Amateur Senility and the MIssing Giggles

There are days when my sense of humour takes unauthorised leave of absence.

Today is one of those days!

Normally I have a stern yet pleasant and personable demeanour. My childish sense of humour is my armour, as it were, which a) prevents my stern side from making me appear too grumpy and b) prevents me from falling into a state of despair caused by ... well, everything, I suppose.

All those that have experienced my humour, or attempts thereof, tend to agree that I seem to be someone suffering from advanced form of amateur senility.

I admit that I have been known to burst into laughter at the merest hint that someone is about to collide with a glass door and I have also been known to collapse in a fit of giggles when someone takes a tumble.

But I can't help it!

Schadenfreude happens to be one of my best friends!

I have been known to suffer sudden attacks of Spoonerism's which I then spray liberally, like a Capone-era gangster with a Tommy-gun, at anyone close enough to fall prey and delight in their responses. It's somewhat less fun when the jiggled sentences pass over their heads unheeded and they respond without any reaction.

Today, however, I feel somewhat deflated; lacking the energy needed to even raise a smile.

The only explanation for my humour failure ... the only one that springs to mind, anyway ... is that today, after just over a week's holiday, I had to return to work!

Don't fret on my behalf though. I'm sure all will be well again tomorrow.

If it isn't then I shall pretend!

I don't want do bring anyone else down, now do I?

Dream Hard!

Last night I dreamt that I was in America; New York, to be precise.

Tom Selleck was  driving the taxi that took me from the airport to my hotel and was telling me about his chequered past.

I used to be the police commissioner ya know! And if ya ever need a private eye, I'm your man!

His yellow cab dropped me off in the middle of the hotel's lobby then drove off though a wall towards the bar.

At the check-in desk Chico Marx said "Itsa dollar a room. Here's da key"

"I only have ten dollars. Do you have change?" I said.

"Itsa no good! I gotta no change. I gotta give you a nine more rooms!"

I took my keys and headed to the lift.

Honk, honk!

"Hello!"

Honk?

"Oh, sorry. 4th floor please."

Honk. Honk, honk, honk?

"No, I won't be staying long. I'm only dreaming."

The other man in the lift said "Fourth floor, eh? You can leave in a taxi. If you can't get a taxi, you can leave in a huff. If that's too soon, you can leave in a minute and a huff."

The lift doors opened and I stepped out.

"What? No laugh? That was one of my best lines" said the man in the lift as the doors closed again.

As I turned to head towards my room I found Bruce Willis standing in front of me. He was wearing a pink bra, a nurses hat and a grass skirt. Slung over his shoulder was a Heckler and Koch MP5.

"You're late" he said handing me a 9mm Baretta semi-automatic pistol. "Take this and shoot the English guy with the German accent!"

"I'm English" I said.

"Oooooooooooh Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" he yelled. Grabbing a fire extinguisher he ran to the nearest window and jumped though it.

As he fell I could hear him screaming "The fire hose! I shoulda grabbed the damned fire hose!"

I woke up.

I was under enormous bladder pressure.

A quick look at the clock revealed that it as only just after 4 am.

But it was too cold to get up and go to the loo.

I turned over and pulled the quilt just a little tighter,

"Itsa you! You come a back! Y'know, this a pretty lonely place widdoutchew" said Chico.

"You can say that again" added Groucho.

"Y'know, this a pretty lonely place widdoutchew" Chico repeated.

Honk, honk!

Dem's Ma Feets!

My feet watching TV

Pink, Fluffy Treacle

You just can't work without your brain.

Apparently it's very important.

It helps you avoid having to ask embarrassing questions such as 'Where am I?' and more importantly, 'Where are my trousers?', when you awake in the morning ... or more likely, the afternoon ... after a good night out!

We've all been there, haven't we?  I know I have ... in my dark and distant past, that is.

You wake up in the morning (insert time of your choosing) and the synapse's, seemingly coated with pink fluffy, yet treacle like substance, bicker and argue as to which of them is responsible for accessing that fragment of memory that will fill in all the blanks of the previous evenings events.

Shame contorts the face with each and every recollection.

The traffic cone, for instance. Did it really fit into such a small hole? How on earth did I manage to walk home afterwards?

I remember ... although considering the amount of alcohol involved, perhaps I shouldn't ... when I was 19.  It was just a few weeks before Christmas, 1978.

It began, so my charge sheet said, with a drinking competition. It didn't say whether I won or not, just that I took part.  Such games usually involves drinking several pints of beer, each followed by a shot of something vile.

Afterwards, my charge sheet continued, there was a fight over a blonde woman with very few teeth. I have no idea who she was but that would explain my bruised ribs, black eye and very, very sore knuckles. My charge sheet clearly stated that I got my head kicked in. The military police appeared to have gloated over this fact as it was written in red ink and underlined several times.

My night ended, and the MP investigation began, with an irate German taxi driver throwing me out of his vomit filled vehicle into a snow covered rose bed outside the barracks main guardroom.

The bastards left me there for 30 minutes!

Anyway, they eventually dragged me in and threw me into a cell and got a doctor to check me over.

From that day on, having had to pay a large fine, damages and cleaning bills, having my Christmas holidays cancelled (after having paid for the flight home already) and 14 days day-on-day-off guard duty, I gave up drinking!

And I haven't drank since ... unless you count a glass of bubbly at New Year or a lager shandy with a meal as real drinking.

Since giving up real  drinking, I only have one regret.

I used to love a glass or two of Jamaican rum.

Now, after so many years of abstinence, the smell of it makes me feel ill.

But, when all is said and done, I do know where I am when I wake up and I never have to ask anyone if they know what happened to my trousers!

Broken Memories

The older I become, the more disjointed and blurred my memories become.
The camera of the minds eye ... zoom in for the present, zoom out for the past ... seems to be failing and those little things; the things that made up my illustrious past, are becoming harder and harder to recall.

I've lost count of how many times I've tried to piece together events that, although unimportant in the great scheme of things, were the building blocks of my life thus far.

Conversations that began with the words "Do you remember when ..." began to frighten me.

And it all started when ...

"Do you remember, in the army, when we were stuck in the middle of the Luneberger Heide in Germany on exercise?" asked Bob.

"Which time?" I enquired. "I've been stuck in a hole there many a time."

"Back when there was that barbed wire fence.  You know the one. When we had that old fashioned motorbike." said Bob.

"Motorbikes scare me" I said. "Only two wheels! That's just asking for trouble. Are you sure it was me?"

"Well, I thought I was until you said that" Bob sighed. "You know, I'm really having trouble piecing together that past. I must be getting old."

Bob sighed again, only longer.

"Aren't we all" I said. "What was your point, anyway? What did you want to tell me?"

"Well," said Bob. "I can't remember, was it me or was it you that tried to jump that motorbike over that barbed wire fence?"

I fell silent.

I had no recollection of either a motorbike or a barbed wire fence. I could barely remember our units exploits in the Heide at all, apart from digging holes to stand in and smaller holes to ... well, lets just say they were very quickly filled in small holes.

We walked on in silence for a while; memories ticking over in an attempt to dredge up the merest recollection of the incident.

After several minutes and good few hundred yards stroll, I said "Hey! Wait a minute. Wasn't that Steve McQueen in The Great Escape that tried to jump a barbed wire fence on a motorbike?"

"Steve McQueen?" asked Bob. "Was he in our unit too?"

I didn't press the point.

Maybe he was a member of our unit ... before he became famous.

Maybe I just couldn't remember.

Stationary

Of  course one of the many benefits of  a mobile device is that you can do so many things whilst on the move.

But blogging?

Those small keys ... those bumps in the road ... the constant need for spelling corrections!

I can tell you that it isn't easy.

That's why I waited until I get into bed before blogging via my very clever,  but not bump proof mobile phone.

I would post a picture as proof but, hey! I sleep in the all together and I don't want to get anyone upset or excited!

Piccy of the Day

Gimme a bikkit!

NOW!

On The Move

I have at last downloaded the Blogger app for my phone.
I will no doubt be boring you with tales of life in and around the Cardiff area ... if I can get used to the keyboard ... and posting the odd picture or two.

Oh bugger!

Battery getting low.

Drama King

Wheels have turned and, as you would expect, things have happened.

Some good ... some bad!

I can report that the road outside my house has, at last, been resurfaced and white lines have been painted at the junctions!

If it hadn't been so cold outside, we would have been tempted to hold an impromptu street party in celebration.

One thing that was celebrated (with a can of lager) was the completion of repair work on our garage roof.
The old roof ... described by the roofers as 'Weetabix' because of the way it crumbled ... was stripped away and new boards were laid on Thursday. On Friday it was sealed with a fibreglass resin which, surprise-surprise, both cats promptly walked through, necessitating some frantic and, for my part, painful paw-cleaning.

On the plus side, it means that the cracked wall can now dry out and be repaired. On the negative side ... it cost me two thousand pounds!

Actually, now that I think of it, they were the only two good things, except that I got paid at the end of the month.

Bad things have also happened.

Some things have pissed me off.

Some have had me fuming.

Others have made me sad.

But I am a roughie-toughie ex-soldier and I have to stand firm in the face of adversity.

I have to be the strong, sensible voice of reason in this difficult time.

I must be a rock of stability in this time of crisis!

Or, as my wife would put it, I have to stop running around like a headless chicken.

Women!

What are they like?

They have no idea how hard it is being a man and even less sense of drama!