Chrimbo with the Flu

It's been a scintillating Chrimbo. I was in bed at 7:30 p.m. Chrimbo Eve, I wish I could say it was because I expected Santa to turn up with the latest Tonka Toy, a stocking full of nuts and enough chocolates to make me puke. No it wasn't. Just my luck to get the flu. To be hit hard. Out for the count. About 15 hours later I got up out of bed Chrimbo Day. My chocolate has been pill popping paracetamol tablets or Echinacea. The odd Lemsip, copious amounts of vitamin C in tangerines, cranberry juice and squash. In consequence I've been a moody bear. An intolerant grouch, coughing constantly, sneezing inappropriately and being careful to eat only the smallest of children to pass my way.

My food portions have been small. Because after each meal I'd feel like I had to hold down a projectile banshee waiting to expel herself from my stomach. OK feel like crap but I'm still alive. Wish I could taste the food though. Nothing has any flavour and if it does have flavour then I feel the need for only the most simple cooked food. Nothing extravagant, just a preferrence for simple food. My head has felt like it is about to explode. And any moment brains will be spattered over the surrounding walls. Slowly crawling down, quivering, my body functioning to an all but decapitated reasoning. The passed couple of days have not been so good.

Depending how I feel tomorrow morning I may find myself treading the mill of work and heading to the Fish Factory. If the chill which comes at night doesn't grab me when I next hit the hay. A chill which feels deep within my bones. No matter how many coverings the bed has it's still there. Or has been there. Tonight I escape it. More Echinacea. More paracetamol. Tomorrow I break free. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes so I will from this flu. Alive. Awake. Then to take on the world.

The end of Mankind

With interest Sparkling Eyes remarked on an article she had read and passed it over for my perusal. Disappointingly the words strung together told of the slow and inevitable decline of Men from society. How the gene which held our chromosome had a degrading impact over time. So in something like 125,000 years or maybe less. It would mean no more men would walk this planet. We would not be around to open up over-tightened jars, our skills in map reading, chess and the allure of physics would be lost.

With Man effectively extinct, the world would be inhabited only by women. As for the procreation of humanity, the article went on to say artificial sperm was now on the edge of development. Two females could in theory provide the genetic material to create sperm and so babies. There were examples of fish populations which were totally female. The world would be so different.

With this thought I sit aghast, petrified. I can not even consider what this it would be like, it is completely incomprehensible.

So it has been said, Men are not the stronger sex. Not in the long run, so I expect this means it's about time Sparkling Eyes spent some time rubbing my back and feet. It's a joke honest.

Side bet on a weep

With delight I recently visited Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I spent a week in their company and learnt what it is to be a man whose strings were being pulled from two directions or more. But of all things it soon emerged there was a little side bet going on which I had not been told about. It did not take long to find out what it was.

It has to be down to a combination of hormones and age. The two together now have resulted in my becoming a bit weepy at times. Things just choke me up more than normal. It used to be one of the reasons I avoided watching Lassie films as a kid, they just made me cry. It’s something boys should not do. Now things are different. If something on the small box touches my heart strings, I can’t help myself. My emotions are moved. I let burst. It’s worse if I try and hold them back because then it’s like a big choking sound comes from me. As I breath in deep and then let rip with the wet stuff flooding down over my cheeks. Of course it is all to the delight of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. They see me, and then burst out with laughter. They wonder what the next item on TV will do to me. They watch. Glancing over just checking out. Waiting. Then tell each other if one is not around what set me off again. This is completely unfair. Unjust. But it happens. On this occasion unbeknown to me. I was the subject of a bet. How many times would his cheeks be washed? How many times would this softy have his emotions get the better of him? The betting was on three or more. Though I deny I reached this number, the terrible duo watching me judged it to be higher. How could I get them back I thought? I’d just have to wait my turn, and watch. They were keeping tabs. I’d have to keep an eye open as well.

There was a film on TV which I hadn’t seen before called “The Colour Purple.” With telly on the three of us sat down and enjoyed a warm room against a cold winter evening. The gas fire warmed us. Relaxed I lay draped on a sofa. Rock Chick and Sparkling Eyes sat close to each other glued to the telly on another sofa. The film rolled on. It’s quite a long film as well. The story enjoyable, based on the early 1900s black America. I was a little disappointed when Whoopy Goldberg’s character advised one man to beat his wife so she’d obey him more. That was sad I thought. It must have been near the end of the film about 2 hours in. When I felt a little twinge but not enough to let them roll when I turned and checked out the dreaded duo. Perhaps it was the sound of a sniff. Perhaps an unusual quietness from their side of the room. But there was no mistaking it. Both Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick sat there looking at the TV each with tears streaming down their faces. Oh my. What an enjoyable sight. I laughed and cajoled them. They were tears of joy for me. So yes, I am a softy, I’ll admit it. But even softy blokes get their rewards if they wait long enough.

We all got a tear or two and they are wonderful things. They are indicators of our own humanity. Our empathy an acknowledgement of the world. All I have to do now is instill a sense of wonder and happiness when Sparkling or Rock see a Sci Fi movie. Thing is I don’t think it’s going to happen.

Winter is here

There is something satisfying to waking up in a warm snug bed. Where you are just so comfortable and relaxed and just don't want to move, but know there's no choice. It's a working day. Inevitably it will be another late start. This morning, for about the third morning in a row, it was cold. damn cold. So cold I saw a monkey running down the street after his brass balls. Frost disguised the ground like the fine powdering of a Christmas Jule tide log. One step outside and my cheeks chilled. The capillaries constricted, nose ears and cheeks going red. Each exhale was equivalent to the steam from an old locomotive train. Each inhalation biting until my lungs were used to the crisp air. It was cold and I could only hope it continues to be cold for a good 3 or 4 weeks. To remind every person who lives in the UK, there are 4 seasons and this is what winter should really be like.

With global warming there have been very few cold winters in the UK. The weather has been so mild some years that winter may have only visited for a few days. To live in the UK you have to be versatile, your body should be able to adapt to both hot and cold. Come winter an internal clock gets kicked into action. Where your own body realises it has to adapt. Then when the temperature is 11 or more degrees Celsius you know it is mild. On a cold day it's wind chill which makes it worse still. Then the boys from the men are measured. Notably we all become mice, find a building and go into it. Especially with shops. Mingle around the stalls looking, but in reality just keeping warm. Make sure you always got a hat. Make sure you're prepared. Let the body's own central heating start. Eat porridge. Wear the warmest clothes you can find, even if they are outlandish, because in cold weather it don't matter. Because every person will look at your funny Russian hat and show envy. With observation check out the cool hip teenage boys who usually hang their jeans half way down their knees. Because now. Those same jeans have been pulled up. Poor things. Even fashion is secondary to warmth on a winter day. Oh how a cold bum would be a pain.

And eat, and eat, and eat. Like a fat squirrel. Eat store fat because those walks or jaunts into the world burn up more calories than normal. Or is it a chattering jaw? Warm up those arms, warm up your constitution, sing, dance, these are all ways to seek one thing. Warmth. Oh how I do love a warm bed on a cold day. Snuggle, snuggle, snuggle.

Gordon Ramsey the Hero

I just signed up to 4oD, this is channel 4 television on demand. It took about 20 minutes to get the software downloaded and to register myself, but it lets me view certain tv programs. For free. Wonderful. The word free. Not to be mixed with the word Three. Though sounding similar, quite different. So watching Channel 4, I've now been able to catch up with a couple of back episodes of Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares. Not to mention Father Ted. The two sets of programs being quite different. Chalk and Cheese.

Ramsey is like a breath of fresh air in a field encrusted with cow pats on the hottest day of the year. He has no qualms about telling it as it is. He takes a failing restaurant on the verge of disaster and turns it round. You might even say it is common sense. But common sense is a valuable item quite lacking in man trades. In one kitchen he found rotting old food in the bottom of a oven and condemned it. His remarks towards the head chef were all suggesting one thing, though he did not say it outright. It was "sack the twat" I heard it coz i could read between the lines. I expect many viewers did as well. Yes he swears, but he swears from his own passion, from his knowledge and ability which has already been proven. He don't have Michelin Stars for nothing me thinks. When he speaks people listen and the one who doesn't is a fool.

In many respects his acumen reminds me of that other great, Sir Harvey Jones who played a business trouble shooter. Again an inspiring man, one who didn't swear, but I tell you what one who could tell the cow pat from the breeze. And although all of us has pretty clear opinions on what a cow pat is it's odd a lot would rather stand amongst them than stand in the fresh zephre from an Atlantic swell.

Sunday morning waiting in trepidation

At some point this morning the Talkatives arrive. It's the pre Chrimbo visit. Mad dog will be going crazy and no doubt knock down the Chrimbo tree. Our cats are going to have to be locked away each in a different room. Because they don't get on. Then I'll have to take the entire family for a walk because mad dog hasn't been out for her little run. Return home about an hour later. And Crazy mama would of had a go at burning the dinner or ensuring every substance she cooks has got some form of hydrogenated fat in it. Did you know Paxo Stuffing has got it? Read the packet you'll see. Then the boys will get into a fight, little Angel Talkative will scream, and I will through half bleary eyes nod off and watch part of East Enders, wishing I was in some other land. Some very far away land. Where mad dogs, crazy mother's, over talkative sisters, screaming little angels and hydrogenated fats did not exist.

Better get changed and scrubbed up. Wonder if garlic would help?

Scams on ebay

When something riles me up I get angry. This can either dissipate slowly, fast or result in me dong something. The doing something part depends on how much effort is associated with the grievance. Now, I have decided to be incredibly careful or not purchase goods on ebay. Particularly because I've realised I was due two sets of refunds, and neither turned up. So I have reason to be aware or as the latin phrase goes emptor caveat (buyer beware), or on your own head be it.

I had tried to purchase a MP3 player through ebay some months ago. The seller in Hong Kong chose not to sell the item even though I had fairly won it. Perhaps they decided it was not enough money, but alternatively perhaps they thought "here is another sucker" slapped their hands together and watched the money go into their bank account with a gleeful smile. Not to mention background music of Louis Armstrong singing "What a wonderful world." Big cigar smoking, pat on back, and little asian lady on beck and call. Several emails came to me from the seller. They were all of the nature of "please withdraw your comments and we will refund you the monies" Of course my reply was, of the nature "return my money then i will withdraw the comments." Time passed, more emails sent then nothing. The problem was letting the time pass by and doing nothing. That was like shooting myself in the foot. Maybe that's why mother nature gave us ten toes. Like a cat has 9 lives, we can shoot each toe off with each mistake. Presently I'd be walking on stubs.

In reviewing my emails, I also found a second purchase made where the buyer was trying to return monies back to me. Again several months ago and I'd sat on my backside watching paint dry. The items were not expensive but still it was my hard earned cash gone into some Hong Kong syndicate. Yes, both purchases were for electrical goods from Hong Kong. No wonder China doesn't want to invade HK because they got my dosh and probably the dosh from quite a few other unsuspecting ebayers.

I checked out ebay and also Paypal. Because I'd allowed too much time to pass by there is very little garantee or come back I now have. I am out of pocket, stung, hung up and dried like Tutemkarmen. Worse probably. So the motto is, get mad and act quick and of course emptor caveat. Otherwise some little Hong Kong ebay seller will light up his next cigar and begin his speach in Cantonese one what the West did for the East. And how good it is democracy in the West supports the East. Well maybe he's got a big family, lots of little mouths to feed. Or maybe I should just get the big message written accross my forehead removed. Yes, the one read by all and sundry. "SUCKER!!!!!!"

Discussions with Sparkling Eyes

Sparkling Eyes has been having problems with her Laptop computer. It was going slow. Taking about an hour to warm up and get logged on the Internet. So in desperation she gave it to Fat Lad chunky man (relative) who lives down the road. He in turn spent 3 days. Doing dodgy deals. Getting information from people who were shady. Mostly because the shady person stays indoors and smokes whacky backy too much. Their skin must be white. Not getting out enough and in the sun, mind there isn't much sun about in Scotland this time of year, especially with their footy team being marginally better than the English one. Yep no much sun about. Returning to Fat Lad. He locked himself away. Disappeared for a moon and a day. Then resurfaced with Sparkling's Laptop. He'd done this, and then done a little of that and now it is working. YES. Working. Sparkling is over the moon. She would be, seeing as there's little daylight. But it means communication. New reformatted fuel injected laptop hits record speeds. It's a line which could of been written in a local rag. Nevertheless, it now meant I could have a good chat with Sparkling Eyes. Laptop. Communication. Chat MSN.



So we began by typing on MSN. Which is slow but seeing as I'm the better typer it can be to my advantage. Yes those nights of late night education meant I learnt qwerty by heart. But I was as this was tiresome I initiated a verbal discussion. Sparkling did though mention I was not going to get a chance to use her laptop the next time I was up there. Which hit me hard. Later, about 2 hours later I had been being accused of arguing to every subject Sparkling brought up. Even argueing about who argues. We eventually finished talking. In fact I even pointed out to Sparkling it wasn't just me who had a problem with being argumentative. She had one as well. Every little thing I said she had to argue with, and yes so did I with Sparkling. Though I am sure at times Sparkling was leading me on with a carrot just so she could hit me over the head. I'm going up shortly and I get told I have to be tidy. Behave myself. Not get into an argument. And then Sparkling says it's better when I am in the flesh because she feels like knocking me out. lol. The problem she puts forward is when I return back to London I get brave. Too challenging. So it seems she likes me to be moulded when she has her hands on me. Of course this is not the case. Because the fundamental personality of any individual can not be moulded shaped or changed. It is there and always will be there and has to be put up with for all it's bad as well as good points.



Sparkling tells me we are both two different personalities. Of course to a point. But not entirely. Because there are several areas we have mutual agreement with. So I expect it's a matter of accepting and loving those differences. The differences are wonderful. Sparkling likes to put out the Chrimbo lights. Me I'd rather they were left on the tree indoors. But so what, it means nothing to how I feel about Sparkling. Don't know why it is I keep getting told off for stuff though. Must be a woman thing. Where they just feel good if they are giving you a good telling off. The hoovering can wait. OK yes sometimes I forget to put the dishwasher on. OK it does need a dusting and the lawn needs cutting, I'll do it tomorrow. Laptops can be nasty little things.

Blood Diamonds and De Beers

A couple of nights back I caught a documentary on TV. It was about the trade of diamonds in Africa for military hardware. Particularly Sierra Leone, where diamonds are taken and sold on for guns, bullets, tanks etc. The program deliberated on how miners had became slaves to the waring factions, how innocent peoples of the country would be killed and how demand in the west for jewels through De Beers had made the situation worse. Even today the program makers pointed out how De Beers still bought these blood diamonds. By purchasing them indirectly from a neighbouring counties to Sierra Leone. The countries they do purchase them from are known not to actually have such deposits of diamonds. So De Beers are guilty of perpetuating the trade in these diamonds. Though they have tried not to get their already sullied name more sullied. I for one will never purchase diamonds from them.

Everybody suffered in the wars, there was horrific torture of miners and innocents. Miners would be watched over by guards. They were barely given enough foot to live on and if they tried to escape they'd be killed. For the public politicians were rife with corruption. One method of punishing opposition voters and miners suspected of thieving diamonds is to cut their hands off. Which is not only barbaric it is inhuman to say the least.

At lunch I sat down and ordered a Mexican hat plate sized of Singapore rice. Not good for my waste line but tasty. After 10 minutes of reading my magazine and eating the rice a short black man came and sat directly opposite me. I took no notice and carried on. But I saw as he moved the menu on the table. The blatant and obvious. Where there should of been hands, there were stubs. I looked up and it seemed he wanted acknowledgement so I said "hi" and he smiled the most wonderful gentle smile. We got chatting about my rice because he seemed to like the look of it and he then placed his order for a plate. He struck me as a nice bloke and I refused in myself to accept him anything other than a genuinely nice person. In the back of my mind I thought of what he had gone through. Possibly in Sierra Leone or the Democratic Republic of Congo or one of those other closely situated waring states. And i thought I would run away from my own country if such atrocities happened. Immigration has a place and unfortunately is very necessary in some cases.

I walked out having re evaluated how lucky I was to live in the UK. How even if I didn't like some aspects of my life at least I was complete bodily wise. I don't know about upstairs, but then the most interesting people I find are usually a little bit nuts.

On the Cognac with a Russian Hat

I sit here writing my intrepid blog of life experience and guess what? Yes, you got it, I'm wearing my wonderful Russian hat. It brings me inspiration. Makes my head warm and a little itchy. But if you can't wear a funny Russian hat in doors with no one watching where can you? With the company of a bottle of cognac. French. When in fact it should be Vodka. Russian. Yet I'm not too fond on of the taste of Voddy. Then again it might not be so bad when the hat is on. I could even acquire a taste for it. Swig. Nope the cognac will do fine.

I could go on to moan and groan about my day at work. Which is as non eventful as I can make it. However, unfortunately it was predicated by the work disastrous duo, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I managed to get time off agreed to see the ever so wonderful Sparkling Eyes for a week just before Chrimbo. Swig. Yet, another swig. And now I cast my mind back. Though not completely over my shoulder to recall last night when Fat Boy from Dundee gave me a load of verbal abuse on MSN. I of course would not expect anything else. And must admit it always makes me smile, he's a big soft lump who has mastered the art of what he calls "the stare." It's an expression he puts on when facing recalcitrant teenagers. Unfortunately my version of "the stare" does not work. Rock Chick always warns me to be aware when Fat Boy isn't around. Swig. Boy am I glad she's now got a boyfriend, I owe him a pat on the back.

Presently England are playing Croatia on the box. And bollocks Croatia have scored in the first 7 minutes. Sparkling Eyes is not watching it as a protest. But if she was she'd be screaming for Croatia. I can support Scotland but she could never support England. The rivalry between England and Scotland in football is a chasm. Hell, there goes the national anthem, something I really detest, because it is demeaning for ordinary working class English people, but the poor idiots who sing it don't understand. Great we've had 2 close tries at goal and missed each time. Looks like our players need a map. And some of them a few lessons in how to read it. Catastrophe, I can not believe it now 13 minutes gone and Croatia have scored again. Bloody ell, think England now need white sticks to go with their map reading course.

Swig. Rang Sparkling Eyes with the news, she yelled out in support of Croatia. Swig. She wants me to ring her if Croatia score again. Think I'll just watch the first half then concentrate on something more interesting. Oh yes, here's some knitting I did earlier, now what can I make to match my hat?

Russian Hat at home

I was in Camden Market on Sunday past and bought a traditional looking Russian hat. It's even got the little red star badge on the front. Made I guess from some simulated fur. Or should I say cheap artificial fur. And it's in a lovely grey. I actually like it. Though maybe the fur could be on the inside. But it's good. There's two ear flaps tied up on the top which can drop down and keep my ears warm. It has a very practical use and is something anyone would die for in a time when snow and ice are around.

I took a couple of pics of me wearing my hat and put them on my msn messenger. Little did I know Sparkling Eyes was not going to like it. In reality, why go out of your own house and laughed at by strangers when you can sit in your nice warm room, with your lovely Russian hat at home and be poked fun at in private as well. I was advised not to bring the hat when I next go up to Scotland. I could be stoned by people in the street. And there I was thinking society had become a bit more liberal. Young lads can walk down the street with their jeans half way down their backsides and wear oversized baseball caps that look like babies should be wearing them and it's called fashion. Whilst a 40 something male wearing a very practical useful, head warming hat could be ridiculed.

Well come on winter, that's all I say. Come on snow. The more the merrier, I'm waiting for you. I'll be in the rafters looking up, at the ready. And when it comes and the world is covered in a white freeze my hat is coming out. I wonder if those kids with jeans half way round their arses will still be flashing their boxer shorts?

Classic Female Film Stars

What is it about classic female film stars, they have a sprinkling of fairy dust, an aura of sexuality and sensuality quite lacking from today's Stars. Audrey Hepburn, Kim Novac, Grace Kelly and my recent personal discovery of Lana Turner. The thing is they were hot, very hot. But unfortunately they are no longer around. It can be a bit sad to lust after the by gone days when women were so different. Yet it can not be helped, movies were both conservative and exciting then. Forunately their memory lives on in celluloid, for the world to view and contemplate the rest of eternity. More so than the rest of us mortals. Providing the films are not lost or decayed in some forgotten vault. They should be treasured. So another uprising of fans in future generations can take notice. These actresses had a sense of the demur, the fragile and so subtly bewitching. The lack of nudity didn't detract from their on screen presence, it just enhanced it, and this in turn meant many of these actresses went on to have longer careers in film than today's actresses. For example Lana Turner in Bachelor in Paradise was 40 years old at the time. Yet the film though comedic and light does have a tantalising edge to it. Bob hope a brilliant set of off-the-cuff retorts, to the point I wonder if he wrote those parts himself or ad libbed during the filming.

Whereas today's female stars just don't get the written script to keep you tantalised. Or on the edge of your seat. The old films weren't allowed to be as explicit as they are now so they had to make up for it in other ways. Acting ability and the ability of brilliant script writers, not forgetting classic great sound tracks. I can think of few contemporary films where sound tracks are so riveting, except maybe Signs directed by Night Sahliman. A Sunday with North By North West is a Sunday in heaven made because of it's excellent combination of wit, sarcasm, beautiful sound track and on-the-edge-of-your-seat suspense. Today's film stars are being sold down the river, if they have any acting ability it is secondary to their looks. Looks don't last. Maybe it's the film makers? All doing their best to get the biggest audience they can, make their films so full of action there is not a moment to think and reflect, there's not a moment to inhale and be intoxicated by a long spoken scene which you become part of as a viewer. As Abe Lincoln said "you can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time." Unfortunately in their rush to gain audiences many films end up on the edge of mediocrity, made for a society who prefers dumbing-down rather than walking out of a cinema having felt their life is all the better having seen the most recent squash buckling adventure, with violence and sex all over the place. It's not that I have anything against sex or violence in films, just they'd be better with the correct proportions.

Anyway, had my rant and reflection. Oh Lana Turner wherefore art though Lana? Oh yes, no longer here and no equivalent to replace you, there's no chance of a snog when you're born in a different era. Well at least Sparkling Eyes wont get jealous.

45 Days to Chrimbo

The 3 muskateers hit a shopping centre somewhere in the South East of England. With intrepid realisation they walk amongst crowds. For soon, very soon, will decend upon us the season of shock, horror and discontent. Crimbo is round the corner. It will sneak up with the latest new gadgets to hit the scene, the iphone, magical hovering displays of re-charged self powered toy helicopters, corners occupied by artificial trees and twinkling lights. All this amongst a throng of people, flowing like independent tributaries. Following thier own track. Many with no game plan. Eyes darting from store to store, taking in every shop front, checking out the pace of people walking infront, to the side and those intent on just standing in the middle of a pedestrian lane to chat in semi oblivian. Walk round the obstacles. Don't get too dizzy. However, I was lost. Feeling queezy. Within ten minutes of entering this centre of confusion, this harrowing daunting place. I felt sea-sick. Yet 45 days remain. The clock counts down. Crimbo is coming. You better watch out, because now the pressure is on, Crimbo is coming. An old man in grey beard and red suit doesn't dispence wrapped up parcels. No. It's the parents, the uncles, aunts, friends and aquaintances who do. They are the ones who do the leg work.

I can not be the only person who hates shopping amongst crowds. It's claustophobic. Perhaps it's old age. Maybe it calls for a visit to the GP, get some prescription tranquilisers, valium. That might do it. Valium to cope. Chill. Ride the wave. Before I make a list. Write names down and what their parcels of happiness will be. All I want for Crimbo is a good book and of course a long hug from Sparkling Eyes. But as for the others. Oh at a time like this how come there are so many more to consider. How about a giant cake. A set time and place. I'll send out invites and then they can all come and help themselves. Take a piece of cake. No it's not going to work. I got to just tackle each person one at a time. Centre. Focus. Now what would they like? Sparkling Eyes has said nothing. It's the worse thing to do. 45 days to concentrate. To think of something. What? I don't know. But I'm sure it will come to me. Concentrate now.

Rock Chick will want as many as possible. Monster Boy anything to do with Dr Who or the hundreds of super-heros there are in the world. The Talkative boys, things again to keep them occupied, interested. But not educational. The less education the better. Little angel girl anything to do with Barbie. The remaining 2 muskateers they wont mind nothing or even a card they're easy. Big Mama, chocs or some other delicacy. To give is better to receive. Santa's sack had better be big. Not forgetting Santa's debit card. Ouch, ouch, ouch, odd, I thought he usually said Ho, Ho, Ho.

New Fish Counter

Well I've been moved to a new fish counter in the fish factory, though only a short distance from the one I used to sit at. Normally I sit industriously gutting the quota of sardines, but today was a bit of a wipe out. I'm seated closer to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They're nice enough but they have a different attitude on how to deal with fish gutting. Tweedle Dee most certainly does and it's as though, this is a part time job in which the fish can pile up to be dealt with as and when the moment in-between doing other stuff arrises. While Tweedle Dum, though not at all in any sense Dum, far from it, has a penance for talking dribble, and making jokes. Unfortunately this is all a bad influence on me. A very bad influence. Because now I find the naughty boy coming out, and from being an industrious fish gutter to becoming a laid back have a laugh and not do anything observer. I don't appreciate it.

I like getting focused on slicing open the bellies of Sardines, but as I said today was a wipe out. An utter and truly disappointingly non work productive wipe out. Someone will go without their tin of sardines next week. And because of my seated proximity the ear plugs don't work. They just are not up to the job. I may have to consider being moved again for my own sanity and productivity. Yes, I like the odd chat the little scive here and there, but not an entire day. Not 7 hours.

Long haired boy's birthday is coming up soon. He'll be 20 years old and so out of his teens. I can recall when Silly Sophia was in hospital about to give birth. She was a depressive first time mother and suffered from Post Natal Depression to boot. What a person to have as a mum! She cares for him and her other sprogs yes; but it seems so unfair in this world some people can have children and they are not grown up enough to look after themselves. They are unable to see everything they now do in their new family role doesn't just effect themselves it effects their children. If there were an exam for parenthood half the people in the world would fail it. Half the disturbed unhappy up bringings would never happen. Half the sad stories told would never be told. Then perhaps it is only through adverse childhoods some people become better people. We're all allowed to make our own mistakes, it's what being given a life is about. Would I have been who I am now if I had not had my experience of domestic disharmony? Maybe, maybe not. Unfortunately only a few can be royalty or born with wealthy parents. However, being rich in love is I believe more important than anything else.

I've also been thinking of Sparkling Eyes and miss her. Thinking of Rock Chick and how upset she get's when someone who should love her hurts her. Then I get angry. But Sparkling is a wonderful loving mother, a requirement for any growing up human being. Rock will get through these times, and the one person she will care and think of will be Sparkling Eyes. As do I.

Sunday meanderings

There reaches a time on Sunday evenings where I can find nothing to do, nothing to occupy my mind. Sitting looking through DVD's and not really wanting to commit myself to watching any of them. Whilst this morning I was brimming with ideas but no time to write them down. Ideas of writing a story. However, writing is a long term commitment, quite unlike doing the odd blog. Which most anyone can do. Sitting down and actually putting pen to paper for extended periods in one long piece of writing is hard work. Though I did manage it when I wrote a Thesis which I had researched a lot for. It ended up at about 24 thousand words. And I was then told my limitation had to be 17 thousand words. Now if there's a contortionist trick to cutting words down, it's one thing I did learn how to do. Which also took 3 weeks to complete. Snip here snip there everywhere a snip snip.

We have a stray cat who now visits us. He seems to do nothing but eat. He's one of those kitty cats. Not yet mature. But growing every day. Especially with the 3 meals he gets. He was rescued from the bottom of our garden. One leg was pushed right through his collar. He looked like he was starving. Having been trapped in a corner of a neighbours shed. How on earth he got in there is beyond me to fathom out. Just he was pretty happy to get let out. Then I think he must of forgotten or lost his way back to his own home. So now, he visits us and eats here. We are the free food cafe for a stray. I call him stinky. Because he smells. A mate of mine says he needs his bollocks snipped. He said it can be done with two bricks and only hurts if you get your fingers caught. He was joking. Not for real folks. I could see Sparkling Eyes coming at me with a couple of bricks if i were so callous enough to do it to a cat. The thought brings a shudder to me. A cold sweat, a tingling nerve. Better think about something else.

So goes the moment on a Sunday evening when I just can't find anything to do with myself. Stray thoughts, meanderings of a crazy man. Fortunately in a few hours it will be Monday. Oh tell me why I like Mondays.

Leaving 'Do' and too much Black larger

Last night I went to a leaving do for one of the middle fish at the Factory. The middle fish was my boss for a short while so I'm sad he's gone. Particularly because he is a shining example of what a middle fish should be like. He was undervalued and showed talent for a higher position. He could see through extraneous issues and knew what the important points were. He was friendly and always approachable and I never saw a angry side to him. His talent made him a challenge, which for the big fish was a pain in their ass. He rightly highlighted their inefficiencies by his clear logic and ability to cut through their limited ideas. As most big fish are really little fish pretending to be big. They may get their position through default, tenure, rather than actually having the personality or ability to do the job. Unfortunately promotion at the Fish Factory is a matter of Dead-Man's-Shoes. Which means a talented middle Fish or even little Fish will be passed over. It was only right I say goodbye and drink too much in the process as I watch my friend move forward into the sunset of a new Fish Factory, who will pay him more and no doubt value him a tad more as well.

Getting drunk is always my own fault. Or it's the fault of the beverage, in this case called Black Larger. Not to be confused with my normal brew of Guinness, because it clearly was not the same drink. But it was the equivalent brewed by the establishment where the 'Do' took place.

I quite rightly enjoy the intoxicating effects of alcohol. For some reason it taps into the "chill out" factor or my personality. I become so relaxed. Anything of too heavy a nature just goes flying over my head. When I reach my limit I then end with a smiley face and a demeanour like I'd just smoked the world's largest spliff. It's great. Wonderful. Being chilled. Being happy. Smiling. And the result often is to see other people point at me smile and laugh along as well. Especially those who see me at the Fish Factory in a rather different context of serious and hard working. Well out of the Fish Factory another life goes on.

Yes, I'm sad to see you go I like you my fellow com padre in arms.

Woke up this morning with a hang over. AWWWWE. Every little noise was like the pounding of a pneumatic drill. I wanted my mattress to swallow me up. I think I'll go Teetotal. It's the safer option. Or take drugs. Paracetamol helps. Coffee. And three tons of cotton wool wrapped round my head. Never again.

Insufficient Funds hole in the wall strikes back

It is with some degree of acceptance, I expect the magic hole-in-the-wall machine to throw out cash when needed. However, somewhere between the hole-in-the-wall and my bank balance the lolly, spandulars, readies, bread, notes, dosh, green stuff had lost it's way, vamoos, gone, like the legendary Bermuda Triangle where planes disappear. In short the money has vacated the premises. I am a pauper. Thrown onto the slag heap of life. Children with pocket money have more liquidity than me. I am in a Northern Rock situation. And what a feeling of loss it is as well. I reach into my trouser pockets and search for change. A few pound coins. Where is the magic money growing tree which should be at the bottom of my garden? Some one has gone and half-inched it (pinched it). Just my luck.

I can't recal a time in my life where the machine has not be obedient. Except when it has it's little quirks, or mood swings and decides not to work. The kind of petulance a child occaisionally shows. Then I'd just go to another more ameniable hole-in-the-wall, which so politely open it's mouth to regurgitate the paper goods I need. But this time it's different. The screen flashed up with those hated words "Insufficient funds" words I have not encountered. Words I thought would not happen to me. But I have been treating the giver-of-happiness perhaps a little to opulently, a little beyond my means. Taking advantage of it. Assuming it would always be there for me. Unfortunately, I made a mistake. In what I thought was an error, I tried another machine and it to pounded down the words like a mallet over my head, "insufficient funds."

Unless the alternative is true. Which I do not want to think about. If it is, then, I am going to be busy tomorrow. Because my account has been hacked. It's happened once before. But this time it is an enigma. Nope, I don't think this is the case. I'm sure I've spent more than I have in the machine.

Or I could get a new job, earn more money, sell my body to science but only as long as I can loan it while a breath still passes my lips. I think I will just run away from the human race, find a desert island. Live of coconuts. Eat fish. Lay in the sun. Grow a beard and go ever so slowly mad. Mad I say, mad.

England lose 2 - 1, but for a pint of guinness

I've just seen England play Russia, England lost 2-1. So much for the fighting bull dog spirit. I'm sure it will be happy news to any Scots person. No doubt Sparkling was supporting Russia. But such is the rivalry of Scotland and England. Who both love to hate each other when it comes to sport. As for England as a footy team. They encroach the term ineptitude. We score a goal and then like scared whippets stay back in our own half just hoping the rest of the game will go by without having to do to much. Though this would be an unfair comment because once Russia scored their second goal England did try to put a bit more welly into it. Me, I just drank my second pint of Guinness and tried to chill. It's surprising how even losing a game of footy can be relaxing if you have a pint in your hand. Like I had.

Concert at Barrowlands Glasgow, Twang

For an exceedingly long time in my life I had been to few concerts. This is my own fault. From the previous experience of buzzing ears and auditory damage. However, last night I changed this, as Sparkling Eyes invited me with her to a place in Glasgow. Called the Barrowlands, where a number of groups were playing. Rock Chick had decided to treat Sparkling and got the tickets. Top of the billing was the Twang and supporting bands were Look See Proof and Little Man Tate. IT WAS LOUD. Very LOUD. And to add just a bit more on the volume dial it was LOUDER still. Only now some 24 hours later has my hearing returned to normal and the buzzing ceased.

Sparkling Eyes had most of a bottle of wine before we got there, my duties were clear. Keep her glass full. And enjoy. Especially the phenomenon known as the Mosh Pit. An area just in front of the stage, where the fans go crazy. Beer, lager, wine is thrown in the air and drops on anyone unlucky enough to be in the way. I think it was my glasses. Or the fat-man-look. Or the uncool-older-guy look, which in my mind probably made me a target. Though I can not understand how anyone can throw away perfectly good alcohol away. It must be the loud music which obviously did something to their brains. It made them act irrationally. They jumped, waved their hands, shouted, ranted, sang, pushed and barged their way around and even in the odd case attempted to dance. The audience was hyped. Personally, this was a difficult time for me. I got pushed around so many times and irritated by so many of the fans, had I been an Alpha Male, I would of had at least half a dozen fist fights. Somehow though I got through this chaos. Sparkling, in the meantime got very much into the throws of the Mosh Pit.

I had went off to get a refill glass returned and she was hugging a girl I'd never seen before. I wondered whether she had just pulled a lesbian. Probably. Then at some point when the Twang did come on stage, Sparkling moved forward and found the hand of a large bloke. He was about a foot taller than me and a foot wider. They held hands, jumped up and down and she then had her arm round his waist. Well, I'm glad I got into the swing of it while she was getting both inebriated, and jiggy with it. The man disappeared at some point and I got Sparkling back. Fortunately I'd stuck to her other (free) side. But am sure he lowered his head at some point and spoke to Sparkling, whether she heard anything is another question. The concert or gig or whatever it is called came to an end. We walked back to central Glasgow and every 5 paces Sparkling told me she had been Moshed. There was a tone of surprise in her voice. Her once large hair style was dampened down by larger and clinging to her head. She repeated this phrase several times with a comic look on her face.

So I am now a hip with it 40 something. I'll spread the word next week while in the pub drinking Guinness. Going off on a tangent I did manage to try the new Red Guinness. Though I really do think the original is the best. It was nice for a change. Then it is always good to have a change. Am glad the tall big fat man didn't fancy me, a story I wouldn't want to tell.

Life with Sparkling Eyes

It's the second day of a week in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I can't count the number of times Sparkling Eyes has thrown verbal abuse at me, in her loving way. Of the likes "ya big fat bast***" but even tho these are just words I know the way she says them they are words of affection. I hope. Of course so I should, otherwise I'd be in trouble. As I sit here writing Sparkling Eyes takes the Pi** out of me or anything I might write. It's OK I had to sit through a documentary of Donny Osmond whom Sparkling wanted to marry and have a 100 children by, because I'm just Crazyman, trying to make sense of the world. Because Sparkling used to love Donny, and probably does. And even if she speaks his name in her sleep, I have to ignore it. So I will.

The worse thing about Sparkling Eyes is whenever I tell her about my fears of this world, she then capitalises on them. She throws them at me, ties me up, spins a circle of magic, harangues, ca joules, and lightly laughs. She changes the world for me. Even the most worrying of issues becomes no more than something to throw custard pies at. As she talks while I write, I have now resorted to packing ear plugs in. One in each ear. But still her comments filter through. I am drunk. Inebriated, am happy. No matter what Sparkling Eyes says or does. I must be mad. In love. Or beyond redemption. Save me. Someone.

I can't even focus properly, it's the wine, not my eyes. The wine has an effect. But so does the chatter which comes forth from Sparkling. Not to mention she has now changed the channel on the TV so I don't get to see the re-run of aliens for the 41st time. Yep, for the next few days my life will be up turned. Changed. Beyond redemption. I am captured. But I enjoy it, each and every moment. Upside down and turned around. My eyes and head spin.

OK I may have to fill the dishwasher, put up with temper tantrums from Rock Chick. But I also get to play Devils Advocate. With my own Sparkling Eye I'll throw in a mischievous comment, chuckle quietly and wait for the repercussions to come bouncing back at me. Or the wrath of Rock Chick. But it's great to see Rock Chick laugh and be happy. It is a happy time for me. I float. Carried on the vapour of intoxication. Oh well, hope my head don't hurt in the morning.

Lone man walking

Being unhappy with queuing can have it's side effects. I prefer to avoid them whenever I can. At lunch time a hankering for a piece of chocolate, a pack of crisps and some more chocolate overcame me. So, I picked them up with tenderness and took them to the till. Unfortunately there was only one cashier on duty. This is a large shop for one person, a very large shop. I dumped my afternoon snacks in an empty basket and walked out disappointed. My time is more valuable than the effort of queuing. It's a crime. Something the manager should pay for. So on returning to work I contemplated yet again for the hundredth time whether I should write to the Chief Executive of the company and advise them on how the store is being run at one of the busiest times of day. However, this impatience to que was nothing like this morning's fiasco.

This morning, making my way to the Train Station there were also two sets of ques. One stretched to the ticket office window. The other had about 4 morons waiting in line at the automatic self service ticket machine. Two sets of frustrations. Weighing morons against the ticket que was a no brainer. So rather than take one or the other I decided to walk to the bus stop. Maybe have a little more exercise than normal. Yet at the bus stop no one stood waiting. This is a bad sign I thought. Even one or two people is a good sign. It means then the bus has not passed. But with nobody at the stop, it inevitably means I've missed a ride. Like a red Indian tracking his lunch for the day. I had to follow the tracks to the next bus stop or two. If I walked an additional ten minutes then I could get an alternative bus. So I did. To cut a long story short. I carried on walking just over 2 miles, passed an estimated 5-600 cars and ten big double decker red buses. Nothing was moving. The roads were choc-ablock. Nose to tail. I had a little bit of snobbery in my walk. I enjoyed it. Walking passed all those people in their lovely cars. I was getting somewhere faster than them. While they dumped carbon in the atmosphere, I was swinging my arms marching off to work. I wanted them to see me. To see their cars being overtaken by a walking man. Yes. Lone man walking.

In my empathy I found happiness. Oh how they would all be stewing, embroiled in their moving box. The price of petrol on their minds. And how come so many people are walking past. Especially the bloke with an odd smile on his face checking out all the cars. My empathy of their frustration I turned to my amusement. How good it is to see a white van accelerate over 50 yards because a sudden gap has occurred, and then for me to patiently, diligently catch up with it and walk past. The two men sat in the front seats leaning forward as if they were willing the van to move faster, to get there quicker. I hope they had a good look at my diminishing butt as I walked off into the distance.

Odd where little pleasures can come from, I savoured mine for a couple of miles, legs are sore but it was worth it.

Voices on the phone

I'm still waiting for my call to be answered. Phone resting against my shoulder, ear piece held in place. I hear three sets of sounds and am becoming acclimatised to them, a short extract of Mozart’s music, Horn Concerto I believe. Then a female voice recording cuts in and advises me of their advance purchase tickets. Information I don’t want to know about. More Mozart which drives me crazy. Then another voice recording, this time it’s a male voice, apologising for the delay because the lines are busy. These are the three sets of sounds I hear in rotation. Yet my mind silently wonders if they truly mean what they say. The music is meant to irritate, and it does so successfully. The woman’s voice about types of tickets I’ve never heard of is redundant information just to keep me glued to the phone, in case it was a real person. Then the man’s voice, although warm and pleasant is not apologising. He’s saying something quite different in between the script and some may not be able to interpret those words. I have though.

It’s along the lines of “We’re glad to keep you waiting, while your life passes away. As if you have nothing better to do. But we really don’t care, because at this moment 254 other people are wasting their lives as well. We’re happy to keep you stuck there with your full and undivided attention and we’ll endeavour to keep you on the phone as long as we can before answering. This way we can get additional revenues from your phone call to our service. Something we never write about in the small print. We have an arrangement with the Telecom’s operator. It’s very convenient. Though not for you. So just sit there and be as bored as you possibly can. We’ll keep you waiting and hopefully extract any notion of life beyond this phone call from your memory. You can therefore remain our servant until you fail to pay your phone call or collapse from dehydration or starvation or sleep deprivation. Yes we’re happy to be of service to you.”

So I learn my lesson again, never ring up during peak times and how I hate those recorded voices. Not the ones in my head, no, their my friends. Just the recorded ones.

The Ice Stealer

It was lunch, I sat at my usual cafe, ordered a sparkling mineral water and food. The bottled water came with a glass and ample ice. I pored and watched bubbles excitedly defy gravity through the clear glacier as they frantically searched for the surface. Opening my book I began to read and enjoyed the time before my meal arrived chilling in the make believe land of a psychotic homicidal maniac, but actually quite readable. Flicking a page over once in a while, then I automatically reached with a hand towards the glass. Cool condensed water droplets had formed on the outside, I drank and the refreshing liquid went down easily. I drank some more. Looked into the glass and then realised the ice had gone.

It didn't makes sense. It could barely of been a few minutes and yet there was no ice in the glass. OK the glass was cold but not enough for all the chunks it originally held. So I considered was this an act of natural physics. Something to be dealt with in the explanations a scientist could give or was it something else. Something people just really haven't thought about. For what if in reality ice doesn't melt? What if, it is stolen?


Maybe there is some alien being, or maybe it is not alien but quite natural to mother earth. A being not yet noticed by the ordinary human inhabitants. One which can't be see, but only if a thought passes over the meanderings of a distracted mind, then and only then it is perceived. I breath air in, I know it's air, I know because it keeps me alive, my lungs expand, then after a suitable time I exhale. Even though I can't see this substance it's there. So to it is with the Ice Stealer.

Something Inside

I been reading a book titled Darkley Dreaming Dexter, it's from the TV series called Dexter. In this the reader is treated to a first person perspective of the dark devil who lies within Dexter and how this Devil's thirst is satisfied. In quite a moralistic way, he is an unlikely 21st century hero. Like the TV series the book reads as a continuing narrative and is quite entertaining. I'm enjoying it.

What it makes me think of is the elusive trait of motivation. How this thing is difficult to find. But how on other occasions it is a complete mind set, a devil lying within with a purpose, and in the right circumstances pretty useful. I think of the time I had spent going to evening classes and the years past in gaining additional education. How it was my persevering devil who strode against the odds. As time passes attendees to classes would drop. Near the end of an academic year the class of 30 plus is down to 10 or less.

I consider Long Haired boy, and wonder what could motivate him. If there is anything other than Art. Art is OK, don't get me wrong, but the reality of this world is, Art is an easy opt out for anyone who can't do anything else. Because at heart we each and everyone of us are artists. To me Art is a common thing and only extra ordinary people actually get anywhere in life making it a living. Art in the pure sense of the word, not may I add as an interior designer for example. So it can be useful, but only if it leads on to something else.

So although I like Art my thoughts of it as providing a career or bread and butter are somewhat circumspect. Tracey Emin and her alleged pieces of work turn the world upside down, because she actually gets money for them. I know I can do just as well as her, I could ring up a gallery and ask them if they want my unmade bed. Even say I puked in it and had the flu pretty bad, which I'm sure would add to the value. Unfortunately my name's not Tracey. Yes, she's an artist, a con artist at that. The rest of us who see her stuff as art well, you have to ask of the children's story. The one where a king is in his-altogether. Was he in his-altogether? Now have a look at her unmade bed and seriously convince the world it is art.

The thing which lives inside comes out when there is an insatiable desire needing met. Dexter's is the homicide of homicidal maniacs, mine was for a while improving my own education. If only I could light a match an begin an incandescent flame for Long Haired boy. Incite his desire, his motivation, see a different side to him, one where he shines and his very presence inspires the rest of us. Perhaps I ask too much. Perhaps I ask to see the passion. For the dweller who lives inside is the epitome of passion, they sit side by side, eat similar foods and if true persevere till their thirst is satisfied.

Catch up Homer

Got to speak to Sparkling Eyes and feel a lot better for it. She'd been dangling me on a chain, swinging it about and then putting me through a mangle. No doubt i deserved it. She's probably nodding her head right now. She told me how she'd got a bargain on 600 doughnuts for 15 pence, but they had to be eaten today. My eyes widened so I asked if she could put a few in the freezer for me. Then I got told off for thinking of my belly. Seems to me I'm going to start looking like Homer Simpson. Well, if you gotta have a hero why not Homer I ask.

The pigeons are still there, though I have fantasized about dressing up in a Ninja outfit climbing up the wall and knocking them off their perch. But real life don't happen this way. It rained pretty hard this morning so I expect my feathered nemesis's decided to stay in for an extra long snooze. A small part of me is wondering if i'll get pigeon-fancier-lungs, I hope not.

Got a ticket to see Sparkling Eyes, can't wait. We're going to see a rock concert of some kind as well. The Twang. As long as they sing quitely and I can hear myself think i'll be ok. Hmm wonder if they like doughnuts?

No ringing

I sit and wait. Sparkling Eyes should be ringing me but the phone don't make a sound. It's there on the desk. Silent. Am not going to will it. It's not up to me.

Saw Long haired boy and Dancing girl this evening, they asked for some help with their homework, so a sprinkled some fairy dust on it. Which washed away unneeded words. I left their work all in the words they used, just fewer of them. Yet reading much clearer. Little Monster Boy had no homework to show me. Considering last time I went round he got upset with me putting him on the naughty step. I became the big bad uncle. It took longer getting Monster Boy to do his homework by his avoiding it, than the time to complete his homework. So much energy gone to waste. I wish I'd had an Uncle like me who made me get on with my work and gave me help when I needed it.

Went to bed early last night after all. Must of slept for 11 hours. When I hit the hay my head felt like a steal band had tightened around it and was crushing my brain. I'm taking ecineacia pills as well. Hopefully they will help.

OK looks like I'll give up on the phone. So I can't be important enough. Oh well what can I say, not much apparently.

I'm not well Achoooooo

I really shouldn't be at the Fish Factory. I don't feel well, my head is splitting, I sneeze every 10 minutes, cough and am sure I'm running a temperature. But I sit there at the Fish Counter passing on my germs to my colleagues. I've noted a couple of the very big fish are sneezing as well. The lurgies is going around, by the middle of next week they will all have it and I'll be feeling better. I hope so. There's nothing like spreading your own germs around. As long as they don't mutate into some other worse germ and come back to bite your ass all should be fine.

At the Fish Factory they have a sickness procedure, it's a bone of contention with the Ritz people. The thing is, if you're ill, it's not your own fault. You should not be made to feel you have to come into gut the fishes. So when you do come into work, you hardly work at all, take a short day if possible, and make everyone else ill. Tell me there isn't something wrong with it? Because there is something very wrong with it.

I left the Fishes early and went to the pub. I don't know what it is but after a couple of pints of Guinness I felt a lot better. Though I'm sure it's not a recommendation the Quack would give. For a couple of hours I was almost normal. Well, as normal as I can be.

Sparkling Eyes is on my mind each day. But I'm waiting for her to contact me, if she don't then I'm obviously not important enough. I'm ill I need comforting, but Sparkling Eyes would go on about how women are a lot stronger than men and have to keep going through hurricanes just to make sure the chocolate biscuit tin is full. She made the choice not to let me talk to her, it's her decision now. I'm too ill, and am almost contemplating an early night. We'll see. Someone hand me over the tissues.

Northern Rock gets government garantee - Achoo

The big thing lately has been the effect of America's Sub-prime mortgages on the rest of the world's banking systems. I don't know why it is, but it would have to come from the U.S., I'd of thought having an embarrassment like Bush was bad enough. Nope, they throw another spanner in the works. So now Alister Darling has given Northern Rock a guarantee to fund all savings held in accounts. It is without president a judgement made by Darling 2 days late. Shares in N.R. have dropped ridiculously. Here is an instance of Darling's incompetency as a new minister. If he had any real brains the decision would of been made on day one. Looks like Gordon should go back to the drawing board and choose his cabinet with a little more savvy.


Savers in N.R. have acted like a frightened hysterical bunch. They actually put their savings in more jeopardy by panicking and taking out all of their life savings in a oner. They have followed the crowd, been sheep, been afraid, look out there's a wolf. RUN. RUN like your life depended on it. So they all did. I heard of one instance where a 94 year old man had cued up for several hours outside one branch. Here's someone close to pushing up Daisy's and he spends very valuable time queuing. Has he not got friends, family, or anyone in his life he could tell how much he loves, or just sit and drink tea. Quite frankly were I 94 years old, I really wouldn't give a damn.

On a moralistic note I heard on the radio how N.R. had been so philantropic. How it had given away millions of pounds to good causes in the North. It's sad such a noble company is having to run the gauntlet of panicked investors.

I'm not feeling so bright eyed and bushy tailed at the moment, having come down with a case of diphtheria. I'm sure it will pass in a day or two. As my smallest nephew once said "my nose is leaking" achoooo. I sure hope it isn't bird flu. Fortunately there hasn't been a case of it in this part of the world. But it always starts with one, achoooooo.

Pigeons, Zimbarbwe, being missunderstood

I've now rang up a pest control company and tried to explain to the the position of my pigeon problem. I told the man on the phone, the pigeons are under they tiles. He didn't seem to understand. It was like I was talking to someone who would of been a post-operative candidate for a lobotomy. He asked if there was access to the loft, I said yes, I explained Mr Travolta Pigeon's harem was under the roof tiles, and he asked if the whole roof was being replaced. I could of put my hands around his neck strangled and carried on strangling him, though I'm sure he would of still not understood. Force would not of enlightened his I.Q. even if it would of made me feel better.

I'm getting a little attached to my pigeons now. The last time I threw an old plastic plant pot up in the air at about 6:45 a.m. it scared them. Then I saw with new eyes how a flock flew around the houses in a big circle. They were beautiful. I don't want them to be harmed. I just want them out of the roof. A little like when Sparkling Eyes went on about her giant garden slugs which she'd called Bert and Ethel. She'd got attached to them. But there's a difference. Slugs aren't quite as big as pigeons and are easier to deter. Coffee works wonders.

I caught the news when in from the Fish Factory. Zimbabwe was a main item. Once called the 'bread basket of Africa' it is now a poverty stricken country where a loaf of bread costs a week's wages. Mugabe is a dictator of the worst kind, because his dictatorship is under the guise of democracy. Where in fact there is no democracy. People are tortured if they don't vote for him. He even has his own elite younger members called the 'Green Shirts.' They remind me of the Hitler youth. Anyone who does not vote Mugabe in the next elections will be killed, if not by his army then by the Green Shirts. He is without doubt a homicidal, megalomaniac, starving his own kind. If we consider there to be no God in this world, such a crime becomes worse still. Because the poor, the suffering of this world find solace in their belief. If there is no God, then they would have their fears and the choice of doing something and dying because they acted, or dying as a victim. But this is easy for me to say, I don't live there, I don't have their suffering.

In 10, 20 or 30 years from now, I wonder if my nephews and nieces will remember me? Of any influence I may of had in their growing up. Whether I was a stable individual in their life, someone who was around while they were young, when they needed it. Someone who helped when he could. And I hope made them laugh. I can't help it if my words are misinterpreted, but it's the view of the reader and this is what I meant in my last blog. Unfortunatelyl reading a passage can be interpretted in different ways. Wherever I am, in 10, 20 or 30 years time, I hope they smile and remember moments with me in affection.

I think I'll check up on studies by Thorndike, he trained pigeons to do some pretty complex tasks. Like getting out of cages by a series of levers, or receiving pigeon food. Psychologists in those days were called behaviourists. I could train my elite squadron of pigeons (Mr Travolta Pigeon permitting) to visit Zimbabwe and crap endless tons of pigeon excrement on Mugabe. Or better give them bandannas and they could become suicide pigeons, for the good of Africa, the one mission, take out Mugabe.

Unfortunately my humour button doesn't seem to work at the moment. If I were a pigeon, now that would be a different story.

Reflections on the week

The roofer has given me a quote, it's got to be done, I realised this morning it took about one hour for the pigeons to wake up from under the tiles and make their way to the local breakfast bar. I can take a conservative guess there's probably 20 of them up there. Mr Travolta Pigeon must have some pretty pungent pheromones at work. My only worry is if the roof repair is done a couple get trapped under the tiles and then become mummified. I'll have to check out the British Museum, I wonder if they have any mummified pigeons?

It seems the list of expenses goes on. One thing after the other. Roof, porch roof, guttering, central heating, porch wall pointing. Double Glazing. I had a short MSN with Sparkling Eyes she's worried about her mortgage with Northern Rock. The brief conversation descended into a swopping of worries.

When I think about may family's effort put into wishing me a happy birthday I'm a little dissappointed. Little Monster Boy didn't even draw me a card, Long haired boy just sent me a text and he couldn't turn up at the tea Big Mama had made. And Dancing girl didn't actually give me a card or do anything either. My other sister Mrs Talkative and children sent a card. Again no personalised little drawing from Angel girl, and besides the Not So Talkatives boys signing their cards no effort from them. Big Mama slipped 20 squids in her card and gave me a box of chocolates which were too sweet for my liking. So I'm now thinking about how much I give to my own family and whether they are worth it? I could try and put them on eBay, the problem would be I'd have to pay someone to take them off my hands.

Silly Sophia has started going to the pub again and she takes little monster boy with her. He stays up till late at night and is always complaining about not getting sleep. At 6 years the poor little might is not getting the caring he should have. Sometimes I can't think it's unfortunate some people are allowed or given the chance to have children, especially when they are not emotionally mature enough to handle them. To be responsible for their own life let alone a child. I can see myself stepping into the world of Eugenics. A place where Hitler once went, except it's not an supreme race of nazis I'd like, just a race of parents who cared for their children and understood those needs. Perhaps the problem with a free world, is it is a free world. Free to make our own mistakes, and continue to make them if we want. We all do the best we can,, of course given the chances of our own up bringing and nurturing environment. Given also the chances of a silver spoon.

The answer I expect is to say "none of it is to do with me." It's not my responsibility to bring up support or help my sisters children. Further "never have any expectations" for expectations of reciprocal support or caring don't happen. I suppose if i really did have my own family, my own children, then I could indoctrinate them into my world and my wife's world. Make them as degenerate or respectful as I felt the need. Children are such vulnerable creatures unlike the pigeons in my roof. Children need some kind of stability. I hope, I provide a small bit of stability. Being around, being here, but I don't know. I have no idea if anything I do has any effect. Only in 10, 20 or 30 years time will it show.

On my wall I have an old picture Sparkling Eyes sent me. It's of a bright yellow sun smiling out. Although it probably took only ten minutes to do and cost absolutely nothing, it is one of my most precious possessions. It's personal, it shows an effort. It's like receiving and writing a letter on paper. It takes time, effort and love to do. One thing I do know, if one of those 6 little sprites I call my nephews or nieces had done such a thing I'd be in tears. Money really don't mean a thing against love, effort enthusiasm and a glowing bright sun of happiness.

Birthday morning

Well it's my birthday. The pigeons being so kind must of decided to give me the day off from listening to their dancing practice. Or perhaps Mr Travolta Pigeon is to knackered after getting his leg over so many other lady pigeons. So it seems even pigeons have to have a day of rest.

Life is so short, so precious and it's journey is a learning expericence, just as I get to understand more about it, another year comes round. Wont be too long before I'm pushing up daisys.

Went to the pub last night and had my limit of 3 Guinness's, they tasted great. Even tried to ring Sparkling Eyes twice, she said she knew I'd been drinking because I always try and ring her. Further, I was so predictable. Not sure if I like being called predictable. Reliable, punctual even a rock not predictable.

I sit in waiting for the roofing man and wonder about opening the incredibly large pile of birthday cards. All 3 will probably take a good hour or two. But the day is nice. Sun out. Yep it's got potential.

Bits and pieces

It's been a bits and pieces day. Where nothing large enough has taken up my waking thoughts to dominate my BLOG, except of course for a very recent discussion with Sparkling Eyes. Who said I'd been unfair in my birthday blog. Because she had put up with me for 10 years. Were I to have written a full blog I'd mentioned it would of taken up 100 pages she said more like 100,00 pages. And called me boring. Yes boring.

Great.

I rang a roofing contractor up, they are going to come round and have a look on Wednesday. I wonder if he's got his own Tommy gun. It's the quick old way of getting rid of pigeons. Watch this space. Had a comment on a blog which suggested the story was clever. I hope it is not thought as fictional because it's real. The hob nailed booted pigeons are still there. I checked them again this morning, after again waking up to the clatter of roof tiles.

The Team Leader Fish to our fish pool is leaving. Shame coz he is actually a nice bloke, someone who you can talk to and respect, although he talks to quite a lot of people and hardly ever sits in his fish chair doing his fishy business. He's still a nice bloke.

Birthday soon looms, such is life. Someone shoot me. No, someone shoot the pigeons then I'll sleep thru the morning, thanks.

Travolta Pigeon has a hareem

It's Sunday morning, I expect to lay in, take it easy, snooze and get up late. It's one of those relaxed days. Or rather the expectation of having a nothing-day, just to enjoy. So the picture is painted. But was this going to happen? Not on your Nelly. For Mr Travolta hot foot dancing pigeon has other ideas. Ideas which he shares with his pals.

So at 6:00 a.m this beautiful lazy Sunday, the tiles began to move. Like a cow walking down the slates in successive footstep each tile banged and made a progressively low to higher pitched bang. A percussive symphony to which I am sure many a rock drummer would have appreciation for. Except I'm not a drummer. As for rock, on a Sunday morning I have no place for it. But the dancing Cow, no I mean pigeon, no I mean pigeons plural had woken up. In their turn they woke me. I thought the slates were going to be falling off the roof. I envisaged having to call in a roofer and it costing thousands of pounds because if one is dislodged at the top it will then dislodge all the others in the sloping column.

Mr John Travolta Pigeon must of been really successful in his dancing lessons, because by 6:20 a.m. I then went out in the garden, wearing my PJs to have a look. I glanced up at the side of the house and there looking down from the edge of the roof could have been no fewer than 50 or so pigeons. This is worse than I thought. It wasn't just the banging roof tiles which were the clue as I woke. It was the flapping of wings, from my bleary eyed sonambulance I heard a flock. When I looked up from the garden I saw a flock. Picking them off with an air rifle would of left a pile of pigeon carcasses 4 foot high. Besides I don't have a air gun. No wonder the cat just lazes about doing nothing, because if he catches one there's always another 49 sitting in the wings, looking down at him, taunting poor Tigger and most likely having a shite from the roof. Any cat would have a nervous break down at the prospect, too much prey and not enough lives.

Feck what am I going to do? Mr Travolta Pigeon has a harem, he's happy, life is wonderful when your looking down from a great hight waking up unsuspecting humans. Especially when each night you can have another different Ms Pigeon to tuck up in bed. Feck I'm now desperate for ideas. Anyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Roof Pidgeon Carpenters

This morning I woke up early, for two reasons. Firstly because I'm in a waking up early frame of mind, and have been in it for the last week, and secondly I had no choice. Pigeons in the roof and possibly an assortment of other birds were having their usual morning Disco. I'm sure the pigeon dance king aka John (Red Beak, head hopping) Travolta Pidgeon was putting on yet another display of his foot work. No doubt trying to pull in the birds so he could get a leg over. But I'd wish he'd go and do his goose stepping in someone elses roof.

The roof and the birds has been a problem vexing me for a number of years. My first method of solution is just to ignore it. Like I suppose all men. We're of the breed, if something needs to be done ignore it first because it might go away. Particularly because sorting out the roof means buying a new ladder, at some expense and then even worse having to go up the thing. Alternatively I could get a man in go up there and sort them out, but you just never know if the person you get in will actually do the job. If I do it myself I then got a set of ladders and it probably hasn't cost me a great deal more than it would do to hire the man.

I've spoken to the cat. Who nowadays resembles more of a teddy bear than a cat and he's got cataracts. I said to him to try a bit of pigeon, and it's about time he earned his weight. I'm sure Tigger didn't take in a word, probably through indifference, ignorance of the human language and his greater interest in cat biscuits. Which may be just a small bit more than my sudden binge last night of chocolate digestives. I think I downed 8 or 9 of them with a cuppa tea. But still the question of the birds remains.

So if there happens to be one person with an idea which might help and is reading this probably ignored BLOG, drop a comment and I'll read it later.

Another Year

Another year looms close to me. Another year when a day comes and I get a little older. Unfortunately, I and Sparkling Eyes wont be able to see each other. Not of my doing. This of course made me pretty sad, mad and obdurate. Sparkling Eyes retorted equally mad, possibly sad, and just as obdurate. So I'll celebrate without the one person I love more than any other in my life.

OK what will I do? Take in a movie alone, watch a play alone, eat a Chinese meal alone, feck look at the bottom of a pint glass think where I'd rather be and then order another.

Cat sitting comes to an end

Yesterday the Talkatives returned and I finished cat sitting. They looked tired and refreshed. I asked Little Angel if she could speak any Spanish and she said "adios" quite appropriate in the circumstances. I was happy when I saw them. For some reason I felt emotional. It has been some years since they had a holiday and it was just wonderful to see them all. They needed it and enjoyed it thoroughly.

As I had spent quite a lot of time doing the garden, it was also good to see dog, cats and Talkatives outside enjoying their own garden. Little Angel shot her dog with a water pistol and found it highly amusing.

I took Long Haired boy back with me, and it was obvious his demeanour had become less happy. It was with my own sadness I saw Silly Sophia's front room and wept inside for the lives of her children. For the poverty she allowed herself to dwell in, and for the poverty of her children's lives. Being poor doesn't mean you have to be without self dignity and composure, without happiness or self value. I really do cry inside.

On a much lighter front I was told of Rock Chick getting herself drunk, spending most of a day with a hangover and head in a bucket. Sparkling Eyes telling me she'd taken photo's and how Rock Chick just wasn't cut out for being one of the boozing types. I asked for a picture, but of course was not going to get one and was subsequently threatened with ex communication if I'd asked again.

This morning I go back to the Fish Factory with indifference I wonder whether that's good bad or just of no consequence. Thank heavens for Sparkling Eyes, i thought of her as I hugged myself to sleep.

Big Brother, it's a popularity contest

Last night I saw the final instalment of Big Brother 8, I think. The winner was the one who got the most votes, Brian. He was Black, exceedingly camp to the point I thought he was gay-but he wasn't and possessed an I.Q. similar to a close friend of Forrest Gump or indeed Forrest Gump. When he was asked what he'd do with the prize money Brian said he'd give it to his mum because he just didn't have an idea. She'd look after it. At times Brian was at times paranoid. But he is a nice bloke. I'm sure he got the gay vote, and because he possessed quite a large willy he probably got the vote from a lot of girls. Or other people who like men with big willies. Oddly in the compiled clips of Brian's best bits there were a number of scenes where he was running about naked. As a contest goes this is a popularity contest. I'd never want someone like Brian to do anything other than being a nice guy, but if he flew a jet and I was a passenger, I'd take up religion pretty quickly.

It is sad British society votes it's most favourite personality as someone who has no inclination of who Shakespeare was, what he did or what he means. In reality the voters are teenyboppers. Their role models are from a TV show with people who have no talent in the world, but can sit, eat, talk a lot of dribble and show the complete depth, breadth and odour of ignorance. They are immature and the contestants show varying degrees of similar immaturity. The stench of this ignorance is rife it seeps through the pores of anyone who has the unfortunate misshappence of catching an episode.

From first hand knowledge, it can be addictive. I have sat and been enthralled by it. Watched episode after episode, and then been disappointed at myself having participated. That I'd allowed myself to be drawn into the world of vacuous personalities with barely double digit I.Q.s. People who had one purpose in this stage of their life. To be rich, to be famous and to have done nothing for it. Not worked, not shown genius and barely showing enough talent to wash a dish. It's sad. Very sad. But we all grow up, eventually.

"...to thine own self be true..." It's from Hamlet, I like the Mel Gibson version.

I'm off to get an audition to BB9, I wonder if this banana costume will do the trick, I'll just sing 10 green bottles and juggle 2 lemons as well. I'm sure it will work. Damnn am I talented.

Only a few more days

Today is Thursday, great, that's Thursday night, Friday, Saturday and it is over. I can return home on Sunday morning.

Really do miss chatting to Sparkling Eyes even if she's not talking to me.

Such is the power of woman.

Get me out of here.

I am going mad.

The walls are full of my bare fingered scratches.

Help. Save me. Someone.

Clown Shoes

Sparkling Eyes said she's not talking to me. This is because I cut short a conversation on msn as i had to go somewhere quick. I rang her and her voice was defiant. "I'm not talking to you" it was emphatic. She would not be drawn into a conversation. The phone call lasted 2 minutes and was over with. Then for some reason I felt guilty. The blame had been shifted defiantly onto my shoulders. Such is the will of a woman.

When the conversation began we had both acknowledged being tired. Then by default it would be short. However, Sparkling Eyes had things to say. I wanted to sit and listen but I had to disappear. So I did listen and type for a little while, but because I was the one who closed the conversation even though it was acknowledged we were both knackered, I am the one who is in trouble. I sneeze I am in trouble. I blow my nose I'm in trouble. I look at the wall and guess what I'm yes, in trouble. I can't help it I feel guilty now. Someone shoot me. Put me out of my misery. Such is the power of a woman. Even when hundreds of miles away.

The 3 cats don't like me. Angel has now showed a liking towards Long Haired Boy. He said last night she was all over him wanting to be stroked, and dribbling. She dribbles because she has no teeth. Long Haired Boy has pulled a cat. I drink a glass of wine left over from last night and am asked if I have been drinking all afternoon. I feed Angel coz she is meowing outside the window but she don't want me to stroke her. Maybe it's the female sex. Maybe, I have some kind of disease which makes them dislike me. Maybe, I tread on toes too easily.

OK finished me delicious glass or rose wine, now have to decide if I am going down the street for another bottle. Which is a good 40 minute return walk. Oh yes, better take these clown shoes off, don't know who elses toes I'm going to tread on.

Gardening done me in

The Talkatives haven't done their garden in the last century, so I dicided to tackle it and spent maybe 3 hours, cutting grass, pulling up pieces of concrete imbedded in the turf and digging about. My back is killing me. Long haired boy didn't help out but I didn't ask him. He'd put the pizza's in the oven which is probably enough for someone who has nil cooking expeience. They tasted good, but still the garden beat me. Am whacked.

The cats are still playing their ellusive game. Angel walked up to the back door for something to eat, she seemed to be walking slowly. I think she's probably letting her fear of me take over her need to eat. So she slowly starves herself. When all I want to do is pet her and tell her the Talkatives will be home by the end of the week. She'd understand and perhaps realise I'm not an ogre. Well not yet.

I rang up Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick picked up the phone. She was distressed and crying her words were "it's a long story." Sparkling Eyes filled me in on the details and I later offered to beat someone up if Rock Chick wanted. But I'm sure she thought i'd be more funny to watch than actually cause any physical harm. My physical prowess is deamed impotent by a teenager.
Sparkling Eyes told me the good news about her hospital tests. They will keep a check on her but no need to worry. What a relief.

The boy from next door called me Mr Bean again in conversation. He also insited his side kick call me Mr Bean. He asked if I had a girlfriend. Then later asked if I had sex. Hmmmm I think he was really trying to stereotype me into the Mr Bean personality. I acted half insulted to his question and told him "you shouldn't ask me a question like that, you don't even know me," I said it in a nice way. However he disappeared behind the fence again and I no longer saw him or his side kick Cool Hand any more.

Am whacked. Beaten by the garden? Thank heaven's for the cold taste of a well chilled beer. The top of which, I managed to take off with out any problem.

Audacious, proud, loud Terrifying Tigger

He turned up this morning. The cat I thought was scared. The scaredy cat. In the back of my mind. But he was now on a mission. He'd had enough of avoiding. He'd got his courage together, or some other cat sense and decided to sort me out. Don't make assumptions about the one who runs away. Coz you never know if he's going to turn up again. Tigger did.

For some reason I awoke early. Went downstairs had brekky and listened to the Today program. Angel was doing her, I'm-not-sure-I-like-him routine. Being obstinate, not coming in unless she could do it by a window where I couldn't see her. Buffy doesn't have this problem, she just comes in eats and enjoys a stroke. However, as if from nowhere Tigger turns up. He's at the back door. Tail standing erect, proud, tall and he's meowing to come in. My, this is a surprise. Maybe he'd had enough of the rain. Maybe now he wanted some food. He walked past me with disdain like a member of the royal family coming to tea and hating every second. He walked into the kitchen and meowed. He walked into the front room and meowed. He walked round and round meowing and ignoring the food. His fur was partly up. He looked bigger. Tigger was telling me something and it was along the lines of "how-dare-you-be-here-ass-wipe, where's my owners?"

I'd locked the door after he came in. My assumption was he would be harmless and now needed sustenance. I assumed wrong. He was as much as a cat can be, actually a little scary. I'd put the keys to the door down. Tigger went to the back door after his disappointed nose around. He meowed "let-me-out-idiot" in so many meows. Sodding ell. Where did i put the key down. I hastily looked around. Tigger made his way to the window sill and meowed "so-you-going-to-let-me-out-or-do-I-get-rough?" I wanted to reach to the window's handle but he was in the way. And looking mean. In a moment I spied the key. Opened the back door and Tigger walked proudly scarily out the back door. Shite. And I thought he was just shy.

There really is no reason for a human being to be scared of a cat. After all they are quite a bit smaller. But for a few short moments I actually wondered if he was going to attack me. And had he hissed I'm sure I might of been a little more panicked. But I held it together. Not only that his meow was a little pathetic in decibel level. Although he had the John Wayne walk he just didn't have the voice to go with it. It was a little like the early interviews with David Beckham, where you think what a squeaky poofed voice he has and how the hell can a thicko like him be so famous? But like Beckeham who's intelligence was in his feet, Tigger's was in his attitude.

Maybe I should of gone for a pint today.