The scene is the A&E Department, Southend General Hospital. @Deity17, @Bradl and @Journey2 have been waiting for an hour.
"There! Told you, that bloke just walked in and went straight through without even talking to Reception.."
"It's always like this in A&E, they hope your body's natural defenses put right whatever is wrong and you just go home."
@Deity17 raises a hand.
"I think I should tell you: the last thing we want is to have your name called, to go through those doors, to see a doctor. We appear to be safe here because mobile telephones are forbidden, none of these people seated are seeking treatment either."
"I thought I was getting my eye seen to" said @Journey2, still smarting from a black eye and having his mobile stolen by a robed girl.
"Your body's natural defenses will soon heal your wounds..."
"And then we can go home eh?"
"Home? That will depend on your concept of 'home'. Neither of you exist on Twitter, Facebook or online anymore, your dwellings will be under constant watch by the @Deities, your employers will have been informed of your deaths, you leave no relatives - which is not a coincidence of course.."
"But if we turn up, that'll prove we're alive right?"
"If you turn up, you'll be killed."
"So we just sit here and wait to starve?"
"This is a waiting room. All the people here are waiting to be linked to a safe domain, they have all been corrupted by @Deity1, used as alibis to dispose of his enemies just like yourselves. Outside of these four walls someone will betray us."
"How many ..whatevers...are in this bloke's gang then?"
"There are 20 @Deities, each with thousands of accounts, with thousands of followers each. For instance, did you find yourselves followed by a series of so-called 'rap' artists?" they nod "...all with about 10,000 followers and followees, tweeting what seemed to be undecipherable language?"
"I just thought it was slang, never did like rap very much.." said @Bradl
"All code, co-ordinates, viruses, slowly stealing the information of your lives, storing it and using it to control your very being."
"And those spam bots with the free iPads and stuff, I suppose they're in on it too?" asked @Journey2
"Brave seekers of truth and happiness, desperately trying to warn you of oncoming doom."
"Ah, bollocks, I reported every one of them as spam.."
"Which meant certain death I'm afraid - these truthsayers are suffering abominable losses."
@Journey2, squinting at the painful light: "I hate to bring up the little matter of my bloody mobile again, but you still have it, it is still turned on and you said they were forbidden here..."
"I told you I adapted it. It is no longer a device for oral communication, it is a telelinking machine only, and a not very powerful one at that."
"So-rry! Stick around and there'll be an upgrade along soon enough. I know I'm going to regret this but, 'Telelinking'?"
"How we made it to the pier, a link to here via the u.w.w."
"The wha?"
"The Universe Wide Web. You are aware there are other areas beyond Earth, and in it, that you are yet to explore?"
"We got as far as The Moon, got some rocks from Mars but seem to have given up lately."
"Far from it - a moment ago on a website from your capital city, it was announced that another Earth-like planet has been discovered in this very galaxy."
"Thats all well and good, but we're not going there.....are we?"
"It is unlikely. As I said, this is not a powerful enough machine, but if we could gain access to @Deity's hardware.."
"...we could escape to this planet we know nothing about and freeze or fry as soon as we land, whoop-di-do!"
"On the contrary, the atmosphere on Kepler 22b is perfectly suited to us and the journey is an easy one...... the @Deities found no difficulty getting here, did they?"
By day a mild-mannered janitor, by night an off-duty mild-mannered janitor.
................by day a mild-mannered janitor, by night an off-duty mild-mannered janitor...............
Saturday 31 December 2011
The Weasel Has Landed
Some time ago - not that long and I'm not going to look it up - there was a Top Gear "challenge" and they were somewhere very snowfilled. We saw May [probably, he does flying] have a minor crash-land in a little plane. You could tell it wasn't planned because for once the camera was not perfectly positioned to capture the moment.
*Earnestly to camera* "Now we get a bit of stick on this show for setting things up, but you have to admit we couldn't have arranged that, now could we?"
Quite so, but by doth protesting too much like that you tacitly admit that every other thing you do is set up. Didn't think of that did you Mr. Clever Tousle? So to the Christmas Special which was a half-decent travel documentary of parts of India in picture form. Turn the sound down, ignore the out-of-place English cars and you may well have had a reasonable time watching it. They didn't set fire to a cow, but I bet they discussed a way of almost doing so. Those tins fell off of the roof of The Weasel's Mini, but notice how a path was cleared for it to happen & there's that camera man perfectly placed to get the full dramati.... oh, you know the rest - it's already a cliché about them not talking about cars anymore. And the cars they used, cars that would make lots of perfectly nice people contented as transport just have to be systematically ruined. You know what they're doing when they do that? They are laughing at everyone who has less money than they have - they do that anyway in private, but this is just to underline the point: "See this car? Nice isn't it? It works, and would do a good job for you. Now I'm going to take my pants down and shit in your face for thinking you have any connection whatsoever with the world that we live in* *Now we'll smash it up."
Top Gear is too powerful to be dethroned, it is ultra-popular and still entertains [with a handy put-the-kettle-on window while Clarkson pretends not only to be a top class comedian, but interviewer too - try high-wire walking why dontcha...] but tucked away on Channel 5 is 'Fifth Gear', which isn't great either but at least is car-based. I think all the people on there are 'Top' castaways, that Plato fella is a bit too "Dab Of Oppo" and it's on at a stupid time - try 8:00 Sundays, there's an idea. But they'll have to start jazzing things up with drag races and fights between rockets and tractors....
"Dab Of Oppo" is a thing - someone a bit anal about driving: "A dab of opposite-lock should see us safely through this Sainsbury's car park..." etc. [thanks to Dave Browse for the nudge]
*Earnestly to camera* "Now we get a bit of stick on this show for setting things up, but you have to admit we couldn't have arranged that, now could we?"
Quite so, but by doth protesting too much like that you tacitly admit that every other thing you do is set up. Didn't think of that did you Mr. Clever Tousle? So to the Christmas Special which was a half-decent travel documentary of parts of India in picture form. Turn the sound down, ignore the out-of-place English cars and you may well have had a reasonable time watching it. They didn't set fire to a cow, but I bet they discussed a way of almost doing so. Those tins fell off of the roof of The Weasel's Mini, but notice how a path was cleared for it to happen & there's that camera man perfectly placed to get the full dramati.... oh, you know the rest - it's already a cliché about them not talking about cars anymore. And the cars they used, cars that would make lots of perfectly nice people contented as transport just have to be systematically ruined. You know what they're doing when they do that? They are laughing at everyone who has less money than they have - they do that anyway in private, but this is just to underline the point: "See this car? Nice isn't it? It works, and would do a good job for you. Now I'm going to take my pants down and shit in your face for thinking you have any connection whatsoever with the world that we live in* *Now we'll smash it up."
Top Gear is too powerful to be dethroned, it is ultra-popular and still entertains [with a handy put-the-kettle-on window while Clarkson pretends not only to be a top class comedian, but interviewer too - try high-wire walking why dontcha...] but tucked away on Channel 5 is 'Fifth Gear', which isn't great either but at least is car-based. I think all the people on there are 'Top' castaways, that Plato fella is a bit too "Dab Of Oppo" and it's on at a stupid time - try 8:00 Sundays, there's an idea. But they'll have to start jazzing things up with drag races and fights between rockets and tractors....
"Dab Of Oppo" is a thing - someone a bit anal about driving: "A dab of opposite-lock should see us safely through this Sainsbury's car park..." etc. [thanks to Dave Browse for the nudge]
Thursday 22 December 2011
DM4 #2
Air. Very warm, smokey air. The view starts as if in cinemascope but soon becomes peripheral too - @Bradl is looking at The Isle Of Grain, slightly misted in what must be a heat-haze. This is a familiar view and looking around him, a familiar spot too. Behind, the now-derelict 'Palace Hotel' stands empty and apart from two third floor rooms, boarded against the outside.
"I am @Deity17, you are alive, so is your friend."
@Journey2 is slumped against the pier bench, sitting on the wooden boards of the floor. He is breathing. @Bradl had one or two questions to ask, but the next seven questions after that were getting in the way.
"Wha?",was all he could manage. It was a start.
"I was given the responsibility of disposing of your friend. It was my mistake that endangered him and you would have paid the price for his death. I.... decided this would not happen. I gave @Journey2 the same drug that left you unconscious, instead of a lethal injection - the beating he received was not my work, merely carried out to prove a violent confrontation between the two of you. I have his mobile telephone here and I have adapted it or 'upgraded' if you like, for your safety it is best it remains with me."
"...ah, that's the one: why are we on Southend Pier?"
"Specifically because today is the hottest day ever recorded in Great Britain and this is the hottest spot on the mainland."
"We are not on the mainland - it must be hotter in the town centre."
"Normally yes, today the last third of a mile of this pier burned away into The Thames Estuary. We needed a news-worthy domain to transport to - one that was familiar to you both and available through an electronic link. The fire, and the record temperature has made this spot very popular on the International Superhighway - enough traffic to hide our escape."
"...oh good, we escaped then?"
"Thanks to @Journey2's mobile telephone, yes. In terms you will understand, I clicked on the link to this domain and we were forwarded here. I set fire to the room we were in before, the atmospheric conditions had to be similar to avoid too much shock to your chemical make-up and it was also a perfect distraction. @Deity1 will have transported to a new domain too and will be wondering if his orders were carried out. He will quickly decide that they were not. He will be looking for us - all the @Deitys will be looking for us."
"Hey, kid - Give the phone back to the nice man and... where's the nearest pub? I'm thirsty or drunk or both, any help?"
"Welcome back, @Journey2. This is @Bradl, you used to follow each other on the social network site called 'Twitter' - we have a few things to discuss. As far as your thirst is concerned, you will be pleased to hear we have an app for that."
The lights in the two rooms on the third floor of The Palace Hotel fade slowly to black. The temperature drops dramatically. @Deity17 looks to the sky as snowflakes start to fall...
"We may have been at this spot for too long. The fire and the record temperature are no longer newsworthy, the traffic has returned to a trickle so the domain has been downgraded to a default setting. We are now simply in an out-of-season seaside town...let me see..."
@Deity17 peers at the phone, scrolling and pressing keys at tremendous speed.
"Are you going to give me my phone back or do I have to box your ears?"
"I am @Deity17, you are alive, so is your friend."
@Journey2 is slumped against the pier bench, sitting on the wooden boards of the floor. He is breathing. @Bradl had one or two questions to ask, but the next seven questions after that were getting in the way.
"Wha?",was all he could manage. It was a start.
"I was given the responsibility of disposing of your friend. It was my mistake that endangered him and you would have paid the price for his death. I.... decided this would not happen. I gave @Journey2 the same drug that left you unconscious, instead of a lethal injection - the beating he received was not my work, merely carried out to prove a violent confrontation between the two of you. I have his mobile telephone here and I have adapted it or 'upgraded' if you like, for your safety it is best it remains with me."
"...ah, that's the one: why are we on Southend Pier?"
"Specifically because today is the hottest day ever recorded in Great Britain and this is the hottest spot on the mainland."
"We are not on the mainland - it must be hotter in the town centre."
"Normally yes, today the last third of a mile of this pier burned away into The Thames Estuary. We needed a news-worthy domain to transport to - one that was familiar to you both and available through an electronic link. The fire, and the record temperature has made this spot very popular on the International Superhighway - enough traffic to hide our escape."
"...oh good, we escaped then?"
"Thanks to @Journey2's mobile telephone, yes. In terms you will understand, I clicked on the link to this domain and we were forwarded here. I set fire to the room we were in before, the atmospheric conditions had to be similar to avoid too much shock to your chemical make-up and it was also a perfect distraction. @Deity1 will have transported to a new domain too and will be wondering if his orders were carried out. He will quickly decide that they were not. He will be looking for us - all the @Deitys will be looking for us."
"Hey, kid - Give the phone back to the nice man and... where's the nearest pub? I'm thirsty or drunk or both, any help?"
"Welcome back, @Journey2. This is @Bradl, you used to follow each other on the social network site called 'Twitter' - we have a few things to discuss. As far as your thirst is concerned, you will be pleased to hear we have an app for that."
The lights in the two rooms on the third floor of The Palace Hotel fade slowly to black. The temperature drops dramatically. @Deity17 looks to the sky as snowflakes start to fall...
"We may have been at this spot for too long. The fire and the record temperature are no longer newsworthy, the traffic has returned to a trickle so the domain has been downgraded to a default setting. We are now simply in an out-of-season seaside town...let me see..."
@Deity17 peers at the phone, scrolling and pressing keys at tremendous speed.
"Are you going to give me my phone back or do I have to box your ears?"
Wednesday 21 December 2011
DM4 #1
@Bradl refreshes the screen again, clicks 'mentions' - no change, back to 'timeline'. A hashtag game is going but it is well over an hour old, so he'd have to check the previous entries to see if anyone had got there first... it was now twenty minutes since he'd replied to @Deity1 - the heavyweight had made a brilliant joke but @Bradl had a flash of inspiration and, for once, thought it worth elaborating on the original. As the minutes ticked by, @Bradl regretted the impulse - @Deity1 had never replied before and it looked increasingly unlikely he'd see fit to do so now.
An hour later, with 'mentions' still unchanged, @Bradl again considers unfollowing the @Deity1 but only for a second. Back to 'timeline' and @Journey2 [one of @Bradl's first followees and followers] seems to be locked in a conversation with @Deity1. Opening the tweet history..... sure enough, the two have been arguing for thirty minutes with links to sites, blogs and other conversations too. Trying to read between these lines, @Bradl concludes that one is accusing the other of some kind of literary theft - a tweet, the bones of an article, a domain - it is difficult to tell as the stream continues...
Asleep at the computer again.
The next day there is a new message. A DM from @Deity1. "@Bradl Thank you for your interest, it is appreciated. Would you meet me at the following address this evening at 6pm? I know you can make it."
A square building of grey concrete, some of the windows blocked crudely with wooden panels. Only two rooms seem to be windowed and lit. No security entrance formalities - porch and foyer door open. The apartment is on the third floor, the same floor as the light. The door to 3A opens automatically as @Bradl approaches. The room is square, the centre of the room is a square space surrounded by a linked square of desks. There are twenty chairs at the desks. @Deity is recognisable from his avatar, but that likeness must be twenty five or even thirty years old - on show now is a withered frame hunched over a set of apparatus. Opposite there appears to be an exact double.... until closer inspection reveals a female dressed identically. In seventeen of the other eighteen chairs sit children, identical children, exactly like their....parents? They stare into computer screens. This isn't the room with the light, or the windows - the screens provide the only illumination.
"@Bradl, thank you for getting here. A cup of tea, just how you like it - milk and two sugars. You follow me, yes? You also follow @Journey2. You are aware that we have differences of opinion?"
"I saw something..."
"We know what you've seen. @Journey2 tried to send you a Direct Message - he wanted your assistance regarding our little argument. You see, we used something of his, one of my little ones stole some information, we did not credit @Journey2 and this rightly irked your friend. It seems your Twitter history can prove that we were not first to the information - you replied to @Journey2 and so are a witness. The little one has been punished, it should not happen again but the damage has been done and this damage has to be limited for a greater good, you understand?"
"What do you wa...
"You do not possess a mobile telephone. You live at least one hour from this building. An hour is a long time on Twitter. Your account has been hacked, @Journey2's account has also been hacked. Over the last hour or so, the two of you have been locked in a fierce argument about tweet theft, joke theft, Twitter rules, Twitter laws, quite a spectacle. It has been made obvious to your respective followers that you are unlikely to be breaking bread anytime soon.."
"But what do you want from me?"
"To be here now. Your friend @Journey2 is safely enclosed in another room, there he will stay, and so will you. We will close your accounts. Your followers will assume you have tired of Twitter, you may be mourned on-line for a day or so but life goes on..
"But what about life, we exist beyond Twitter - after a while someone is going to notice I'm not at work..
"The doors to this building are now locked. There was an extra something in your tea and in a moment you will be asleep, when you wake you will be alone in the adjoining room with the deceased @Journey2. It will be obvious from your final tweets why you killed him."
An hour later, with 'mentions' still unchanged, @Bradl again considers unfollowing the @Deity1 but only for a second. Back to 'timeline' and @Journey2 [one of @Bradl's first followees and followers] seems to be locked in a conversation with @Deity1. Opening the tweet history..... sure enough, the two have been arguing for thirty minutes with links to sites, blogs and other conversations too. Trying to read between these lines, @Bradl concludes that one is accusing the other of some kind of literary theft - a tweet, the bones of an article, a domain - it is difficult to tell as the stream continues...
Asleep at the computer again.
The next day there is a new message. A DM from @Deity1. "@Bradl Thank you for your interest, it is appreciated. Would you meet me at the following address this evening at 6pm? I know you can make it."
A square building of grey concrete, some of the windows blocked crudely with wooden panels. Only two rooms seem to be windowed and lit. No security entrance formalities - porch and foyer door open. The apartment is on the third floor, the same floor as the light. The door to 3A opens automatically as @Bradl approaches. The room is square, the centre of the room is a square space surrounded by a linked square of desks. There are twenty chairs at the desks. @Deity is recognisable from his avatar, but that likeness must be twenty five or even thirty years old - on show now is a withered frame hunched over a set of apparatus. Opposite there appears to be an exact double.... until closer inspection reveals a female dressed identically. In seventeen of the other eighteen chairs sit children, identical children, exactly like their....parents? They stare into computer screens. This isn't the room with the light, or the windows - the screens provide the only illumination.
"@Bradl, thank you for getting here. A cup of tea, just how you like it - milk and two sugars. You follow me, yes? You also follow @Journey2. You are aware that we have differences of opinion?"
"I saw something..."
"We know what you've seen. @Journey2 tried to send you a Direct Message - he wanted your assistance regarding our little argument. You see, we used something of his, one of my little ones stole some information, we did not credit @Journey2 and this rightly irked your friend. It seems your Twitter history can prove that we were not first to the information - you replied to @Journey2 and so are a witness. The little one has been punished, it should not happen again but the damage has been done and this damage has to be limited for a greater good, you understand?"
"What do you wa...
"You do not possess a mobile telephone. You live at least one hour from this building. An hour is a long time on Twitter. Your account has been hacked, @Journey2's account has also been hacked. Over the last hour or so, the two of you have been locked in a fierce argument about tweet theft, joke theft, Twitter rules, Twitter laws, quite a spectacle. It has been made obvious to your respective followers that you are unlikely to be breaking bread anytime soon.."
"But what do you want from me?"
"To be here now. Your friend @Journey2 is safely enclosed in another room, there he will stay, and so will you. We will close your accounts. Your followers will assume you have tired of Twitter, you may be mourned on-line for a day or so but life goes on..
"But what about life, we exist beyond Twitter - after a while someone is going to notice I'm not at work..
"The doors to this building are now locked. There was an extra something in your tea and in a moment you will be asleep, when you wake you will be alone in the adjoining room with the deceased @Journey2. It will be obvious from your final tweets why you killed him."
Sunday 18 December 2011
Warbling In The Air
It is almost unimpossible to either over, under or accurately overestimate the unimportance or otherwise of 'The X-Factor'. If we have a scale from say -6 to 18, you might say "Oh, it's definitely a 21!" or "Pah, it's a -2 if it's lucky" or "I don't watch the motherfucker, get out of my way or I'll tear you a new one." Either, neither or threether* way you might be better off sticking a kazoo up your arse and farting 'Jerusalem'. I'd pay to see that.
There was a song that banged on about karaoke being easy on a Saturday night but don't get carried away and think you're a star because it aint so easy in front of the cameras and even if you do really well there are always people ready to knock you down back where you came from. This is about karaoke, local karaoke. I've never been to a big karaoke bar and have no desire to either - I expect it's busy and difficult to get served and the toilets are crowded - I prefer The Railway. Take Friday night:
You get there at eight and the guys who were drinking at lunchtime and got comfy, are in front of the fire - the music will be a cue for them to wander home. M.C. Pete is setting up the P.A. alone - his 'roadie' Daniel having got in with a rum crowd and gone off the rails. Daniel wasn't the same after the death of his idol Michael Jackson. He'd get a two song slot where a sparkly glove would appear from the back pocket like that of a very camp golfer - he was good but never did enough "HeeeHeee"s for the baying audience, who had to fill in for him. Pete warms everyone up with 'Pretty Woman' as the little tickets are passed around and songs chosen. "Mercy"
9:00 sharp: 'We're Walking In The Air'. Up steps Muriel. Muriel and Clive are the backbone, fulcrum, crux some say scaffolding on which the night is built. They are always there, even following Peter around the entire North Norfolk area to oke their karas. You may remember this song from a popular Christmas cartoon 'The Snowman' but here Muriel transports us back to the days of Warhol's factory and Nico is on 'vox'.
An Irish guy in the pool-playing area is asking any cowardly Englishmen if they'd like to go outside and discuss various historical differences at this point. He was nice as pie eight hours ago when he started drinking, amazing what comes over people. He is ejected noisily by governor Dave [five years in charge, ladies and gentlemen].
9:25: 'Funky Moped'. Clive's turn and much like Muriel's transformation this is now Leonard Cohen doing Jasper Carrot. Clive is so much more than a voice - he's a shake of the head from side-to-side like a pill-popping David Gray, a tiger pattern t-shirt and just the one note. It still works and if you think about it, an almost unstoppable plan. We love Clive and Muriel.
10:00: 'Runaway'. Norm [for it is his name] sometimes comes in straight from the fields mid-harvest [or whatever it is that farmers do all the time], orders and downs a pint of Guinness® in one or two gulps, strides to the stage and belts out his favourite tune. Everybody loves Norm. Norm, we love him. Tonight he will stick around for a duet with Muriel, 'Johnny Remember Me' and knock them bandy.
10:30: 'Rebel Rebel'. Norm's son Will has returned from work already relaxed from a Christmas party. He allows Janice, Carla and Sam to make him up Ziggy-style. He also does a very good 'Bohemian Rhapsody' where he reads a book or juggles or both during the bits that don't have singing in them. Will is almost as loved as Norm. We love Norm.
10:45: 'Some Sort Of Hideous Grease Medley'. 'The Kids From Fame' we call them - about 12 in number [only two mics, remember] and not much older, pushed onto the stage by their pushy mums. They are dressed in leotards because they were at ballet class before. If the police were to walk in on this scene of underage burlesque, our feet wouldn't touch the ground. Good time for a piss, or if you prefer, a cigarette.
11:00: 'Wonderwall'. Shame you've just had that piss because this is another ideal opportunity. Words, there are not enough of you of sufficient length or description to successfully communicate to fellow humans the depth, breadth or tallness of my hatred for this song. At least Bill is doing it, so it is tons better than the original.
The Irish fella is back, this time with the wife, to apologise to Dave and anyone who'll listen - they are un-barred and their is much rejoicing.
Try not to do the same song twice - it will make you less bothered about getting it right or wrong as you'll have an excuse. Duets are fun, even funner if you stick a pin in the book and do whatever you hit. 'Staying Alive' is as near to impossible as you can get so take a run-up. We've all had a drink and we're all in it together so give respect to anyone who has a go. Oh, and unlike 'The X-Factor' it is all about the music.x.
*new word for either when three things are involved, run with it if you like.
There was a song that banged on about karaoke being easy on a Saturday night but don't get carried away and think you're a star because it aint so easy in front of the cameras and even if you do really well there are always people ready to knock you down back where you came from. This is about karaoke, local karaoke. I've never been to a big karaoke bar and have no desire to either - I expect it's busy and difficult to get served and the toilets are crowded - I prefer The Railway. Take Friday night:
You get there at eight and the guys who were drinking at lunchtime and got comfy, are in front of the fire - the music will be a cue for them to wander home. M.C. Pete is setting up the P.A. alone - his 'roadie' Daniel having got in with a rum crowd and gone off the rails. Daniel wasn't the same after the death of his idol Michael Jackson. He'd get a two song slot where a sparkly glove would appear from the back pocket like that of a very camp golfer - he was good but never did enough "HeeeHeee"s for the baying audience, who had to fill in for him. Pete warms everyone up with 'Pretty Woman' as the little tickets are passed around and songs chosen. "Mercy"
9:00 sharp: 'We're Walking In The Air'. Up steps Muriel. Muriel and Clive are the backbone, fulcrum, crux some say scaffolding on which the night is built. They are always there, even following Peter around the entire North Norfolk area to oke their karas. You may remember this song from a popular Christmas cartoon 'The Snowman' but here Muriel transports us back to the days of Warhol's factory and Nico is on 'vox'.
An Irish guy in the pool-playing area is asking any cowardly Englishmen if they'd like to go outside and discuss various historical differences at this point. He was nice as pie eight hours ago when he started drinking, amazing what comes over people. He is ejected noisily by governor Dave [five years in charge, ladies and gentlemen].
9:25: 'Funky Moped'. Clive's turn and much like Muriel's transformation this is now Leonard Cohen doing Jasper Carrot. Clive is so much more than a voice - he's a shake of the head from side-to-side like a pill-popping David Gray, a tiger pattern t-shirt and just the one note. It still works and if you think about it, an almost unstoppable plan. We love Clive and Muriel.
10:00: 'Runaway'. Norm [for it is his name] sometimes comes in straight from the fields mid-harvest [or whatever it is that farmers do all the time], orders and downs a pint of Guinness® in one or two gulps, strides to the stage and belts out his favourite tune. Everybody loves Norm. Norm, we love him. Tonight he will stick around for a duet with Muriel, 'Johnny Remember Me' and knock them bandy.
10:30: 'Rebel Rebel'. Norm's son Will has returned from work already relaxed from a Christmas party. He allows Janice, Carla and Sam to make him up Ziggy-style. He also does a very good 'Bohemian Rhapsody' where he reads a book or juggles or both during the bits that don't have singing in them. Will is almost as loved as Norm. We love Norm.
10:45: 'Some Sort Of Hideous Grease Medley'. 'The Kids From Fame' we call them - about 12 in number [only two mics, remember] and not much older, pushed onto the stage by their pushy mums. They are dressed in leotards because they were at ballet class before. If the police were to walk in on this scene of underage burlesque, our feet wouldn't touch the ground. Good time for a piss, or if you prefer, a cigarette.
11:00: 'Wonderwall'. Shame you've just had that piss because this is another ideal opportunity. Words, there are not enough of you of sufficient length or description to successfully communicate to fellow humans the depth, breadth or tallness of my hatred for this song. At least Bill is doing it, so it is tons better than the original.
The Irish fella is back, this time with the wife, to apologise to Dave and anyone who'll listen - they are un-barred and their is much rejoicing.
Try not to do the same song twice - it will make you less bothered about getting it right or wrong as you'll have an excuse. Duets are fun, even funner if you stick a pin in the book and do whatever you hit. 'Staying Alive' is as near to impossible as you can get so take a run-up. We've all had a drink and we're all in it together so give respect to anyone who has a go. Oh, and unlike 'The X-Factor' it is all about the music.x.
*new word for either when three things are involved, run with it if you like.
Monday 12 December 2011
My Part In Their Uprising #1
It is 1980, Margaret Thatcher is Prime Minister and mudskippers are starting to throw off the shackles of water and embrace the freedom of land. In Dagenham lived a boy called Rob who's dad's name was Bob (short for Rob) and who worked for EMI. Bob and subsequently Rob would get pre-released pressings of records (with white labels) and all sorts of surplus stock which Bob would move on (possibly illegally) to blokes (always blokes) for folding. Bob looked like Neil Morrissey when he was in 'Boon', Rob looked like his son and they were friends to us Browses. Once the 'obs found themselves with 250 copies of The King Singers' version of 'Strawberry Fields Forever' in red vinyl and inside a scratch'n'sniff cover. I would have been tempted to buy a copy for the novelty alone, at a discount perhaps, but to have so many to play with made us blasé and they ended up as air-rifle targets, experiments with stolen chemicals, and worse. One day Bob'n'Rob were visited by a Paul Di'anno, lead singer with an up & coming punk metal band called Iron Maiden, their first single 'Running Free' was being released and the B-side was ok (to this day the only track of theirs I can remember) - they were going to launch their LP at various pubs, clubs & record shops and wanted help with the first of these, in Barking.
It wouldn't be allowed now, and probably for good reason. Our job that day was to make sure that 20 LP covers were signed by all the band, to (under agedly) fetch beer and spirits from the offy around the corner and food from the McDonalds' around the other corner. I'm sad to report that Iron Maiden did not bite the heads off anything, smash anything up or do anything rude. They did have what I later learnt to be 'rock chicks' draping themselves over arms and no doubt having a nice game of cards with later. What I remember most is what great fellas they were and although I had no interest in their music, I always gave a little cheer if they won another 'Best This' or 'Best That' award and racked up the millions of sales and pounds. It's Paul who was the interesting one...
Of course the LP was on the turntable throughout the time we were there but Paul kept trying to swap it for 'Never Mind The Bollocks Here's The Sex Pistols' arguing that here was a great record while theirs was "rubbish" (see, not even a swear word) - and I don't remember the rest of the band arguing either. I think it is safe to say that Paul was the 'looker' amongst a bunch of regular-looking apples (note to The Jacksons: apples don't grow in bunches, so "One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch girl..." is just wrong, if cute.x.) so, he had more rock chicks hanging off him, drank more and was increasingly more difficult to obtain autographs from. The 20th LP cover (anyone who says 'album' goes down a slight notch in my estimation then, now & always) was nervously placed in front of Paul....
"Tell you what Ed, why don't you give me your autograph for a change eh?"
*scribbles "Ed" in big black magic marker on Paul's leather (!) shirt*
*slow, drunken look up & down of shirt, then of tiny pen-holding wretch*
"This bloody shirt cost me twenty five quid!"
*ruffles hair of urchin*
I only saw Paul once after that - going into Bob/Rob's for a cuppa after leaving the band, which I think wasn't that long into their run. Google his name and 'arrested' 'prison' and 'released' are immediately available - I don't want to know, don't tell me. We were allowed to keep an LP for ourselves and I gave mine to a mate (and proper fan) who promised if he ever sold it he'd split the proceedings 50/50.... Gene? Hello, Gene? It's been a while old friend......... Gene?!
It wouldn't be allowed now, and probably for good reason. Our job that day was to make sure that 20 LP covers were signed by all the band, to (under agedly) fetch beer and spirits from the offy around the corner and food from the McDonalds' around the other corner. I'm sad to report that Iron Maiden did not bite the heads off anything, smash anything up or do anything rude. They did have what I later learnt to be 'rock chicks' draping themselves over arms and no doubt having a nice game of cards with later. What I remember most is what great fellas they were and although I had no interest in their music, I always gave a little cheer if they won another 'Best This' or 'Best That' award and racked up the millions of sales and pounds. It's Paul who was the interesting one...
Of course the LP was on the turntable throughout the time we were there but Paul kept trying to swap it for 'Never Mind The Bollocks Here's The Sex Pistols' arguing that here was a great record while theirs was "rubbish" (see, not even a swear word) - and I don't remember the rest of the band arguing either. I think it is safe to say that Paul was the 'looker' amongst a bunch of regular-looking apples (note to The Jacksons: apples don't grow in bunches, so "One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch girl..." is just wrong, if cute.x.) so, he had more rock chicks hanging off him, drank more and was increasingly more difficult to obtain autographs from. The 20th LP cover (anyone who says 'album' goes down a slight notch in my estimation then, now & always) was nervously placed in front of Paul....
"Tell you what Ed, why don't you give me your autograph for a change eh?"
*scribbles "Ed" in big black magic marker on Paul's leather (!) shirt*
*slow, drunken look up & down of shirt, then of tiny pen-holding wretch*
"This bloody shirt cost me twenty five quid!"
*ruffles hair of urchin*
I only saw Paul once after that - going into Bob/Rob's for a cuppa after leaving the band, which I think wasn't that long into their run. Google his name and 'arrested' 'prison' and 'released' are immediately available - I don't want to know, don't tell me. We were allowed to keep an LP for ourselves and I gave mine to a mate (and proper fan) who promised if he ever sold it he'd split the proceedings 50/50.... Gene? Hello, Gene? It's been a while old friend......... Gene?!
Saturday 10 December 2011
Ones I Can Remember
When an eel bites your thumb and your arm goes all numb that's a moray.
At the seance we got a message from the other side: "Road dangerous, don't cross, cockadoodledoo."
You have to exaggerate on these application forms, for 'title' I've put "WBO Heavyweight Boxing Champion Of The World."
How much wood would Victoria Wood chuck if Victoria Wood would chuck wood, chuck?
Anyone else going to this year's Geneva convention?
A striker sleeps to dream of a goal per chance.
That Henry Heimlich, there's a guy who deserves a pat on the back.
I saw an ocean liner today - that's one enormous bit of plastic.
I've found more underground sources of water than you can wave a stick at.
"Ah Mr.Browse, you're our 10:30" "Please, call me '10'" - smooth as you like at the hairdressers.
Palindrome - Stadium at the centre of PythonWorld® #ued
I asked Mark Rothko to do my portrait - he just blocked me.
"Hey Spock! High five! No, you have to keep the fingers together........idiot."
My full name is Arnold Sebastian Algernon Perditer, which could explain why I keep getting asked to do everything.
According to the latest Straw Poll, scarecrows vote Liberal.
Anyone else entering this year's Nuremberg Rally?
I've got hat-hair, which saves a pretty penny on hats.
Here's my Frank Spencer impression: *Frank Spencer face* *Frank Spencer voice* "Hmmm Betty."
"Where to, guv'?" "Funky Town please." "Where's that?" "Second left after Boogie Wonderland." "Right you are, and nice 'fro too, sir."
"What's up Bones?" "It's Spock, Captain, just caught him playing Strip-4D Chess with Chekhov."
"Ah, Mr. Bond we've been expecting you - start in the attic and take special care when cleaning the lifts."
Terrier - more like Terry. #ued
Scottish football legend Gemmill plays trumpet in a Mexican style brass band "Mariachi?" That goal against Holland was good, but he's not my type.
You are not going to believe the size of Aunt Bessie's freezer.
Pioneering - lobe jewelry depicting the number 3.14159.... #ued
Do Americans call him Johnny Mathi?
Don't go shopping with greasy hands - it's much harder to get purchase.
I call my left testicle 'Kevin' - it's his nom de plum.
Our remote control is useless, located as it is on the Pacific island of Nuku Hiva.
I admit now that my story about being a mummy miraculously brought back to life was a complete fabrication.
If a mime artist falls down in the forest and no-one is around to hear it, does he still not make a noise?
My best mate stole my supply of Viagra - still, no hard feelings.
It's a converted barn set in two acres of reclaimed arable farmland - Jonathan ross calls it his 'country RT'
I've hired a stuntman in case I fall down the stairs.
Grinch - imperial measurement of snarl length. #ued
I've had it up to *here* with people who are five foot six and three quarters.
I've had it up to here with conspiracy theories, the sooner we get on to the practical exam the better.
Eventually Popeye had baby Spinach with Olive oil.
Alvin Stardust stands like that because the bar in his local is too high for him.
The ring-toned sloth is endangered because it is annoying and very, very slow.
I've got a shopping list as long as my arm - it just says "milk" which I admit is a waste of paper.
I sleep in a single bed, it's enormous. I also have a double bed because you never know when your double might come to stay.
I'm having all my organs tattooed on the outside of my body in case an inexperienced surgeon has to operate.
"Talk to the ears, the boobs ain't listening."
Ever tried speaking with forked tongue? It's very, very painful and everythin thoun li la.
3PO & R2 sitting in a tree, r.u.s.t.i.n.g.
June 4th 2023, March 30th 2015, November 3rd 2398. Laters.
Oblige - The Irish branch of Mary J.'s family.
Which cards make up a courtesy flush?
A pine cone is the closest a squirrel gets to a Rubik's Cube.
"So let's celebrate, I'm feelin' great, I'm the guy who found the lost chord." Jimmy Durante, relieved after a near-disastrous parachute incident.
With hindsight I wish I'd been the front half of the pantomime horse.
Good evening. The rest of this tweet is in mandarin: quack quack quack *waddle* quack quack *shakes arse* quack.
The first rule of Junior Fight club is no-one becomes a Tommy-tell-tale-tit.
"Anyone want to buzz? I'll have to hurry you..." "Mary, Magdalene:" "Is it an apple?" Very early University Challenge.
Whatever goes on Frances de la Tour, stays on Frances de la Tour.
The inventor of toothpaste was born in our village, you can't tell which house because there's no plaque on the outside.
Ssangyong is an anagram of sSangyong.
Bad news from the doctors, I've been diagnosed as having mightgetrunoverbyabustomorrowitis.
I'm your secret admirer, the komodo dragon you feed budgies to in the greenhouse is my favourite.
"Is it true we have no bananas?" "NO! We have 'yes' bananas, we have 'yes' bananas today!"
I hate 'yes' bananas, crawling around the rest of the bunch - I'd have 'no' bananas any day of the week. Today even.
Got a thirst walking around IKEA, but it's hard building up a thirst when you can't read the instructions.
Baby-sat last night, but I admit to being naughty, refusing to go to bed and insisting on tea & cake at 2 a.m.
Water and the laws of physics; whatever floats your boat.
All joking aside, I'd like to organise a charity football match between 22 comedians.
The life story of Mr. Magoo is to be made into a film - it's a myopic.
At the seance we got a message from the other side: "Road dangerous, don't cross, cockadoodledoo."
You have to exaggerate on these application forms, for 'title' I've put "WBO Heavyweight Boxing Champion Of The World."
How much wood would Victoria Wood chuck if Victoria Wood would chuck wood, chuck?
Anyone else going to this year's Geneva convention?
A striker sleeps to dream of a goal per chance.
That Henry Heimlich, there's a guy who deserves a pat on the back.
I saw an ocean liner today - that's one enormous bit of plastic.
I've found more underground sources of water than you can wave a stick at.
"Ah Mr.Browse, you're our 10:30" "Please, call me '10'" - smooth as you like at the hairdressers.
Palindrome - Stadium at the centre of PythonWorld® #ued
I asked Mark Rothko to do my portrait - he just blocked me.
"Hey Spock! High five! No, you have to keep the fingers together........idiot."
My full name is Arnold Sebastian Algernon Perditer, which could explain why I keep getting asked to do everything.
According to the latest Straw Poll, scarecrows vote Liberal.
Anyone else entering this year's Nuremberg Rally?
I've got hat-hair, which saves a pretty penny on hats.
Here's my Frank Spencer impression: *Frank Spencer face* *Frank Spencer voice* "Hmmm Betty."
"Where to, guv'?" "Funky Town please." "Where's that?" "Second left after Boogie Wonderland." "Right you are, and nice 'fro too, sir."
"What's up Bones?" "It's Spock, Captain, just caught him playing Strip-4D Chess with Chekhov."
"Ah, Mr. Bond we've been expecting you - start in the attic and take special care when cleaning the lifts."
Terrier - more like Terry. #ued
Scottish football legend Gemmill plays trumpet in a Mexican style brass band "Mariachi?" That goal against Holland was good, but he's not my type.
You are not going to believe the size of Aunt Bessie's freezer.
Pioneering - lobe jewelry depicting the number 3.14159.... #ued
Do Americans call him Johnny Mathi?
Don't go shopping with greasy hands - it's much harder to get purchase.
I call my left testicle 'Kevin' - it's his nom de plum.
Our remote control is useless, located as it is on the Pacific island of Nuku Hiva.
I admit now that my story about being a mummy miraculously brought back to life was a complete fabrication.
If a mime artist falls down in the forest and no-one is around to hear it, does he still not make a noise?
My best mate stole my supply of Viagra - still, no hard feelings.
It's a converted barn set in two acres of reclaimed arable farmland - Jonathan ross calls it his 'country RT'
I've hired a stuntman in case I fall down the stairs.
Grinch - imperial measurement of snarl length. #ued
I've had it up to *here* with people who are five foot six and three quarters.
I've had it up to here with conspiracy theories, the sooner we get on to the practical exam the better.
Eventually Popeye had baby Spinach with Olive oil.
Alvin Stardust stands like that because the bar in his local is too high for him.
The ring-toned sloth is endangered because it is annoying and very, very slow.
I've got a shopping list as long as my arm - it just says "milk" which I admit is a waste of paper.
I sleep in a single bed, it's enormous. I also have a double bed because you never know when your double might come to stay.
I'm having all my organs tattooed on the outside of my body in case an inexperienced surgeon has to operate.
"Talk to the ears, the boobs ain't listening."
Ever tried speaking with forked tongue? It's very, very painful and everythin thoun li la.
3PO & R2 sitting in a tree, r.u.s.t.i.n.g.
June 4th 2023, March 30th 2015, November 3rd 2398. Laters.
Oblige - The Irish branch of Mary J.'s family.
Which cards make up a courtesy flush?
A pine cone is the closest a squirrel gets to a Rubik's Cube.
"So let's celebrate, I'm feelin' great, I'm the guy who found the lost chord." Jimmy Durante, relieved after a near-disastrous parachute incident.
With hindsight I wish I'd been the front half of the pantomime horse.
Good evening. The rest of this tweet is in mandarin: quack quack quack *waddle* quack quack *shakes arse* quack.
The first rule of Junior Fight club is no-one becomes a Tommy-tell-tale-tit.
"Anyone want to buzz? I'll have to hurry you..." "Mary, Magdalene:" "Is it an apple?" Very early University Challenge.
Whatever goes on Frances de la Tour, stays on Frances de la Tour.
The inventor of toothpaste was born in our village, you can't tell which house because there's no plaque on the outside.
Ssangyong is an anagram of sSangyong.
Bad news from the doctors, I've been diagnosed as having mightgetrunoverbyabustomorrowitis.
I'm your secret admirer, the komodo dragon you feed budgies to in the greenhouse is my favourite.
"Is it true we have no bananas?" "NO! We have 'yes' bananas, we have 'yes' bananas today!"
I hate 'yes' bananas, crawling around the rest of the bunch - I'd have 'no' bananas any day of the week. Today even.
Got a thirst walking around IKEA, but it's hard building up a thirst when you can't read the instructions.
Baby-sat last night, but I admit to being naughty, refusing to go to bed and insisting on tea & cake at 2 a.m.
Water and the laws of physics; whatever floats your boat.
All joking aside, I'd like to organise a charity football match between 22 comedians.
The life story of Mr. Magoo is to be made into a film - it's a myopic.
Lower Faster Quicker
We are doing the Olympics next year and we fear for the athletes queueing at the chilli-dog stand outside Piccadilly Circus. A buffed and honed sporting machine cannot live for two weeks on steamed eels and doner kebabs so The Sebastian Co. has asked a select band of miserable bastards to try and hurry things on a bit. The opening ceremony [always death] will be recorded by recently sacked Panto actors in February to allow the talent to crack on with the competition. The aim is to have it all over in time for the highlights on Monday evening so let's get quantatively easing....
1. Walking.
I know, ridiculous as it might seem walking can be done competitively. I've seen footage [no pun intended and hopefully none taken], it looks like the commuters on London Bridge late for their 8:30 and inappropriately dressed. You can be disqualified for running, which everyone knows is quicker than walking - what happened to "Faster, Sexier etc.?" No, we are not having that not no how. Let them run.
2. Running.
Faster. Further, at a pinch. The 100 metres stays so we know who is quickest. I would like to see a 2 metre sprint with 10 hurdles for a laugh [a honking noise could be sounded if anyone falls over]. The relay is the work of the devil - slow down a bit and pass the parcel at intervals? Undignified, and it gives the slower ones a chance. If we must have a relay then just have all four from each team holding hands - only problem here is the need for a 36 lane track.
The snickers is a completely random 26 miles something-or-other because that was the distance from Buck House to Wembley - nothing to do with ancient Greece or modern Greece for that matter. The long-haul race should be 200 elite skinnies pointed north and the last one standing wins. Cars are better for going a long way, but they might not exist by the time of the games.
2a. Running and drugs.
Every competitor should be supplied with every chemical stimulant and performance-enhancing substance available. We'll still find out who's best, it might be funny and only the ones on ecstasy will believe it's 'all about the taking part.'
3. Throwing.
The spear and only the spear. Come next summer we'll all be hunting for our own food anyway so it'll be the only grass-roots activity represented. Perhaps the weightlifters could throw some gymnasts as both of these groups will be sadly unemployed in our edited festival. The Greeks can throw some plates if they like, as they did invent the whole thing in the first place.
4. Jumping.
The long jump we like - leaping up and down on the spot [minimum one jump per second] for as long as they can. They could do this at home if they like as long as Dale Winton or someone is there to make sure the rules are adhered to. We have ladders now so the high jump is obsolete, we don't expect the runners to run using flippers and gills - evolution isn't an accident. Snipers will be everywhere, so anyone trying the childish hop/skip/jump charade will be taken out.
5. Lifting.
Who cares? If anyone can lift up a lorry, give them a coconut.
6. Swimming.
We are land mammals, running is faster and most of us only think of swimming once we've fallen into Oulton Broad. It's an emergency reflex action and you don't see Olympic fire-fighting or first aid now do you? They don't even use the quickest stroke sometimes, idiots, and the endless permutations of medley and distance just to help the Australians rack up their medal tally? No.
200 elite speedos, pointed in the direction of America, if any are still going at 10:00pm.....
7. The Rest.
Mostly fannying about. Diving, bowls, gymbloodynastics [FFS], shooting, cards, toenail spinning, pylon erecting, tent deflating, bikes!, staring, give us a break.
In truth I'll be drawn in when it starts and you never know we might not completely balls the whole thing up. But: Boris Johnson - look on those words my pretties and despair. I wonder if we can get the winter games too, it's cold enough.
1. Walking.
I know, ridiculous as it might seem walking can be done competitively. I've seen footage [no pun intended and hopefully none taken], it looks like the commuters on London Bridge late for their 8:30 and inappropriately dressed. You can be disqualified for running, which everyone knows is quicker than walking - what happened to "Faster, Sexier etc.?" No, we are not having that not no how. Let them run.
2. Running.
Faster. Further, at a pinch. The 100 metres stays so we know who is quickest. I would like to see a 2 metre sprint with 10 hurdles for a laugh [a honking noise could be sounded if anyone falls over]. The relay is the work of the devil - slow down a bit and pass the parcel at intervals? Undignified, and it gives the slower ones a chance. If we must have a relay then just have all four from each team holding hands - only problem here is the need for a 36 lane track.
The snickers is a completely random 26 miles something-or-other because that was the distance from Buck House to Wembley - nothing to do with ancient Greece or modern Greece for that matter. The long-haul race should be 200 elite skinnies pointed north and the last one standing wins. Cars are better for going a long way, but they might not exist by the time of the games.
2a. Running and drugs.
Every competitor should be supplied with every chemical stimulant and performance-enhancing substance available. We'll still find out who's best, it might be funny and only the ones on ecstasy will believe it's 'all about the taking part.'
3. Throwing.
The spear and only the spear. Come next summer we'll all be hunting for our own food anyway so it'll be the only grass-roots activity represented. Perhaps the weightlifters could throw some gymnasts as both of these groups will be sadly unemployed in our edited festival. The Greeks can throw some plates if they like, as they did invent the whole thing in the first place.
4. Jumping.
The long jump we like - leaping up and down on the spot [minimum one jump per second] for as long as they can. They could do this at home if they like as long as Dale Winton or someone is there to make sure the rules are adhered to. We have ladders now so the high jump is obsolete, we don't expect the runners to run using flippers and gills - evolution isn't an accident. Snipers will be everywhere, so anyone trying the childish hop/skip/jump charade will be taken out.
5. Lifting.
Who cares? If anyone can lift up a lorry, give them a coconut.
6. Swimming.
We are land mammals, running is faster and most of us only think of swimming once we've fallen into Oulton Broad. It's an emergency reflex action and you don't see Olympic fire-fighting or first aid now do you? They don't even use the quickest stroke sometimes, idiots, and the endless permutations of medley and distance just to help the Australians rack up their medal tally? No.
200 elite speedos, pointed in the direction of America, if any are still going at 10:00pm.....
7. The Rest.
Mostly fannying about. Diving, bowls, gymbloodynastics [FFS], shooting, cards, toenail spinning, pylon erecting, tent deflating, bikes!, staring, give us a break.
In truth I'll be drawn in when it starts and you never know we might not completely balls the whole thing up. But: Boris Johnson - look on those words my pretties and despair. I wonder if we can get the winter games too, it's cold enough.
Sunday 13 November 2011
Rotating Outrage
This is an accidental poem. I did this tweet, it went: "Would it be callous of me to rub emery paper on your elbow until it formed a patch of hard skin?" I know, I know, and as sure as backlash follows praise-to-the-skies, along came Lawrence Charter or @Lawrencharters: an emery paper bot. I always embrace bots for a while at least - they might be useful for smoothie reciepes, the spelling of 'recipes', or amusing find-our-truck-in-Bavaria-and-win-a-trip-to-Bavaria games in German [they offered to translate into English for me, but where's the fun in that? I just hit the keyboard slower but harder]. Anyway, @Lawrencharters tweets have turned out to have a poetic quality to them, bound by the local newspaper headlines repeated, or the daily rough and tumble of existing in a largely emery paper ignorant world. This poem [yes, dammit, I'm calling it a poem] is based on four tweets, one on the 11th and three on the 12th November - in order and verbatim:*
'Rotating Outrage'
Pipe markers
how can we get related to their indicators?
health
the starving theater artist
rotating outrage
melton pool league
harboro-cabadra
preserve magic start to season
melton today -
teak maintenance set
abs plastic
fibreglass vessel restore
try square rehab project
hand tool journey
a woodworking show
sand paper
babble out
from instinctive
gasoline burp
pulls in
I will monitor @Lawrencharters and hopefully extend this into a bot Ulysses. Bots: not just here for the nasty things in life.
*added to on 15th Nov.
Sad to inform that on 11th December 2011 @Lawrencecharters severed our alliance. It could have been so beautiful.
'Rotating Outrage'
Pipe markers
how can we get related to their indicators?
health
the starving theater artist
rotating outrage
melton pool league
harboro-cabadra
preserve magic start to season
melton today -
teak maintenance set
abs plastic
fibreglass vessel restore
try square rehab project
hand tool journey
a woodworking show
sand paper
babble out
from instinctive
gasoline burp
pulls in
I will monitor @Lawrencharters and hopefully extend this into a bot Ulysses. Bots: not just here for the nasty things in life.
*added to on 15th Nov.
Sad to inform that on 11th December 2011 @Lawrencecharters severed our alliance. It could have been so beautiful.
Monday 7 November 2011
Girlfriends In A Car Park, I Know, I Know, It's Serious
A little red car enters the car park. Once parked, the passenger door flies open and out fumes the passenger. She spits "S'yalater!" and sprints towards the Thomas Paine Study Centre. The driver *exits door right* with more calm but red faced and breathing deeply. She checks no-one has seen anything [oops] and gathers herself in the same direction. Boy do I want to know what went on. For the sake of argument [not that you are arguing] we'll call the driver Emily Fittipaldi and the passenger, Izzy Pop.
Emily and Izzy are friends and work together. Emily is on flexi-time but Izzy is not, perhaps on a short-term contract/maternity leave do-dah. They meet in the kitchen at work at 8:15 and have a cuppa before work. Yes they are friends, I'm having that. One day Izzy turns up late because her little blue car has conked out - Emily has to pass her house on the way to-and-from work so offers Izzy a lift. In these austere times I know not how many lifts you give someone before the vulgar question of petrol money comes up. First time? A week? I think Izzy would have offered straight away but Emily would refuse as Izzy has had enough crap to deal with for one day/week...
"Anyway, you'll be getting another runabout soon.."
"Ah, there's the thing: I don't think I can afford one - I was going to ask....
So let's say petrol money regular and up-front - both get to work same time, no inconvenience for Emily and a few extra coffers too. Remember, these people are friends. But is sharing a car every day like sharing a bed or mini-moving-in-with someone? I'm guessing it is. I think after a while Izzy asks Emily if she wouldn't mind putting Radio 4 on instead of Hëärt FM, she might wince and make a little gasp as Emily almost jackknifes a cyclist. On the other hand Emily might be a bit too close to Izzy's perfume for her liking or wish she would bloody sit still always fiddling with the seatbelt and the air conditioning and the vanity mirror yes she's soooo vain I never noticed it before but now you mention it... I think it is Emily who falls out of 'love' first. But what to do? Tell Izzy to get a bus pass? Pretend she fancies her to frighten her away? Develop tourettes? No, I think Emily is more devious than that - remember she is on flexi-time, doesn't matter when she starts. Emily starts moving the pick-up time back by tiny increments, almost unnoticeable, until Izzy finds she can't have that relaxing cuppa before work, until she's rushing to make her start time at all...
What I saw was the last straw. Which has a kind of rhythm to it. 'Rhythm' is a funny looking word isn't it? Should it really have two h's in it? Shut up I'm trying to finish. Perhaps they nearly came a cropper with a big old lorry at a roundabout, Emily effed and blinded the rest of the way about men drivers and just as they were passing the creepy guy who looks after the barriers at the University...
"Well, you did indicate to turn off, but went straight on...
Car sharing is obviously a good idea. Saving the planet and all. I bet it's one of the reasons Sting can keep at it for 18 hours solid. I said "solid". I don't think it worked for Emily and Izzy. If I see Izzy getting out of Steve's car tomorrow, I'll let you know. Don't get me started on Steve.
Emily and Izzy are friends and work together. Emily is on flexi-time but Izzy is not, perhaps on a short-term contract/maternity leave do-dah. They meet in the kitchen at work at 8:15 and have a cuppa before work. Yes they are friends, I'm having that. One day Izzy turns up late because her little blue car has conked out - Emily has to pass her house on the way to-and-from work so offers Izzy a lift. In these austere times I know not how many lifts you give someone before the vulgar question of petrol money comes up. First time? A week? I think Izzy would have offered straight away but Emily would refuse as Izzy has had enough crap to deal with for one day/week...
"Anyway, you'll be getting another runabout soon.."
"Ah, there's the thing: I don't think I can afford one - I was going to ask....
So let's say petrol money regular and up-front - both get to work same time, no inconvenience for Emily and a few extra coffers too. Remember, these people are friends. But is sharing a car every day like sharing a bed or mini-moving-in-with someone? I'm guessing it is. I think after a while Izzy asks Emily if she wouldn't mind putting Radio 4 on instead of Hëärt FM, she might wince and make a little gasp as Emily almost jackknifes a cyclist. On the other hand Emily might be a bit too close to Izzy's perfume for her liking or wish she would bloody sit still always fiddling with the seatbelt and the air conditioning and the vanity mirror yes she's soooo vain I never noticed it before but now you mention it... I think it is Emily who falls out of 'love' first. But what to do? Tell Izzy to get a bus pass? Pretend she fancies her to frighten her away? Develop tourettes? No, I think Emily is more devious than that - remember she is on flexi-time, doesn't matter when she starts. Emily starts moving the pick-up time back by tiny increments, almost unnoticeable, until Izzy finds she can't have that relaxing cuppa before work, until she's rushing to make her start time at all...
What I saw was the last straw. Which has a kind of rhythm to it. 'Rhythm' is a funny looking word isn't it? Should it really have two h's in it? Shut up I'm trying to finish. Perhaps they nearly came a cropper with a big old lorry at a roundabout, Emily effed and blinded the rest of the way about men drivers and just as they were passing the creepy guy who looks after the barriers at the University...
"Well, you did indicate to turn off, but went straight on...
Car sharing is obviously a good idea. Saving the planet and all. I bet it's one of the reasons Sting can keep at it for 18 hours solid. I said "solid". I don't think it worked for Emily and Izzy. If I see Izzy getting out of Steve's car tomorrow, I'll let you know. Don't get me started on Steve.
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Pashlode Revisited
Mister Haydn, the headmaster, wore a wig. 'The Judge' was his nickname, so obvious a wig it was. It was said that if you caught Mister Haydn going through his 'green cross code', the wig stayed where it was as the right and left looking went on. Mister Haydn was a nice headmaster and all the children liked him, but everyone gave him that second look as he passed and each year a new batch of young'uns would arrive and learn the truth about the head's head.
Mister Sathage, the maths teacher did not wear a wig. Everyone liked Mister Sathage too - he was authoritative without having to resort to shouting or cuffing-around-the-earhole and his classes were always deathly quiet. One day from the back of the room came a sniffing. Mister Sathage heard it but put it down to a head-cold manifesting itself in Johnson, who was always ill with something. Johnson raised his hand.
"Please sir."
"Yes, Johnson"
"Martham's crying sir."
Martham, a tiny studious child of mixed emotions was indeed sniveling quietly to his self.
"What is the matter Martham? Do you want to tell us?"
Martham shook his tiny head.
"I know what it is sir - Mister Haydn overheard Martham telling a new boy about the green cross code thing."
"What 'green cross code thing'?"
Johnson explained. Mister Sathage calmly listened but the brighter children realised he was not enjoying the story. He explained that it was cruel to laugh at someone, especially the headmaster and that a repeating of that joke to any new children was forbidden. No shouting, no cuffed lugholes.
Johnson, who'd been pearing into the middle distance throughout, piped up again:
"But sir, ......Mister Haydn does wear a wig, doesn't he?"
Again Mister Sathage gave a few moments before replying.
"Yes..... he does. It is obvious that Mister Haydn, your headmaster covers his head with a peruke. You all obviously know it and all the teachers know it too, but what you have to consider is why Mister Haydn wears a wig. You may suggest vanity but think again; what if underneath Mister Haydn's hairpiece hides something unsightly?"
"Something unsightly." Mister Sathage chose his words expertly, his own theory on Mister Haydn was that the poor man simply didn't have the right shaped head to accommodate baldness - think Willie Thorne for example - but he wanted to keep the children guessing. And guess they did, finally forming the picture of an un-wigged Mister Haydn looking something like Darth Vader first thing in the morning. The downside to this is that the children now feared Mister Haydn, hardly daring to look him in the eye. Then came the news that Mister Haydn was to retire - his Christmas assembly that year was to be his last duty.
That day began as normal - Jilly MacFarrell was busy seducing Paul Agle in the chemistry lab, Barry Wade had been thrown into the sandpit, picked up, dusted off and thrown back into the sandpit again and Mister Van-Rooyen was locked in his store cupboard by pupils unknown. Only when the absence of a piano player was spotted did Johnson leg it to the music room to free Mister Van-Rooyen, who had been joined in the store cupboard by Mister Timprelti [perhaps another time...]. Carols were sung and 'Ghost Town' by The Specials was played to give everyone an idea of what year everything was going on in. The new children were praised for their progress that term and Mister Haydn thanked the teachers for their support....
"...and finally I must thank everyone of you for helping to make my stay here such a rewarding one. It is now my great pleasure to hand the ceremonial robe of Pashlode Comprehensive to Mister Sathage, who will now be your new headmaster.."
Applause.
Mister Sathage accepts the robe of office.
"And Mister Sathage has one other duty to perform......"
Mister Sathage removes Mister Haydn's wig and waves it in the air. Mister Haydn suits baldness - think Patrick Stewart - the children cheer and rush the stage. Martham gets there first. In the confusion, Barry Wade gets off with Jilly MacFarrell and Misters Van Rooyen and Timprelti lock themselves in the store cupboard.
Mister Sathage, the maths teacher did not wear a wig. Everyone liked Mister Sathage too - he was authoritative without having to resort to shouting or cuffing-around-the-earhole and his classes were always deathly quiet. One day from the back of the room came a sniffing. Mister Sathage heard it but put it down to a head-cold manifesting itself in Johnson, who was always ill with something. Johnson raised his hand.
"Please sir."
"Yes, Johnson"
"Martham's crying sir."
Martham, a tiny studious child of mixed emotions was indeed sniveling quietly to his self.
"What is the matter Martham? Do you want to tell us?"
Martham shook his tiny head.
"I know what it is sir - Mister Haydn overheard Martham telling a new boy about the green cross code thing."
"What 'green cross code thing'?"
Johnson explained. Mister Sathage calmly listened but the brighter children realised he was not enjoying the story. He explained that it was cruel to laugh at someone, especially the headmaster and that a repeating of that joke to any new children was forbidden. No shouting, no cuffed lugholes.
Johnson, who'd been pearing into the middle distance throughout, piped up again:
"But sir, ......Mister Haydn does wear a wig, doesn't he?"
Again Mister Sathage gave a few moments before replying.
"Yes..... he does. It is obvious that Mister Haydn, your headmaster covers his head with a peruke. You all obviously know it and all the teachers know it too, but what you have to consider is why Mister Haydn wears a wig. You may suggest vanity but think again; what if underneath Mister Haydn's hairpiece hides something unsightly?"
"Something unsightly." Mister Sathage chose his words expertly, his own theory on Mister Haydn was that the poor man simply didn't have the right shaped head to accommodate baldness - think Willie Thorne for example - but he wanted to keep the children guessing. And guess they did, finally forming the picture of an un-wigged Mister Haydn looking something like Darth Vader first thing in the morning. The downside to this is that the children now feared Mister Haydn, hardly daring to look him in the eye. Then came the news that Mister Haydn was to retire - his Christmas assembly that year was to be his last duty.
That day began as normal - Jilly MacFarrell was busy seducing Paul Agle in the chemistry lab, Barry Wade had been thrown into the sandpit, picked up, dusted off and thrown back into the sandpit again and Mister Van-Rooyen was locked in his store cupboard by pupils unknown. Only when the absence of a piano player was spotted did Johnson leg it to the music room to free Mister Van-Rooyen, who had been joined in the store cupboard by Mister Timprelti [perhaps another time...]. Carols were sung and 'Ghost Town' by The Specials was played to give everyone an idea of what year everything was going on in. The new children were praised for their progress that term and Mister Haydn thanked the teachers for their support....
"...and finally I must thank everyone of you for helping to make my stay here such a rewarding one. It is now my great pleasure to hand the ceremonial robe of Pashlode Comprehensive to Mister Sathage, who will now be your new headmaster.."
Applause.
Mister Sathage accepts the robe of office.
"And Mister Sathage has one other duty to perform......"
Mister Sathage removes Mister Haydn's wig and waves it in the air. Mister Haydn suits baldness - think Patrick Stewart - the children cheer and rush the stage. Martham gets there first. In the confusion, Barry Wade gets off with Jilly MacFarrell and Misters Van Rooyen and Timprelti lock themselves in the store cupboard.
Monday 10 October 2011
One Morning At The Milton Ford
It is 7:20 a.m. on a snowy February morning and I am driving to the 'Milton Ford' nursing home. I have a date with Margey the chef - we are to provide breakfast for approximately 60 elderly or unwell residents and as I turn into Milton Road I see the huddled figure of Kara speed-walking towards the home. There is still a half mile to walk, so I pull over and open the door.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day they can make sure their loved one is getting a variety of favourites - some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if regular visits aren't possible, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for Kara, it's her dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum sweetheart....don't know how to say it... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, girl. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something else, love......I don't feel anything."
Names have been changed.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day they can make sure their loved one is getting a variety of favourites - some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if regular visits aren't possible, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for Kara, it's her dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum sweetheart....don't know how to say it... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, girl. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something else, love......I don't feel anything."
Names have been changed.
Earth Stood Still
It is 7:20 a.m. on a snowy February morning and I am driving to the 'Milton Ford' nursing home. I have a date with Margey the chef - we are to provide breakfast for approximately 60 elderly or unwell residents and as I turn into Milton Road I see the huddled figure of Kara speed-walking towards the home. There is still a half mile to walk, so I pull over and open the door.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day, this is easy as they can make sure their loved one is getting variety and their favourites. Some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if they can't visit often, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for you, it's your dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum..... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, son. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something's wrong, son - I don't feel anything."
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day, this is easy as they can make sure their loved one is getting variety and their favourites. Some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if they can't visit often, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for you, it's your dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum..... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, son. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something's wrong, son - I don't feel anything."
Wednesday 28 September 2011
Oh Noz
The advert was cryptic, which should have been a warning: "Vacancy. Foppish positive thinker with a will-ring-bell attitude. Good time-keeping essential...."
I was intrigued and more importantly, skint, so I shined my shoes and made sure I was 5 minutes early for the interview. This seemed to piss them off but no-one else applied, so I was officially named Town Crier (maternity leave cover) for Hoveton & Wroxham, Norfolk. Oh, yez.
What it didn't say in the advert was that I then had to buy my own uniform - luckily there is a fancy-dress place in Wroxham so the coat and hat were easy. The bell had to be hired (flat rate or so much per "dong") and the shoes were handed down from the previous maternity leave coverer, complete with three-inch heels. Shouting tax was to be deducted from gross wages. The induction course involved a sundial, a divining rod, the sacrifice of a live chicken and amphetamine sulphate. I was fast-tracked through all this with worrying haste and shooed onto the streets within 34 minutes and 21 seconds or thereabouts. Luckily I had a watch. Luckily I had a mobile phone to keep up with current affairs. Luckily nothing much goes on in Hoveton & Wroxham when out of holiday season.
My boss knew I was desperate for cash and needed this. He put me on the graveyard shift, then the vicar complained so I was given the dreaded '24/7'. Oh yez, the '24/7' - you can't work more hours than that, think about it - "..twenty three thirty seven and all's well..." using my little night-time bell so as not to wake anyone. And the wages were not that hot, not for the abuse from the kids, "Oi, you're on the end of a bell, that makes you a campanologist. Oh, bollocks I meant 'bell-end', come back here and let me insult you properly..." Relentless. To earn extra I started to freelance, giving out bits of local gossip at 10:30 when the old biddies left the post office, or promoting Mrs. McFiggis's newsagent: "..alls well and 20p off a packet of sherbert lemons with every fifth purchase of 'Ladder Awareness Monthly'..."etc. It was tiring but I was happy - Wroxham F.C. were thriving in the Green Dodecahedron League and the mood of the population was cheery with only a wistful remembrance of rationing and powdered egg to worry about.
Sadly the hours of duty started to catch up. One day, a Wednesday I think it was, about 2 minutes past the hour of 4; I realised I wasn't getting much sleep. Or food. Like Flavor Flav, I always knew what time it was, but I wasn't getting 'mine'. Things came to a head when the clocks went back that October. I had to walk backwards for a whole hour, then they told me I'd be docked an hours wages for the hour that I'd just walked backwards during. They tried to calm me down with talk of repeat fees for the 1 a.m. broadcast, but I knew the time had come for not only the repeat of the 1 a.m. broadcast; but for me to make a stand (albeit a walking one, ringing a bell as I went). "...eight thirty nine and all's sweet as..." slipped one of those in an hour "...five sixty one and all's well..." that'll fox 'em "....five seven oh five, and there's no reply...." "... all the nines, ten past four..." and so it went on. No-one noticed. Seems Hoveton & Wroxham was blasé about the new maternity cover Town Crier, so much so that I blended into the background like the roadworks outside the Garden Centre or the fella in top hat & tails collecting litter.
Then I heard that Aylsham's Crier had a mere two-cornered hat, honked a clowns horn and had more groupies than you can wave a bell at....
There is no sadder sight or sound in the world than a Town Crier who has lost the will to crie. I hate myself to think of what I had become in those final days. I wore a balaclava outside the Salvation Army. Dungarees. A prom dress. "Suck On My Attitude" t-shirt. Pogo stick. Stilts. Dalek voice. Kenneth Williams. And finally, sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, no really, oh, yeah, its three thirty and everything is absolutely marvelous, really it is, no, couldn't be better, whoop-de-doo...."
I was intrigued and more importantly, skint, so I shined my shoes and made sure I was 5 minutes early for the interview. This seemed to piss them off but no-one else applied, so I was officially named Town Crier (maternity leave cover) for Hoveton & Wroxham, Norfolk. Oh, yez.
What it didn't say in the advert was that I then had to buy my own uniform - luckily there is a fancy-dress place in Wroxham so the coat and hat were easy. The bell had to be hired (flat rate or so much per "dong") and the shoes were handed down from the previous maternity leave coverer, complete with three-inch heels. Shouting tax was to be deducted from gross wages. The induction course involved a sundial, a divining rod, the sacrifice of a live chicken and amphetamine sulphate. I was fast-tracked through all this with worrying haste and shooed onto the streets within 34 minutes and 21 seconds or thereabouts. Luckily I had a watch. Luckily I had a mobile phone to keep up with current affairs. Luckily nothing much goes on in Hoveton & Wroxham when out of holiday season.
My boss knew I was desperate for cash and needed this. He put me on the graveyard shift, then the vicar complained so I was given the dreaded '24/7'. Oh yez, the '24/7' - you can't work more hours than that, think about it - "..twenty three thirty seven and all's well..." using my little night-time bell so as not to wake anyone. And the wages were not that hot, not for the abuse from the kids, "Oi, you're on the end of a bell, that makes you a campanologist. Oh, bollocks I meant 'bell-end', come back here and let me insult you properly..." Relentless. To earn extra I started to freelance, giving out bits of local gossip at 10:30 when the old biddies left the post office, or promoting Mrs. McFiggis's newsagent: "..alls well and 20p off a packet of sherbert lemons with every fifth purchase of 'Ladder Awareness Monthly'..."etc. It was tiring but I was happy - Wroxham F.C. were thriving in the Green Dodecahedron League and the mood of the population was cheery with only a wistful remembrance of rationing and powdered egg to worry about.
Sadly the hours of duty started to catch up. One day, a Wednesday I think it was, about 2 minutes past the hour of 4; I realised I wasn't getting much sleep. Or food. Like Flavor Flav, I always knew what time it was, but I wasn't getting 'mine'. Things came to a head when the clocks went back that October. I had to walk backwards for a whole hour, then they told me I'd be docked an hours wages for the hour that I'd just walked backwards during. They tried to calm me down with talk of repeat fees for the 1 a.m. broadcast, but I knew the time had come for not only the repeat of the 1 a.m. broadcast; but for me to make a stand (albeit a walking one, ringing a bell as I went). "...eight thirty nine and all's sweet as..." slipped one of those in an hour "...five sixty one and all's well..." that'll fox 'em "....five seven oh five, and there's no reply...." "... all the nines, ten past four..." and so it went on. No-one noticed. Seems Hoveton & Wroxham was blasé about the new maternity cover Town Crier, so much so that I blended into the background like the roadworks outside the Garden Centre or the fella in top hat & tails collecting litter.
Then I heard that Aylsham's Crier had a mere two-cornered hat, honked a clowns horn and had more groupies than you can wave a bell at....
There is no sadder sight or sound in the world than a Town Crier who has lost the will to crie. I hate myself to think of what I had become in those final days. I wore a balaclava outside the Salvation Army. Dungarees. A prom dress. "Suck On My Attitude" t-shirt. Pogo stick. Stilts. Dalek voice. Kenneth Williams. And finally, sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, no really, oh, yeah, its three thirty and everything is absolutely marvelous, really it is, no, couldn't be better, whoop-de-doo...."
Sunday 25 September 2011
There Was An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Worm
Molly is thirteen when she swallows a fly; perhaps she'll eventually die. The scientific evidence is overwhelming - pointing to 'she will'. For now, her only problem is a fly; and how to get rid of it. She asks her best friend and next-door neighbour Dolly, who lives in a shoe. Dolly hasn't done biology yet but has witnessed a spider feeding; so she suggests: "swallow that", as opposed to: "hang around - they don't live very long". Things go well, the buzzing stops, followed by a tickling and a wriggling...
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
Friday 23 September 2011
Thimbles (just thimbles)
Say "thimbles" and what do you think of? Chris Eubank trying to say "cymbals"? The Forth Road Bridge? Well, probably not the latter, but you are now aren't you? If The Forth Road Bridge were made of thimbles it would be no use as a bridge; or as a sewing aid - and that is the point: They matter. Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. "Darn those socks!" Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL!?), it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is a writhing and thriving one.
So, we've established that thimbles are useful, cheep to run and attractive (if you like that sort of thing, or that sort of thing). But wait; our story is not complete - there is a disturbing twist to our tale..... what happens at night? Ever left off the lid off the sewing tin off? Three 'offs' don't make an 'on' you know? Out there, in the middle of the living room or pantry? Where the mice can get at it? You idiots? "But Ed," I *hear* you ask, "what possible use can a mouse have for a thimble?". Good question. 'Rodent Skiffle' is the answer. Remember Deryck Guyler (erstwhile 'Corky' in 'Sykes' and washboard player)? Well, our goofy little friends are innovative free-form musicians while we hibernate and that's not all they get up to either. Give a mouse a slab of cheese and he'll nibble it - give a mouse a slab of cheese and a metal thimble and he's got something to grate his cheese with.
Deryck Guyler also had a washboard stomach; but that is another story for another day.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. "Darn those socks!" Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL!?), it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is a writhing and thriving one.
So, we've established that thimbles are useful, cheep to run and attractive (if you like that sort of thing, or that sort of thing). But wait; our story is not complete - there is a disturbing twist to our tale..... what happens at night? Ever left off the lid off the sewing tin off? Three 'offs' don't make an 'on' you know? Out there, in the middle of the living room or pantry? Where the mice can get at it? You idiots? "But Ed," I *hear* you ask, "what possible use can a mouse have for a thimble?". Good question. 'Rodent Skiffle' is the answer. Remember Deryck Guyler (erstwhile 'Corky' in 'Sykes' and washboard player)? Well, our goofy little friends are innovative free-form musicians while we hibernate and that's not all they get up to either. Give a mouse a slab of cheese and he'll nibble it - give a mouse a slab of cheese and a metal thimble and he's got something to grate his cheese with.
Deryck Guyler also had a washboard stomach; but that is another story for another day.
 |
| A thimble, yesterday. |
Thimbles (just thimbles)
Thimbles. Say "thimbles" and what do you think of? Chris Eubank trying to say "cymbals"? The Forth Road Bridge? Well, probably not the latter, but you are now aren't you? If The Forth Road Bridge were made of thimbles it would be no use as a bridge; or as a sewing aid - and that is the point: They matter.
Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. Darn those socks! Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: Two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL?) it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is getting bigger, and bigger - dominaiting
Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. Darn those socks! Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: Two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL?) it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is getting bigger, and bigger - dominaiting
Wednesday 21 September 2011
A Tale Of Two Ditties
Seems it never rains in Southern California. We've often heard that kind of talk before; one day it had a life-changing effect on Reginald Dwight.
In Watford, in the 1960's, most houses still had an outside loo and somebody had to supply them. Reg's mum and dad ran 'The Plough' pub, and hoped little Reggie would one day take over; but Reg had bigger dreams. He went into business with his pal Bernard - Reg designed and built conveniences, while his friend provided a cheap and lightweight waterproof roofing. The orders flooded in. Business boomed. But it wasn't enough for Reg....
Seems it never rains in Southern California. Reg heard Albert Hammond on the radio one day and decided it was time to expand. Bernard was less than keen - he liked Watford, he liked the rain, he liked 'The Plough', he wished Reg had listened to his old man. They rowed. Reg claimed he didn't need Bernard's lightweight waterproof roofing in a state where it never rained. He decided to fly away.
He got on board a westbound seven forty seven. Changed his name. Changed the firm's name to bring it in line with American phraseology. Started touting his goods. Soon he realised that many American homes had inside lavatories. Undeterred he sold his alfresco toilets as a novelty - something to compliment a garden party or BBQ; a quaint reminder to expats of austerities passed... then it started raining. Man, it started raining.
Reg's toilets had a built-in obsolescence - they were attractive enough, but any businessman will tell you there's no point making something that'll last forever. Back in Blighty the old loos were crumbling away and there was no-one around to replace them. Things got so bad that fathers would urinate in the street - a protest at having to 'go' outside without the proper convenience. Bernard, watching from his upstairs room, finally decided where his future lied: beyond this yellowed brick road. He called Reg. Reg was calling him. They got an 'engaged' signal for six years, until finally making contact once more: "Get on board a westbound seven forty seven....
Elton's Johns & Bernie's Tarpaulins conquered America, The U.K., The World....
Please don't tell 'em how you found me, don't tell 'em how you found me....
©EMI Music Publishing & B. Taupin.
and apologies.
In Watford, in the 1960's, most houses still had an outside loo and somebody had to supply them. Reg's mum and dad ran 'The Plough' pub, and hoped little Reggie would one day take over; but Reg had bigger dreams. He went into business with his pal Bernard - Reg designed and built conveniences, while his friend provided a cheap and lightweight waterproof roofing. The orders flooded in. Business boomed. But it wasn't enough for Reg....
Seems it never rains in Southern California. Reg heard Albert Hammond on the radio one day and decided it was time to expand. Bernard was less than keen - he liked Watford, he liked the rain, he liked 'The Plough', he wished Reg had listened to his old man. They rowed. Reg claimed he didn't need Bernard's lightweight waterproof roofing in a state where it never rained. He decided to fly away.
He got on board a westbound seven forty seven. Changed his name. Changed the firm's name to bring it in line with American phraseology. Started touting his goods. Soon he realised that many American homes had inside lavatories. Undeterred he sold his alfresco toilets as a novelty - something to compliment a garden party or BBQ; a quaint reminder to expats of austerities passed... then it started raining. Man, it started raining.
Reg's toilets had a built-in obsolescence - they were attractive enough, but any businessman will tell you there's no point making something that'll last forever. Back in Blighty the old loos were crumbling away and there was no-one around to replace them. Things got so bad that fathers would urinate in the street - a protest at having to 'go' outside without the proper convenience. Bernard, watching from his upstairs room, finally decided where his future lied: beyond this yellowed brick road. He called Reg. Reg was calling him. They got an 'engaged' signal for six years, until finally making contact once more: "Get on board a westbound seven forty seven....
Elton's Johns & Bernie's Tarpaulins conquered America, The U.K., The World....
Please don't tell 'em how you found me, don't tell 'em how you found me....
©EMI Music Publishing & B. Taupin.
and apologies.
Monday 19 September 2011
Why I Quit International* Football
This is about Kevin**
Kevin's mum looked like a skinnier Nigella Lawson, or a greedier Diane Keen and cooked us 'Quavers' as a treat. Has that settled in yet? 'Quavers': home made. Kevin and I were in the same class, but his mum was 20 years younger than mine - this makes it totally OK for me to fancy her, aged 11. She was married to a bookish man with a 'tache, who looked like Reggie Perrin's son-in-law. What on earth did she see in him? Nice man, though. So we are in the same class and in the football team too - equal 11th best footballers at the school.
We had previous. At nursery there was a sandpit; and in that sandpit there was a saw, ee-i ee-i o. Health & Safety was in it's pre-school then too - all we had was a picture of Brian Wilson, with "If you see this man, scream" underneath. A saw. A proper metal one with a wooden handle and some little balsa wood blocks to cut. I hit Kevin on the head with it to see what would happen; then I hit myself on the head to even things up. I can still see the little dents in our heads.......then weeping....then blood. Kevin's mum always raised an eyebrow towards me after that; an untrusting but devilishly attractive eyebrow. Much later we went to Upton Park to see Diddy David Hamilton, John Peel, Roy North [Basil Brush's 'arm'-a-matey] & other celebs play in a charidee match against a West Ham XI. I can still see the magical cinemascope vision of green shiny velvetness under floodlights - as important as the first sight of the sea. The car was stolen and we had to traipse to the tube. The name 'Jinx' soon stuck.
Our school was the biggest in the area; we had the biggest population to choose from, acres of pitch, more footballs, more whitewash, the lot. As a result we bullied all the other schools we played. Our attack and midfield were so big that the opposition were too scared to go in our half - so there was room in defense for a couple of 'stoppers'. Our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dyall drew an imaginary box from the edge of the penalty area to the half-way line. My job as left back was to hoof the ball away if it came into the box - leave the box and the slipper would follow; pass to one of ours enough times and the nod would be given to go up for a corner. One corner. Being left-footed, I would start the game in the No.3 shirt, and Kevin got the No.12 for the second half. Never rivals, never a crossed word.
Cut to the District Cup Final. We got there easily, but knew little of our opponents. In an act of heartless betrayal, our headmaster decided to call in a coach from Dagenham F.C.; then in the 'Berger Isthmian League' [oh, the glamour] and relegate poor Mr. Dyall to magic sponge duties. Mister Big showed us all sorts of systems and strategies on a blackboard and we looked at him like Homer Simpson; wishing he'd just give us a doughnut and some orangeade. He knew 'they' were weak down their right - no pace, lacking that all-important first touch blah blah - and I was to change from Doug Rougvie to Roberto Carlos at the drop of a cap. We were being asked to think out of the imaginary box.
The final was played in a stadium. We had nets for the first time that season, and spent the entire warm-up period smashing balls into them - while our enemy were probably stretching every sineNO, they were smashing balls into their net too. #Nets. The whistle went, we kicked off and the ball was passed straight to me. Then [and only then] one of my own team was in the imaginary box with me [the cheek!] wanting a pass. Of course!: The Plan. We did a one-two past their right-winger and just carried on running. I lobbed the ball over their right-back and found myself 30-odd yards out with the goalie making a suicidal charge out of his area. Time stood still. I could knock it past him and dribble it into the empty net, or try the lob. I fell over and sprained an ankle. They went up the other end and with no left-back to worry about, went 1:0 up. Kevin came on and kept them out until half-time - but having to play nearly a whole game took it's toll: we lost 6:0. Five goals in the last ten minutes. Kevin's mum blamed me.
I gave up on the footie after that and cricket came along to split us up. Kevin was rubbish at it, so could fill the No.3 shirt with pride and distinction thereafter. He later married a librarian who was older than him by the same margin as his mum was to me. Which proves nothing. I wonder if she can make 'Quavers'.
*The 'International' bit was Mr. Dyall from Sri Lanka - we later played many times against each other on the cricket field - a lovely man.
**Kevin is not his real name. I changed it in case Paul got uppity about me fancying his mum.
Kevin's mum looked like a skinnier Nigella Lawson, or a greedier Diane Keen and cooked us 'Quavers' as a treat. Has that settled in yet? 'Quavers': home made. Kevin and I were in the same class, but his mum was 20 years younger than mine - this makes it totally OK for me to fancy her, aged 11. She was married to a bookish man with a 'tache, who looked like Reggie Perrin's son-in-law. What on earth did she see in him? Nice man, though. So we are in the same class and in the football team too - equal 11th best footballers at the school.
We had previous. At nursery there was a sandpit; and in that sandpit there was a saw, ee-i ee-i o. Health & Safety was in it's pre-school then too - all we had was a picture of Brian Wilson, with "If you see this man, scream" underneath. A saw. A proper metal one with a wooden handle and some little balsa wood blocks to cut. I hit Kevin on the head with it to see what would happen; then I hit myself on the head to even things up. I can still see the little dents in our heads.......then weeping....then blood. Kevin's mum always raised an eyebrow towards me after that; an untrusting but devilishly attractive eyebrow. Much later we went to Upton Park to see Diddy David Hamilton, John Peel, Roy North [Basil Brush's 'arm'-a-matey] & other celebs play in a charidee match against a West Ham XI. I can still see the magical cinemascope vision of green shiny velvetness under floodlights - as important as the first sight of the sea. The car was stolen and we had to traipse to the tube. The name 'Jinx' soon stuck.
Our school was the biggest in the area; we had the biggest population to choose from, acres of pitch, more footballs, more whitewash, the lot. As a result we bullied all the other schools we played. Our attack and midfield were so big that the opposition were too scared to go in our half - so there was room in defense for a couple of 'stoppers'. Our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dyall drew an imaginary box from the edge of the penalty area to the half-way line. My job as left back was to hoof the ball away if it came into the box - leave the box and the slipper would follow; pass to one of ours enough times and the nod would be given to go up for a corner. One corner. Being left-footed, I would start the game in the No.3 shirt, and Kevin got the No.12 for the second half. Never rivals, never a crossed word.
Cut to the District Cup Final. We got there easily, but knew little of our opponents. In an act of heartless betrayal, our headmaster decided to call in a coach from Dagenham F.C.; then in the 'Berger Isthmian League' [oh, the glamour] and relegate poor Mr. Dyall to magic sponge duties. Mister Big showed us all sorts of systems and strategies on a blackboard and we looked at him like Homer Simpson; wishing he'd just give us a doughnut and some orangeade. He knew 'they' were weak down their right - no pace, lacking that all-important first touch blah blah - and I was to change from Doug Rougvie to Roberto Carlos at the drop of a cap. We were being asked to think out of the imaginary box.
The final was played in a stadium. We had nets for the first time that season, and spent the entire warm-up period smashing balls into them - while our enemy were probably stretching every sineNO, they were smashing balls into their net too. #Nets. The whistle went, we kicked off and the ball was passed straight to me. Then [and only then] one of my own team was in the imaginary box with me [the cheek!] wanting a pass. Of course!: The Plan. We did a one-two past their right-winger and just carried on running. I lobbed the ball over their right-back and found myself 30-odd yards out with the goalie making a suicidal charge out of his area. Time stood still. I could knock it past him and dribble it into the empty net, or try the lob. I fell over and sprained an ankle. They went up the other end and with no left-back to worry about, went 1:0 up. Kevin came on and kept them out until half-time - but having to play nearly a whole game took it's toll: we lost 6:0. Five goals in the last ten minutes. Kevin's mum blamed me.
I gave up on the footie after that and cricket came along to split us up. Kevin was rubbish at it, so could fill the No.3 shirt with pride and distinction thereafter. He later married a librarian who was older than him by the same margin as his mum was to me. Which proves nothing. I wonder if she can make 'Quavers'.
*The 'International' bit was Mr. Dyall from Sri Lanka - we later played many times against each other on the cricket field - a lovely man.
**Kevin is not his real name. I changed it in case Paul got uppity about me fancying his mum.
The Worlds Most Dangerous Alternatives To Downton Abbey
Period Drama. These two words allow the distance between "Cor, I don't half fancy him/her", and "How about it , babe?" to stretch to two hours. So thrill-seekers who ignore 'Spooks' now Miranda Raison's not in it, need something else for 9:00 p.m. Sunday nights. Well, you didn't need to worry about "World's Most Dangerous Roads", first in a series of who cares, about those tracks seldom travelled. This week: Peru.
First of all: Ben Fogle and Hugh Dennis are still alive. If they'd perished down a Peruvian mountainside, we would've heard about it before last night's show went out. Spoiler alert too late. Imagine one of those Top Gear "challenges", halve the budget, and put lovable fluffy labrador-loving Ben Fluffy Labrador Fogle, with Hugh Looks Like My Mate Martin Dennis in place of the "boys". I reckon they could have saved a bit more cash by getting Hugh to do the voice-over - he would've lightened the mood by doing his Prince Phillip - instead we had rent-a-doom someone from the agency. Every stage of their journey was flagged up as another potential death plunge; but the car with the camera crew in it was already past the peril. We were promised all sorts of killer species along the way, but when did a snake [poisonous or otherwise] ever force it's way into a moving 4x4? I'm sure some of the scenery was spectacular, but I was too busy watching everyone else's tweets about 'Downton Abbey' and 'Spooks' to notice.
Foggy Bendle got a bit tetchy with Den Huggis at one point. Ben could've done this alone, [or with Nookie Bear for that matter] he knows the terrain and the creepy-crawlies, while Hugh [ugh, for short] is a bit towny. So there was the slight chance of fisticuffs breaking out - I'll give them that one. Perhaps next week they'll do the weekly shop and Ben [en, for short] will be the wet fish out of water. Don't matter, you'll be watching Downton, or Spooks, or even Antiques Roadshow [on 'Sunday 8:00+1'] - and I'll be with you; unless they visit The Acle Straight in North Norfolk; now that's a dangerous road. Not because of the road, but the people on it. Eyes at different heights. With flat-earth paranoia....
First of all: Ben Fogle and Hugh Dennis are still alive. If they'd perished down a Peruvian mountainside, we would've heard about it before last night's show went out. Spoiler alert too late. Imagine one of those Top Gear "challenges", halve the budget, and put lovable fluffy labrador-loving Ben Fluffy Labrador Fogle, with Hugh Looks Like My Mate Martin Dennis in place of the "boys". I reckon they could have saved a bit more cash by getting Hugh to do the voice-over - he would've lightened the mood by doing his Prince Phillip - instead we had rent-a-doom someone from the agency. Every stage of their journey was flagged up as another potential death plunge; but the car with the camera crew in it was already past the peril. We were promised all sorts of killer species along the way, but when did a snake [poisonous or otherwise] ever force it's way into a moving 4x4? I'm sure some of the scenery was spectacular, but I was too busy watching everyone else's tweets about 'Downton Abbey' and 'Spooks' to notice.
Foggy Bendle got a bit tetchy with Den Huggis at one point. Ben could've done this alone, [or with Nookie Bear for that matter] he knows the terrain and the creepy-crawlies, while Hugh [ugh, for short] is a bit towny. So there was the slight chance of fisticuffs breaking out - I'll give them that one. Perhaps next week they'll do the weekly shop and Ben [en, for short] will be the wet fish out of water. Don't matter, you'll be watching Downton, or Spooks, or even Antiques Roadshow [on 'Sunday 8:00+1'] - and I'll be with you; unless they visit The Acle Straight in North Norfolk; now that's a dangerous road. Not because of the road, but the people on it. Eyes at different heights. With flat-earth paranoia....
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