An old poem I wrote 20 years ago for one of the kids.

It was the 14th of August
A fine summer’s day
When Rita the budgie
She started to lay
A fine bird was Rita
Looked good for her age
But she wondered who put
A small egg in her cage

“How could this have happened?”
She cried to her mate
An old codger called Rover
Who just perched there and ate
“Oh never mind Rita
There’s no need for fuss
If the egg hatches, it’s company for us!

So Rita decided
To be a good mum
She manoeuvred the egg
To fit under her bum
She sat there for hours
With no time for slacking
But fear gripped her mind
As the egg started cracking

The egg began rolling
All over the cage
As if it were angry
And fuming with rage
But soon the egg tired
It seemed very weak
Until through a slight crack
Appeared a small beak

Rita heard little noises
“Perhaps baby’s in pain”
But then the wild spinning
Just started again
Then it fell silent
Until Rover said
“It looks like it’s coming lass
We’d better get wed”

They anxiously waited
For the chick to be born
But the egg simply lay there
Looking lost and forlorn
But just as the parents
Were filling with dread
The shell split clean open
And out popped a head

As the chick looked around him
His mum said, appalled
“He’s not a good looker
Good gracious he’s bald!”
Rover just smiled
Before he replied
“All babies are hairless”
But Rita just sighed.

The egg shell was open
And the chick tried to talk
But all they could hear
Was a faint little squawk


“What shall we call him?
Rita's answer was cool
“With his ugly bald head
Let’s call him Yul!”

Rover said to his mrs
“How clever you are
What a smashing idea
He may become a film star”
So they looked after baby
Who could pass as a crow
But as days turned to weeks
Feathers started to grow
“A fine body of plumage”
It was quite often said
Except for the bald patch
On top of his head

Yul the bald budgie
Was quite an attraction
Which gave both his parents
Immense satisfaction
Although he looked silly
Standing out in a crowd
Young Yul’s sad affliction
Made both parents proud.

This state of affairs
Would be ample for some
But no-one was aware
That far worse was to come

Yul was quite greedy
His food intake was high
His girth was so fat
He was unable to fly

When his cage door was opened
With wings spread to soar
But sadly the fat bird
Crashed down to the floor

He clambered  back up
A sad, sorry sight
Yul the bald budgie
Had an absence of flight

Despite many attempts
To launch into the air
Yul remained grounded
But he didn’t care

His cage was quite cosy
With good food to eat
And he cared not one joy
He could not see his feet.

One day  he was dozing

His mum brought a pilot
With a tiny hand glider
He stuck the frame to Yul’s small wings
They spread out far and wide
And after being kicked from the open door
Yul began to glide

He soared past trays of teacups
And bombed the stereo
He circled round the three piece suite
There was nowhere he couldn’t go
He skirted the coffee table
Then circled the suite again
Until he came to a juddering halt
As he hit the window pane

The flight abruptly finished
With feathers everywhere
But Yul was so ecstatic
He simply didn’t care
He called out for his mother
And asked his dad to fetch her
And lo within a blinking eye
He was laid out on a stretcher

It took poor Yul a week or two
But he gradually recovered
Helped by goodies from his dad
And being permanently mothered.
And the moral of this story
Is one all of us should keep
Don’t over eat and end up fat
And look before you leap.

Dogs. Part 1

Growing up I detested dogs. I think the main reason was my two year stint as a paper boy. I was charged at, nipped, growled at, snarled at, you name it I experienced everything there is to dislike about dogs, and more. When my current wife and I got together, she wasn't a wife in the legal sense for a short time, she came aloing with two kids and two dogs. The kids I could cope with but the dogs :(

There was Jasper, a smelly and very elderly Springer spaniel and Thomas a youngish Jack Russell. We had only been together a few weeks when the decision was taken that Jasper was too ill to continue. I'm appalled to say it was a relief to me. I hadn't really got to know him at all and most of my time was spent ordering the Russell off the couch. We took Jasper to the vets and a very tearful wife emerged a few minutes later. I'm now rather ashamed at my lack of empathy at the time.

As weeks went by Thomas got to know me and vice versa. I soon gave up with trying to keep him off the furniture. He hadn't been neutered and spent more than one night howling away if there was a bitch on heat nearby. We took care of that.

After 18 months we moved house to a place with a couple of acres of land. We decided to have another dog, I had now changed my mind about them, and we bought a German Shepherd pup we named Eva (as in Eva Braun). Eva was a one person dog, me. She took no interest in other people or dogs, other than Thomas who was the boss. She was enormous, even for a GSD and it used to amuse us how people would turn and walk the other way if we were out on a walk. She just ignored them unless, of course, they came too near us then she'd stop and glare. People rarely came near us. During the day she would sit on the kitchen windowsill and anyone passing would look up to see this enormous dog looking down at them.

Tragedy struck a year later. We were watching the TV and heard a squeal of tyres. The back door latch hadn't been secured properly, Thomas got out and was hit by a speeding car which, despite leaving damaged parts behind, didn't stop. It was terrible burying poor Thomas in the field and every day for weeks Eva went to the spot where I had put him whilst I dug the hole.

It took a while to decide what to do. Eva was moping so we took the plunge and bought a golden retriever pup, Elsie. She was so gentle and Eva took to her immediately. The only problem was that Eva was rough in her play and we worried that she might accidentaly harm Elsie. We took the plunge, went to a rescue shelter and picked out a sad looking dog with an underbite and a shape that looked like a cross between a collie and a pot bellied pig. We changed the terrible name she had from Kelly to Maisie, had the broken leg she had, not noticed by the shelter, and we became a three dog household. Not bad for someone who loathed dogs.

Time Travel

I watch many varied things on the TV whilst on my exercise bike for a couple of hours every day. Often my mind wanders depending on what I am watching.

Whilst watching some crap about time travel I started to think of where I would go and who I would visit if I could go back in time for an hour or two. I'd probably go and see my mother before she met my dad but that might end up with me not existing to be able to go back to visit my mother before she met my dad. Of course, if I didn't exist I couldn't have gone back in the first place to cause whatever it was that stopped me existing in the first place.It gets quite confusing if you think about it too deeply.

One scenario I gave thought to was "what would I say to the Beatles if I met then in, say 1966 and had an hour just to chat?"

If you can imagine the scene, you've chatted about the music and yourself and, being open minded people, they accept that you are from the future and inevitably want to know what it holds in store for them.

John: You have a crazy few years John. You meet a Japanese woman who is famous for letting people cut off her clothes with scissors until she is naked on stage. She seems to be the only woman in the UK who says they have never heard of you. You fall madly in love with her and bring her in to all the recordings you do with the group. The lads get pissed off with this but you don't care and you get married and have a honeymoon inside a bag in a room in the Amsterdam Hilton. You make an L.P. where you're both photographed bollock naked for the cover. One side of the L.P. is your wife wailing as she has a misscarriage. Eventually you move to the US and she gets a bit bored of you so she sets you up with a young Japanese woman who you move in with for a year or two. Eventually she gets fed up of him and orders you back and you have a son who ends up quite talented. In 1980 a fan shoots you and you die on the way to hospital.

George. You get more and more frustrated that you don't get your songs on the albums and you eventually bring out a triple album of your own which is critically acclaimed. This is after you write two songs for the final Beatles album, one of which becomes probably the most popular Beatles track of all time. Eric Clapton falls for your mrs. and buggers off with him. You get deep into Indian culture and spirituality. You meet an attractive, unknown woman who you marry and have a son with. In 1999 a lunatic breaks into your house and stabs you seven times. Eventually you overcome him with the help of your wife who hits him over the head with a poker and an antique vase. Sadly, possibly caused by years of smoking you have various types of cancer and eventually it takes you away in 2001.

Paul. Fuck me. Are you ready for this? After many happy years of marriage your first wife dies and you marry a one legged escort girl who eventually takes you for 25.5 million when you divorce her.

Ringo. In my time you're still Ringo but with dyed hair.

How times change.

In 1920, Irish rebel leader Michael Collins ordered the murder of police inspector Swanzy in Lisburn, Northern Ireland as they received intelligence that he was passing information regarding natonalists over to the army and, in particular, the Black and Tans.

Swanzy was shot dead outside church on August 22nd 1920. My grandmother was preganant with my dad but, outside the church were five of her kids who all witnessed the murder. One ran home telling her that she had seen the police chief being killed and his “puddings” were all spilling out.

Riots followed and many catholic houses were ransacked or burnt out as well as over thirty bars in the small town. Most catholics were sacked and could only return to work of any kind if they signed an allegiance to the crown. The whole time became famously known as the Lisburn burnings.

My grandad lived on Canal Street. The canal ran by the road end and every house but his was ransacked and the belongings thrown into the canal. As they reached his house someone shouted “George Campbell lives there and he fought in the war” The house was spared. A day or two later they were paid a visit by the local IRA. They said they knew why his home was untouched but there were rumblings from others and he had better be careful. He had, of course, also lost his job.

The same day, he saw an advert for Mill workers in Vierzon Forges in France in the local press. He took himself off to France, not speaking any French, got a job, came back and, Grandma, Granddad and six kids all moved to France.

There are a legion of stories that followed that would fill a book but the best one for me involves my dad. There is a famous hotel in Corneville in Normandy, where they had moved to (they moved many times) by the time he was five or six. This would be around 1926. My dad and a friend used to fish trout from the two local rivers and sell them to the chef at the hotel.

One day they were outside the hotel and a car pulled up. They were lucky if they saw one car a day. My dad heard the couple talking and realised they were English. The man got out of the car and asked my dad, in broken French, for directions. My dad answered him (he was of course a fluent french speaker) in English, with an Irish accent. The man just stood and stared back in astonishment, not understanding why some scruffy french street urchin had spoken to him in English. He scratched his head and drove off with a bewildered look on his face.

This generation is the last of its kind. When the last one is gone, they will be sorely missed

Just back from a visit to see the old feller. It's fair to say it was a little contentious.

After lively discourse explaining why we were there on a Tuesday (I was not aware that he had introduced an appointments system for visits) a sigh changed the direction of the conversation

Apparently I'd be as miserable as he is when I get to 95 (God forbid either eventuality) if my knees were as bad as his. At this juncture I pointed out for the umpteenth time that he refused operations for replacements some 15 years ago as "it wasn't worth it at my age" He replied with pointing out there there is nowhere in this place where he could hang himself. I checked and he was correct. I confirmed that the ceiling wasn't strong enough to take a hook and his bad knees would prevent him from climbing onto a chair anyway. He gave me a death stare.

Trying to be helpful I suggested to him the same outcome could result if he stopped taking the 20 plus pills he takes. "Bloody pills" he replied "They're useless. I have no idea why I take them". I asked him if he still had the epileptic fits. "What fits" he replied. "I've never had any fits". Janet and I then spent a few minutes describing the effect they had on him but he had no recollection of ever having them. We were wrong. The pills must work. To try and lighten a gloomy mood and lower my blood pressure (the room was now boiling hot) I asked him if he had any idea where his letter to his parents was, the one that he wrote during the war. After a few moments thought he said "You mean the one I sent from Italy?" "Yes" I replied. Da (His father) has it"

I pointed out that his dad died in 1963. He said that was the last time he heard about it. I pointed out I read it about five years ago when he lived in the flat. He asked me which half of the letter I had read. The part his dad had or the missing part. It took me a while to explain that I would have some difficulty reading the missing part. He called me a bloody idiot. He then said that Geordie (his brother) had it. I pointed out that Geordie had been dead for over ten years. After his reply to that I also had to remind him that Paddy was dead. I gave up on the letter. A typical visit to the home.

I just watched the James Randi documentary for the second time. Randi is a magician and escapologist who has performed for over 60 years.

In the 1980's he was appalled by the number of psychics who were fleecing the public with faith healing and fortune telling. He set out to expose them and made himslef very unpopular with a 100% record of exposing fraud putting many lucrative careers out of business.

He particularly loathed Uri Geller and famously set him up to fail his psychic tests live on the Johnny Carson show. Geller failed miserably and the show ended in chaos as Geller advised Carson that "He wasn't feeling it tonight" so he couldn't go on.

Geller went on to receive substantial funds from the American psychic research facility who then announced he was the genuine article. Scientists subjected him to rigorous testing and Geller passed them all.

An extemely pissed off Randi then infiltrated the organisation and trained two young magicians to perform all the Geller tricks. They were tested and tested by scientists who also pronounced them as genuine psychics.

Randi exposed the fraud on national TV but, rather than admit they had been fooled, they took the Geller line that Randi too was a mystic but didn't realise it.

The whole point of this post is how similar it seems to the modern religion of man made climate change. Scientists have made up their minds and nothing short of a milenium long ice age will change this.

It seems, the higher the IQ, the easier it is to fool people.

World Cup 2030

The voting has taken place at FIFA headquarters in Iran and outsiders Saudi Arabia have won the rights to the 2030 tournament. There were claims of racism after a newspaper poll found that every single delegate had voted for them. By a weird coincidence, all the delegates had at least one hand missing.

FIFA president Sam Allardyce, who earlier described his presidency as his "dream job" said, he was delighted at the result and, at the same time denied rumours he was now at number nine in the Forbes list of the 20 wealthiest men in the world.

If England get through their difficult qualifying group alongside Andorra, Brunei Darussalam, Macau and Bingley, captain Wayne Rooney says he is confident England will progress to their usual place in the quarter finals before being elimininated by the lowest ranked team still in the tournament. Rooney, who will be 45 when the tournament kicks off, also guarantees that he will add to his tally of goals for his country despite not having scored since 2016.

England sponsors, Stannah Stairlifts, are pouring money into youth football to bring down the average age of the England team in the hope that fresh talent will emerge. England vice captain, Wayne Rooney, fully supports this move though warning that the old brigade won't give up their positions without a fight. Rooney has come under fierce scutiny since he was appointed England manager and appointing Vera O'Flynn, a ninety two year old former masseuse, as the team physio.

Early betting puts the hosts Saudi Arabia as favourites, followed by Kuwait, the UAE and Allardyce Rovers, who qualified without playing, in a secret ballot.

One of the BBC's Christmas highlights is a new episode of Sherlock. I really enjoyed the previous series, second only to the great Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce who will never be bettered.

Despite this, I don't think I will enjoy it as much as before. Instead of seeing Sherlock, I will see Cumberbatch preaching and sneering at people who don't share his lovey views on the world and how we should be managing it.

I won't see Watson but, Martin Freeman telling us how the Labour Party and, Ed Milliband in particular, were the only choice to take the country forward and rid us of the misguided people who think that socialism isn't the great answer to everything.

I am sure they are perfectly decent people but, they should stick to what they do best, pretending to be someone else. If they want to be politicians, drop the day job and try to earn a living as a politician. I doubt the money would tempt even their social consciences.

Grannies in the groove

My dad moved into a care home a few weeks ago as it was no longer safe for him to live alone. This follows on from my late mother who moved into a brilliant care home some years earlier as her memory disappeared with dementia. We knew the time had come for her when my dad fell in the bathroom and lay on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall for over twelve hours without my mum noticing he was even missing. Making him tea with cold water or gravy browning was one thing but this was a step too far.

What brought this to mind was looking at a notice board in his new home and seeing various events for the residents lined up. These included horticultural lessons, talks from guest speakers and music and dance. Anyone who knows my dad will realise that this notice is of no interest to him as he makes a hermit living in a cave look social by his standards. With my mother it was different. She loved the weekly sing songs and the dancing. It took her back to her youth and she was a young woman in her head for a short time.

She could never remember what music had been playing when I asked her but other residents told us that it was mainly war time stuff with Vera Lynn and Glen Miller type favourites. Of course, all the old ladies loved these and looked forward to them every week. Occasionally there was a comedian who would tell jokes going back to the period they knew best. This got me thinking.

Move forward a decade or two and what will it be like when the children of the 1950's are in the homes. What will the entertainment be then? It will be no good playing "we'll meet again" to them as that will be the music of their parents. Can you picture the scene? In comes the entertainer. He sets up his equipment and seconds later blasts out "One two three o clock four o clock rock and all the grannies stagger to their feet and start jiving around the room. The older gents will try their best to curl their top lips like Presley without, hopefully, their top set of dentures falling out. St John's ambulance will be outside to give oxygen and take care of dislocated hips. The cooler women will sit and hand jive whilst the teddy boys will snarl and look on with disdain.

Move forward another decade and we will have old men head banging bald heads to America by the Nice and playing air guitar to 21st century schizoid man. The folkies will try and squat on the floor when Dylan is on and aggravate pleurisy by attempting to smoke a joint after breaking a finger or two whilst rolling it. The old mods will glare at the old rockers whilst hippy grannies try to dance naked to Jefferson Airplane. The local hospital will have a deluge of dislocated hips after every Chubby Checker record.

The next decade will all dig out their flares and apply copious amounts of make up whilst getting down to Bowie and Bolan. Old men will relax back in a chair listening to "Tales from Topographic Oceans" and criticize others for "not getting it". The younger end will jump to their feet at the first hearing of. "God save the queen, it's a fascist regime" and old ladies will have the safety pins removed from their knickers and stuck through their top lips. Men with three hairs will cough up a lump of gunk and spread it through them to get an authentic punk look. And what about the comedy? Will they laugh at a Bernard Manning tribute act when a fat old bloke comes on and starts telling jokes about Pakis?

You can take this as far as the next decade where there was still a definite style. Young romantic old folk dressed like Steve Strange and cursing Joe Dolce for keeping "Vienna" from number one. I can see in my minds eye the DJ playing the gap band and all the old folk sitting on the ground rowing and then having to sit there and piss themselves waiting for the carers to come in and pick them up. Worse still, how about a granny twerking!

I have given you a glimpse of your future. Be prepared.

Tradition is on the way out. A serious viewpoint

It's an eye opener when things you have been lead to believe were true from childhood turn out to be nonsense

Yesterday the dustmen were emptying bins at the end of the street and I stopped for some happy discourse. The first thing I noticed was that none of them were wearing hats which was a surprise. You can then imagine my shock to discover that there was not a pair of cor blimey trousers to be seen. I was appalled at this lack of respect for tradition.

Things got worse as I realised that they were mostly wearing trainers. I asked them why there wasn't a pair of daisy roots to be seen and there were mumblings of "he's probably a bloody immigrant or a care in the community"

Once I had gained their confidence I broached the subject of accomodation. Of the three men, one was living with his parents whilst the other two had semi detached dwellings in Greetland to go home to, not a council flat in sight.

It seems dustmen have now joined the aspiring middle classes and the song is in need of a 21st century update.

Tonight I will be placing my chewing gum on my bedpost and will report back my findings as to flavour in due course.

Hindsight and regret

A few weeks ago I noticed that the youngest brother of a family I used to be very friendly with, was on facebook. I had known them since I was twelve and the eldest son was best man at my first wedding and I was best man at his. Another brother, John, became a good friend as we got older and his elder brother went off to university. John and I had similar personalities, both opinionated and smart arses and we argued as much as got on over all manner of trivia. We were both overly sarcastic at times but we had a real friendship.

John queued for tickets for us to see Led Zeppelin whilst I provided the transport. We went to see King Crimson. I dragged him to see Budgie and he blackmailed me into a Trapeze concert. A group of us Island Hopped around Greece in the late seventies and he dragged us along on two skiing holidays with a group of his adrenalin junkie friends. As we got older, we drifted as we all had jobs in different parts of the country. I divorced with the usual acrimony that entails and we lost touch. I built a new life with new friends. Over the years, I'd hear snippets about them from mutual acquaintances or from my sisters bumping into their parents. I was told I should call and see their Mum and Dad but didn't.

Rather bizarrely, over the last six months, I began having dreams about my old friend David. I say bizarre as he still looked 30 and, in my dreams was a complete bastard. He is anything but. I began to think that it would be good to get in touch but, apprehension ruled. I couldn't help thinking that perhaps, all we would have in common is the past.

As I said at the start, the chance to communicate presented itself and I took it. Three weeks ago, John was killed in a mountain bike accident. He was 59 and still an adrenaline junkie. All being well, I will be meeting all these people next Monday, at his funeral. I cannot think of worse circumstances.

A saying you so often hear is "It's never too late". Sometimes it is.

School (part one)

Just last night I realised that is is fifty years to the week since I started my first term at Grammar School. Ours was the first "post eleven plus" year but I think I can say without arrogance, I was probably bright enough to have passed that anyway.

I was a catholic and went to catholic Junior School. I can still vividly remember my first day, at four and a half years old, walking up the road with my lovely Granddad who stood and watched as I was ushered into the place. It seemed vast, milling with kids of all shapes and sizes, none of whom I knew. My big sister was there but I didn't see her as we had started an hour later on the first day.

My teacher was Miss Ellison and I fell in love with her immediately. I reckon she was about 21. She had short curled hair and wore cotton v necked jumpers and a tweedy type skirt, over the knee of course. It's a little disturbing now that I actually remember what my first school teacher used to wear. It would probably freak her out. My oldest sister saw her last week at a funeral. She will be around 77 we worked out. I can only see her as a lovely 21 year old.

I was teachers pet. I learned to read very quickly and went through the blue books and green books in no time at all. Miss Ellison used to let me pick a more challenging book from the small library they had so I didn't get bored but I think she was right when she told me I wouldn't find "The diaries of Samuel Pepys" too exciting. I made friends. John Ellerton, Michael Carter, Mark Abberton and others. I haven't seen any of them for longer than I can remember.

The school day seemed to mainly consist of catechism with Miss Mullarkey. She was the head teacher and a formidable woman. She scared the bejesus out of the kids and many of the parents too. Oddly, I remember her deferring to my Dad. Most people did. Who made you? God made me. Why did God make you? God made me etc etc etc. I can still recite all that crap now. We learnt them all off by heart. On a positive note we also had our times tables hammered into us. I am grateful for that now. It should still be compulsory. Teachers were allowed to slap kids but, by and large we were well behaved and I can't remember any punishments. That changed dramatically at Grammar School. We all got a bollocking when the fist male teacher arrived at the school. John Leedle. He was the first teacher who seemed to have a first name too. He played the violin and we were amazed as we crowded at the classroom door to see him play. Miss Mullarkey was not amused.

I could waffle on for hours about this period of my life, playing football in the tiny yard, rolling up for Robin Hood or William Tell. Red rover was one of my favourites as I always broke through the chain. I must have been a little fat sod. I must tell my favourite story though. All the school was assembled in one classroom. We were being given some instruction or other when the most disgusting smell permeated the air. We've all had the farts at inappropriate times but this was the gold medal of stinks. It had an odour of egg belch and mature Camembert. Kids were holding their noses and the odd one was retching. Finally, the teachers broke ranks and it was the lovely Shirley Ellison who asked the most amazing question. "Which one of you hasn't cleaned their teeth this morning"

I loved that woman.

My Guide to Twitter

It's over two years 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. If you tweet something with a copule of words in it that a C lister may have tweeted previously, boy are you in trouble. You will be accused of plagiarism and stealing from these talented folk. Personally, I am sure that 90% of one liners on twitter must have been done before in once form or another. I have seen my own done frequently but wouldn't dream of challenging someone (unless they copied them word for word)as I have no way of knowing if mine was original in the first place.

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

Dogs v People

As some will know, we have a poorly dog. Steffi has continued to have mild strokes. We got back from holiday last Saturday and on Sunday she collapsed again. She hasn't walked since. She neither ate nor drank anything for 36 hours and we called the vet to euthenise her.

The vet explained that, due to her heart failure, giving the traditional injection would be very difficult as her veins will have contracted. The alternative, an injection of sedative, can have a short term but distressing effect on the dog causing her to thrash around until it takes her away. We could not stand the thought of that. He told us that, as she wasn't neither eating nor drinking she would probably go during the night. With trepidation, we crept downstairs on Monday morning, expecting to find her dead but no, she was still with us, still hardly moving but following us with her eyes.

Come Monday afternoon, she was drinking again and showed interest when we fed Harry so we steamed her two chicken breasts which she wolfed down. Since then she has eaten two more along with a tin of tuna and a number of biscuit treats. She will still not get up. Jan is cleaning her when necessary. It is a real dilemma. I have already started to dig a hole in the garden where we can put her. She is in no apparent pain. We will ring the vet again tomorrow for more advice.

We had quite a bit of snow on Monday. Harry and Steffi loved the snow. They used to charge through it and dive into it. Steff wouldn't move and Jan took Harry out in it. He just stood still looking forlorn. It wasn't the same for him without his sister. He peed, turned and walked back into the house. He has stopped bringing toys over to Steffi to play with. He realises there is something wrong. He is just moping around. I have no idea what he will do when the inevitable happens. They are inseparable. Steffi and Harry have been perfect pets and companions. We have not had a second of bother with them. They have been totally loyal,protective but never aggressive. They adore the girls, making a fuss of them every time they visit.

They will be my last German Shepherds. I wept buckets holding my last GSD as they put her to sleep. I hope I will be more pragmatic this time but it will be tough. Dogs give you unconditional love and loyalty asking for nothing in return. How I wish I could say the same of people.

December posts

Chuck Berry had a wine making brother who was two years older than him. His favourite was elder Berry.

Just read a great book about a kiln operative who juggled ale bottles. It was the autobiography of Beer Tricks Potter.

My mate, an airline pilot, was bet that he couldn't land the plane with his eyes shut. He was sure he could but wasn't banking on it.

Who the hell was good king Wences? What was so special about his lass that they wrote a bloody song about her?

Food critic Ronay's venture into social media with his food "myface" site, has flopped. A major investor Quoted "I am left with Egon Myface

After a hearty Christmas dinner, we like to eat a tasty eczemas pudding, made from scratch.

I always thought that Yuletide was the dirty water mark around Brinners bath.

I splashed out on a new pair of shoes yesterday. Fortunately they were leather so they dried quickly. Bloody prostate.

The height of palm trees is measured in hands.

I only ever buy real buckets. I hate pail imitations.

My mate tells me there is a bungee jumping school opening locally. He thinks I'm stupid. I'm not falling for that one.

Went to a gents outfitters yesterday and came out stinking of piss with a packet of condoms in my pocket.

The act of buying a copy of the "lion sleeps tonight" is often just a whim away.

Last time I was in Jerusalem there were lots of people blubbering over a pile of bricks. It was later I found out it was the whaling wall

I was followed by one of the George Mitchell minstrels so I blacked him.

Surprised to hear that Strictly's Dani Harmer is engaged to Will Self. I must admit though that Dani Self Harmer is a cutting edge name.

Bought the kids a "Moggies' boarding home" game for Christmas only to open it and find we couldn't play it as Catteries weren't included.

I have found a cure for people who cannot help letting out breath audibly. Clinical trials have shown there to be no sighed effects.

I've written a new novel called 13 Amp and I want to plug it in here.

I bought my wife the cricketers almanac last year not the biography of Oscar Wild. I thought she said she wanted a few words of Wisden.

My wife won't give me a hint at what she wants for Christmas saying It's the thought that counts. I bought her a book on mental arithmetic.

I was admiring my waxwork figure in Tussauds when the eldest Beverley sister walked over and stood next to me. I was beside myself with Joy.

I once tried to steal some broken bathroom scales despite knowing I was unlikely to get a weigh with them,

Very surprised to hear that Hank Marvin has joined the labour party and immediately given the job as shadow minister for music.

Our local solicitors, Fi Fo and Fum, operate on a no win no fee basis.

I went into a shop and asked for jump leads yesterday. Assistant sold me tickets to the next athletics meeting at the Don Valley stadium.

Couldn't understand why my piano stank of fish when I opened the lid until I was told the Tuna had just been messing about with it.

My mate is so dumb, he moved to Essex when he heard there was a Brain Tree there.

Local barrister caught "In flagrante" with a heavily sedated sheep said he couldn't resist being called to the Baa.

The Mum of U2's guitarist got told off for sitting on the bonnet of the new, Spanish built car he bought. She was on the SEAT of her Edge.

Just heard from the horses mouth at my agents that I have a bit part in the new Warhorse movie.

Just got a part in the remake of Hitchcock's "The Birds" which is being filmed locally. Mine is only a Mynah role however.

The makers of, Chicago based, hospital programme, E.R. are filming an offshoot in the West Country. It will be called Oooo R.

Saw the school nativity play yesterday with little devils instead of angels. It made quite an imp act on us all.

After creating his monster, Frankenstein found it kept vomiting after every meal. Doctors told him not to bolt his food.

A huge boil has just exploded on my dad's sisters neck. There is aunty matter everywhere.

My mate has been bumped off. With his strange sexual preferences, he really shouldn't have taken that job on the dodgems.

The hosts at the wedding complained the wine would run out as I hadn't provided enough carafes but they failed to see the bigger pitcher.

Our local Abbot has expelled an obese, secretive monk caught cooking chips alone. He said the monastery was "no place for a deep fat fryer".

Just officiated at my first funeral and the car carrying the coffin broke down. I knew we should have re hearsed earlier on.

I was hoping for a gift to complete my collection of the works of Charles Dickens by today but I don't have Great Expectations.

When a group of North east school children were asked to draw their favourite cartoon they all drew a sketch of Sunderland.

Typhoo have launched a guaranteed 100% toxin free brew for the super rich. It costs £150 per packet. It's wealth and safe tea gone mad

I don't mind hailing from earth and being an earthling but spare a thought for the poor dumplings.

My mate who lisps, dresses in a dark and morbid fashion, sings spirituals and practices black magic, has formed a Gothspell Choir

It must be awful being Jewish when it's cold and not being able to pull your hood up.

Down at heel local prostitutes who have leaky bits and have cut prices to get work are calling themselves the tenner ladies.

Our toilet is looking old and grubby so I've decided to splash out on a new one.

I have the new Islamic advent calendar. I just daren't open any of the doors.

My wife and her poor hearing. Yesterday she bought me a tad bent colander

When my Mrs. said it was time to hit the sack last night I anticipated a nights sleep, not a trip to casualty with swollen testicles.

I was delighted when the army medic ordered me discharge papers as I suffered from dysentery. So pissed off to receive a jumbo toilet roll

Octobers offerings

My dyslexic mate came to our toga party dressed as a goat

I was excited when told I had won a jackpot until I was told it belonged to the bukkake club

I always thought a Wagonwheel was Victoria Beckham on a unicycle

I tried to write a story about a man playing solo pontoon but there were too many twists and turns

I can do a North American Indian accent but it's a little bit Apache

Media? No you dear

Sodding well wet through. last time I go swimming.

A man walks into a bar with a goblin holding on behind him and the anagram expert barman asks him "why the conga elf"?

Life is what you make of it. I have made file.

Marriage: Where a partner knows how to turn lights switches on but not off and their partner exactly the opposite.

I'm off to Bury market this morning not to praise it.

The postman left my new Dyson on the doorstep. I found it covered in bird shit and piss wet through. Nature really does abhor a vacuum

I've just seen a huge fish floating on the water with 6 Austin Allegro's on it. It turned out to be a carp ark.

Wink old wrinkled Freddy Starr. How I wonder what you are.

In the Brinner household, Yul logs were a common sight and smell all year round.

Damn my dyslexia. I thought I got a job as a spy with M.I.5. I was actually selling pies on the M15.

The spottiest, smelliest people in the UK live in or around the Acne marshes.

Late News: Freddy Starr arrested for making a bad impression on young kids.

I'm not up with modern technology. I thought an MP3 player was the left back for the house of commons football team.

Amstrad are behind a string of new clubs where wealthy, elderly men can take their young female consorts. They call them Sugar Daddies.

My mate poured a tin of custard into the doorway of his local chemist when asked to act out Puss in Boots.

I just saw two married bees bare their backsides in the hive. They were honeymooning.

My new stereo system came with two 6 foot 6 Town Criers. I should have been more specific when I asked for huge loudspeakers.

I have a German friend called Gunther but I never let anyone hold him to my head.

If you don't pluck the duck before you eat it, there is every chance you will feel down in the dumps.

2G, 3G and now 4G. My internet connection is so slow it would be faster to send data by GG

A lactating woman at the door was not what I was expecting when I opted for milk from Express Dairies.

A mixed up atheist may eat shit.

I've been set a challenge to make an airtight sweat shirt but I can't see any way I can pull it off.

My mate and his wife have just been dismissed by the Leith Police.

My mate wanted to be an army chaplain. He had the bowler, walking stick and moustache but could never get the funny walk right

I keep dreaming that I am a successful kleptomaniac and I don't wake up despite pinching myself.

People say I am narcissistic just because I take a full length mirror with me and ride alone on the tunnel of love.

I could put up with Claire Richards,Lisa Scott-Lee and Fay Tozer but Ian H Watkins was a step too far

Referees have been instructed that when asthmatic players foul an opponent, it is not permissible to go wheezy on them.

I keep ours heating bills lower by not switching it on and keeping the bills in the bottom drawer.

I understand that the original paintings of the kids programme "The Herbs" were done with a Basil Brush.

All my clocks went back last night. I couldn't keep up with the payments.

Q. What do you call a young, upwardly mobile person, high on life, trying to get her horse to move forward. A. A giddy yuppie. Cheers.

I gave my Japanese pal an Argos catalogue when he said he wanted to buy a blender, I had no idea he was looking for an escort for the night.

The actor who used to spend the most time pondering his lines was Arthur Mull Hard.

My mate, Paddy O'Doyle who had chronic insomnia has just died. The O'Doyle family didn't seem to see the irony in having a wake for him.

Just made up a joke about a novelty toy pulled by two people at Christmas. It's a cracker.

My neighbour calls her cat Potato. I think she intends having it chipped.

The local Tourettes sufferers club has been licensed to sell wines and spirits and has opened a fuck off license.

I was looking for a new angle in retail shopping so I opened a corner shop.

I entered a cartoon competition and won first prize for my landscape of Sunderland.

Keeping water stored behind a wall. You're damned if you do and Damned if you don't.

Just looked in the window of our local funeral services shop and saw a coffin to die for.

Police have raided a slimming club for the obese. False readings are recorded to increase fees. Police say it took place on a huge scale.

My wife is going to Mount Kilimanjaro. I am shocked. I had no idea she even had a Japanese lover.

After the attack at Hillsborough the EDLand BNP have launched a "kick football out of racism" campaign saying It sickens racists everywhere

The local farmer has just crashed his combined harvester into the barbed wire fence whilst cutting the field. Everything has gone hay wire

My mate is so romantic, he turns off the lights, cooks a candlelit dinner for two and plays a Barry White c.d. every time he masturbates.

I couldn't understand why I was sacked from the Royal Mint. Then the penny dropped.

Disappointed when I heard a story about Bob-sleighing was on the Beeb but it involved no union leaders.

The annual conference of Tourettes sufferers will take place tomorrow in the Cornwall resort of Foulmouth.

O.K Ageism I can cope with but beejism is a whole new ball game.

Just written a play, a Scottish tragedy about a Dutch religious sect member who joins the police. I called it Amish Macbeth.

The faster than light race departed and I went into waters uncharted, How really absurd, I only came third but finished before I had started

It was staring us in the face all the time. Jimmy Saville paedophile is an anagram of Jimmy Saville paedophile.

Objects one tenth the size of a pinhead can be seen with the naked eye. Objects as big as Everest cannot be seen with the clothed eye.

Marriage eh! Got into bed last night, kissed the mrs on the cheek, looked at her naked body and said, "I remember when this was all feels"

Just passed a junction with a notice saying there were 52 deaths there last year. It's a worrying sign.

When was Africa's best drought? We only hear about the worst ones.

To err is human, to im is histrionics.

If all the MP's at Westminster were laid end to end from Westminster going north, there would be a line of MP's from Westminster going north

My studies into the bottom shapes of fairies, goblins and elves is now at an impasse.

One of my favourite authors writes stories about a long distance lorry driver set in the future. Check out H.G.V Wells on Amazon.

The world diarrhoea championships are very exciting this year. It's end to end stuff.

I know a dyslexic record store owner with attention deficit disorder who loves Angus Young. He suffers from hdad dc ccad

I opened an account with a branch of the bank of China yesterday. Half an hour later I felt the need to go and open another one.

Whilst I agree that Rowling's Harry Potter works were very entertaining I still think that J.K's best work was done with Jamiroquai

Hypnotists rarely go to auctions as they get someone else to do their bidding.

My mate is such a raving atheist he has changed his name from Christian to Godfree.

A woman whose children died in a bath filled with a popular orange fizzy drink, apple juice and alcohol has been charged with in fanta cider

Pets

I have had some lovely tweets today following my posting on twitter that one of our two German Shepherd dogs, Steffi, had a stroke this morning. None animal lovers will no doubt find it weird as it's "Not as if it is a person or anything" but it just shows how much we all care about our pets.

I had never owned a dog and inherited two with Janet. I wasn't keen but was soon won over, especially with the spunky Jack Russell who was once caught with a step ladder under his arm when he found out that the Great Dane next door was in season. We had to lock him in a cupboard at night if a local dog was on heat. I was pleased he was not aware of Jan.

Thomas was killed outside the house when the door latch blow open in the wind and he walked straight out under a car. The shithouse didn't even stop though there were car parts in the road. Thomas never ran anywhere so he must have just ambled into the road. It was early evening and I suspect drink was involved. Not Thomas you understand. I buried him in the back garden but, whilst I dug the hole, out last German Shepherd, Eva (as in Braun) sat next to him. Every time we let her out for a month after this, she went straight to the same spot, checking that his smell was still there. It was sad and touching to see. Harry is the same with Steffi. Steffi was the runt of the litter and we took them both as we felt sorry for her. They are inseparable.

I cannot imagine not having a dog in the house. It wouldn't seem quite right. We live in a remote spot so it is a good idea for security but I would still have one if I lived on the top floor of a tower block. All pets ask for is that you look after them. They ask for nothing else. They don't sulk or cheat. They don't argue with you and are always on your side.

As I type, Steffi is at my feet, dosed up with steroid injections. She looks woe begone and is very shaky on her legs but 10 hours ago she couldn't get up at all. If she lasts the night we should be o.k. unless she has another stroke. Another one will probably be fatal. We would probably put her to sleep even if she survived another one as we could not stand by and watch her suffer and fade away. We owe her much more than that. I hope that someone will be kind enough to do the same for me if I am ever in this position.

A little doubt goes a long way.

One of my favourite ever Tweeters is post op following cancer surgery. I am sure she has gone through every emotion in the book and she now has the waiting game which, sadly, sometimes never ends. I hope to hear soon she is well on the way to recovery.

I was very blasé about my own condition. I didn't take it seriously right up to surgery which my better half often found both annoying and baffling. It is always more difficult for the people who love you. They never know if they are saying or doing the right thing. I made a joke of it. I still do. It wasn't a veneer to cover fear or anything approaching it. It was just the way I am.

One thing does change though. You only need a fraction of a percentage of doubt about the success of the treatment to enable less than positive thoughts to surface. For instance. I have eczema. I've had it, on and off, for most of my life. When it flares I use various prescribed creams and it usually disappears, only to reappear elsewhere. The most annoying was on my bollocks when I was a kid. It was worse for my dad who took me to the Doctors and was so embarrassed at having to explain where it was to him. I seem to remember "penny" being used. How quaint. I'd have said bollocks in his position.

Anyway, I have a patch on my leg that will not respond to any treatment. It sometimes seems to glow in the dark and itches like buggery (so I'm told). It is eczema I am sure but....

I need some dental work done. I went to the surgery two weeks ago and the hygienist was concerned with a white patch on the roof of my mouth. She wanted a second opinion and I booked in again. I had to wait two weeks. That fraction of a percent kicked in again. I read the John Diamond book a few years ago and decided that was one way I didn't want to go. I actually dreamt, the following night, that I had mouth cancer. It was a relief to wake up. I have since had the all clear. Whatever it was has gone. No doubt there will be other issues from time to time. It doesn't bother or worry me. At least, I am 99.9999999% sure it doesn't.

Radiohead versus Pisshead

Last night I went to my, much looked forward to, Radiohead concert. We were somewhat apprehensive at the ticketless entry system and must have checked the booking terms a dozen times to make sure we had everything with us that we needed to gain entry.

In the end it was faultless and we were in our seats in good time. I had never heard the support before "Caribou" but I enjoyed them. They were loud.

The tickets cost us £150 with booking fees and I am always wary at the M.E.N. as I don't think the acoustics are brilliant. far too much echo in the cavernous empty roof space for my liking. I now get to the point of this posting.

Is it just us two that are out of touch with the realities of modern culture or, has everyone become a pisshead? The queues for booze, once you gained entry, never dropped. There were vendors with cases of Fosters on their backs dispensing it to eager customers. I assumed that once the band came on, it would stop but, did it buggery. If anything it got worse. It was almost as if electric shocks were being passed into selected seats at regular intervals as people stood to let pissheads go to the bar then stood again to let them come back with their bottles and plastic cups.

When the fifth song from the set was underway, there was a queue of dozens out in the corridor, thirsting for booze. I could see them lining up as the doors never closed with the throughput of traffic. If booze was so essential to the enjoyment, why not just go to Wetherspoons and wear headphones? It never stopped, from first number to encore, in out, in out in case they had the faintest chance of sobering up.

I won't complain about the dickheads who pay £75 for a seat then stand all the way through the concert nor the complete twat somewhere nearby who was obviously smoking a joint. I won't complain about the hundreds of phones pointing at the stage recording fuck knows what as all you got was a mass of colour and the sound would have been terrible. When played back it would be like you had recorded someone's bad dream.

As for the concert itself, I love Radiohead but I came out slightly disappointed. They played an unusual set. No Street Spirit or Just or Karma Police. It would be like the Moody Blues refusing to play Question and Nights in white satin. The bass was decibels too loud and drown out all the lead guitar work for me. I just couldn't hear it. There was an intricate stage set of off angle screens showing individual band members but I found it annoying. They only stayed on one band member for a few seconds before switching and sometimes had angles that you couldn't work out what the hell you were seeing.

To cap the night, we stayed in a nearby Travelodge and were given a bed that they must have bought pre war. There were more springs coming up than we have in the back garden after the floods. Fotunately they threw in a breakfast by mistake so I won't bother complaining.

Despite what it sounds like, we had a great day.

Sixty and counting

I often hear people discussing age and age related topics and it often ends with "I wish I was 20, 30 etc now" or "if only I knew then what I know now". I have said it myself often enough. I don't really mean it. I think people of my age were born at the perfect time.

There was rationing still on when I was born but I was too young to remember it. I also missed other post war hangovers such as national Service. When I think back however, it does seem like a completely different world.

I have a sister who is twelve years older than me so there was always music in our house. My first recollections are more Michael Holliday and "His car went beep" than Elvis but I do remember the start of rock and roll as the music infiltrated the crooners and middle of the road stuff that had dominated for years. I liked skiffle and Lonnie Donnegan, probably because my mother did. My Dad used to buy us three singles every Saturday on his way home from work. We had "Tower of Strength" by Frankie Vaughan, "Shakin all over and many others that are considered classic standards now. They were new and exciting to us. We bought "Love me do" when it came out. No-one can ever forget the excitement of waiting for the next Beatles single to come out knowing it would be nothing like the previous one but it would be as good as or even better. They always were. The Stones tried hard but could never quite get there. There were the Kinks and Zombies, the Who, the Animals. Even the pap stuff was listenable to. Think of "Something Good" by Hermans hermits. Then came Cream, Hendrix, Free, Jethro Tull, Taste, The Moody's and Led Zep. It seemed like it would never end.

-- Can you imagine kids getting excited about a fridge? We were. It was about 1966 when we got out first one. Very few people had a fridge. In summer, milk sat under a muslin cloth to stop it from souring. I remember our first telly. It was probably about a 12 inch screen. The picture would have been grainy. The picture slipped and people had their legs over their heads but it was exciting. I went to watch my ex wife on "Come Dancing" at a neighbours house in 1970 as he had a colour set. I also watched England lose 3-2 to Germany there too. A whole village and one colour set.

-- Asians! When I was a kid they were not regarded as they are now, at least not in the late 50's. Dad managed a Mill and many Saturdays I went in with him. There were 80 Northrop looms working flat out. The noise was incredible. You could stand nose to nose and shout at someone and they wouldn't hear you. My ears used to ring for days afterwards sometimes. Health and safety? Ear protection? Don't make me laugh. The Pakistani men were lovely. They thought dad was a hero. I never left the Mill without four or five bob in my pocket as they insisted on giving me money. They all called me son. They missed their own families. They called at our House on Christmas day with presents for my dad. One year it was Ramadan. My Mum offered them a sherry.

-- I saw the first moon landings, Lillian Board, (look her up, she was magnificent)and Revies Leeds though I could never understand why he didn't buy Gordon Banks and Kevin Hector. When I decided to leave school, it never occurred to me that I wouldn't find a job. The careers teacher saw me and asked what I intended to do. "Probably join British Telecom" I replied and I did. There were jobs galore if you wanted to work.

I could write for another hour but won't. Had I been younger, I'd have missed all this.

-- I won't swap.