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…………
Sunday, 5 August 2007
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.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Old scratchy balls............
Being a few stone overweight, and not having the healthiest lifestyle in the world, I was worried when I started to develop the symptoms of diabetes. It had probably gone on for years if I’m honest, so the other day I plucked up the courage to go and have a diabetes check. I went for one of those one’s in the chemist. This was a lot easier than trying to see a doctor at my local surgery, as they have an absolutely mind bogglingly difficult appointment making system. I tried once before, and in the end gave up, and decided I would put up with the shooting pains down my left arm, tightening chest, and sweating!
The conversation went something like this………
Receptionist "Good morning, doctors surgery" (slight frostiness already)
Me "Ah, good morning, I would like to make an appointment please"
Receptionist "When would you like it for?"
Me "A week Wednesday would be great" (this was Monday)
Receptionist "No can do I’m afraid"
There was then a gap as I waited for her to explain why…………..The explanation didn’t materialize
Me "Er…..why is that"?
Receptionist "Appointments can’t be made more than a week in advance"
Me "So what do I do then"?
Hitler "You will have to phone back on the day that is a week earlier than the appointment you want to make"
It's a good job the Nazi's only used the 'Enigma' machine to encode their messages. If they had had the forsight to use 'Receptionist speak', the chaps at Bletchley Park wouldn't have stood a chance, and we might all be now dancing to a different tune!
Me "So that will be Wednesday then"? (An air of sarcasm tinged with desperation in my voice)
Hitler "That’s correct"
Me "Any particular time I should phone, does it need to be the exact time that I would like the appointment for, just a week early"?
Hitler "It doesn’t make any difference"
Me "So any time will be ok then"?
Hitler " No, I mean it doesn’t matter what time you call on Wednesday, because we won't be here, closed on Wednesdays"
Me – Slam phone down, and add her, and the whole surgery to ‘THE LIST’!
So anyway, off me and Miss Marple toddle down to the town last Saturday morning. We get into the chemist, and there was one person in front of me in the queue. This was a good enough reason for me to try and back out of the whole thing. I turned round and told Miss Marple that they were obviously very busy, and perhaps we should try another day. She then quite literally spun me round 180 degrees, and pushed me towards the counter. I asked for the diabetes test, and was told to wait over by a door at the back of the shop. I was informed that somebody would be over shortly to do the test. I waited, and after a few mins, a young assistant came over, and ushered me into the room. She must have been about seventeen, and seemed as nervous as I was. I was hoping this wasn’t her first test, because I knew blood had to be taken, and I didn’t want to be the victim of hypodermic homicide!, accidental or otherwise. Luckily the blood was taken with one of those pricker things. She said it wouldn’t really hurt; she obviously has never had the test. Once the blood had been taken, she proceeded to work her way through a list of questions. She started by asking me if I had eaten that morning, I said yes. She asked me what I had eaten, Bacon and eggs I said. She giggled to herself, I don’t really know why, and then the real grilling began.
Assistant "Greater thirst than normal"?
Me "Yes"
Assistant "More tired than usual"?
Me "Yes"
Assistant "Dizziness"?
Me "Sometimes"
Her "Double vision"?
Me "No"
Her "Weight loss"?
I looked down at my stomach, which seemed to be more lardy than normal, and meekly said "no".
Assistant "Irritability"?
I glanced over at Miss Marple who stood with her arms folded, and she raised one eye brow in a Roger Moore sort of fashion. I took this to mean a big fat YES!
"I suppose so" I said.
Then there seemed to be a pause in the interrogation. The young girl looked as though she was reading the last question to herself again; to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. She quickly glanced up at me, and then back down to the piece of paper in front of her. In a quieter voice than before, and leaning forward slightly, she asked ………" Do you suffer from itchy genitals"?
Yes apparently itchy genitals are one of the symptoms of diabetes! Christ knows why. I’m not so sure it isn’t some kind of doctor’s prank. At this point, I was imagining two doctors being given the task of listing the symptoms of diabetes, so people can make an assessment for themselves. It’s a Friday afternoon, they can’t really be arsed. They would rather be pushing the boundaries of medical science. Fighting the battle against cancer, or making a breakthrough in the battle to cure Parkinson’s, but no, they have got the tedious task of listing the symptoms of dia-bloody-betes. So there they are writing the list. When they get to the end, one of them makes a suggestion……..
Dr A "God this is boring, I mean, we are worth more than this. All those years at medical school, and I’m making a list of symptoms for diabetes"
Dr B "Yeah, I know what you mean, it’s just not right is it"?
Dr A "We could spice things up a bit"
Dr B "How do ya mean"
Dr A "Well, we could add an extra one at the end, you know……..just for fun"
Dr B "Like what"?
Dr A "Erm…..we could make it a bit out of the ordinary, a bit silly maybe"
Dr B "What you mean like a jokey one, we wouldn’t get away with that, would we"?
Dr A "Well they fell for the passive smoking one, hook line and sinker"!
Dr B Laughing "Yeah, back of the net" They do a high five.
Dr A "It’s got to be something to do with the old genitalia , that gets ‘em every time"
Dr B Sniggers "Yeah"
Dr A "How about this. Let’s say that, diabetes makes your genitals itch"!
Dr B "Oh my God………..come on, they will never fall for that"…………………
At that moment, I snapped back into reality, and realized I needed to give an answer.
I looked across at Miss Marple, who by now had raised the other eyebrow, and had topped it off with a slight smirk. I looked back at the girl, and with as much dignity and decorum as I could muster, replied in a crackly voice….."YES"
The girl looked straight back down to the piece of paper, and ticked the appropriate box.
With that, she took the blood sample and the questionnaire, and went into another room in which there was some doctor looking bloke. After about thirty seconds, she came back into the room. I braced myself for the news that I was a Diabetic, probably on the edge of death. Defying medical science maybe." How has he survived this long, without treatment", I could imagine the doctor bloke thinking to himself. She sat down. "I am happy to tell you, that you don’t have diabetes"………Well I was destroyed. Shattered, I must have, I thought to myself, I’ve got the itchy balls and everything! Then it suddenly dawned on me. Not only had I been apparently imagining the symptoms of diabetes for years, but now this young girl, who no doubt, had many friends, and who with my luck was the town gossip, knew that I had an itchy cock for no good reason!!!.
I have walked through the town on a few occasions since that day, and have taken to wearing sunglasses a lot. The whispering and pointing is probably in my imagination, but just once, I’m sure I heard some kid shout out……"Look, there goes old scratchy balls"……….
The conversation went something like this………
Receptionist "Good morning, doctors surgery" (slight frostiness already)
Me "Ah, good morning, I would like to make an appointment please"
Receptionist "When would you like it for?"
Me "A week Wednesday would be great" (this was Monday)
Receptionist "No can do I’m afraid"
There was then a gap as I waited for her to explain why…………..The explanation didn’t materialize
Me "Er…..why is that"?
Receptionist "Appointments can’t be made more than a week in advance"
Me "So what do I do then"?
Hitler "You will have to phone back on the day that is a week earlier than the appointment you want to make"
It's a good job the Nazi's only used the 'Enigma' machine to encode their messages. If they had had the forsight to use 'Receptionist speak', the chaps at Bletchley Park wouldn't have stood a chance, and we might all be now dancing to a different tune!
Me "So that will be Wednesday then"? (An air of sarcasm tinged with desperation in my voice)
Hitler "That’s correct"
Me "Any particular time I should phone, does it need to be the exact time that I would like the appointment for, just a week early"?
Hitler "It doesn’t make any difference"
Me "So any time will be ok then"?
Hitler " No, I mean it doesn’t matter what time you call on Wednesday, because we won't be here, closed on Wednesdays"
Me – Slam phone down, and add her, and the whole surgery to ‘THE LIST’!
So anyway, off me and Miss Marple toddle down to the town last Saturday morning. We get into the chemist, and there was one person in front of me in the queue. This was a good enough reason for me to try and back out of the whole thing. I turned round and told Miss Marple that they were obviously very busy, and perhaps we should try another day. She then quite literally spun me round 180 degrees, and pushed me towards the counter. I asked for the diabetes test, and was told to wait over by a door at the back of the shop. I was informed that somebody would be over shortly to do the test. I waited, and after a few mins, a young assistant came over, and ushered me into the room. She must have been about seventeen, and seemed as nervous as I was. I was hoping this wasn’t her first test, because I knew blood had to be taken, and I didn’t want to be the victim of hypodermic homicide!, accidental or otherwise. Luckily the blood was taken with one of those pricker things. She said it wouldn’t really hurt; she obviously has never had the test. Once the blood had been taken, she proceeded to work her way through a list of questions. She started by asking me if I had eaten that morning, I said yes. She asked me what I had eaten, Bacon and eggs I said. She giggled to herself, I don’t really know why, and then the real grilling began.
Assistant "Greater thirst than normal"?
Me "Yes"
Assistant "More tired than usual"?
Me "Yes"
Assistant "Dizziness"?
Me "Sometimes"
Her "Double vision"?
Me "No"
Her "Weight loss"?
I looked down at my stomach, which seemed to be more lardy than normal, and meekly said "no".
Assistant "Irritability"?
I glanced over at Miss Marple who stood with her arms folded, and she raised one eye brow in a Roger Moore sort of fashion. I took this to mean a big fat YES!
"I suppose so" I said.
Then there seemed to be a pause in the interrogation. The young girl looked as though she was reading the last question to herself again; to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. She quickly glanced up at me, and then back down to the piece of paper in front of her. In a quieter voice than before, and leaning forward slightly, she asked ………" Do you suffer from itchy genitals"?
Yes apparently itchy genitals are one of the symptoms of diabetes! Christ knows why. I’m not so sure it isn’t some kind of doctor’s prank. At this point, I was imagining two doctors being given the task of listing the symptoms of diabetes, so people can make an assessment for themselves. It’s a Friday afternoon, they can’t really be arsed. They would rather be pushing the boundaries of medical science. Fighting the battle against cancer, or making a breakthrough in the battle to cure Parkinson’s, but no, they have got the tedious task of listing the symptoms of dia-bloody-betes. So there they are writing the list. When they get to the end, one of them makes a suggestion……..
Dr A "God this is boring, I mean, we are worth more than this. All those years at medical school, and I’m making a list of symptoms for diabetes"
Dr B "Yeah, I know what you mean, it’s just not right is it"?
Dr A "We could spice things up a bit"
Dr B "How do ya mean"
Dr A "Well, we could add an extra one at the end, you know……..just for fun"
Dr B "Like what"?
Dr A "Erm…..we could make it a bit out of the ordinary, a bit silly maybe"
Dr B "What you mean like a jokey one, we wouldn’t get away with that, would we"?
Dr A "Well they fell for the passive smoking one, hook line and sinker"!
Dr B Laughing "Yeah, back of the net" They do a high five.
Dr A "It’s got to be something to do with the old genitalia , that gets ‘em every time"
Dr B Sniggers "Yeah"
Dr A "How about this. Let’s say that, diabetes makes your genitals itch"!
Dr B "Oh my God………..come on, they will never fall for that"…………………
At that moment, I snapped back into reality, and realized I needed to give an answer.
I looked across at Miss Marple, who by now had raised the other eyebrow, and had topped it off with a slight smirk. I looked back at the girl, and with as much dignity and decorum as I could muster, replied in a crackly voice….."YES"
The girl looked straight back down to the piece of paper, and ticked the appropriate box.
With that, she took the blood sample and the questionnaire, and went into another room in which there was some doctor looking bloke. After about thirty seconds, she came back into the room. I braced myself for the news that I was a Diabetic, probably on the edge of death. Defying medical science maybe." How has he survived this long, without treatment", I could imagine the doctor bloke thinking to himself. She sat down. "I am happy to tell you, that you don’t have diabetes"………Well I was destroyed. Shattered, I must have, I thought to myself, I’ve got the itchy balls and everything! Then it suddenly dawned on me. Not only had I been apparently imagining the symptoms of diabetes for years, but now this young girl, who no doubt, had many friends, and who with my luck was the town gossip, knew that I had an itchy cock for no good reason!!!.
I have walked through the town on a few occasions since that day, and have taken to wearing sunglasses a lot. The whispering and pointing is probably in my imagination, but just once, I’m sure I heard some kid shout out……"Look, there goes old scratchy balls"……….
Monday, 30 July 2007
Monday monday........
Well, lets get the members of my household out of the way, and then we can get down to the nitty gritty of my entries – ooh matron (sorry). My wife, who genuinely astounds me, for the amount of patience and understanding she has, works in the forensic field, and therefore will be known hence forth as ‘Miss Marple’. We have two six month old Jack Russells, who eat horse crap, and dead rodents, and five cats, who supply the dead rodents. We live in a nice little house out in the fens, surrounded by fields and live next door to an elderly gentleman. Not much to complain about there then, you might say. I would agree with you, but somehow I manage to find an almost endless torrent of stuff to hasten premature death! I have a menial job, which is ok, and helps keep all the furry people in the manner to which they have become accustomed. So there is my life in a nutshell.
So, here we are then, Monday morning, the 30th July 2007. Woke up with a semi hangover. Lets get this out of the way right now…..I drink too much. Not in an alcoholic kind of way, you know, half drunk bottles of scotch in the toilet cistern and stuff, no, it’s just that when I have a drink, I HAVE A DRINK. I can’t seem to leave it at a couple, I’ve got to finish what I have. To me that is more sort of ‘honest’ in a mental kind of way. I drink for the effect of the alcohol. I absolutely can’t stand those irritating bastards (you see, I’ve started), that say "Oh well of course, I don’t drink to get drunk", well what the bloody hell are you drinking for then you prat?. Have a cup of tea. It’s a drug, it has an effect on the brain, that’s what it does. I have never ever heard a smack head say, "Oh well of course, I don’t take heroin to get high". You see, the conclusion that can be made from this is, social drinkers are liars, heroine addicts are the salt of the earth! Anyway, so up I get, wander about with all the usual aches and pains, and have to make the first decision of the day. Do I stand approx six feet from the toilet and aim, or lean with one hand on the wall at a forty-five degree angle. Yes, this is of course the dilemma of the morning glory. It’s a difficult choice to make, especially with an alcohol riddled brain. The six foot method is fraught with danger. The timing of the shuffle forward towards the toilet has to be timed to perfection, in relation to the decrease in flow. On the other hand, the forty-five degree lean can also be hazardous. Pins and needles can occur in the ‘leaning hand’, and in severe cases, cramp can occur in one, or both calf muscles. Phew, it’s not easy is it! The rest of the time before work, is spent with the usual crap that we all have to do. Toast making, ablutions, watching GMTV. God I hate GMTV. I don’t know why the hell I watch it!. The only part of GMTV that is acceptable, is Penny Smith. I know she is definitely a bit unhinged, but I find her very sexy. I don’t know why, but I get the impression she knows her way around the bedroom!....anyway, I would!. (Looks over his shoulder sheepishly, in case Miss Marple is in eye shot). The rest of GMTV is the biggest pile of inane codswallop that I have ever seen. It will never cease to amaze me, how they can switch from interviewing a five year old who is dying from cancer, and his distraught mother, straight over to "and next, do you want to win a years subscription to hello magazine, and a car worth ten thousand pounds?, well join us after the break"…..BASTARDS!. As I said, I don’t know why I watch it. Perhaps it’s the modern day version of the horse hair shirt! So off to work. If watching GMTV hasn’t sent me over the edge, then the journey to work will most certainly do the job. The list of annoyances attributed to driving is endless, and it would be tiresome to write them all down. So let me pick on the one that can act as a representative for the whole damn lot. BMW Drivers!. Yes I know it’s a bit of a cliché and all that, but it’s true. They really are a bunch of tossers. Yes I am generalizing, yes I am stereotyping, but that’s because it is true. If there are any BMW drivers reading this – or more to the point if there is anybody, reading this!, please let me know the answer to a question, that has bugged me for years. Do you have to be a dickhead to buy one, or are you transformed into a dickhead, after buying one?. Perhaps you can be either. Those who are already dickheads, get the certificate straight away, those that aren’t, have to go on an intense training course. Spend a week at ‘Dickhead School’. Lessons would include, cutting people up, thepositioning of the indicators, so that they can be ignored. Tailgating, and the most important lesson of all, how to plough down the outside of a line of traffic that is crawling agonizingly slowly along, and then think it is a rite, dictated by God, that someone should just let them in. Finally before receiving the certificate from King Dickhead at BMW, They are told that they are the most important people on the planet, and every other mere mortal should kneel before them. Blood pressure has gone up!. I am constantly surprised lately, just how well I can drive with minimal concentration! My concentration levels in general seem to be dropping, but especially when behind the wheel. As I was driving along this morning, I was thinking, I would actually much rather be clinging to the side of a speeding locomotive, with the smoke from the engine, flying past my face, than driving to work. -It can’t just be me that has these fantasies?.....Go on, tell me it is!.- I would climb onto the roof of the train, to be faced with two bad guys, one either side of me. A fight would ensue, with me using various kung foo techniques, and the two baddies would be dispatched, just as I dived down to avoid the oncoming bridge. Hoorah, the ten year old is not dead!. Anyway, here I am at work, and so not much to report. Will write later if anything exciting happens…….Probably be tomorrow then.
So, here we are then, Monday morning, the 30th July 2007. Woke up with a semi hangover. Lets get this out of the way right now…..I drink too much. Not in an alcoholic kind of way, you know, half drunk bottles of scotch in the toilet cistern and stuff, no, it’s just that when I have a drink, I HAVE A DRINK. I can’t seem to leave it at a couple, I’ve got to finish what I have. To me that is more sort of ‘honest’ in a mental kind of way. I drink for the effect of the alcohol. I absolutely can’t stand those irritating bastards (you see, I’ve started), that say "Oh well of course, I don’t drink to get drunk", well what the bloody hell are you drinking for then you prat?. Have a cup of tea. It’s a drug, it has an effect on the brain, that’s what it does. I have never ever heard a smack head say, "Oh well of course, I don’t take heroin to get high". You see, the conclusion that can be made from this is, social drinkers are liars, heroine addicts are the salt of the earth! Anyway, so up I get, wander about with all the usual aches and pains, and have to make the first decision of the day. Do I stand approx six feet from the toilet and aim, or lean with one hand on the wall at a forty-five degree angle. Yes, this is of course the dilemma of the morning glory. It’s a difficult choice to make, especially with an alcohol riddled brain. The six foot method is fraught with danger. The timing of the shuffle forward towards the toilet has to be timed to perfection, in relation to the decrease in flow. On the other hand, the forty-five degree lean can also be hazardous. Pins and needles can occur in the ‘leaning hand’, and in severe cases, cramp can occur in one, or both calf muscles. Phew, it’s not easy is it! The rest of the time before work, is spent with the usual crap that we all have to do. Toast making, ablutions, watching GMTV. God I hate GMTV. I don’t know why the hell I watch it!. The only part of GMTV that is acceptable, is Penny Smith. I know she is definitely a bit unhinged, but I find her very sexy. I don’t know why, but I get the impression she knows her way around the bedroom!....anyway, I would!. (Looks over his shoulder sheepishly, in case Miss Marple is in eye shot). The rest of GMTV is the biggest pile of inane codswallop that I have ever seen. It will never cease to amaze me, how they can switch from interviewing a five year old who is dying from cancer, and his distraught mother, straight over to "and next, do you want to win a years subscription to hello magazine, and a car worth ten thousand pounds?, well join us after the break"…..BASTARDS!. As I said, I don’t know why I watch it. Perhaps it’s the modern day version of the horse hair shirt! So off to work. If watching GMTV hasn’t sent me over the edge, then the journey to work will most certainly do the job. The list of annoyances attributed to driving is endless, and it would be tiresome to write them all down. So let me pick on the one that can act as a representative for the whole damn lot. BMW Drivers!. Yes I know it’s a bit of a cliché and all that, but it’s true. They really are a bunch of tossers. Yes I am generalizing, yes I am stereotyping, but that’s because it is true. If there are any BMW drivers reading this – or more to the point if there is anybody, reading this!, please let me know the answer to a question, that has bugged me for years. Do you have to be a dickhead to buy one, or are you transformed into a dickhead, after buying one?. Perhaps you can be either. Those who are already dickheads, get the certificate straight away, those that aren’t, have to go on an intense training course. Spend a week at ‘Dickhead School’. Lessons would include, cutting people up, thepositioning of the indicators, so that they can be ignored. Tailgating, and the most important lesson of all, how to plough down the outside of a line of traffic that is crawling agonizingly slowly along, and then think it is a rite, dictated by God, that someone should just let them in. Finally before receiving the certificate from King Dickhead at BMW, They are told that they are the most important people on the planet, and every other mere mortal should kneel before them. Blood pressure has gone up!. I am constantly surprised lately, just how well I can drive with minimal concentration! My concentration levels in general seem to be dropping, but especially when behind the wheel. As I was driving along this morning, I was thinking, I would actually much rather be clinging to the side of a speeding locomotive, with the smoke from the engine, flying past my face, than driving to work. -It can’t just be me that has these fantasies?.....Go on, tell me it is!.- I would climb onto the roof of the train, to be faced with two bad guys, one either side of me. A fight would ensue, with me using various kung foo techniques, and the two baddies would be dispatched, just as I dived down to avoid the oncoming bridge. Hoorah, the ten year old is not dead!. Anyway, here I am at work, and so not much to report. Will write later if anything exciting happens…….Probably be tomorrow then.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Doddery old git in the making
Hello.
Andy mule here. Wow I have got my own blog!....(whatever that means). Technology seems to be passing me by. Using a cashpoint machine is a white knuckle ride for me now! So what am I going to do with it? Well, I think i'll use it as a diary to give an account of the every day life of a bloke racing towards forty.....Can I really be nearly forty?, I mean how did that happen? It only seems a blink of an eye ago, that I was sitting in the cinema with my jaw on the floor, watching Star Wars. What happened to that ten year old? What's happened to all that space in between ten and thirty-nine? Ten years old was brilliant. Ten years old was endless summer holidays, you know, when six weeks was the rest of your life, now it's about a weekend! Ten years old was pretending to be Starsky and Hutch. I always had to be the less exciting Hutch, as my friend Peter had naturally curly hair, which seemed to bagsy him the much more exciting role of Starsky, much to my annoyance. I do remember once trying to use my mum's curlers to curl my hair over night. I thought this would give me a claim to Starsky. All that happened, was my mum found me in the morning with her curlers in , and a few visits to a child therapist ensued! Where it all really started to fall down however, is making Peter's younger brother David be Huggy Bear. Instead of being a black, streetwise, hip, funky, large hat wearing dude, who new "the word on the street", he was a small, very very blonde boy!....but it didn't matter. We were ten. Anyway, I digress. (this is something that happens on a regular basis, as I reach forty). I suppose what im trying to say is that, isn't it a shame how our attitudes change as the years roll ever faster by? The innocense and magic of the ten year old is eroded away, to reveal the tarnished grumpy old git underneath. That is why I have decided to write this blog I suppose. Maybe it's a self councellling thing, maybe it's an excuse for a bloody good moan, but most of all, I want it to be a safe haven for fellow 'nearly fortiers'! A place where we can put our collective cyber arms around each other, and tell ourselves, that maybe it isn't all that bad.......also, it saves my long suffering wife, from having to put up with my almost constant whinging, griping, and general heavy sighing!....Now it's your shift!. All the best, Andy. Hopefully write more drivel soon!
ps.....I can't spell! Yes I know there is a spell check......remember the cashpoint?.......
Andy mule here. Wow I have got my own blog!....(whatever that means). Technology seems to be passing me by. Using a cashpoint machine is a white knuckle ride for me now! So what am I going to do with it? Well, I think i'll use it as a diary to give an account of the every day life of a bloke racing towards forty.....Can I really be nearly forty?, I mean how did that happen? It only seems a blink of an eye ago, that I was sitting in the cinema with my jaw on the floor, watching Star Wars. What happened to that ten year old? What's happened to all that space in between ten and thirty-nine? Ten years old was brilliant. Ten years old was endless summer holidays, you know, when six weeks was the rest of your life, now it's about a weekend! Ten years old was pretending to be Starsky and Hutch. I always had to be the less exciting Hutch, as my friend Peter had naturally curly hair, which seemed to bagsy him the much more exciting role of Starsky, much to my annoyance. I do remember once trying to use my mum's curlers to curl my hair over night. I thought this would give me a claim to Starsky. All that happened, was my mum found me in the morning with her curlers in , and a few visits to a child therapist ensued! Where it all really started to fall down however, is making Peter's younger brother David be Huggy Bear. Instead of being a black, streetwise, hip, funky, large hat wearing dude, who new "the word on the street", he was a small, very very blonde boy!....but it didn't matter. We were ten. Anyway, I digress. (this is something that happens on a regular basis, as I reach forty). I suppose what im trying to say is that, isn't it a shame how our attitudes change as the years roll ever faster by? The innocense and magic of the ten year old is eroded away, to reveal the tarnished grumpy old git underneath. That is why I have decided to write this blog I suppose. Maybe it's a self councellling thing, maybe it's an excuse for a bloody good moan, but most of all, I want it to be a safe haven for fellow 'nearly fortiers'! A place where we can put our collective cyber arms around each other, and tell ourselves, that maybe it isn't all that bad.......also, it saves my long suffering wife, from having to put up with my almost constant whinging, griping, and general heavy sighing!....Now it's your shift!. All the best, Andy. Hopefully write more drivel soon!
ps.....I can't spell! Yes I know there is a spell check......remember the cashpoint?.......
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