This was not intended to be my next blog. The next blog was in fact in full swing. I was typing away like a goodun, two or three pages in, and probably my best work to date.……lets not beat about the bush. It was fucking hilarious!!! When all of a sudden bang, it’s gone! “An error has occurred. Would you like to send a report to Microsoft” - send or don’t send. You know the shit. Then gone…..completely gone. One and a half fucking hours down the tube.
I would like to state right here, right now, that Bill -wank stain- Gates, in my opinion, is the biggest cu!t on the face of this earth! The Microsoft windows operating system, is the biggest pile of steaming shit that man ever devised. This arsehole has been flooding and monopolising the market for thirty odd bloody years, and it’s about time someone punched him squarely in the face! A blow for all the poor bastards like me, who has had……(hang on, better save it)!…..This dreadful pile of turd ridden bollocks fuck up their day. It’s about time we started a pressure group to stamp out the jumper wearing, side hair parting, four eyed (I wear glasses, but I’ll let it go this time), nerdy, whiney voiced tosser. How has he got away with it? Thirty something years of churning out something that quite simply, only works when it fucking feels like it! If you have had the misfortune to have to reformat your hard drive when the bloody computer has died beyond resuscitation, you, like me, would have watched the images of people smiling, wowing, and oohing as they use Microsoft windows. These images are shown as the bloody thing installs. Surely this breaks the rules of some trades description act or something doesn’t it? They should actually be showing people tearing their hair out in lumps, as it crashes yet again. People sobbing as yet another document is lost, never to be found again. A middle aged man looking bewildered as an application that he was using yesterday, and which was working perfectly, today gives him the two fingers. People jumping off tall buildings shouting “Fuck you Gates” as they plummet to their deaths, because they have seen the ‘BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH’ one too many times. Desperados trying to find solace in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, because the screen has locked up. Someone phoning the Samaritans, because Bill’s wonder product, can’t do the simplest cocking thing. What genuinely worries me, is that a great deal of the worlds computers run on this shit. Big important stuff. The nuclear weapons of the world are probably controlled by it. Dear God almighty…..we are doomed.
“Those damn Ruskies have stepped over the mark once to often. Lets nuke ‘em”
Microsoft windows has encountered an error. Would you like to file a report…..send or don’t send
“Aaaaaarrrgghhhhhhhhhh”
Right that’s it. The next computer I buy, will be an ‘apple mac’. I will pile all the Microsoft one’s up in the back garden, dowse them in petrol, and set light to it, while dancing around it naked, covered in Cherokee war paint, and wailing like a banshee! If I can be arsed, I will make an effigy of Bill, and stab it with the sharp bits of a graphics card!
Phew, do I feel any better for that. Not really, but it had to be said. I’m drained, spent, I have nothing left. The new blog will just have to wait. I’m off to play on my xbox 360.……FUCK THAT’S ONE OF BILL’S DEVIL MACHINES AS WELL!…………..
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Monday, 27 August 2007
To pee, or not to pee.......
Hello Mule fans, (Bless all three of you), Sorry for the tardiness of putting fingers to keyboard, but there seems to have been a lot of shit going down on the domestic front! Very poorly cats, trips to the vets every night, never enough hours in the day, trips to ‘dfs’ - a truly mind numbing experience. They could at least let you enter the building before they pounce on you - to replace sofas that Jack Russells have completely destroyed. They have been Re-Christened the Kray twins, and will hence forth be known as Ronnie and Reggie! Anyway, I am back, and back with a vengeance, and what better way to kick of the comeback tour, than to start with urination!
As I have reached this age (only a couple of weeks to go till D-Day)! I have noticed that I have started to urinate on a much more regular basis. This was part of the reason, for my embarrassing trip for a diabetes check. (Please see earlier blog). Of course the other medical reason for this, could be an enlarged prostate, but I am trying to put off this particular visit to the docs, until it’s absolutely necessary! I have always thought what a peculiar job doctors have. He could be inserting his finger into my rectum one minute, and then chatting over the aperitifs at a dinner party with me the next! Just as my Grandmother before me, any trip out now has to be preceded by lengthy investigations into the public conveniences of the final destination. I am thinking of just buying some incontinence pants, and being done with it. It can flow freely then, and the only problem will be huge pants full of urine, wafting about and throwing me off balance. Until that day, I will just have to have an intimate knowledge of the local facilities.
So, there was Miss Marple and myself down the town the other Saturday, when I announced that I needed to spend a penny. Off I trot into the toilets, while Miss Marple waited dutifully outside. Miss Marple has spent so much time hanging around outside male lavatories, that I am surprised that she hasn’t been asked how much she charges for hand relief! I came out, (not in a George Michael kind of way), and off Miss Marple and me headed.
“Anybody else in there”? Miss Marple asked.
I said there was one bloke.
“Do blokes chat about anything when they are in the toilets”? she innocently asked.
After Miss Marple had hurriedly come back from ‘Boots’ with some smelling salts and revived me, I informed her that “NO, we definitely did not chat about anything.
She looked at me quizzically and asked, “Why not”?
After another much stronger administration of smelling salts, I sat up woozily and said, “I think it’s about time you and me had a little chat”.
I took Miss Marple by the arm, and marched her off to a local café for a cup of tea, and a little chat, about the finer points of male public convenience etiquette!
I ordered a pot of tea for two, and sat her down, much like a Father would sit down his son for a little chat about the birds and the bees. Only with Miss Marple being my wife, this was obviously a great deal more patronising! I started by telling her that men, under no circumstances, talk about anything in a public toilet. Even if you were having a heart attack, not a word would pass your lips. Miss Marple asked why, and told me that women quite often chat in the toilets. “Because“, I told her, “If a man talks to another man in a public convenience, it is automatically assumed, that he is a lifter“. “That’s ridiculous” she told me. “Yes I said”, “You know that, and I know that, but that is just the way it is”. Now, I think I have mentioned before, that I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality what so ever. It matters not one little bit, if consenting male adults wish partake in sessions of ‘Bottom Love’, it’s just that I don’t really want to be presumed Gay, just because I said good morning to a bloke in a toilet! It’s a strange phenomena, You could be the most un-aggressive, easy going, non blokey bloke alive, but as soon as you step into a public toilet, all the testosterone rushes to the surface. It’s as if we have to assert our masculinity, in order to repel any unwanted advances from a homosexual, just chancing his arm! It’s pretty ludicrous really, but we just can’t seem to help ourselves. I have witnessed many an amusing display of ‘Pea-cocking’ as I call it. (This could suggest, that I have spent an unhealthy amount of time, hanging around public toilets, for the purpose of research…..I haven’t)! A lot of men seem to stand with their legs apart while at the urinal, and it seems that the further apart the legs are, the more masculine they wish to be portrayed. I have seen men with their legs so far apart, that it makes their groin area so low, they have to use the special low down kids one’s! Coughing, that’s something else that seems to happen quite a lot. I have no idea what the idea behind this is, but I am sure there is some primeval reason. Cigarette butt racing. This can only be played with very good friends, who know each other well, and won’t ‘lose it’ over a little case of ‘splash back’. Talking of which, this can be a serious problem. Women are extremely fortunate, in the fact that they sit down, and therefore splash back is not an issue. Men on the other hand can have huge issues. An unwanted moment of splash back when wearing light coloured trousers, can be disastrous in social circles. Then there is the double jet. I really don’t know how this happens, but sometimes instead of the easily controllable single jet, a double one can occur! A mild panic can then ensue, while the man wrestles with his penis, and tries to consolidate the double jet, into one easily manageable one. (I am sure Carol Voordaman would have something to say on the subject).
The absolute no no when in a public lavatory, the ultimate cardinal sin, to top all others is of course the……..’Sneaky peek’! Yes, I know it’s tempting, nine times out of ten there are no homosexual overtones involved, but it is hard not to take a ‘Sneaky peek’ at the appendage of the bloke next you! We are all curious, we spend a great deal of time worrying about the size of our penis. “Oh God, I bet mine is smaller than everybody else’s, I bet it’s a funny shape”, etc etc. So there you are, your standing next to a man with his penis in full view, this is your chance to put your mind at rest, lay to bed all those fears that you have had for so long. “Go on“, you think to yourself, “Just a little look, he won’t notice“. If you are caught, it’s the worst thing in the world. If ever you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you, this was that moment. There is nothing you can say to appease the situation is there? Absolutely nothing you can say, that would explain your actions. “Sorry about that mate, just seeing how big your cock is”, or, “Ah, I see yours doesn’t bend to the left like mine”. It just really doesn’t cut it, does it? Of course the obvious result of this, is that you are beaten up outside afterwards, while a gang of youths shout homophobic abuse at you. Either that, or worse, the guy who has caught you peeking, winks, slips a piece of paper with his phone number on into your back pocket, and gently taps you on the arse as your still urinating!
Miss Marple was genuinely amazed at the complexities of the male public convenience, and now has a new found respect for the difficulties involved with male public urination. We left the café, and headed for the car. “Better just go dear before we leave”, I said……….Now what was the catalogue number for those rather fetching incontinence pants?……………..
As I have reached this age (only a couple of weeks to go till D-Day)! I have noticed that I have started to urinate on a much more regular basis. This was part of the reason, for my embarrassing trip for a diabetes check. (Please see earlier blog). Of course the other medical reason for this, could be an enlarged prostate, but I am trying to put off this particular visit to the docs, until it’s absolutely necessary! I have always thought what a peculiar job doctors have. He could be inserting his finger into my rectum one minute, and then chatting over the aperitifs at a dinner party with me the next! Just as my Grandmother before me, any trip out now has to be preceded by lengthy investigations into the public conveniences of the final destination. I am thinking of just buying some incontinence pants, and being done with it. It can flow freely then, and the only problem will be huge pants full of urine, wafting about and throwing me off balance. Until that day, I will just have to have an intimate knowledge of the local facilities.
So, there was Miss Marple and myself down the town the other Saturday, when I announced that I needed to spend a penny. Off I trot into the toilets, while Miss Marple waited dutifully outside. Miss Marple has spent so much time hanging around outside male lavatories, that I am surprised that she hasn’t been asked how much she charges for hand relief! I came out, (not in a George Michael kind of way), and off Miss Marple and me headed.
“Anybody else in there”? Miss Marple asked.
I said there was one bloke.
“Do blokes chat about anything when they are in the toilets”? she innocently asked.
After Miss Marple had hurriedly come back from ‘Boots’ with some smelling salts and revived me, I informed her that “NO, we definitely did not chat about anything.
She looked at me quizzically and asked, “Why not”?
After another much stronger administration of smelling salts, I sat up woozily and said, “I think it’s about time you and me had a little chat”.
I took Miss Marple by the arm, and marched her off to a local café for a cup of tea, and a little chat, about the finer points of male public convenience etiquette!
I ordered a pot of tea for two, and sat her down, much like a Father would sit down his son for a little chat about the birds and the bees. Only with Miss Marple being my wife, this was obviously a great deal more patronising! I started by telling her that men, under no circumstances, talk about anything in a public toilet. Even if you were having a heart attack, not a word would pass your lips. Miss Marple asked why, and told me that women quite often chat in the toilets. “Because“, I told her, “If a man talks to another man in a public convenience, it is automatically assumed, that he is a lifter“. “That’s ridiculous” she told me. “Yes I said”, “You know that, and I know that, but that is just the way it is”. Now, I think I have mentioned before, that I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality what so ever. It matters not one little bit, if consenting male adults wish partake in sessions of ‘Bottom Love’, it’s just that I don’t really want to be presumed Gay, just because I said good morning to a bloke in a toilet! It’s a strange phenomena, You could be the most un-aggressive, easy going, non blokey bloke alive, but as soon as you step into a public toilet, all the testosterone rushes to the surface. It’s as if we have to assert our masculinity, in order to repel any unwanted advances from a homosexual, just chancing his arm! It’s pretty ludicrous really, but we just can’t seem to help ourselves. I have witnessed many an amusing display of ‘Pea-cocking’ as I call it. (This could suggest, that I have spent an unhealthy amount of time, hanging around public toilets, for the purpose of research…..I haven’t)! A lot of men seem to stand with their legs apart while at the urinal, and it seems that the further apart the legs are, the more masculine they wish to be portrayed. I have seen men with their legs so far apart, that it makes their groin area so low, they have to use the special low down kids one’s! Coughing, that’s something else that seems to happen quite a lot. I have no idea what the idea behind this is, but I am sure there is some primeval reason. Cigarette butt racing. This can only be played with very good friends, who know each other well, and won’t ‘lose it’ over a little case of ‘splash back’. Talking of which, this can be a serious problem. Women are extremely fortunate, in the fact that they sit down, and therefore splash back is not an issue. Men on the other hand can have huge issues. An unwanted moment of splash back when wearing light coloured trousers, can be disastrous in social circles. Then there is the double jet. I really don’t know how this happens, but sometimes instead of the easily controllable single jet, a double one can occur! A mild panic can then ensue, while the man wrestles with his penis, and tries to consolidate the double jet, into one easily manageable one. (I am sure Carol Voordaman would have something to say on the subject).
The absolute no no when in a public lavatory, the ultimate cardinal sin, to top all others is of course the……..’Sneaky peek’! Yes, I know it’s tempting, nine times out of ten there are no homosexual overtones involved, but it is hard not to take a ‘Sneaky peek’ at the appendage of the bloke next you! We are all curious, we spend a great deal of time worrying about the size of our penis. “Oh God, I bet mine is smaller than everybody else’s, I bet it’s a funny shape”, etc etc. So there you are, your standing next to a man with his penis in full view, this is your chance to put your mind at rest, lay to bed all those fears that you have had for so long. “Go on“, you think to yourself, “Just a little look, he won’t notice“. If you are caught, it’s the worst thing in the world. If ever you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you, this was that moment. There is nothing you can say to appease the situation is there? Absolutely nothing you can say, that would explain your actions. “Sorry about that mate, just seeing how big your cock is”, or, “Ah, I see yours doesn’t bend to the left like mine”. It just really doesn’t cut it, does it? Of course the obvious result of this, is that you are beaten up outside afterwards, while a gang of youths shout homophobic abuse at you. Either that, or worse, the guy who has caught you peeking, winks, slips a piece of paper with his phone number on into your back pocket, and gently taps you on the arse as your still urinating!
Miss Marple was genuinely amazed at the complexities of the male public convenience, and now has a new found respect for the difficulties involved with male public urination. We left the café, and headed for the car. “Better just go dear before we leave”, I said……….Now what was the catalogue number for those rather fetching incontinence pants?……………..
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Hoorah for Benji!.......
I FEEL CRAP!…….Dear God, what is this infirmity that hath beset me? It started Sunday morning. Woke up with a bit of a sore throat, and a general feeling of dodgy ness. As the day went on, the sore throat escalated, and a cough developed. A pounding head then started, and my body felt like I had done a few rounds with ’Giant Haystacks’. This is my third day off work now, and I have only just managed to drag myself off the sofa. It all started Monday. Miss Marple went off to work, leaving me in a semi comatose state on the settee. At about 8.45am, I dragged myself up, and decided to make myself some toast, and watch the chavs on ’The Jeremy Kyle show’. If ever there was a more irritating man than Jeremy Kyle, I have yet to come across him. What really gets on my wick with all these type of people, they know who they are, Kyle, Lake, Goddard, Winfrey, is that they are so bloody self righteous. They have always had a greater problem than those of the unfortunates on their shows, and have always come through it, and “out the other side”. It was one hell of a “Journey”, but “Just look at me now”. “My husband wouldn’t treat me this way”, or “My kids are so well balanced, because I am an excellent parent”. What exactly is it that qualifies these bloody people, to go sticking their noses into other people’s misery anyway? So anyway, there I was, kettle boiling, toast toasting, head thumping, when all of a sudden, everything stops. Silence ensued, and I just stood there in a state of bewilderment. No power, what had happened? I checked the fuse box, all ok there, and then it suddenly dawned on me. I remember a few weeks ago getting a note through the door saying, “Your electricity supply will be switched off, so that maintenance work can be carried out, on August 13th, from approximately 9.00am to 4pm. Shit, not today I thought. The bastards could have let me finish the toast first, look; they are seven minutes early as well. It suddenly occurred to me, that luke warm tea and anaemic toast were going to be the least of my problems. How the hell was I going to cope without my beloved electricity for SEVEN WHOLE HOURS! Don’t panic I thought, you will be ok. You feel like crap, get some sleep, sleep is always good for illness. I laid on the sofa, turned this way, I turned that way. I counted sheep; I tried to think of something really boring to help me nod off, a conversation with ‘Jade Goody’ maybe. It was no good, it wasn’t working. It didn’t help that I had two Jack Russells bouncing around and top of me, and wheel spinning on my head, every time they heard the slightest noise. Or throwing themselves at the backdoor, every time an ant had the audacity to tip toe across the garden! It was no good, I couldn’t sleep. Not only could I not sleep, but I was hungry. I know I thought, beans - electric hob……bugger. Biscuits - tin was empty. It was at this point, that the full horror of the situation occurred to me. There was nothing else for it, desperate times call for desperate measures, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going. The Dunkirk spirit rose to the surface…….I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO EAT SOME FRUIT! I closed my eyes, and plunged my hand into the fruit bowl. I pulled out an apple, looked a bit wrinkly, no I couldn’t do it. I’m not totally sure what the next thing was, that I pulled out, but I took a deep breath, and took a bite. Now, is it only me that finds the taste of fruit bloody horrible? Or is there someone else out there, that can’t see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t matter what type of fruit I sink my teeth into, the result is always the same. My cheeks suck in, and my eyes squint, as if I have just sat on a bicycle with no saddle! I don’t know what God/Mother Nature (Please delete as appropriate), was thinking about, when he/she/it designed this stuff. Why didn’t he/she/it make the earth’s natural foods, taste like ’Cornish Pasties’? Ho hum, what to do now? Try and get some sleep…..damn, not working. There then ensued a period of pacing about, interspersed with tablet taking. I’m not sure Benjamin Franklin (among others), knew the impact he was going to have, when he invented this electricity stuff. There is now a world full of electricity addicts, who find it almost impossible to survive without the stuff. Benjamin Franklin, it could be said, is my posthumous dealer! It was now only about 10.30am. I couldn’t believe time could pass this slowly. I tried day dreaming. It’s peculiar, I can’t do it when I’m just sitting there, I have to be driving, or speaking to Justin from human resources! By this time, the inevitable was starting to creep up on me. I had exhausted all possibilities except one, I was going to have to READ A BOOK! I pulled one from my bookshelf, and dusted it off. I opened the cover and it creaked, as it saw the light of day for the first time for many a year. It was a book portraying the exploits of the SAS. I read a few pages, and felt my eyes starting to get heavy. By this time the dogs had finally calmed down, and the three of us slipped into a gentle slumber. The rest of the day, was spent wandering about, and sleeping. When Miss Marple finally came home, she swears she found me in the airing cupboard, in the foetal position, clutching my Playstation under one arm, the laptop under the other, dribbling slightly, rocking backwards and forwards, sobbing, and muttering…..”My babies are dead…my babies are dead”! I’m not sure how true this is, I don’t remember it, but this could be because I was out of it on a cocktail of Lemsip, and electricity withdrawal! Anyway, still feeling a bit crap, and ‘Cash in the attic is nearly on’! So bye for now, I love you Benji!
Friday, 10 August 2007
Yes sir, I can boogie.......
The joint hung from the corner of my mouth, as the sweet smelling smoke danced towards the clouds. A bead of sweat found its natural path down over my temple, as the cool night air of the Californian breeze teased the long tresses of my sweat laden hair. I looked out into the darkness, the atmosphere was charged. I couldn’t see them, but I knew that they were there. Thousands of them, maybe more. I could sense them, I could almost smell them. Apart from the slight breeze, the only sound was a low hum emanating from behind me. I slowly slid my fingers down the strings, and the amplifier sighed. A slight ripple now among the throng that waited with baited breath. Hushed voices whispered to each other, the excitement had definitely taken an upward turn. My left hand shaped an E chord, and my right hovered over the strings like a buzzard circling its prey. It crashed down onto the strings, and the amplifier behind me spat forth music, sex, love and peace all in one burst, which caressed every single member of the baying audience. As the lights went up, I could see the crowd memorised, as my fingers danced over the strings, and the amplifier translated my message to a waiting crowd.
“Do you want fries with that?”
Tracy’s monotone voice slapped me hard across the ears, as she asked me the question, through a mouth full of gum.
I had been standing in line for so long at my local fast food! Emporium, that I had drifted back to 1967. I was playing my guitar in the Californian desert during the summer of love, and was surely on for some rock chick loving after the gig, when bloody Tracy had to go and spoil it all!
“Yes why not, presuming it won’t take another half an hour”. I think my sarcasm had bypassed Tracy. . . . . . Never mind.
I have to admit that I was comfort eating after Miss Marple had given me the news that morning, that she had obtained two tickets for her works annual summer ball. I say comfort eating; comfort is just about the last thing one experiences at their local branch of McWhopperChickenDoughnut, or whatever. I hate virtually everything about these places, and annoy the arse of myself, that I still frequent them. But, you know what it’s like. (Heavy sigh)!
Yes it was that time again folks, can it really be a year ago that I brushed off the ever tightening tuxedo, and made my way to a large tent full of people I didn’t know. I do so hate being a miserable bastard sometimes, and wish for Miss Marple’s sake, that I was normal. But alas I’m an oddball! I have never really understood the concept of parties. For me, I like things that are familiar, and comfortable. The idea of going somewhere where I hardly know a soul, and have to dress in something that feels like it is strangling me, just seems positively daft. I am not a great one for small talk, and find it very difficult to talk to Justin form ‘Human resources’ about his ‘staffing levels’. No offence Justin…….BUT I DON’T REALLY GIVE A SHIT! I really wish I had the courage to just make stuff up, when someone asks me “and what you do, I’d just say something like…..”I am a pirate” when they look quizzically at me, I would say “Yes, I am the modern day equivalent of Black Beard. I mainly work in the English Channel, but sometimes venture up as far as the North Sea. You know Justin, we too have staffing problems, oh yes, cabin boys are extremely hard to come by these days”. But alas I don’t. I dutifully go along with it, smile, nod and surreptitiously look at my watch.
The absolute worst thing about ‘A night out’ is the dancing. I have a huge problem with dancing of any kind. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be someone who is easily embarrassed, and certainly have no objection to making an arse of myself, but dancing is the one exception. The basic premise of dancing is great. Let yourself go, feel free, express yourself, lose yourself in the music etc, but in reality this just can’t happen. When on the odd occasion you come across someone who really does cut footloose, everybody looks at the poor sod, like he has just escaped from the ‘special house’. So I, along with everyone else, do that awkward shuffling from side to side thing. Your face is smiling, but the eyes are certainly letting you down! They are not lying; people can see the fear in them. Then of course one of those records comes on, that there is apparently a specific dance to. There are only four moves for the duration of the whole song, but can I get in sync?.........can I bugger. I’m up when everybody else is down, and I’m thrusting when everybody is spinning, and then to really plunge the dagger of embarrassment through my heart, the bastards form a circle around me, as if to really highlight my ineptitude. My loathing of dance doesn't stop at my lowly level of awkward shuffling about. I despise it right to the very top. Ballet, what a complete load of poncy nonsense. It was best summed up by 'Inspector Grim' from the 'Thin blue line', when he said, "Ballet, just a load of posh birds flashing their gussets, at a bunch of horny old men". I couldn't agree more. The next time there is a dance troop on TV, turn the sound down and have a look at just how bloody ridiculous they look. But the worst, the very worst kind of dancing has to be any form of ballroom dancing, specifically anything of a Latin nature. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be in any way shape or form homophobic, I really am not bothered how many ‘strolls up the bournville boulevard’ a man of such persuasions wishes to take, but unfeasibly thin men in very tight trousers, mincing around a dance floor, wearing a frilly shirt, and a perma tan, is just frankly, bloody gay! It’s hilarious, and frightening all at the same time.
Of course it isn't only the up tempo songs, that need to be danced to. Oh no, it's time for the slow dance. Poor Carol from marketing, has to put up with dirty old Derek from accounts groping her arse, for the entire duration of 'Careless whisper'. I spend the whole song treading on Miss Marple's toes. The reason for my clumsiness, is not entirely due to my hatred of dancing, but the words of the songs very often put me off. Why the hell can't song writers use language, that ordinary people use ordinarily, in everyday ordinary life? When has any bloke, who knows better, ever called his wife or girlfriend 'Girl'? So often you will hear "Hey girl" or such the like. Have you ever walked into a pub, and said to the bar staff......"Hi, I’ll have a lager, and.......hey GIRL, what do you want to drink?". I fear it would be a very short date. There is a line in a famous smootcher, who's title escapes me at the moment, which goes...."Girl, I've been watching you, from so far across the floor now baby". Just try that one in reality. I can just see it. Wayne from Sheffield stomps across the dance floor, to where a gaggle of young females are standing. He singles one out, and says to her, "GIRL, I've been watching thee, right from ‘cross floor”. Instead of getting the slow dance of his life, he would probably end up on his arse on the pavement, while the girls all discard their drinks, for fear of a Rohipnal incident!
So anyway, off to push this burger down my throat. I wonder if I ate enough of them, I would be too large for my tuxedo?, and thus escape the summer ball. Worth a try……….Tracy, five more McWhopperdogs over here please, and yes, super size me!…………
“Do you want fries with that?”
Tracy’s monotone voice slapped me hard across the ears, as she asked me the question, through a mouth full of gum.
I had been standing in line for so long at my local fast food! Emporium, that I had drifted back to 1967. I was playing my guitar in the Californian desert during the summer of love, and was surely on for some rock chick loving after the gig, when bloody Tracy had to go and spoil it all!
“Yes why not, presuming it won’t take another half an hour”. I think my sarcasm had bypassed Tracy. . . . . . Never mind.
I have to admit that I was comfort eating after Miss Marple had given me the news that morning, that she had obtained two tickets for her works annual summer ball. I say comfort eating; comfort is just about the last thing one experiences at their local branch of McWhopperChickenDoughnut, or whatever. I hate virtually everything about these places, and annoy the arse of myself, that I still frequent them. But, you know what it’s like. (Heavy sigh)!
Yes it was that time again folks, can it really be a year ago that I brushed off the ever tightening tuxedo, and made my way to a large tent full of people I didn’t know. I do so hate being a miserable bastard sometimes, and wish for Miss Marple’s sake, that I was normal. But alas I’m an oddball! I have never really understood the concept of parties. For me, I like things that are familiar, and comfortable. The idea of going somewhere where I hardly know a soul, and have to dress in something that feels like it is strangling me, just seems positively daft. I am not a great one for small talk, and find it very difficult to talk to Justin form ‘Human resources’ about his ‘staffing levels’. No offence Justin…….BUT I DON’T REALLY GIVE A SHIT! I really wish I had the courage to just make stuff up, when someone asks me “and what you do, I’d just say something like…..”I am a pirate” when they look quizzically at me, I would say “Yes, I am the modern day equivalent of Black Beard. I mainly work in the English Channel, but sometimes venture up as far as the North Sea. You know Justin, we too have staffing problems, oh yes, cabin boys are extremely hard to come by these days”. But alas I don’t. I dutifully go along with it, smile, nod and surreptitiously look at my watch.
The absolute worst thing about ‘A night out’ is the dancing. I have a huge problem with dancing of any kind. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be someone who is easily embarrassed, and certainly have no objection to making an arse of myself, but dancing is the one exception. The basic premise of dancing is great. Let yourself go, feel free, express yourself, lose yourself in the music etc, but in reality this just can’t happen. When on the odd occasion you come across someone who really does cut footloose, everybody looks at the poor sod, like he has just escaped from the ‘special house’. So I, along with everyone else, do that awkward shuffling from side to side thing. Your face is smiling, but the eyes are certainly letting you down! They are not lying; people can see the fear in them. Then of course one of those records comes on, that there is apparently a specific dance to. There are only four moves for the duration of the whole song, but can I get in sync?.........can I bugger. I’m up when everybody else is down, and I’m thrusting when everybody is spinning, and then to really plunge the dagger of embarrassment through my heart, the bastards form a circle around me, as if to really highlight my ineptitude. My loathing of dance doesn't stop at my lowly level of awkward shuffling about. I despise it right to the very top. Ballet, what a complete load of poncy nonsense. It was best summed up by 'Inspector Grim' from the 'Thin blue line', when he said, "Ballet, just a load of posh birds flashing their gussets, at a bunch of horny old men". I couldn't agree more. The next time there is a dance troop on TV, turn the sound down and have a look at just how bloody ridiculous they look. But the worst, the very worst kind of dancing has to be any form of ballroom dancing, specifically anything of a Latin nature. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be in any way shape or form homophobic, I really am not bothered how many ‘strolls up the bournville boulevard’ a man of such persuasions wishes to take, but unfeasibly thin men in very tight trousers, mincing around a dance floor, wearing a frilly shirt, and a perma tan, is just frankly, bloody gay! It’s hilarious, and frightening all at the same time.
Of course it isn't only the up tempo songs, that need to be danced to. Oh no, it's time for the slow dance. Poor Carol from marketing, has to put up with dirty old Derek from accounts groping her arse, for the entire duration of 'Careless whisper'. I spend the whole song treading on Miss Marple's toes. The reason for my clumsiness, is not entirely due to my hatred of dancing, but the words of the songs very often put me off. Why the hell can't song writers use language, that ordinary people use ordinarily, in everyday ordinary life? When has any bloke, who knows better, ever called his wife or girlfriend 'Girl'? So often you will hear "Hey girl" or such the like. Have you ever walked into a pub, and said to the bar staff......"Hi, I’ll have a lager, and.......hey GIRL, what do you want to drink?". I fear it would be a very short date. There is a line in a famous smootcher, who's title escapes me at the moment, which goes...."Girl, I've been watching you, from so far across the floor now baby". Just try that one in reality. I can just see it. Wayne from Sheffield stomps across the dance floor, to where a gaggle of young females are standing. He singles one out, and says to her, "GIRL, I've been watching thee, right from ‘cross floor”. Instead of getting the slow dance of his life, he would probably end up on his arse on the pavement, while the girls all discard their drinks, for fear of a Rohipnal incident!
So anyway, off to push this burger down my throat. I wonder if I ate enough of them, I would be too large for my tuxedo?, and thus escape the summer ball. Worth a try……….Tracy, five more McWhopperdogs over here please, and yes, super size me!…………
Monday, 6 August 2007
4015 Days, and not an hour too long...
Today it is me and Miss Marple’s wedding anniversary. In all honesty the dear gal deserves a long service medal. Maybe even the Victoria Cross for gallantry in the face of extreme adversity. Yes folks, for all Mule fans (he knows who he is), who are regular readers of this piffle, the conclusion must have been reached that, I can be an absolute pain in the arse! It’s not all bad, but the ranting has increased as I tumble downhill uncontrollably towards forty. Incidentally, that pleasure is now only T-minus one month and a day away, and counting! That reminds me; I must get on and organize my black arm band. I do feel rather guilty that I am not whisking Miss Marple off. . . . . . . to Paris or somewhere I mean. Funds won’t allow that sort of extravagance at the moment, so a Mule cooked meal for two, is the order of the day. There is only one problem with this that I can foresee. Over the weekend, I sustained an injury to my finger, whist out in the garden. As bad luck would have it, my tetanus injection has just run out. After telling a colleague about this, he very kindly emailed me ‘All there is to know about tetanus’. Needless to say, I am now absolutely convinced that I have got it! This could put a slight dampener on the evening. Apparently, some of the symptoms of tetanus are, muscle spasms, and the locking of the jaw muscle. This is obviously not going to be good, when trying to promote a romantic vibe. Ideally, I would be engaging her in witty repartee, whilst sipping on a fine beaujolais. Instead, I can see me twitching about like Jack Douglas form the ‘Carry on’ films, flinging wine all over her, while trying to speak without the luxury of a fully functioning jaw. Could be an early night, and I mean, just an early night!
I am knocking this up during a slack period at work, and I took the opportunity to phone my local surgery, to ask for some advice on what I should do. Please may I refer you to my earlier blog dated the 31/7/07, as an example of how the call went. These women, and they usually are women, are beyond belief. She was actually telling me off, because I hadn’t been to the doctors for so long! Surely that is a good thing for them, isn’t it? Less work for them, I am not clogging up the waiting room etc. When I no doubt have to go to be stabbed by some overworked, stroppy nurse, I am fully expecting to be taken in to a side room, and given lines. "I will visit the doctors on more regular basis. I will visit the doctors on a more regular basis". That’s another thing, when a member of the medical fraternity is about to give you an injection, why the hell do they ask, "Are you ok with needles?" What on earth do they expect people to say? "Oh yes, absolutely fine. In fact I can’t get enough of them. Tell you what doc, you stab me with that thing as many times as you like…..Have you got a bigger one?, Go on thrust that bugger right into my triceps……I LOVE IT". Having said that, no doubt there are some individuals who like nothing more than being injected, and I am sure there are niche websites out there, that cater for their needs. www.introvenousagogo.com maybe. (Ok hands up who just googled that!) Anyway, I have gone off on a tangent.
Back to the matter in hand, me and Miss Marple’s anniversary. As I said, whisking her off to go shopping in New York was financially out of the question, so off to the local Tesco’s Extra it was then! Yes off we went ‘Clothes shopping’. Now I do my best, I try to say the right things at the right time, offer encouragement and a helping hand where I can, but clothes shopping to most men, is something that just does not compute. If I need new clothes, and I mean need new clothes, because the crotch has disappeared in my jeans or something, it is like a military operation. We are in, chosen, tried on, and out within a matter of minutes. Not only am I not bothered what ‘Style’ they are, I’m rarely bothered these days if they fit properly or not! JUST GET ME OUT OF THERE. Going shopping for clothes these days, is more akin to going to a discothèque. Pumping music bombards you from every direction, flashing lights dazzle you, and all the staff have to be seen to be wearing the latest ‘thing’, to show they are hip enough to advise you on what you should be wearing this summer. There he is, his little name badge says ‘Darren’, and on his back it says "Here to help". He has got the obligatory baggy jeans on, that hang just off his arse, and piercings hanging from every piece of available skin. His hair, oh his hair is a thing to behold. The left half is peroxide blonde, and is sticking bolt upright, while the right side is jet black, and draped over one eye, and to top it off, he looks fashionably sullen. On the other hand, clothes shopping for a woman, is a completely different matter. It’s something to be savored, to take your time over. To browse, to try on, to handle, to discuss. This is where the problem starts for most men. Wandering round, shop after shop after shop. "What do you think to this?", or "which do you prefer?" Now, I think the female clothes shops are missing a trick here. Why don’t they make a sort of adult male crèche? The lady could drop the bloke off on the way into the shop, and pick him up on the way out. A room with a full size snooker table, and arcade machines. Dartboard, table football, and maybe even a few pole dancers. Stick a bar in one corner, and they couldn’t lose. Everyone’s a winner. The lady can spend hour after hour perusing, and trying on, and the blokes can drink beer, and pot a few balls. But no, unfortunately things aren’t this way. Instead, you can see them everywhere. Men following women around a shop, like something from a George Romero film. The undead shuffling perpetually round and round. Sunken eyes stare into space, and the look of the tormented undead contorts every muscle in the victims face, into a look of desperation. I had slipped into such a dazed state, that at one point I was following the wrong woman around the shop! Just when you think your state of limbo can’t be worsened, you hear those words. Those words that tear into pieces the last scraps of hope that you have left………."Just wait here, while I try these on". "Dear God deliver me from this, I’ll do anything. I promise I’ll never look at intravenousagogo again", I think to myself. Miss Marple descends into the changing rooms, with arms full of clothes. Two assistants are following close behind with trolleys stacked ten feet high. This is where the main problem of ‘shopping with women’ arises. While Miss marple is adorning herself, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Do they provide seating, a selection of magazines, and newspapers, to help pass the time?......NO. I have to hang around trying to not look like a perv! And of course the changing rooms are always right next to the underwear section. They know what they’re doing. They must piss themselves when they are designing the interiors of these shops. Sometimes I actually pretend to be sending a text, just so I don’t have to look up, and catch the eye of an assistant who thinks I am perving over the thong section. It’s about this time that something happens, that is guaranteed to happen every time. Out of the corner of my eye, I will see a bloke casually browsing around the shop. He is not one of the undead like me, no, he is actually shopping. Now he is either, a ‘modern’ man, who can quite comfortably buy clothes for his wife or girlfriend, (He knows her size, taste and everything), or he is a very brazen transvestite, or maybe even a pre-op transsexual. Which always makes me wonder, are men who are either of these, allowed to try clothes on, in a female changing room? It’s a grey area. If you don’t believe me, try it for yourself. Go into your nearest ‘New look’ or whatever, and hang around outside the changing rooms. I guarantee you will see a bloke like I have described. It’s uncanny. Probably best to take a lady with you though, or you could be frog marched out of the store by two burly policemen. And whatever you do, don’t go and hang around outside the changing rooms with a camera round your neck…..that’s just silly! Oh well, I suppose I’d better get back to work now. I have got a menu to plan, and anyway, I am still waiting for someone from the surgery to call me back about the tetanus. Trouble is, by the time they get round to it, my jaw will have probably completely locked, I won’t be able to answer, and they will think they have the wrong number or something…..happy days!
Adios amigos.
I am knocking this up during a slack period at work, and I took the opportunity to phone my local surgery, to ask for some advice on what I should do. Please may I refer you to my earlier blog dated the 31/7/07, as an example of how the call went. These women, and they usually are women, are beyond belief. She was actually telling me off, because I hadn’t been to the doctors for so long! Surely that is a good thing for them, isn’t it? Less work for them, I am not clogging up the waiting room etc. When I no doubt have to go to be stabbed by some overworked, stroppy nurse, I am fully expecting to be taken in to a side room, and given lines. "I will visit the doctors on more regular basis. I will visit the doctors on a more regular basis". That’s another thing, when a member of the medical fraternity is about to give you an injection, why the hell do they ask, "Are you ok with needles?" What on earth do they expect people to say? "Oh yes, absolutely fine. In fact I can’t get enough of them. Tell you what doc, you stab me with that thing as many times as you like…..Have you got a bigger one?, Go on thrust that bugger right into my triceps……I LOVE IT". Having said that, no doubt there are some individuals who like nothing more than being injected, and I am sure there are niche websites out there, that cater for their needs. www.introvenousagogo.com maybe. (Ok hands up who just googled that!) Anyway, I have gone off on a tangent.
Back to the matter in hand, me and Miss Marple’s anniversary. As I said, whisking her off to go shopping in New York was financially out of the question, so off to the local Tesco’s Extra it was then! Yes off we went ‘Clothes shopping’. Now I do my best, I try to say the right things at the right time, offer encouragement and a helping hand where I can, but clothes shopping to most men, is something that just does not compute. If I need new clothes, and I mean need new clothes, because the crotch has disappeared in my jeans or something, it is like a military operation. We are in, chosen, tried on, and out within a matter of minutes. Not only am I not bothered what ‘Style’ they are, I’m rarely bothered these days if they fit properly or not! JUST GET ME OUT OF THERE. Going shopping for clothes these days, is more akin to going to a discothèque. Pumping music bombards you from every direction, flashing lights dazzle you, and all the staff have to be seen to be wearing the latest ‘thing’, to show they are hip enough to advise you on what you should be wearing this summer. There he is, his little name badge says ‘Darren’, and on his back it says "Here to help". He has got the obligatory baggy jeans on, that hang just off his arse, and piercings hanging from every piece of available skin. His hair, oh his hair is a thing to behold. The left half is peroxide blonde, and is sticking bolt upright, while the right side is jet black, and draped over one eye, and to top it off, he looks fashionably sullen. On the other hand, clothes shopping for a woman, is a completely different matter. It’s something to be savored, to take your time over. To browse, to try on, to handle, to discuss. This is where the problem starts for most men. Wandering round, shop after shop after shop. "What do you think to this?", or "which do you prefer?" Now, I think the female clothes shops are missing a trick here. Why don’t they make a sort of adult male crèche? The lady could drop the bloke off on the way into the shop, and pick him up on the way out. A room with a full size snooker table, and arcade machines. Dartboard, table football, and maybe even a few pole dancers. Stick a bar in one corner, and they couldn’t lose. Everyone’s a winner. The lady can spend hour after hour perusing, and trying on, and the blokes can drink beer, and pot a few balls. But no, unfortunately things aren’t this way. Instead, you can see them everywhere. Men following women around a shop, like something from a George Romero film. The undead shuffling perpetually round and round. Sunken eyes stare into space, and the look of the tormented undead contorts every muscle in the victims face, into a look of desperation. I had slipped into such a dazed state, that at one point I was following the wrong woman around the shop! Just when you think your state of limbo can’t be worsened, you hear those words. Those words that tear into pieces the last scraps of hope that you have left………."Just wait here, while I try these on". "Dear God deliver me from this, I’ll do anything. I promise I’ll never look at intravenousagogo again", I think to myself. Miss Marple descends into the changing rooms, with arms full of clothes. Two assistants are following close behind with trolleys stacked ten feet high. This is where the main problem of ‘shopping with women’ arises. While Miss marple is adorning herself, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Do they provide seating, a selection of magazines, and newspapers, to help pass the time?......NO. I have to hang around trying to not look like a perv! And of course the changing rooms are always right next to the underwear section. They know what they’re doing. They must piss themselves when they are designing the interiors of these shops. Sometimes I actually pretend to be sending a text, just so I don’t have to look up, and catch the eye of an assistant who thinks I am perving over the thong section. It’s about this time that something happens, that is guaranteed to happen every time. Out of the corner of my eye, I will see a bloke casually browsing around the shop. He is not one of the undead like me, no, he is actually shopping. Now he is either, a ‘modern’ man, who can quite comfortably buy clothes for his wife or girlfriend, (He knows her size, taste and everything), or he is a very brazen transvestite, or maybe even a pre-op transsexual. Which always makes me wonder, are men who are either of these, allowed to try clothes on, in a female changing room? It’s a grey area. If you don’t believe me, try it for yourself. Go into your nearest ‘New look’ or whatever, and hang around outside the changing rooms. I guarantee you will see a bloke like I have described. It’s uncanny. Probably best to take a lady with you though, or you could be frog marched out of the store by two burly policemen. And whatever you do, don’t go and hang around outside the changing rooms with a camera round your neck…..that’s just silly! Oh well, I suppose I’d better get back to work now. I have got a menu to plan, and anyway, I am still waiting for someone from the surgery to call me back about the tetanus. Trouble is, by the time they get round to it, my jaw will have probably completely locked, I won’t be able to answer, and they will think they have the wrong number or something…..happy days!
Adios amigos.
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Health and fitness
I awoke this morning to discover a Jack Russell licking my face. Due to my post slumber confusion, it took me a few seconds to remember what he had been eating the night before. Just as I wrestled him from my face, the other one passed wind. Miss Marple raises an eyebrow at my gaseous eruptions, but a dog fart definitely has an unmistakable bouquet. I crawled out of bed, and staggered to the bathroom (I used the forty-five degree angle method this morning). Looking down, I simply couldn’t ignore the seemingly ever expanding stomach that sat defiantly before me. “I have got to do something about this” I thought to myself. When you bend over to put your socks on and you can barely breathe, it’s time to wake up and pound the pavement. Miss Marple has been tutting a lot lately too. She keeps looking in the mirror, and huffing. It’s not been all rosy for Miss Marple lately. Her latest trip to the hairdressers did not quite go to plan. Recently she has adopted a new hairstyle, a kind of bob. Normally when she comes back from the hairdressers, I can honestly not tell that she has been, “Ah, fifteen quid well spent” I think to myself. But this time I could definitely tell she had been. The hair dresser must have been adrenalined up or something, because she had been a little over zealous. It was a little shorter than planned. In fact when she first returned, I thought a small boy had wandered into the house! So that, combined with a little excess weight, and we are all tip toeing a bit at the moment. So what to do about this weight?
Eating more healthily is the obvious answer. We have started so many ‘regimes’, but they have always ended in a kebab. Always starts off great. Monday eating fruit like it’s going out of fashion, might even do a few sit ups. Tuesday, still going good, feel bloody starving, but hanging in there. Then it comes to Wednesday. Or ‘Week willed Wednesday’ as we have coined it. I don’t know what it is about Wednesdays, but this is where it all collapses. Weather the body has had enough after two days, I don’t know. But it makes me crave something dripping in cholesterol, like a junkie craves a fix. So Wednesday usually ends in a kebab, and a belly full of regret.
This brings me on to exercise. Oooh, I hate it. It just isn’t me. I suppose the first kind of exercise most people would think about is running. I have a few issues with running. Firstly, it is painful, and secondly it is boring. These are both things that I try to rule out of my life. It’s not surprising it hurts, fourteen and a half stone bouncing around on two spindly legs can’t be very healthy. Also what really gets me, is that human beings must be the only animals on the planet, that run just for the bloody sake of it!
Surely we were given the ability to run, so that we could try to evade danger, or run after something, to catch and eat it. So what the hell is a marathon runner doing? IT IS BLOODY POINTLESS. I can’t imagine a lion goes for a run for the sake of it.
Two lions on the plain………..
Lion 1 “Hello mate, alright?”
Lion 2 “Yes mate, fine”
Lion 1 “What’s Dave doing?”
Lion 2 “He said he was going for a run”
Lion 1 “Oh yeah, after something is he? Got a gazelle in his sights I suppose”
Lion 2 “No, that’s the funny thing, he just said…….he was going for a run”
Lion 1 “What?........fucking twat, doesn’t he know it’s hot”.
But there we go, pounding around, buggering our knees up, and wearing unpleasant shorts. You know the one's I mean. Cut really high, and showing far far too much man thigh for my liking.
The worst thing in the 'running world', has got to be the London Marathon. If ever there was five hours of pointless television, that has surly got to be it. Five hours of people jogging along, dripping in sweat, and waving at a camera. Some of the idiots even dress up for The occasion. Yes there they are, plodding along in a chicken costume, or a bloody pantomime horse or something. "How can you be so miserable?", I hear you cry, "A lot of them do it for charity". Yes I know, that's highly commendable, make them all knights of the realm if you like, JUST DON'T PUT IT ON THE BLOODY TELEVISION. It's the same at the Olympics. The ten thousand metres. Christ, what a bore. Once you have seen one lap, you have seen them all. I really don't know how the commentators can manage to make a commentary, on something where nothing happens. I think it's the commentators who should get the medals, for being able to stay awake. While I’m slagging off fit people, lets take a shot at another 'sport' that I will ban when I am Prime Minister. Bloody rowing. This comes in a very close second to long distance running. Not only is it boring and painful, but you can add slow, and the fact that they are going backwards to the list as well. The only reason this doesn't come in first on the 'Bore list', is that there is always a chance that one of them will sink, adding a slight air of amusement to the proceedings. The organisers of the events really aren’t putting all their efforts into them are they?. These things could be greatly improved, with just a few simple tweaks. Long distance running would be made a much better spectator sport, if a few snipers were placed around the arena. The bastards wouldn’t just plod around then, and the crowd would get value for money. On the same tack, rowing would be jazzed up immensely, if mines were scattered throughout the course. The added benefit being, that as they can’t see where they are going, an entertaining element of luck would be thrown into the mix!
Well I could probably write something the length of ’War and peace’ about all the annoying things about sport, but it’s bloody hot, and there is a large donner with my name etched upon it downstairs!
See you all soon Mule fans!
Keep on running…………
Eating more healthily is the obvious answer. We have started so many ‘regimes’, but they have always ended in a kebab. Always starts off great. Monday eating fruit like it’s going out of fashion, might even do a few sit ups. Tuesday, still going good, feel bloody starving, but hanging in there. Then it comes to Wednesday. Or ‘Week willed Wednesday’ as we have coined it. I don’t know what it is about Wednesdays, but this is where it all collapses. Weather the body has had enough after two days, I don’t know. But it makes me crave something dripping in cholesterol, like a junkie craves a fix. So Wednesday usually ends in a kebab, and a belly full of regret.
This brings me on to exercise. Oooh, I hate it. It just isn’t me. I suppose the first kind of exercise most people would think about is running. I have a few issues with running. Firstly, it is painful, and secondly it is boring. These are both things that I try to rule out of my life. It’s not surprising it hurts, fourteen and a half stone bouncing around on two spindly legs can’t be very healthy. Also what really gets me, is that human beings must be the only animals on the planet, that run just for the bloody sake of it!
Surely we were given the ability to run, so that we could try to evade danger, or run after something, to catch and eat it. So what the hell is a marathon runner doing? IT IS BLOODY POINTLESS. I can’t imagine a lion goes for a run for the sake of it.
Two lions on the plain………..
Lion 1 “Hello mate, alright?”
Lion 2 “Yes mate, fine”
Lion 1 “What’s Dave doing?”
Lion 2 “He said he was going for a run”
Lion 1 “Oh yeah, after something is he? Got a gazelle in his sights I suppose”
Lion 2 “No, that’s the funny thing, he just said…….he was going for a run”
Lion 1 “What?........fucking twat, doesn’t he know it’s hot”.
But there we go, pounding around, buggering our knees up, and wearing unpleasant shorts. You know the one's I mean. Cut really high, and showing far far too much man thigh for my liking.
The worst thing in the 'running world', has got to be the London Marathon. If ever there was five hours of pointless television, that has surly got to be it. Five hours of people jogging along, dripping in sweat, and waving at a camera. Some of the idiots even dress up for The occasion. Yes there they are, plodding along in a chicken costume, or a bloody pantomime horse or something. "How can you be so miserable?", I hear you cry, "A lot of them do it for charity". Yes I know, that's highly commendable, make them all knights of the realm if you like, JUST DON'T PUT IT ON THE BLOODY TELEVISION. It's the same at the Olympics. The ten thousand metres. Christ, what a bore. Once you have seen one lap, you have seen them all. I really don't know how the commentators can manage to make a commentary, on something where nothing happens. I think it's the commentators who should get the medals, for being able to stay awake. While I’m slagging off fit people, lets take a shot at another 'sport' that I will ban when I am Prime Minister. Bloody rowing. This comes in a very close second to long distance running. Not only is it boring and painful, but you can add slow, and the fact that they are going backwards to the list as well. The only reason this doesn't come in first on the 'Bore list', is that there is always a chance that one of them will sink, adding a slight air of amusement to the proceedings. The organisers of the events really aren’t putting all their efforts into them are they?. These things could be greatly improved, with just a few simple tweaks. Long distance running would be made a much better spectator sport, if a few snipers were placed around the arena. The bastards wouldn’t just plod around then, and the crowd would get value for money. On the same tack, rowing would be jazzed up immensely, if mines were scattered throughout the course. The added benefit being, that as they can’t see where they are going, an entertaining element of luck would be thrown into the mix!
Well I could probably write something the length of ’War and peace’ about all the annoying things about sport, but it’s bloody hot, and there is a large donner with my name etched upon it downstairs!
See you all soon Mule fans!
Keep on running…………
Thursday, 2 August 2007
A bad day for werewolves
I have to admit, I did wake up in a bit of a bad mood today. I can’t say there is any particular reason, but there is no denying that Capt. Grump was in residence. If anybody has perused this blog before, they may have come to the conclusion that I may be a bit psychologically unstable! I wouldn’t disagree with that, but I don’t think I am at all dangerous. With a bit of luck and a following wind, you will never see me being led from my house, wearing nothing but my underpants, with handcuff accessories, a policeman on each arm, and my computer in a plastic bag. Shouting at the top of my voice, "It was the lizard men………they made me do it"! No, but what I am about to say may convince you that a couple of sessions on a leather couch, probably wouldn’t go amiss.
Lycanthropy. Yes I think I might be a werewolf! Not a full blown, hairy, on all fours howling at the moon type of werewolf, Just a mini one! For centuries some people have been convinced that the lunar cycles can affect the mind set of human beings. Well I’m starting to believe it. About once a month, my mood drops, I feel more aggressive, down in the dumps etc etc. Maybe I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body! No, I think it’s more likely that I am a werewolf. Trust me, I certainly don’t pay any attention to the lunar cycle what so ever, it’s just coincidence that I seem to notice the full moon, after I have started to feel werewolfy. Not the other way round, it’s uncanny.
This brings me nicely on to the subject of mental health in general. I am surprised that I haven’t been led from my house in just my underpants, because my family has a history of mental illness. Both my parents have suffered from depression and both of my grandmothers too. In fact one of them was a certified paranoid schizophrenic, and quite often used to ride a large motorbike about the town wearing nothing but a crash helmet!. At least she had the presence of mind to be safety conscious! I do sometimes wonder if I have inherited some of these problems, but in a much watered down version. I do think I suffer from mild paranoia, and might be slightly bipolar – (Just to clarify that, bipolar means mood swings, not that I like to bat and bowl)! – This is of course all diagnosed by me, because as well as being able to talk to the animals, and being ex special forces, I am a doctor too! On the subject of paranoia, let me give out some advice. If you even think you might suffer from the mildest form of paranoia, I implore you not to watch a film called ‘The Truman show’. For those who haven’t seen it, it’s basically about a man (Jim Carry), who discovers that his whole life has been a sham. He has been the subject of a reality TV show, and all the people that were his family and friends, were in fact actors. Well watching that film was one of the worst things I have ever done. Ever since then, there has been something in the back of my mind that keeps suggesting to me, that my life could be a reality TV show too! The logical and rational part of me knows that this notion is 99% ridiculous, but there is that 1% that still every now and again, goes around the house trying to find the hidden cameras! The thought of being filmed twenty-four hours a day is very unnerving, and can put you off your stroke, if you catch my drift. Also, occasionally I have been introduced to someone, like my brother in laws new girlfriend for example, and I could swear blind I have seen her as an extra on ‘The Bill’! "A ha, I have caught them out", I think to myself, that proves she is an actress. Is Miss Marple really just an actor? I think the fact that no actress in the world could possibly put up with me for eleven years, proves my theory wrong. Even if she was the most dedicated method actor in the world, I think after only a couple of years, she would have thrown the towel in, and demanded to speak to her agent. While we are on the subject of ‘reality TV’, I made the mistake of watching a couple of minutes of ‘Big Brother’ last night. Now I am not going to sit here and slag off big brother, it has been done so many times before. Having said that, I do genuinely sit there with my jaw on the floor, amazed at how twatish some people can be. Don’t take it from this, that I think that I am better than these people, or anyone else, (If Miss Marple is standing behind me, her eyebrows will be raised again!). I get on my own nerves probably more than anyone else does, but some of the morons on that show, have to be seen to be believed. There is some woman on there, called Charlie I think, and she is a real life version of Vicky Pollard. What baffles me, is that she obviously doesn’t realize what a twat she is. I have to turn it off, before I snap the flat screen in half.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally averse to the odd bit of reality telly, I can’t help myself when the fruitcakes are auditioning for the early shows of ‘The X Factor’, who can’t be entertained by that? But the one’s that really piss me off are the ‘Celebrity’ reality shows. You know these shows that are full of one hit wonders, and some bloke who used to present the weather on TV West or something. Irritating little bastards that are desperately trying to claw back some credibility, or trying to revive their flagging careers. They seem to think that just because they have been on the telly, that means they have some sort of devine rite, never to have to have a proper job again. What is even more rage inducing than that, is that the TV companies keep pumping this crap out. Some show way back in the mists of time that started all this, was a success, so let’s keep churning ‘em out. What else can they come up with for Christ’s sake? We have had celebrities in jungles, on ice, not on ice, in the ballroom, celebrities singing on there own, in duets with has been proper singers!, cooking celebrities, sky diving celebrities, there is absolutely nothing left. There doesn’t seem to be any depth, that the TV companies aren’t afraid to sink to. I am waiting for it. Yes, I am waiting for it to happen. It can’t be long now. Just around the corner, they have nowhere else to go. I am fully expecting to be watching the telly in the not too distant future, and hear the words………"Starting this Saturday at 7.30 on ITV1, it’s….. ‘Celebrity Wanking’…… yes, watch all your favorite celebs wanking for charity. One celeb gets voted off each week, and it’s up to you who stays. Remember fifteen pence from each call goes to charity, and of course the vast majority of it – absolutely bloody millions – comes straight to us Yipee!. Next Saturday only on ITV1"……. Yes I know it sounds ludicrous, but it won’t be long. They would drag some cheesy host in, I can see it now………….
Host "So Baz, people will be familiar with you, from your role in
Eastenders. What have you been doing since you were so sensationally sacked?"
Baz "Well Ben I wasn’t actually sacked, my character’s role had come to a natural conclusion. But to answer your question, a lot of personal Appearances, spending time with the family, you know."
Ben "Anyway, are you up for it tonight?" Smiles and gives a cheeky wink to camera.
Baz "Yeah, yeah. I’ve been practicing all week, this means everything to me, it’s nothing but 110% all the way, and I’m going to give it my best shot"
Ben Another cheeky grin to camera
"Ok over to Zac here, now what have you been doing since you had that one hit with the boy band ‘Skin to skin’?"
Zac "Well it’s been wicked, ya know what I mean. Loads of stuff really, loads going on. Ya know what I mean"
Ben "Well, like what?"
Zac "Well, putting a new band together, opened an ‘Anything for a pound shop’ last week"
Ben "Well that’s great. Tell me, are you hoping to have a resurgence in your career after appearing on this show?. Maybe you can finally move out of your mum’s"
Zac "She lives with me actually…..she is infirmed. Anyway, whatever happens, happens. My main reason for doing this is obviously the charity. Yeah that’s right everyone, I’m wanking for the kids……...!
Ya know what I mean."
Each week they could compete in a different discipline. One week could be speed wanking, the next, endurance wanking, another week, free style maybe? A panel of judges would hold cards up with scores out of ten on them! And then to the final……………..
Ben "Well that’s it viewers, next week it’s the big one. That’s right both Zac And Baz are through to next weeks final. So be sure to join us next Saturday here exclusively on ITV1 for ……………..
‘Celebrity Wanking…………The toss off’" !
Oh well, getting tired, better get to bed before Miss Marple wonders what I’m doing. See you all next year for the ‘Wankathon’!
Lycanthropy. Yes I think I might be a werewolf! Not a full blown, hairy, on all fours howling at the moon type of werewolf, Just a mini one! For centuries some people have been convinced that the lunar cycles can affect the mind set of human beings. Well I’m starting to believe it. About once a month, my mood drops, I feel more aggressive, down in the dumps etc etc. Maybe I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body! No, I think it’s more likely that I am a werewolf. Trust me, I certainly don’t pay any attention to the lunar cycle what so ever, it’s just coincidence that I seem to notice the full moon, after I have started to feel werewolfy. Not the other way round, it’s uncanny.
This brings me nicely on to the subject of mental health in general. I am surprised that I haven’t been led from my house in just my underpants, because my family has a history of mental illness. Both my parents have suffered from depression and both of my grandmothers too. In fact one of them was a certified paranoid schizophrenic, and quite often used to ride a large motorbike about the town wearing nothing but a crash helmet!. At least she had the presence of mind to be safety conscious! I do sometimes wonder if I have inherited some of these problems, but in a much watered down version. I do think I suffer from mild paranoia, and might be slightly bipolar – (Just to clarify that, bipolar means mood swings, not that I like to bat and bowl)! – This is of course all diagnosed by me, because as well as being able to talk to the animals, and being ex special forces, I am a doctor too! On the subject of paranoia, let me give out some advice. If you even think you might suffer from the mildest form of paranoia, I implore you not to watch a film called ‘The Truman show’. For those who haven’t seen it, it’s basically about a man (Jim Carry), who discovers that his whole life has been a sham. He has been the subject of a reality TV show, and all the people that were his family and friends, were in fact actors. Well watching that film was one of the worst things I have ever done. Ever since then, there has been something in the back of my mind that keeps suggesting to me, that my life could be a reality TV show too! The logical and rational part of me knows that this notion is 99% ridiculous, but there is that 1% that still every now and again, goes around the house trying to find the hidden cameras! The thought of being filmed twenty-four hours a day is very unnerving, and can put you off your stroke, if you catch my drift. Also, occasionally I have been introduced to someone, like my brother in laws new girlfriend for example, and I could swear blind I have seen her as an extra on ‘The Bill’! "A ha, I have caught them out", I think to myself, that proves she is an actress. Is Miss Marple really just an actor? I think the fact that no actress in the world could possibly put up with me for eleven years, proves my theory wrong. Even if she was the most dedicated method actor in the world, I think after only a couple of years, she would have thrown the towel in, and demanded to speak to her agent. While we are on the subject of ‘reality TV’, I made the mistake of watching a couple of minutes of ‘Big Brother’ last night. Now I am not going to sit here and slag off big brother, it has been done so many times before. Having said that, I do genuinely sit there with my jaw on the floor, amazed at how twatish some people can be. Don’t take it from this, that I think that I am better than these people, or anyone else, (If Miss Marple is standing behind me, her eyebrows will be raised again!). I get on my own nerves probably more than anyone else does, but some of the morons on that show, have to be seen to be believed. There is some woman on there, called Charlie I think, and she is a real life version of Vicky Pollard. What baffles me, is that she obviously doesn’t realize what a twat she is. I have to turn it off, before I snap the flat screen in half.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally averse to the odd bit of reality telly, I can’t help myself when the fruitcakes are auditioning for the early shows of ‘The X Factor’, who can’t be entertained by that? But the one’s that really piss me off are the ‘Celebrity’ reality shows. You know these shows that are full of one hit wonders, and some bloke who used to present the weather on TV West or something. Irritating little bastards that are desperately trying to claw back some credibility, or trying to revive their flagging careers. They seem to think that just because they have been on the telly, that means they have some sort of devine rite, never to have to have a proper job again. What is even more rage inducing than that, is that the TV companies keep pumping this crap out. Some show way back in the mists of time that started all this, was a success, so let’s keep churning ‘em out. What else can they come up with for Christ’s sake? We have had celebrities in jungles, on ice, not on ice, in the ballroom, celebrities singing on there own, in duets with has been proper singers!, cooking celebrities, sky diving celebrities, there is absolutely nothing left. There doesn’t seem to be any depth, that the TV companies aren’t afraid to sink to. I am waiting for it. Yes, I am waiting for it to happen. It can’t be long now. Just around the corner, they have nowhere else to go. I am fully expecting to be watching the telly in the not too distant future, and hear the words………"Starting this Saturday at 7.30 on ITV1, it’s….. ‘Celebrity Wanking’…… yes, watch all your favorite celebs wanking for charity. One celeb gets voted off each week, and it’s up to you who stays. Remember fifteen pence from each call goes to charity, and of course the vast majority of it – absolutely bloody millions – comes straight to us Yipee!. Next Saturday only on ITV1"……. Yes I know it sounds ludicrous, but it won’t be long. They would drag some cheesy host in, I can see it now………….
Host "So Baz, people will be familiar with you, from your role in
Eastenders. What have you been doing since you were so sensationally sacked?"
Baz "Well Ben I wasn’t actually sacked, my character’s role had come to a natural conclusion. But to answer your question, a lot of personal Appearances, spending time with the family, you know."
Ben "Anyway, are you up for it tonight?" Smiles and gives a cheeky wink to camera.
Baz "Yeah, yeah. I’ve been practicing all week, this means everything to me, it’s nothing but 110% all the way, and I’m going to give it my best shot"
Ben Another cheeky grin to camera
"Ok over to Zac here, now what have you been doing since you had that one hit with the boy band ‘Skin to skin’?"
Zac "Well it’s been wicked, ya know what I mean. Loads of stuff really, loads going on. Ya know what I mean"
Ben "Well, like what?"
Zac "Well, putting a new band together, opened an ‘Anything for a pound shop’ last week"
Ben "Well that’s great. Tell me, are you hoping to have a resurgence in your career after appearing on this show?. Maybe you can finally move out of your mum’s"
Zac "She lives with me actually…..she is infirmed. Anyway, whatever happens, happens. My main reason for doing this is obviously the charity. Yeah that’s right everyone, I’m wanking for the kids……...!
Ya know what I mean."
Each week they could compete in a different discipline. One week could be speed wanking, the next, endurance wanking, another week, free style maybe? A panel of judges would hold cards up with scores out of ten on them! And then to the final……………..
Ben "Well that’s it viewers, next week it’s the big one. That’s right both Zac And Baz are through to next weeks final. So be sure to join us next Saturday here exclusively on ITV1 for ……………..
‘Celebrity Wanking…………The toss off’" !
Oh well, getting tired, better get to bed before Miss Marple wonders what I’m doing. See you all next year for the ‘Wankathon’!
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
And then there were three.......
Last night, we took our two little Jack Russell’s out for their evening walk as usual. We couldn’t go our normal route, as there were children playing on the field. We really couldn’t be bothered with all the dishing out of fivers for new footballs, as has happened before, due to a set of Jack Russell teeth, sunk into a crying six year olds ball, so we decided to try a new route. Also, it occurred to me after the dishing out of fivers, that a podgy balding middle aged man, handing out money to small children in the middle of a field, might not look good. So off we trundle down the track. It is a dirt track, that meanders for what seems like miles, and in the distance is a farm house, surrounded by various farm buildings. The sun was still shining, and a cooling breeze, caressed our rosy cheeks, as we ambled along. (Watch out, he’s getting above myself, and getting all wordsworthy! – Don’t panic, he’ll be back to nob gags before you know it) our two Jack Russell Terrorists, as we call them, were gaily gamboling along (He’s off again), and all was a happy scene. When we had got about half way down the track, Jake and Elwood’s ears shot bolt upright, and they did that standing on three legs thing. I don’t know why dogs do this when they are trying to look alert, and menacing. Especially as the raised leg has a droopy limp paw at the end. Not very intimidating to a potential foe, I would have thought. Anyway, we followed their gaze, and saw two dogs further down the track, staring back at us. One was a bloody great big black thing, and the other looked like a little Jack Russell. I immediately jumped behind Miss Marple to protect her! Well the big one took off down the track in the opposite direction, but the little one stood his ground, like a true Jack Russell. (Jack Russell’s seem to have no concept of size). Miss Marple, who I have no problem with admitting, is the far more sensible, and pragmatic one of the two of us, suggested, we walk in the opposite direction, to avoid any unnecessary mishaps. I on the other hand for some reason, seem to see myself as some kind of Dr Doolittle. "It will be fine", I said, "I have a way with animals". I bent down, and offered the dog my hand to sniff (this is how us dog whisperers do it you know!), at which point, he bolted straight past me, and made a beeline for Jake and Elwood. Much too my relief, they all got on like a house on fire, and after much bottom and genital sniffing, made instant friends, and had a merry old time, chasing and playing down the track. Meanwhile, we had seen the big dog head towards the farmhouse, and deduced that this is where they must live. (Nothing gets past Miss Marple). It was time to head back home, as the clouds were drawing in, and time was marching on. We said goodbye to Jake and Elwood’s new friend, and headed back up the track. "Oh Christ, he’s following us" I said to Miss Marple. "Well I told you not to encourage him, but no, you had to go all David Attenborough on me, and now we can’t get rid of him. You’re so good with animals, tell him to go home". I spun round, looked at the dog, and said………."go home". Not a great effort I have to admit. We decided that we would head for home, and hope that he would get fed up, and wave us goodbye in the not too distant future. Needless to say this didn’t happen. We were nearly home, and by now starting to fret slightly. What the hell were we going to do with him? Right, I thought, we will just walk him back to the farm house. So off we trot. At the end of the track was a huge ditch. We could see the farmhouse, but couldn’t get to it. There were various tracks criss crossing the fields, and we thought one of them must lead to the house.
Apart from seeing myself as a sort of Dr Doolittle, I have joked with Miss Marple for years now, that I used to be in the SAS. Unfortunately, this has gone on for so long, that I sometimes forget that it is just a joke!, and at times of crisis like this, all my special forces tracker training bursts back into life. After many shouts of "Don’t panic, it’s this way", we were no nearer to reaching our target. By now, the blisters were forming, the wheezing had started, and the tempers were beginning to fray. We decided that we would get home, and then try to drive him to the farmhouse. We reached home, and plonked all three dogs in the car. We new there was a dirt track just outside our local town, and guessed that that, must be the way. It was a dirt track better suited to a four wheel drive, than a clapped out Vauxhall Corsa with ratterly steering, but the Dunkirk spirit spurred us on. It started off ok. A bit bumpy, but then the grass seemed to be getting longer and longer. We finally decided to abandon the mission, when we virtually couldn’t see where we were going. The heavy sighing had kicked in by now, and I had virtually accepted the fact that there were going to be three Jack Russell’s under the duvet tonight, instead of two. We had one last hope. There was another track at the other end of the village, it was this or nothing. More off roading ensued, and I would occasionally see Miss Marple, and three Jack Russell’s in the mirror, bouncing about, like some kind of bizarre dog/owner/bouncy castle extravaganza. We reached a house. There was an enormous rottweiller staring at me through the driver’s side window. Could this be the mysterious black dog that disappeared? Trouble was, there didn’t seem to be any sign of human life. Getting out of the car to knock on the door was a no no, so bibbing the horn was the only answer. Beep beep………..nothing. The rotweiller by now, had walked back to the house, and keen eyed Miss Marple had spotted that we could shut the dog in behind the gate. She waited till he wasn’t looking, and the intrepid Miss Marple crept from the car, and closed the gate. Hoorah the beast was caged!. I now fearlessly stepped from the car, and even gave the rotweiller a cheeky wink, as if to say," It’s thinking like that mate, that is behind the fact that we invented the internal combustion engine, and not you. Face it, you have been out smarted". It was just at this moment, that old Marple casually told me that the gate was only pushed to, and he could push it open at any moment if he liked! I very quickly stopped looking smug, and had to admit to myself that, internal combustion engine or not, bloody great big teeth had the upper hand right now. I started to inch back towards the car, and at the same time, whilst trying not to move my lips, like some very agitated ventriloquist, kept saying……"get gack in the car, get gack in the car"! In hindsight, I can’t really understand my thinking behind this. For one thing, the dog couldn’t understand me, and for another, why was I trying to throw my voice? Anyway, we all got back in safely, and decided to try the next house down the track. Old rotty wasn’t giving up though; he ran along side the car for several hundred yards, grinning at me. Oh good. I thought to myself, oh goody goody, goody goody good! there is another huge dog that doesn’t seem to be pleased to see me. German Shepard this time. "Nobody, and I mean NOBODY is getting out of the car this time", I announced. Our spare Jack Russell by this time had pricked up his ears, and was standing on three legs. Eureka I thought to myself, this must be the place. After much bibbing, a woman whose breasts seemed desperate to escape from her t-shirt, opened the door. "Is this your dog"? Miss Marple asked. "Oh yes, where did you find him"? She replied. We explained the whole sorry tale; she thanked us, and said he would go off with anyone. Huh, so much for my ‘Way with animals’. His name was Bob. He was a smashing little fella, and do you know, there was a part of me that was a little sad that Bob wouldn’t be under our duvet that night.
Apart from seeing myself as a sort of Dr Doolittle, I have joked with Miss Marple for years now, that I used to be in the SAS. Unfortunately, this has gone on for so long, that I sometimes forget that it is just a joke!, and at times of crisis like this, all my special forces tracker training bursts back into life. After many shouts of "Don’t panic, it’s this way", we were no nearer to reaching our target. By now, the blisters were forming, the wheezing had started, and the tempers were beginning to fray. We decided that we would get home, and then try to drive him to the farmhouse. We reached home, and plonked all three dogs in the car. We new there was a dirt track just outside our local town, and guessed that that, must be the way. It was a dirt track better suited to a four wheel drive, than a clapped out Vauxhall Corsa with ratterly steering, but the Dunkirk spirit spurred us on. It started off ok. A bit bumpy, but then the grass seemed to be getting longer and longer. We finally decided to abandon the mission, when we virtually couldn’t see where we were going. The heavy sighing had kicked in by now, and I had virtually accepted the fact that there were going to be three Jack Russell’s under the duvet tonight, instead of two. We had one last hope. There was another track at the other end of the village, it was this or nothing. More off roading ensued, and I would occasionally see Miss Marple, and three Jack Russell’s in the mirror, bouncing about, like some kind of bizarre dog/owner/bouncy castle extravaganza. We reached a house. There was an enormous rottweiller staring at me through the driver’s side window. Could this be the mysterious black dog that disappeared? Trouble was, there didn’t seem to be any sign of human life. Getting out of the car to knock on the door was a no no, so bibbing the horn was the only answer. Beep beep………..nothing. The rotweiller by now, had walked back to the house, and keen eyed Miss Marple had spotted that we could shut the dog in behind the gate. She waited till he wasn’t looking, and the intrepid Miss Marple crept from the car, and closed the gate. Hoorah the beast was caged!. I now fearlessly stepped from the car, and even gave the rotweiller a cheeky wink, as if to say," It’s thinking like that mate, that is behind the fact that we invented the internal combustion engine, and not you. Face it, you have been out smarted". It was just at this moment, that old Marple casually told me that the gate was only pushed to, and he could push it open at any moment if he liked! I very quickly stopped looking smug, and had to admit to myself that, internal combustion engine or not, bloody great big teeth had the upper hand right now. I started to inch back towards the car, and at the same time, whilst trying not to move my lips, like some very agitated ventriloquist, kept saying……"get gack in the car, get gack in the car"! In hindsight, I can’t really understand my thinking behind this. For one thing, the dog couldn’t understand me, and for another, why was I trying to throw my voice? Anyway, we all got back in safely, and decided to try the next house down the track. Old rotty wasn’t giving up though; he ran along side the car for several hundred yards, grinning at me. Oh good. I thought to myself, oh goody goody, goody goody good! there is another huge dog that doesn’t seem to be pleased to see me. German Shepard this time. "Nobody, and I mean NOBODY is getting out of the car this time", I announced. Our spare Jack Russell by this time had pricked up his ears, and was standing on three legs. Eureka I thought to myself, this must be the place. After much bibbing, a woman whose breasts seemed desperate to escape from her t-shirt, opened the door. "Is this your dog"? Miss Marple asked. "Oh yes, where did you find him"? She replied. We explained the whole sorry tale; she thanked us, and said he would go off with anyone. Huh, so much for my ‘Way with animals’. His name was Bob. He was a smashing little fella, and do you know, there was a part of me that was a little sad that Bob wouldn’t be under our duvet that night.
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