I awoke a little grumpily this morning.
In part this was due to sleep deprivation - the weather here in the north west of England has been uncommonly hot the last couple of days. Now, I am (unusually) not complaining but the evenings have been very warm and muggy. Despite dispensing with duvets and despite opening windows, the last two nights sleep have been brief and fretful. Mind you, the rather dramatic thunder and lightening at 03.40 this morning didn't help.
That said, the return of Bill Turnbull to the BBC Breakfast News Sofa alongside foxy Sian Williams helped my mood not at all. Why can't he just retire gracefully? In a kind of smarmy, fey, quite camp and irritating kind of grace that is.
Bill's return coincided with the Parliamentary Recess to deliver yet another morning session bereft of meaningful news stories. Again, it is official, absolutely nothing of any importance is going on, absolutely anywhere on this planet of ours, or the surrounding universes (unless you believe all the recent white noise about aliens living amongst us and UFOs and conspiracy theories and the like).
Instead, the whole morning was filled with tales of gingerbread men in the shape of Christiano Ronaldo, and a seemingly blatant advertisement for a male cosmetic firm trying to convince us that we hot-blooded men should be wearing eyeliner and mascara (or Guyliner and Manscara as it is wittingly branded). Of course, the "I'm not at all camp" Bill was all too reluctantly willing to try this out!
There was also the non-story about Carol Kirkwood, the must-have morning crumpet of choice for middle aged men (whose attention turns to Carol Vorderman in the afternoon and the female presenters of The One Show in the evening), not camping in Burnham-on-Sea. Despite looking pretty windswept, the supposed "joke" was that Carol actually stayed in a luxury chalet rather than under canvas.
Nevertheless, Carol found time to feed those sexual fantasies with tales of her time in the girl guides. I suspect that she still has a uniform. A very tight-fitting uniform. Also, it provided an opportunity for Carol to flirt with her "Billy" as she calls him and for banter implying that Carol and Chris Mullin, the sports presenter with whom Carol spent Ascot week and Wimbledon with, knew rather too much about each other - Chris implied that Carol snored and Carol implied that Chris had sweaty feet!
And, the visit to Burnham-on-Sea, conjured up images of past relationships/holidays which I would rather regret. Burnham is probably the closest seaside resort to the city of Birmingham. It is, therefore, also full of Brummies. And, when I was just 17 years old, this is where I went on holiday with my first serious girlfriend, Melissa, and her family. When I say "serious" she was the first girl that let me get further than base one - and, in case my mom is reading I am not admitting which base I got to, but........
I slept in the awning with the family dog, while Melissa slept in the caravan with her mom, dad and younger sister. Thankfully her two scary brothers - one a night club bouncer and the other a convicted GBHer - didn't join us.
It was not the most enjoyable holiday experience that I had. In fact it was right up there with the twin centre holiday to Sorrento and Rome when I got ditched by my fiancee, who subsequently admitted to having an affair with a married man with three children. This is what Bill Turnbill does to me, the swine. All this emotional turmoil just comes flooding back. And, Burnham is a dump.
Please BBC. Kill Bill.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Stab In The Dark
All the news is depressing at the moment. Mind you, you wouldn't think that we are busy fighting two major wars at the moment - Iraq and Afghanistan hardly get any coverage. They do not seem to be as important as Traffic Cameras in Swindon and holiday jobs for students! But, every news bulletin seems to include a piece on the imminent recession and the fact that we are all likely to be found dead on our doorsteps, murdered by some knife-wielding, maniacal twelve year old.
As I write, my friend Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, is busily backing down and performing u-turns and somersaults on the subject of knife crime initiatives. And there is much talk about extending the right to search of teachers to include searching for weapons, drugs, and alcohol. What has the world come to? In my day we would have jumped to comply with an "Empty your pockets, boy!" bellow from a domineering teacher. Mind you, in my day, all you were likely to find in a teenage boy's school trouser pockets were a snot-soaked hankie, a comb (metal ones with a sharp handle could be considered a weapon!), a pack of Top Trumps Cards, and illicit sweets or chewing gum (both of which were banned inside of school). And, of course, cigarettes. Cigarettes were schoolboy currency. You "collected" cigarettes even if you did not smoke yourself.
That is not to say that the problems with teenage kids so evident today did not exist twenty or thirty years ago. Kids smoked - the local shops around my school would sell cigarettes in singles to make them more affordable. Kids drank - not out of bottles of cheap cider on street corners, but, in pubs with a relaxed attitude to underage drinking (as long as you took your school blazer and tie off you were in). Kids had sex. Kids stole. Kids fought. And, kids carried knives. While I choose not to implicate myself in any of these various crimes and misdemeanours - my dad reads these posts, occasionally. I was personally impacted by schoolboy knife crime back in 1983 when a 13 year old bully was stabbed through the heart by a 12 year old victim and died in my arms. See my earlier post.
Indeed, I understand that 80% of kids who carry knives do so out of a belief that they need to defend themselves. A belief driven by a fear of bullying, mugging and gangs. Well, I hope my personal experience shows the foolishness of carrying a knife to deter a bully. From victim to killer in a single motion.
In reality, only 16% of kids admit to carrying a knife because of an involvement in criminal activity such as mugging and gang-related crime.
But, some of the initiatives that the Government and others are touting around to tackle the problem are just non-starters. Parenting classes? Many of these kids are born into single-parent families to pramface mothers who have dropped out of education. Jail? We would have to scrap all greenbelt initiatives to build all of the jails that would be needed. Awareness? Do we really think that these kids are going to be deterred by meeting convicts and victims? These are kids that are largely excluded from "adult" or "normal" society. They have few positive role models (unless you include Jeremy Kyle - which I do not). They do not read newspapers or watch the news. They live a You Tube, Facebook or Bebo existence. They live on street corners and in bus shelters. They have welcomed our politically correct world and become mini-lawyers aware of their rights (but seemingly not their wrongs).
So what can be done? Well I am all in favour of Alf Hitchcock's (the so-called Knife Tsar) for a form of National Service. Schools should be able to ban and confiscate those things which may encourage muggings such as mobile phones, MP3s, and designer goods. Schools should revert to strict school uniform rules which would eliminate gang paraphernalia. Parents and teachers should be able to use reasonable punishment to clamp down on bad behaviour, including the cane or a slap round the back of the legs. Put metal detectors on school doors and into the hands of the police. For those that get caught carrying knives, give them hard community service - cleaning the streets and sewers and the like. Lock up those that use the weapon. Remove the privileges and benefits for the families of repeat offenders - take their council house, housing benefit and unemployment benefit away until they and their offspring comply with a strict social contract.
Take away temptation, impose real and meaningful deterrents and punishment. And, make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister.........
As I write, my friend Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, is busily backing down and performing u-turns and somersaults on the subject of knife crime initiatives. And there is much talk about extending the right to search of teachers to include searching for weapons, drugs, and alcohol. What has the world come to? In my day we would have jumped to comply with an "Empty your pockets, boy!" bellow from a domineering teacher. Mind you, in my day, all you were likely to find in a teenage boy's school trouser pockets were a snot-soaked hankie, a comb (metal ones with a sharp handle could be considered a weapon!), a pack of Top Trumps Cards, and illicit sweets or chewing gum (both of which were banned inside of school). And, of course, cigarettes. Cigarettes were schoolboy currency. You "collected" cigarettes even if you did not smoke yourself.
That is not to say that the problems with teenage kids so evident today did not exist twenty or thirty years ago. Kids smoked - the local shops around my school would sell cigarettes in singles to make them more affordable. Kids drank - not out of bottles of cheap cider on street corners, but, in pubs with a relaxed attitude to underage drinking (as long as you took your school blazer and tie off you were in). Kids had sex. Kids stole. Kids fought. And, kids carried knives. While I choose not to implicate myself in any of these various crimes and misdemeanours - my dad reads these posts, occasionally. I was personally impacted by schoolboy knife crime back in 1983 when a 13 year old bully was stabbed through the heart by a 12 year old victim and died in my arms. See my earlier post.
Indeed, I understand that 80% of kids who carry knives do so out of a belief that they need to defend themselves. A belief driven by a fear of bullying, mugging and gangs. Well, I hope my personal experience shows the foolishness of carrying a knife to deter a bully. From victim to killer in a single motion.
In reality, only 16% of kids admit to carrying a knife because of an involvement in criminal activity such as mugging and gang-related crime.
But, some of the initiatives that the Government and others are touting around to tackle the problem are just non-starters. Parenting classes? Many of these kids are born into single-parent families to pramface mothers who have dropped out of education. Jail? We would have to scrap all greenbelt initiatives to build all of the jails that would be needed. Awareness? Do we really think that these kids are going to be deterred by meeting convicts and victims? These are kids that are largely excluded from "adult" or "normal" society. They have few positive role models (unless you include Jeremy Kyle - which I do not). They do not read newspapers or watch the news. They live a You Tube, Facebook or Bebo existence. They live on street corners and in bus shelters. They have welcomed our politically correct world and become mini-lawyers aware of their rights (but seemingly not their wrongs).
So what can be done? Well I am all in favour of Alf Hitchcock's (the so-called Knife Tsar) for a form of National Service. Schools should be able to ban and confiscate those things which may encourage muggings such as mobile phones, MP3s, and designer goods. Schools should revert to strict school uniform rules which would eliminate gang paraphernalia. Parents and teachers should be able to use reasonable punishment to clamp down on bad behaviour, including the cane or a slap round the back of the legs. Put metal detectors on school doors and into the hands of the police. For those that get caught carrying knives, give them hard community service - cleaning the streets and sewers and the like. Lock up those that use the weapon. Remove the privileges and benefits for the families of repeat offenders - take their council house, housing benefit and unemployment benefit away until they and their offspring comply with a strict social contract.
Take away temptation, impose real and meaningful deterrents and punishment. And, make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister.........
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Travel Is Fun
Don’t you just hate travelling on business at this time of year? Especially flying. This week I had to fly from Manchester to Amsterdam. As ever at this time of year the great unwashed are allowing their kids to bunk off school in order to take advantage of cheap flights and holidays to places like Spain, Turkey, and various other all-inclusive destinations strewn with British Bars (or Irish Pubs at the better places), advertising “English Breakfast”, “Sunday lunch with real Yorkshire pudding”, “karaoke”, “Sky Sports” and “Happy Hour”. You can spot people on the flight for Bodrum a mile off. Blackpool abroad. Morecambe in the sun.
Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. Their bellies hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter.
There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.
Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol.
Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.”
The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.
Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.
Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. Their bellies hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter.
There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.
Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol.
Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.”
The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.
Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Sting in the Tale
It's a pun. If not very punny.....
On Tuesday evening this week I took C to see The Police in concert at the Manchester Evening News Arena. This would not have been my first choice for a concert, but it was a birthday wish for C, a life long Police fan who had, unfortunately, managed to avoid seeing them live in their hay days of the 70s and 80s. And she fancies Sting. She fancies Sting big time.
As it happens, the concert was 8 months late. It had been postponed on the original date because Sting had a sore throat. Bless. This added to my general dislike of the guy, putting him firmly in the camp of wuss/big girl's blouse. This, being just one of the labels that I have tagged onto Mr Gordon Sumner - "Destroyer of the Planet" (we could not visit the amphitheatre at Ephesus in Turkey because it had been deemed unsafe due to the cracks allegedly caused by the Sting concert there, ironically as part of his "Save the Planet Tour" with that indian guy with the big lips) and "Pillock", for being oh so up himself with his bloody medieval lute playing palaver......
Actually, I think I just dislike the guy because C (and millions of other fanciable women who should only have eyes for yours truly) fancies him. Indeed, we have a clause in our wedding contract that allows C to leave me, with no hard feelings, (and no alimony) should she and Sting get it together. So Tuesday was quite a high risk event for me personally. I have a reciprocal clause, however, which allows me to leave in the much more likely event that I get it on with Kylie Minogue. Sex on a stick. And, I have come so close already. Well, I almost got her telephone number. Almost.....
It was beginning to feel like fate was about to deal a strange card when I noticed that the sex kitten herself was coming to the MEN in July. I hadn't booked tickets (her vocal capabilities are not exactly what attracts me to her) but I did think that it would be a useful fall back position should the evening not go so well and I was forced to leave C with the Sting.
And so, we set off for Manchester fairly early in order to secure a parking place at the venue. Sat Nav delivered us to the very (barriered) steps of the Arena, and I then had to resort to "the Force" (it was not with me) and the scarce brown tourist signs to find the entrance to the car park. Unfortunately this meant that we were some 10 minutes or so later and we ended up on the 7th floor.
After a quick cigarette outside - I think C was just "hanging" in case Sting walked past - we joined the queue and soon found ourselves on the inside. C went to the loo while I ordered two pints of watered lager in plastic glasses. Consumption of the lager prompted a second toilet visit for C before we took our seats (which were excellent) and waited for the support act. We waited and we waited and we waited. They were 45 minutes late.
But, the delay did not cause our spirits to flag. We people watched. We actually felt very young and fashionable compared with our fellow concert goers, many of whom were stuck in 1979 or so. We also wondered why so many people felt it necessary to wear sunglasses indoors. If nothing else, it must be a health and safety issue on the steep stairs. We also mocked the rather too many people who were picking up leaflets for the 50th Anniversary Cliff Richard Time Mchine Tour. Well, at least when he's in Manchester he is not troubling small boys in South Africa ;)
We were pleased to note that the support act was not in fact Sting's son's band as it had been scheduled to be back in October. The support group was very good. While I did, tentatively, identify them as Starsailor, it was clear that their identity was lost on most of the middle-agers in the. At least my "hip" and "cool" credentials were intact. I am positively "down" with them "man".
And, I have to say that The Police were, well, awesome. Sting is a much better vocalist than I had imagined.....and looks far too good for his age, the git. Actually, I have to say that he seems to have gone for a very striking bearded look not unlike my own! If you forgive his sweaty armpits and the rather too many twiddly guitar solos from Andy Summers, it was very, very good indeed.
After several encores we left rather later than expected. As all the eateries were closed, we returned to the car and joined the long queue to exit the car park It took about 45 minutes or so and by the time we exited the Sat Nav was very, very confused.....
Sorry Kylie, maybe next time.
Thursday, 29 May 2008
I Can't Afford It!
I am depressed. I woke up this morning to the news that the UK housing market is in free-fall. Apparently our houses have lost 2.5% of their value in just the last month alone, being the seventh month in succession that house prices have fallen. So, I've just had more value knocked off the house than I spent on the new kitchen and bathroom. Great. Just great.
And, of course, this all happens at a time when the oil price is going mad. It is SO bad that I am actually in two minds as to whether I can afford to go to work. Seriously. I have a fifty mile commute. That's four hundred miles in a week (I work from homes on a Friday). And with the cost of Super Unleaded at something like £122 a litre and a fuel performance of around 20 mpg or so......
I know I could get a more fuel efficient car than an Audi TT but I do have an image to think about. And, there have to be some perks to all my hard work over the years! Now don't all you planet huggers and eco-terrorists start on me when I'm feeling down. And, no, public transport is not an option. I live in rural Cheshire (the bit with the M6 motorway going through the middle of it) and the nearest bus service is a good two and a half miles away. The bus only runs on a Tuesday. And, it doesn't go anywhere that I would want to.
Added to that, another joy of living the rural dream is that I now have to worry about the threat of someone breaking into my home heating oil tank and syphoning it all off. The cost of home heating oil (kerosene) has almost doubled in the last twelve months and it seems to have sparked a min-crime wave. We are not connected to the gas mains so we have no choice but to use oil. So, I can't afford to go to work and I can't afford to heat my water or my home!
So, we are economising. Economising mostly involves sacking ("letting go" was the term that C used) our gardener. The efficient and reliable guy who has mown our two expansive lawns and trimmed our hedges. Instead, this has become my job. So, a new petrol powered lawnmower (more bloody fuel cost) has been purchased and two hours or so of my life every other week or so will be given up to putting fresh stripes on the garden. But, do not fear, this is not the first sign of us becoming self-sufficient. Many of you will know of previous failed bids at achieving the Good Life. But we'll not be going there.......or will we?
Indeed, we may well have to turn the side garden over to vegetables. Either that or try and sell it to the government as a site for one of their new nuclear power stations....
I can't afford to drive. I can't afford to pay someone to cut the lawn (please God don't let the window cleaner put his prices up!). I can't afford hot water or heating. And, it is becoming increasingly hard to afford to eat. Sure, rice, bread, and pasta costs seem to have also rocketed around the world. While the good old potato is being touted as the planet's saviour, I am not allowed to eat them because of my summer diet. "We" are concerned about our bikini figure. And, thanks to bloody Jamie and Hugh I am now so emotionally scarred that I can only eat organic free range chicken from the Dali Lama's personal petting farm, at the cost of an arm and a leg. If it wasn't for Waitrose's wine offers we'd be destitute.....
So it looks as if I have to sell the car, give up work, buy a shotgun with which to guard the oil tank, wrap myself in a Waitrose Bag for Life just to keep warm, and dig for England. It's probably no bad thing. If you believe the other news headlining today, if I ever did step outside the front door I'd probably be attacked by a ten year old knife wielding crack addict! Always look on the bright side, eh?
And, of course, this all happens at a time when the oil price is going mad. It is SO bad that I am actually in two minds as to whether I can afford to go to work. Seriously. I have a fifty mile commute. That's four hundred miles in a week (I work from homes on a Friday). And with the cost of Super Unleaded at something like £122 a litre and a fuel performance of around 20 mpg or so......
I know I could get a more fuel efficient car than an Audi TT but I do have an image to think about. And, there have to be some perks to all my hard work over the years! Now don't all you planet huggers and eco-terrorists start on me when I'm feeling down. And, no, public transport is not an option. I live in rural Cheshire (the bit with the M6 motorway going through the middle of it) and the nearest bus service is a good two and a half miles away. The bus only runs on a Tuesday. And, it doesn't go anywhere that I would want to.
Added to that, another joy of living the rural dream is that I now have to worry about the threat of someone breaking into my home heating oil tank and syphoning it all off. The cost of home heating oil (kerosene) has almost doubled in the last twelve months and it seems to have sparked a min-crime wave. We are not connected to the gas mains so we have no choice but to use oil. So, I can't afford to go to work and I can't afford to heat my water or my home!
So, we are economising. Economising mostly involves sacking ("letting go" was the term that C used) our gardener. The efficient and reliable guy who has mown our two expansive lawns and trimmed our hedges. Instead, this has become my job. So, a new petrol powered lawnmower (more bloody fuel cost) has been purchased and two hours or so of my life every other week or so will be given up to putting fresh stripes on the garden. But, do not fear, this is not the first sign of us becoming self-sufficient. Many of you will know of previous failed bids at achieving the Good Life. But we'll not be going there.......or will we?
Indeed, we may well have to turn the side garden over to vegetables. Either that or try and sell it to the government as a site for one of their new nuclear power stations....
I can't afford to drive. I can't afford to pay someone to cut the lawn (please God don't let the window cleaner put his prices up!). I can't afford hot water or heating. And, it is becoming increasingly hard to afford to eat. Sure, rice, bread, and pasta costs seem to have also rocketed around the world. While the good old potato is being touted as the planet's saviour, I am not allowed to eat them because of my summer diet. "We" are concerned about our bikini figure. And, thanks to bloody Jamie and Hugh I am now so emotionally scarred that I can only eat organic free range chicken from the Dali Lama's personal petting farm, at the cost of an arm and a leg. If it wasn't for Waitrose's wine offers we'd be destitute.....
So it looks as if I have to sell the car, give up work, buy a shotgun with which to guard the oil tank, wrap myself in a Waitrose Bag for Life just to keep warm, and dig for England. It's probably no bad thing. If you believe the other news headlining today, if I ever did step outside the front door I'd probably be attacked by a ten year old knife wielding crack addict! Always look on the bright side, eh?
What Does An Eye Taste Like?
I don't have to watch the BBC Breakfast News to know who is doing the weather reports or which poor female reporter has got the bum seat on the big red sofa next to that smarmy, chinless, waste of space which is Bill Turnbull. No, these days I can pretty much guess who is on by checking out my blog's dashboard. Checking out the search engine terms that found my blog. So, today, my guess is that Louise Lear will be huddled under an umbrella in the Blue Peter Garden or somewhere, sporting one of her brightly coloured, tailored raincoats, while Louise Minchin has the unenviable tasks of bringing a semblance of dignity and professionalism to the news reports despite the best efforts of that poodle Turnbull to sabotage things with his ridiculous quips, died hair and plucked eyebrows.
I like to think of my dashboard as a bit of a barometer on the state of the world. So, what do you make of today's top ten? The ten top search engine terms which found my blog so far this morning are as follows:
1) Louise Lear
2) Kylie Minogue legs
3) "Louise Minchin"
4) Neighbours constant loud music
5) Neighbours from hell
6) Air France leg room
7) Sally James school uniform
8.) What does an eye taste like?
9) Female prefect caned
10) Cat Deeley topless
So, what do we make of all that? I can only assume that my blog is mostly visited by men of a certain age. Well, men of my age I would guess. That would no doubt explain the strange fantasies about the stars of Breakfast TV, Saturday morning childrens' TV presenters from across the ages, and Kylie of course. That said, I am not sure that her legs are Kylie's best features, and, you would need a magnifying glass to find Cat's prize assets. And, quite why "Louise Minchin" always appears within quotation marks I do not know. "Minchin" isn't a verb to do with sexual activity is it? Is it something humourous like Muffin the Mule?
I can emphasise and sympathise with those poor souls whose existance is blighted by a troublesome neighbour. I have been there. I have got that t-shirt. But, I am a little bemused as to what people were expecting to find in their quest for corporal punishment from a schoolgirl dominatrix? They will be sadly disappointed, underwhelmed, and, in need of a cold shower when they discover the not so rich pickings in Middleman's blogosphere........Why would anyone want to know what an eye would taste like? I can only assume that the answer to that is "It doesn't taste like chicken!"
I guess it is just another to add to the long list of life's unanswered questions. Why does toast always fall buttered side down? Why does asparagus make your wee smell like that? Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing? How come Bill Turnbull is still employed? And, apparently, what is Louise Minchin's cup size?
Answers on a postcard please.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Brothers-In-Law In a Double Bed
Well, I had one of my thankfully infrequent "sleep talking" incidents again last night. While I am often prone to making the odd noise or crying out in my sleep, actually talking in my sleep or holding a conversation is less common. But, last night my better half was woken by me talking. When she endeavoured to get me to go to the spare room I replied along the lines of "But we haven't got there yet!" When she tried yet again I retorted, apparently having checked the time on the bedside clock, "But we still have five hours to get there!" Then I went and slept, somewhat furtively, in the spare room.
I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads' Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my "sleep talking" was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend - six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.
Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn't get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.
In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group - shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch - and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.
Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth's owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.
Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.
Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn't fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o'clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.
I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated "you Lads must be either divers or fishermen". Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads' Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did, there was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.
Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn't been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee "but not too strong!"
Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn't told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.
In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn't this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.
Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.
I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads' Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my "sleep talking" was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend - six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.
Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn't get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.
In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group - shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch - and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.
Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth's owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.
Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.
Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn't fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o'clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.
I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated "you Lads must be either divers or fishermen". Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads' Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did, there was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.
Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn't been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee "but not too strong!"
Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn't told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.
In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn't this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.
Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.
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