Jeanneke Pis Manneken Pis
WIND AND PISS
Triremes of Claudius go speeding out of Gaul,
charged with taming Albion, enigmatic queen,
then civilise and modernise
with unity and roads,
to leave a lasting legacy where Rome has been.
Bold privateers of Devon, harnessing the wind:
Buccaneers with cutlasses plunder Spanish pelf
then bequeath the world a language,
democracy and law,
bonding scattered people in a vast Commonwealth.
Bureaucrats of Brussels, inept scions of Rome,
with bloated pay and pension cosseting a life
of bumbledom and jargon
in quangos that cascade
unedifying orders, sowing seeds of strife.
Poet on a Hill
To Begin at the Beginning…
New posts will be displayed here. Then, as other items get published, they will be moved to a position underneath Times Square, below.
Let us start by having a laugh
Click on ‘enter’ below, and come into the shop.
Why not pause for thought?
Just click on SNAP below and come and
meet some of my friends and visit the places
I’ve been… Have an interesting time.
Like I say, just Click SNAP
Idiots in Vietnam is now displayed below The Way it Was, the story of a city kid during the Second World War - further down the page.
This week’s class headline:-
That Cyril Smith was a paedophile is known. But a brilliant book by the MP who now holds his seat...
There are some feelings, no matter how basic, that I cannot capture on paper. Not even in a poem. For me, one such experience would be walking with Liz along the front at Porthcawl on a sunny spring morning, with a fresh breeze gusting off the Atlantic. On such a day you find yourself looking over the Bristol Channel to the Devon hills, or along the Welsh coast to the where the Celtic Sea embraces the Mumbles; whilst, in the other direction, the white village of Southerndown straddles the road to Nash Point. There are fine south-facing bays of golden sand here too, at Treco and Sandy Bay. And, over there, just round the corner on the Gower, is Rhossili, the third best beach in Europe and ninth in the world. Maybe the words I’m looking for are freedom, nature and love. But I can’t string them together.
Talking of freedom reminds me of an article I read in the Huffington Post, based on a BBC report of conditions in the Amazon warehouse, where I shop for bargains. Apparently, the employees there are working under sweatshop conditions. At the start of a shift they plug their scanner into the system and, for the next 10 hours, they become little more than robots, following one instruction after the other with no time to think or rest. Like machines, they traipse up and down the warehouse floor, covering as many as 11 miles in a shift. I suppose that earning a living is the antitheses of freedom. Though work isn’t always the flip-side of the happiness coin.
That brings me to another point. Accompanying Liz around the vast blue characterless shed of IKEA in Cardiff, an escalator spits me out on the road to nowhere. I find myself drifting along in a procession of the living-dead, on a trek that goes on forever through an endless forest of chunky square lumps of wood.
After an age, the forest gives way to the suburbs of some vast abandoned city, as mile after mile of uninhabited living rooms merge into abandoned bedrooms and lifeless bathrooms. From time to time, my zombie companions drift to a standstill, peer haplessly this way and that, as if looking for a way of escape, then meander resignedly on. Is this an away-day for the Amazonian androids? I wonder.
The IKEAN inmates render the experience evermore disturbing. Poor pasty-faced creatures, men and women alike,
clad in sinister yellow shirts with blue vertical stripes which conjure up nightmares of those pictures that appeared in the papers at the end of the war – gaunt figures in striped uniforms peering through the bars of concentration camps.
“Look! A Scotsman in a kilt,” Liz breaks the eerie silence, gesticulating at a solitary man-mountain who stands, dominating an otherwise empty bedroom.
“That’s not a kilt,” I tell her, weighing-up his sand-coloured skirt, “It’s a skilt”
“Does that mean he’s an Australian clansman?” she wonders.
“Dunno,” I say. “He looks like the last of the desert rats.
“I thought they were all dead.”
“They probably are. Keep moving.”
At that moment, a yellowshirt appears at the door of an otherwise empty bathroom and stares at us blankly. I get a flashback from that film, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. Whatever became of Anne Frank? I wonder. “Keep your head down,” I tell Liz.
Then, at last, we are outside in the car-park with Liz clutching a cut-price lavatory-brush – our only purchase – as we argue about where we left the car.
“Where do we go now?” Liz wonders, when we accidently stumble on the vehicle.
“Dunno,” I say.
“It’s our 51st Wedding Anniversary,” she reminds me.
“We could go for a curry,” I say.
“That Indian on the cliffs, overlooking the sea in Fontygary. Remember?”
“Where we stayed with the kids in a caravan, 39 years ago,” she says.
“Yeah. It was great. It was that long hot summer. I used to come home from work in the evening and jump in the pool for a swim.”
“And you took us to Swansea and went round a roundabout seven times, arguing about which was the road home.”
“Fifty-one years, eh,” I say, adjusting the rear-view mirror, “and never a cross word.”
I’ve just been looking over this year’s April Fool spoofs and trying to work out which I like the best. First off is the Daily Mail, which said that it had seen a government approved plan for the new UK flag, which we must fly after Scottish Independence in September. It was a red saltire superimposed on a StGeorge cross on a white background. It looked a bit like the Japanese Rising Sun. The Guardian beat that with the story that Salmond will make the Scots drive on the right-hand side of the road after the referendum.
Getting in on the act, some wag in the Welsh Assembly said they would ban make-believe cigarettes. Getting one up on the Welsh, Westminster played a blinder by announcing that the five a day mantra had been a load of rubbish all along. You should have been eating seven a day.
As send-ups go, those are all pretty good. But, most of all, I like the one from the Department of Health and Safety. Not because they came up with the best joke, but because you don’t normally associate them with a sense of humour. One of their comedians said that, “From now on, all British chips must be half-an-inch thick; and chip-shop salt dispensers must only have three holes in the top.” Brilliant. But, as usual, this guy seems to have fallen foul of the PC mob. Because, scared of the Brits playing the race card, he followed it up by announcing that, “The Italians will have to make their pizzas one inch smaller... and the Indians can’t give away free poppadoms any longer.
Browning, the English poet, said, “Oh to be in England now the April’s there...” Why April? Why not keep the jokes coming all the year round.
We are off to Toronto to see our Canadian branch, flying British Airways... I’ve been here before... you know, flown places with BA. The initials, BA, say it all, especially when it comes to allocating leg space to passengers... BA = Bugger All.
This one’s a 787 Dreamliner, straight out of the box. The captain’s just been on the intercom, boasting that it’s brand new. Brand new? The top’s missing off my armrest. My right elbow’s jammed in among the cogs and wires of the mechanism. Dreamliner... Now where do I put my feet?
I was watching a film just now on this personal video thing they give you these days. Suddenly the screen flies back and arrives on the end of my nose, like something leaping out of a 3D film. I thought it was a poltergeist. But it turns out that the dude in front can’t support his body any longer. So, at the poke of a button, he prostrates himself and sends the back of his chair, which includes my TV and table, flying through my space. He’s trapped me in a straightjacket. The only way out is to hurl the back of my seat at the bloke behind. If everyone does it, it’ll be like the collapse of a domino run.
Now it’s victual time. This woman dragging the trolley tells me I can either have chicken or Vegetable Bolognese. It’s what my granny called Hobson’s choice. Vegetable Bolognese? That’s like saying, “Vegetable Pork Chop.”
The alternative is chicken. Now don’t get me wrong. I love chickens. When I was a kid I nursed day-old chicks until they were big enough to kill the cat. Chickens grow into Hens. They lay eggs and things. They look beautiful going round on spits in butcher’s shops. They smell even better. But... and it’s a big but... where has this chicken come from? What are it’s credentials?
OK. So I sound faddy. And I am – now. I didn’t used to be. I would eat anything they put before me. No questions asked. Faddy is a luxury that comes with age. I now have the time and money to worry about animal welfare. I like to think my lamb chop has gambolled in a meadow and my chicken can tell tales of outwitting Reynard the fox. So I only do certificated ‘free range’ these days. OK, so the ‘free range’ animal that I am eating is reluctant to be on the end of my fork. But, at least, it had a happy, if unavoidably, short life.
But... Vegetable Lasagne? I settle for chicken.
Six sleepless hours later, the woman returns with her trolley and a second meal. There’s no choice this time, “Chicken sandwich,” take it or leave it...
Back in the UK, in my beloved roll as a pedestrian, motorists are my pet hate. They charge around in their steel missiles like Roman conquerors in chariots, sending sheets of filthy water over the poor peasants fighting the wind and rain on the pavement.
What really annoys me is when I arrive at a pedestrian crossing and find that no one has pressed the button. Then, when I press it, someone says, “I never do that, in case I inconvenience the drivers.”
What!? Inconvenience that lot, sat there in their mobile palaces, listening to the radio, talking on their mobiles; left home at the last minute, so now they’re charging along, cursing inanimate traffic lights
and cyclists while blasting each other out of the way... “You’ve got to be joking mate. Press that so and so button and make ‘em stop. I’ve stuff to do.”
But it’s not like that on other side of the Atlantic; not in Canada anyway. The motorists just tootle along and stop at every intersection. And if a pedestrian wants to cross the road, the motorist waits and lets him amble across. On a busy road, when motorists want to turn into a side-street, they stop and give the pedestrians right of way. Sometimes they’ll be there for ages, waiting to turn while people just wander across the road in front of them, and nobody dreams of giving way to them.
Coming from the UK I find this difficult to live with. I’m used to half-crazed drivers bullying and honking me out of the way. I’m full of inhibitions. I feel quite guilty and find myself giving them little waves and mouthing, “Sorry...Thank you...” Poor drivers, I think. Nobody cares about them. Funny how the mind works.
I was out shopping with Liz, and we were wondering what we would get for the evening meal. We ended up in Maxi’s Deli on Bloor Street. Now that really is a shop worth looking into. There’s a glass-covered display-counter that goes on forever, full of all kinds of delicious dishes.
Being me, I spot the pie. This is no ordinary pie. “This is the mother of all pies,” as my old friend, Sadam, would say. The little card by its side announces that it is, “Silverside, simmered in Guinness.” But it is the pastry that mesmerises me. I’m a pastry connoisseur. I come from Manchester. They weaned me on homemade meat-and-potato pie. After a few pints of beer, my soul still guides me to the chippy for pie and chips.
But of all the pies I have ever seen, I know, instinctively, this is the best. That pastry is melt in the mouth short-crust – and silverside, slow simmered in stout – say no more. “That’s what we’re having,” I tell Liz. “There are six of us, so we’ll need two.”
Now Liz is a thrifty housewife. And that’s good. But it has its drawbacks. “One will be enough,” she tells me, “with some nice vegetables.”
“One!” she decides.
Comes the long awaited mealtime and my loved-one places my plate before me. But... my piece of pie is a mere slither. If it was wine, it would be the gulp they give you to see if it’s corked. I look at Izzy’s plate. She too, has a slither. Then Diz’s and Liz’s plates – slithers! The best pie I have come across in my life, and we’re down to slithers. I told Liz we needed two.
Then come Dan’s and Charlie’s, aged 12, portions. And they are comparatively massive; man sized helpings. “What the...?” I do some crafty scrutiny and mental arithmetic. Liz has given Dan and Charlie, age 12, a quarter of the whole pie each. She has given me, the senior, a quarter of the remaining half. What’s that about?
The way to a man’s heart, I muse... I bite my tongue. I might as well. There’s precious little pie.
In my other world we had a thing called pecking order. You got points for being male. Then you got extra points for age. I didn’t agree with that system, but it’s all the rage again these days. They call it positive discrimination.
My old granny will be spinning in her grave.
When you think about it, toilets, everywhere in the world, fill the same function. So you’d expect them all to be pretty much the same. But they’re not. They vary from country to country. I don’t know why. I can only think that it has something to do with evacuation procedures.
Without going into any unnecessary detail, in the UK you aim everything into a cupful of water at the bottom of the pedestal, then try to flush it down with another cupful of water from the cistern.
In Canada, on the other hand, the pedestal is half full of water, so your target area is vastly enhanced, and the flush turns into a whirlpool that sucks everything into oblivion before half filling the pedestal again – much more efficient.
Ah but, in the UK the pedestal is designed like a throne, so you sit like a king, or queen, in state. So there is no problem until you come to the flushing bit. While in Canada, the pedestal is designed like a footstool, so the problem, at least when your joints begin to creak, is getting yourself down there, then hauling yourself back up. But that’s not the problem today.
I’m in Toronto airport and I need the loo. Right, I go into the first gents I see and head for the cubicles. The first one is empty – but there’s no paper. I try the second; the door is part open, but there is someone in there, and he is trying exclude the world by keeping one leg straight out, jamming the door with his foot while trying to perform his number two’s. There is either no lock on the door, or this bloke is some kind of masochist.
I head for the third and final cubicle. It’s almost the same story, except this dude has got the door jammed part closed with a massive rucksack. He’s either on the toilet or squatting.
I leave that place behind and continue my trapes to the distant boarding gate. Then, spotting another toilet, I wheel in and head for the first cubicle. It’s empty; with paper; great! I lower myself onto the dwarf-sized pedestal then – “Yaah!” My dangly-bits are suddenly submerged in ice-cold water. This is a problem. I don’t want these bits in there when the other bits arrive. And, worryingly, how do I dry them? The economy paper they have in these places has about as much substance as cappuccino-froth.
In the split second that all these thoughts fly through my mind, the toilet gives an automatic flush, and my buttocks are now immersed in that same ice cold water. I leap up. “Damn!” No wonder these people call it a “Washroom.” But I’ve nothing to dry myself with. If I pull my trousers up now, I’ll look as if I’ve wet myself. But I still need the loo. Stupidly, I squat down. But the same thing happens over again; dangly bits submerged; automatic flush; even wetter buttocks. I leap up and listen. No other toilet is flushing. Neither is this one. But once bitten, twice shy. Out comes my handkerchief. I’ll try my luck on the plane.
This is the same plane I flew out in; different seat. We’re getting ready for take-off and there is already a bit of commotion a few seats down. The steward is bending over these people and trying to reason with them. Now this big fat woman has stood up and agreed to follow him to the back of the plane. “You’ll be fine back here, he assures her. “You will get a full row to yourself.” No wonder she has a self-satisfied smile. The two
people she left behind have now stood up and are sorting themselves out. Neither of them would qualify as a sylph.
Now I see what’s happened. This obese woman has sat down on the middle seat and seeped over the people on either side of her. Then, half crushed, half suffocated, they’ve pushed the help-button and summoned the steward who has gone all diplomatic and led the problem away.
That’s all very well, but she now gets a full row to herself, without paying extra. That’s not right. What about us anorexics? We’ve worked hard to look like the boys from the Burma Railway. All that exercise on five a day. This is how class warfare begins.
The solution to the problem is staring us in the face. In Toronto airport you put your hand-luggage into a frame at the check-in desk. If it fits – pass. If it doesn’t, it goes in the hold and you pay extra.
So why not have a buttock-box as well? “OK madam, your hand-luggage is fine. Now wedge your backside in this...”
At an opportune moment I nip to the toilet. There is already somebody in there. I wait for ages. In the meantime, a queue forms behind me. Then, after a wrestling match with the door, this woman emerges, like a glassy-eyed zombie, then staggers off down the cabin. I step inside... “Ah,” the place is covered in spew. There is nowhere to sit or stand. I decide to abandon ship. I give a cheery smile and nod to the next person in the queue. “All yours,” I tell her.
Place Your Bets
An old Mystic once told me that, “Life is a cryptic crossword, clues about the present and future are concealed in the past.” His words came into my mind during the recent rains, as I watched politicians of all hues turning Green, paddling about in floodwater and promising to mend it all with a forest of windmills and Green taxes.
Has anything on this scale happened before? I wondered. If so, when and where? What caused it and what were the consequences? And does any of that have any relevance today? A bit of simple research produced some interesting answers.
During a period lasting from around 950 to 1350 AD the world went through a bout of global warming, known as the Medieval Warm Period. This warming coincided with increased activity on the sun that produced temperatures on earth that were on a par with those experienced in recent years. So warm, in fact, that the Vikings were able to explore and colonise the far reaches of the North Atlantic and establish farming communities in Greenland that were a going concern for nearly 500 years. At the same time, Europe enjoyed bountiful harvests and fine summers. These easy years resulted in a population explosion.
As this warm phase ended, the world went through nearly 400 years of global cooling. This cold phase culminated in the Little Ice Age, which lasted from 1645 to 1715 AD, when the winter weather turned rivers like the Seine and Thames into ice-skating rinks. This era of global cooling goes by the name of “Maunder Minimum” – a time when sunspots were few and far between.
The years from 1310 onwards saw marked changes in weather patterns as the Medieval Warm Period began to collapse. There were storms in early autumn, and a series of cooler and wetter summers had an adverse affect on agriculture. The weather was worsening all the time; 1312 and 1313 were particularly bad in Germany. Heavy rain hit England in June 1314, wrecking the grain harvest and causing a famine. Then, in the spring of 1315, the continuous rain was especially heavy and made it impossible to plough the fields. The few seeds that people did sow began to rot before they could germinate. The rain went endlessly on throughout the summer.
By now, right across Northern Europe and the UK, the winters were longer and the summers cooler and wetter. The Baltic Sea froze; fisherman couldn’t sail and merchant ships couldn’t bring in much needed supplies. Salt, which was the only way to preserve fish and meat, was in short supply because the wet conditions prevented the evaporation process by which they obtained salt. As crops failed, there was a scarcity of straw and hay for the animals. Wheat prices rose by 300%.
The Great Famine really began to bite in 1315 when it wiped out a quarter of Europe’s inhabitants. Life expectancy fell to 30-35 years.
The harsh winters were not only hard on people, trees and animals, but also on buildings and bridges as ice floes battered the foundations. Builders and thatchers had no turf or straw for roofs. Quarries flooded, so there was a shortage of stone. Watermills flooded. Snow in winter, and deep mud in the wet summers, made roads impassable. Rain washed away topsoil and flooding was everywhere. And so it went on: Normandy saw terrible windstorms in 1319. Flanders flooded in 1320. It took until 1322 to restore some kind of normality. Even then, everything went downhill towards the Little Ice Age.
Adversity never comes alone. There were side effects, like extremely high levels of crime when the weather deprived people of life’s necessities. There were epidemics of disease and pneumonia. There was infanticide and parents abandoned their children. Some older people starved themselves to death so that the younger ones could have their food. There were tales of cannibalism – the story of Hansel and Gretel has its origins in this period.
Then, as now, people looked for scapegoats. Who, or what, was to blame for the bad weather? This was before the days of motor cars and gay marriage, so it wasn’t CO2 or the Government’s fault. The unknown author of Vita Edwardi Secundi, written in 1326, blamed it on the wickedness of the English people who were “too proud and crafty.” But, in most people’s minds, the church was responsible. In those days, that meant the Catholic Church. People turned to the church for help, but the clergy were powerless against the weather. Prayer didn’t work. For the first time, people began to question the power of the Pope. Although nothing happened immediately, the tide of discontent began to flow. This paved the way for the birth of Lutheran Protestantism in 1529.
So, how is all this relevant to today’s world? Well, it boils down to cause and effect. Remember that, in medieval times, there was a period of global warming, followed by a period of cooling and a Little Ice Age. These different phases depended upon the amount or lack of solar activity. And, for a short period during the transition from one state to the other, there was a period of unsettled and unpredictable weather. Bearing that in mind, we can compare conditions as they are now with those of the medieval years.
The current solar maximum has run from 1900 to the present day, accompanied by the well-documented rise in global temperature. This mirrors events in the Medieval Warm Period. But now, scientists have observed that solar activity is on the decline. As solar activity decreases, we can, by the laws of probability, expect colder winters to become the norm in the UK and Europe – as they were in the Maunder Minimum. If the predictions are correct, we are now going through the transition from a warm period to a cold period. And, by coincidence, we are going through the wettest winter since records began. This is similar to what happened in medieval times.
Keeping to the available facts – in November 2013, scientists at CERN said that, “If the current lull in solar activity continues until 2015 it could bring about conditions similar to the Maunder Minimum that caused the 17th Century Little Ice Age.”
In 2000, two scientists, Perry and Hsy, both predicted a gradual cooling over the coming centuries that could bring about a Little Ice Age.
Experts at NASA have observed that Mars has experienced a period of Global Warming over the same period as we experienced it on earth. At
the same time a Russian solar physicist, Habibullo Abdussamatov, based at St Petersburg Astronomical Observatory, one of the world’s best-equipped observatories, came to the same conclusion.
Habibullo Abdussamatov says: "Mars has global warming, but without greenhouse gases and without the participation of Martians. These parallel global warmings, observed simultaneously on Mars and Earth, can only be a straight-line consequence of the effect of the one same factor: a long-time change in solar irradiance... The sun's increased irradiance over the last century, not C02 emissions, is responsible for the global warming we are seeing... and this solar irradiance explains the great volume of C02 emissions... It is no secret that increased solar irradiance warms the Earth's oceans, which then triggers the emission of large amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. So the common view that man's industrial activity is a deciding factor in global warming has emerged from a misinterpretation of cause and effect relations."
Habibullo Abdussamatov has even more to say on the subject: "Ascribing the 'greenhouse' effect to the Earth's atmosphere is not scientifically substantiated," he says. "Heated greenhouse gases, which become lighter as a result of expansion, ascend to the atmosphere and give the absorbed heat away." Abdussamatov goes on to say that, “The cooling that is now occurring in the upper layers of the world's oceans demonstrates that the Earth has hit its temperature ceiling. Solar irradiance has begun to fall, ushering-in a protracted cooling period beginning in the years 2012 to 2015. The deepest depth of the decline in solar irradiance reaching Earth will occur around 2040, and will inevitably lead to a deep freeze around 2055-60, lasting some 50 years, after which temperatures will go up again.”
So where does all this leave us – the punters?
Politicians want to be seen as good fairies with magic wands in times of crisis... So they tell us the present flooding in the UK is due to global warming and, somehow, it can be cured if the willing European countries, unilaterally, cut back on CO2 emissions and, inevitably, pay higher Green taxes.
Well – maybe. But many eminent scientific bodies tell us that we are heading into a period of global cooling and that, for the next century, the problem is ice, not heat.
History, and nature, tells us that this has all happened before and, no matter what politicians, scientists and the clergy do, it will all happen again.
The horses are at the post. Place your bets.
National Climatic Data Centerhttp://www.canada.com/news/index.html
http://chrono.qub.ac.uk/blaauw/cds.html http://www.nasa.gov/home/hqnews/2003/dec/HQ_03415_ice_age.htm Lectures in Medieval History
http://www.vlib.us/medieval/lectures/black_death.html http://geochemistry.usask.ca/bill/Courses/Climate/The%20Great%20Famine_prt.pdf http://europeanhistory.boisestate.edu/latemiddleages/demography/ http://www.examiner.com/article/the-great-famine-1315-1317 Wikipedia,
When a man a man stops believing in God he doesn’t believe in nothing, he believes in anything – G K Chesterton.
Yesterday afternoon my wife bought a top for our 10-year-old granddaughter. Then, last night, as I watched my wife showing it to our daughter and getting a second opinion, I found myself agreeing with the Pope. You see, we live in Wales and our daughter in Canada, and the Pope said Skype is a, “Gift from God.”
Fishy Business. Scotland might find it impossible to join the EU, the UK impossible to leave. As a U-kipper I may be forced to swim to that rocky pool north of the border and flap about with Salmond and Sturgeon. Such is life.
This week’s classic headline... “Judge peers through eye slits to identify woman behind a veil.”
I decided to buy a cover for our Kindle Fire so I went to Tesco Online. I filled in all the nonsense on the form. Then they asked for my address, which I gave. Next, they wanted to know the nickname of my address. Now this may sound a bit strange, but I don’t have a nickname for my address. So I left that line blank. But when I pressed the “continue” button, it wouldn’t take me forward unless I put in a nickname. I tried three times, and three times it rejected me. I wouldn’t mind if it had caught me out telling a lie. But it’s a fact – I don’t have a nickname for my address.
I must admit that I’m a bit nonplussed. Not selling alcohol to someone under 18 is one thing. But refusing to flog a Kindle Cover to a guy who hasn’t got a nickname for his address is something else.
I watched The House of Fools on the tele the other day. Afterwards, I moseyed around to see if there was anything else worth watching, and stumbled on Benefit Street on channel 4. Some up-and-coming television producer should combine the two. It would be hilarious.
As always, no names no pack-drill.
A golden rule of mine is that I never buy anything offered by someone knocking on door with another bargain. This is based on the old adage, “Don’t you call us, we’ll call you.” But, like all rules, it’s there to be broken.
The other day, your man knocks on the door and says, “Your roof is getting past it’s sell-by date. We’re offering a free survey, with a no obligation price-quote for a renovation, guaranteed for 12 months. Our surveyor will only take up 20 minutes of your time.”
Now time is worth more than gold. I don’t like wasting it. But a free survey and no-obligation quote – in exchange for a mere 20 minutes? OK. Why not? “Your on,” I said.
“Our surveyor will be here tomorrow at 1400 prompt,” says your man.
Comes 1400 the following day, and there’s no surveyor in sight. Two-fifteen came, and that was me browned off. If he found himself held up somewhere, then a phone call would fix it. But there was nothing. This guy was wasting my time so I went out and pumped-up the car’s tyres.
Then, at 1430, he arrives and, sans apology, goes into action with his tape measure and binoculars. Then we go indoors to get the price. This is when the, no obligation, free-quote, turned into a hard sell.
First of all, there was a lecture on how a roof is constructed. OK, it was very interesting, if that’s what you wanted to hear, but a slate-by-slate commentary on how to put a lid on a house is not my way of passing a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
Then came the bad news. Our roof was at the end of it’s life expectancy and was already showing the first signs of rigor mortis. But, thank God, this man knew the cure and had a gang of experts on tap.
He followed this with a blow-by-blow lecture on how these guys would renovate our failing dome. I’m too well mannered to tell people to bugger off but...
To cut a long story short, he now pulls out his calculator and does a complex calculation before announcing that all will be well if I part with £4,465 sometime in the next 12 months. “How does that sound?” he wants to know.
“Not a clue,” I tell him. “I’ve nothing to compare it with.”
“Did my colleague leave a pamphlet?” he wants to know.
“Yep,” I said, producing the folded paper and stuffing it in his hand.
“Ah,” he exclaims in surprise, opening the pamphlet and producing a voucher. “You qualify for a 25% discount. That’s very rare. I’ve only ever seen three of these since I started with the firm. Let me see...” He does another calculation. “Ah!” he exclaims, “that brings it down to “£3,349. How do you feel about that?”
“Fine,” I say, because I do feel fine.
“My colleague must have spotted something special about your location,” says the chancer. “I’ll have a word with my boss and see what he says.” He now produces his mobile and proceeds to call his boss – in my time.
After a load of verbal play-acting on the part of himself and his master, he says, “My boss is looking at your house on Google Earth right now, and he says it would make an ideal show-house. If you agree to have an advertising board in your garden we can drop the price to £2,500.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“With an offer like this, you have to make the decision today,” he says, producing a wad of papers. “If you put £650 down, we’ll arrange the rest of the payments by instalments.”
“I was offered a free quote, valid for 12 months,” I told him.
“But if you don’t take the offer now, it will revert to £4, 465,” he told me.
“Well, if that’s the quote, that’s the quote,” I told him.
He finally departed at 1600, having wasted 2 hours of my precious time.
So there you are. The man could come and go with £2,000 and still make a profit. So, if he had started at £2.500 he might have been in with a chance... I said, “Might have.”
Moral: never break your own golden rule.
Today's best headline: "I gave my husband a kidney but he left me and now I want it back."
The UKIP councillor who thinks that David Cameron caused the flooding because of his support for gay marriage is obviously bonkers.
Anyone with an ounce of sense can see that Harriet Harman caused the floods with all this nonsense about women’s rights.
The latest war cry, after units of alcohol and five cabbages a day, is “Sugar is the new tobacco.” Rubbish! Sugar is just the latest thong in the whip for lashing the plebs. They’ve killed off hunters and smokers. Now they’re after the fatties. Chocoholics are the new drink-drivers. If you’ve not had your turn yet, don’t worry, it’s in the pipeline. The nannies are coming.
Why do I do It?
I’m sitting here sucking my thumb and banging myself on the head with a frying pan. It’s not serious, just a bit of therapy. You see, I’ve done it again. I’ve tried to book something over the internet. On the face of it, it’s an easy trap to fall into. But I’ve been down this road so many times that you’d think I would have learned by now. But, oh no, not me.
You see, Liz and I decided that this was the day that we would book airline tickets to go and visit our daughter and her family in Toronto; and we plumped for a date in March as a good day for the outward journey. So far so good. But being us, we can’t agree on a return date.
Liz thinks that, if we are going all that distance, we should stay out there for 3 weeks. Which makes sense. But we have a cat. And the cat needs looking after. And I’m the one nominated by the cat, and tout le monde, to be the keeper. OK, so we have a neighbour who will feed the beast whenever we go away. I’m very grateful for that, but this animal is growing old like me. In fact, my abacus tells me that, in cat years, pussy is exactly the same age as me. And the animal is beginning to feel its age. He’s got arthritis and a heart condition, so he needs medication. Unfortunately, though my friend down the road is quite happy to run around after a moggy, he draws the line at shoving pills down its throat. Fair enough.
Jon, our youngest son, and his wife, have volunteered to do the pilling. That’s brilliant, but they live 20 miles away, so every pill means a 40 mile round trip. There’s a limit to what you can ask of people. Please don’t suggest a cattery. This fellah gets a nosebleed if he goes past the gatepost. So that’s it. I’ve put a 14-day limit on my stay in Toronto.
So, getting back to the booking fiasco. Liz and I decide to travel out on the same plane, but come back on different planes, a week apart. Great. So, as you do, I Googled a flight-price comparison outfit, then set about booking. Unfortunately, most of these booking thingies gear themselves to normal people, so they don’t cater for couples who decide to travel out together, then come home separately. Come to think of it, I bet that happens more often than people are prepared to admit. There could be a business opportunity for someone here.
No problem, I found an outward flight that suited us fine and then did a price and availability check... £497 return for me and £447 for Liz. I can’t fault it for the flights and operator we chose. So, because I had to book our tickets separately, I booked my round trip first. Then I went to book Liz’s ticket. But now the computer said, “Can’t do. No outward seats available.”
“But, just five minutes ago, you said there were seats,” I screamed.
“No outward seats available,” replied the computer. And it kept saying that, no matter how many times I asked.
Right, because we were determined to travel together, I decided, to cancel my flight, then start again from scratch. But, search as I might, there was no escape button anywhere on the site. So I went through to the outfit’s main website and searched. But there is no way to cancel a ticket that you’ve just bought. So, as so many times before, while sitting fuming at a stubborn laptop, I felt the will to live ebbing away.
It was then that I found the phone number. “My God,” I thought, “there might still be humans out there.” So I dialled this number and, lo and behold, a woman answered. OK, so she had a Yorkshire accent – but she was decipherable. “What’s your problem?” she wanted to know.
I told her the story, then said, “So I want to cancel my booking.”
“I’m just checking,” she told me. Then she said, “The tickets have been issued, so they won’t cancel them.”
“But I don’t want the flight,” I said.
“But they won’t refund the money,” she said. At this stage she must have sensed that I was edging towards the gas oven, because she said, “Explain why you don’t want to make the flight.”
“Because I want to travel with my wife,” I told her.
“But there are lots of empty seats on that flight,” she told me. “I’ll book one for your wife.”
“But the computer said it was full,” I sobbed.
“Don’t believe what the computer tells you,” she said...
On a completely different note, but still on the subject of business opportunities, the phone went this afternoon. I don’t often answer the phone, and the chances of me answering a number that I don’t recognise are negligible. But on this occasion I did answer.
“Mrs Gregory?” a woman wanted to know.
“Mr Gregory,” I said, coughing, and trying to make my voice deeper.
“My name’s Claire, and I’m from the refund department,” she told me.
“Well done,” I replied.
“I think you might be due a refund,” she went on, “can I ask you a few questions?”
“No!” I told her...
That struck me as odd. Who in their right mind would start a Refund Business? Let’s face it, there can’t be a lot of profit in it. You’d definitely need a bank loan to start with. Then you’d probably need many more as business picked up. But then, who would want to spend time and money, phoning people and offering a refund?
We have a saying up north, “There’s nowt so queer as folk.”
Continues hitting himself on the head with a frying pan.
Dear anyone happening along.
The Chinese think this is a year of the snake, but I disagree. This is the year of the anus. I know that, from personal experience. A few weeks ago, I had this sciatic pain in my leg. So, mainly because it was a damn nuisance, I eventually went to the surgery and took potluck on seeing a doctor... A young lady doc eventually called me in. “What’s your problem?” she wants to know. “It’s my leg,” I tell her. So, OK, when we finish with the leg she says, “We don’t often see you in here.” And I say, “That’s ‘cos there’s nothing wrong.” And she says, “I think it’s about time you had an MoT. How are your waterworks?”
“Seen better days,” I say, “but I get by.”
“Do you want me to check your prostrate?” she wants to know.
The next thing is, I’m lay on the bed, trousers round my ankles, with an attractive young lady standing beside me with her finger rammed firmly up by backside. OK, so it makes your eyes water, but you have to count your blessings. As we speak, there’s many a shifty-eyed bloke trawling the internet, credit card in hand, hoping to get anything approaching that experience for less than a three-figure sum...
Going back to the MoT, well this thing covers every intimate aspect of your being, from blood to spittoons, from your heart to your bowels – and all nooks and crannies in-between. It’s all good fun, put the pièce de résistance is Sigmoidoscopy. Your mother doesn’t tell you about such things, so let me enlighten you.
You end up on a bed again, with a giggle of women around you and your trousers round your ankles – all on the NHS. At first, you think it’s going to be as much fun as the prostrate exam, but they soon put paid to that. You can’t see what’s going on, but a sudden searing pain tells you that one of these madwomen has leapt on a forklift truck that has a camera tied to a boom, and she has driven at you at full speed and rammed the lot up your backside...
Over the years, I have heard many a woman shooting a line about the terrors of childbirth. They assure you that birthing pains are the ultimate torture. And, as a man, you can’t argue. Then, as if to drive the point home, the posh actresses who, in real life, always opt for sedated caesareans, build on the myth by issuing end-of-life screams as they give birth to a doll in the comfort of a soap opera studio.
Well, let me tell you, Sigmoidoscopy is like having the world’s biggest baby rammed the wrong way up your private parts, without the aid of a water bag. Then, to prove the point, it traps a room-full of air in your guts, which turns into the devil’s own excruciating form of agony. So, in the end, you’ve not only experienced a reverse dry childbirth, but you’ve also got the equivalent of galloping labour pains, from which there will never be any relief until you manage to force a zeppelin’s worth of air through the tattered remnants of your rectum. It’s significant to me that smirking females performed both these internal examinations.
I had a nightmare the night after the examination. In it, I saw two witches, Sigmoid and Oscopy, talking wicked...
“Have you come up with any more evil spells recently?” croaks Oscopy, “because I’m fed up with all this cat’s eyes and skinned babies nonsense.”
“Yep,” squawks Sigmoid, “dreamed of a lovely one, last night.”
“Aaah, tell me about it,” croaks Oscopy, rubbing her arthritic claws together in glee.
“Tee hee,” squawks Sigmoid, “in my dream I saw this innocent man. ‘Ahha,’ I said to myself, ‘the perfect victim.’ So I leapt on me broomstick and began to circle him. Then I started going faster and faster and ever faster in ever decreasing circles. Until, at last, I put on a mighty spurt and rammed the thick end of me broomstick up his arse!”
“Wonderful,” screamed Oscopy, “let that be our new evil spell for the 21st century. And, even better, let’s tie a camera on the end, so we can see...” That’s when I woke up, leapt out of bed, fled to the kitchen, and rammed a bunch of garlic down my pyjamas.
Talking of hospitals and things, reminds me. The world gets ever madder. Everyone is talking in numbers these days. These things sneak up, without you realising. But looking back, I can see that it all started with the Chinese. When their junks first sailed up the Mersey, no one thought much about it. Then they all swarmed ashore and opened duck and noodle restaurants. But we didn’t know what it was all about because they were all yodelling at each other, and writing in hieroglyphics and stuff. Being in a Chinese restaurant was like being in a Mumbai call-centre. Nobody knew what anybody was saying. When the first Chinese takeaway opened in Liverpool, a man and a woman ran it. He did the cooking while she served. But she only knew a couple of words of English. The Scousers called her, “Effin Else,” because, after every transaction, she always said, “effin else?” That’s what started the numbers game. Customers wanted to know what was in everything. And she either didn’t know or wouldn’t say. In the end, to shut people up, she put numbers against the names of the meals. I don’t blame her, “I’ll have a number sixty-three,” sounds far more appetising than, “Fried rice and a boiled dog’s thingamajig.”
I can see the point in the number-language of course. In a country where we have over 50 lingos on the go at any one time, you can’t show favouritism by saying that one tongue is more important than the others. That’s racist. So it makes sense to invent a new idiom unrelated to any of the other languages. And what better than numbers? Numbers are international. After all, a number two is a... But, the trouble is, people like me have a problem.
You see, I’m mathematically challenged. I failed the 11+. It runs in the family. I remember the last time that we took my dad to A&E. He was lying on a bed, writhing in agony with terminal bowel cancer. When up comes this nurse, armed with a tick sheet. “On a scale of 1 to 10,” says she, “how bad is your pain?” Need she ask? I wondered.
“Agony,” gasps my dad.
“Where would it be on a scale of 1 to 10,” says she.
“Aaahh...” groans my dad, beads of sweat bursting out of his brow.
“But what is that on a scale of 1 to 10?” she insists.
“Agony,” he moans...
And so it goes on, until a porter comes up and wheels the old man behind a curtain, where a doctor, blessed with a smattering of English, takes over.
That was over ten years ago. Number-speak was in its infancy then. But numbers are now the lingua franca of that same hospital. Even the doctors are into it. They all carry clipboards for use when they give
patients the third degree. If you go into the knee clinic and score 20+ correct answers, you get a new knee; 15-20 and you come out with a Zimmer frame; 10-15 is a walking stick... and under 10, “You’re wasting my time – hop-off home.”
It’s just as bad in the psychiatry shop; 20+ on the Richter scale and they put you in a straight jacket; 15-20 and you’re in a padded cell; 10-15 is Care in the Community, and under 10... “You’re just thick. Live with it.”
Going back to my labour pains. When I doubled up with a spasm, a fully-baked nurse asked me, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?” How does a mathematical dummy like me answer a question like that? “I’m only trained in English,” I told him. “I don’t do numbers. But every time the pain hits, it doubles me up.”
Then, when I got the next wave of cramps, he was at it again. “Where was that on a scale of 1 to 10?” he wanted to know. I wouldn’t mind, but this guy could actually speak English. He was Scottish. But he kept on with the mathematical interrogation until a Filipino nurse came up and rammed a fistful of ginger-biscuits in my hand. “Get those down you,” said the Filipino. “They’ll make you fart.”
I’m getting old now. So, eventually, I will have to accept the fact that I will be spending more time in institutions. Being aware of the pitfalls, I have now embarked on a teach-yourself numbers project, so that I can talk on equal terms with mathematical nurses.
You need a reference point for such a project, and it has to be something that you are sure about. So I thought that the best place to start was 10 = Dry Reverse Childbirth – as being the most painful thing in the world. But, almost immediately, the voices in my head challenged me. “Is that more painful than being boiled alive?” said the first voice... “Or eaten by a lion?” said the second voice... “Or mangled by machinery?” asked a third. “Or hung drawn and quartered?” challenged a fourth. “Burnt at the stake?” whined another. Hmmm... In comparison to these more mature forms of suffering, having a baby backwards sounds like... well... child’s play – even if you are doing it dry. So it’s back to the drawing board. Effin Else has a lot to answer for.
We’ve not been travelling this year, what with one thing and
another. But we did nip up to Sheffield a few months back, to see granddaughter Katie in a fencing tournament. We stayed in Chesterfield for a change. It’s a great little place, in Derbyshire, just over the border from Yorkshire. This is real Robin Hood country and well worth a visit. It was good to be back in a north-country town. Good atmosphere, friendly and... well... northern. I knew I was on home territory when the dinner waitress asked if we wanted a bread-roll. “They’re mad ‘ot,” she says. “Just out o’t’ th’oven.” I visualised this girl in a stone floored farm kitchen on a Peakland hillside. But I won’t go into my fantasies here... At half-eight the next morning we walked along a street with the market in full swing, and the local worthies already on the go.
That’s Liz and Jacqui strolling along; with David, in the road, striding manfully ahead.
In the local Weatherspoons, where they do an excellent tailor-made breakfast at a fair price, it was lovely to see the dear old ladies, in town for a bit of shopping, sitting there gossiping and drinking pints of real ale for breakfast. Ye Olde England still exists, if you know where to look. I love it. Mind you, it looks as if the bloke who put the spire on the parish church had spent a bit too long in Weatherspoons.
Everything is fine with Liz and me. We are still plodding on with our weekly routine. The Wednesday shopping expedition usually takes up the best part of a day. Then we either go out for a meal, or take in a film and pizza, down in Cardiff bay. My knee has put paid to all my walking and jogging escapades, but Liz is walking big time. She walks with the WI and they have been having a monthly hike of between 5 and 7 miles. The plan being, that if you went on all the planned routes, you would end up walking 90 miles within the year – which is the Glamorgan Area’s 90th year in existence. On every second Monday, Liz has another kind of Marathon. She goes to a sewing group in the morning, skittles in the afternoon and WI in the evening. On the top of that, she is on the Parish Council and reads lessons in church. As if that isn’t enough, she baby-minds Jon and Sylvia’s two year old daughter Saga every Tuesday, which includes a swimming lesson in the afternoon. Until now, she has also child-minded Diz’s two children, Charlie and Isobel, for two half days a week. So, all in all, she gathers little moss. My social life is down to the pub twice a week, one evening with Liz and Sunday evening with my mates. I get my fresh air in the garden and do some exercises plus a good gallop on the exercise bike 4 times a week, so I’m reasonably fit.
David is still in the navy after 28 years. He’s still the Chief PO Engineer on HMS Scott, a survey ship. This is his second draft on that ship. He did a three year stint once before. This ship’s got some advantages for him. He has his own decent sized cabin and works 2
months on and 1 month off. His wife, Penny, is still working in a hospice, and daughter, Katie, is at university. Katie is also in the naval reserve, which supplements her income. Time will tell if she intends to go into the navy proper.
Diz has just given up her job as head of child psychology in Gwent because her husband, Dan, has accepted a move to Toronto. So that part of our family will be moving oversees in January. Charlie and Isobel are not too keen because they have loads of friends in Cardiff and have an incredible amount of activities, which includes brownies and scouts, music lessons and drama school. They have both been in loads of performances in front of paying audiences. And, at the moment, they are appearing in a professional production of Aladdin. As well as all that, Charlie got about 5 accolades for achievement in various fields of endeavour in the junior school that he left in the summer. And now they have named him as the star pupil in his year, after one term at Cardiff High School. So you can see why the kids are not keen to move.
Jon and Sylvia are still running their music producing business up at the top end of Cwm Rhondda. They are having a lot of success in Norway, writing and producing the scores for a series of nature films, which the Norwegian and other Scandinavian television companies then screen. They still love life in the valleys. It’s seems to be a lot freer than it is in the cities. And the place full of characters, like the bloke who takes his goat for a walk on a lead, as if it was a dog. Their little girl, Saga, is two now and has started to attend a Welsh nursery. It’s funny to hear her. She holds conversations with her mother in Norwegian, and with her father in English, and now she is breaking into Welsh. When she is at our house for a babysitting session, she sometimes comes out with a Norwegian expression that we can’t make head nor tale of, and she can’t translate. I think she thinks we’re a bit thick.
Well, that’s the letter from Cardiff.
All I can say now, is that we wish all who pass by
A Merry Christmas
and a Peaceful and Contented New Year.
Er... Thanks for the birthday gift – but don’t give me a Christmas present.
My wife’s Birthday present from the Marks&Sparks Premium Club was a “free” afternoon tea for two, valid until the 20th December. When she redeemed it this afternoon, she was charged 60p. “But it’s free,” said my wife. “Computer says – 60p,” says the cashier. “How is that possible?” asked my wife. “It must have gone up,” says the cashier. “How can a free gift go up?” says my wife. “Dunno, but it has,” says the cashier.
I’ve spent the entire evening with a slide rule and abacus trying to work out the percentage inflation of 60/0. I failed. But if all M&S stock goes up at the same rate, we’ll have to buy our mince pies from Aldi.
Units for You Nits
I see that the panel of “experts” who invented units of alcohol, and then told us what quantities of their invention it is safe for men and women to consume, have now come clean and admitted that they picked the figures “out of the air” based on no scientific basis. What’s more, it turns out that every country has its own “safety limit” and no two “limits” are the same. Smell a rat?
For example, in Saudi, the limit is zero-blank all round. You can’t even get a packet of bacon-flavoured crisps in an Arab pub. “Ganja flavour? Yes pliz mister,” but, “Bacon flavour? Oh no, mister. And pliz removing shoes!”
I’m 79 and I’ve been a happy drinker since I was 17 – beer, whisky and, for the last 15 years, wine as well: and I am reasonably fit; no prescription drugs whatsoever – zilch! I don’t have a beer gut either. I’ve got piles and a bad knee, and that’s enough to be going on with. The doc says that the knee is not alcohol related. But he’s not sure about the piles, because larger drinkers spend a lot of time on the thunder-box. I didn’t mention that, for the last 60 years, I’ve spent most weekends bouncing off my knees on the way home from the pub.
I’m no alcoholic though, oh no, not me. I may be an ageing piss artist, but I‘m no alcy. How do I know? Well, one of the symptoms of being an alcoholic is that you keep denying it... and hiding the evidence. Is that one symptom, or two? I have difficulty focussing at this time of night. But I’m not alcoholic, oh no, definitely not. And anyone who says I am an alcy is lying. I hardly drink really. All that stuff I keep among the gardening tools in the shed keeps disappearing. So does that stuff behind the paint tins in the garage. That’s why I keep renewing it. Every time I go back, it’s just empty bottles. So I can’t be alcy... there’s nothing there... nothing... I think the wife’s drinking it. Shhhh...
How can I be sure that my hobby isn’t eating away at my insides, and that my liver doesn’t look like a sponge that’s been festering in a sewer for the last 10 years? Well... at my age, it wouldn’t matter anyway. But the fact is that my liver is not disintegrating. I know that, because I’ve been for a voluntary medical look-see...
...Which brings to mind another medical I had about 10 years ago. It was one of those things that was on a half price offer, like smelly fish. So I went for it. A nurse checked me from head to tail, and then, while we waited for the results, a doctor interrogated me about my vices.
“Do you drink?” he wanted to know.
“Of course,” I replied.
“How many units do you drink in a week?” he wanted to know.
“None,” I told him.
“But you said-:“
“I said, I drink; but I don’t drink units; just pints of beer and litres of spirits and wine.”
“OK,” he conceded, “how many pints and litres would you consume in a week?”
I rattled off some figures. It was easy. I’m a creature of habit.
“My God,” he croaked, scribbling on a note pad, “that’s nearly ninety units.”
“They don’t do units where I live,” I told him, “only pints and litres.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “we’ll have to have a close look at your liver result, and then move forward from there.”
Needless to say, my liver was tickety-boo, as was my cholesterol and sugar, blood pressure and any other result you can think of. Funny thing is, that doctor looked at my bottom too, but he didn’t spot my hemma... haemi... emmaroy... piles – even though they were hanging down like a bunch of grapes. Wonder what he was looking for down there.
It’s over a decade later, and nothing has changed much. Maybe I don’t drink as much as I did. You slow down as you get older. But, all the same, I drink a full bottle of red wine every weekday evening. Then, over the weekend, I’ll clear a reasonable amount of beer and about a third of a bottle of whisky. So why don’t I put on weight? Well, alcohol is liquid. You pee it out. Yes it’s calories. But so is food. And food contains fat. Fat clings. So when I go on a diet, I keep my alcohol supply steady and cut down on food, either carbs or fat, sometimes both. And it works. I take a modicum of exercise too. I burn about 500 calories on the exercise bike, four times a week, plus plenty of stretching. I used to hike for miles and run and jog for a hobby, but the knee put paid to that. Mind you, piles can be a menace on a bike... They keep getting tangled in the moving parts.
So what is all this unit nonsense about? It’s about control, that’s what it’s about. They use units of alcohol and the 5 vegetables a day dogma as steps towards controlling your leisure activities. Then the PC doctrine kicks in to control your thoughts, speech and behaviour. The commies and Nazis have done it all before. Granny covered all that by giving us a healthy diet and teaching us to be well mannered and to accept people for what they are – like, “Do onto others as you would have them do on to you.” To my mind, that covers about everything. Mind you, Granny didn’t have to contend with all these foreign weirdos we have today.
It’ the same story with the immigration freaks...
“Mass immigration’s good for the economy,” they told me.
“Whose economy? Because it ain’t mine,” I answered.
“Racist!” they snapped – another control word, like units and portions – “it’ll be a different story when you need a plumber.”
“I don’t need a plumber I told them. At least, not a CORGI. I want a stomach plumber to fix my hernia.”
“You’ll be grateful when you meet all those nice foreign nurses in hospital,” they told me.
“Hospital?” I echoed. “What hospital? I’ve been waiting 12 months on a 6-month waiting list.”
“Ah, you just wait ‘til 2014 when the Romanians and Bulgarians get the go-ahead. There will be over a million brilliant surgeons on the boat from Calais – all armed with scalpels of one sort or another,” they assured me.
“Hope they’re as well qualified as the Roma cash-machine technicians who photographed my bank card,” I replied.
“Racist!” they screamed.
“Shurrup. I’m going for a hike,” I told them, tucking in my hernia and folding my piles into a nosebag, before limping towards Windturbinewoods, singing “There’ll always be an England” – quietly to myself, lest I upset my neighbours who gabble in strange tongues.
No names, no pack drill; but we’ve always used Company-A to insure our household utilities. They are probably the biggest player on the field, so everybody knows them. Liz always maintained they were too expensive, and didn’t give value for money. But, being a logic-master, I explained that we were purchasing cover, not a commodity, and you can’t see a cover, it’s just there when you need it. Mind, I had to agree that at £549 a year, £45.75 a month, they didn’t come cheap.
I don’t know how this guy from Company-B contacted me on the phone, because I don’t answer cold-callers. In fact, I don’t answer warm friends unless my conscience tells me it’s time to do penance. But he did get hold of me and offered 15 months cover for £300. OK, his offer wasn’t as comprehensive as company-A. But it was far better value, so I took him up on it.
Now I went back to Company-A to cancel my insurance, and spoke to Wee Willy or someone. “I want to cancel my cover,” I told him. “Why?” he asked. “I’ve found someone cheaper,” I said. “I can give you a £60 discount if you stay with us,” he offered... Cheeky sod, I thought, why didn’t you offer me that before I threatened to leave...? “Peanuts,” I told him. “OK, I’ll make that £100,” he said. “You’d have to up your game by £250,” I said. “Give me a moment,” he told me, pretending to do a calculation, “OK,” he said finally, “I can drop your monthly payments to £21, if you stay.”
Do you get that? When I said I was leaving the company they were willing to cut my payment by more than a half. That means that they have been ripping us off for years. “No thanks,” I said. “Why not?” he asked. “When it’s time to renew, you’ll rob me again,” I told him. “We’ll negotiate,” he said. “You bet,” I told him. “Goodbye!”
This Happy Land
Brits are always moaning. If it’s not the weather, it’s the government, immigration, royalty or the Daily Mail. But, come on, be joyful, this place is brilliant. Like the bard nearly said, “We’re all players in the pantomime.” Take the last few days: An Al Qaeda terrorist, wearing an electronic tag, walked through an MI5 cordon disguised as a mobile tent, while the Prime Minister was playing at being a Diwali... or should I say doolally... Indian: Paxman, the BBC’s political Rottweiler, says he can’t find anyone to vote for: A council in Derbyshire towed away the wood for the November bonfire and accused the villagers of fly-tipping: Two policemen took time off from the war on crime to interrogate a 12 year old boy about flicking an elastic band at another boy in the school playground: A woman who was sacked from work is claiming £5M compensation: And, thank goodness, the UK has plummeted to 23rd in the world education league: Which guarantees us plenty more comedians in the pipeline. Bring on the clowns and follow Maggie Thatcher’s advice. “Rejoice! Rejoice!”
Last of the Brits
We tend to leave home around about ten in the morning when the world is having its second mug of tea. The travellers haven’t hit the road yet and every-where is quiet. We’re on our way to town today. We don’t go there all that often, maybe once a month, but it’s always worth the trip. No need to spend a fortune on foreign travel anymore; the circus has come to town.
Take this trip, for example. We’re cruising along, half-chatting, half-listening to Ken Bruce on Radio-2, when a Chinese woman zooms past on a motorbike with a toddler sprawling on the petrol tank. There is nothing holding the kid in place, and neither of them is wearing a helmet. “My God,” I tell Liz, “That poor woman’s taken a wrong turn coming out of Manky Pooh and ended up in South Wales. She’s probably trying to find her way back home, but the signposts are in gobbledegook. Poor girl; she’s doomed to wander the valleys forever.”
“How do you know she’s from Manky Pooh?” Liz demands cynically. She challenges all my deepest revelations.
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap. “The implications are horrendous. There are umpteen zillion motorcyclists in China. If they all make the same mistake and come zooming through the Channel Tunnel like a plague of locusts, they’ll end up choking our motorways and roads like so much sludge in a gutter, to say nothing of the towns and villages. Before we know it, everywhere will be knee deep in noodles and fried rice, and we won’t be able to move.” As a responsible citizen, I take these things seriously. “Something has to be done, and quickly,” I tell her. That’s when I was inspired to start my online petition to have the Channel Tunnel bricked-up at Folkestone.
“In the meantime,” I tell Liz, “we should get everyone to lobby their MP to have all road-signs displayed in English and Chinese, in the hope of helping these lost souls to find their way back to Yingyang County. Get the WI onto it.”
By now we are moving through the inner city. Bearded men in white nightshirts walk paces ahead of black shrouds that glide over pavements, silent and unswerving in hypnotic obedience. The ghosts of the night being led back to their daytime hidey-holes, I deduce. “Hold on,” I whisper, and step on the juice.
In town, we mosey up High Street on the way to the market. Along the way we pass a gypsy woman. She’s been standing there ever since Romania boarded the EU gravy train, pumping furiously on a tuneless accordion, like a desperate blacksmith aiming bellows at the last spark. I’ve mentioned this girl before, not a note in her head, poor soul. I’m no virtuoso myself, but this critter has been practising for months and getting nowhere. “I hope she’s saving up for lessons,” I mutter.
In a department store, I need to powder my nose and head for the toilet. A gathering of Muslim women is blocking the foyer. They’ve kicked off their shoes and are having a prayer session, facing Mecca via the urinals. I navigate through them and point Percy at the wall. If I felt the need to pray while I was in this place, I muse; I would head for the Lingerie Department and meditate among those shapely dummies in flimsy knickers...
Outside, we encounter the last of the Brits; teenage girls with glazed eyes and heads full of din, lugholes bunged-up with earpieces. They could be robots; electronic cigarettes sticking out of their mouths like teats. Further along, a posse of women gather at a bus stop, singing protest songs... They carry placards that announce, “Every woman has a right to abortion.” I avert my eyes. I don’t know the rights and wrongs, but I am scared of madwomen.
A young bum sprawls in a doorway, unshaven, unwashed and unkempt, begging for, “Any loose change.” The Asian shopkeeper comes out and moves him on. “I hate this place,” growls the bum, as he stands in the rain wondering where to waste his life next, a derelict on a sea of hopelessness. The guy needs a job. He should link up with that gypsy woman. They’d make a great team. He could take over the accordion and attract attention with the cacophony. She could squat beside him, carving pegs out of twigs and hissing curses at anyone who won’t buy. Find your niche... that’s the road to success.
On the way home, we see that a main police station has closed-down and the building is up for sale. Nearer home, the police station has gone on part time. The law has capitulated and I’m reaching for the whisky bottle.
Honour the Alter Ego
I see there were plans to erect a 6 foot statue of a football referee in a park in Cambridge. That’s where they drew up the rules of Association Football in 1863. But the PC Diversity Equality Squad said the statue was too male and too white, so it was called off. Seeing that all Association Football referees from 1863 to 2013 have been male and white, the statue of a white bloke seemed to hit the nail on the head. But maybe not. People are more complex than they appear.
Let’s face it, some of those early referees must have had kinky thoughts. So why don’t we erect statues of their alter egos? Instead of a six foot, white, hairy arsed macho man in referee’s kit, why not have a little mini skirted black girl with the caption, “Big Jock blows the Final Whistle.”
Better still, you could apply a nice diversity touch to all our statues. We could have Jolly Jack Nelson in drag, preening himself in Lady Hamilton’s cast-offs, complete with bustle and a balloon coming out of his mouth saying, “Kiss me Hardy!” Then there would be Prince Albert in a harlot costume, trying on the crown, with an angry Victoria in her old bloomers, screaming, “We are not amused.”
As well as pleasing our PC friends, these updated statues would be a fantastic tourist attraction. We would have armies of Jap happy-snappers scrambling over each other to get pictures of a troupe of Beatles skipping across a zebra crossing, handbags swinging and skirts billowing in the breeze. Others would jostle to be pictured alongside Churchill, done up as a butcher, brandishing a cleaver, shouting, “Some chicken...” at a schoolgirl Hitler, cowering in the ladies toilets, knees together, protective hands over his privates and knickers round his ankles.
Poky dingy café;
workmen shout and curse;
she floats among the tables,
tending like a nurse.
She pauses when she sees me;
breaks into a smile;
skips behind the counter,
lingers for a while.
chatting while she's serving,
shedding all her pain …
I am leaving,
a nurse again.
Week’s Best Headline: “GUN PC CAUGHT IN TRYST WITH HIS TROUSERS ROUND HIS ANKLES... HE COULD STILL REACH HIS WEAPON, SAYS TRIBUNAL” Say no more.
If it’s good when house prices rise, then, logically, it must be good when other possessions cost more, cars etc... Funny old world.
Oxymoron? Arguing in favour of multiculturalism and a United Kingdom at the same time.
Funny way to run a country: Kick out a decent hard working Indian because his visa expires. Open the door for East European child killers.
Dear diary, went shopping with the wife today: Anything worth buying was German. Everything else was Chinese, PS. Bought a pint of British milk.
Green Windfarms? We’re gonna lay a £500M cable, to buy French nuclear energy when the breeze don’t blow. “Whistle for a wind, Jim lad!”
Advert in todays post: ARE YOU FEEDING YOUR PROSTRATE AND STARVING YOUR PENIS? ...Hmm I thought the crumbs I put in my Y-fronts fed both.
Girl Guides, run by PC madwomen, now serve “self” and insular “community” instead of God and country. Another step in splintering the UK.
Like I say... I’m the fall guy.
I said I would like a splash of colour outside the French windows, so Liz brought home these exotic plants from the garden centre. They were beautiful, red patterns on a bright yellow background, “Hand-painted by God,” I thought.
The label said they were “Gazanias.”
“Dodgy,” I thought, “Gazania’s a country. Went there on safari once. Full of lions and mambas and things that give you the squits. So what do the flowers get up to?”
Anyway, nothing ventured nothing gained. I put them in the ground and rewarded myself with a whisky-beer chaser, like you do. The next time I squinted out of the window, all these Gazania things were slouching, shoulders hunched, petals over their heads, sulking like Friday night girls when it rains on the queue at the Club Kids.
Now I read the label. It says, “Must be in full sun.” Full sun...? We live in Cardiff, the wettest place outside Dogger Bank. We don’t do full sun. So that’s another thirty quid down the plughole.
Like I say... I’m the fall guy.
Headline:” The elderly are draining the NHS.” Hang on... I paid the insurance all my working life. Mass immigration is draining the NHS.
Is it an age thing?
I dunno why, but my logic seems to have been twisted along the way. Some things that appear normal to the rest of humanity, seem out of kilter to me. Take our local surgery – again... One day a couple of weeks ago, Liz was feeling poorly. In fact, she felt she needed a word with a doctor.
So, at 0830. she starts dialling the surgery to make an appointment, like you do. As usual, all she got was the engaged tone until 0825. Then she got through to reception, who told her that, “All the appointments have been taken, so you don’t get to see a doctor today.” That’s not good when you feel ill, but you can’t fault the logic.
Anyway, a week later it was my turn. I had a weird pain, so I thought that I had better get some medical advice. But now, this is my logic, I knew that there was no point in joining the 0830 scramble, only to be told that, “You can’t see a doctor today.” So I waited until the rush was over, then I dialled and asked to make an appointment for the following day, which was Thursday. Clever?
A woman with a mechanical voice, who sounded as if she had swallowed a computer, answered me. She said, “Appointments for the day are released in the morning.”
“I don’t want an appointment today,” I told her, “I want if for tomorrow.”
“Appointments for the day are released in the morning,” she told me, “call tomorrow.”
“But it takes half an hour to get through,” I told her, “and by then all the appointments are taken.”
“Appointments for the day are released in the morning,” the computerised person replied, “call tomorrow.”
“Friday?” I ventured.
“Appointments for the day are released in the morning,” she repeated mechanically.
“Say I want to see Dr X?” I wondered.
“Dr X has an appointment vacant next Wednesday,” said the mechanical one...
Now this is where my logic falls down. If they only release appointments on the day in question – so you can’t book them one or two days in advance – how come you can book them a week in advance, like next Wednesday. See what I mean? I’m out of kilter.
Says here: “Two lesbians went to a fire station for help - handcuffed together for SM and lost the key.” Lucky they weren’t top’n’tail...
Scaremongers are at it again. Now they tell us that summer causes the hot weather.
Brilliant cartoon. Caption says: “Fracking, the plus side.” Picture of cracks in the earth with the tops of wind turbines sticking out.
Daily Mail quote: “gay Stephen Twigg snatched the seat from Michael Portillo in the 1997 Blair landslide.” If the earth moves, just grab.
Froggy Hollande has a hissy fit when he hears that the CIA spies on the EU. What does he think spooks do?
When I was a kid they made me pray. There was a war on at the
time, so the main bargaining point in any prayer-deal was that
if I was goo... not as bad... God must let our side win. Which,
fair doos to the bloke, he did. However, another part of the deal
fell down badly, because I asked him to, “Bless all our
soldiers, sailors and airmen and keep them safe.” This last
bit didn’t come off. I knew that because, every day, our local
rag sported a list of the latest hometown war-dead. So,
for me, God fell at the first post and I matured into a
As time went by I developed a cynicism for the very idea
of prayer. “It’s ridiculous,” I thought, “for me, a grown man,
to expect another grown man, i.e. – God, to sit there, up
in the sky, and hear and understand every prayer in
every language that comes bellowing out of his loudspeaker
from every quarter of the globe. “Even madder,” I thought, “is
to expect this guy to attempt to fix everyones’ problems at the
same time.” With those words, I closed the book and became
a fully-fledged doubter.
But hang about. Here’s me, today, wandering around my
personal neck of the woods, and asking my satnav, in my
language, to, “Guide me,” to some obscure alleyway in
some one-horse town that even my neighbours haven’t
heard of – and it does. And, I presume that, at the same
time, millions of other people are, in their own language,
asking similar questions about their space in their part of
the world, and getting... “Guidance.”
Now, as an agnostic, my argument has always been, “I’ll
believe it if you prove it.” So, true to my beliefs, I think
God’s a satellite.
Sitting here on the patio in the cool of an evening, sipping whisky. Lone birds, wending home across the heavens; fleecy cirrus,
pink-tinted by the setting sun, drifting in from the sou’west, like
exotic fish in my vast aquarium of deepening blue sky. Bedtime
rooks shout from the copse beyond the roofs, last of the birds
chirping in the trees; flowers closing for the night, cool air
drifting in with a damp night-smell of nearby fields where a
crow coughs and scours for supper, cat slinks by with wicked
eyes, on the prowl for a vole or mouse... I open a beer and
thank God that my love is by my side.
Wife of Bank of England guv says teabags waste paper and wreck
the planet. Maybe Basildon Bond eats a bit of rain forest, but
Wick Marine Radio Station, Caithness, Scotland, GKR
While you’re passing why not pop inside and see the actual staff demonstrating
how they react when they intercept a distress call from a ship.
The film was made in the 1960s, the era of my two true stories Fated and Sailing with Hunters.
I’m the guy who talks to the French ship. Grab a glass of something and come inside by clicking HERE
Time to get back to the present day rat race.
TIMES SQUARE NEW YORK
Click HERE to join the fun.