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Tuesday, 30 November 2010
I have seen dead people ... driving!
This may come as a bit of a shock to everyone out in the greater Bloggiverse, but dead people abound on winter days after, or during, a fall of snow.
Judging by the way the traffic flowed this morning (and we only had a short, mild snow fall in Cardiff) zombies were on the roads in force.
I have never, EVER had to drive so slowly as I did this morning ... on clear, well salted roads too!
I just wanted to slap people ALL morning!
Ooh! Sorry about that! It just slipped out.
Monday, 29 November 2010
I know my letter is late,
But we had a heavy snow fall,
And I couldn't get out my gate.
I'd like to have new bike,
And an ipod and a phone,
And if you have the time,
A puppy with a bone.
Bring my mum a handbag,
Earrings and a car,
And give my dad directions,
So he'll get back from the bar.
Thank you in advance,
for the prezzies and ev'rything,
P.S. Bring something for my sis,
like cheap and nasty bling
Sunday, 28 November 2010
As I don't want to disappoint anyone by deviating from a tried and tested method ...
... I remember ...
that many years back I was questioned by the police.
A uniformed policeman called at my door at about lunch time.
"I believe you used to own a firearm" he said as I ushered him in and towards the sofa.
"Not me" I answered.
"We have statements from your neighbours to the contrary" he said smugly. "They say you used to own a weapon very similar to a shotgun and that you used to fire it over on the school playing fields at weekends".
"Never owned one or ever wanted one" I said, wondering where all this was going.
Then he changed tack and began to query my whereabouts between the hours of 8 pm and 10 pm the previous evening.
That was easy. I was on a plane flying back from Germany. I said so and he demanded proof, so I showed my plane tickets and my train ticket from London to Newcastle.
Without explanation, after writing down my ticket numbers, he excused himself and left.
I tried several times to find out what his questions were all about, but without success.
He left without saying a word.
That evening as I watched the news on TV, I was amazed at the headlines.
A young boy of three or four years old had been found dead. His body was found on grassland along what used to be the local rail track. He died of head injuries after having been shot at fairly close range by a shotgun.
The penny dropped.
Apparently, for a short while, I had been on the list of suspects.
For a further week the world and I watched as news bulletin after news bulletin merely said that investigations were continuing.
I knew I was in the clear, but someone out there had done it and the village was crawling with police trying to solve the case.
Then came the startling revelation that shocked not only the family of the dead boy, but the entire north east of England, if not the country.
The youngster had been killed by two relatives, both youngsters themselves, in order to 'see what it looked like'.
My home town was in shock and the only talk in cafe's, pubs, clubs and on the street was of the two boys that had killed a young relative (a cousin, I think) and then told a pack of intricate lies to cover it up.
I returned to Germany just a day or two after their arrest and quickly put the whole affair behind me.
That is until today.
It all came back to me this morning as I was walking the dogs in the freezing cold. It happened thirty years ago, but for some reason it very clear in my mind as if it had only recently occurred.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Why do I get up early on day's off?
I blame it on the dogs saying "Someone's got to be there for them" but, the truth is, dog's or no dog's, I'd get up anyway. I've slipped into a routine which, if truth be told, drives me mad cos I like nothing better than to stick two fingers up at the world and carry on sleeping while ev'ryone else is out earning a crust.
But I get so little 'me time'! If I'm not out working (between Barry and Merthyr most days) then I'm walking the dogs (thinking time) or cooking or .... well, the 'or' is private!
So, I guess what I'm saying (typing) is, that early mornings ... and it doesn't matter when I went to bed the night before ... is my time and my space. I will never be truly 'on my own' because of the dog's, but we have an understanding ... they know the score and settle at my feet; no whining, barking or general making a nuisance of themselves ... and it works!
Do you want to know something? Ev'ryone should 'dribble' on like this in a blog! It helps clear your head of all the jumble that builds up between your ears.
Last night Ben (a past foster dog) surprised me again (the first surprise being his age; he was meant to be 18 months and turned out to be 19 years old) by bolting up the garden and then back again. Clover thought it was playtime and took off after him (she's very wary of Ben cos of his age I think) but at a more sedate pace. Sym showed his utter disapproval by cocking his leg on the rotary washing line and Sox, with her usual 'hard done by' look waited by the door to go back into the warmth.
It took some minute's before all of the dogs sorted out their lower- and upper-case P's but, when they did, an orderly queue was formed at the door ready to go to bed. They all got their bedtime cheese and settled down for the night.
Ben accompanied me upstairs and after his 'safety check' prowl around the bedroom, went to sleep on his hot water bottle. I read my book (a Pratchett) until the early hours (more relaxing 'me time') and then I too closed my peepers.
The dogs are still respecting my space and 'me time' as I type, but Sym is looking at me ALL the time ... he know's 'me time' ends with a trip to the park!
Thursday, 25 November 2010
I was out of bed and awake quicker than you could do something quickly, my 9 iron whisked out from under the pillow (well, where would you keep yours?) and ready for action.
I tip-toed to the head of the stairs in a 'ziggy-zaggy' kind of way so I could avoid all those squeaky floor boards I've been meaning to replace. I did not alert the intruder by switching on a light and I certainly didn't say "Is anyone there?" because if someone answered "Yes!", I just knew I'd shit a brick, if not a whole bungalow!
In the downstairs hallway there was nothing to be seen, so I crept down the stairs as quietly as possible.
I quickly checked the front door and it was still intact and locked.
I went through to the kitchen ... nothing!
The back door and all the windows were all secure.
I felt safe enough to put the light on at this point.
It went 'click'
It lit up.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, it slowly dawned on me that there was no intruder and that one of the dogs must have been responsible for the noise that I heard.
There were three tired, but guilty looking dogs lying in their beds.
But that is not what convinced me that one of them was to blame ... no!
It was the trail.
It was a UK size 7 trail.
A trail down the centre of the hallway and into the kitchen.
It ended in exactly the place where I was stood.
It was brown!!!
Three dogs pretended very hard to be fast asleep and the cat sniggered!
Let me tell you ... there is nothing more sure to wake you up, and give you no chance of getting back to sleep, than cleaning up dog mess at two-thirty in the morning.
It was .... [YAWN] ... an awful exp... [yawn] ...erience so early ... [yawn] ... in the ... zzz zzz zzz ZZZ.....................
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
It's Christmas time
a time of cheer,
for presents and food
and dad drinkin' beer.
Broken new toys,
wrapping paper still on the floor,
a visit from those neighbours,
the ones you don't like anymore.
strugglin' with the lunch,
trying to prepare food,
for the whole bleedin' bunch.
with a can of Newkie Brown,
lukkin at his Sun calender,
n he don't mind that it's upside down.
around about two,
and all they can do,
is complain about you.
the turkey is dry,
the sprouts are too soft,
and you just want to cry.
to see the Queen,
cos she speaks the bestest
english what's ever been.
there's more food on the table,
and we all start eating
as much as we're able.
lunch time sprouts play their part,
as adults sip wine
and secretly fart.
you sip your brandy
n tell your ol' man
forget bein' randy!
straight to sleep,
all that hard work,
and not one 'thank you' peep.
Monday, 22 November 2010
It refers to the German phrase "Deutsch für Fortgeschrittene" which means 'German for advanced students', but 'fortgeschrittene' could also mean someone who has run off, hence German for runaways.
Now that has been explained (it has little to do with this tale, but I thought it was worth a mention as I have at least one German reader), I shall tell you of mornings encounter with two German students that we (my client and I) bumped into as we left the cafe after our morning ritualistic latte.
"Excuse me" said a thickly accented voice. "Do you know where I find Charles Street please?"
I recognised the accent as being German straight away.
"Yeah", I replied. "Follow this road all the way to the third traffic light then turn right. At the next set of lights, turn left. Go straight over the following set of traffic lights and it will be the next right after that."
He 'sanked' me very much and turned to go, whereupon his colleague said "Was hat der blödmann gesagt?"*
This rattled my cage big time!
As they started to walk away I shouted "Moment mal!"*
They both turned towards me. The student that had asked for directions was grinning. His friend looked decidedly shell shocked, as if he'd just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.
" 'Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof wie du denskst, mein fruend. Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein. Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell".*
I don't have very many opportunities to use my German and, over time it's become a little rusty, but I really enjoyed that moment and the look on that guy's face.
Was hat der blödmann gesagt? = what did the idiot say?
Moment mal = Just a moment
Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof
wie du denskst, mein fruend. = The idiot isn't as stupid as you think, my friend
Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein. = You should be a bit more careful.
Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell. = Now Fu%& off very quickly.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
We also decided that we would not like to be in the clean up crew that had to deal with it.
At the time we were eating bacon sandwiches in a small cafe just up a side street of a welsh coastal village.
I no longer remember how we, in our minds that is, managed to get the elephant on the roof or why we would want it to commit suicide, but somehow we did.
I remember my client had just told me about a row over a cup of tea and the ownership thereof. There were words, the tea was spilled and, for a while, he and a friend stopped speaking to one another.
Then suddenly .... there was an elephant and it was on the roof about to jump.
But how we got to that point is a mystery to me. I must have dozed off!
When working with people with learning difficulties, you have to be ready for sudden changes in conversational direction. A degree of mental agility equal to that of a gymnast is required in order to keep pace at times.
One moment, as was the case recently, I would find myself discussing the benefits of a nice cup of tea on a cold day, only to have the topic of conversation change in mid sentence to election manifestos and why none of the major parties include a policy of 'being more helpful to people who have lost their train ticket'.
You never see the changes coming ... but you have to try to react as if they are normal when they do.
You have to make the flow from one subject to another seem .... well, seamless, and although you may think the conversation you are having is illogical and disjointed, you have to remember that to your client it is all logical, well thought through and in need of being said.
Meanwhile, back on the roof, the elephant is still teetering on the edge.
I have to admit that I made no attempt to talk the elephant down to safety as our topic had already been changed to the subject of buses (why do they have to go down narrow lanes?) and had moved on to post offices (why is the government closing them all?).
I wonder if the elephant is still up there?
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Well, I say "on my lap", but he's actually a little too big to be restricted to such a small area of his "daddy".
On top of him (animal welfare people should take this with a pinch of salt) rests my laptop. Typing is one-handed and therefore a little more difficult than it otherwise would be.
He's a booful dog but a lousy desk!
A cwtch, for those of you not fluent in Welsh, means an affectionate hug and, as there is no literal English translation, it's often taken to mean a safe place.
So, when my boy Sym wants to flop down on top of me, he drops his chin onto the sofa, looks out of the corner of his big brown eyes at his 'mum' and waits for her to say the word.
Now this is the funny thing ...
... he wants to lie on my lap but he won't actually jump up onto me.
He jumps up beside me, allows himself to fall sideways onto my legs, then rolls straight over into his back.
And there he will stay ... four legs pointing towards the ceiling and tail curled over to hide his bits.
Nothing will move him now until ... well, until I lose the feeling in my legs or it's time for bed.
Once settled, his favourite pastime is the periodical whacking his 'daddy' in the face with his paw.
It's his way of keeping my attention and guaranteeing that one hand continues to tickle his tum.
We've actually been sitting here for over two hours and, truth be told, my legs are numb and I'm pretty much all done with reading blogs.
I know this wasn't my best post, but I thought the stuff about Sym and his cwtch's was appropriate, especially as he is still under my laptop at this moment.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Our alarm clocks remind us bluntly that we don't deserve another minute in bed and we should get up or it'll get louder.
The slumber button is always so difficult to find when your eyelids are still pasted shut.
The effort of finding the button and pressing it, finally silencing that ear-piercing din, albeit only for five minutes, is sufficient to get your brain working just enough to register that your bladder is screaming out for attention.
There is a squirming and a wriggling under the quilt as you attempt to find a posture that would give your bladder another couple of cc's capacity and, after realising that No! You ain't gonna have an accident, you settle back down to your slumbers.
The alarm peeps or rings as again.
'That was never five minutes' you think as you waste precious sleeping time struggling to read the time, in stead of just pressing the slumber button again. I think that everyone does this so they can catch their alarms cheating.
Your bladder is increasing it's pressure for attention.
The slumber button pressed for a second time, you settle back into your warm bed, but by now you are starting to get a little crabby because ... damn it! ... you work hard and need your sleep.
The insistence of your bladder reminding you that you are in desperate need of taking a leek is ... excuse the pun ... pi$$ing you off and, in that special way of 'holding on' that you developed as a child, you begin to jiggle your legs in the hope that sloshing the contents of your by now basketball-sized bladder, will ease the problem.
The alarm peeps or rings as again.
The pressure by now is horrendous and you are faced with a choice: vacate or flood?.
Fuming, you decide against the latter and head for the loo.
Be careful stepping over the remains of your alarm clock, won't you!
After a pee timed at 4 minutes and 13 seconds, during which "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" was sighed several times, you admit to yourself "I shouldn't have waited so long".
From here on in, it's going to be a 'down hill' kind of day.
A shower fails completely to 'pick you up' and dressing (all those straps and things!) is soooooooooo difficult as your eyes, still convinced you should be in bed, are half closed and convinced you are just having a nightmare.
Slouching downstairs you are determined to strangle anyone with the balls to say "Good morning!" to you.
Cereals don't help either and that smell of bacon and coffee that your other half is preparing just makes you want to vomit.
Eventually you leave for work and you hear radio reports of loads of road-rage incidents happening all along the stretch of road you are travelling on.
Funny that you haven't seen any of them.
Perhaps you would if only .... "Get outta the way you fugging ass hole! Up yours!" ... those others would drive ... "Ba$tards! I'll kick yer head off'f yer shoulders!" ... more ... "Yeah? You and who's army?" ... considerately.
What happened at work?
No! Not today.
Maybe I'll rub your nose in it another time ...
... Erm, you did get to work, didn't you?
Thursday, 18 November 2010
I have three very ashamed looking animals here at the moment but they are holding firm under intense interrogation and I still don't know which is the guilty party.
Excuse me while I just open all the windows.
You guys out in the Bloggi-verse must love smelly dogs.
After this was posted there were over thirty hits within a minute.
Not just anyone can do it, so I s'pose talent is involved too.
I do it ev'ry day, or so it would seem, and I pay the price for it.
At the end of the day though, it's all just fun and no harm is intended.
I've prob'ly done it to you all at some point or other ... I can't help myself ... cos I find nearly ev'rything funny in some way.
Like when Prince William was talking about their university days he said:
"When I first met Kate I knew there was something very special about her. I knew there was possibly something that I wanted to explore there." (quote from the ITV interview transcript).
I mean, come on! There's something there ev'ry red blooded male would like to 'explore'.
Her facial expression as he made this remark was one of "Oh William! Now they'll ALL know we've been at IT!"
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Multitasking IS, and always WILL BE (they claim), something that lies fully in the domain of the female of the species.
And I suppose it must be true because it's the only way they can screw up as many things as possible in short periods of time!
That said ... I must admit that the word 'multitasking' is in itself very misleading ... perhaps we should consider a more realistic description such as jobscarriedoutsequentialbutveryquickly.
I know it doesn't trip off the tongue, but is a more honest description.
Men are more "Dual-ist" by nature and the following are just a few of our dual tasking achievements:
- reading the paper whilst dumping
- drinking beer whilst watching football/TV
- farting whilst eating
Through sixteen miles (there and back) of stop-start traffic I struggled, along with all those other plonkers (who were obviously to blame for everything), in a desperate bid to earn my wage.
It was 06.45 when I mounted my trustee steed (my car, but a horse would have been quicker) and took off into the darkness and pouring rain.
I managed a magnificent half mile before being halted by the first of many delays ... a mini-bus trying to do a three point turn on a narrow street. After about twenty 'points' he managed it and cleared the road, much to everyone's (there was a queue of about twenty cars by this time) delight.
Of we set again, through Llandaff North, past BBC Cymru (Wales) and into Llandaff itself. Mere minutes it took me to arrive in Llandaff but it took another twenty before I could leave and head towards Canton.
And Llandaff isn't like, you know, big. It's a titchy little patch of Cardiff's greater metropolitan region and usually it's behind me in two or three minutes.
It was, I discovered to my utter horror, dustbin day and the Refuge Collection Operatives (grubby men in fluorescent jackets) were out in force.
Canton, I feared, would be no better.
Anyway, the eight mile journey - twenty minutes on a good day - robbed me of fifty-five minutes of my life.
After I had completed my call, I headed home again but by this time Cardiff's drivers were out in force and were all desperately trying to get to work on time.
I left my client at a little before 08.30 and managed to pull into my driveway at 09.35.
Cars, buses, trucks and cyclists are a pain and I complain (justly) about them far too often but it occurred to me this morning that there is another area of complaint well worth mentioning.
They ignore the pedestrian signals and just keep on crossing the roads with a 'What the hell! They're doing it' attitude.
And there is always ... always ... a granny at the back of them who ties to walk across with them. But, when granny realises that she has been left behind and is alone in front of a hoard of pi$$ed off drivers, she tries to break into a jog, somehow contriving to become even slower in the process.
And it's a safe bet that once she's started doing her impersonation of Usain Bolt, she will drop something and spend another couple of minutes doing the 'old person' squat (whilst groaning about her poor old back) and try to pick it again.
It can be an excruciatingly painful thing to watch, but no one ever leaves their car to assist lest they themselves fall under the hateful glare (and a few choice words) of their fellow motorists.
There you have it.
A completely unimportant semi-rant about road users and pedestrians.
Reading this may not have been your cup of tea, but writing it has certainly taken the edge of my lust for blood and the doing of physical harm to my fellow man!
I'm sure though that after today's vehicular experience that I am only one of many that have taken to the Bloggi-verse in order to vent off steam.
I have to go back to work in twenty minutes.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
It only occurs when all your bags and boxes are packed and the removal men (if you aren't doing it yourself) are about to take the furniture out to the truck.
You do a final check to ensure everything is secure and then you find the one item that is always left in a drawer. Something you can't remember buying or, if you did, certainly never left in that drawer.
Yes ... as someone who has a multitude of house moves behind me ... I know that when all is ready to go, this item will be found.
I refer, of course, to the paper-clip!
It's ALWAYS there!
I dare ya!
Monday, 15 November 2010
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Many years ago a friend of mine served in the Second Gulf War. He was a gunner in a tank in the Iraqi desert. He told me this story and said that he will have nightmares about it as long as he lives.
A smoke-screen had been laid and he and his colleagues were ordered to advance to a point of contact.
They did so, but before contact with the enemy was made, they were halted and told to hold their position.
All tanks bar one stopped.
The tank that didn't stop realised their mistake and reversed in order to take up position with the other vehicles.
One of the other tanks glimpsed the approaching tank through the smoke and, anticipating an enemy assault, fired an AT (anti tank) round, hitting and disabling the target.
Men were killed but all of the crews were jubilant as they thought they had made their first 'kill' of the war.
When the smoke lifted they were shocked and stunned to see one of their own Challenger tanks, a smoking wreck, before them.
That kind of incident is known very inappropriately as 'friendly fire'.
I was reminded of the above story as today, as many of you will know, is Remembrance Sunday1 and, as an ex-soldier, I have had friends and colleagues that did not return from service in N.I. and the Falklands so I have been wearing my poppy with pride in memory of them and others that gave their lives in conflicts around the world.
I didn't mean to bore anyone but today, as far as I am concerned, is a very important day.
1 is held on the second Sunday in November, the Sunday nearest to 11 November (Armistice Day), which is the anniversary of the end of the hostilities of the First World War at 11 a.m. in 1918, to commemorate the contribution of British and Commonwealth military and civilian servicemen and women in the two World Wars and later conflicts
Friday, 12 November 2010
But you know what?
I can't really be bothered!
For the last seven days I've been out of the house by 6.30 am and worked hard all day for the traditional wage of Platyrrhine and Cercopithecidae* the world over.
In the evenings (with Julie) I've been decorating!
I am now officially very tired and not in the mood to blog so here's a silly joke for you all instead ...
Animal rights campaigners protested against American forces deploying defenceless sheep onto the battle field. The protest ended peacefully after it was revealed that the sheep wouldn't be defenceless at all ... they would be armed with Maaaaaaaaaaa-chine guns!!!
(from Robert, a client)
* Which means I work for PEANUTS because ....
Platyrrhine = Old World Monkeys (Africa and Asia: falling in the super-family Cercopithecoidea in the clade Catarrhini)
Cercopithecidae = New World Monkeys (Central and South America: Callitrichidae, Cebidae, Aotidae, Pitheciidae, and Atelidae)
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
But did anyone recall what song was played in the background as he left The Rovers Return?
Well I'll tell you...
It was Bill Tarmey, aka Jack Duckworth, singing his version of Wind Beneath My Wings.
Just thought it was worth a mention.
I think it was a very nice gesture of the 'Corrie' production team to mark the 31 years of Bill playing 'Jack'.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
In 1605, after Catesby's attempts to secure greater religious tolerance under the rule of King James, he and his co-conspirators (John Wright, Thomas Wintour, Thomas Percy, Guido (Guy) Fawkes, Robert Keyes, Thomas Bates, Robert Wintour, Christopher Wright, John Grant,Sir Ambrose Rookwood, Sir Everard Digby and Francis Tresham) embarked on a different scheme in which they would replace the King with his 9 year old daughter, princess Elizabeth, by blowing up Parliament, thus killing the King.
As with all good plots ... they were snitched on!
On the 26 October 1605, William Parker, 4th Baron Monteagle, received and anonymous letter detailing the plans of what we now know as 'The Gunpowder Plot'.
On the 4th of November, a search of parliament revealed one Guido (Guy) Fawkes babysitting enough gunpowder (36 barrels) not only to blow up Parliament, but also a great chunk of surrounding London.
Arrests were made.
There was a shoot-out.
Catesby and others were killed.
But Fawkes and seven other men went to trial and were found guilty on the 27 January 1606.
They were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.
Over the years, this plot and it's failure were commemorated in various way, including the ringing of bells, religious services and public gatherings and events.
This has evolved into the bonfire and fireworks spectacle that we now know as Guy Fawkes Night, even though Fawkes was not the ringleader and was just a 'man for hire'.
But somehow Sir Robert Catesby Night doesn't have the same ring to it.
Really though, it should be called 'cruelty to animals night', 'night of the thick idiots parties' or just plain old 'waste of money night'.
Take your pick out of that lot and call it what you like.
Saturday, 6 November 2010
I love my pups and I take them out every day, whatever Mother Nature throws at us.
Recently though, dog walking has been very much an 'under water' event, requiring waterproofs and wellingtons.
Of course I'm no stranger to adverse weather and my dogs ... well, to be blunt ... they couldn't give a hoot! They just love being out.
But yesterday ... oh dear, oh dear ... I made a amateurish mistake.
I had the right outfit ...
Waterproof hat ... check
Waterproof jacket ... check
Waterproof trousers ... check
Wellingtons ... check
... but I tucked my waterproof trousers into my wellingtons ... where rainwater collected in the folds at the point they entered my boots!!!
Half way around the park the folds, having collected a significant amount of water, moved allowing rainwater to gush into my boots.
I squelched my way around the park with cold, wet feet and, for some reason it never occurred to me to pull my trousers out of my boots, so the rain kept on running down my legs.
At the end of the walk I had enough water in my wellingtons to make at least two cups of tea.
Anyone fancy a cuppa?
I have spent a lot of my time writing about my past; of things I did when I still had hair and of days when my stomach, if not a ‘six’, could at least have been mistaken for a two-pack and of the innocent days of my criminal childhood.
But it occurs to me that at the current rate of collaboration between my brain and fingers, it will be thirty years or more before you find out what I actually did today!
My mind needs time to process things.
There will probably be a need for some posthumous work in order for you to catch up, but I shall do my best.
Don’t go anywhere, will you!
Friday, 5 November 2010
I think each and every one of us has at sometime in our lives imagined ourselves as a ‘Joe-public’ kind of hero that just happens to save that special person that you’ve always been too shy to talk to from a fate worse than death or you did a ‘Willis’ or a ‘Snipes’ and saved people from terrorists.
I’m no different, although my last last ‘save the day’ fantasy must have been when I was in my mid teens, and it was induced by the then girl of my dreams who, as is usually the case, didn’t know I existed.
We were still in school and she was dating a scumbag who’s hobby was waiting for kids outside the school gates to either beat them up or humiliate them.
Let’s call the girl Maggie to save her blushes should she ever read this.
Scumbag, my nemesis, was Tom Harmon (name changed because he’s still out there)! He would take great pleasure in giving me a hiding, and he did so on numerous occasions.
It was on the day of one such beating that I had this little fantasy of standing up to him and kicking his arse for a change and in doing so, winning the heart of Maggie.
This fantasy persisted for days, nay, weeks.
But I was stupid and one day, which I still regret, I opened my big mouth and mentioned it to my soon to be EX best friend, Brian.
Within the hour, Brian had blabbed. Within two, fingers were pointed and giggles were heard. Within three, I was quaking in front of a pretty arrogant, cocky and angry Tom.
Five minutes later, I had a bloody nose, a black eye and some very sore ribs.
But let me tell you folks, I didn’t go down without a fight!
In fact I didn’t even go down!
After he’d already punched me two or three times, he began to whimper like a baby. He’d broken two fingers in his right hand on my thick skull.
So I kicked him right in the family planning department and as he folded up I kneed him in the side of the head.
This was too good to be true so, in the spirit of a true coward, I proceeded to kick and punch seven bells out of him … until Mr. Phillips (Geography and Chemistry) pulled me off and ordered my to the Headmasters study.
I think I received, as was the norm in those days, ten blows from Mr. Bell’s (Headmaster) cane and about a weeks worth of detention, but it was worth it.
I was never bothered by Tom again ….
…. and Maggie?
Well, she hated my guts for beating up her boyfriend.
You can’t win ‘em all, eh?
By the way ... Happy Birthday Denise (my sis). 102 today!
Thursday, 4 November 2010
This is an extract from "Yes, Prime Minister" which was aired in the 80's
Hacker: Don't tell me about the press. I know exactly who reads the papers:
- The Daily Mirror is read by people who think they run the country;
- The Guardian is read by people who think they ought to run the country;
- The Times is read by the people who actually do run the country;
- The Daily Mail is read by the wives of the people who run the country;
- The Financial Times is read by people who own the country;
- The Morning Star is read by people who think the country ought to be run by another country;
- And The Daily Telegraph is read by people who think it is.
For a while I was a little confused as I realised that what was written on the paper was somehow familiar, but I couldn't for the life of me works out why.
I read it - Oooooo! - maybe three or more times, trying to sift through that mental cesspit of my mind for some form of recollection that would help me to put a label on this text and solve the problem.
I was so absorbed in dredging through my memory that I failed to notice that at the bottom of the page was a tell-tale clue, which would have instantly put my curiosity into neutral and answered the question I was asking;
"Why is this text so familiar?"
The 'Barista', who was passing, was quickly asked if he knew the origins of the text in front of me.
He said that he had no idea where it came from but ... at this point he indicated with a finger the tell-tale clue ... it could have come from there.
The 'clue', which I missed entirely, was ....
Yes folks. It was one of mine and I totally failed to recognise it.
This is the article:
Unusually cruel literature
After rising this morning like a rather small, and less bright sun I realised, as I performed my pandiculation, that although I could (as indeed all men could) be accused of colposinquanonia and ximelolagnia, that I am not a bad person at heart.
Being adept in the art of adoxography and also a self confessed autolatrist, I am prone to producing the occaisional article which, to many, may seem somewhat borborygmus-like and from time to time include charientism's which could cause offence.
To those offended by my offerings, I can assure you they are merely witzelsucht and not intended to upset anyone ... not even the steatopygic and abecedarian amongst you ... and I would like to offer my sincere apologies.
Get those dictionaries open.
For those of you without dictionaries.
Pandiculation: The act of stretching and yawning.
Colposinquanonia: Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest.
Ximelolagnia: the urge to stare at women who are sitting with crossed legs.
Adoxography: fine writing on trivial or base subject.
Autolatrist: someone who worships him/herself'
Borborygmus: Bowel sounds, the gurgling, rumbling, or growling noise from the abdomen.
charientism: A figure of speech wherein a taunting expression is softened by a jest; an insult veiled in grace.
Witzelsucht: A tendency to pun, make poor jokes, and tell pointless stories, while being oneself inordinately entertained thereby.
Steatopygic: Having an extreme accumulation of fat on the buttocks.
Abecedarian: a person who is learning the alphabet or the rudiments of a subject.
I have to admit that I felt really stupid for for not recognising my own article but, at the same time, I felt rather proud of myself for having an article on display, even if it was only on a cafe's notice board.
When I pointed out that I was the author of that little piece, I was not mobbed by people asking for my autograph, nor was I in anyway congratulated for my skill's.
The response of the 'Barista' was a simple shrug of the shoulders and curt comment which I believe included a reference to excrement.
With that remark, the wave of fame on which I was ever so briefly surfing, crashed onto the shingle and returned me to nonentity-ship with a bump.
Does a notice board count as having been published?