Batman was not a Fatman

Sometimes timing is everything.  Or rather, all times, timing is everything.  To reach a specific point in time and be able to approach a task in the right way requires a certain attitude, a mind-set.  It's now been three weeks in which I have managed to do some form or physical exercise every second day.  Usually going to the gym, but at weekends going for a run in the park.  It is hard work being a fatman and running.  Batman wasn't called Fatman because he was overweight.  Then, he wasn't overweight.  He couldn't be, especially if he was climbing up the sides of buildings and taking on the baddies.  Although the Penguin now he was rotund, but it didn't stop him from being a baddy.  So, part of me asks how come Batman wasn't fat either?  It's strange how you see things differently when in a different situation.  As I was saying.  Timing and the right time to do something and sustain it only comes about from having all the other things in place and wearing the right head.  Like a children's character scarecrow who would put a different head on depending what he wanted to do. I had to put the right head on, and have it at this moment. I have lost a couple of pounds and have found it a lot easier breathing, so it's got to be worth it. 

I saw little Monster Boy yesterday, we went for a walk and played his version of football.  This often involves him kicking me in the ankles rather than tackling me.  We make one goal post with my jacket being one of the  a stick or boulder.  He then counts goals to his advantage in accordance to his rules, which means he must win every time.  It was great fun.  We both laughed a lot and I got pretty tired even with my exercise regime.  As the TV series Misfits is being filmed locally we had hoped to see some of the trailers or the actors from the series, however they must of just stopped filming.  They had been parked in a large car park for quite a few weeks.  So it was my own fault I should of had an earlier look.  Misfits is probably the most exciting thing which has happened locally for many years.  I expect it will probably be the most exciting thing for years to come.  But the actors kept themselves to themselves, and stayed hidden away in their trailers.  So although the series in part reflects what it is like living in the area, you can't help feel a little disappointed in the people, they could of been maybe a little community active and done something significant.

Oh well, there's nothing to it, I'll just have to go and put my cape, mask and stockings on and have a run.  I'm sure it will cheer someone up.

Sunday run

It’s been a quiet day. I had one thing in mind to actually do, which was have a run. The thought occurred to hit the road in the morning, but reluctantly getting up from bed to the sound of clattering roof tiles as pigeons greeted the day pushed any notion of physical exertion away. Yet, it has been about two weeks where every second day I’ve somehow managed to get to the gym. Except going to the gym today would of meant spending over an hour in bus ride time there and back, not to mention packing my kit bag and paying fare. So instead, I had an inkling of motivation and put on shorts, socks and t-shirt to go jogging. There was one rule, no rather two rules to obey on such an occasion. First to take it easy, allow myself to stop and walk where necessary and second was to spend longer running than I would at the gym. After a few stretching exercises I got some water and left by the front door.

Once I had closed the door I wondered if anyone I knew would see me. This was because a middle aged getting-fatter-man who one knows, is always worth a laugh. Fortunately I have few friends nowadays and only had to think about neighbours. As most of these are new and of multi cultural origin and still strangers to me, they wouldn’t be much of a problem unless they decided today was the day to talk to the fattish man who lives in the corner house. I was fortunate, none did. They were probably doing all day sessions at their respective religious establishments dancing, singing, and speaking in tongues. Although I must confess one tongue has been perfectly adequate for me.

The run, or rather fat-man-jog, walk, pant-like-about-to-have-a-asthma-attack event went as smoothly as it could. There was only one doggy threat, and he seemed quite happy chained to his steak although I hopped over his lead and flashed an enticing chicken-like-leg in his direction, he was having nothing of it. Maybe he thought there was too much fat on it and liked his meat a bit leaner. He was quite a nice dog as well, he was a young husky-like affair. Perhaps the heat of the day had taken a toll on him. But good as gold, he just sat and showed no interest. I was happy for him, just as I was happy for myself, not having to think about a tetanus injection. I saw families out walking, kids playing football and even another jogger, an older man who didn’t acknowledge me as we passed in opposite directions. Bastard, I panted quietly as I laboured an exhale. Obviously someone who doesn’t know the joggers rule, which is to always smile, wave or say “hi” to another jogger. Saying this, it did give me some impetus to move my little leggies a little faster, well, a little.

In getting home I then washed and sat down, to enjoy a quite moment as my brain chemistry kicks in with some of those buzzing chemicals which make you feel at peace. Oh running shoes, running shoes, bear my weight, last for another circuit, help me lift my knees when I need it most and never let your laces dangle so I fall over and land on my face, arse or nose. Yep, sometimes a little divine intervention is just what the personal trainer ordered.

A bit of mind reading

Sometimes it is like I don’t exist. I know I do exist, because each day I get up, eat breakfast go to the Fish Factory, hit the gym, interact with people, but it’s still like I am non existent. It comes down to Sparkling, because I try to communicate with her by MSN but to my chagrin she is shown as offline. Then when I do send a message I get a reply. She isn’t really offline, it’s just the way she signs in, always offline. Which leads me to wonder when she is truly offline but online and when offline does actually mean offline. It can get pretty confusing. I try to reason, but I’m out of my depth here because I’m using logic and logic really is not the logically thing to use. For a simple reason, it’s man logic and not woman logic.

Sparkling then tells me in a few words not to push any buttons because it is the time of the month when men become objects worth of decapitation by any means possible by women. If I say something without due care and attention I am then accused of being insensitive and being an arse hole. Which is of course the natural state of any man nearly 100 per cent of the time according to any woman. It’s like walking on rice paper. I then ask does this mean if I were in Sparkling’s presence I’d be dead, the answer is affirmative, several times over. Probably with a chop stick or a whisk, or worse still the woman glare. The very special look reserved when extreme irritation has now been reached. It can then be followed by the pointed finger. Or the stabbing pointing finger which darts through the air and hits you squarely in the chest. Like some mystic Chinese martial art this move is meant to immobilise a man. And it does. It’s the move which says “don’t carry on because the next thing you say will be written on your grave stone.” It really does mean now deadly force will be used.

Mostly being a coward, or wise I then shut up. However, as this came to me by telepathy in an MSN message, it took a moment to sink in. Yes, I was just reading the words and using my man-logic. Clearly my skin has been temporarily saved. I’m happy because I need it. I think I’ll just pretend not to be here and to be a figment of imagination.

Thing is, whose imagination?

Chat with a porker

While in the gym this evening, I got chatting to a porker. It turned out to be one of those situations when you get the feeling your fat only to find someone who is fatter. Well I did. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, we groaned about how hard it was getting to the gym, it's not easy at our age, though he might of been a couple of years older, I couldn't tell. Then he told me how a year and a half ago he had weighed 24 stone and now he was 16 stone. I could barely believe it. He had lost an entire person in body weight. But he still looked fat, but hell 18 months ago he looked real fat. He said he was stuck now at 16 stone and had been yoyoing up and down at this weight for a while. Considering it had taken me two weeks to lose four pound and I was groaning, this bloke was a walking miracle. He gave details of how arthritis in one of his knees had stopped him from coming at one point, but he now went three times a week. This individual had completely flabergasted me. I thought here was someone who had will power and more sustained determination than very many people I knew. Yet he was an ordinary bloke although a bit tubby. My only error was to ask him how much he thought I weighted, or rather he told me in a range of about two and a half stone. He got it right, but the worse thing was the top end of his guess was two and a half stone heavier than what I am. It didn't do much for my self esteem, but I'll try not to let it bother me.

Bloody porker.

Scales which tell the truth are redundant

I hit the gym this evening. It was a truely eventful moment, twice in three days. Again it hurt. I'm now a fat man who can't program his weight into the running machine because he's afraid of standing on scales to see what it is. Big Moma summed it up when she refused to stand on a set. I said there was nothing wrong with them they were new and function perfectly. Her reply was this was the reason she wouldn't stand on them.

Why does getting old mean getting fat, grumpy and unfit? Not to mention the necessity to purchase more clothes as you climb through the sizes like a mountaineer on speed. Tomorrow I think I'll go for a light meal and watch the calories. Or did I mean watch the cookies?

Three days of sausage aversion therapy

On leaving Sparkling Eyes and heading towards London I wasn't feeling on top of the world. I put this down to an over indulgence of alcohol over the last few days, no lets rephrase, the last two weeks and my body beginning to fight back. Though I wish it wouldn't and just accept the hundred sausage rolls or copious fried breakfasts I plied pass these lips. I could tell something was up because I felt a chill and my head was fuzzy. However, it's always difficult because I'm from England and it's always a little colder in Scotland, so I put it down to climatization. The train hit London and I felt a mild urge to use the loo. But thought seeing as I only had another hour it would pass and I'd be back at my London base.

From Kings Cross I got a tube to London Bridge. In the City the weather was quite different, it was hot perhaps in the mid 80s, communters were in shirts and no one had a coat, yet I felt my chill still. When on the tube it's usually even hotter than it is outside, maybe even the 90s on the carriage. So I sat in a crowded carriage with bodies swaying around me, they were hot and swetty some giving an odourous pong. The seat I sat on must of been near some mechanical engine part because there was extra heat eminating from it. Rather than be dismayed this was perfect, but it still didn't warm me up, the chill persisted. Things were not adding up, it was hot around me and I felt cold, maybe my moron head was put on when I woke up in the morning, because it really wasn't registering.

I got off the tube and then went to the barrier at London Bridge. As my ticket doesn't automatically work I have to show it to an attendant at this point, but being the peak of rush hour with thousands of people going throught the turnstyles this is not so easy, especially if the attendants are not standing in an accessible place for people who have issues getting through turnstyles. I showed him, he looked at the ticket. Great, I had chosen the novice attendant/learner who didn't know the different ticket types or understand with gate pass tickets you should always ask for the second rail ticket. I held up a second ticket quite clearly waiting for him to glance at it and began to get annoyed Except the idiot must of been wearing blinkers, he just looked at the one gate pass ticket. He then let me through and said "follow me". he went to another attnedant to show them my gate pass. Two seconds later he said it wasn't valid. I had an outburst and said "it is! look at this other one I got in my hand." He rapidly changed his mind and then let me through. I was going to show him my ugly side at this moment. I then found the expected platform form my final train. At this moment I felt a rumbling.

The earlier urge to hit the loo had now reoccured. It took me five minutes to establish on which platform the gents were located. I headed over to it. Got there and just as I was about to direct myself towards a cubical someone else got there instead. Now I felt like clutching my guts. I knew this could be an embarressing moment the shivers had caught up with me. I stood outside the gents and spied the cubical door hoping it would open. Eventually it did and then I rushed in. The toilet seat was up, there was toilet roll brilliant. I dropped the seat down only to find it was covered in piss all over it. WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH MEN WHO PISS ON TOILET SEATS? So gave it a good wipe down before I could use it. What a relief it was when I did. I had got to the point now where I didn't even care if there was no loo paper I was going to have a dumb and it was going to happen. I thought of an incident L & B man had told me he had when in Poland on a holiday. Now he really does have bowel problems. I sympathised now through my own experience.

Getting back home, I went to bed in early evening, with the occasional tremble, both hot and cold at the same time. A few hours later, when the sun had eventually decided to go down and the sky got a somewhat darker, my body lifted itself out of bed as though some mysterious alien force was levitating me. My reactions were instantaneous even to the extent of beautiful. I had now began my bid for the 2012 Olympic Games in a little know event called Projectile Vommitting. My cheeks blew out like the distorted jowls of a great jazz trumpeter as I tried to hold back the onrush. Clasping my hand daintily to my mouth like a shy teenager trying to suppress a giggle I then did a Linford Christie start from bedroom to toilet to hurl vomit at a greater quantity than water from a fire hose.

It's taken me now three days to recover, I'm sure the fuzzy head was a migraine as well. Somehow I managed to drag myself into the Fish Factory to do my time. I could not face food for two off those days and now I am so much the better. I have abstained from two things, alcohol and sausages since. Be they sausages in a roll or sausage rolls, anything related to a sausage has been off the menu. For the time being if I don't see another sausage for a year it will be too soon. I hope this aversion lasts. But I will be thankful for one very important thing, the inventor of the toilet roll. Maybe I'll have a drink on it tomorrow to.

An 18th and 21st, don't mind me said the little boy

At Rock Chick's 18th party I saw an event which was witnessed by about 100 people. It was something which caught the eye, it could of easily been overseen, but once one or two people began starring and pointing. There was an almost hush moment. Then turning my head I saw a little boy. On the dance floor during early evening with flashing disco lights, he dropped his trousers and had a pee. This moment was jaw dropping, spectators saw, they were amazed then they laughed. A little boy had done what little boys do, he had an urge and his call of nature was quite natural.

The event was a great success. University Girl was 21 as well so it was a combined party. I must admit although there were a lot of people I recognised by face I had forgotten their names. Not to mention how alcohol effects my ability to interpret the Scottish accent. Which was probably to my advantage being a sassenach. Sparkling has taught me a new phrase which I must remember "I'm gonna rap your pus" in English this means I am going to punch you in the face. I have to find a moment next week and say it to someone. I have also been considering doing some running, I could use the opportunity to rap a pus and run at the same time. In this way hitting two pigeons with one stone. Losing weight and using this new founded phrase. All I can think is it sure is a lot easier eating chocolate and being fat.

Murray at Wimbledon and a lack of sleep

I sit in sparkling's front room watching the semi-final at Wimbledon, Andy Murray versus the Spaniard Rafael Nadal. I'm told Andy is a Scott, a Scott with emphasis and England only won the would cup in 1966 so "get over it." Nadal has a look about him which raises the heckles on my neck. He reminds me of the Portuguese footballer who had Beckham booked. Ronaldo, who is probably one of the highest paid self opinionated arrogant players there has ever been. Sparkles says "Murray" in a disappointed tone as he has missed another court shot, oops and there goes a "tut, for god's sake." Yep looks like Murray is making a sours ear out of it. He's got to pick himself up and stop being dour-faced. It's the determination of the second set. Come on Murray, beat the arrogant puffed up cockerel called Nadal. It's all about confidence. Yes a shot has slipped passed Nadal, brilliant.

Sparkling, has plugged the laptop in, I say thanks and she reminds me "see the things I do for you." Mind I could of said the same here to this morning, after getting up about 3:00 a.m. to let the screaming cat in. Only hitting the hay at 1:30 a.m., not to mention, pulling the garden waste bin out on the street, of course I couldn't do this in my pyjamas so had to put my clothes. I looked a little bedraggled to say the least. Fortunately nobody I knew saw me. Then there was opening the door to Mr L & B man just after 9:00 a.m., who had been working all night long. He said I looked bad, I looked like shit, he was right. I hadn't had a decent night sleep no wonder I felt like crap as well. I glance up at the telly continuously and Murray has thrown his racket down at the court. It bounces up about 8 feet and drops down dead again. He's lost it. He needs to focus. He needs a sports psychologist, it's all in his head, he can do it but he reminds me of the England football team when they went on the pitch to play Algeria, a third rate football nation they should of beaten with both arms tied behind their back. It's all about mental ability. I lost mine at about 2 p.m. and had to lay on the bed with the cat as company while my head went dizzy and I allowed my body to become a leadened sack of bones. The cat didn't say anything, well he couldn't, I'd let him in early he owes me.

Rock Chick is in the kitchen making cakes, tomorrow is a big party. It's her official 18th birthday party, though her real birthday was a few days earlier. I'm getting it constantly in the ear because the laptop I ordered has not been sent by a third party seller on Amazon. I've sent them three emails and had no reply to any. In the ten days which have passed since I ordered it, it still has not been dispatched. I've never had this happen to me before. But as I said to Rock "all comes to those who wait." I look at the centre court and see the odd famous personality and a lot of rich middle and upper class people. Some even with children. I wonder if their child really understands and appreciates as they eat their ice cream. Wimbledon history in the making. How come some of these well to do people don't go and find some less wealthy tennis fanatic who would really appreciate the event. Something which would be a life time memory rather than a little brat being dragged along and in all reality would rather be be playing their X-box. Then again it's variety of experience which helps make us what we are, not the same repeated depressing ones. Spinning an optimistic light on it, any individual who has come through a less privileged background in growing up will be made of stronger stuff than those snotty nosed and otherwise inclined. Murray is showing a small balding patch on his crown as he bounces the ball then lean down to catch it as it returns from the ground. The crowd shout for Murray, he needs any support he can get, hell if there's a doctor in the crowd and you have a trust please step forward. Third set and 4:4, I'm damn glad I didn't put a bet on the Scotsman. Better not let Sparkles hear me say it. No I should say, I'm damn glad I didn't put a bet on the British-man. O.K. it is through adversity true character rises to the surface, come on Murray. Shite he's lost the game. Well, I'll just go and make a cup of coffee and eat some chocolate, the world is always a lot better after some chocolate.

Nadal has won, he throws his swet bands into the crowd. I bet they will pong. Oh well Murry, give me a ring, I got a packet of Chocolate Flakes, come and share one with me, unless Rock had got her hands on them.

England footy players should be paid in chips

England gave an abysmal performance against Algeria last night. To say they were lacklustre would be an understatement. For someone who doesn’t actually follow football, watching this game was for patriotic reasons. However, I can only come to one conclusion those players were not patriots, they were aplysia in the depth of an ocean. There was no gumption, no bull-dog spirit, no passion of pride in country. It looked like each and everyone of them had been out on the booze the night before and were suffering from hangovers. England’s football team were no better than the morning after the night before when they had all been shit-faced cuddling the pan waiting for their next wretch of vomit.

If footy skills were calculated on wages then these good-for-nothing two legged representatives of England wouldn’t have enough money to by a portion of chips between them. Wayne Rooney made a remark as he left the pitch in a sarcastic tone, of how good it was to have England supporters in South Africa so they could boo them. This team deserves to be put back on a plane and made to walk a tunnel of humiliation. When Gerard was asked what was missing from the game all he could say was goals. Goals! Bloody goals! How wrong could he be? What was missing was pride and passion. These players can not be said to truly represent our country. I would be incredibly proud to have been a North Korean when considering how they played and even lost their match. They were without doubt, respectful to authority, passionate, energetic and gave it every ounce of their being on the field. The scorn England players and management will get in today’s papers will be monumental. Maybe as monumental as their real salaries. If they continue to play like this, when they come back to club football the fans will want their guts for garters. I am ashamed, ashamed to be English. If I could divorce this team and become Algerian I would. If I were north Korean I would hold nothing but pride. Lets hope someone gets a vuvuzela and sticks in a place where the sun don’t shine, eleven times, or twelve if you include the manager. Maybe then they will be motivated, maybe then they will see how they have let down their country, their fans, their families. Today they hold heads in shame. If they don’t then their ignorance and hubris knows no bounds.

Beware of the bar stool Witch

The old Witch sat where she always sat. At the bar with her pint of Stella, trying to verbally barge into any conversation she could. I sat with my back to her, the though this could be another one of my deranged family members flitted across my mind. I didn't want to imagine it for it gave me a dizzy spell and the need for fresh air. Mr Cashier man sat opposite me while I concentrated in half conversation with him and half reading today's broadsheet. At one point he said I was being patronising when I related an article about the painter Caravaggio. It just must be the way I have with words, some people think it, whilst I was being genuine. In the end I come to the conclusion I don't give a damn how they take me, but I do admire honesty, so replied in an honest way how my comments were not to be taken as patronising. Meanwhile a cackle from the Old Witch cut through my body like the scythe of Thanatos. I starred at my companion and then quietly made a suggestion to him.

“you see the Old Witch at the bar?”
“yes” came his reply as his eyes glanced in her direction but in a way so as not to draw attention.
“Why don’t you go and ask her out? I know you get on OK with her, I’ve seen you chat to her before. And do it about this time of day, when I come in the pub.”

There then was a moment. Possibly two or three moments as I watched his body language. A slight head turn to the left and the right, he bought his hand up to his face and held it for a second as though in thought. Took his hand away. Readied himself as though about to make a brave statement. Glanced left then right and then eventually addressed me. Saying:

“you want me to ask her out? About this time of the evening, when you come in?”
“yes” and I nodded my head, we were talking quietly in secret squirrel fashion.
“How much are you willing to pay me?” Now was a moment of my own time to think about it. The thought of an evening without the Witch was so exciting, one of peace to drink my Guinness and chat to less mentally disturbed individuals. I replied:
“I’ll go to a tenner.” Mr Cashier looked at me in contemplation saying.
“I would, but I don’t think the offer would be accepted.” He was right. The Old Witch would probably make a voodoo doll in his image and stick it a few times. I wouldn’t mind but poor Mr Cashier had only just come back to work after 8 months off with a broken leg and still he wasn’t right. Groaning about how his good leg now hurt.

I finished my pint and left. It seems freedom from the insane is a luxury to have. It even stops my enjoyment of a pint. Well as the saying goes, ‘there’s more out than in’.

Sparkling's anaphylactic shock

I recevied a text message from Sparkling while I was in the pub. Catching up with an fish who used to manage me. The text was difficult to fully comprehend on account of the spelling and text lingo she used. However, it was quite clear in another sense, something very serious had happened. Sparkling had to call the emergency services because she had a severe reaction to a burger and began to show the symptons of anaphylactic shock. Hives, followed by a swelling of the tongue and inability to talk, she rang up for an ambulance and the operator asked her to stay on the line because if she collapsed then the operator would of known. The ambulance arrived, she was then pumped with adrenaline and taken to hospital. The docs have her the once over and then pumped more drugs into her. She's starting to feel a lot more chilled out and the symptons are subsiding. Except for the hives. They wanted to keep her in the hospital for observation, whilst Sparkling wanted to get home. Sparkling one out. I rushed home and then rang up Sparkling. I was aghast at what Sparkling had gone through. It's the first time she had ever taken such a reaction. Then I asked how come she didn't go next door to see her neighbour and I got distracted in the thought of poor Sparkling with a swollen tongue standing on her neighbour's door step waiting for the door to open. Then when it did making a funny noise because she could no longer talk properly.

I couldn't help it. A silent laugh erupted. I kept it as best I could under control but Sparkling being her ever so sensitive self said she would put the phone down on me. A short second in time past, then the line went dead. Oh dear, I'd hit a raw nerve so soon but could not help myself. I know if it happened to me Sparkling would of been exactly the same. But as L & B man says "get over it." So I'd have no choice but to get over it pretty quickly. I was in shock myself though. I have never heard of a burger doing such a thing. It was only the weekend when I'd had a couple of burgers myself.

I'm up to Scotland in a few days time to see Sparkling. Then I'll have to make amends, tell her I love her. Rub feet, be a servant and above all avoid any meat products which might be a little bit suspect.

Sleeping like an alien abductee

I really do not know what is happening to me lately. Except I'm sleeping so heavily it's like I been abducted by an alien and put back in my bed every morning. Well if I am it must be some very strange alien, because I'd of thought they needed to start experiemnting on some other person by now. Though this theory probably doesn't hold water it's the only one I can think of for now which comes close to how heavily I am sleeping. OK I wake up maybe once, the time the bright light shines through the curtains and I hear this tapping noise on the window. Then there was the other moment when I'm sure I had a probe stuck into my head, or was it an egg whisk? No the egg whisk was another dream.

I go to bed, close my eyes and then wake up in practically the same postion I started off in. With very little disturbed. I then wonder if I actually had any sleep and maybe have been through some kind of time shift jumping thing. But as the light from the early morning comes through the window I know I have slept. As for dreams? Well, they are elusive. I must have a memory like a siv, because I can't remember a single aspect of dream reality either.

Maybe I just should not worry about such a thing. After all there's a lot of people out there who can't get any sleep at all. They have insomnia at the thought of an alien banging on the window. Well, maybe my alien is more chilled out and relaxed and has lost the guide book on how to make human's feel uncomfortable and give them nightmares. Fox and Scully look out coz here is one man who enjoys his alien abductions into slumber land. I just wish those little green men would pick up my dirty socks and stick them in the washing machine as well, or put some waffles on just as I wake up. I suppose then I would have a disturbed sleep, because aliens just don't have the faintest idea how to cook waffles.

Clean pipes and a very smooth Guinness

After a day of extra time in the Fish Factory, I needed a break. The cool taste of a pint and some time for myself. As I didn’t have any reading material I ended up buying about Team working and then searched for somewhere to read it in peace and quite. I checked out the usual pub, but on seeing the Witch and Troglodyte in there again I decided to give it a miss. There is just so much ignorance a person can deal with in any one week. I then went in search of another pub with my book. Except this other pub looked like a dive, as two shifty characters stood outside smoking a cigarette each with similar Neanderthal tendencies I had avoided from the Trog and associate dumb Witch. I then ventured towards a third pub, walked in and there saw one of the regulars I recognised I’ll call him Mr Belgium. On account this was where he was born. Anyway, Mr Belgium finished his pint and recommended a fourth pub which he said drew a very good pint of Guinness.

It’s odd what your taste buds get used to, my normal pub I knew really wasn’t much good when it came to a pint of the black stuff. I just have this feeling they are not cleaning out the pipes on a regular basis. My Guinness always has a strange tang to it. I endure this tang and in so doing spend about an hour supping. We entered this fourth pub, with Mr Belgium announcing this pub did the best Guinness he had ever tasted. O.K. Well you have to give these things a try.

The bar was big and pub seemed pretty big on the inside as well. Two flat screen TVs were on, there was some kind of football match on. I took a cursory glance at the game and wondered. Talking to Mr Belgium we walked to the bar and ordered the pints. Mr Belgium took my plastic bag with new book with him outside the pub to an area they had set aside for smokers. The bar staff seemed to be taking an eternity with the Guinness. I looked up again at the TVs and realised they were not playing football as one of the players picked up the ball and ran with it. Neither was it rugby. The ball was definitely round. The clientele of the pub had without doubt Irish accents. Maybe this was some kind of Irish footy I thought. The Guinness came and I took the pints outside to sit with Mr Belgium.

Mr Belgium admired his pint and said it was exactly how a real Guinness should look. Myself, well I thought it might of looked a little darker than normal, and they hadn’t put a leaf on top. With a little scepticism I drank my first sip. Hmmm. It was different. It was more silk and smooth than I had tasted before. Then I found, it went down so much easier. There was no one hour or more slow sipping. This beautiful elixir must of lasted a half hour maybe less. We had a second and I was then beginning to feel slightly intoxicated. I took it a little slower. The conversation was good and I really enjoyed the afternoon.

The moral of the story? Make sure the pipes are clean before pouring a pint otherwise your punters will just not drink it.

A Witch and a Trogladyke sup their drinks

After a day in the Fish Factory and having one of the fellow fishes get stressed out because of the size of bubbles they were asked to blow, I deserved a pint in the pub. It's what I give myself for having endured and mostly remained calm in the face of big bubbles. I got there and the usual bunch were sitting together, so I found a seat on the end and joined them. Someone had spent a lot of coins feeding the music box and so various tunes were being played out. They were a mix of 80s music and I quite liked them. The group conversation led onto the up and coming World Cup football so I found myself not participating. The intricacies of why certain team members were picked and how the England coach(who is Italian) was going back on his word. Inevitably it sounds like we have another team who have been picked for failure and because of their own prima donna self belief are really going to do nothing for the national team. But I digress. For the subject should be two other characters at the bar.

There sits a crazy old woman, dressed like a Witch and who says she is a Witch. Well if this is her belief I'm not going to state otherwise. Except she is potty without a doubt, I know because many of the other regulars have said so and because I have witnessed her behaviour myself. She's one of these people who likes others to hear her opinion no matter how bigoted she is, and then proclaims it's not her who is the bigot but the rest of the world. At which point she then makes a mortal enemy of the individual who states an alternative view and whispers a spell under her breath. Scarey or what. Mind it always makes me check my Guinness just incase there happens to be a newt's tail in the bottom.

Anyway, I learnt today when she was commenting on one of the other regulars she said something along the lines of "I don't care for him and I wish he were dead," when he had actually just died and the funeral was taking place the next day. The misguided Witch, consequently decided not to frequent the pub for a couple of evenings. What a relief. Then it makes sense after a bloomer of this kind. Her insensitivity knows no bounds we all thought. The days while the witch was absent were conspicuous by our conversations not being littered with interjections from the old girl. Opinions which were pleasant by their absence. So today when I entered, there she was sat at the bar, in her usual seat. Next to her was a one of her family. A man who doesn't look like the Witch at all. However, I am sure he has some genetic connection with a Troglodyte from H. G. Wells Time Machine. Except he is bald and in the film they had longish white hair. The other family trait of being ignorant, opinionated and of dubious intent is also instilled in Mr Trog. It must be a genetic marker, it is the only reason I can come up with the character similarity. Anyway, to cut a long story to a slightly shorter story, it was about this time I realised maybe this was why people would frequent different pubs. For simply, if going to one pub highlights the miscreants in there, going to another there may well be slightly fewer abnormal personalities.

Hence the term "pub crawl." Then again it could just be me, and my abnormal preferrence of quiet pubs, and people who can string one or two sentences together without their knuckles scraping the floor, or some spell being cast. There sure are some eccentric people out there, at a pub near you, so why not visit one I say.

Magpie chases a squirrel

I saw an amazing sight this morning after leaving home. I have never seen it before and may never see it again in my life. But it was absolutely stunning. It involved a squirrel and a magpie. Not far from where I live there is a family of magpies. They have resided in a specific tree for years. Over these years I've seen them out and about and learnt a little bit about their behaviour. They are like other birds pretty territorial. But there is an added intelligence. They seem to go about in pairs or groups. Where one bird will sit up high on a lamp post and watch down as it's mates go hoping about on the ground. Then if there is danger, the one on the lampost will begin to squark a bit like a crow and warn the other.

Squirrels have ventured away from the woods and now there are a few who go in gardens. One time I even saw a squirrel climb up the side of a house as though it were spiderman. It was absolutely no effort at all. Just imagine how sharp those claws must be, and how strong they are as a climbing animal.

I walked up the road and there was a squirrel bounding along, jumping as if it were on hot coals from one place to another. Following closely behind was this magpie. The magpie was bullying the squirrel to move on, to go into a different area. When the little fat squirrel stopped after the odd bound, the magpie would get annoyed jump up and flap it's wings a little until the squirrel got a bit pissed off and carried on bouding away. Away from the territory of the magpie. I took out my phone and by the time I had put it into video mode the squirrel and magpie had dissappeared from sight. Maybe the squirrel turned round at some point and said to the magpie those invevitable words "blimey, your nuts mate."

Clatter, clatter, clatter

The pidgin's are still in the roof, should I say under the tiles and like an early morning alarm I am wakened. Any time through 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. they come out. Clatter, clatter, clatter, go the tiles. Another morning I wonder about whether I should of set my alarm for say 3 a.m., get a ladder out and then wait. As each clatters itself into a new day, I could then end it's day by wringing its neck. There would be a pile of dead birds. The next delema is my own conscience. I'd be a pidgin murderer. Plus it will not actuall stop a new lot of birds from getting under the tiles. I could hear them on the roof. Cooing to each other. So I got up in my PJs, went out in the back garden and spied them. I shook a fist, clapped my hands and they took absolutely no notice at me. I hoped no one was watching, they'd see this crazy man in his PJs and call for the white coats if they did. I'm fortunately still here writing. I crouched down, picked up some mud and an empty snail shell and threw them up at the pidgins. Nothing happened again. They were wise because my aim was crap. I took some more lumpy mud and threw again. It was slightly better and enough just to spook one of the feathered pests. In turn the others took off. Door closed, cat refused to go out, I went back to bed. Trying to close my eyes and catch some more sleep. Twenty minutes later, clatter, clatter, clatter.

Some things just happen to be unchangeable. They go on and then drastic action is needed. Heaven's knows how much money it will cost to get the roof fixed if any of the times drop off. Bloody cat is no use. He's not had any of the pidgins at all. For sale, one lazy cat and the need for a good long lay in without any disturbances.

Names and words

This morning I sat wondering how long it had been since I had seen Sparkling. Checked the diary and counted off the weeks. Three. Three weeks and it feels like longer. Sparkles seems to be constantly in demand at her new job, but at the same time she is happy and enjoying each moment of it. She is loved at the cake factory. I got her a badge because she had aquired a nick name. Mrs Slocum. So I ordered it online and it has the name Mollie on it, after the actress who played the part in the comedy series called "Are You Being Served." I'm not sure I like the idea of dating Mrs Slocum, luckily I'm no Mr Peacock. I just don't have the height. But I can't help it, call her Sparkling, Mrs Slocum or simply Molly, I'm missing my honey.

I did something odd this morning and formatted my MP3 player thereby wiping off all the music on it. Well you have to have a clean sweep every now and again. I then spent the next hour or so putting music back on. But this time I chose 90 per cent music I hadn't heard a great deal off. OK there's the odd favourite on there, a couple of albums of Bob Newheart and some classic jazz classics which never die in my mind, and hopefully most other peoples minds as well. I'm listening to one of the albums now actually. Except not on the usual headphones I use on account of Mrs Slocum deciding she had to appropriate them because her ones had gone walk about. It's an album by Mr Buble, pronounced Boooblay. Why on earth should someone have a surname of Buble and say it's Boooblay I don't know. Which reminds me of a comedy program with a Mrs Bucket, who used to pronounce her name as Bookay. It's all in a name. Or rather they'd rather not have the name they were born with so plagarise it into something else. I'm a right one saying this. Not that I change the pronounciation of my own name. But I have a tendency every so often of pronouncing other words differently from the norm. A bit like the song about potatoe or potarto, or tomatoe or tomateyoe. In the end it's about understanding and everybody knowing what everybody else means even if the words are pronounced differently.

This Mr Buble isn't too bad. Mrs Slocum loves him, typical. Young, handsome, good voice, and looks sexy. Hey, I could be talking about myself.

Entertained but not fed

I was entertained yesterday, and got paid for it. Bloody marvelous. It was a training course in relation to the Fish Factory. The attendees were few, only 5 of us when there should of been double. We sat down and basically got entertained the whole day. A live actress played different parts as though she were a different person in each part. Either this or she really did have some kind of multiple personalityc complex. Further, I'm glad she was live coz if she was dead it would of only been one part she could of played.

The day passed by quickly. Some of the demonstrations were related in psychological contexts, when examining different personalities. Which I thought were a little on the crude side, if not outdated. I came away with some questions in my mind, wondering if I really did learn anything from it? Whether something happened which would change the way I did things, and I'm still wondering. If you have to think about something then maybe it didn't work. It's like when someone asks you a question and you know they are expecting you to say "yes" but in your heart you want to say "no" so you take a minute or two to deliberate, not saying anything. Their response could be an assumption because you said nothing then you agree. But you haven't. Get what I mean? Well, this was how I felt afterwards, today.

I'm not going to grumble, or should I say I am grumbling, but not loudly. It was a wonderful day. Sun was out. Then they laid on dinner. Unfortunately the cook was not really a cook at all and did a great job at murdering food. it must be a real inherent talent some people have. The kind of person who should never be allowed near a cooking utensil, potatoe, chicken breast, knife, fork. The kind of person who should of been given an intravenous drip to provide all their bodily nutrition, because they have some inner hate towards food. Blimey. Just realised I got another course next week. Better get myself to the shops and buy some sandwich materials. Something I can masacre instead.

The smell of chocolate after Welsh Rabbit

It was odd this morning. I got up a little later than usual, because I just wanted to, and had the beginnings of a headache. Then went into the kitchen and made breakfast. Two slices of toast, the bread was malted brown and then added some cheese on top. The beautiful Welsh Rabbit. I watched the cheese as it began to bubble wondering whether I should wait longer for it to turn a golden brown colour. It didn't because patience had decided to take a hike. I dropped the toast on a plate, spread just a little of piri piri sauce ontop and ate. Listening to the Radio 4, Today program. Finished a cup of tea and unplugged the radio to take upstairs. Going into the front room I was hit by a smell. It was undoubtedly the smell of chocolate powder. The kind used to make hot chocolate drinks. This was odd I thought. The smell of slightly burnt toast would of made more sense however, the kitchen door had been closed. I couldn't understand where it came from. It was just there. So for a moment rather than worry about whether there was some kind of brain thing going on, I took another couple of deep breaths, wondered, just a little and carried on with waking up.

I once read a short story. It took only a few lines in the book. A man is on a cliff he's afraid because it looks like he is going to fall. He stumbles and does fall, except he doesn't scream. As gravity takes its effect and the cliff faces passes him by he grabs out at a flower he sees jutting from a small edge. Calmly as he can, he sniffs it and enjoys the aroma.

Tell you what, bet it wasn't as good as the smell of chocolate.

Fearful imaginations

I was watching a clip from the space shuttle lift of last night, it was a special event because this was the last take off mission. A camera was mounted on the shuttle and the view point kept swopping. From ground to shuttle. As it got higher and higher the ground got further away. I started to wonder what it would be like on the shuttle as the vibrations from one hell of a giant fuel cell candle stick created enough thrust to take it into orbit. Then as the camera veiw went back to the shuttle I began to feel a little queezy, even disorientated. I wasn't on the thing, because I know I was reclined in my non reclining office like chair, but there was a dizzy spell which came over me. Like the ground really was getting further away and I had no wings. Of being helpless. I imagined I had a parachute and was able to drift back to earth. How I would kiss the ground. Fortunately the clip ended and I felt a lot better for it. Being a stupid I then watched it a second time. Except as I got higher off the ground I stopped the clip and turned the player off. Getting dizzy once was more than enough.

This morning I woke up in some wierd comedy dream. I thought it would make a funny book. It was about two men. I think I was on of them, and I was about to have a vasectomy. It was a little disconcerting as I lay there on this table with my legs up. Some chatter happened, I can't recall who was talking to who. But there was some kind of missunderstanding and then I realised I shouldn't of been in this operating theatre. Just about this time a sharp needle was stuck in my scrotum. I got up out of bed and wondered what was going on with me. Where are these self punishing dreams and imaginations coming from? Was there something wrong with my brain chemistry? And was the story good enough to write into a book, so as to make other people laugh. Except now I've forgotten most of what it was. Such is the nature of dreams. I sure hope Sparkling didn't have the same dream, she would of woken up with laughter and I'd never live it down.