Brize-at-Large
The scourge of modern apathy: if I can be bothered
Friday, October 12, 2018
Friday morning and all is not good. The Lady insists on following me like a bloodhound and insisting that people like my neurological consultant and my psychotherapist are wrong to say I should not just stop drinking instantly and forever. Apparently, we shall go to Africa and once returned she will throw me out - again. Holiday of a lunchtime. I shall follow my own path to the inevitability of death.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Wednesday consisted of helping my tenants with several annoying relics of the previous thieving what-d'you-me-call-em. I shall be back there this morning installing a new post-box and sorting out dates for the installation of a new shower. This is keeping me active and thus away from the bottle. I have to remove some of my furniture at the weekend, useful timing as my sons shall be here with builders' muscles!
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
Monday was interesting: some manual labour in the fresh air, no drinking, and a pint or so in the evening. This morning I awoke with the sweats as Tuesday was an almost complete day off from the cider. I do not feel that great today. I have some personal admin to achieve and see how I get on: I tend to lack get-up-and-go when I am having the onset of the DTs. I'll work through it and see how events materialise
Monday, October 8, 2018
Sunday was funday: playing with three lovely terriers, mainly of a Jack variety, lunching with The Lady's daughter and her beau, named Jack, and then the MCFC-LFC game in The Anchor. Kate, I had a couple, but left at half-time, because had I stayed the temptation would be too great. The Lady arrived home as I was listening to the final minutes on the radio, sans cidre! Monday shall be chasing applications and administrating my disorganised life...holiday is just 10 days away. Yum!
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Today has been mentally destitute. I have rowed (not the nautical variation, please) with The Lady, endeared myself to those interested in the Queens's English, set up a sumptuous gammon dinner in the Aga, whose home has now become subject to torture by estate agents, and have finally decided to shut up. No drink, Kate - feel like whatever. x
Yesterday was interesting. I have been signed off any form of work for the next six weeks, and visited the local Civil Service to inform them of such matter. While there I spotted a poster advertising lessons in communicating using English for Speakers of Other Languages. I said that I had passed a TEFL course many years ago, and maybe I could help teaching. Sent to 43 Bromham Road, I discussed it with the chappies there, and I am being sent an application form. Maybe this will spring-step me into something to alleviate the boredom and thus the alcohol abuse. This weekend I am dog-walking, thus I shall have a spring in my step anyway.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Well, it's early morning, and yesterday was the first day of my new attempt to be more responsible with alcohol. I have thought long and hard about what was suggested to me and have tried to work on a plan. I did not go to the flicks with The Lady last night, and I had a couple of drinks with my dinner. I need to cope with the fact that I am not supposed to drive, or work, or indeed be too long on my own, as the seizures have luckily so far happened when I am with people. Coping with this usually sends me to the cider-press. I also have to understand that massive intake followed by two days of abstinence, with the consequent delirium tremens, does not do the body, and particularly the brain, much good. I always thought I would be dead by forty years of age though it appears I have managed fifty-six of them. Perhaps my Lady and the childer would like me to hang around a little while? Or if not, they can their inheritance now. Today is going to be difficult, money is owed to me and I will doubtless be stressed.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Here we go...,.
I am rambling around the Northern Hemisphere this Summer. I shall be sending details; maybe even the odd photo. And in keeping with my my previous posts, I shall try to link music to my blurb. This early dawn sees me viewing the Pistols in Brixton, 2008. Never a better band to take on holiday, e, Paul?
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
A haystack of extremists
Unusually, I am angry. Most of which mood can be ascribed to the appalling level of journalism that the BBC now provides. I am more angry, however, at the condition in which I find my country.
This rant concerns gaol. And poor questioning, if, indeed, the journalist actually saw the whites of the eyes. Never trust a witness, nor a politician. Nor a blogger...
There are more than 12,000 Muslims in jails across England and Wales and the latest official data shows that more than 100 Muslims are in jail for terrorism offences in Great Britain. Hmmm. Why are there that many bloody immigrants in my gaols? And why am I feeding them? Gas chambers work for me, preferably somewhere out to sea.
This rant concerns gaol. And poor questioning, if, indeed, the journalist actually saw the whites of the eyes. Never trust a witness, nor a politician. Nor a blogger...
"Prison overcrowding is at virtually its lowest level for a decade, and we have increased spending on measures to prevent radicalisation," Chris Grayling, the Justice Secretary commented. What the Hell does that mean? Virtually at its lowest level. How about an actual figure, your Lord-Chancellorship?
It gets worse: he has never been in the Law, but he has been in the BBC. And Channel Four. And bloody Burson Marsteller - arse from elbow, anyone? He was also in the SDP and yet Camerloony thought he was a better bet than good old Ken. I don't expect I will ever vote Tory but I do appreciate Clarke.
Now to the part where viewers switch off, or change channels to watch some American pap about moonshine.
There are more than 12,000 Muslims in jails across England and Wales and the latest official data shows that more than 100 Muslims are in jail for terrorism offences in Great Britain. Hmmm. Why are there that many bloody immigrants in my gaols? And why am I feeding them? Gas chambers work for me, preferably somewhere out to sea.
Apparently, 'the worry particularly concerns converts to Islam, as research from the former chief inspector of prisons, Dame Anne Owers, suggests they are more vulnerable to extremism'. Why don't they all get shipped to Israel and stir up a damned good fight? Fugging fuggers.
I shall generally be found in a prison of some sort. Please write sending an SAE, and if you can get that drone to work, a parcel of Class A drugs would be useful.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Spring 15
I usually start with a song and end with a cadence, however today I shall do neither.
If should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Most would bemoan his trite sentimentalism; many would question his gorgeous looks as an apercu sans penser, but I still believe he was on the right track.
To those that are not aware, his name is Brooke. Rupert Brooke. And hares come out before the corn, and there ain't no bleeding blithering dawn, but there still remains with me, a slice of toast; honey for tea.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Scottish Stroll
A new plan for the Scotch. As a lot of them wanted independence, with no clear idea about how they would finance themselves, here's the plan.
There are far too many wild mink in England, ever since the blasted animal was released in the 1920s. American descent, so what's new? Just like their damned crayfish killing all our tasty little variety of the species, and everything else that the mink does not want. British people introducing creatures that have no place in England. The Black Panther of Woodland ring any bells?
Crayfish and mink: overpaid, over-fed and over here.
Our riverbanks are now home to these imports, killing poor old Ratty the Water Vole. A lesson for the Allies in ISIS-land, eh? Introduce something that eats all their food - no need for bombs. Though I have yet to hear of an animal that wants to eat stewed lentils, the head and heart remain optimistic.
Anyway, Plan A: employ hundreds of wild immigrants to round up the mink and release them in Northern Scotland. A fast-breeding reactor-like economic miracle, allowing us to have no-one pontificating in the House of Commons, or the Lords, when they should be applying woad and training barley to grow - barely - in barren soil.
Without England a Third World country; with mink a self-sufficient fur-trapping country. It works for Canada. And they can keep the immigrants to shear the minkies. If the water's not too cold they might introduce American crayfish and offer tourists un petit homard. As the tourists will doubtless be from the US, or executives looking for that fabled oil, I suspect the conversation will run:
Punter: Un homard? C'est un petit langoustine.
Immigrant waiter: Ah! Oui, mais il un crustacean americaine. Prend plaisir.
Punter: Et le plat du jour?
Waiter: Savez-vous le vison? Il est vraiment bon.
Punter: Quoi?! Et le benefice pour moi?
Waiter: Le BOGOF. Manger ici tous les jours et bientôt! Un manteau de fourrure!
And the song is a bagpipe version of Mink DeVille. Mangez bien.
Punter: Un homard? C'est un petit langoustine.
Immigrant waiter: Ah! Oui, mais il un crustacean americaine. Prend plaisir.
Punter: Et le plat du jour?
Waiter: Savez-vous le vison? Il est vraiment bon.
Punter: Quoi?! Et le benefice pour moi?
Waiter: Le BOGOF. Manger ici tous les jours et bientôt! Un manteau de fourrure!
And the song is a bagpipe version of Mink DeVille. Mangez bien.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Travels down the Amazon
Usually, I like to start with a musical reference. I am stuck with the Amazon. Literally. Until Christmas.
Santa's warehouse has engaged my wit and bonhomie, and perhaps 'picking' skills, to help furnish the children of the world with delight in the early morning of the Nativity. But the delight won't be up as early as I am, children. I am working nights, days and coffees-breaks to furnish you with your desires.
Tips for the top this year appear to be: anything One-D, a novel about something with Cockroaches in the title, and Kindles. Bundles of Kindles. Bloody bundles of Kindles. When I mean literally I refer to books, not bloody Kindles.
Still, they pay good temporary wages at Amazon. Jobs for jubblies. If one can hit the percentage productivity rate one can keep one's job: otherwise, adios!. Or adeus!, depending which part of the Basin from which you emanate. Luckily for the Poles they have never heard of South America, so it does not matter that the language is Latin rather than Slav.
Unsurprisingly, there are Poles everywhere. Most of the second-tier operational management is Polish. We obviously have a problem with employment in this country: the English have forgotten that work means getting your hands dirty. One never sees a Polish worker complaining about hard work. Consequently, the English have lost out; as have those who claim British nationality. You don't get paid just for turning up. Unless you are a Premiership footballer.
I have substantial knowledge of the warehouse world, or 'Fulfilment Centre' - spelt with a double L, if you are from the US of Idiots and cannot speak English. There may well be some justification for the BBC 'Panorama' programme recently broadcast but the salient point is that it is a job, temporary, and no-one goes into it without being told it is damned hard long hours at the 'coal-face'. And it is not a 'coal-face': compared to mining it is a piece of piss.
Shut up, do the job, work your hours and claim your Christmas bonus. No-one told it you it would be easy. Sixteen miles a night if you are good; eight if you are crap. And I am twice your age.
Inspirational management from the School of Old Brize. Ha ha ha!
Best thing about it is the craic. The staff have a disparate background - socially, economically, geographically and educationally. But there is a camaderie that surpasses the pain in your tired feet.
My training group have made friends, work and break together, talk loudly, and generally make the job a lot easier. Pretty-Boy is already being stalked by a Polish line-manager; Ear-Lobe Extender is cracking onto every manager he can find; the Bradford Graduate is chinning into the white girls, and Old Brize is ring-mastering the drivel.
There is so much scope for a romp. I think after the first 60 hours even the permanent staff are wondering where we came from...the energy comes from making the job a joke. Too many people are too serious about a stupid job, or are BBC investigators with no idea what work is really about.
Pity is that they play Heart FM all through after closing R1FM at mid-night. Those 'classic' sounds of the 1980s. Excuse me whilst I take a toilet break. I am going to spoon the system and play some Northern and Funky 70s because that will spook the spooks into action.
It's my voodoo working. Amongst other things. Rest well, tonight, knowing that your presents will all be delivered on time and in pristine condition. I cannot keep a straight face, sorry! xxx
Santa's warehouse has engaged my wit and bonhomie, and perhaps 'picking' skills, to help furnish the children of the world with delight in the early morning of the Nativity. But the delight won't be up as early as I am, children. I am working nights, days and coffees-breaks to furnish you with your desires.
Tips for the top this year appear to be: anything One-D, a novel about something with Cockroaches in the title, and Kindles. Bundles of Kindles. Bloody bundles of Kindles. When I mean literally I refer to books, not bloody Kindles.
Still, they pay good temporary wages at Amazon. Jobs for jubblies. If one can hit the percentage productivity rate one can keep one's job: otherwise, adios!. Or adeus!, depending which part of the Basin from which you emanate. Luckily for the Poles they have never heard of South America, so it does not matter that the language is Latin rather than Slav.
Unsurprisingly, there are Poles everywhere. Most of the second-tier operational management is Polish. We obviously have a problem with employment in this country: the English have forgotten that work means getting your hands dirty. One never sees a Polish worker complaining about hard work. Consequently, the English have lost out; as have those who claim British nationality. You don't get paid just for turning up. Unless you are a Premiership footballer.
I have substantial knowledge of the warehouse world, or 'Fulfilment Centre' - spelt with a double L, if you are from the US of Idiots and cannot speak English. There may well be some justification for the BBC 'Panorama' programme recently broadcast but the salient point is that it is a job, temporary, and no-one goes into it without being told it is damned hard long hours at the 'coal-face'. And it is not a 'coal-face': compared to mining it is a piece of piss.
Shut up, do the job, work your hours and claim your Christmas bonus. No-one told it you it would be easy. Sixteen miles a night if you are good; eight if you are crap. And I am twice your age.
Inspirational management from the School of Old Brize. Ha ha ha!
Best thing about it is the craic. The staff have a disparate background - socially, economically, geographically and educationally. But there is a camaderie that surpasses the pain in your tired feet.
My training group have made friends, work and break together, talk loudly, and generally make the job a lot easier. Pretty-Boy is already being stalked by a Polish line-manager; Ear-Lobe Extender is cracking onto every manager he can find; the Bradford Graduate is chinning into the white girls, and Old Brize is ring-mastering the drivel.
There is so much scope for a romp. I think after the first 60 hours even the permanent staff are wondering where we came from...the energy comes from making the job a joke. Too many people are too serious about a stupid job, or are BBC investigators with no idea what work is really about.
Pity is that they play Heart FM all through after closing R1FM at mid-night. Those 'classic' sounds of the 1980s. Excuse me whilst I take a toilet break. I am going to spoon the system and play some Northern and Funky 70s because that will spook the spooks into action.
It's my voodoo working. Amongst other things. Rest well, tonight, knowing that your presents will all be delivered on time and in pristine condition. I cannot keep a straight face, sorry! xxx
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Six weeks....
....in the week that saw the British celebrate its liberal politicians sending hundreds of thousands to mud-wrestle in a shrapnel-infested paradise, let's think on a couple of facts.
The average Tommy was cannon-fodder, from the moment he signed up. The average public school-boy became, automatically, a sub-altern, lieutenant or eventually captain. But he too was cannon fodder. The average life-span of a toff was six weeks, not much more than that for a 'Tommy'.
Place those wreathes, hey, place those wreathes. Still doing the same now in a country where no-one has ever won. The Pathans have never been conquered, bowed or humiliated. That'll be the British, the Russians and the Septics, then. Ho hum! When you gonna learn?
And in that vein, I have learned something about myself this last 42 days.
Primarily, in spite of the rain,
With faith in zoology:
I am not Noah.
Second, scarily, and yes, despite
The booming economy:
I am not Sugar.
Thirdly, in hiding, pills no requite,
Depression is sapping me:
I am not Shergar.
Summarily, warily: what strain
The final humility
I'm the last huzzah!
But I go gently into this good night, cos if I had a fiver I would go with fireworks!
Bon chance, mes amis, et avec vous soit vos Dieu.
The average Tommy was cannon-fodder, from the moment he signed up. The average public school-boy became, automatically, a sub-altern, lieutenant or eventually captain. But he too was cannon fodder. The average life-span of a toff was six weeks, not much more than that for a 'Tommy'.
Place those wreathes, hey, place those wreathes. Still doing the same now in a country where no-one has ever won. The Pathans have never been conquered, bowed or humiliated. That'll be the British, the Russians and the Septics, then. Ho hum! When you gonna learn?
And in that vein, I have learned something about myself this last 42 days.
Primarily, in spite of the rain,
With faith in zoology:
I am not Noah.
Second, scarily, and yes, despite
The booming economy:
I am not Sugar.
Thirdly, in hiding, pills no requite,
Depression is sapping me:
I am not Shergar.
Summarily, warily: what strain
The final humility
I'm the last huzzah!
But I go gently into this good night, cos if I had a fiver I would go with fireworks!
Bon chance, mes amis, et avec vous soit vos Dieu.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
It's Bugging Me....
Well, it ain't really.
It's a fabulous Tube Channel from Kevin Johansen with some really loud sounds that deserve greater recognition. Pity the old boy cannot keep the sound of the needle hitting the wax at the start of each track.
But, hey! It's proper vibe on proper vinyl.
A good evening: Skyped-me-up-Scotty with the Daughter of Delight adjacent to the Hudson River, although the video was a trifle grainy. Thinking about it, in the US of Idiots one would be lucky to get proper trifle and the grain would be wrapped around some intensively reared beef. Let's tear up those rain-forests, Septics.
God's in his Heaven and all's right with the world.
Thank-you Mr Browning and your hefty-bearded Victorian contemporaries. Just look at the mess you left us with. Build an Empire and keep it, you twits, don't give it away. Dateline: Kenya 2013. Dateline: The North-West Passage always. Dateline: Palestine 1947. Dateline: New Amsterdam 1665. Et-bloody-cetera...
And on that theme, I await with baited breath the return of the Scouse Empire when it travels to Salford tomorrow evening and teaches the babes another lesson. Bet they now wish they hadn't pushed Sir Claret upstairs. Lost to 'Pool, lost to Citeh, wanting confidence, van Pursed-lips pictured struggling with thigh-cream, the hair-transplanted want-away finally showing some gumption when all the rest appear to have forgotten which end they are kicking toward...oh bliss! Division Two welcomes you!
But that's enough childish drivel. It is the preserve of people from the Prawn Counties. I have big respect for Keano despite him playing for them: at least he showed some determination. As did Jiggsy; without his Jigging elsewhere he still proved a loyal servant. As does Stevie G, and it would be a good good season to smack their backsides twice before Christmas.
So it ain't bugging me. I am now trying to collate these terrible rants into a book of vitriol. 'Cautionary Tales for Drunken Bums' is the working title, although 'working' is somewhat of a misnomer.
And on that note, back to the drawing board. 'We're Living In Bad Conditions' sings a lad on the Tube. And I don't know who it is! Too many Northern Fish in the Sea. And that song is bugging me.
It's a fabulous Tube Channel from Kevin Johansen with some really loud sounds that deserve greater recognition. Pity the old boy cannot keep the sound of the needle hitting the wax at the start of each track.
But, hey! It's proper vibe on proper vinyl.
A good evening: Skyped-me-up-Scotty with the Daughter of Delight adjacent to the Hudson River, although the video was a trifle grainy. Thinking about it, in the US of Idiots one would be lucky to get proper trifle and the grain would be wrapped around some intensively reared beef. Let's tear up those rain-forests, Septics.
God's in his Heaven and all's right with the world.
Thank-you Mr Browning and your hefty-bearded Victorian contemporaries. Just look at the mess you left us with. Build an Empire and keep it, you twits, don't give it away. Dateline: Kenya 2013. Dateline: The North-West Passage always. Dateline: Palestine 1947. Dateline: New Amsterdam 1665. Et-bloody-cetera...
And on that theme, I await with baited breath the return of the Scouse Empire when it travels to Salford tomorrow evening and teaches the babes another lesson. Bet they now wish they hadn't pushed Sir Claret upstairs. Lost to 'Pool, lost to Citeh, wanting confidence, van Pursed-lips pictured struggling with thigh-cream, the hair-transplanted want-away finally showing some gumption when all the rest appear to have forgotten which end they are kicking toward...oh bliss! Division Two welcomes you!
But that's enough childish drivel. It is the preserve of people from the Prawn Counties. I have big respect for Keano despite him playing for them: at least he showed some determination. As did Jiggsy; without his Jigging elsewhere he still proved a loyal servant. As does Stevie G, and it would be a good good season to smack their backsides twice before Christmas.
So it ain't bugging me. I am now trying to collate these terrible rants into a book of vitriol. 'Cautionary Tales for Drunken Bums' is the working title, although 'working' is somewhat of a misnomer.
And on that note, back to the drawing board. 'We're Living In Bad Conditions' sings a lad on the Tube. And I don't know who it is! Too many Northern Fish in the Sea. And that song is bugging me.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
A Man Is A Mean Thing
On occasion I break my own rules, but no-one will get this. It's by a young lady named Barbara Perry, and Tubed by the lovely Yorkie KL in Brizzie. KTF, KL.
Having once again broken that rule, I have to admit that I broke another few last month. My posts were unpleasant and vitriolic. Nowhere near up-to my usual standards!
Anger does not become him...
...Tempered, temporarily, by the delights of another 14 hours in Her Majesty's Hotel, the custodians chuckled whilst booking me in. I am getting used to it by now. And, of course, they are getting used to me walking out without charge. The Usual Suspect! Ho bloody Ho! A sad case of domestic victimisation has become a cause celebre (apologies for the lack of a grave accent) amongst my muckers in the Levels.
I even think the Establishment is becoming more attuned to the burden of proof.
“There are two theories to arguing with a woman. Neither works.” Will Rogers, he of the Cherokee Nation, said that in the early 20th Century. Shakespeare may have made similar observations. OldBrize made several whilst in the interview room. Although the Brief told me to mention 'No Comment' as often as possible. I guess I took the 5th?
Suffuce to say that my days as a caustic critic of marriage have long since been curtailed by the Old Bill. No more Mr Nice Guy. I maybe the first low-brow victim of digital snooping. Although I'm now not sure if the 'low-brow' could refer to the snoopers in that sentence? Could take a bit of wangling, but hey!, what is time for, anyway?
However, I may write about other stuff, should the Muse take me.
What-ho!
Having once again broken that rule, I have to admit that I broke another few last month. My posts were unpleasant and vitriolic. Nowhere near up-to my usual standards!
Anger does not become him...
...Tempered, temporarily, by the delights of another 14 hours in Her Majesty's Hotel, the custodians chuckled whilst booking me in. I am getting used to it by now. And, of course, they are getting used to me walking out without charge. The Usual Suspect! Ho bloody Ho! A sad case of domestic victimisation has become a cause celebre (apologies for the lack of a grave accent) amongst my muckers in the Levels.
I even think the Establishment is becoming more attuned to the burden of proof.
“There are two theories to arguing with a woman. Neither works.” Will Rogers, he of the Cherokee Nation, said that in the early 20th Century. Shakespeare may have made similar observations. OldBrize made several whilst in the interview room. Although the Brief told me to mention 'No Comment' as often as possible. I guess I took the 5th?
Suffuce to say that my days as a caustic critic of marriage have long since been curtailed by the Old Bill. No more Mr Nice Guy. I maybe the first low-brow victim of digital snooping. Although I'm now not sure if the 'low-brow' could refer to the snoopers in that sentence? Could take a bit of wangling, but hey!, what is time for, anyway?
However, I may write about other stuff, should the Muse take me.
What-ho!
Friday, August 23, 2013
Guns of Navarone -still not working and I have lost patience, as usual. See you next Tuesday technology.
Oh my lovelies, it ain't bin working for days and days....though the step-twat has managed to keep his bowles clarified during the interregnum. I can sniff him on the stair, or behind an arrass. Willie Shake-a-Speare for those struggling. The lap-dog is in quarantine, the mains PC is about as fast as Linford when compared with Usain, and I am about to tear up the rest of the country. Pigs, pigs, pigs - come and have a go....I am looking for death.
Monday, August 5, 2013
A Crow and a Baby
I have a feeling I have mentioned this tune before? Even so, I use it once more as it has apposite lyrical advantage.
I don't feel much like a crow, even though I talk to them each morning. And I am pretty sure the mother of Sons Number One and Two was never a baby - placenta, maybe, in a hospital mistake to cap most.
Feeling in such a good mood I ventured to my favourite Bedders Town centre public with a friend. Wherein we discovered more friends, all seemingly mates with a guy called Charlie. What a laugh we had, cheering us all into the next week of work.
Oh! I appear to have been missed out again as the chaps came round collecting day-hires.
Never mind, the benefit gang are gonna pay. As they do, doubtless, in the Slag-Heaps. Which particular venue gave me the impetus for this latest rant.
“Find the fathers of this world
Treat them as a fatal foe
Put them in the deepest hole,
Then cover the pit with snow”
It's wonderful how Essex has taken to the concept of extended family.
What you do is form a relationship, even get married, and then trash said existence almost immediately. It has the advantage of offering free bed and board to all builders needing sustenance beyond their own failed set-up; a simple route to constant sexual activity, and presumably disease; a route into the Benefits Gang; and a channel for outpourings of simulated misery and grief.
And the father has to move across the County Line. Pass the sick-bag!
But hats off to the girls! They certainly don't need fathers around that part of the country as all the boys grow up perfectly adjusted. Ooh! I feel a court case coming on...
...given that I think the latest bike crash is going to give me septicaemia - again - I really don't give a monkey's.
To anyone pondering, it's The Human League. When they were a good band, rivalling the likes of Kraftwerk.
Gute Nacht.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
A Cautionary Tale
I mentioned that I may return to M. Joseph Hilaire Pierre Rene Belloc, RC vicar of Salford. Oh, no! Sorry, he was the MP for a while. Get him confused with Blair, sometimes.
Anyway, tonight little music, unless it is the sound of The Dying Swan, ou 'Le Cygne'. Saint-Saens' wonderful 'Le Carnaval des Animaux' inspiring a ballerina to rush to the sound of the ringing bell. Or to rustle up a meringue-type dessert? Who knows? (By the way, my keyboard does not do French accents.)
Anyway, the caution relates to the velocipede. A term roughly contemporaneous with Messieurs Belloc et Saint-Saens.
Heading from Bedders to Sandy this evening I rode alongside a young feller-me-lad out for a trundle. We sat back on the pedals and chatted, maintaining a decent cadence. At which point Old Brize hit a pot-hole. No hands quickly became no skin. On elbows, knees, palms and left outer thigh. Straight into the river to remove the worst of the gore. My epidermis now consists largely of gravel and micropore tape. It is just so good to be alive some days!
Brizie cycled hard to Town
He felt he'd let his children down:
For failing to maintain his fitness,
To which the Bairns would all hold Witness.
He rushed along beside the Stream,
Cycle humming with his Dream.
But lo! what encumbrance had he met?
A Hole i' the Carriage-way is my Bet.
Crash!, he went, chin first to Gravel
Not the route for First-Class Travel.
Spectators gasped: rushed to his Aid,
But Brize just accepted Debt was Paid!
Moral: Slow down you Old Fool - you're going to to kill yourself.
The ballerina was Anna Pavlova, she of a dessert, rather than the extremely intelligent experimental psychologist who noticed dogs salivate before the food is set before them. Saint-Saens was apparently extraordinary, too. And I think Belloc was pretty bloody clever. Homage a tous.
Anyway, tonight little music, unless it is the sound of The Dying Swan, ou 'Le Cygne'. Saint-Saens' wonderful 'Le Carnaval des Animaux' inspiring a ballerina to rush to the sound of the ringing bell. Or to rustle up a meringue-type dessert? Who knows? (By the way, my keyboard does not do French accents.)
Anyway, the caution relates to the velocipede. A term roughly contemporaneous with Messieurs Belloc et Saint-Saens.
Heading from Bedders to Sandy this evening I rode alongside a young feller-me-lad out for a trundle. We sat back on the pedals and chatted, maintaining a decent cadence. At which point Old Brize hit a pot-hole. No hands quickly became no skin. On elbows, knees, palms and left outer thigh. Straight into the river to remove the worst of the gore. My epidermis now consists largely of gravel and micropore tape. It is just so good to be alive some days!
Brizie cycled hard to Town
He felt he'd let his children down:
For failing to maintain his fitness,
To which the Bairns would all hold Witness.
He rushed along beside the Stream,
Cycle humming with his Dream.
But lo! what encumbrance had he met?
A Hole i' the Carriage-way is my Bet.
Crash!, he went, chin first to Gravel
Not the route for First-Class Travel.
Spectators gasped: rushed to his Aid,
But Brize just accepted Debt was Paid!
Moral: Slow down you Old Fool - you're going to to kill yourself.
The ballerina was Anna Pavlova, she of a dessert, rather than the extremely intelligent experimental psychologist who noticed dogs salivate before the food is set before them. Saint-Saens was apparently extraordinary, too. And I think Belloc was pretty bloody clever. Homage a tous.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Morning Has Broken!
Well, not yet it hasn't. Not now we are on the downward path to Winter here in the seat of Empire.
Dark at nine, larks still a-bed at five. What is this Summer icumen in to? Lhoude sing Thunder and then all of a sudden, we're on the slippery slope through to Autumn. Though that means the larks will give way to those gorgeous flights of swallows so beloved of BBC Nature-Watch. Not much wrong with a flight of passerines.
I suppose I should not complain about the Tess-like movement from bloom to overbloom. I have not had an English tan for some years. Maybe it was good that I arose from my death-bed and summoned forth the trusty steed this year?
I have a confession. On behalf of the larks. They aren't larks, they're crows. Imitating larks. I thought something was up when they served me very black tea and cawed loudly, not melodiously.
However, to each cloud there maybe a silver lining. Having lost my troop of baboons down in Essex when their garage was repo'd, I may now have a slightly more avian aggressive group of friends. You may remember from your schooldays that the collective noun for crows is a 'murder'. Oh! How sweet!
I am now arranging for my Murder to meet my wild-running Troop: if I can find the warty-bottomed buggers. My Troop are chacmas, the biggest and nastiest, and probably the furthest away. Breakfast looks like being tea, fruit and windscreen-wipers. Maybe windscreens.
Quickly to the credits, should I miss a large corvus or papio ursinus passing the house. Strange, indeed, that the chacma is linked to the bear in Linnaean classification.
No-one knows who wrote 'Sumer is icumen in' but the cuckoo still sings loud 750 years later.
The soundtrack tonight was Stevie the Greek Cat, now known as Yusuf. All credit to him for a beautiful rendition of a hymn written by Eleanor Farjeon. A timid woman who wrote wonderfully for children, as indeed did Hilaire Belloc. I am having an Edwardian moment. It'll pass...as shall I, eventually. Though I may well return to Belloc before the cremation.
Never a fan of Hardy, but the theme within Tess of the d'Urbs was ripening and burgeoning beyond fruition.
Sup up! And keep up - you'll need to do some research this time if you wish to learn les nuances.
Dark at nine, larks still a-bed at five. What is this Summer icumen in to? Lhoude sing Thunder and then all of a sudden, we're on the slippery slope through to Autumn. Though that means the larks will give way to those gorgeous flights of swallows so beloved of BBC Nature-Watch. Not much wrong with a flight of passerines.
I suppose I should not complain about the Tess-like movement from bloom to overbloom. I have not had an English tan for some years. Maybe it was good that I arose from my death-bed and summoned forth the trusty steed this year?
I have a confession. On behalf of the larks. They aren't larks, they're crows. Imitating larks. I thought something was up when they served me very black tea and cawed loudly, not melodiously.
However, to each cloud there maybe a silver lining. Having lost my troop of baboons down in Essex when their garage was repo'd, I may now have a slightly more avian aggressive group of friends. You may remember from your schooldays that the collective noun for crows is a 'murder'. Oh! How sweet!
I am now arranging for my Murder to meet my wild-running Troop: if I can find the warty-bottomed buggers. My Troop are chacmas, the biggest and nastiest, and probably the furthest away. Breakfast looks like being tea, fruit and windscreen-wipers. Maybe windscreens.
Quickly to the credits, should I miss a large corvus or papio ursinus passing the house. Strange, indeed, that the chacma is linked to the bear in Linnaean classification.
No-one knows who wrote 'Sumer is icumen in' but the cuckoo still sings loud 750 years later.
The soundtrack tonight was Stevie the Greek Cat, now known as Yusuf. All credit to him for a beautiful rendition of a hymn written by Eleanor Farjeon. A timid woman who wrote wonderfully for children, as indeed did Hilaire Belloc. I am having an Edwardian moment. It'll pass...as shall I, eventually. Though I may well return to Belloc before the cremation.
Never a fan of Hardy, but the theme within Tess of the d'Urbs was ripening and burgeoning beyond fruition.
Sup up! And keep up - you'll need to do some research this time if you wish to learn les nuances.
Dreaming of Dead People
The trouble with mental incapacity is that sometimes one just cannot think of an appropriate tune to go with the drivel. Perhaps I should write a song with the title as above.
It actually relates to a dream I had last night. Not that I usually remember my dreams, but I know they are bad cos they always wake me up.
This particular one concerned my Father, long since departed from Middle Earth, and a friend who died suddenly some time ago. What they were doing at a holiday camp I do not know. Nor why my two sons were back in their pre-school days although their sister was of the age she is now. And the fact that I was being saddled with another baby, of which I have no knowledge, rather perplexed me.
Anyway, during the dream I had to carry the infant, wrapped in its swaddling, all around this static caravan site. Including the mini-crazy-golf course - wherein I encountered the Mother of one of Number One son's nursery colleagues - whilst trying to arrange the funeral of my dead friend with the assistance of his bereaved wife.
I would love to know what type of drugs I am on...perhaps I should go to one of those psychoanalytical dream-catchers. Trouble is, why should I pay good money to be told I am a looney? I know that already. I think the key part in psychoanalysis is 'anal'.
I must try to get more sleep and retain some of the dream memories. Then I could produce stuff like Syd Barrett, make a fortune and go off the deep end. Rather than just go off the deep end in penury.
Toodle-pip!
It actually relates to a dream I had last night. Not that I usually remember my dreams, but I know they are bad cos they always wake me up.
This particular one concerned my Father, long since departed from Middle Earth, and a friend who died suddenly some time ago. What they were doing at a holiday camp I do not know. Nor why my two sons were back in their pre-school days although their sister was of the age she is now. And the fact that I was being saddled with another baby, of which I have no knowledge, rather perplexed me.
Anyway, during the dream I had to carry the infant, wrapped in its swaddling, all around this static caravan site. Including the mini-crazy-golf course - wherein I encountered the Mother of one of Number One son's nursery colleagues - whilst trying to arrange the funeral of my dead friend with the assistance of his bereaved wife.
I would love to know what type of drugs I am on...perhaps I should go to one of those psychoanalytical dream-catchers. Trouble is, why should I pay good money to be told I am a looney? I know that already. I think the key part in psychoanalysis is 'anal'.
I must try to get more sleep and retain some of the dream memories. Then I could produce stuff like Syd Barrett, make a fortune and go off the deep end. Rather than just go off the deep end in penury.
Toodle-pip!
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