It's that time of year again, the office party. It's interesting to reflect on how mine have changed over the years. Two have lead to marriage and one to divorce whilst in between have been all manner of fun times and horror stories.
It's not easy to pick out the best one I can remember, as some have been memorable but I can certainly choose the worst quite easily. I don't drink much nowadays, not particularly through choice but simply because I don't enjoy it the way I used to. The Christmas office party in 1979 started well. We had a good meal, three men and fourteen women. We drank and made merry, flirted and did all the usual things that happen when freedom and alcohol mix. I drank too much, far too much and the alcohol progressed from groin to gob.
When I have had too much to drink I become ridiculously honest and life becomes very simple. A work colleague has B.O.? Difficult when sober to broach the subject but easy when alcohol fuelled. We had a large Jewish woman in the office who was unpleasant 99% of the time. She wore thick glasses, woolly cardigans and capped it all off with an appalling curly wig which I, at first, thought was a hat it was so bad. You could see the lining at the front as it jutted out from under the horse hair.
Late in the evening I found myself sitting next to her. She was being her usual unpleasant snarly self when I decided it was a good idea to try to change her life style for the better. I can still hear myself saying it to her now.
"Blanche, why are always such an obnoxious sod? If you lost two or three stones, got rid of those horrible glasses and bought a decent wig you'd be quite nice looking" I went on after that but what words were exchanged are a blur.
The following day was my last in the office as I had resigned to take a new job in January. I did think of taking the cowards way out and not going in as soon as I remembered what had happened the night before. I couldn't do that. I felt so bad I had to face up and give a heartfelt grovelling apology. I was in the office before her and prepared myself. She boomed in as usual, took off her coat and sat at her desk. I was about to get up when she beat me to it and lumbered down the office to me. I stood up to speak but she raised her hand to stop me. I ignored her and started to apologise. She took no notice and stared at me before saying "You said some awful things to me last night" "I know" I replied "and I am disgusted with myself".
There was a short pause before she looked into my eyes and I saw her tears welling. "You know what was the worst?" she asked. I shook my head, prepared to take my punishment. "Every word you said was true".
She could not have said anything to make me feel worse. I felt humbled and small. I never saw her after that other than when when I left that day and she came over, wished me well and gave me a kiss. She was a much bigger and better person than I am.
Which brings my on to last night. There were about 200 in this marquee, all separate office parties. Our table was actually in front of the stage on the dance floor so we were surrounded once the music started. It was brilliant. Lots of young people, determined to enjoy themselves and we enjoyed being in their company. One, rather lovely girl took a shine to us and kept sitting with us, finally ending up insisting on having her photo taken with one of us. The cynic might say she was taking the piss, but she wasn't. She found us as entertaining as we found her and her friends.
What a shame that the Christmas spirit which crosses generations, soon melts into the harsh realities of another years toil ahead.
Sunday 11 December 2011
Monday 21 November 2011
Nothing in particular
It's a while since I added anything to my blog so I have been racking my brains in the hope that something inspirational would come to the fore and give me something to write about. Alas, nothing has happened that has given me cause to write so I decided I would write about nothing at all. You would think that it should be easy to write about nothing. After all, we spend a great deal of time doing nothing (except the more exciting amongst us who probably spend time thinking about doing something whilst they are doing nothing) but, despite this, I have found it quite difficult to write about nothing.
I thought it might help if I set out a list of nothings to write about and I listed them from 1 to 10. I only got as far as 1 (which became the title of this blog) and then, I ran out of ideas. I did, at this point, wonder if it was possible to walk out of ideas as opposed to running. If you are going to dry up why would you want to hurry there and make yourself feel even more inadequate? Surely it makes mores sense to walk out of ideas and I have decided that this is the method I shall adopt in future projects.
In summary, writing about nothing did give me something to write about even though it amounted to nothing at the end of it. If you have persisted in reading this far, you are either terminally bored or wondering if there is, after all going to be a point to this and, perhaps a superbly witty punchline. I am sorry to say you are going to be very disappointed as, what better way to finish an article about nothing is there than
I thought it might help if I set out a list of nothings to write about and I listed them from 1 to 10. I only got as far as 1 (which became the title of this blog) and then, I ran out of ideas. I did, at this point, wonder if it was possible to walk out of ideas as opposed to running. If you are going to dry up why would you want to hurry there and make yourself feel even more inadequate? Surely it makes mores sense to walk out of ideas and I have decided that this is the method I shall adopt in future projects.
In summary, writing about nothing did give me something to write about even though it amounted to nothing at the end of it. If you have persisted in reading this far, you are either terminally bored or wondering if there is, after all going to be a point to this and, perhaps a superbly witty punchline. I am sorry to say you are going to be very disappointed as, what better way to finish an article about nothing is there than
Friday 4 November 2011
Cialis
I did make a promise on my "erectile dysfunction" post that I wouldn't give regular updates on events as it is not something I particularly want to remind myself, or others about but, Mrs Bats had an on line conversation with the wife of a fellow post op that deserves repeating.
He had surgery three years ago and ever since, has not been able to raise even a smile. He had become resigned to the fact that his copulating days were over and at least he could still use it to pee out of and keep his redundant testicles company. He had been taking the drug "Cialis" all this time, on a daily basis, but it seemed to have no effect. Most male readers will have had spam email from people trying to sell them Cialis on line. It is from the same drug family as Viagra and is apparently much sought after by men wishing to sustain the action a little longer and on demand.
As I said, the drug had not done a thing until, suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, it happened. He felt movement whilst in a supermarket with his wife and "boom" he had an erection you could have hung a horses saddle on. The erection was so strong and unexpected he began to panic. It became painful. he had to sit down as he wasn't able to set it free in the Ladies Lingerie aisle. In some pain he managed to get into the car and free the beast as his wife drove home.
They had read the leaflets and waited for a half an hour or so to see if it stopped. It didn't. They rang the hospital. They asked them if they had anything like frozen peas in the freezer. They did. They packed his willy with the produce and he sat, like an advert for toad in the hole for, wait for it, FOUR and a Half Hours before it finally gave way.
I can't help thinking he missed a business opportunity. He could have invited local frustrated women over and seen to them all without batting an eyelid. He could have used it to make doughnuts or let the local Darby and Joan club use him as a temporary hoop la sideshow. Joking aside, it couldn't have been much fun. I hope, if I have the same reaction, I will be at home. Knowing my luck I will be in the local primary school playground picking my Granddaughter up. If and when, I will let you know.
He had surgery three years ago and ever since, has not been able to raise even a smile. He had become resigned to the fact that his copulating days were over and at least he could still use it to pee out of and keep his redundant testicles company. He had been taking the drug "Cialis" all this time, on a daily basis, but it seemed to have no effect. Most male readers will have had spam email from people trying to sell them Cialis on line. It is from the same drug family as Viagra and is apparently much sought after by men wishing to sustain the action a little longer and on demand.
As I said, the drug had not done a thing until, suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, it happened. He felt movement whilst in a supermarket with his wife and "boom" he had an erection you could have hung a horses saddle on. The erection was so strong and unexpected he began to panic. It became painful. he had to sit down as he wasn't able to set it free in the Ladies Lingerie aisle. In some pain he managed to get into the car and free the beast as his wife drove home.
They had read the leaflets and waited for a half an hour or so to see if it stopped. It didn't. They rang the hospital. They asked them if they had anything like frozen peas in the freezer. They did. They packed his willy with the produce and he sat, like an advert for toad in the hole for, wait for it, FOUR and a Half Hours before it finally gave way.
I can't help thinking he missed a business opportunity. He could have invited local frustrated women over and seen to them all without batting an eyelid. He could have used it to make doughnuts or let the local Darby and Joan club use him as a temporary hoop la sideshow. Joking aside, it couldn't have been much fun. I hope, if I have the same reaction, I will be at home. Knowing my luck I will be in the local primary school playground picking my Granddaughter up. If and when, I will let you know.
Thursday 3 November 2011
Benidorm
I didn't go with high expectations. Truthfully, I went with very low expectations. My expectations were justified. I assume it was either Nicolae Ceausescu or Mao Tse Tung who did the original design for the place. Mao once decreed that the colour green was bad for the soul and he made thousands of forced labourers paint green grass another colour. Ceausescu on the other hand was a concrete fanatic and set about demolishing centuries old villages and replacing them with monolithic concrete tower blocks. Both men would have been at home in Benidorm. We walked the full length of both bays many times during the week and found only one square of grass (about 100mtrs x 30 mtrs) in the whole place. This was fenced off of course in case anyone had the mad idea of trying to walk on it.
We went because it was late in the year and the hotel had 100% good feedback from trip advisor. It would be churlish of me to criticise the hotel but we won't be going back. It was modern, clean, comfortable and the staff were excellent but it was full of brits. As we looked out of our seventh floor balcony we had marvellous views of the seventh floors of the hotels opposite and either side of us. These had the effect of blocking the sun for a good 50% of it's daily life.
We managed one evening ( I say evening it was about 90 minutes) in the lounge. Just as Germans must be sick of the war being mentioned, surely we Brits have moved beyond bingo? I was gobsmacked as the game unfurled and, when a line was won, everyone sang along with Cliff Richards singing "congratulations". After that on came "Mickey and Griff type singers (youngsters google them) which was our signal to go to bed. We didn't venture in at night again. Had there been a fancy dress night, I am sure there would have been dozens turning up as either Steven Hawking or Stavros from Dr. Who due to the number of people using mobility scooters.
I have looked up a meaning for "Benidorm" and I would suggest that "Fat tattooed Brit" would be an apt description. I have never seen so many old people with them and fat people too idle to walk, driving along the prom on scooters. A guy a year or two older than us was chatting in the hotel and remarked it was their fifth year in a row at the resort and hotel. I can only assume it was some sort of community service sentence he was carrying out.
One thing I was thankful for was topless sunbathing is no longer fashionable. The sight of elderly women throwing them over their shoulders or tucking them into bikini bottoms would be too much to bare in both senses of the word. It is still fashionable however for men with 60 inch waists to proudly exhibit them to an appreciative public.
I apologise if any of you are fans of the place. It just wasn't for us. If ever I want a similar experience I will sit under a sun lamp in the middle of Manchester for a few days. Manchester would also be a good choice as three of the days we were there it pissed it down all day.
We went because it was late in the year and the hotel had 100% good feedback from trip advisor. It would be churlish of me to criticise the hotel but we won't be going back. It was modern, clean, comfortable and the staff were excellent but it was full of brits. As we looked out of our seventh floor balcony we had marvellous views of the seventh floors of the hotels opposite and either side of us. These had the effect of blocking the sun for a good 50% of it's daily life.
We managed one evening ( I say evening it was about 90 minutes) in the lounge. Just as Germans must be sick of the war being mentioned, surely we Brits have moved beyond bingo? I was gobsmacked as the game unfurled and, when a line was won, everyone sang along with Cliff Richards singing "congratulations". After that on came "Mickey and Griff type singers (youngsters google them) which was our signal to go to bed. We didn't venture in at night again. Had there been a fancy dress night, I am sure there would have been dozens turning up as either Steven Hawking or Stavros from Dr. Who due to the number of people using mobility scooters.
I have looked up a meaning for "Benidorm" and I would suggest that "Fat tattooed Brit" would be an apt description. I have never seen so many old people with them and fat people too idle to walk, driving along the prom on scooters. A guy a year or two older than us was chatting in the hotel and remarked it was their fifth year in a row at the resort and hotel. I can only assume it was some sort of community service sentence he was carrying out.
One thing I was thankful for was topless sunbathing is no longer fashionable. The sight of elderly women throwing them over their shoulders or tucking them into bikini bottoms would be too much to bare in both senses of the word. It is still fashionable however for men with 60 inch waists to proudly exhibit them to an appreciative public.
I apologise if any of you are fans of the place. It just wasn't for us. If ever I want a similar experience I will sit under a sun lamp in the middle of Manchester for a few days. Manchester would also be a good choice as three of the days we were there it pissed it down all day.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
Dear sixteen year old me
Dear Me
I want to pass on a few things that have happened over the last forty plus years and let you know that you turned out reasonably well despite the ups an downs of life.
First things first. Your life will get better and the worries that now seem insurmountable to you, will fade. Let's start with girls. I have to remember that life and sex was very different for you. There was no internet, no adult videos or DVD's and T.V. was still very much in its infancy as far as portraying sex. I remember that, for you, sex didn't really exist.
First of all, don't fall in love with every girl who smiles at you. It tends to scare the shit out of them and any girl that responds to you in a similar way is probably just as desperate as you. I realise the hormones rushing around your body are sending out conflicting signals and your pyjamas are often like cardboard in a morning but your Mum will pretend not to notice so there's no need for that embarrassment. It's o.k to have one off the wrist too. All your mates are doing it and not letting on. One major thing to tell you. The kids who tell you they are shagging girls every night are telling lies. They are as confused and frustrated as you but don't want to admit it. Enjoy the company of girls. You won't be tongue tied for long and the ones that take the piss out of you aren't worth talking to anyway. One final thing. That girl who turned down the offer of a dance when it took you nearly an hour to pluck up the courage, she is not typical. I know it put you off forever but she was a cow. Most girls will say yes then move away at the end if no longer interested. Have fun and play the field. I do not mean be promiscuous. My tip? Look for an older girl and let her guide you along. You will learn something perhaps. If you decide to ignore all this, take my advice, when you go on a training course to London next year, and those two girls bang on your bedroom door inviting you to a threesome. Don't pretend you're asleep and, the following year, that girl in Scarborough who shows you a photo of her geeky boyfriend, then plays with your knee for an hour before inviting you to the beach, FFS go man! Finally, avoid that loony Welsh woman in 1976. She wasn't worth the hassle. watch "Play Misty for Me" and put yourself in the Clint Eastwood's place.
As far as everything else is concerned. Take advice. Don't be such a smart arse. You know nothing about life so stop pretending you do. Take some fashion advice. You have no dress sense at all and your hair style is awful. Make the most of being young. Forget about commitment and marriage until you are close to thirty and then think long and hard and make sure that whoever you are with is the right one for life. Now is the time to take risks with your job. Don't live with regret and not taking that job as you were not sure it was safe enough. You can do anything if you believe you can. Travel whenever you can. You will love it. Foreign food is not rubbish and you will grow to love it, even curry.
Finally. Make the most of your Mum and dad whilst they are still young. They are from a totally different time and your Dad in particular simply doesn't understand that the world has changed. They only want what is best for you. Follow this and life will bring you all the things I now look back on and regret. Life with regrets is not good for the soul.
I want to pass on a few things that have happened over the last forty plus years and let you know that you turned out reasonably well despite the ups an downs of life.
First things first. Your life will get better and the worries that now seem insurmountable to you, will fade. Let's start with girls. I have to remember that life and sex was very different for you. There was no internet, no adult videos or DVD's and T.V. was still very much in its infancy as far as portraying sex. I remember that, for you, sex didn't really exist.
First of all, don't fall in love with every girl who smiles at you. It tends to scare the shit out of them and any girl that responds to you in a similar way is probably just as desperate as you. I realise the hormones rushing around your body are sending out conflicting signals and your pyjamas are often like cardboard in a morning but your Mum will pretend not to notice so there's no need for that embarrassment. It's o.k to have one off the wrist too. All your mates are doing it and not letting on. One major thing to tell you. The kids who tell you they are shagging girls every night are telling lies. They are as confused and frustrated as you but don't want to admit it. Enjoy the company of girls. You won't be tongue tied for long and the ones that take the piss out of you aren't worth talking to anyway. One final thing. That girl who turned down the offer of a dance when it took you nearly an hour to pluck up the courage, she is not typical. I know it put you off forever but she was a cow. Most girls will say yes then move away at the end if no longer interested. Have fun and play the field. I do not mean be promiscuous. My tip? Look for an older girl and let her guide you along. You will learn something perhaps. If you decide to ignore all this, take my advice, when you go on a training course to London next year, and those two girls bang on your bedroom door inviting you to a threesome. Don't pretend you're asleep and, the following year, that girl in Scarborough who shows you a photo of her geeky boyfriend, then plays with your knee for an hour before inviting you to the beach, FFS go man! Finally, avoid that loony Welsh woman in 1976. She wasn't worth the hassle. watch "Play Misty for Me" and put yourself in the Clint Eastwood's place.
As far as everything else is concerned. Take advice. Don't be such a smart arse. You know nothing about life so stop pretending you do. Take some fashion advice. You have no dress sense at all and your hair style is awful. Make the most of being young. Forget about commitment and marriage until you are close to thirty and then think long and hard and make sure that whoever you are with is the right one for life. Now is the time to take risks with your job. Don't live with regret and not taking that job as you were not sure it was safe enough. You can do anything if you believe you can. Travel whenever you can. You will love it. Foreign food is not rubbish and you will grow to love it, even curry.
Finally. Make the most of your Mum and dad whilst they are still young. They are from a totally different time and your Dad in particular simply doesn't understand that the world has changed. They only want what is best for you. Follow this and life will bring you all the things I now look back on and regret. Life with regrets is not good for the soul.
Tuesday 11 October 2011
The Lottery
I see today that the latest Euro millions winners have decided to go public. I can only assume that serious pressure is put on them to take this drastic step. For the rest of their lives they will no longer be Mr and Mrs xyz but "101 million pound lottery winners xyz" They must be mad. They will be besieged with requests both genuine and bogus for years to come which, unless you particularly enjoy reading sad stories, will at best cause them to reflect on their good fortune.
I would never ever agree to going public on a major win. I would want the time in private to decide how best to spend my new found fortune and who should and should not benefit. It reflects, I suppose, my personality. I am a background boy. I hate being the front man. I like to be the one in the shadows, pulling the strings, not the one dancing to the tune. Probably half a dozen times on twitter I have been asked to consider doing stand up. Whilst flattering it is the biggest joke of all. Give me an audience and I'll give you unbridled fear. I don't even like to show any of my stuff to friends.
Twitter is perfect for people like me. You can be "up front" but, should the mood take you, you can disappear without a trace and be forgotten within days. That's how I like it. I don't mind a mug shot. I have a forgettable face. If required you can invent an alter ego and relaunch under a new identity. Effectively you can be all you perhaps would like to be in the real world without the anxiety than comes with it.
I wish the lottery winners happiness. I hope they put my letter requesting a donation for my "regrow the prostate" charity. I miss it and the happy times we had together. It will be a real tear jerker.
I would never ever agree to going public on a major win. I would want the time in private to decide how best to spend my new found fortune and who should and should not benefit. It reflects, I suppose, my personality. I am a background boy. I hate being the front man. I like to be the one in the shadows, pulling the strings, not the one dancing to the tune. Probably half a dozen times on twitter I have been asked to consider doing stand up. Whilst flattering it is the biggest joke of all. Give me an audience and I'll give you unbridled fear. I don't even like to show any of my stuff to friends.
Twitter is perfect for people like me. You can be "up front" but, should the mood take you, you can disappear without a trace and be forgotten within days. That's how I like it. I don't mind a mug shot. I have a forgettable face. If required you can invent an alter ego and relaunch under a new identity. Effectively you can be all you perhaps would like to be in the real world without the anxiety than comes with it.
I wish the lottery winners happiness. I hope they put my letter requesting a donation for my "regrow the prostate" charity. I miss it and the happy times we had together. It will be a real tear jerker.
Thursday 29 September 2011
Erectile Disfunction
If ever there was a headline grabber, that is it (discounting Katie Price, Big Brother and the Beckhams). Do you know any man with this problem? I don't yet is it very common in men over 40 (and under) it seems. I suppose it is a brave man who will admit to anyone other than his partner (who might possibly have already guessed) that they "can't get it up".
Regular readers will have been probably both bored or interested in equal measure with my tweets and blog on the prostate cancer. As far as men are concerned, the big long term problem post op is E.D. The operation removes a precious part of the equipment that all men take for granted and it can depend on the skill of the surgeon whether full function is restored. Having said that, full function will never be restored as the organ that produced seminal fluid is in a dustbin somewhere, gathering dust (for many men, just as it was before it was removed :)). Depending on the spread of the cancer, the nerves that supply the blood to enable erection can be spared or removed. In my case, as I delayed the operation by eighteen months, it spread into the nerves on one side,so they had to go.
Depending on the health authority you are under, drugs are administered six weeks after the operation to speed up the healing process and increase blood supply to the affected areas. Sad to say, many men have a battle to have these drugs prescribed, not a problem fortunately with my local health authority.
I must admit I was quite intrigued when I read the leaflet (or rather Janet did) to see what the effects and possible side effects are. One in particular reads "In the event of an erection lasting for more than four hours, you are advised to visit your local A & E department for treatment". I advised Janet that in the event of a four hour erection, I would be making my way down to the local girls sixth form college.
I am not embarrassed to be writing about this problem. I had no choice other than to have an operation and the possible ramifications afterwards. In some cases function never returns. That is a bleak prospect. O.K. at almost sixty, your best years are behind you but I liken the problem to having skis. I have a set of carvers which were expensive at the time, but, usually spend 51 weeks of the year in a cupboard. In the event of snow however, I at least have the option of using them. It's the same with sex. It may not happen very often, but if the opportunity arises (pardon the pun) I like to have the option.
It is early days for me. The average recovery times seems to be 12 to 18 months which seems a long way away right now. As a natural flirt I cannot pretend I don't miss the usual feelings but, at the moment, the relief at no longer having cancer outweighs everything else. One poster on a forum I visit has written that his wife has been completely unable to come to terms (again no pun intended) with his impotency and his marriage is struggling. If that is the case, his marriage couldn't have been as strong as he thought it was before his diagnosis.
You will be relieved to know (as will my wife) that I will not be posting regular updates on my progress. Some things are best kept behind closed doors. However, the more astute amongst you may one day notice a change in my posting style. Hopefully it will be sooner than later.
Regular readers will have been probably both bored or interested in equal measure with my tweets and blog on the prostate cancer. As far as men are concerned, the big long term problem post op is E.D. The operation removes a precious part of the equipment that all men take for granted and it can depend on the skill of the surgeon whether full function is restored. Having said that, full function will never be restored as the organ that produced seminal fluid is in a dustbin somewhere, gathering dust (for many men, just as it was before it was removed :)). Depending on the spread of the cancer, the nerves that supply the blood to enable erection can be spared or removed. In my case, as I delayed the operation by eighteen months, it spread into the nerves on one side,so they had to go.
Depending on the health authority you are under, drugs are administered six weeks after the operation to speed up the healing process and increase blood supply to the affected areas. Sad to say, many men have a battle to have these drugs prescribed, not a problem fortunately with my local health authority.
I must admit I was quite intrigued when I read the leaflet (or rather Janet did) to see what the effects and possible side effects are. One in particular reads "In the event of an erection lasting for more than four hours, you are advised to visit your local A & E department for treatment". I advised Janet that in the event of a four hour erection, I would be making my way down to the local girls sixth form college.
I am not embarrassed to be writing about this problem. I had no choice other than to have an operation and the possible ramifications afterwards. In some cases function never returns. That is a bleak prospect. O.K. at almost sixty, your best years are behind you but I liken the problem to having skis. I have a set of carvers which were expensive at the time, but, usually spend 51 weeks of the year in a cupboard. In the event of snow however, I at least have the option of using them. It's the same with sex. It may not happen very often, but if the opportunity arises (pardon the pun) I like to have the option.
It is early days for me. The average recovery times seems to be 12 to 18 months which seems a long way away right now. As a natural flirt I cannot pretend I don't miss the usual feelings but, at the moment, the relief at no longer having cancer outweighs everything else. One poster on a forum I visit has written that his wife has been completely unable to come to terms (again no pun intended) with his impotency and his marriage is struggling. If that is the case, his marriage couldn't have been as strong as he thought it was before his diagnosis.
You will be relieved to know (as will my wife) that I will not be posting regular updates on my progress. Some things are best kept behind closed doors. However, the more astute amongst you may one day notice a change in my posting style. Hopefully it will be sooner than later.
Wednesday 28 September 2011
Ghosties and Ghoulies
I don't believe in ghosts. I am not saying there is no such thing as a ghost as it would go against my motto of trying to keep an open mind on things. I have never seen a ghost is probably a better statement. My Granddad used to tell us a story of a Mill in Belfast before the first world war that was haunted by the spirit of a boy who was killed when he was putting fuel on to the boiler. My Granddad was night watchman for a time and he swore that every night you could hear coal being shovelled into a barrow and then hear the barrow creaking across the floor to the boiler. He never saw anything, just heard it, night after night. The owner of the mill wouldn't enter it in the early hours but he often called to my Granddad from the top of the street to make sure he was o.k.
At 4.50am today I was awoken by the sound of our bedroom door handle being pushed down. It makes a very distinctive creaking noise. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I froze waiting for the door to open. It didn't but I then heard the handle creak back. I was wide awake by then. For the next 30 minutes I lay silent and still, ready to dive for the Samurai sword I keep next to the cricket bat, at the side of the bed. Mrs. Bats and I often play cricket in the early hours.
There was no further sound and I eventually relaxed and went back to sleep. This morning Mrs Bats was convinced I had dreamt it but I know I didn't. For anyone to have broken in they would have to have crept over two huge German Shepherd dogs and negotiated a creaking open staircase to get to us. That is impossible.
I will be alert tonight. If it is a ghost, I doubt the sword will be much use but I'll take a glass of water to bed with me and offer it a drink if it plucks up the courage to enter the room. If I do not tweet tomorrow, you know what happened.
At 4.50am today I was awoken by the sound of our bedroom door handle being pushed down. It makes a very distinctive creaking noise. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I froze waiting for the door to open. It didn't but I then heard the handle creak back. I was wide awake by then. For the next 30 minutes I lay silent and still, ready to dive for the Samurai sword I keep next to the cricket bat, at the side of the bed. Mrs. Bats and I often play cricket in the early hours.
There was no further sound and I eventually relaxed and went back to sleep. This morning Mrs Bats was convinced I had dreamt it but I know I didn't. For anyone to have broken in they would have to have crept over two huge German Shepherd dogs and negotiated a creaking open staircase to get to us. That is impossible.
I will be alert tonight. If it is a ghost, I doubt the sword will be much use but I'll take a glass of water to bed with me and offer it a drink if it plucks up the courage to enter the room. If I do not tweet tomorrow, you know what happened.
Thursday 22 September 2011
Differences of opinion
This week on Twitter has been interesting. I am sure we all agree that everyone is entitled to an opinion, whether you or I agree with it or not. I would go as far as to say no-one would deny anyone the right to have an opinion if asked directly.
Despite this obvious conclusion, you only have to read today's postings to see that this is not the case. I have read dozens of posts telling me what I should think of the execution in the U.S. Not only have have I been told what to think, I have also been told what I can with myself (not particularly pleasant) if I do not agree. None of the posts are directed at me of course. They are meant for anyone who has a contrary opinion. That is not allowing me an opinion. It is telling me to conform with the views of the particular individual. For this reason (I am not saying whether I agree or not) I tend not to take part in anything that could be considered controversial. I think it is fair to say that the vast majority of people I follow have political leanings to the left. I tend to lean to the right but this does not mean that I am a raging Nazi racist any more than being on the left means you are a comrade communist.
It has been very interesting reading views on the Dale Farm saga. I would wager that the majority of people who have strong views on this have never had to face up to the problems that the travelling community can, and often do, cause. I have. I totally agree that suitable areas should be made available (at a charge the same as every other citizen is expected to pay) but simply buying land and bulldozing your way through planning laws is not an option. Try buuilding an extension to your house without permission and see what happens.
I actually have had years of dealing with the travelling community through various businesses I have owned. It is always a problem. We have had problems at the Mill here in the last few weeks with travellers setting up camp illegally then demanding money to move on. This is not hearsay, it is reality. There are some very likeable characters amongst them and I have had many laughs over the years. I have also lost serious money through theft and other scams. This is not to say that there are no miscreants in other ethnic groups, including the indigenous ones, it's just that the travellers tend to come at you in numbers and it can be very intimidating if you allow it to be. To pretend that, as a whole, travellers are a merry band of fiddle players spreading good will and cheer is as silly as pretending they are all villains.
In conclusion. We all have opinions. We can agree or disagree with others without the need to resort to insults and banal comments about racism, ageism and all the other isms associated with it. I shall await the unfollows over the next few days.
Despite this obvious conclusion, you only have to read today's postings to see that this is not the case. I have read dozens of posts telling me what I should think of the execution in the U.S. Not only have have I been told what to think, I have also been told what I can with myself (not particularly pleasant) if I do not agree. None of the posts are directed at me of course. They are meant for anyone who has a contrary opinion. That is not allowing me an opinion. It is telling me to conform with the views of the particular individual. For this reason (I am not saying whether I agree or not) I tend not to take part in anything that could be considered controversial. I think it is fair to say that the vast majority of people I follow have political leanings to the left. I tend to lean to the right but this does not mean that I am a raging Nazi racist any more than being on the left means you are a comrade communist.
It has been very interesting reading views on the Dale Farm saga. I would wager that the majority of people who have strong views on this have never had to face up to the problems that the travelling community can, and often do, cause. I have. I totally agree that suitable areas should be made available (at a charge the same as every other citizen is expected to pay) but simply buying land and bulldozing your way through planning laws is not an option. Try buuilding an extension to your house without permission and see what happens.
I actually have had years of dealing with the travelling community through various businesses I have owned. It is always a problem. We have had problems at the Mill here in the last few weeks with travellers setting up camp illegally then demanding money to move on. This is not hearsay, it is reality. There are some very likeable characters amongst them and I have had many laughs over the years. I have also lost serious money through theft and other scams. This is not to say that there are no miscreants in other ethnic groups, including the indigenous ones, it's just that the travellers tend to come at you in numbers and it can be very intimidating if you allow it to be. To pretend that, as a whole, travellers are a merry band of fiddle players spreading good will and cheer is as silly as pretending they are all villains.
In conclusion. We all have opinions. We can agree or disagree with others without the need to resort to insults and banal comments about racism, ageism and all the other isms associated with it. I shall await the unfollows over the next few days.
Thursday 15 September 2011
Fifteen years ago my co Director and I decided to have a medical. He had been suffering from chest pains and I was fine but thought “if he's having one I may as well too”. I got a clean bill of health. Maybe I ought to lose half a stone or so but my cholesterol was low and all other functions were fine.
I mentioned to my doctor that I had noticed that my flow when I went for a pee had slowed quite a bit, enough for me to notice. He told me it was noting to worry about and wasn't unusual for a man of my age. I was 45years old.
Five years later I was under the knife. It came to head when I was having a pee in the toilets at my local pub. I was standing admiring the plaster work as I normally did when the door opened and an old man stumbled in with a zimmer walking frame. He stood next to me. We exchanged pleasantries. He saw to his todger had a pee, washed his hands and left. I was still standing peeing. I couldn't ignore it any longer.
My urologist told me I had thickening of the bladder neck and a section was cut out. It did the trick and I could pee right up against any wall of my choice. No mention was made of prostate problems or cancer and no tests were undertaken or checks made.
Move forward nine years and I am back at the same hospital with the same problem. I see the same urologist and he diagnoses thickening scar tissue as the problem. He sticks his finger up my bum and fiddles with my prostate. “No problem there” he tells me. “It is slightly swollen but it is nothing to worry about. The surface is smooth with no signs of any rough tissue”
He decides on a blood test where a psa reading can be taken. This test is far from accurate but can give a guide to potential problems as the psa level is normally raised in cases of prostate cancer. My level came back at 4.5, not particularly high as levels can be in the thousands, but high enough to warrant a biopsy.
I will not go into details of the biopsy procedure as it could put some men off. It is unpleasant but necessary. One week before Christmas 2009 I receive a call from the hospital. I am asked to come in at 8.15am the following day. She cannot tell me why but I realise it's not to tell me I have won the lottery. I am told the next day I have prostate cancer. He tells me I have 11% on side but the other is clear. He tells me it is absolutely nothing to worry about. It is low grade cancer. I could have had it years. I am much more likely to die with it than from it. I have three choices. Active surveillance, (do nothing and test again some time in the future) brachiotherapy or surgery. It is a no brainer. After all it is low grade, I could have had it years and I will probably die with it not from it.
Jump forward fifteen months to March this year. Another biopsy. I am prepared this time and my wonderful G.P. Prescribes me some happy pills. It still wasn't fun but I didn't care as much. The nurse pricks her own finger with the last sample causing mini chaos. I am back at the urologists three weeks later. I see his registrar, as he is too busy. I now have 23% on one side and the previous clear side has 14%. Nothing to worry about I am assured again. All three options are still open. I am referred to oncology in Bradford for consultation.
Brachiotherapy ( a more intense style of radiotherapy) is immediately ruled out as my consultant says I have a stricture and it would be possibly dangerous. Active surveillance is laughed at. My cancer has increased and the type changed to a more aggressive type. Surgery is the only sensible option. There are two types, conventional and robotic (Da Vinci). I am referred to St.James' in Leeds as that is the Davinci centre for my area.
Two weeks later I am with my new consultant. He has analysed all the results with his own team. Four out of five samples on one side of my prostate are cancerous and one out of five on the other. This means I have 80% cancer on one and 20% on the other, a slightly different diagnosis from two weeks earlier. I have two options, surgery or early death. I chose surgery as I had just bought new shoes and wanted at least some wear out of them.
Three months later I am recovering well. My point in writing this is, no matter how young you are, if you notice anything change about your normal toilet habits, go to your G.P. If you are not happy with what you are told, ask for a referral. If cancer is diagnosed at any stage, don't automatically go for the first option you think of and make sure you grill your consultant for the options. Had I opted for surgery first time around, I would have had spared both sets of nerves which support sexual function, not just one. It was too risky with my second diagnosis to leave both intact.
We are reminded, quite rightly, in the media about breast cancer in women and screenings
are available, at some considerable cost, for all women over 50. The cost to give a man a psa test is 75 pence. Ten thousand men die every year from prostate cancer and it is increasing, as well as affecting, younger men. It is no longer a disease of the old. Don't bugger about. Get tested.
p.s.
People. If you have a friend or relative diagnosed with cancer DON'T immediately tell them about someone you know who had this or that and this or that happened. We don't want to know!
Tuesday 13 September 2011
Age and the internet
If I tried to engage a young woman in conversation in real world I would almost certainly be viewed with serious suspicion. What on earth could a man of my age have in common with a woman in her twenties or even worse, in her late teens? The reality is, very little, on a normal face to face basis. At best I would be humoured until she could beat a hasty retreat, at worst there could be mace spray and a swift kick in the goolies.
This is where the internet turns reality on its head. When I look through the list of my 400 or so followers (and followed) it embraces all ages and sex. The beauty of the internet is that you form an opinion of a person without the distraction of personal prejudice and physical appearance. In most cases I haven't known at first whether a poster is male or female, never mind young, or ancient like me. There are actually a handful still where I don't know anything about them including sex as the name or avatar gives no clues.
This virtual anonymity is very liberating. It allows you to make friends with a whole raft of people that could never happen in reality. I say "friends" but that description doesn't adequately reflect the on line relationships. You are not really friends with anyone until it is removed from the virtual world and brought into reality. I have had "friends" on forums, some I have met up with but none which have lasted. On line friendships are transient and should be viewed as such. I am not saying that good long term relationships cannot happen from initial on line contact, just that they are less likely.
Once I have realised that a follower is young, I do take care what I write directly to them. I may well be a dirty old man but I prefer to keep it as quiet as possible.
This is where the internet turns reality on its head. When I look through the list of my 400 or so followers (and followed) it embraces all ages and sex. The beauty of the internet is that you form an opinion of a person without the distraction of personal prejudice and physical appearance. In most cases I haven't known at first whether a poster is male or female, never mind young, or ancient like me. There are actually a handful still where I don't know anything about them including sex as the name or avatar gives no clues.
This virtual anonymity is very liberating. It allows you to make friends with a whole raft of people that could never happen in reality. I say "friends" but that description doesn't adequately reflect the on line relationships. You are not really friends with anyone until it is removed from the virtual world and brought into reality. I have had "friends" on forums, some I have met up with but none which have lasted. On line friendships are transient and should be viewed as such. I am not saying that good long term relationships cannot happen from initial on line contact, just that they are less likely.
Once I have realised that a follower is young, I do take care what I write directly to them. I may well be a dirty old man but I prefer to keep it as quiet as possible.
Sunday 11 September 2011
A Great Night Out
It's Sunday morning and for many people it will be a day recovering from the excesses of Saturday night. As I watched the T.V. it occurred to me how much life changes as you get older and, more importantly, how much your tastes change.
Some years ago we were having dinner with a couple and John was telling us stories of his life as an athlete. He was a top quality five and ten thousand metres runner having run in the European and Commonwealth games only to just miss out on the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. I asked him if he missed those days and, if he had a wish, would he go back to then and re-live what was an exciting time and lifestyle. His answer both impressed and surprised me and is one I have tried to live by over thirty years after.
In his late teens life was fantastic. He was lauded for his prowess and looked up to by friends and fans alike. Everything was new, to be experienced and enjoyed.
His twenties saw a step up. He continued to tour the world but met his future wife and, late on his first son was born. He loved it.
His thirties took life to a whole new level. He had retired from athletics as he could no longer compete with the new younger breed emerging. He realised the stresses and pressures he had put his body under to remain competitive had begun to take their toll and he needed a change of direction. He secured a well paid job which he enjoyed and two further children completed his family. He regarded his life as just about perfect.
When we lost touch, he was in his mid forties. He had developed arthritis, a legacy of his running days, but overcame it to such an extent that he played squash with me. His kids were older and they no longer needed baby sitters. His wife had gone back to work and he had progressed to a senior position with a bank and the money flowed in. They could, more or less, do exactly what they wanted to do when they wanted to do it and I am sure that in the intervening years, since we lost touch, the same pattern has been followed as that was his philosophy. He enjoyed his past, wouldn't change any of it, but wouldn't want to relive it either.
I have tried to follow the same life plan. I try to make the best of what I have, not what I had. I have regrets, we all have them and there are things I would love to change. I cannot, so there is no point in dwelling on them. I hope I can learn from my mistakes and move forward.
What has this to do with a good night out? I had a great night last night. For once in a blue moon, I cooked. We shared a bottle of wine. We watched Strictly Come Dancing and something else we had recorded and we then went to bed. if you are reading this and thinking "Jesus, I'll kill myself if I ever get that dull", console your self with this. If, you are very very lucky, you will learn to appreciate what you have and make the most of it. If you don't, life will be one long disappointment. Age has big compensations.
Some years ago we were having dinner with a couple and John was telling us stories of his life as an athlete. He was a top quality five and ten thousand metres runner having run in the European and Commonwealth games only to just miss out on the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. I asked him if he missed those days and, if he had a wish, would he go back to then and re-live what was an exciting time and lifestyle. His answer both impressed and surprised me and is one I have tried to live by over thirty years after.
In his late teens life was fantastic. He was lauded for his prowess and looked up to by friends and fans alike. Everything was new, to be experienced and enjoyed.
His twenties saw a step up. He continued to tour the world but met his future wife and, late on his first son was born. He loved it.
His thirties took life to a whole new level. He had retired from athletics as he could no longer compete with the new younger breed emerging. He realised the stresses and pressures he had put his body under to remain competitive had begun to take their toll and he needed a change of direction. He secured a well paid job which he enjoyed and two further children completed his family. He regarded his life as just about perfect.
When we lost touch, he was in his mid forties. He had developed arthritis, a legacy of his running days, but overcame it to such an extent that he played squash with me. His kids were older and they no longer needed baby sitters. His wife had gone back to work and he had progressed to a senior position with a bank and the money flowed in. They could, more or less, do exactly what they wanted to do when they wanted to do it and I am sure that in the intervening years, since we lost touch, the same pattern has been followed as that was his philosophy. He enjoyed his past, wouldn't change any of it, but wouldn't want to relive it either.
I have tried to follow the same life plan. I try to make the best of what I have, not what I had. I have regrets, we all have them and there are things I would love to change. I cannot, so there is no point in dwelling on them. I hope I can learn from my mistakes and move forward.
What has this to do with a good night out? I had a great night last night. For once in a blue moon, I cooked. We shared a bottle of wine. We watched Strictly Come Dancing and something else we had recorded and we then went to bed. if you are reading this and thinking "Jesus, I'll kill myself if I ever get that dull", console your self with this. If, you are very very lucky, you will learn to appreciate what you have and make the most of it. If you don't, life will be one long disappointment. Age has big compensations.
Tuesday 16 August 2011
The scourge of the PC brigade.
Yesterday I received the following comment in my timeline.
"Did you go to school in the Deep South? There are a lot of things we read, said and sang that we don't now because they offend. I wish you better times but think our paths separate here. All the best"
I was puzzled at first as I had traded a few lousy puns that day with this member so I checked back in my timeline to see what heinous crime I had committed. It turns out I had mentioned an old song we sang at junior school (sensitive souls can pass this paragraph now) as a reply to another members memories of old school songs. The song was called old zip coon. I mentioned that it was unlikely to be popular nowadays because of the title. There was my crime. The fact that the song is about a violinist and, as far as I'm concerned, nothing to do with race colour or creed, was lost on this poster. I am now, in her eyes anyway, a relic racist who has no part in the modern utopia these people have built over the last fifty years.Strangely enough, if I hear the word "Coon" I immediately think of the song, not the interpretation she does. Who has a corrupted connotation?
This person probably thinks that the word "gay" has always meant homosexual. To my generation it means happy and it was also a popular girls name until it was bastardised. Her reaction to my post, to me, highlighted how the thought police have infiltrated and control so much of media and popular opinion. All racists make the following statement. "I am not a racist but......". We all have our prejudices, as this woman so brilliantly exhibited to me yesterday. We simply choose different ways and means to release them. The thought of deciding how I judged a person, solely by the colour of their skin, is abhorrent to me. I chided myself on my first visit to Atlanta years ago. I went on a business trip and we were standing on a street corner, lost and wondering where the hell we were supposed to be going. Across the road was a huge black man, slightly scruffy. He was watching us. We tried to ignore him but he suddenly sprinted across the road and joined us. I readily admit I was wary, very wary. "Hi" he boomed. "You guys look lost" He spent the next five minutes explaining where we needed to be, where to catch the bus and where to avoid going. I was quite disgusted with myself for jumping to conclusions. I have never made the same mistake since.
The riots of the last week have totally thrown the liberal left, the luvvies and the P.C brigade. They have seen what years of appeasement, tolerance and making up excuses is doing to the country. For the first time they may have to confront the fact that there are elements of society who do not want to enter the mainstream at any level. Some criminals actually love and thrive on chaos. It is their lifeblood.
I worked for a short time at a law firm who specialised in legal aid cases in Salford. My eyes were well and truly opened. They defended families where grandfather abused daughter, son abused daughter, Grandfather abused granddaughter and actually saw no problem with it. It was their right. It was how they lived. Nothing would convince them otherwise. My wife then spent fifteen years working in the courts system. my eyes were again opened at the low life we routinely share the streets with. I now sound like a right wing, lock 'em up lunatic. This is because it is no longer acceptable to have right wing views without also being branded a racist.
Humour is a very personal thing. My family has a dark sense. At my eldest uncles funeral, as the coffin was lowered into the grave, my dad nudged his ailing older brother and whispered loudly "Is there any point in you leaving here". I know that some people will be disgusted at that. I lost a follower early on who found my jokes about death unacceptable. I find it sad that to be a successful comedian nowadays you need to be on the left. Right wing comedians don't exist. Kenny Everett would have a hard time nowadays because of his Tory sympathies. Jim Davidson was pilloried as a racist comedian. He was possibly a racist but comedian? I have had funnier illnesses.
I feel sorry for my critic. I hope she has a happy life with not too many disappointments along the way. I fear to do this though, she will have to keep her prejudices and blinkers firmly in place and ignore the realities of life in the 21 century.
"Did you go to school in the Deep South? There are a lot of things we read, said and sang that we don't now because they offend. I wish you better times but think our paths separate here. All the best"
I was puzzled at first as I had traded a few lousy puns that day with this member so I checked back in my timeline to see what heinous crime I had committed. It turns out I had mentioned an old song we sang at junior school (sensitive souls can pass this paragraph now) as a reply to another members memories of old school songs. The song was called old zip coon. I mentioned that it was unlikely to be popular nowadays because of the title. There was my crime. The fact that the song is about a violinist and, as far as I'm concerned, nothing to do with race colour or creed, was lost on this poster. I am now, in her eyes anyway, a relic racist who has no part in the modern utopia these people have built over the last fifty years.Strangely enough, if I hear the word "Coon" I immediately think of the song, not the interpretation she does. Who has a corrupted connotation?
This person probably thinks that the word "gay" has always meant homosexual. To my generation it means happy and it was also a popular girls name until it was bastardised. Her reaction to my post, to me, highlighted how the thought police have infiltrated and control so much of media and popular opinion. All racists make the following statement. "I am not a racist but......". We all have our prejudices, as this woman so brilliantly exhibited to me yesterday. We simply choose different ways and means to release them. The thought of deciding how I judged a person, solely by the colour of their skin, is abhorrent to me. I chided myself on my first visit to Atlanta years ago. I went on a business trip and we were standing on a street corner, lost and wondering where the hell we were supposed to be going. Across the road was a huge black man, slightly scruffy. He was watching us. We tried to ignore him but he suddenly sprinted across the road and joined us. I readily admit I was wary, very wary. "Hi" he boomed. "You guys look lost" He spent the next five minutes explaining where we needed to be, where to catch the bus and where to avoid going. I was quite disgusted with myself for jumping to conclusions. I have never made the same mistake since.
The riots of the last week have totally thrown the liberal left, the luvvies and the P.C brigade. They have seen what years of appeasement, tolerance and making up excuses is doing to the country. For the first time they may have to confront the fact that there are elements of society who do not want to enter the mainstream at any level. Some criminals actually love and thrive on chaos. It is their lifeblood.
I worked for a short time at a law firm who specialised in legal aid cases in Salford. My eyes were well and truly opened. They defended families where grandfather abused daughter, son abused daughter, Grandfather abused granddaughter and actually saw no problem with it. It was their right. It was how they lived. Nothing would convince them otherwise. My wife then spent fifteen years working in the courts system. my eyes were again opened at the low life we routinely share the streets with. I now sound like a right wing, lock 'em up lunatic. This is because it is no longer acceptable to have right wing views without also being branded a racist.
Humour is a very personal thing. My family has a dark sense. At my eldest uncles funeral, as the coffin was lowered into the grave, my dad nudged his ailing older brother and whispered loudly "Is there any point in you leaving here". I know that some people will be disgusted at that. I lost a follower early on who found my jokes about death unacceptable. I find it sad that to be a successful comedian nowadays you need to be on the left. Right wing comedians don't exist. Kenny Everett would have a hard time nowadays because of his Tory sympathies. Jim Davidson was pilloried as a racist comedian. He was possibly a racist but comedian? I have had funnier illnesses.
I feel sorry for my critic. I hope she has a happy life with not too many disappointments along the way. I fear to do this though, she will have to keep her prejudices and blinkers firmly in place and ignore the realities of life in the 21 century.
Saturday 13 August 2011
Adolescence
One of the most miserable times of your life is adolescence. I've been going through mine since 1966. There was no such thing as adolescence then, it hadn't been invented.
Despite having four sisters I was painfully shy around the beings with boobs. I would blush and become tongue tied if a girl so much as looked at me, not good when trying to form any sort of relationship. It didn't help going to an all male grammar school. I don't think the homosexuals even enjoyed it as that was also some years away from being invented. The reality for most of the teenagers in the U.K. was the same as mine. The swinging sixties only existed within a certain social class in London, and the home counties. It is fair to say that 1966 didn't arrive in Bingley until 1977. There was only one definite none virgin in our school of around 1100. He caused a huge scandal in 1969 by getting his girlfriend pregnant. I used to think a girl was naked if she took her hat off.
Having said that, it was the era of the mini and micro skirt. When you are young and brought up with them all around you, it somehow wasn't sexy. There were thighs and knickers on view everywhere but it somehow seemed normal. Even the Queen had her skirts above the knee (and a young prince Edward I'll wager). My Mum even wore shorter skirts for Gods sake.
In 1968 I got a summer job in a textile mill. They actually produced knitting wool. On our floor there were about 5 males and sixty females, the majority of which came from the local sink estate. They were known as ballers. I assumed it was for packing the wool but it was an unintended double entendre. I didn't know what a comfort zone was so fortunately I was too dumb to know I was out of it. I spent the first week blushing and stuttering. I had one piece of ammunition in my locker however. I had started to develop and express my sense of humour. To that point, no-one, not even me, knew I had one. I started with a worker whose feet smelt so bad the smell improved when he stood in dog shit on his way to work one day. He was a dirty bugger. He was strong too, twice my size but I marvelled at how he managed to put one foot in front of the other each day without falling over. Think "Lurch" from the Adams family. They stopped letting him have tea breaks as they had to retrain him after each one.
He used to steal things. Chocolate, sandwiches, drinks, anything you left on your space. He'd pick things up and take a bite out of them or have a swig. The saliva left behind glowed green and stuck like shit to a blanket. One day a consignment of wool arrived from Ireland and stuck to one of the boxes was a substantial quantity of rat shit (we deduced). Lurch rolled his own cigs. I took a half dozen turds and ground them into his tobacco tin. I waited. Not long as it turned out. A few minutes later he came back, opened his tin and rolled a fag. It took ages to light. It stank to high heaven. He smoked it. He never noticed. His own smell defeated it
Undaunted, the following week, I brought in a substantial quantity of very ripe pimento seeds. I cut a mars bar in two, sccoped some out, and joined the ends back before melting the chocolate over the crack with a lighter. I left it out. less than a minute later he passed, grabbed it, took a bite and threw it the rest back down. I waited for the fun to start. Nothing. Not a flicker. He swallowed it whole. I was gutted.
Next day he failed to turn up for work, and the next day. The following day, environmental health turned up. They closed the staff canteen.Lurch had shit his insides out for two days and could only remember eating from the staff canteen.
O.K. I digress from adolescence but it was all part of my education. I was there for six weeks and on the very last day I plucked up the courage to ask one of the girls out. She said yes. She was a classy piece. Her boyfriend was in prison for burglary, she wanted twins so she had one for each breast an her hair was so bleached, crows used to dive bomb her for nesting material. I met her off the bus. She wore a suede mini skirt and a blue PVC mac. White knee length pvc boots completed the ensemble. We went to the cinema and saw an atrocious Elvis film called "speedway". I never touched her. At the end she went for a drink with her mates and I went home. It was a lucky escape. Had she not felt sorry for me she could have eaten me alive.
I find it hard to believe that boys can be so naive now. They have so many advantages over my time. Sex education, school proms etc. I'm bored now but you get my drift.
Despite having four sisters I was painfully shy around the beings with boobs. I would blush and become tongue tied if a girl so much as looked at me, not good when trying to form any sort of relationship. It didn't help going to an all male grammar school. I don't think the homosexuals even enjoyed it as that was also some years away from being invented. The reality for most of the teenagers in the U.K. was the same as mine. The swinging sixties only existed within a certain social class in London, and the home counties. It is fair to say that 1966 didn't arrive in Bingley until 1977. There was only one definite none virgin in our school of around 1100. He caused a huge scandal in 1969 by getting his girlfriend pregnant. I used to think a girl was naked if she took her hat off.
Having said that, it was the era of the mini and micro skirt. When you are young and brought up with them all around you, it somehow wasn't sexy. There were thighs and knickers on view everywhere but it somehow seemed normal. Even the Queen had her skirts above the knee (and a young prince Edward I'll wager). My Mum even wore shorter skirts for Gods sake.
In 1968 I got a summer job in a textile mill. They actually produced knitting wool. On our floor there were about 5 males and sixty females, the majority of which came from the local sink estate. They were known as ballers. I assumed it was for packing the wool but it was an unintended double entendre. I didn't know what a comfort zone was so fortunately I was too dumb to know I was out of it. I spent the first week blushing and stuttering. I had one piece of ammunition in my locker however. I had started to develop and express my sense of humour. To that point, no-one, not even me, knew I had one. I started with a worker whose feet smelt so bad the smell improved when he stood in dog shit on his way to work one day. He was a dirty bugger. He was strong too, twice my size but I marvelled at how he managed to put one foot in front of the other each day without falling over. Think "Lurch" from the Adams family. They stopped letting him have tea breaks as they had to retrain him after each one.
He used to steal things. Chocolate, sandwiches, drinks, anything you left on your space. He'd pick things up and take a bite out of them or have a swig. The saliva left behind glowed green and stuck like shit to a blanket. One day a consignment of wool arrived from Ireland and stuck to one of the boxes was a substantial quantity of rat shit (we deduced). Lurch rolled his own cigs. I took a half dozen turds and ground them into his tobacco tin. I waited. Not long as it turned out. A few minutes later he came back, opened his tin and rolled a fag. It took ages to light. It stank to high heaven. He smoked it. He never noticed. His own smell defeated it
Undaunted, the following week, I brought in a substantial quantity of very ripe pimento seeds. I cut a mars bar in two, sccoped some out, and joined the ends back before melting the chocolate over the crack with a lighter. I left it out. less than a minute later he passed, grabbed it, took a bite and threw it the rest back down. I waited for the fun to start. Nothing. Not a flicker. He swallowed it whole. I was gutted.
Next day he failed to turn up for work, and the next day. The following day, environmental health turned up. They closed the staff canteen.Lurch had shit his insides out for two days and could only remember eating from the staff canteen.
O.K. I digress from adolescence but it was all part of my education. I was there for six weeks and on the very last day I plucked up the courage to ask one of the girls out. She said yes. She was a classy piece. Her boyfriend was in prison for burglary, she wanted twins so she had one for each breast an her hair was so bleached, crows used to dive bomb her for nesting material. I met her off the bus. She wore a suede mini skirt and a blue PVC mac. White knee length pvc boots completed the ensemble. We went to the cinema and saw an atrocious Elvis film called "speedway". I never touched her. At the end she went for a drink with her mates and I went home. It was a lucky escape. Had she not felt sorry for me she could have eaten me alive.
I find it hard to believe that boys can be so naive now. They have so many advantages over my time. Sex education, school proms etc. I'm bored now but you get my drift.
Tuesday 9 August 2011
Appeasement
In my oh so humble opinion we are now paying the price of 50 years of appeasement in government. Once the war years became a distant memory for the population the whole concept of "sticking together" lost reality. Successive governments served up policies designed to keep themselves in power rather than confronting post war issues that were multiplying as each decade went by. The rise of political correctness stopped free speech and marginalised the vast majority of the population enabling the extreme left and extreme right to hold ridiculous levels of power.
The blindfolded headlong rush to integrate into Europe speeded up the decline as powers once held as sacrosanct were handed over to faceless bureaucrats who were, in most senses of the word, none accountable. Employment law perfectly summarises this countries decline. In the forty plus years I have been at work the changes are unimaginable. No-one wants to go back to Victorian employment laws where workers lives were held with a certain level of contempt but we have now gone full circle the other way. I have started three businesses which have employed over 100 people over the years. Faced with starting out now, I would not even consider it. Employment law is a minefield, loaded against the employer. I would never now employ a woman who could get pregnant. I simply wouldn't be able to afford the benefits she would be entitled to should she become pregnant. Large corporations can afford these benefits but small firms cannot. Twitter followers have seen my sense of humour. I would have to curtail it completely as an employer to ensure I did not offend a sensitive employee with an off the cuff remark. I have friends and acquaintances who have fallen foul of these state sponsored "human rights" crimes and it is cheaper to pay up a vexatious claim than fight in court against a no win no fee opponent.
I import my products from Taiwan. I would love to buy from the UK but the quality and price is not available as manufacturing has been encouraged to decline. The red tape involved in manufacturing has to be seen to be believed and making them myself is simply not an option.
This is all relevant to the scenes in London. We are no longer a democracy. We are a society where the majority is silenced by legislation and the fringes of both sides rule as successive governments try to appease and show themselves as equitable. Labour, conservative, liberal, there is no real difference. I am afraid the UK is in a downward spiral it will never recover from. I am only pleased I will not be here to see its demise and I fervently hope my Grandchildren take my advice and seek pastures new.
The blindfolded headlong rush to integrate into Europe speeded up the decline as powers once held as sacrosanct were handed over to faceless bureaucrats who were, in most senses of the word, none accountable. Employment law perfectly summarises this countries decline. In the forty plus years I have been at work the changes are unimaginable. No-one wants to go back to Victorian employment laws where workers lives were held with a certain level of contempt but we have now gone full circle the other way. I have started three businesses which have employed over 100 people over the years. Faced with starting out now, I would not even consider it. Employment law is a minefield, loaded against the employer. I would never now employ a woman who could get pregnant. I simply wouldn't be able to afford the benefits she would be entitled to should she become pregnant. Large corporations can afford these benefits but small firms cannot. Twitter followers have seen my sense of humour. I would have to curtail it completely as an employer to ensure I did not offend a sensitive employee with an off the cuff remark. I have friends and acquaintances who have fallen foul of these state sponsored "human rights" crimes and it is cheaper to pay up a vexatious claim than fight in court against a no win no fee opponent.
I import my products from Taiwan. I would love to buy from the UK but the quality and price is not available as manufacturing has been encouraged to decline. The red tape involved in manufacturing has to be seen to be believed and making them myself is simply not an option.
This is all relevant to the scenes in London. We are no longer a democracy. We are a society where the majority is silenced by legislation and the fringes of both sides rule as successive governments try to appease and show themselves as equitable. Labour, conservative, liberal, there is no real difference. I am afraid the UK is in a downward spiral it will never recover from. I am only pleased I will not be here to see its demise and I fervently hope my Grandchildren take my advice and seek pastures new.
Saturday 6 August 2011
Hi Twitter peeps.
This is my first time on the computer since my op and I thought I'd compile a diary of the weeks events. I'll be back on to annoy followers in the next couple of days.
Thursday 28th
As the day progressed anxiety began to grow. In the evening I decided to deflect the prospect of the following day by watching a film on Sky. An hour into it, Janet popped her head around the door. “What the hell are you watching that for?” she exclaimed. O.K. Perhaps Schindlers List wasn't the cheeriest of films to watch but, well.
Friday and Saturday
I slept fitfully and was early for my appointment at the Leeds General Infirmary. From 7.15a.m. I was subjected to the usual barrage of pre op tests and finally walked down to the theatre at 8.45a.m.
I had the usual gowns, one with my arse sticking out of the back and another to cover it. Next time I was really conscious I was back in bed, somewhat doped, with drips attached to various pre-drilled holes in my arms. The consultant arrived some time later to advise me the op had been text book other than taking an extra 25 minutes to drill through my old appendix scar. All told the op took 3 hours 55 minutes. The rest of the day and night were spent in and out of sleep. They brought me a sandwich which I think was previously used as a door wedge. It remained uneaten and the tea undrunk as I don't go for the Castrol GTX stuff. One disappointment. There were no pretty nurses, they were all men so I was happy a bed bath wouldn't be needed.
Consultant came back at 8.30am and, despite having a temperature, (me, not him) he told me I could go home that afternoon. Joy! All the drips were removed except the drain. They wanted to leave that in a little longer. They called it a drain, I'd say it was a sewer. The bloody thing went from just next to my belly button to my side, about 12 inches. It was fun having it pulled out. Blood spurted. All normal I was told, and a pad was put over it. Janet came to visit at 2.00 and was as surprised as she was delighted to be told I could go. The nurse checked the drain hole. It could have done with a man hole cover on it. He cleaned it and put on a bigger pad. “It should be fine” he said. I didn't care. I just wanted to go home. I won't comment on the journey. I'll just say it was “difficult”. We are about 20 miles from the hospital but it seemed like 200. I knew there was a problem when I got into the house and turned round to see the dog licking up blood. My trousers were saturated and it was dripping onto the floor.
I got to bed and Jan rand the hospital for advice. “Bring him back” they said. I'm not exactly sure what my reply was but it contained the words “fuck and “off”. This is where our NHS is brilliant. Within and hour a district nurse was at the house, cleaning the hole and putting so much padding on I like like a hunch side. We were relieved. I felt like shit (by coincidence I felt like having one too) but I was home and there was no further talk of going back in. The rest of the day passed, somehow. As the blood seeped through the dressings, Jan put on new ones to soak it. We need a new mattress now. This one looks like a ritual sacrifice has taken place on it, that or an elephant foetus was aborted.
I got through the next day and Jan and I were walking on the decking at 3.15 in the morning on Sunday as I tried to make some part of my body feel human. Jan has watched the op on the Da Vinci site and she assures me there is no part of it where the patient is repeatedly beaten with a cricket bat. I shall have to ask the consultant.
I often wondered what it would be like to have a lunch box like Linford Christie. What I had in mind however was the size not the colour. It does look odd, a little like a dead conker. I hate being catheterised. Only a complete masochist would enjoy one. It is however privately amusing to sit and have a pee and continue conversation with friends at the same time. On Tuesday the district nurse changed the pads for a bag for me to bleed into. It was a Godsend as we could empty it with a tap and it didn't leak. It also had the benefit of providing a good quality boost for Sundays gravy. Wednesday morning the bleeding stopped. Another tick.
Yesterday I had the catheter out. I pissed everywhere. The nurse was pleased as she wanted to see a flow as opposed to me going into retention. I doubt I have peed myself laying on my back since was 18 months old, not even when drunk. It was a weird experience made stranger by then being given a huge pad to put on. I could have leaked from both ends and that bugger would have taken it. It got me home and I changed it for another. All I needed was a bottle with a teat on it and a baby grow and the whole George Dawes experience would ensue.
It is now Saturday 6th at 2.18pm and the catheter has been out for about 28 hours. I got through the night dry. I still leak about one in three times when I stand but this seems to be a good position to be in so early. I had my first proper dump too this morning to take away another weeks discomfort. Offered last Saturday the chance to feel how I do now, I would have bitten their hands off. That must be a good sign. Writing this is a good sign as I certainly couldn't have done it yesterday. I even thought of two poor one liners, so I must be feeling better:
I was trying to think what the the term is for 6 foot deep was but I couldn't fathom it out
and
I love my wife's right leg. I also love her left leg but since she had a hysterectomy I haven't been able choose between them.
You try and think of something funny with a spike up your bits!
Tuesday 12 July 2011
It's almost a year since I wrote this blog so I thought it was time to update it having had much more experience of Twitter and considerably increased my following..
I am basically here for the humour. I joined a couple of years ago, followed Stephen Fry as you are supposed to, found it boring, and dropped out. In April 2011, Gabby Logan mentioned Twitter and my interest was piqued again. She advised us to follow Gary Delaney, adding he was hilarious though sometimes risqué. I did so and enjoyed some of his early posts. I particularly enjoyed one about him entering a semaphore marathon but after 18 hours he was flagging badly. I replied to a couple of posts he made but didn't, at the time, realise there was a hierarchy on Twitter to conform to.
Twitter basically falls into four levels or "social classes". There are the D listers where I am firmly rooted along with the majority of people who subscribe. Us D listers know our place. We sometimes tweet above our station and, feel excited when someone from an upper level gives us a compliment or a reply. Some might call it common courtesy but on Twitter, these are rare gifts. Most of the people I correspond with are also D listers, even though a few of them do comedy professionally.
The C listers are a strange breed. On here are unknowns who have become famous and lauded within the Twitter family. They feel they have elevated themselves to a higher status and they are due respect from their inferiors. There is an arrogance in their response to tweets from lower orders. Woe betide anyone who tweets a funnier reply than their post. That is unforgivable.They will not follow you, no matter how entertaining or funny you may be. If you do happen to attract a c lister to your following, don't post a funny reply to their tweets. They hate this and will immediately unfollow. The easiest way to spot a C lister for newbies is to check the retweets. They constantly retweet each others posts telling us how funny they are in case we didn't notice and commanding us to follow them.
They often grandly announce in advance that they are going to treat us to an old tweet of theirs so we can prepare ourselves for the merriment to come and gasp in admiration. I have taken to doing this as a piss take. I have no fear of retribution for saying this as no-one from this level would lower themselves to read an inferiors blog. I have lost quite a few C list followers. I am, of course, broken hearted. I do however still see most of their stuff as I follow one or two others and they constantly retweet them. None of them was much of a loss as there was often a touch of arrogance in their musings. I find far funnier tweeters at D level. To be honest, the people at this level are much better too. One thing you must never do to a C lister is question them or disagree with their pronouncements. That is a recipe for immediate banishment.
B list is the celeb level. On this level it can be quite confusing. There are celebs who wouldn't reply to their own mothers whereas some reply generously to questions or to remarks. A good example is David Baddiel who will comment if he sees something funny he likes or will reply if asked a direct question. I do. of course, take into account the fact that these celebs may be bombarded with tweets and it may be very difficult to answer a large number but, if you can't be arsed replying, don't bother posting. I still follow a couple on this level as I find them amusing or informative. I don't expect them to acknowledge my existance or humour me. C listers want to court the B listers. They suckle up to them and massage egos in the hope of kudos amongst their peers or admiration from their implied inferiors.
The A list is in space. It is reserved for the Lady Gaga's and Justin Biebers of this world. It is a publicity tool and offers little or nothing to the substance of Twitter. I follow no A listers.
I am more than happy to be a D with my contemporaries. I am more than happy to see some of them elevated to 2 or 3 and I will still follow them if they remember who us mere mortals are, when they ascend. I will however, continue to view the majority of C's with suspicion. Pride often comes before a fall. And, just in case I become famous (more likely infamous) I will continue to acknowledge the lower orders with a quip or remark, just so than can remind me of what a twat I have become
I am basically here for the humour. I joined a couple of years ago, followed Stephen Fry as you are supposed to, found it boring, and dropped out. In April 2011, Gabby Logan mentioned Twitter and my interest was piqued again. She advised us to follow Gary Delaney, adding he was hilarious though sometimes risqué. I did so and enjoyed some of his early posts. I particularly enjoyed one about him entering a semaphore marathon but after 18 hours he was flagging badly. I replied to a couple of posts he made but didn't, at the time, realise there was a hierarchy on Twitter to conform to.
Twitter basically falls into four levels or "social classes". There are the D listers where I am firmly rooted along with the majority of people who subscribe. Us D listers know our place. We sometimes tweet above our station and, feel excited when someone from an upper level gives us a compliment or a reply. Some might call it common courtesy but on Twitter, these are rare gifts. Most of the people I correspond with are also D listers, even though a few of them do comedy professionally.
The C listers are a strange breed. On here are unknowns who have become famous and lauded within the Twitter family. They feel they have elevated themselves to a higher status and they are due respect from their inferiors. There is an arrogance in their response to tweets from lower orders. Woe betide anyone who tweets a funnier reply than their post. That is unforgivable.They will not follow you, no matter how entertaining or funny you may be. If you do happen to attract a c lister to your following, don't post a funny reply to their tweets. They hate this and will immediately unfollow. The easiest way to spot a C lister for newbies is to check the retweets. They constantly retweet each others posts telling us how funny they are in case we didn't notice and commanding us to follow them.
They often grandly announce in advance that they are going to treat us to an old tweet of theirs so we can prepare ourselves for the merriment to come and gasp in admiration. I have taken to doing this as a piss take. I have no fear of retribution for saying this as no-one from this level would lower themselves to read an inferiors blog. I have lost quite a few C list followers. I am, of course, broken hearted. I do however still see most of their stuff as I follow one or two others and they constantly retweet them. None of them was much of a loss as there was often a touch of arrogance in their musings. I find far funnier tweeters at D level. To be honest, the people at this level are much better too. One thing you must never do to a C lister is question them or disagree with their pronouncements. That is a recipe for immediate banishment.
B list is the celeb level. On this level it can be quite confusing. There are celebs who wouldn't reply to their own mothers whereas some reply generously to questions or to remarks. A good example is David Baddiel who will comment if he sees something funny he likes or will reply if asked a direct question. I do. of course, take into account the fact that these celebs may be bombarded with tweets and it may be very difficult to answer a large number but, if you can't be arsed replying, don't bother posting. I still follow a couple on this level as I find them amusing or informative. I don't expect them to acknowledge my existance or humour me. C listers want to court the B listers. They suckle up to them and massage egos in the hope of kudos amongst their peers or admiration from their implied inferiors.
The A list is in space. It is reserved for the Lady Gaga's and Justin Biebers of this world. It is a publicity tool and offers little or nothing to the substance of Twitter. I follow no A listers.
I am more than happy to be a D with my contemporaries. I am more than happy to see some of them elevated to 2 or 3 and I will still follow them if they remember who us mere mortals are, when they ascend. I will however, continue to view the majority of C's with suspicion. Pride often comes before a fall. And, just in case I become famous (more likely infamous) I will continue to acknowledge the lower orders with a quip or remark, just so than can remind me of what a twat I have become
Thursday 7 July 2011
Walk Towards the Light
We went out for a meal last weekend with one of the small number of friends we have that you could call "spiritual". I can think of a much more apt and descriptive word but, as we enjoy their company, I refrain from my usual excesses.
Elaine has a guru. I would say, had a guru, but she disagrees as she still talks to him even though he died some years ago. She met him on a trip to India and he changed her life around. She readily admits to having lived life to the full but is now almost teetotal, a raging veggie and a little bit preachy. When I say a little bit preachy, I mean a lot preachy. I am pleased to say she no longer bothers with me. I am a lost cause not destined to enjoy the fruits of reincarnation due to my lack of faith or understanding. Even worse than not coming back, I may come back a little lower in the food chain. This got me to thinking about reincarnation and, what I would prefer to be reincarnated as.
My first question would be, how long do you have to wait before you come back and, if it's not instantaneous, what do you do whilst your waiting. Take Glen Hoddle. What the hell must he have been in a previous life to have come back as Glen Hoddle? If you come back straight away, it rules out Hitler or Stalin. Marcel Berr̩ (12 November 1882 Р27 October 1957) was a Belgian Olympic fencer who died around the time that Hoddle was born. Hoddle is renown for always sitting on the fence so there is a loose link there. Hoddle is a God botherer and I sometimes wonder if the Almighty (I'll suspend my beliefs for a short while) may get a little irritated with them.
If we assume there is just one God and the world religions choose to call him by a different name, just think of how many people are asking favours from him at any one time. He/she/it must get sick to death of it. I know I would. How often in life are we intrigued by the people that ignore us and take for granted the devout friends? I reckon I must be really high on his list of preferred subjects by now.
I have solved the mystery of people who have near death experiences. They all seem to come up with the same shared experience, describing being drawn to a bright light. Isn't it obvious? At the point of death we all become moths! Those little buggers are always drawn to the light. Moths are frees souls awaiting rebirth. If you see one in your wardrobe, eating your clothes, don't hit it with a newspaper. Talk to it. Let it hear soothing words as it passes from one life to the next. Git rid of the Flit and Vapona. At night, light every lamp you can to draw these wondrous beings towards you and bask in their spiritual glow. Sadly I have just realised that our cat must be responsible for the untimely demise of many a freed soul and, as for the chickens!
Having taken all this into account, I have decided what to aim for. I know what my next reincarnation will be if I get my wish so ladies, after my demise, when you sit on your bicycle or put on that soft creamy bra, think of me. I may be looking at you.
Elaine has a guru. I would say, had a guru, but she disagrees as she still talks to him even though he died some years ago. She met him on a trip to India and he changed her life around. She readily admits to having lived life to the full but is now almost teetotal, a raging veggie and a little bit preachy. When I say a little bit preachy, I mean a lot preachy. I am pleased to say she no longer bothers with me. I am a lost cause not destined to enjoy the fruits of reincarnation due to my lack of faith or understanding. Even worse than not coming back, I may come back a little lower in the food chain. This got me to thinking about reincarnation and, what I would prefer to be reincarnated as.
My first question would be, how long do you have to wait before you come back and, if it's not instantaneous, what do you do whilst your waiting. Take Glen Hoddle. What the hell must he have been in a previous life to have come back as Glen Hoddle? If you come back straight away, it rules out Hitler or Stalin. Marcel Berr̩ (12 November 1882 Р27 October 1957) was a Belgian Olympic fencer who died around the time that Hoddle was born. Hoddle is renown for always sitting on the fence so there is a loose link there. Hoddle is a God botherer and I sometimes wonder if the Almighty (I'll suspend my beliefs for a short while) may get a little irritated with them.
If we assume there is just one God and the world religions choose to call him by a different name, just think of how many people are asking favours from him at any one time. He/she/it must get sick to death of it. I know I would. How often in life are we intrigued by the people that ignore us and take for granted the devout friends? I reckon I must be really high on his list of preferred subjects by now.
I have solved the mystery of people who have near death experiences. They all seem to come up with the same shared experience, describing being drawn to a bright light. Isn't it obvious? At the point of death we all become moths! Those little buggers are always drawn to the light. Moths are frees souls awaiting rebirth. If you see one in your wardrobe, eating your clothes, don't hit it with a newspaper. Talk to it. Let it hear soothing words as it passes from one life to the next. Git rid of the Flit and Vapona. At night, light every lamp you can to draw these wondrous beings towards you and bask in their spiritual glow. Sadly I have just realised that our cat must be responsible for the untimely demise of many a freed soul and, as for the chickens!
Having taken all this into account, I have decided what to aim for. I know what my next reincarnation will be if I get my wish so ladies, after my demise, when you sit on your bicycle or put on that soft creamy bra, think of me. I may be looking at you.
Sunday 3 July 2011
God
I have never been trendy. I will never be trendy. I worry that if being untrendy ever becomes trendy I will disappear up my own backside in the confusion of working out how to solve the dilemma. I don't follow any fashion or music trends. I can't remember the last time I bought my own clothes. Actually, that's a lie. I bought a pair of hipster trousers in July 1969, taking a female work colleague with me for advice. Boy were they trendy. I think I wore them once. I preferred comfort. My label is Mattalan, Asda. and market stalls. God forbid they ever become the places to shop. I suppose I have had three mums. My mum, my first wife and Janet. They kept and keep me from looking like it is still 1969. I'd probably still be wearing my school uniform if I had it and it fit.
Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.
I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.
It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.
Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.
The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.
His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.
I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.
I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?
Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.
I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.
It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.
Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.
The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.
His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.
I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.
I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?
Friday 1 July 2011
On reflection.
Of all the myriad of inventions, discovered, manufactured or stumbled over down the centuries, two, for me, stand out. They basically carry out the same function. One shows you how you looked, whilst the other shows you how you look.
Before the invention of the camera, only the wealthy ever had their image recorded. I am discounting the shroud of Turin here. Whether you believe it is genuine (tehe) or another manufactured holy remnant for the tourists and the gullible, it cannot ever be proved to be a good likeness as there is no-one around to corroborate it. If he returns to prove me wrong, I shall wipe the egg off my face (as well as wiping the mess from my soiled underwear too). I never really believe that portrait painters actually captured true likenesses of their clients. It would be bad for repeat business if he, say, painted Wayne Rooney, looking actually like Wayne Rooney. How pissed would Wayne be if he paid a fortune only to be handed a likeness of something looking like the old lady he had shagged the night before?
Cameras have a tendency not to lie. I am not saying they don’t lie as Photoshop has proved that myth to be incorrect time and time again. I look in the mirror and, after the initial shock I think “yeah, not too bad. You look more distinguished it’s true and there are a couple more lines and the hair colour is a shade lighter but overall I haven’t changed that much”. Then I look at a photo from 30, 20 or even 10 years ago and I can no longer lie to myself. Not only is the hair lighter, some swine has buggered off with half of it. True, I had lines back then but they didn’t criss cross each other giving my face the look of an ordnance survey map of Ambleside. I also didn’t have that saggy bit which I now expertly conceal under a neatly trimmed goatee.
I once read of a woman who suffered a trauma to the head and every morning she woke up believing she was 18 and not in her 40’s. Every morning she looked in the mirror and screamed as an imposter stared back at her. Can you imagine the shock of looking in the mirror and expecting to see your younger self but instead seeing your Mum, or Dad, or worse staring back at you?
More scary are the full length mirrors. They are capable of such deceit. Our bedroom full length mirror is flattering. For some reason it stretches the torso and reduces the flab. The mirror in the bathroom doesn’t lie. I hate that mirror, even more so as it is opposite the toilet and, unless I have a good book, I have to stare at myself too many times a day in a position no-one should have to witness.
How many times have you seen someone in the street and said to yourself “God almighty, haven’t they got a mirror in their house”? They have, but they see themselves totally differently to the way the rest of the world sees them. Those tree trunk legs are shapely. The exposed midriff is taught and sexy, not somewhere you could imagine mushrooms growing in the underhang.
The world would be a better place without mirrors and cameras. Keep the kids photos. They are special and a reminder of youth but, once past twenty, forget it. Dump the camera and the mirrors and be happy.
Thursday 30 June 2011
Goodbye old friend
I will soon be saying goodbye to an old friend. A very old friend indeed. A friend who I have never been separated from since we first met each other. How we used to show off when we were kids. Frightening the girls was a favourite, pre school and at primary. We had outside toilets at our junior school. The girls used to tuck their knickers into their skirts and do hand stands up against the outside wall. Me and my friend could scale the wall with a quick burst of pee and drench them.
As we got older, our tastes changed. Our interest in girls changed too. They were no longer objects of fun but objects of strange curiosity. My friend would stand to attention at the drop of a hat (or the flash of knickers) and goad me into joining him in exploring the pleasures of the flesh. How we gorged. Our relationship became ridiculously close. We went everywhere together. His tastes and senses were far more acute than mine. Often he would take an interest in a girl that I hadn't seen the immediate attraction in. His judgement at first was sound. I never doubted him and his (often reckless) excesses. I forgave him everything.
The girls loved him too. They never seemed to tire of his attention and appreciation. His stamina seemed to know no bounds, and even after an intense workout, he could recover in no time at all and start all over again. I could never envisage a time when we would fall out or not need each other. Our mutual tastes and pleasures were so entwined we were able to spend hours in no-ones company but our own, reminiscing, looking for new challenges, new opportunities.
Then came the bombshell. He seemed to be slowing down. He had lost none of his enthusiasm and his stamina could only be marvelled at, considering his age but, something was wrong. We both knew it and, reluctantly, we confided in physicians in order to find the problem. At first the prognosis was good. We brightened a little. Perhaps we could see this thing through. Our optimism was misplaced. The writing was on the wall.
Within the next few days, our lifelong bond will be broken. Surgery will take away his very essence, his raison d'etre. Oh yes, there is a chance that some recovery will take place, but it is not a good one. Severing of vital organs will totally end the one function he was so damned good at. Never again will I see that proud look as he spills all before cosying up and resting until called upon to perform again.
Prostate cancer, I will never forgive you for damaging my oldest most trusted friend. My willy R.I.P.
As we got older, our tastes changed. Our interest in girls changed too. They were no longer objects of fun but objects of strange curiosity. My friend would stand to attention at the drop of a hat (or the flash of knickers) and goad me into joining him in exploring the pleasures of the flesh. How we gorged. Our relationship became ridiculously close. We went everywhere together. His tastes and senses were far more acute than mine. Often he would take an interest in a girl that I hadn't seen the immediate attraction in. His judgement at first was sound. I never doubted him and his (often reckless) excesses. I forgave him everything.
The girls loved him too. They never seemed to tire of his attention and appreciation. His stamina seemed to know no bounds, and even after an intense workout, he could recover in no time at all and start all over again. I could never envisage a time when we would fall out or not need each other. Our mutual tastes and pleasures were so entwined we were able to spend hours in no-ones company but our own, reminiscing, looking for new challenges, new opportunities.
Then came the bombshell. He seemed to be slowing down. He had lost none of his enthusiasm and his stamina could only be marvelled at, considering his age but, something was wrong. We both knew it and, reluctantly, we confided in physicians in order to find the problem. At first the prognosis was good. We brightened a little. Perhaps we could see this thing through. Our optimism was misplaced. The writing was on the wall.
Within the next few days, our lifelong bond will be broken. Surgery will take away his very essence, his raison d'etre. Oh yes, there is a chance that some recovery will take place, but it is not a good one. Severing of vital organs will totally end the one function he was so damned good at. Never again will I see that proud look as he spills all before cosying up and resting until called upon to perform again.
Prostate cancer, I will never forgive you for damaging my oldest most trusted friend. My willy R.I.P.
Wednesday 29 June 2011
Skeletons in the Closet
Despite its poor reputation for promoting the seamier side of life, the internet has also made so many different tasks simpler. My own business would not exist without it as I couldn’t possibly afford to travel around the Far East sourcing products. One or two clicks of a mouse and a whole myriad of products were at my fingertips. Another boon from the net has been tracing the past, in particular, your own past. A business trip to Belfast last year whetted my appetite to look in to my ancestry and, just over twelve months later, I have a published family tree with over 600 family members and more being added by the day. I have discovered cousins in Canada and the U.S. I had no idea existed. A few weeks ago a cousin visited from Canada for a couple of days. We knew nothing about each other until less than a year ago and there were many coincidences in our life patterns along the way. Her brother Ian even underwent the surgery I will be having in the next few days. Until I met him, I knew of no other cases of cancer in my family line. Heather started her research online thinking she was of Scottish extract with no other extended family. Now she knows she is Irish and has relatives by the score. Along the way she discovered her Grandfather was a double bigamist and had three families, none known to the others. I discovered my Granddad deserted from the Army in 1902 (it seems to get married) and was fined and dishonourably discharged. He redeemed himself, joining up in 1914 and being invalided out in 1916 after being buried alive by an exploding shell in the Flanders trenches. Just yesterday I found out which hospital he was in and I am now trying to find out anything I can about his stay there.
I owe my own existence to Michael Collins and his orders to execute a Lisburn based police inspector, witnessed by Aunts and Uncles as children outside church one Sunday lunchtime in 1920. This murder brought about the infamous Lisburn burnings. Without that, and the reprisals against Catholics in the town, my grandfather would never have emigrated to France and then to England where my parents eventually met. I have enjoyed the “Who do you think you are” series on the Beeb but most of us will have just as fascinating backgrounds if we only take the time to look. If you have not done so, I suggest you do. It is relatively cheap and the information is out there, if you take the time to look.
Thursday 23 June 2011
More one liners
I'm thinking of changing my hair style. A stone one would be more practical as the number of walkers has increased substantially lately.
I've been sacked by the local garden centre for not looking after the lawns properly. They gave me no warnings. I was just turfed out
I was thrown out of the magic circle as they said being dyslexic meant I couldn't spell properly.
When the Dr. asked me to come in short pants for my examination you can imagine my embarrassment at the misunderstanding.
I am opening a Hogwarts themed cafe with food served in flatbread. It's called Harry Pitta's
I've opened a themed cafe called cravats. We serve Thai food.
Just got back from the docs. I Had one of those annoying floaters in my eye. He told me to stop drinking out of the toilet bowl.
Kids are at a petting zoo. I'm fondling the mrs. next door at the heavy petting area.
Those golfers are pathetic taking a caddy with them every time they play a round. Why not make it easy and slip a flask in the bag?
Competitors in the German sausage eating championships have taken a turn for the wurst.
Damned Chinese car mechanic told me I had headlight problems. I bought new bulbs. Turned out I needed Hedrin and medicated shampoo.
They are casting locally for a production of the vagina monologues. I'm hoping to get a part in it.
Our local Chinese gangsters are looking for new members so they are going to triads in the local paper.
Golfer just took out a driver on the fairway. Bloody idiot shouldn't have parked there.
Ian Poulter had a 69 yesterday at the golf. It was a blow for the rest of the field.
Apparently panelists really enjoy recording "Q.I" but are never happy to go for a fry up afterwards.
Just got a quote of £3250 to have the house painted. Decided a photograph will be cheaper.
My pointing business has gone to the wall.
A thief dressed as a court jester stole our money from our lockers. We chased after him but he lead us a merry old dance.
I just got a job as P.R. for a firm marketing a new type of bicycle wheel. I am now their official spokes person.
My new business venture in producing Kangaroo meat is coming along in leaps and bounds.
Those who are guilty of cupboard love cannot complain when they are left on the shelf.
My mates fire breathing act was described as "rubbish" He was quite put out.
My dad used to tinkle on the ivories. His incontinence pants were useless.
The local chicken pox sufferers club is advertising a shingles only night.
My budgie was a bugger for flying into my tropical fish tank. I eventually had to knock him off his perch.
I was employed as a detective at a bedding factory investigating theft of sheets. I spent most of my time working under cover.
The audience were quite impressed at the ladies boxing championships until the referee knocked one out.
I bought a dvd from the market. It had a patch on it and was covered in salt and what looked like parrot shit. I think it was a pirate copy.
I asked the barman for a stiff drink. The viagra cocktail hit the spot.
I fell in love with a woman who assembled light switches on an assembly line. Ours was an on/off sort of romance.
I complained loudly to the decorator about the standard of his work but he just glossed over it.
I see those Irish family popsters have joined the charity brigade but feel that the name "Corrs for concern" is a little flippant.
I knew a scary frenchwoman who wore bread underwear. It was from a boo lingerie.
Following a lawn mower accident I kept falling over without warning. After tests, doctors advised me I was lack toes intolerant.
Sight sound, touch and taste were all a turn off to me until therapy helped me to come to my senses.
My wife's stutter means she has trouble with words like fellatio. She just can't get her mouth around it.
My drooling dyslexic mate was shocked to be given a tambourine when he believed he had joined the salivating army.
Children with special needs should be trained as bakers.
Just did some trading on the stock exchange. I just swapped a box of oxo cubes for a box of bisto.
My wife is in hospital having a CAT scan. I told her that her arse was too big and to be careful where she sat.
As a member of the Town's only gay male voice choir, I can confirm that we really do all sing from the same him sheet.
My wife and I couldn't think of a theme name for our forthcoming party. We've decided to call it a do.
I got told off yesterday when picking my nose. The surgeon was adamant that the one I chose wouldn't suit me.
My mate lived alone in a lighthouse for three months. Eventually he went stair crazy..
I'm just too tired to keep this Irish funeral celebration going. I simply cannot keep a wake.
The surgeon who wanted a sample of my brain tumour was out of order. I really gave him a piece of my mind.
My mother in law died yesterday from poisoning. It was inevitable one day that she would bite her own tongue.
Putting hydrochloric acid on her handkerchief sure wiped the smile off my wife's face.
I gave an editor all my one liners. He read them then covered them with his copy of the Observer. I fear he was papering over the cracks.
The architect was sacked when the building inspector fell into the cellar. He had misunderstood the request for no flaws in the plans.
I have a dreadful addiction to masturbating into jars of Hartleys strawberry jam. I got caught in Tescos but they are keeping a lid on it.
I met my wife on a morse code course. We were happy at first but then she left me. She said I'd started sending out the wrong signals.
Incompetent vaginal swab analysers have confessed to starting a badly flawed smear campaign.
Today's march by the pro teabagging anarchists is expected to end up with heavy police use of ketteling.
I will be shortly be expressing a doubt or choice between alternatives. That is the end of the whether forecast.
In mediaeval times torturers worked to a punishing schedule
Before I developed Parkinsons disease I used to love a glass of milk. Now it makes my stomach churn.
The inventor of alphabetti spaghetti insisted that when he died he wanted to be buried at C.
My wife accused me of masturbating whilst reading a book. I argued with her that I was only having a scratch and I'm sticking to my story.
I've written a playfully quaint, fanciful, appealing, amusing short story set to music and dance. I suppose you'd call it a little whimsical
A nasty bug is going round, I hope that I don't catch it, It's from a thrush, affects the bush and makes you want to scratch it.
My dyslexic neighbour went for a jog but ended up working in Sainsburys.
My Chinese neighbour turned to seafood after being trapped under stream roller. He became a crustacean.
I went on the Mothers Pride walk last year and got sandwiched between two protesters.
I left my job making devices to open doors as I couldn't handle it.
I've been waiting ages to hear how my interview went at the tennis racquet repair shop. I fear they may just be stringing me along.
I had a hobby doing silhouettes of people with scissors and cardboard . I made no money as I wasn't cut out for the job.
Pimples aren't so important but boils matter.
Our local undertaker put a body in the wrong plot yesterday. They have put their hands up and admitted to a grave error of judgement.
My philandering pal pretends to be at the golf club when being unfaithful to his wife. Luckily for him he hasn't been caught playing around.
You know that bloke who cuts your hair? I take my hat off to him
A local man has been arrested for interfering with fish. He said it started when he was a child and he became hooked on prawnography
Big noses run in our family
.
Mrs. doing volunteer work this morning for cat protection. Little buggers piss all over your door if you don't pay up every month.
A mate of mine dies after falling into a vat of fermenting cheese. He tried to stay afloat but was whey out of his depth.
I would have loved to have been a successful doctor but I just don't have enough patience
My investment in a new type of notice board is looking promising but I'm not pinning my hopes on it.
got a job as an extra playing an ice cream salesman in a film. My role was to melt into the background.
Want to know an funny story about a thorny subject? Thistle amuse you.
My bloody car keeps stopping and starting then going into a spin. I think it's the brake dancing
The inventor of the low cistern toilet was initially flushed with success
I can be a very belligerent market trader when I set my stall out.
I always keep the scales on cooked fish when I want a balanced meal.
You can count on the fingers of his right hand the number of views I have in common with Abu Hamza.
A horse walks into a bar after a particularly badly botched transplant operation. Barman: Why the lung face?
I, of course, always assumed that. The American space programme was all shuttlecocks until they finally sent a woman up.
I used to have a job lifting the lead singer of the Animals when he was drunk but eventually I couldn't carry the Burdon.
I've written a brilliant play about a dog walker. Can you suggest any suitable to take the lead?
Buskers often earn good money, at the drop of a hat.
My interview didn't go well. He asked me to make myself at home. The farting annoyed him but insisting he made my tea really pissed him off
The first spot the ball competition was held in the Blue streak Harem, Egypt in 1427.
The last thing an actress wants during a gynaecology examination is a big hand.
I wasn't able to offer money to the man collecting for the hernia awareness charity campaign but I was happy to offer him my support.
The woman surgeon who gave me cornea transplants was gorgeous. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
The editor was irate when I returned from an interview with a tape of the celeb chewing his dinner. How was I to know what a sound bite was?
I was hoping to use my experience as a tailor to launch myself as a stand up comedian but unfortunately I didn't have enough material.
I like to eat it nice and slow, my dopiaza curry, but must admit, when it turns to shit, it exits in a hurry
I pushed a mixture of turmeric, cardamom, and galangal up my bottom and ever since I have been walking rather gingerly
There has been a spate of robberies at houses belonging to 1980's over hyped pop and rock stars. Police as we speak are dusting for Prince
Whilst travelling in Iran I had an argument with my wife and she left for Iraq alone. Things are so bad now and there is a gulf between us
Wife just asked me to separate two eggs. I didn't even know that the little buggers were fighting.
My dad was same when the National Anthem was played by a brass band. He simply wouldn't stand for it.
Our neighbours were talking to us through gritted teeth last winter. The council snow plough had the spray turned up too high.
I passed out on the waterslide at Blackpool pleasure beach yesterday. I hate those wooden log carriages. I was overcome by flumes.
My eldest was born nine months after my wife had the flu. Though feeling dreadful she still wanted sex. The pregnancy was ill conceived.
My mate writes dreadful furniture reviews for DFS. He's a terrible armchair critic
Proceedings at the world masturbation championships were halted today when two contestants began to argue the toss.
In France Rabies is all the rage
I know a dyslexic homeless PDF writer who has no fixed adobe
I blame the Queen for it constantly pissing it down. Even our National Anthem asks her to rain over us. Get a grip
Builder told me my house urgently needs pointing. I'll sleep on it and decide which direction to take tomorrow.
I'm doing a three legged race tomorrow tied to a mate who is a superb runner. We are bound to win.
I am finding this pamphlet on how to attach steel girders together quite riveting.
Testicle transplants? That's a whole new ball game
I just had one of Walkers new "Heather and Peat" flavoured crisps. They are very moorish.
Another tip for mac users. Undoing the lowest two buttons enables a quicker flash and getaway.
My barber wants to give me a new style with hair short at the sides but long at the back. I need some time really so I can mullet over
I love my new bic biro, It cures all my writing fears, it works on any surface, and scoops the wax out from my ears.
I've just been expelled from the master guild of Tarot readers. To be fair, it's been on the cards for a while.
Did you hear about the woman who contacted the official receiver when she was told to fold her ironing board up?
Apparently one of my friends suffers from curvature of the spine. I have a hunch who it is.
My doctor tells me if I don't eat more fibre I'll end up constipated to a dangerous level. Personally I don't give a shit.
My hospital consultant was a former Road planner which explains why he told me I needed a bypass in a roundabout sort of way.
I'm worried as I tend to orgasm very quietly. My wife assures me however that sighs don't matter.
When walking barefoot where cheese has been dropped, it is advisable to tread Caerphilly..
The weather has varied so much today I've worn five different sets of clothes whilst cutting down a tree. I'm sick of chopping and changing
Sky News: The queen had been on the throne over 14 years when David Cameron was born. It must have been one hell of a curry.
Following a tip off, police have smashed a gang accused of multiple buggery attacks by taking the ringleader into custody.
Just heard about all those deaths in Syria. the Italian football authorities really need to clamp down on hooliganism.
Walrus trainers who pass their exams gain the seal of approval
French Peters crack under Pierre pressure.
My unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year old won't smile and shows no interest in girls. I'm worrying he is emosexual.
My lad complained like buggery when we enlisted him into the army. I am sure he said that one day he wanted to be a vet.
I think it is absolute folly, to class the obese as all jolly, I think it's just dire, to own a spare tyre, and push it around in a trolley.
In my long gone youth I was healthy if uncouth, Now every single day more of me rots away and I've got a broken tooth.
Asked what they wanted for Christmas M.P. Jake Berry said Berries, William Cash said cash and Therese Coffey, coffee. Ed Balls said fuck off
Sky News: Old man put to bed at 5.00pm and left there until 10.00am the following morning! Jammy bastard.
German shepherd turds are truly wondrous sights, not like normal stools, they are more like stalagmites.
I've been sacked by the local garden centre for not looking after the lawns properly. They gave me no warnings. I was just turfed out
I was thrown out of the magic circle as they said being dyslexic meant I couldn't spell properly.
When the Dr. asked me to come in short pants for my examination you can imagine my embarrassment at the misunderstanding.
I am opening a Hogwarts themed cafe with food served in flatbread. It's called Harry Pitta's
I've opened a themed cafe called cravats. We serve Thai food.
Just got back from the docs. I Had one of those annoying floaters in my eye. He told me to stop drinking out of the toilet bowl.
Kids are at a petting zoo. I'm fondling the mrs. next door at the heavy petting area.
Those golfers are pathetic taking a caddy with them every time they play a round. Why not make it easy and slip a flask in the bag?
Competitors in the German sausage eating championships have taken a turn for the wurst.
Damned Chinese car mechanic told me I had headlight problems. I bought new bulbs. Turned out I needed Hedrin and medicated shampoo.
They are casting locally for a production of the vagina monologues. I'm hoping to get a part in it.
Our local Chinese gangsters are looking for new members so they are going to triads in the local paper.
Golfer just took out a driver on the fairway. Bloody idiot shouldn't have parked there.
Ian Poulter had a 69 yesterday at the golf. It was a blow for the rest of the field.
Apparently panelists really enjoy recording "Q.I" but are never happy to go for a fry up afterwards.
Just got a quote of £3250 to have the house painted. Decided a photograph will be cheaper.
My pointing business has gone to the wall.
A thief dressed as a court jester stole our money from our lockers. We chased after him but he lead us a merry old dance.
I just got a job as P.R. for a firm marketing a new type of bicycle wheel. I am now their official spokes person.
My new business venture in producing Kangaroo meat is coming along in leaps and bounds.
Those who are guilty of cupboard love cannot complain when they are left on the shelf.
My mates fire breathing act was described as "rubbish" He was quite put out.
My dad used to tinkle on the ivories. His incontinence pants were useless.
The local chicken pox sufferers club is advertising a shingles only night.
My budgie was a bugger for flying into my tropical fish tank. I eventually had to knock him off his perch.
I was employed as a detective at a bedding factory investigating theft of sheets. I spent most of my time working under cover.
The audience were quite impressed at the ladies boxing championships until the referee knocked one out.
I bought a dvd from the market. It had a patch on it and was covered in salt and what looked like parrot shit. I think it was a pirate copy.
I asked the barman for a stiff drink. The viagra cocktail hit the spot.
I fell in love with a woman who assembled light switches on an assembly line. Ours was an on/off sort of romance.
I complained loudly to the decorator about the standard of his work but he just glossed over it.
I see those Irish family popsters have joined the charity brigade but feel that the name "Corrs for concern" is a little flippant.
I knew a scary frenchwoman who wore bread underwear. It was from a boo lingerie.
Following a lawn mower accident I kept falling over without warning. After tests, doctors advised me I was lack toes intolerant.
Sight sound, touch and taste were all a turn off to me until therapy helped me to come to my senses.
My wife's stutter means she has trouble with words like fellatio. She just can't get her mouth around it.
My drooling dyslexic mate was shocked to be given a tambourine when he believed he had joined the salivating army.
Children with special needs should be trained as bakers.
Just did some trading on the stock exchange. I just swapped a box of oxo cubes for a box of bisto.
My wife is in hospital having a CAT scan. I told her that her arse was too big and to be careful where she sat.
As a member of the Town's only gay male voice choir, I can confirm that we really do all sing from the same him sheet.
My wife and I couldn't think of a theme name for our forthcoming party. We've decided to call it a do.
I got told off yesterday when picking my nose. The surgeon was adamant that the one I chose wouldn't suit me.
My mate lived alone in a lighthouse for three months. Eventually he went stair crazy..
I'm just too tired to keep this Irish funeral celebration going. I simply cannot keep a wake.
The surgeon who wanted a sample of my brain tumour was out of order. I really gave him a piece of my mind.
My mother in law died yesterday from poisoning. It was inevitable one day that she would bite her own tongue.
Putting hydrochloric acid on her handkerchief sure wiped the smile off my wife's face.
I gave an editor all my one liners. He read them then covered them with his copy of the Observer. I fear he was papering over the cracks.
The architect was sacked when the building inspector fell into the cellar. He had misunderstood the request for no flaws in the plans.
I have a dreadful addiction to masturbating into jars of Hartleys strawberry jam. I got caught in Tescos but they are keeping a lid on it.
I met my wife on a morse code course. We were happy at first but then she left me. She said I'd started sending out the wrong signals.
Incompetent vaginal swab analysers have confessed to starting a badly flawed smear campaign.
Today's march by the pro teabagging anarchists is expected to end up with heavy police use of ketteling.
I will be shortly be expressing a doubt or choice between alternatives. That is the end of the whether forecast.
In mediaeval times torturers worked to a punishing schedule
Before I developed Parkinsons disease I used to love a glass of milk. Now it makes my stomach churn.
The inventor of alphabetti spaghetti insisted that when he died he wanted to be buried at C.
My wife accused me of masturbating whilst reading a book. I argued with her that I was only having a scratch and I'm sticking to my story.
I've written a playfully quaint, fanciful, appealing, amusing short story set to music and dance. I suppose you'd call it a little whimsical
A nasty bug is going round, I hope that I don't catch it, It's from a thrush, affects the bush and makes you want to scratch it.
My dyslexic neighbour went for a jog but ended up working in Sainsburys.
My Chinese neighbour turned to seafood after being trapped under stream roller. He became a crustacean.
I went on the Mothers Pride walk last year and got sandwiched between two protesters.
I left my job making devices to open doors as I couldn't handle it.
I've been waiting ages to hear how my interview went at the tennis racquet repair shop. I fear they may just be stringing me along.
I had a hobby doing silhouettes of people with scissors and cardboard . I made no money as I wasn't cut out for the job.
Pimples aren't so important but boils matter.
Our local undertaker put a body in the wrong plot yesterday. They have put their hands up and admitted to a grave error of judgement.
My philandering pal pretends to be at the golf club when being unfaithful to his wife. Luckily for him he hasn't been caught playing around.
You know that bloke who cuts your hair? I take my hat off to him
A local man has been arrested for interfering with fish. He said it started when he was a child and he became hooked on prawnography
Big noses run in our family
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Mrs. doing volunteer work this morning for cat protection. Little buggers piss all over your door if you don't pay up every month.
A mate of mine dies after falling into a vat of fermenting cheese. He tried to stay afloat but was whey out of his depth.
I would have loved to have been a successful doctor but I just don't have enough patience
My investment in a new type of notice board is looking promising but I'm not pinning my hopes on it.
got a job as an extra playing an ice cream salesman in a film. My role was to melt into the background.
Want to know an funny story about a thorny subject? Thistle amuse you.
My bloody car keeps stopping and starting then going into a spin. I think it's the brake dancing
The inventor of the low cistern toilet was initially flushed with success
I can be a very belligerent market trader when I set my stall out.
I always keep the scales on cooked fish when I want a balanced meal.
You can count on the fingers of his right hand the number of views I have in common with Abu Hamza.
A horse walks into a bar after a particularly badly botched transplant operation. Barman: Why the lung face?
I, of course, always assumed that. The American space programme was all shuttlecocks until they finally sent a woman up.
I used to have a job lifting the lead singer of the Animals when he was drunk but eventually I couldn't carry the Burdon.
I've written a brilliant play about a dog walker. Can you suggest any suitable to take the lead?
Buskers often earn good money, at the drop of a hat.
My interview didn't go well. He asked me to make myself at home. The farting annoyed him but insisting he made my tea really pissed him off
The first spot the ball competition was held in the Blue streak Harem, Egypt in 1427.
The last thing an actress wants during a gynaecology examination is a big hand.
I wasn't able to offer money to the man collecting for the hernia awareness charity campaign but I was happy to offer him my support.
The woman surgeon who gave me cornea transplants was gorgeous. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
The editor was irate when I returned from an interview with a tape of the celeb chewing his dinner. How was I to know what a sound bite was?
I was hoping to use my experience as a tailor to launch myself as a stand up comedian but unfortunately I didn't have enough material.
I like to eat it nice and slow, my dopiaza curry, but must admit, when it turns to shit, it exits in a hurry
I pushed a mixture of turmeric, cardamom, and galangal up my bottom and ever since I have been walking rather gingerly
There has been a spate of robberies at houses belonging to 1980's over hyped pop and rock stars. Police as we speak are dusting for Prince
Whilst travelling in Iran I had an argument with my wife and she left for Iraq alone. Things are so bad now and there is a gulf between us
Wife just asked me to separate two eggs. I didn't even know that the little buggers were fighting.
My dad was same when the National Anthem was played by a brass band. He simply wouldn't stand for it.
Our neighbours were talking to us through gritted teeth last winter. The council snow plough had the spray turned up too high.
I passed out on the waterslide at Blackpool pleasure beach yesterday. I hate those wooden log carriages. I was overcome by flumes.
My eldest was born nine months after my wife had the flu. Though feeling dreadful she still wanted sex. The pregnancy was ill conceived.
My mate writes dreadful furniture reviews for DFS. He's a terrible armchair critic
Proceedings at the world masturbation championships were halted today when two contestants began to argue the toss.
In France Rabies is all the rage
I know a dyslexic homeless PDF writer who has no fixed adobe
I blame the Queen for it constantly pissing it down. Even our National Anthem asks her to rain over us. Get a grip
Builder told me my house urgently needs pointing. I'll sleep on it and decide which direction to take tomorrow.
I'm doing a three legged race tomorrow tied to a mate who is a superb runner. We are bound to win.
I am finding this pamphlet on how to attach steel girders together quite riveting.
Testicle transplants? That's a whole new ball game
I just had one of Walkers new "Heather and Peat" flavoured crisps. They are very moorish.
Another tip for mac users. Undoing the lowest two buttons enables a quicker flash and getaway.
My barber wants to give me a new style with hair short at the sides but long at the back. I need some time really so I can mullet over
I love my new bic biro, It cures all my writing fears, it works on any surface, and scoops the wax out from my ears.
I've just been expelled from the master guild of Tarot readers. To be fair, it's been on the cards for a while.
Did you hear about the woman who contacted the official receiver when she was told to fold her ironing board up?
Apparently one of my friends suffers from curvature of the spine. I have a hunch who it is.
My doctor tells me if I don't eat more fibre I'll end up constipated to a dangerous level. Personally I don't give a shit.
My hospital consultant was a former Road planner which explains why he told me I needed a bypass in a roundabout sort of way.
I'm worried as I tend to orgasm very quietly. My wife assures me however that sighs don't matter.
When walking barefoot where cheese has been dropped, it is advisable to tread Caerphilly..
The weather has varied so much today I've worn five different sets of clothes whilst cutting down a tree. I'm sick of chopping and changing
Sky News: The queen had been on the throne over 14 years when David Cameron was born. It must have been one hell of a curry.
Following a tip off, police have smashed a gang accused of multiple buggery attacks by taking the ringleader into custody.
Just heard about all those deaths in Syria. the Italian football authorities really need to clamp down on hooliganism.
Walrus trainers who pass their exams gain the seal of approval
French Peters crack under Pierre pressure.
My unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year old won't smile and shows no interest in girls. I'm worrying he is emosexual.
My lad complained like buggery when we enlisted him into the army. I am sure he said that one day he wanted to be a vet.
I think it is absolute folly, to class the obese as all jolly, I think it's just dire, to own a spare tyre, and push it around in a trolley.
In my long gone youth I was healthy if uncouth, Now every single day more of me rots away and I've got a broken tooth.
Asked what they wanted for Christmas M.P. Jake Berry said Berries, William Cash said cash and Therese Coffey, coffee. Ed Balls said fuck off
Sky News: Old man put to bed at 5.00pm and left there until 10.00am the following morning! Jammy bastard.
German shepherd turds are truly wondrous sights, not like normal stools, they are more like stalagmites.
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