulder reveals and old man with a hearing aid wearing a grey herringbone patterned jacket and flat cap standing just behind you.  Behind him is a tall bearded man wearing a long black coat. He's wearing a beret, of all things, on his head.  Immediately you know one of them is the culprit.

At the head of the queue the little old lady shuffles her feet an negotiates a dainty looking handkerchief towards her nose.  She is wearing a yellow and white knitted hat with a butterfly brooch pinned to it and a long green coat.

She looks remarkably like a short, fat sunflower.

The woman behind her, and in front of you ... remember, we are imagining that this is happening to you ... is a woman dressed in Goth clothing.  She is wearing a studded dog collar around her neck and her overall appearance would seem to indicate that she is already more than well acquainted with a number of different odours relating to dead things. The coming 'fog' shouldn't cause her any problems.

Both of these ladies though are doing their level best to keep well away from you.

Silently you protest your innocence and try to distance yourself from the real culprit behind you.

Then it arrives.

It is an odour that can only be described as green with a hint of baby poo and cabbage.

It creeps along the queue causing sets of eyeballs, one pair after the other, to water.  It unblocks noses, unfortunately, and is capable of penetrating the thickest of old-lady moustaches causing an overwhelming feeling of nausea and dizziness.

And the queue shows no sign of moving forward.

The 'Queuers' mentality is such that nothing will make him/her give up their place in the queue.  Come Hell or high water, or in this case, stink or high water, their position in the queue is sacred and will never be sacrificed.

So, because you (we are still imagining here) were too stubborn to leave and get out of the way of that smell, it has permeated your clothing, layered itself on your skin and has taken the shine out of your hair.

And the worst thing ...

... that smell is going with you for the next hour or so, no matter where you go!

And you are no nearer to discovering who really did it!

Saturday, 2 October 2010

Blogs: The Search Continues

I look at the blogs of other people all the time.

I really do!

I look for 'fun' blogs that have a spark of originality, style and, above all, are entertaining.

I have found, and now follow, a number of blogger's that are, to my mind, pretty damned good at spinning a tale and extracting laugh's out of documenting some pretty mundane activities such as going for the bus, watching TV and going to the toilet.

But it saddens me (it doesn't really surprise me though) that most of the other blogs I read (and don't return to) seem to be mostly humourless and full of plug's for the blogs of their friends ... or full of ads.

I vary rarely 'plug' anyone's blog.  On the rare occasions that I have, it's because that person has turned out some remarkably good work on an almost daily basis and I think that they are funny.

Definitions of what is, or isn't, humorous will vary, but on the whole I think the blogs I follow are funny.

Some blogs are just too 'highbrow' for words and the reader (those who don't pretend to be mega-intelligent) is left high and dry wondering what the point of the article was. Other's seem to be part of pat-yourself-on-the-back cliques that do little more than constantly congratulate themselves for a blog well done.

I know there are still many, many blogs out there that deserve my attention, but at the moment, I'm happy following the few that I do.

I will keep looking though.

(In the great scheme of  the Blog-i-verse, my blog is relatively insignificant and easily overlooked.  My views and opinions are unlikely to be shared by very many people. None of that really matters to me though, because at the end of the day, it's just for me to let off steam ... which is what I have done here after reading reviews for a so-called very funny blog that turned out to be anything but.)

Friday, 1 October 2010

TV Inequality

I've just had a discussion with my wife about who watches what on TV.

I have a recording of SKY's "Going Postal" just sitting there waiting to be watched.

I mentioned it to my 'good lady' this evening and she immediately said I would have to wait until Friday (when she will be out) if I wanted to watch it, as she can't stand Terry Pratchett's work and doesn't want to watch a film version of one of his books.

"Where is the fairness in our TV relationship"? I demanded.  "You watch Coronation Street, 60 Minute Makeover, X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing and all those Animal Cops shows that are shown in the afternoons.  Not to mention Ghost Whisperer and Paul bleeding O'sodding-Grady!"

"World Cup!" she flung back at me in an instant.

"What?"  I said.  "That's every four bleeding years!  And I only watched the England games ... and there were only FOUR of them before they had to go home!"

"That's not my fault, is it?" she replied. "Put Coronation Street on please!"

Failure to Fire

I consider myself to be a blogger with a degree of style,  if not always good taste.

I also like to think of myself as being capable of some pretty slick and smooth writing that, whilst sometimes bending the rules of grammar to breaking point, delivers some worthwhile entertainment. 

It does not come easy to me however.  I have to trawl though area's of my mind that I very sensibly vacated many years ago in order to obtain some of the material that ends up as a blog article.  I dodge, as neatly as possible, the somewhat darker memories and attempt to document only the lighter side of what it is like to be me!

Others can sit themselves in front of their laptops/PCs and effortlessly fire-up their neurons in such a way as to deliver sophisticated and, in most cases, humorous anecdotes directly onto their blogs without so much as a second thought.

I,  on the other hand, have to tweak and re-tweak before I consider an article ready for posting.  Some, after a considerable 'construction' phase, never see the light of day. 

Today is another one of those days where, although there are a number of things I would like to tell the world about, my neurons failed to 'burn' and the 'construction' idea's that I had for my article, have vanished in their entirety.

The one thought that remains, but which I hadn't planned to write about is ...
  • Minnesota comes from a Sioux Indian word meaning "sky-tinted water", or "water that reflects the sky."
It has nothing whatsoever to do with a very small, fizzy drink!

I knew that!