A Dog's Life

I'm aware there's been a slight leave of absence, but I always like to think it's the quantity not the quality that counts.

The next few entries may well appear in a rag tag kind of order, it's merely artistic licence rather than my inability to recall events in a coordinated order.

Park Life

The following is a mainly pictorial record of how a recent day's exercise went with Barley, Briggsy's dog.

Things of note:

Barley is a girl.
Barley likes finding Tennis balls.
Barley likes finding anything that can then be thrown for her.
Barley likes swimming.
Barley likes digging.
Barley whimpers if she's not doing one of the above.

Inactivity is not an option.

My mission objective was - WEAR THE PUPPY OUT.

The day started rather ominously. Upon arrival at the park the clouds were low and dark and hinted at rain threatening later. Fortunately we both had our coats on.

First off, there was some tennis ball chucking, for about twenty minutes the ball flew across the large open space only to be brought back within 20 seconds, for me throw again. I began to realise that this was not going to be as easy as I had foolishly hoped.

Next we headed for water.

I say we, in actual fact on one of my last throws, Barley opted to return the ball via the nearby lake.

And so began the episode we shall refer to as chucking the ball in the water.

* NB * by now my left arm was two thirds longer than my right, and Barley looked like this -

After almost a half hours worth of swimming we returned to the car. At this point it should be noted that Barley was looking a tad panicky. At the start of the morning I had promised her a full workout, and as we headed back towards the car park I noticed Barley began to trail behind.

How her face re-energised when I swapped the tennis ball for my bicycle.

* A point of note for any new dog owners * this does not mean I then threw my bicycle for Barley to collect. That would be fool hardy and dangerous, plus I don't believe Barley would be able to negotiate the racing gear levers without any opposable thumbs making hill climbs very difficult.

We began with earnest, to circumnavigate the perimeter of the park, deviating from our route only when the path cut back into the park or when I couldn't physically lift my bicycle over anymore small wooden railings.

Sometimes we sprinted, sometimes we travelled at a rather more sedate speed, and on a couple of occasions one of us kept watch for joggers while the other went for a wee in the leaves near big oak trees.

As we began to turn back towards the car park area of the park, we stopped for some more ball throwing within a large copse of trees that provided some shelter from the now bitterly cold wind. Whilst there Barley opted to dig -

So engrossed were we in our digging, Barley with her paws and me with my bucket and spade, I almost failed to notice a Stag and doe nearby that had wandered over to see what was causing such a flurry of mud and grass tufts to scatter into the air.

This Stag was called John and had interests in ornithology, the Catholic Church between the 17th and 18th century and eating grass roots.

The weather seemed to have cleared and the only suggestion of what was to come was the howling wind that was beginning to push menacing clouds across the sky towards the park.

The following photo took about 27 attempts, the other 26 consist of a tree stump and a flash of white paw jumping out of shot -

A Stormy Exit

It was shortly after this photo that the weather decided to end our day outside.

The clouds over head stopped moving past quite so quickly and the wind dropped to a light breeze. There followed a moment when both Barley and I paused to look up at the sky.

There then began light rain which very swiftly escalated to heavy rain and climaxed in a downfall of monsoon proportions.

So heavy was the downpour that on our route back to the car, Barley was running ahead to sit in the dried brown bracken either side of the path to shelter from the rain. Until I neared her position at which time she would run ahead again to find another suitable port from the storm.

By the time we got back to the car, the car park was empty.

I opened the door for Barley and in she hopped. I ran round to my side and opened my door, only to have a small pug dog jump in and sit down in the driver’s seat.

Bemused I scanned the park for a dog walker as drenched as me.

From the cover of a nearby tree, there emerged a very apologetic lady calling out the name Archie. The pug dog hesitated before jumping from the protection of my car, before scampering off towards it’s owner.

I climbed in and squelched down onto my now soaked chair and we sat in the car both shivering and sopping wet awaiting the welcome heat of the cars blower heater things.

Upon our return home, we both washed and then dried ourselves with the hair dryer. Taking turns to comb each others hair to get the twigs, leaves and mud out.

At the end of the day I believe I achieved my aim, albeit at the cost of my own energy as well.

We were both cream crackered and slept very well that night.

On the other hand

I recently had the pleasure of enjoying a drink with two of the good guys from work. The drink was originally offered to all in sundry that work on the team but it was rudely rejected by most and those that remained, feared the potentially good night that was planned. That diminished the numbers to just D and me.

Whilst sounding out another colleague about his plans for that evening, he very graciously picked up on my thinly veiled plead and invited D and myself along to his plans. It therefore resulted in the trio of D, T and I guzzling our way through countless pints of Pride and entertaining many varied subjects of conversation.

It should be noted that many of the topics that are discussed at a time of complete intoxication, when the bar seems suitable to support your now slouched frame and the simple becomes the nigh on impossible, are usually important and pristine visions of a possible future for all man kind.

And then at other times the absurdly ridiculous becomes a point of fascination.

This occasion swung more wildly and more heavily towards the second of these two types of dialogue. I am not certain who first introduced the following subject and even if my beer quaffing blurred brain could recall whom it was I don’t feel it would be appropriate to repeat it in their absence.

The concluding line of an amusing anecdote told by one of us ended with the words “and the fingers on one of his hands was shorter than the other!”At which point D offered the following small nugget of random trivia “You know Jeremy Beadle’s only got half a hand. I mean he’s got stumpy fingers on one hand.” Both T and I agreed this was something we had noticed when he was still a popular entity on television many moons ago.

It was at this point that the conversation became slightly confused, due mainly to two factors. T’s partner, L, approached so he began to talk with her and secondly D was already sh1t faced so the conversation so far had been a minor miracle.

I still felt I had something to add to the subject of“freaky small handedness” so I offered the small utterance of “You know D, Chris Tarrant has a Beadlehand as well.” D turned to me in his drunken stupour, “Really?!”“Oh yes“, said I, “have you not noticed how he always used to sort of sit on one of his hands while he did W.W.T.B.A.Millionaire.”

“No, no I hadn’t. Really?!”

“Ask T, he’s a man of the world, he would probably know.”

“Hang on," said D. "Are you having me on?”

“No not at all, ask T”

“No, wait a minute, you are having me on. Is L’s last name Tarrant.”(A mental leap which I assume was obvious to D at the time.)

“What? No, just ask him.”

And so with a mildly humorous inevitability D turned to T and L, interrupted their conversation and asked

“L-is-your-last-name-Tarrant?”

L, “Err no.”

D towards T “T, did you know Chris Tarrant had a Beadle hand?”

I could do nothing more than stand behind D furiously crying with laughter as T shot me a bemused look as he tried to fathom what direction the conversation had taken since his presence in it moments before.

“He. Tarrant. What the? Milky what did you tell him?”

I shared my knowledge of Mr Tarrant’s limbs with T to which he replied “Really, I hadn’t noticed.” (he’s a little more trusting and less dramatic than D). I then pushed the boat out with my big finish of “And Tony Head, the actor who plays the Prime Minister in Little Britain has a Beadle hand as well.”

“The Prime Minister?” echoed D.

“Yep.”

“Really?! I’ll have to watch that again now.”

The whole night consisted of numerous conversations between the three of us which all essentially sounded like this. It was a good evening despite the lack lustre turn-out which D and T more than made up for.

I also seem to remember that the Live band were extremely good, if you’re ever in Twickenham on a Friday night and fancy listening to a decent guitar band playing songs by The Killers, ‘Phonics, U2, Kaiser Chiefs and the like, then set your sites towards the Twickenham Tup.

I enjoyed it and you just might.

I do read more than the comics, honest!

An enjoyable article from The Times on 31/10/05 by Anjana Ahuja

RAZZA, a Norwegian brown rat, did not waste a moment of freedom. Released by scientists testing rat-catching techniques on an uninhabited New Zealand island, he went on the run for ten weeks, dodging poisoned peanut butter, tainted chocolate and tracker dogs. This is despite wearing a radio transmitter, whose battery eventually expired.

Compelled by the seasonal urge to find a mate, Razza then paddled 400 metres across to another uninhabited island, thereby accomplishing the longest recorded swim by a rat. Researchers, unaware of Razza’s epic voyage, were tipped off that birds on a neighbouring island were behaving strangely; DNA tests on rat droppings proved that Razza was in town. The creature still evaded capture for eight weeks. “We were tearing our hair out at times trying to find this animal, ” admitted Mick Clout, the Auckland University ecologist who put Razza on the loose.

Razza, Nature reports, was finally done for when he fell for a bait of poisoned penguin meat. The researchers have released another, it is hoped less intrepid, male rat in a rerun of the experiment.

Par for the Course

After being horrifically tortured for roughly seven and a half weeks I was convinced that it would be a grand idea to build on my pitiful skills base at work.

I have always enjoyed the officer safety lessons which are essentially regular police self defence classes (goodness knows I need them). And since finishing my most recent instalment I pondered the idea of becoming an instructor myself, just like Big V, one of my colleagues on team.

I sent a preliminary request via an sms message to one of the training unit constables whom I have always had good banter with. This banter, I should point out is particularly one sided as I call him "Rookie" in spite of his many years in the job and I will often complete my training feedback sheet with a short love note to him. I'm certain he wouldn't mind the latter if it weren't for the fact that head office like to regularly dip sample these feedback reports to find out how training is received on each borough. Only to discover that the words "Rookie your the best I've ever had, truly an inspiration to us all" scrawled across the bottom of the page, all contained within an arrow shot heart.

The long and short of my request?

It emerged that my enquiry was a week too slow and the course had already been given to someone else.

I digress.

Where was I, arr yes. Having had my fingers slammed in car doors and after listening to Barbara Streisand - The Best Of, I was ready to sign on the dotted line for whatever course paperwork was thrust upon me.

Fortunately for me I was drafted onto a response driving course.

For main stream uniformed police officers there are three levels of experience for drivers -

Basic - I'm new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast.
Response - I'm not as new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but look at my pretty blue light.
Advanced - I've been in the job longer than you've been alive, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but I'm in a BMW and don't care.

Gone to the dogs

The driving school I was fortunate enough to attend was based in a dog training school. There ensued countless hours of “aaaww, look at the cutesy wutesy l’ickle puppy.” This wasn’t well received by the dog handlers who were attempting to train them into highly skilled bottom biting tools (despite their small fluffy pet appearance).





Whilst there, I experienced what turned out to be a physically and mentally exhausting but otherwise thoroughly enjoyable course.

Almost all of the driving is taught in covert cars so that the drives you do are more demanding on your driving safely because other motorists have greater difficulty in sighting you as you approach a roundabout on the wrong side of the road at 70mph.

Highlights?

There were two distinct moments that stand out on the course.
The experience of driving down the motorway topping 130mph when we spied a local police car floating along in the inside lane. Rather than doing the expected and slowing down, our instructor said “it’s alright lads, keep your foot buried” Then as we shot past, the instructor gave the police car a nod and a wave and on we continued.

The other is quite possibly the closest I’ve come to death in a car.

During our return journey from Portsmouth one day, we were driving as taught, at high but controlled speeds. It was one of the guys first drive in an automatic (something we all had to do whilst on the course). He shall remain nameless to protect his crime fighting identity but needless to say he wasn't the type of personality I really got on with.

We were headed along national speed limit roads reading the twists and turns via use of everyday signs we had been shown. Some learnt to read these better than others. The last comment I remember from our instructor was "use your peripheral vision guys" as all four of us glanced to our left across a field. Due to the open ground we were afforded the benefit of being able to see all the way across to where the road was. Therefore providing us with valuable knowledge about where we were going, oncoming traffic, road conditions etc.

It was at this point I distinctly remember looking ahead again and thinking that we were going a bit fast for the approaching bend. It then dawned on all in the car that we were indeed going to quick to make the corner. Despite the drivers best efforts we rounded the corner with excess speed. Our car was unable to cope with the speed and severity of the bend so as we rounded the corner we crossed the central line, went head on with an oncoming car before continuing to jitter across the tarmac before launching off the road down a 6’ drop into a unkempt field.

There we sat dazed and amazed by our experience for a few moments before exiting the car to survey the final resting place of what once was our transport home.

It wasn't well, and now had what looked like a Hawaiian skirt where the lower section of the bumper used to be.





In all the whole incident isn't one I wish to repeat in any hurry.

Back to Borough

Upon returning to my locality of work I was met with the usual jibes of “the courses really must be getting easier if you passed” and “they’ll let just about anyone drive these days.”

My revenge?

The fact that every one of them will, at some point, have to sit in the passenger seat when I drive to an emergency call.

You've got to be cruel... to un-wind

When your down and lonely, sometimes the misfortune of others can really be a source of relief and mirth. This is especially true when their misfortune is brought about by your own direct influence.

SRO

What was to be another enjoyable early turn changed to a potentially more perilous tour of duty in what basically equates to the reception area of Kingston’s second P station.

I arrived set for the day with both my lap top comp and portable DVD player. You must understand, I didn’t know we had a second P station until I was transferred to work there so why should any unsuspecting member of the public?

Simple yet funny

Due to the influx of visitors I didn't manage to watch any DVD’s but instead discovered a new way to keep myself entertained.

The entrance door to the front counter that I sat behind for the day is a simple affair. It consists of a normal door made from metal frames and two transparent glass panel sections. It can be opened by the MOP pushing the door once the door release button has been pressed on the P side.

This would appear not to be general knowledge and thus followed my enjoyment.

MOP’s that wished to gain access adopted one of two approaches. These consisted of either

Walking up to the door until they were almost touching it and then standing feet planted to the floor swaying from left to right attempting to trigger the “laser” to the sensor that opened the door.

OR

Approaching the door at a speed that is almost a quick run and meet the glass of the door with your face like a fly would a windscreen on the fast lane of the M1; before taking two steps backwards and trying this approach again.

Once their stupidity became obvious I toyed with their simple little minds further by ushering them through the door prior to pressing the door release button.

There then ensued a hilarious spell of them furiously pushing and pulling at the door whilst I goaded them further with shouts of “just push it” and “it’s open, try it now”

Once I had laughed until I felt decidedly nauseous I then let them in closely followed with a bemused look and a comment of “that door’s been playing up all day.”

Another satisfying day's work.

IKEA - the land of dreams

Having already explained my current domestic situation, i.e. an new house, I felt it necessary to furnish my boudoir with a variety of stylish and sexy articles of furniture. Unfortunately, I have neither the monetary funds nor the critical eye of an interior designer. I therefore opted to head for Ikea to buy copious amounts of wooden panels that apparently should look like a four poster bed or an eighteenth century mock Tudor courtyard with hanging water garden.

Ikea, I am reliably informed, stands for either Swedish haut couture or ha-ha you are missing a screw, I am yet to find an authentic Swedishian who can verify this though.

I arrived fresh faced and ready to purchase my many wares that consisted of various obscurely titled items like a frying pan called Skanker or a bed sheet by the name Tupplur.

The bedroom furniture I so earnestly desired was all known by the name Malm.

A simple yet stylish design that had a chunky look and feel to it; and also came in a rather nice oak finish.

I must at this point inform you that I was in the company of Briggsy. A crucial cog in this story machine as you will discover later.

Showrooms

For all those of you that have never experienced the pleasure that is Ik-yeah (which I'm reliably informed is the phonetic spelling of the stores name) it really is a steep and deeply enjoyable learning curve, or not.

You enter into a bright yellow and blue coloured building with a deceptively named information desk and a large wood paneled staircase that appears to lead to heaven. As I headed for the staircase, a slight flicker of movement attracted my attention in the very outer reaches of my peripheral vision. As I turned to look I still swear to this day I caught a glimpse of a partially blood stained member of staff being hauled back into the recesses of the disabled toilets by a disgruntled shopper.

In the upper section above the whole of the rest of the store are what I believe are referred to as the showrooms. Within these richly decorated and well fashioned suggestions it is made to appear that all of the furniture on sale can be built and positioned in such a splendid way that your life will fill complete.

Lulled into a false sense of security by this seemingly possible venture, I wandered around the showroom area selecting the many wonderful items I wished to purchase whilst my newly employed scribe (Briggsy) hurriedly attempted to record the exact dimensions, product code and price. Briggsy did well and was able to transcribe everything I excitedly squealed in her direction. I soon had a sizeable and selective list of all that my Milky little heart desired. All I merely had to do now was descend to the lower depths and purchase their wares.

How far from the actual truth this really is will fast become evident when you enter the seedy underbelly of the Ikea shopping experience.

The Marketplace

As you ride the escalator down the brightly lit well stocked shelves suggests a friendly and inviting shopping experience.

Surrounded by other oblivious shoppers I soon discovered that many of the product names are mildly un-nerving

Krusti - Bed sheets
Alergi - Duvet covers
Skid - Towels
Durtee - Throws
Soild - Cutlery
Smeer - Tea towels
Krakd - Mirrors
Wonke - Frames
Dedd - Plants
Slutt - Beds
Burnd - Candles

and so on...

Beyond the Marketplace

Having had to circumnavigate the Marketplace area and all it's pretty shiny things that everyone must own (but not actually know what they do); I emerged into a warehouse. This is the filthy dirty core where the real battles are won and lost.

I was closely followed by a small figure eagerly clutching a bag of 7,490 tea light candles and roughly 17 plants. I was able to work out from the shoes they were wearing that it was Briggsy. I parted the foliage to find a Briggsy grinning from ear to ear uncertain of where she was shuffling but not really all that bothered.

After having had to collect her neatly scribed list of my required bedroom accoutrements from her pocket (as she no longer possessed an empty to hand to do this herself) I began to attempt to find my furniture.

Shortly after this attempt began I soon realised that there was one vital piece of information that I had absent mindedly forgotten to record. The fecking aisle number each piece of furniture was stored in.

And so began the long trek up and down every oddly numbered aisle that appeared to be ordered via the Fibonacci sequence rather than the traditional 1,2,3 etc.

Once I had managed to find three empty spaces where my lovely oak wardrobes and drawers should have been I decided to seek professional help.

I use this term loosely as I did in fact have to ask a member of staff.

I began this attempt at the desk in the rear of the store where lots of other happy people were walking away with numerous boxes of various flat packed items. How hard can it be, thought I.

I waited my turn and when finally the masses had parted I was able to approach and feebly pass the assistant my scrappy hand scribbled list as I noted that all those round me had fresh printed inventories of the wares they wished for.

Oh balls.

I realised I had made a faux pas moments before the man in the yellow top said

"Where's your order form?"

"I.. er.. I don't have one" (quietly restraining myself against the overriding wish to finish my reply with either Sorry or Sir).

"You need an order form mate."

There came my reply

"Okay-sorry-bye"

As I fled the glaring looks of all those so much more intelligent than I.

I scanned the open plan shop floor in search of where to get me one of those printed lists until my eye fell upon a gaggle of people by something called..

The "Help" Desk

This desk may have been titled in reference to the staff or it may have been titled in regard to what they are meant to do, either way whomever I spoke to there was chuffing useless.

Firstly upon approach I noted a traditional British queue. I duly joined the end and attempted to avoid kicking the nearby simpletons children who insisted on trying to pull on my trouser legs.

I was close to being served/helped/stared at by a dribbling moron when to my dismay and slight embarrassment I was queue-jumped by two eighty five year old women. I did think of mentioning that there was a queue, but felt it would be petty as there was no-one else stood behind me.

Imagine my dismay when two more groups of people began to queue behind the blue rinsed twosome. Fortunately for me the 14 year old spotty till operator noticed my feeble plight and ushered me to the till prior to them.

I introduced myself as a shopper and explained that all the items I wished to buy were out of stock. This turned out to be my first of many mistakes. He explained to me that I required the product code for each item before he could check they had it in stock.

Having been banished from the Help Desk until I had such information, I returned to the aisles seeking what I needed, with Briggsy skipping along gayly behind me.

Once I had collected the nine digit product code for all of them I returned to the Help desk, queued up again and happily produced my scribbled scraps of paper.

There followed a brief wait whilst the "Helper" blindly bashed the keys of the computer in front of him. He then produced a lovely fresh printed list of the items I needed so desperately and directed me towards the delivery desk.

The same desk I had already been banished from earlier.

I happily sauntered over to the desk proudly wafting my crisp new list in whomever's face got to close. As I re-introduced myself to the flat pack fraternity I recognised a lot of familiar faces.

There, slumped and slouched all around the desk were the same people I had seen half an hour before when I had first wrongly come to this section.

It was then I noticed behind the clerks head was a hand scrawled waiting time - 1HR 20.

Realising I had only two hours to get too work, there then ensued a mind wrestling 10 minutes where I attempted to work out if I could possibly make it. Until in one dramatic gesture I lost my rag, threw my toys out the pram and stormed off in a huff.

Only to find I had to wait for Briggsy to purchase the incredible number of things that filled her two most important requirements in life: - it must be green OR it must burn. (NB the day someone designs a fir tree shaped candle is the day Briggsy goes bankrupt).

The Result

I exited the store with nothing, not even my dignity. Briggsy exited the store arms laden with candles and plants.

The Conclusion

I succeeded in humiliating myself in front of various social dross and wasted an estimated two hours and forty five minutes of my life.

However...

I returned the next day at opening time and bought all my furniture and got it home delivered within one hour!

The moral of this story.. I'm not certain if there is one.. Ah yes I know

"Always make sure you check what items are contained within your flat pack furniture"

p.s. don't suppose anyone's got some spare wardrobe handles knocking about?
Getting to my clothes is a real pain in the posterior.

What the web was made for

Stumbling through the internet I came across this link on a creative American guy's blog, it's a music video for a song called JCB by a band named Nizlopi.

This video is bliss.

Well worth bookmarking for a rainy day.

(unfortunately its best viewed on a broadband connection)

A Great Park of British Life

On occasion, words are not required.

I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

# contented sigh #

Enjoy, as I did.

I'm not sure if your aware but ...

over the past decade, and a bit longer (plus three days) Jim and I have been pursuing the much admired-until-you-try-it past time of purchasing a home together.

Let me clear the air here and now, because since this joint business venture has begun we have received many a disparaging comment upon both mine and Jim's good names. When informed about our intended investment, many friends and colleagues have opted for either "Arrrr" or "Oooo that'll be nice".

I can't help feeling that the over explicit implicated undertone in those comments suggests that Jim and I have finally admitted our overwhelming feelings for each other and succumb to one another's butch and manly charms.

I hate to disappoint, but this is one occasion I feel I must.

We have not chosen a life of Big Brother and poodles. We have merely picked to buy a place together as it is not economically viable to purchase properties independently of one another, and as Jim so aptly puts it "for sh1ts and giggles".

Plus the fact he goes for Brunettes and I don't know enough about cars.

Here follows a simple and easy to follow guide on how to buy a place of residence. Some points can be edited to suit their intended recipient/recipients and their respective countries.

1. Decide to buy a place.
2. Decide to buy a place with a building on it.
3. Decide to buy a place with a building on it that you can afford.
4. Realise you can't afford much more than a can of economy pack baked beans to live in.
5. Look for a long standing friend to buy a building with.
6. Offer them a chair.
7. Break the news to them that they are dying.
8. Inform them you were only joking about the last bit and inform them that you actually wish to buy a home with them.
8a. Threaten to mention their weird third nipple to the world if they refuse.
9. Agree the deal with a rather vigorous and slightly painful handshake.
10. Go and ask an adult how you buy a place with a building on it.
11. Wake up after selected parents’ speech and decide to look it up on the internet instead.
12. Buy a small cat called Bernard off e-bay.
13. Log off computer.
14. Log back into computer and return to surfing the internet remembering you were meant to be looking up how to buy a place with a building on it.
15. After thoroughly reading two lines on a particularly boring web site, both agree to just wing it and see how it goes.
16. Visit an estate agent.
17. Ask about legal advice from someone you'll come to know as Squirrel.
18. Exit estate agents believing you honestly know what Squirrel has just told you.
19. Enter second estate agents and begin to tire of the "same old questions."
20. Look at pretty colour photographs of houses.
21. Nod over enthusiastically when asked if you want a fixed or variable rate mortgage.
22. Hesitate as it dawns on the two of you that they require an answer.
23. Blurt out the one you can remember then breathe an audible sigh of relief as it appears you picked the right one for you.
24. Return home to a barrage of questions from your respective parents, which you fail to answer suitably by just using shoulder movements.
25. Spend numerous nights driving around between the hours of 01:00 and 03:30 discussing where you could fit the third car, whilst local residents watch you suspiciously assuming you to be burglars out "casing joints" for their "next big job."
26. Sign up to more and more estate agents until every call on your phone begins with the words "Good morning Mr B******* this is Sharon from **** **** we have a property you might be interested in."
27. Arrange some property viewings.
28. Get horrifically drunk the night/morning before said property viewings.
29. Arrive at the first address looking like a recently exhumed corpse.
30. Stagger violently through the days events never really sure if your legs are working and mumbling incoherently, creating the impression that you may well require lots of shiny metal bars fitted round the house, and a chair lift.
31. Blog about it.
32. View yet more properties, now beginning to play estate agents off against one another.
33. Crash your car at one of the houses by not noticing a rather alarmingly large step at the end of their stupid paved driveway.
34. Discuss the property’s potential whilst attempting to work in that day’s key word of monumental.
35. Visit a house without the estate agent, and be shown round by the home owner, whilst making polite responses to a grotty little hovel with thirteen children in.
36. Wipe your feet as you leave last house.
37. Phone estate agents and ask them what they're playing at whilst being encouraged by your home investment partner or best mate.
38. Return to stupid driveway house and discover that the next door neighbour has an over zealous taste for loud abrasive music which can be heard from every room of the property your looking round.
39. Visit a new age recycle friendly house which some refer to as Telly-tubby homes.
40. Discover they only have one parking space, and leave rather hurriedly.
41. Look at an alright house in a road spitting distance (literally) from a less than savoury demographic of chavs.
42. Exit said property and be seen to be overly excited to discover that your car is still their and hasn't been damaged.
43. See no. 25.
44. Visit an estate called “Sunny Delight” (or something very similar) and marvel at the disrepair of one house, whilst also convincing your homie that it would be a wise investment.
45. Discover the owner’s wife has recently died, and decide to put in a viciously low bid when the estate agent informs you that he is looking for a quick sale as where he currently lives has too many painful memories.
46. Enter the garden of the property to discover a large cross in one corner with some flowers next to it.
47. Get a chill down spine as you suspect that he may have buried her in the back garden.
48. Become dispirited when a parent says “I think you two are too lazy to take on a project like this.”
49. Put in low offer.
50. Wait a week.
51. Receive a reply stating he no longer wishes to sell his house.
52. Receive another call two weeks later enquiring if the bid is still “on the table”
53. Discover seller has dropped price to what you originally offered, and duly inform him that your offer has also now dropped by the same amount.
54. Receive no further calls from that seller or estate agents.
55. Visit a first floor flat with original feature oak floorboards, rout iron staircase, iron radiators and fully fitted plush kitchen and spend most of your time there; discussing how you could rig up a zip line from the fire escape into the trees at the end of the communal gardens so you could “deliver the sausages to the BBQ in style.”
56. Discover aforementioned road is getting fancy gates at both ends and seriously consider buying the property solely to impress visitors to your swanky private abode.
57. Decide against it when the owner states “I’m holding out for the asking price.”
58. Petrol bomb the property, returning the next day, to state that your original offer no longer stands due to the obviously recent fire damage they failed to make you aware of.
59. Visit a new development and be shown round by an overly posh lady by the name of Sabine who pronounces the word Six as Sex.
60. Spend the next 40 minutes finding ways to make her say the word Six.
61. Inform Jim after leaving the new construction that all the way through our visit she had assumed we were builders and originally not spoken to us because she assumed “us chaps had attended to do the wiring.”
62. Restrain Jim for the next 7 minutes, directly outside the front of the property as he fights to go back in and tell her we are not builders via the use of numerous colourful words that she will no doubt not have been privy to in her life thus far.
63. Almost faint on the discovery that your expected roomie has sold one of his cars to be more sensible.
64. Find out it was the one he has spent X amount of money on in the past 12 months.
65. Faint.
66. Recover suitably to head around 200 yards further up the road to another new build property.
67. Meet the sales assistant who appears suitably nice and discover your projected buying partner has a penchant for naming her every one of his ex’s names rather than her actual name.
68. Wander round a building site commenting on the fact that the sales assistant can speak more normally than the posh lady down the road and that the flats are a better size.
69. Sweat profusely and procrastinate over whether to buy one of the flats.
70. Do above for approximately 4 hours.
71. Decide to opt for the “what the hell, what’s the worst that could happen” approach.
72. Put in a deposit.
73. Then tell your folks, who are away on holiday and in control of your sizeable wedge of money.
74. Carry on regardless when they return and begin to offer their unfalteringly hesitant opinion.
75. Live care free for the next three weeks, occasionally visiting your friends home to offer an over dramatic gyration of your left wrist to sign every piece of printed document thrust in front of you.
76. Consider therapy for your friend when you discover he is a twitchy nervous wreck from the constant calls he is receiving from Estate agents, sales assistant and solicitors.
77. Buy the frame for a king size bed and secrete it in strategic positions in six different areas of your folks place in the hope that it will take them until you move out to discover what all the large pieces of wood actually construct.
78. Complete on the property and move in with little more than the clothes on your back and a mattress (not on your back).
79. Live in a squat-like environment for five days.
80. Transport king size bed in small hatchback, much to the amazement of many and the direct physical pain of you.
81. Build bed.
82. Admire bed.
83. Realise bed is different coloured wood to rest of bedroom furniture.
84. Not admire bed quite so much.
85. Bounce across bed to get to window.
86. Break bed.
87. Repair bed…
88. …around two weeks later.
89. Receive cards from loved ones informing you that you are now a home owner and that you are no longer welcome in your old home without an invite.


I know what you’re thinking and yes it really is that simple !

Ps my current leave of absence is due to having no home telephone line at present. Well more accurately, we do have one, it’s just tied to a tree at the moment and not a telegraph pole. It makes calling people difficult and internet use impossible.

There's a bigger story here but I don't have time ...

to tell you right this minute.

Although, the more astute of you may well be able to tell what it is, prior to my recording it formally here, sending out the relevant formal documentation are the inevitable knees up (drink!).

Recently Jim and I were in the local high street. I'll leave it as local, therefore suggesting the slightly threatening pretence that we may well regularly shop nearby to where anyone of you could live.

We wondered into a main stream entertainment technology provider, with the intent of just browsing and possibly with a greater view to stealing a brochure without being overly harassed.

We achieved our first aim rather successfully; the second was doomed to fail from the offset.

As we stood admiring a television that appeared to be the same thickness as the slice of toast I had only finished devouring moments earlier, I noticed a figure amble into the peripheral extremities of "my space". Jim and I were exchanging the usual thinly cloaked attempts at knowing guy chat about a product we knew nothing about, when the sales assistant or personal harassment officer approached.

Within 30 seconds we had exited the store, but not before he had tried all his best sales moves.

He began by attempting to shepherd us round to the television on the other side of the display stand that was 5 inches bigger than the one we had been contemplating. Strangely enough it also appeared to be £300 more expensive as well.

He then snatched up a brochure for us and began to scribble down deals he could do just for us. Funnily enough, all the "deals" he offered appeared to just be the prices already displayed for each product.

Lastly, realising he was not going to make the big sale he had hoped for he tried one last attempt at making sure he would get some kind of commission should we return and purchase one of his shiny silver boxes of joy.

As he passed the glossy brochure to us he scribbled down his name for our reference. All the while he had introduced himself as Dinesh.

Only when he wrote his name down did we realise we had been talking to a guy called "Danish" and had not had the opportunity to mock him with a usual wit and biting sarcasm.

We departed the store, covering our widening grins with our shoulders shaking wildly, arguing whether his last name was Pastry or Bacon.

Crash #1

Desolate and degrading, I slowly fall away.
My inside on the outside, and my blood still flows away.
The golden sky is shattered, and soon the gloom teems over.
I watch the fading light, with body towards the sky.
Crowds rush in but quiet screaming falters through my head.
The listless life without a fate has killed me now instead.

Rusting by the asphalt, the glass just sits and waits.
But no one comes to collect it; the sparkles just too late.
Milky’05

D day

There's been a little something missing ...

... at work recently.

I can't put my finger on it.

It's not there.

Work's different somehow.

I'm getting flashes of Ted.

Someone called Ted.

No.

Ted Baker ?

Ah yes that's it.

Wee Andy has gone.

Safe journey matey, enjoy your time away from the hassles of the life you've left behind for a few months.



Speak to you soon.

Well the stadium was impressive

Travel Report

We set off in earnest, Briggsy and I. (Ernest being the name for my small automobile).

We paused only to take pictures of every possible mechanical device tearing up the M25, anything shiny/reflective or to try and fathom how to get into the motorway services, after SOMEONE drove into the lorry park section and couldn't get back towards the normal persons area.

Briggsy then very kindly offered to take over the driving. As by the time we were half way into our journey I had become noticeably twitchy at having to sit in the same chair for so long.

We left the petrol station, re-fuelled, replenished and reading the road signs. Seconds after re-joining the four lane super duper road which goes the way we wanted to... M4!! It was the M4!! I knew I'd remember it if I stalled for long enough. Ahem. Where was I?

Ah yes, we've just smoothly re-integrated ourselves into the other red shirted Lions supporters when we hit a big queue of traffic.

I suppose I should waylay your fears. Briggsy isn't a crap driver and we didn't actually HIT any traffic. I'm using an internationally recognised term for "we spent the next hour and whatever stopping and starting whilst Briggsy got to jump between first and second gears every 2 seconds"

Eventually, we threw coins at the toll booth, it opened and we sped across into Cardiff, a small country near Whales apparently.

Once in the town centre of Cardiff, which I believe is strangely enough the capital of Cardiff (that must get jolly confusing) we realised one of two things

1/ The match wasn't the small intimate affair we had first assumed it would be

or

2/ There was a meeting of Welsh gurning champions who appeared to dress in a very similar uniform to the latest Lions shirt.

We cruised the town for a while looking for somewhere to deposit the car until we stumbled across a small multi storey parking facility called something like Twyfeleddergruur car park.

This was my first mistake, not remembering the name of the car park we had parked in.

The second mistake followed very shortly when, upon my suggestion, we decided to just "follow everyone else" towards the ground. It worked a treat, but unbeknown to us we now had no actual recollection of what way we had walked from car to ground and vice versa.

The Welsh

Damn they ugly.

The Ground and the Surrounds

I won't pretend to know any more than I do so understandably I wouldn't advise quoting any of the next section to anyone whilst deep in conversation with someone about the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.

The ground is big. There were about seven gates, after following the crowd we discovered that we were at gate 1. Hooray! We wanted to be at gate 7. Boo!

We dutifully trudged all the way around the outside of the ground. At one point passing a young girl who either really liked her nearest friend, had just had her wheelchair stolen, was actually asleep, or was completely sh1t faced.

There was a fantastic atmosphere and it was nice to see so many foreigners in their natural environment speaking their funny little language. This atmosphere was added to by Briggsy occasionally catching sight of mounted police (mounted on horse back I might add, the Cardiffians and Welsh are weird but I don't think they're that weird).

And there was a lovely moment when a large group of inebriated middle aged men cheered the Lions wives and partners into the ground as they drunkenly mistook their coach for that of the players.

Once we had walked past numerous reflective coat wearing officials and stewards, with a small whimper emanating from Briggsy on each occasion, we entered the ground and made for the food stalls.

Dinner

We hoped for - Harry Ramsden's fish and chips
We got - Hot dog

The Game

Since his argument with 50 cent has been resolved, The Game has been hard at work in the studio on his follow up album to the hugely successful debut....

Sorry, wrong game.

The game was pants. We... They, didn't play well. The Pumas came to win and should have. JW looked comfortable and converted everything he had chance to, and so earned the Lions share of the points.

Positives to take from the match... The Argentines had a nice time and I ate a Hot dog.

It seemed apparent that the squad was watered down, and they played like they had been warned not to commit, for fear of injury.


There's always a couple who forget to tuck their shirts in for the school photo


For a short time, some of the Puma's helped the Lions out by swapping sides


I can't be certain but I think they're blessing him, for his efforts.

The Specs

Firstly there was the smoker, in front and to our left. Why did we assume he was a smoker, I hear you ask? The tentative search in his coat pockets, that very gradually became a frantic scramble, until he virtually tore his pockets in search of...

shortbread.

He then clutched the shortbread in his maddeningly shaky hands as he attempted to inhale the moreish crumbly goodness in an attempt to forget about the small white sticks in his other pocket. Half time came, and he went, like a Paratrooper, shoulder rolling his way down the stands as he stealthily removed a Marlboro cigarette and a Bic lighter from his pocket ready to calm his beating heart.

In a close second was the gentleman splayed out across three and a half seats in front of us, all of which were groaning under the strain. All I can say is thank goodness the people who had booked the seat in front of us didn't appear. They would have had to fight to get onto the thing.

Lastly, there was the wife of the gentleman sat next to me. I imagine she formed part of the coaching staff. So insightful was her mid match analysis, that many around her position could be seen to lean in and hear her wise words wisdom.

The best of her critical observations were

"Oh Jesus, they keep doing that. Why don't they hold on to it?"

"Yep, pass to him, then pass to him, and then... he drops it. Why do they do that?"

"Why's he putting it down there now, he's not going to kick it is he?"

"Johnny's got it... Johnny throws it to him... that's it... oh they got it off him"

The aforementioned parking oversight

After the match, and the Puma's impromptu victory lap of the stadium to which they received rounds of applause, Briggsy and I ambled from the ground into the cool night air at around 10 pm.

The first few hundred yards we were in the thick of all the supporters, following the similar route they all seemed to be taking.

Three rather jolly Lions fans were mucking around having a good time after consuming a few pints or twenty. One was hoisted onto a friends shoulders and carried down the street via the use of a firemans lift.

His friend was too drunk to be looking and he was facing the other way, but it didn't stop twenty on lookers from spotting the fast approaching bus stop sign that his head bobbed steadily towards.

A chorus of 'Oohs' rang out as the young chaps head connected with the pole with a dull reverborating thunk. Surprisingly, he lived, and probably due to the ridiculous amounts of alcohol in his blood stream, he laughed the incident off and continued on his stagger home.

Did I mention the Welsh were ugly and thick?

Once the crowds started to disperse we began to realise that not everyone had come from the same car park. And so commenced the re-discovery of Cardiff by the English. For almost two hours we walked up hill and down dale, occasionally seeing glimpses of red shirted people off in the distance laughing heartily as they disappeared into shadows before we could beg for directions from them.

The map below is an artist's impression of the route we took



Finally, Briggsy asked a local for directions, whilst I stood a suitable distance away, pretending like I knew exactly where I was.

We reached the car park with nineteen minutes to spare before the midnight closing time. Phew!

As I navigated my way out of Cardiff, and towards bonnie England Briggsy and I discussed the disappointing result.

As we re-entered England, Briggsy drifted off to sleep, and I began to create ways to stay awake during the drive back. I did the following...

Listened to Coldplay - Parachutes
then Listened to Coldplay - A Rush Of Blood To The Head
then ate the rest of the Jelly Tots for a sugary rush
turned the heating to cold and began to freeze my face
took the racing line on the motorway when there was no other traffic about
drank a can of R Whites Lemonade
listened to Embrace - The Good Will Out
tried to work out my ETA by doing arithmetic in my head as we passed each motorway sign with the remaining miles to London marked on it

Whilst Briggsy slept in the passenger seat, resembling a kidnap victim with a coat draped over her upper body to shield her from the sub-zero atmosphere within the car.

I arrived outside Briggsy's gaff at 02:30 having made pretty reasonable time, with my car making all the usual pings and ticking noises that one does when they've just gone the fastest their ever likely to go.

All in all it was a good evening despite the disappointing match, sub standard dinner and unplanned hike around Cardiff.

That's me, easily pleased.

Rugga

1/4

Firstly there was the Army - Navy match. Sterlingly documented by Briggsy.

2/4

Only a week later, Milky returned, doing his part to help the elderly and infirm, by taking his Father with him, Milky Snr.

The day consisted of two games. The earlier kick off time was for the Wildcard Premiership final, the winner of this would be granted admittance into the Heineken Cup next season.

The combatants were Saracens and Gloucester.

From our lofty seats we watched in awe as the small flecks of colour ran haphazard round the field of play. We later realised the, flecks of colour were the grounds men preparing the turf and a rogue balloon that we had originally assumed to be a world class winger playing havoc with the opposing teams defensive line.

The resultant score line when the teams locked horns and did battle was a confident victory for Saracens 24 points to 16. (The team I had chosen to support before either side had taken the field.)

A decision I resolutely stuck to despite the large hulk of a man I was sat next to who appeared to be supporting Gloucester. :-/

The Final

The Zurich Premiership Final was between the two most dominant teams of the last few years. London Wasps (black and yellow) and Leicester Tigers (green and red)



You'll notice how the Wasps logo is helpfully labelled incase it is mistaken for a similar winged beast like a hornet, bee or ladybird. (London Ladybirds, hmmm, I think someone missed an opportunity there.)

This match was a marked improvement on the previous game. The two teams played strongly and it was a great opportunity to witness one of the last times Martin Johnson would face off against Lawrence Dallaglio.

Wasps started unexpectedly buoyant and in truth Leicester never really recovered. Wasps star player was fullback Mark Van Gisbergen, who scored a late try and kicked 21 of their 39 points haul.

The final result was 39-14 to Wasps.

Another fantastic choice of team to support!! Although again, the man mountain next to me did not appear to be too happy, as I noticed her was wearing a historic version of a Leicester top. However, my saving grace was his son, who also supported Wasps.

If I was a betting man, I could have made money on both those matches.

Although I'd probably also be an alcoholic and watching the match from a betting shop rather than in Twickenham.

3/4

Today, I venture to Wales (somewhere to the left-ish) to watch the British Lions entertain the Argies. Briggsy is keeping me company, and will no doubt holler enough for the both of us and again take part in harmless banter with a person seven times our combined body weight.

A match report shall follow.

But I can already pre-warn you, I will be supporting the Lions in this one...

I simply love that Red outift they've got!!!

All in good time

Ever start something you couldn't finish?

There is an impending entry that has been a real (unrepeatable) to write.

It's a work of fiction, quite topical and if it all works out (and I manage not to head butt the monitor anymore) should tickle you.

Be patient, good things comes to those who feel that money doesn't buy a bird worth two many chefs spoil light work and not heard.

A Quick Note

Surely the Gov. has better things to spend our hard earned money on...



than personalised plates for buses!!



The crowning glory would have been if this l'il guy was the driver...

Not in my day

Is it me or do kids “gotta no respect” (read it again, but now do the voice of Marlon Brando from the Godfather.)

Let me stop people there, I know your all probably aware, I’m not exactly all that senior in years, but I’m already finding myself passing comments to my friend and peers that contain the immortal lines of either “I would never have said … in my day” or “I wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that when I was younger.”

Am I growing up or are the general populous of youth growing down?

Like the roots of sycamore trees, the youth of today (a phrase I’m currently loathe to use) seem to be undermining the very fabric of everyone else’s lives. When I was younger, we had the Smiths, Radiohead and other expressive mediums that helped us sit and mull things over, whilst tentatively reflecting on the troubles that our lives seemed to constantly lob over arm straight at us.

It would appear that, the current trend is to congregate in a collective of four to eight, but if your particularly gifted and have a phone you can bolster your numbers to a pensioner threatening platoon of at least twenty-odd. To then hurl abuse and anything that comes to hand, at any and everyone who happens to be living a life anywhere near yours.

What has started this trickle of abuse towards youth?

A delightful young lady I had the pleasure of meeting last week… at work… as a Powiss officer… honest!

She was 13, had the attitude of a diva (can be optionally read as div-a or deeva), and had little or no respect for anyone. And (sorry to harp on) she possessed a skill that far too many of her friends probably do, not knowing when to stop talking and not knowing when to eat humble pie*.

My how I wanted to… teach her in the ways of etiquette and politeness.

Both Saucy and I left her home address saying exactly the same thing. “If I’d been like that to my Mam, I would have got a (delete where appropriate) clout/slap/belt/slipper/trained attack chinchilla round the back of the legs/head/coal shed.

It’s times like these I start thinking about re-forming my vigilante squadron “The Solo Attack Squad” (or S.A.S. for short). Unfortunately due to problems with funding, an over bearing Government that deemed our activities inappropriate and excessive, and another very similar military group becoming household a name due to ex-members writing novels, we had to fold.

I’ll never forget the guys I led in that group, our motto of “kill those that deserve it” wasn’t as catchy as who dares wins, but they both essentially had the same meaning. Ish.

I am done. My outburst is complete. I have found solace and soft toys. Milky has returned to his happy place. Karma has returned. Utopia has been achieved again… *U*K*N* L*T*L* S*I*S !!

* Humble Pie, anyone?

The topic of humble pie came up recently at work. Derv, before his departure, said he felt it would be a savoury main course, which was rather dry and crusty possibly with optional gravy.

I on the other hand always presumed it to be a warm pudding dish, in a white bowl with blue trim, almost molten lava temperature with thick custard that sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Any ideas? Send them in on a stamped addressed postcard to the usual address.

Superhero anyone?

I'm big, I'm courageous, I'm Russian, I'm dead? :-/

Singular

Imagine all my fears
imagine bone grinding
back breaking weight.
We carry it all, just never our fate.
Envisage every tear drop,
could you swim that sea?
Question every answer, impossible to be.
Remember waking early
just lying where you died.
Awaking every Sunday lost in a haze of over angelical pride.

All fictitious
only unreal
left in the cold with nothing to feel.
Milky'05

Are you comfy because there’s a lot to fit in?

As many of you may have undoubtedly begun to understand. My rest days are when I will usually do just that, taking the title of my days off as a command to R-E-S-T. I rather grudgingly find myself having to stay in bed past the AM (After Midnight) and well into the PM (Past Midday). Once in a blue moon, I have good reason to achieve this feat.

As Jim and I miss each other more than is usually socially acceptable we decided to do something about it. We tried to book a weekend away but fell at the first hurdle when we discovered Madam Whiplash had no vacancies over the Easter Weak-end (I know what I wrote). We instead chose to drink profuse amounts of lager and liquor over a three day stretch. Almost as good as the Madam’s short breaks, excluding the unusual body markings.

The first evening, we attended Kingston and drank socially, just the two us. The night was fraught with numerous communications between Jim and my stalker (a story for another time).

You see, Jim (bless his little cotton heart) feels an inexplicable need to use his mobily to contact all those in his life whom would rather he didn’t. Add to this the fact he gets this urge when he has managed to consume a small European countries worth of alcohol and the outcome is never as good as he thinks it was.

Needless to say, our evening drew to an end in “the club” and resulted in me dancing permanently facing the back wall, so as not to be lit up by my stalkers high velocity sniper rifle laser aiming sight.

No undercover work for me then

However, there was a moment when Jim highlighted how easy I was to find. He ventured to the toilet (for most it’s a chore but for Jim it’s a venture). During his absence I boogied my way across the dance floor in a style I can only describe as strictly cool dude ballroom / urban quick-step which to the untrained eye would probably appeared to have been little more than drunken stumbling.

My new position was approximately two hundred and thirty three metres and 16 centimetres diagonally across from the North-West wall. A sniffer dog with the nasal capacity of Gerard Depardieu would have struggled to find me. I worried, as my mind created images of a poor defenceless Jim fighting through crowds of strangers to find his one chum (don’t read those last two words again, it sounds wrong).

When I felt a hairy, and somewhat clammy, hand on my shoulder. My heart stops as I realise the stalker has located its prey. I spin round, hoping to make my lethal spin attack look like an innocuous dance move. There swaying happily behind me is Jim holding four drinks (our usual ordering system in large clubs to avoid having to whisper sweet nothings in the bar tenders ear to often).

Amazed, I shout (because it’s loud from the music) “How did you find me?” There comes the reply “Mate. You’re the only one here with yellow hair!”

£6 for a sore ar5e, it’s a lot where I come from

Running out of options that didn’t otherwise involve drink we decided to socialise again on the second evening, just the two of us. We went back into Kingston to firstly collect my car and secondly attend the cinema complex therein. During the decision making process that consisted of us sitting at the computer at my digs flicking through cinema showing times I posed Jim the simple enough question “Where do you want to go, (to the cinema) Kingston or Epsom?” There came the panicked response “NOT LEEDS!”

I paused, confused by Jim’s apparently completely bonkers suggestion. I reluctantly made eye contact with him only to be met with Jim’s endless-stare-of-imposing-death (which he can usually only do for 5 or 6 seconds before his eyes water). We eventually concluded that it would be foolhardy to attempt to make the showing times available in Leeds and opted for Kingston. One of the original places I had suggested.

**There is a completely innocuous explanation for Jim’s outburst, but I’m not at liberty to share it due to current and ongoing legal proceedings that may result in me being granted power of attorney over “Mad Shouty Jim.”**

The film, Constantine, concluded and we were ushered out of the cinema on the flimsy premise that we were only allowed to watch one film for the grotesquely large sum of money we had paid.

We emerged from the cinema like camp X-ray prisoners, squinting and rubbing our eyes, clad in orange boiler suits and clutching photographs of our captors indulging in lewd and rude acts at our expense.

The Snooker Emporium and our Dinner trouble

On our last night together, before I had to go back to Woody Harrelson and Jim was to give him the million dollars, we decided to go to a snooker emporium. It’s too far away to call our local, and we don’t go often enough to call it our regular. No-one even recognises us, and on occasions in the past we’ve had problems getting in. It’s a real favourite haunt of ours.

We arrived at the establishment, and were fortunate enough to find the door propped open due to the heat. We ambled in and approached the bar / service area. It was then I discovered I had neglected to bring my membership card. Jim nonchalantly pulled his membership card from his wallet and glanced at me like the guy who tramples dog sh1t into a posh restaurant carpet.

It was as the 50 something red headed staff member approached that we recalled that there had been problems with our membership on our last visit.

The snooker emporium has recently changed management. I say recently, it was probably about a year ago, but as I said, Jim and I aren’t really regulars. Jim flew into an attempt at rectifying the situation. Explaining that on previous visits we had been promised different solutions that had never been honoured the next time we visited because there had been different staff in.

The lady, Peggy (for the purposes of this tale) informed us that she would honour the promise and would allow us a year’s membership for free. Jim and I high-fived, overjoyed at the fact we had dodged the five pound charge for the year’s membership.

Peg told us we would have to wait half an hour though, as Paul the manager was not expected until the time he usually started work. As he would need to put his official stamp on the deal before it could have the go-ahead.

We agreed and opted to dine in their quality establishment, choosing to sit in the specially designated seating area that was two feet from where we stood. We slid smoothly along the service counter into the bar area and were met by a highly trained member of bar staff to assist us in our culinary choices, or Peg as her friends call her.

Both Jim and I perused the disconcertingly laminated menu. As I pointed towards the Hamburger meal, Peg helpfully informed us there were no burger buns. Jim immediately queue jumped me and placed his order of scampi and chips. A choice I should have opted for.

Peg informed me they did have hot dog rolls instead of burger buns. My heart sank, this poor woman had no idea what little consolation her pathetic option had been. I took a few deep breaths and looked over the menu again. I wanted a burger and had already begun to salivate, preparing my mouth and stomach for the expected goods.

I plumped for a burger in sub-standard packaging. I happily requested a double bacon and hamburger in a hot dog bun. Peg informed me that they had no bacon. Or any curly fries, which was an integral part of the meal I had requested. Oh.

I scanned the menu for a third time, my heart quickening at the realisation that I was soon to starve should I not find a suitable option. Okay Peg, can I have the cheeseburger, in a hot dog bun with normal fries then. Peg regretfully informed me they had no cheese either.

My now withered body gave up hope of ever gaining sustenance as one of my frail fingers fell silently upon the hamburger meal. I asked for a hamburger, in a hot dog bun, with no cheese, no bacon with normal not curly fries. Peg visibly cheered up and told me that was something they could make.

I also requested some onion rings to celebrate my ability to order dinner after only my 4th attempt. Peg said that we could have two lots of onion rings for the price of one as part of a member’s only offer. We agreed and retired to our seats.

As we devoured our food, Jim looked up cheeks packed with scampi and said my name. An unusual occurrence when our standard term of address for each other consists of derogatory comments that Anne Robinson would blush at.

It was then Jim quite rightly pointed out that if we couldn’t get membership, we were going to have to pay for the second plate of onion rings. We panicked and began to scoff the evidence of our discounted food. As Peg approached and informed us that the deal had been Okayed with Paul the big boss dude. We collapsed back in our chairs, spluttering bread crumbs as we realised we hadn’t needed to eat the equivalent of a whole deep fried onion in under 9 seconds.

After finishing our dinner, I pointed out to Jim that I had managed to get free membership without any proof that I had ever been a member. As Jim quite superbly stated, it could have been the “Scam of the century!”

**We do realise that the Brinks Mat robbery, Great Train robbery and the gold heist from that documentary called The Italian Job all rank quite highly, but we personally feel our achievement tops them with ease.**

Pool, Music and Chavs

An explanation is always necessary when you introduce a subject matter to people that they may otherwise be unaware of. All the required reading on this subject is available at this helpful and informative website on Chav's.

I return your focus to Jim and I. We’ve eaten, and re-joined the club we never stopped being a part of. We chose to play American pool for the night and got acquainted with the table indicated by Peg.

After less than an hours play, the light over the table next to ours turned on. A sure sign that we were about to have some neighbours. We continued our game and watched pensively as a group of young lads approached. They all appeared to be quite sporty people as they were all dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a variety of branded sports t-shirts. One had even felt it necessary to wear his smartest vest and rather fetching baseball cap.

They all appeared to have excelled at the school of Chav and fitted every stereotype possible. Jim and I exchanged concerned glances as we began to envisage having to become embroiled in a bare knuckle fight to hold onto our personal belongings.

They began to play pool and a gutter English reverberated towards us as they seemed to communicate amongst their group much like a group of pre-pubescent apes would. The largest of their number was the vest wearer. I imagine his name was Max, as this was what he had printed on the back of the vest.

Max looked like Russell, a cartoon character from a band called Gorillaz his lovely vest was a sort of cross between this and this although I imagine, for Max at least, it looked like

His cap could have been a homage to Fred Durst or even his little sister's but was actually

Max was a guy who knew how to look good when he needed to, this just wasn't one of those times.

Finally I've reached the Chav jury

Jim and I spied a coloured box nearby, mounted on the wall where the old jukebox used to be. This place really had changed a lot in the seven years we hadn’t been!

We approached it and read the excited statement on the front.

"Play 2 million music tracks!!" it cheerfully told us in funky green writing.

There was a charge of one English Earth pound for three tracks of our choice (as long as they were on the jukebox). We pooled together our available change and realised we couldn’t manage the required funds for all 2 million tracks. We instead, only had enough money for 17 tracks at most.

Jim approached first and selected his three tracks whilst I guarded our personal belongings. We then swapped places and I picked my three.

I sheepishly returned to our table and informed Jim I had picked three “great” songs. Knowing me far too well, he immediately picked up on the thinly veiled threat hidden behind my innocuous statement.

“What did you pick?”
“What?”
“You picked stupid songs didn’t you?”
“Not exactly; the last one is more of a classic.”

Jim smiled as he too informed me that his third had also been a moment of genius.

We waited with baited breath for our musical selections to fill the whole of the emporium. We didn’t wait long, as the first of Jim’s selection began. It was a song by Akon called Lonely. It’s predominantly a rap song but contains a chorus that sounds like it’s sung by the ovalteenies.

Suddenly Max piped up, “Yeh, I like this one.” And proceeded to moan along to the chorus.

Jim and I though nothing of it and attempted to hide our inanely grinning faces. Until the moment that Max got up from his seat and proceeded to dance, pool cue in hand, to the tracks closing beats.

I sidled over to Jim and asked if he was aware that he could get a job as a Chav DJ. He stated he hadn’t but would keep it in mind if the underground thing went down the Waterloo.

His next choice, Feeder – Seven days in the sun, wasn’t as well received. Max and Co. could muster little more than a confused ar5e scratch and a slow nod between them. They obviously had no basic grounding in any kind of discernable rock music.

Fortunately Jim’s final selected song came on, Bob Marley – Jammin. To our shock they all seemed to perk up. Their pool game seemed to become enlivened and words I could understand flowed from their scowling little faces. How Mr Marley would have shone with glee at the knowledge of giving a few kids a voice.

Max trudged off towards the bar / service area and returned a minute or so later beaming like a Cheshire cat. Then as he got back to his group, the music became louder. It dawned on Jim and I that he had picked a stormer to finish on as the Chav’s had liked it so much they had requested it be turned up!

Marley's wailing died down and the next song was the first of my choices. It was a 2pac track called Changes which was well received and again Max show boated his unusual gift of being able to sway almost drunkenly back and forth, causing Jim and I to reach for something solid as we assumed we were on a boat.

My second was, like Jim's, a rock track which again didn't settle well with them. It was at this moment that I remembered my last choice. I informed Jim it would probably be best if we called it a night and left rather hastily. He realised the gravity of our situation and began to try and inconspicuously collect together the pool balls.

We were too late, as the guitars faded out an almost deathly silence fell upon the whole room as everyone appeared to stop at the same time. I cringed, and squatted down behind the table as Mc Hammer began his classic (for me at least) Can't Touch This.



I breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Chavs welcomed this song. Again, many of them attempted to express their delight by shimmying round the pool table and Max even attempted a classy turn that was doomed before he even thought of it.

By the end of the evening Jim and I left the pool hall, satisfied that we had succesfully reached a point in our lives where should we ever need to we'll be able to conduct a family disco on a council estate with little more than a juke box and our razor sharp wit and inteleck.

My head hurts, and so must yours.

Go outside, get some fresh hair, my work here is done.

Derv Departs

There comes a time in every man’s life when they have to up sticks and move. It’s a big commotion for some, while others bow their heads respectfully and tip-toe quietly out the fire exit at the back of the room.

Derv didn’t choose to go,
Derv didn’t want to go,
Derv made sure everyone knew.
Good old Derv.

Like every colleague who has gone before, Derv sent out the obligatory e-mail notifying the world and his wife that he had selected a suitable venue and date for an evening of frivolity, dancing and vol au vents. The internal e-mail system was playing up that day and instead everyone received an e-mail saying it was planned for an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day.

The question of the night came from the self confessed Darwin lookie-likie, Antoine, when, after being told how big the whole rack of ribs were, he proceeded to enquire what sort of size the half rack of ribs would be.

The evening’s drinking began with gusto, in said Irish pub, and it was surprisingly busy. Drinks orders at the bar were heavily delayed due to most orders of drinks consisting of 15 pints of Guinness that at times seemed to have the viscosity of tar.

After a hard fought couple of rounds a decision was made to move onto the second most Irish licensed premises in the area, so our party duly made a bee-line for TGI Friday’s (despite the fact it was a Thursday).

Once we had commandeered one whole side of the bar many took about the “who can buy the girliest drink challenge” which I believe was finally won by Derv. Chuckles, a visiting drinker from another team was great value for money especially when he turned his Casanova charms towards the young bar maid.

Chuckles- “Hiya! What’s your name?”
Grace- “Grace.”
Chuckles- “Tracy? That’s a beautiful name, I like Tracy.”
Grace- “My name’s Grace.”
Chuckles- (moment’s hesitation) “Grace, that’s a nice name too!”

But it’s Thursday!... … So what, we’re pi55ed!

Where better to end a night/morning than in the realms of the cheese room at our club of choice. After gaining admission and filtering our way to the scene of my previous forays into dancing with Jim, we set about lighting up the dance floor. (Which did actually light up!)

Across a crowded room, our eyes met… it was then we realised that another team were out socialising, and a mock dance-off soon followed. We were greater in numbers and so much more, and our piece de la resistance was our linked arm Irish jig which blew away all on-comers.

I vaguely remember doing the fox-trot with a Skipper I shall code name as the Silver Fox and later clearly recollect the moment during a particularly energetic bout of dancing with Briggsy, I clouted a nearby reveller with my sharply angled elbow. She stumbled away clutching at her head attempting to retrieve her hair clip from the crater now evident in her cranium. As I, in the best possible taste, proceeded to mock her by flailing all my limbs around in a “Come-any-closer-you’ll-get-more-of-the-same” kind of dance.

Soon enough the music stopped and we thanked the DJ/Vicar for his fantastic musical accompaniment to our evening, in the well accustomed way of moaning loudly as the light came up. We then stumble from the dance floor and traipsed down and out into the cold, brightly lit streets searching for our transport home.

Derv lasted the night and all present appeared to have a good time. Flip stayed sober enough to keep his eyesight this time and I managed to avoid any photos of me in make-up.

He shall be missed, but no-one will ever let on.

The Night In Pictures


As the sun sets...



Never ask an Oompa-Loompa to take your photo



Derv worries as someone touches his pint




Chuckles moves onto his next vic... lucky lady




Derv with his drink, that he said he was "holding for this lass that just went to powder her nose"


As Dazza tried to leap over the organ grinder's monkey he realised he hadn't taken into account the hairy little chaps fez




Briggsy attempts to revive a baby chaffinch




Our dance troupe receives the thumbs up from the judges as we win the dance off




Derv. Photogenic as ever.




Same to you Derv

Quarantine. Q-u-a-r-a-n-t-i-n-e. Quarantine.

I have returned!

Apple-gees for my absence but I suddenly had an un-controllable urge to straighten all the pictures that are hung around the house. It took 9 days, 5 hours and 34 minutes but I’ve done it. (Please don’t ask why the pictures are hung around the house and not inside. It’s a moot point since I attempted to re-paper my ma and pa’s living room, instead of re-aligning the picture to the existing paper).

“The collective” as I have lovingly called you, have been gracious enough to contribute some of their own quirks and freakiness. So I felt it only appropriate that I return in kind, a little more about my own uniqueness.

Never Q behind me

The ordering I mentioned in my previous entry, actually extends further than I comprehended. Whilst stood in a(nother) Q recently I wished to procure something beyond the abilities of my well stacked coinage. I instead reached around to my back pocket and withdrew my wedge of notes that nests therein. As I brought them round to my chest to finger through them like a pimp checking his latest tricks earnings I became aware of the fact that I do, and always have, ordered my notes.

After visiting an ATM or hole in the wall, I will often fold my money over on itself, at an approximate point which is always exactly in the middle of the note. On the outside will usually sit the reliable and well fingered face of Liz (the 2nd) on a £5 note. Then in ascending order under this one will be the orange and browns of a £10 note, securely backed up by the muscle in the sterling family, the £20 (or Grant as I like to call him). I rarely carry £50 notes, because half of them probably aren’t real and they look unsightly in amongst the other notes due to their ridiculous size.

It gets worse though…

(Nervous laughter)

it doesn’t end there. After looking at the pile of well ordered cash in my grubby mitts, I almost whimpered as it dawned on me that they were all facing the same way up. It was un-intentional and subconscious, which is wobbly worse. Somewhere, a psychologist is hurriedly making notes in preparation for my ensuing visit. There, within my hands, from the top side of every note smiled the face of Liz (the 2nd). My mouth began to get dry as I realised the extent of my illness. At the same time my fingers began to become clammy, which was handy, as I was then able to unfold the corners of the notes so they were all of the same uniformed crisp appearance.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

In hind sight it was even more of a mistake to have become aware of all this in a shop that had crazy paving outside. For 40 minutes I hopped back and forth attempting to avoid the cracks still clutching my notes not wishing to risk them becoming creased should I return them to the pocket from whence they came. Suffice to say I won’t be returning to that shop again (on the manager's insistence)

Par examplar



A calming presence within my life.



Some of my best work.



To quote Thom Yorke - "Everything in it's right place."