Thursday, May 31, 2007
You have no need to allow the buttock-clenching mind meltingly awful spectacle of another how ever many window licking mouth breathers attempt to become c-list 'celebs' grace our screens.
Anyway - question to the readers. How many more cameras are on me as I walk down the average high-street than are on the arse-muppets in that cage of despair?
Answers, attached to a brick and thrown at Davina's gawking phisog.
My assumption is that Sigismund merely needs to get a blog of his own, then I can add him to mine?
Does any of my readership know how to do this?
Oh, and I have been gestating a quality rant. Oh yes. Starting with Big Grey and finishing in a Hotel in the Wirral, the gentle satire that is this blog is going to give way to the white hot plasma of chap-rage.
Clearly under Blair's Britain the idea of service quality has gone out of the window, and we get service like the 70's - you remember? When Customers where a nuisance and got in the way. Just like British Rail.
But as a taster - a mere amuse bouche of what is to come. Think corporate double dealing, a delivery company failing (twice) to deliver to an address 175 yards from it's door and the magic ingredient to any hotel bathroom - stout pubic hairs.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
It would be unseemly of me to gloat, as predicting an unintended consequence would take great wisdom. But then I am a GENIUS.
Sly wink to a mystery Journo who tipped me off.
Gushing thanks to the rest of the world for letting me share my GENIUS with you all.
I am looking forward to cones, roadworks and mile upon mile of jam.
Still, Donna the Lodger has moved in - bringing her dog with her. Solid beast, is he.
Full sized mastiff, with long tail and gallons of slobber.
This is not him, but he does look like him.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Colonies phoned last night to talk about a 'disengagement and re-engagement' framework. (Eh?) I muttered dark words about a dialogue sequence and an end-game. (Eh? Eh?)
Text mesage from my boss at 06.00. Stern stuff about Our European colleagues.
Plumbo-Jumbo are late - making me late with them.
Scotty has been in touch to advise that she has found an alternative route to her sailing, and has resigned her commission as one of my loyal vassals. (Why text me at 7.30 in the morning to tell me that? Anyway - I will have no truck with apostates)
So - nine fifteen, and if the day recedes into a purple cloak of doom any further, then hemlock tea shall be in order.
It may be Tuesday - but it does feel like a Monday.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Despite the lingering rain, I shot off to the local torture garden to inflict the self flagellatory delight that is 'exercise' onto myself, to expunge the guilt of a decent glass or four of Claret.
Returned home, quick shower (too many verrucas at the gym) and packed my aviating bag....
apples.....orange juice.....flask of tea for those windswept runway thresholds.....packet of dried meats and some peanuts.
Arrived airside must have been about 10.30.
Entire gliding club is sheltering inside clubhouse telling tall tales (you know the sort - all containing, at some point, the phrase....No Shit, there I was, thought I was going to die...)
It was raining. Big time raining. Winch driver was making tea, tug pilot reading an old copy of S 'n' G. Strong smell of wet dog abounded.
The sky is leaden and shares it's wet with us all.
This was going to be a long day.
Now as you know dear reader your humble chap here is actively engaged in a programme to learn how to do this properly. I flew solo last year (hussah!) and took my law, weather and flight theory exams in February - just before my mission to Austria. But I am still in limbo.
I am chasing numbers. That means doing circuits.
I have to have 50 solo flights (50!), plus 2 x 30 minute soaring flights (nearly there), take a flight test (few spins, couple of simulated cable breaks and some point landings) then I can fly off into other airspace.
Now to non gliders - it would appear that we have had a good spring. Not So.
April had a blocking high killing off all thermal activity, and Monsoon May has struck.
Today was no exception, but I was determined to get my knees in the breeze.
I ate an apple and appealed for some assistance in pulling a single seater out. This was met with the usual hoots of derision, 'death in the skies!' etc.
Press on I shall.
In the fullness of time, the rain stopped, and I borrowed the golf cart and towed my chariot all the way down the long grass strip that is runway 22 / 04 shivering all the way.
I arrive at the threshold by the bus and picnic table, and there is Alan the Artisan:
'Hello Mr. D'
'Ah Alan, well met, trust you are well?'
'Not bad.....can you do anything with the weather?'
'Fraid not. Looks a bit murky-dismal, but there is talk of this clearing through. You after a quick dash about the skies?'
'Ok when did you last fly?'
'Oh then - yes I remember, weather was shit then.'
'Was indeed - you didn't get away.' (Gliding jargon - means get enough height to move off to another thermal or area)
'No chance of it today either. How's your stunning kitchen and bathroom?'
'Desperate. I blame the tiler.'
'Do you indeed? Handsome and dedicated fellow is he?'
'He is a wastrel, and should he return I will have him whipped'.
The next dialogue has been heavily censored, as it was both puerile and rude.
So I dutifully strapped my parachute on, clomb aboard said aeroplane and ran through my pre-flights.
Now - I have winch launched a few times, and this is really what this post is about. What hasn't gone away is the nervous anticipation, excitement and wonder.
I still say to myself - under my breath - as I run my checklists:
Am I really going to be flying? Really? I am really going to be flying a 'plane?
I mentioned this to Alan - is this usual, one wondered.
'Not unusual at all - I still get it every time I get in my glider. Why we all do it, you see'.
I'm with him there.
Ever since I was old enough to remember, I was fascinated by flight (Going to the 'Spitfire and Hurricane' Nursery in Biggin Hill may be something to do with it. )
Every time I strap myself in to the aircraft I still find myself thinking how lucky I am to have the wherewithal to do this.
Pulled into the back of my seat and controls feel heavy. Airborne at 35 knots, then set to rotate at fifty.
This was a stinger of a launch...straight up to 70 knots through the rotation - max speed for a winch launch. G meter showing 2G positive. Ouch.
Rolled out at 1200' dropped the cable and went looking for lift.
Not looking good. Small blips. half a knot here or there and the size of bin lids. So little heating, but a lot of sink under the decaying front.
Yuk, yuk, yuk.
Entered circuit for downwind at 700' after 3 minutes futile searching. As usual - a blip at the entry to the circuit - 'Murphy's Thermal'.
Still not used to this thing down wind, so turn to diagonal and cross wind at 500' sideslipping to burn off the height. Finals at 300, then aim for the threshold diamond. Plenty of spoiler, keep speed to 50 knots, round-out on the ground effect as I cross the peri-track. touchdown and roll-out to the end of the cables.
Total air-time - 6 minutes.
Disappointing in someways - a circuit with some turns basically, and one more on the tally. But each time when I curse the weather, I still find myself saying:
I was flying up there.......
In one fell swoop (a pune or playe on words) I had reconnected with my childhood again. It was hard work, high workload and tiring - but that little corner of you that makes your heart pound, your mouth go dry was lit up like a Christmas tree.
It was Alan that broke the spell.
"Bloody hell, didn't you like it up there? Going again?'
I wiped the grass stain on my knee, swept the raindrops off the perspex bubble and sniffed air.
'Rude not to, really - now I'm here'......
The cheesy grin said more than words.
Repeat until poor again.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Hello, thought I what's this. Turned said item over. There was a number to call that was not the normal number.
So I thought I would give it a whirl.
Straight through, no question of queuing.
'Hello Sir.' took my account number. 'Just putting you through to your manager, sir.'
'Ahhh Sir (smarm smarm) how can I help today?'
'What is this service about, then?'
'Well sir, you are now a very valued customer.'
'But I haven't heard of this service'
'Indeed sir, most people are not supposed to. It is only for our most valued clients - ones who have a significant sum of money with us.'
'Well sir - you qualify for …'…(He then lists all manner of vulgar credit cards named after metals, outrageous overdraft sums, interest free loans and the like), 'and should you wish to discuss any of our products whatsoever, arrange a time - and I will come over to visit you at a time that suits you -at home or work.'
'I require none of those things at all, sir'. Sayeth I.
'Indeed sir, but as I a sure a gentleman of your obvious standing is aware - should you require them - we would decline them. They are available to you should you desire them.'
'But they involve the borrowing of money - not a thing I do'
'Indeed sir - we do notice that'.
'In other words, because I do not choose to borrow any money - you try and lend me very large sums'
'Quite so sir'
I hung up the phone and opened my other post.
It was an invite to a 40th birthday do. An old biker chum of mine is having it, and he is going to be in drag.
It would seem he is rather taking to the wearing of women's clothing. I am not sure it is entirely compatible with his career as a motorcycle mechanic, though.
Funny start to a Friday eh?
On the run into the home-base hamster wheel she started playing up.
It seems that 'George' is a bit poorly.
He is a basic fellow, the 'George' in this crate, as all he does is hold speed - not attitude and heading. (More's the pity)
Now - we are not talking 'one engine on fire, two and three feathered and still have to crack the flak barrier at Bremerhaven to get home' - more like he keeps disengaging and asking me to use the ABS to reset the speed. (huh?)
Joy though - a quick call to the spanner fellows and it is on a recall. Apparently the software in the ABS damping is a bit dicky.
Quick probing reveals all sorts of things in the new car with software. Even the electric windows have software.
Why does this suprise me? I know for fact my dishwasher would out-compute Apollo 11.
What annoys me - is that being a Swedish car (Yes I know, not really an Alvis, but work with me ok?) that if I put it in gear the nanny state takes over, and tells me to fill the washer bottle, put my seat belt on, have a wee, put ten pee in my pocket to phone home and have clean pants on should anything happen.
Bloody thing even tells me when I am exceeding 80 with 'dangerous speed - beware'.
Grrr..... ever an incentive to set that alarm off, I can tell you.
And this is why I will spend this weekend pissing about in an aeroplane, cooking lobster tails on the barbecue for friends, drinking vast quantities of rather good French wine, going out to meet a young lady with the very serious intention of leading her astray and playing with power tools on a wet bank holiday in a crude facsimile of DIY.
Not quite a full life of sex and danger, just more expense and possibly some mild peril.
Certainly beats doing much else. Other than sailing or taking enough Ecstacy to kill a deer.
In other news, whilst playing at frogmen in the Antilles with his Mistress, my brother claims to have a mild dose of the bends and has 'blood fizzing like a bottle of warm coke.' He is really suffering from beach lassitude and the effects of the local cultural cigarettes.
Fez-doff to The Greek fellow.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
A bin, yesterday.
I suspect a lot of hot air (pun fully intended) will get generated over the latest thing by the councils - what with cameras in bins, and areas (mine included) going to fortnightly collection.
I now have three bins outside. One for garden waste (I have a patio courtyard), one for normal kitchen waste, and they are upgrading the orange bags to bins for my newspapers, light card, glossies and placky bottles.
I am fortunate to have fitted one of those machines to the sink that chews up food waste, flushing it harmlessly down my drains (I really should be very careful there - given the sensitivity of my local drainage). All in all this means I am very little affected by the changes. I live alone, don’t generate much waste and dispose of what I create sensibly.
Now a chap looks at this and thinks in two ways. One could get a bit heated and fulminate to the authorities and say that I am paying you for this. One would like to review the spreadsheets where they work out the likely volume drop in landfill, versus the tax increase. One suspects that there increase in tax, versus the likely drop is less than the money saved by alternate collections. That's what should come of my rates. This implies a single local monopoly as the government knows best what I need and determines how my services are provided and my acceptance that this is the right way.
The enterprising amongst us looks at the industrial waste removers, and think ' Hello - gap been created in the market'
I can see it now….'' We will Come and have your bin sanitised and emptied once a fortnight for a fee''. I am certain there is a margin between the £/tonne landfill tax, and the collection costs for such waste - versus the rate the market (us) will bear for having our bin emptied and sweetened. (Bins with Grins!!)
There could well be a boom in competitive local services, offering competition to local politicised monopolies (Councils). All that is necessary now is a quick switch to allow you to opt out of the services your council can provide but you can buy cheaper elsewhere. With the technology going in - it could easily be tweaked to manage account information so that your personal rubbish service only charges you for what you create. Even better- the Polluter pays. And there is a huge disincentive for your to be over productive with sprogs - as you have to bear the real cost of ownership, instead of it being carried by the state.
At a stroke - Domestic services have real local competition, things get efficient and we move to a beautiful sunlit uplands with empty bins.
I bet Cyclops and which ever of his running dogs thought this up didn't think it could end there.
As ever with the big statist solution to local problems - it is the unintended consequences which bring the most interest.
Oh I am sure those statist among you will insist that only the government know best how to empty your bins, or some stuff about it will 'exclude' those who can't afford private collections. Stuff, I say Stuff! Their bins get emptied now, do they not? Why should that change?
It is the same argument that water and food is too important to be left in the hands of grubby commercialists, and a nice fair Board of Supply will take care of you.
So in summary - I welcome the move!
PS: If you think competition is wrong - I don't suppose you remember the days when you had to queue up at the GPO shop to order a telephone, and wait three months for it to be delivered- or only being allowed to buy a fridge form your Electricity board shop.... it wasn't that long ago....
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Worrying - my Dyno-rod man knows me by sound on the phone. Thank god it is all covered.
Yet again - problem caused by idiot chucking industrial grade tissue down the loo. Same as idiots chucking face wipes down the heads on the chap's yacht. It is not pretty and rubber gloves end up being used in anger.
But I can now return to a happy state. My plumbing is fixed.
Now to re-wire the dishwasher........
As one of my commentators put it this isn't gentle satire, this blog is stoic humour in the face of gritty reality.
My light at the end of the tunnel comment refers to what I hope can be the only problem I have left with my drains. British Gas are on their way, and I seek Solace in a very good estate bottled Fleurie plus others.
I say that advisedly, as every single piece of plumbing in my house has either been replaced, overhauled, rimmed out or flushed through. when completed, It will be good for another 70 years. Chez chap just having had her 70th birthday, natch.
But dear reader, where have I been? The MSM is awash with tales of Patsy being hung out to dry, lies in the media, the Cutty Sark being burnt down and all things political for this chap to get hot under his 15 1/2 brass stiffened collar about.
In 'puting terms - it's all about runtime. I have had a lot going 'dahn' this week. Many things to contend with - what with pushing the builders to finish, negotiating my exit from the business I work in, with my expat job to follow it and something else.
Pause for effect, glance at camera 2, then back to cam 1..deep breath.
Gallantry means I cannot say a great deal at the moment. But In a 'blogging will eat itself' way - I have had some interesting thoughts about how the dynamics change when you move between media - and the social impact it has on interpersonal relations.
In blogistan, we are used to existing in free-thought mode. IE: we are entities of our own expression alone. We are evaluated to our connective worth according to what we express and how we use our written skills to express it. In some ways it is very pure. However - it has drawbacks. The most basic Neurolinguistics student will tell you the percentage of communication that is non-verbal. Thus when non textualisation occurs there is a shift in ones' perception of another. In addition, text is not immediate. We edit and polish our statement.
Devirtualisation means we now move to an immediacy and additional non-verbal clues that allow secondary judgements to take place. If the purpose of the devirtualisation is with motive, then any challenges to perceptions are heightened, and as a result sharper judgements get made.
Understanding how transactional intimacy works means understanding that a state-change in media also induces a state change in transactional dynamics. The anonymity of the interweb induces a level of candour that would be surprising in ordinary contact.
From a sociological viewpoint, it will be interesting to review the progress of a devirtualisation with reference to prior contact.
Put simply. I have a date. I have met her via electronic means, and I am nervous.
Nerves are good, they help you focus.
No names, though.
On the other hand, rather thought DC tore into Grinny rather well at PMQ.
I will let you know how the drains go.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
All over, bar the hoovering, getting the dishwasher out and working again and repainting the garage....
I can now return home and spend the rest of the weekend clearing up. Other than a bit of light aeronautical adventures of course.
I will need to hose down the motorbike though. Apparently the nastiness may have reached her.
But to other matters. I have taken the bit of the post down where I was rude to The Scot. On reflection doing that to a conversation wasn't very fair. I can be big about this. Points made all round.
Nothing to say about the Cutty Sark, as it was headline news in the blogsphere. Very sad, though. I still think we should sack Calais, just in case it really was the French.
Nice day in Croydon, as well. If such a thing can exist.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Am I eating too much fibre?
Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Fortunately my constuction engineers saw my side and a fellow was despatched poste-haste. I am now refusing to return home until It is clean, tidy and fully functional.
I shall take rooms in South London and seek solace in liquour.
A gentleman should never have to deal with this, but being a chap-about-empire, one can face such horrors with fortitude and resolution. And rubber gloves, of course.
Friday, May 18, 2007
I shall blog properly in good time.
I must away - chumrade awaits with a bottle of Burgundy and freshly filled pipes to point meaningfully at one another.
UPDATE - SAT PM
Need to sort rude post out in a bit. I may have to compromise my meagre principles and take it down to sooth her savagery. Or edit it a great deal.
Still sorting out wreckage of a home now the builders have pretty much finished everything. The tip awaits. Noisy destruction and usefulness combined. Joy.
I shall be entering the Hop, Skip and G+T, plus, I really must enter 'Bounders'. That has me to a tee. With any luck I could persuade my female readership to join me in this exercise, thereby underlying my caddish nature.
Big Hat tip to the Devil who has some proper fisking going on, sound fellow.
Oh, and I may have to travel to Colonies soon. Our cousins there need my chappy ways with some work.
One will instruct them in many things - but chiefly it will involve bamboozling them about cricket and lecturing them on how to make a decent cup of tea.
Here is a picture of some cheese. It seemed appropriate.
Cheese, holding a protest, yesterday.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
The first was a young lady friend (single, cute, non-target, dark haired and likes house music) who had fallen on some bad luck and needed somewhere to live. She phoned and said she was after a huge favour, and needed some help. Knowing I was a dog lover with a spare room - and she was being made homeless I was her first call. She was sweet, polite and friendly - and said that at any time if I got annoyed I could chuck her out - it was a short term favour.
Without hesitation I agreed to take her in - with her large doggy as well, until such time as she sorts herself out.
By the time she realises I live on a diet of parsnip sandwiches, minced raw chicken and laxatives it will be too late. She will then join me on the turbid pathways to Elysium via sexual extremism and 'Nude Wednesdays'.
UPDATED: Rude bit removed.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).
However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.
There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.
1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.
2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.
3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.
4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.
5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
But Back to Cyclops. The media are clearly in his gruesome thrall. One hopes that given a short period of time, the tin-plate tarnishes, and as the Sarge used to say ' You can't polish a turd sir!'
It is not as if what he is saying is terribly new. This quote from Dizzy sums it up.
What does flatten one's tonic is that it all seems so terribly populist, Napoleon's hundred days and the like.
For example: five new Bracknells will be built on the grounds that despite they will do what they always did with new towns, they genuinely believe they will not get what they previously got. Rest of it is trite media grandstanding or the sort one expects from someone on a hideous reality television show trying to boost their ratings to a duped audience at home furiously phoning in to affect a pre-made outcome.
(I think there are a number of parallels there - feel free to insert own)
So - on that theme, I await the following blandishments from Gordo to boost his ratings:
1. Jobs for everyone, everyone for Jobs.
2. The Grass will be Greener if you elect me to be your Comrade Secretary.
3. Tough on New Labour, tough on the Causes of New Labour.
4. I'm Invisible, you can’t see me.
5. A five year plan to enhance the production of Tractors in Labour marginal seats, through taxation of those who can scarcely afford welding them ever further to a cycle of grateful dependency on me, whilst sucking up furiously to growing ruling elite created by self and perpetuated because they know better.
Obviously the last one is too close to the truth for him to say.
I do wonder what bad news they have buried whilst the 'meed-yah' is in his gruesome thrall.
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.
After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.
Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)
Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.
One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.
But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
But now, relaxing with a cheeky Sancerre and blogging from home.
So what has gone on?
Well - Chumrade and self have had chap-day-out to France.
Exceedingly early start and on the fast picket to Cherbourg. Straight to Normandy wines to collect SWAG. Usual shenagigans to be had tasting et al, then on to Carrefour to collect decent picnic for the boat home. Frustrating telco with the yacht club committee with usual officiousness and general malaise from the most useless collection of drips. Only people who speak any sense is the Rear Commodore and myself (One hopes beyond fair reason that he shall raise his broad pennant in good time) plus sage interventions from our newbie. She is a nice young chapess who despite benighted occupation as employee of our Uber-state manages to go out with our ace helmsman and regularly offers to run show-pillow-fights with the other girls who sail with us. This generally raises interest from the more rakish crewmen, but usually turns out to be a humorous ruse.
But what of this other half holiday?
Had house guest for part of weekend. The Lovely Young 'Half-Pint'.
Half-Pint is sweet and pretty, with cascades of blonde curls, but treats me 'as a brother'. (Pah!)
Whilst adventurous (A skiing chum, no less) and generally willing to have a go at my idea of fun, she is prone to the vapours, and found the aviation - while fun - a little much, and had to take to her bed for a period whilst she recovered her lesser humours.
The flying for me was a bit ropey too. V. Windy. Chucked about the shop like pass-the-parcel in Basra.
Rest of the weekend has been spent orbiting the seventh level of hell - or 'Homebase' as I believe it is called. I do not do DIY - unless it involves, sheds, boats or very large electric power tools. I have procured the materials for my Gentleman of Trades who is arriving tomorrow to complete the tiling phases of Chez-chap. I never realised that tiles were expensive. I have spent the equivalent of a weekend in Marrakesh on wall-coverings. This serves to remind me I am 'investing' in the property - and curtails my more lurid excesses until payday arrives. Again.
In the rest of the time, I have been finally sorting out the old type-writer-screen machine so I again have wireless interweb and it appears the rest of my software is slowly re-establishing itself.
In other news, I am delighted that the Evil Socialists have taken a bit of a kicking, and the French have elected Droopy the Dog to be their new king. Will we see another enlightenment in France? Will they take on the unions? Will they creep into the 21st century? But more important- will they restore the lands of the crown in Aquitaine?
Time will tell.
In the mean time dear reader, I shall go and press my plus-fours (Servant boy's day off), finish the Sanc and smoke a cheroot. As the wheel beckons, and Artisan arriveth tomorrow, one had better lay off the magic tincture.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Included in that item was the outrageous suggestion that weedkiller and sugar should be available to them.
This is, of course, highly irresponsible - and would encourage the toddlers to experiment with other substances, such as the modish hair peroxide and nail varnish remover, or the ever reliable C4.
In almost all of the cases the ingredients are dangerous and the results are unstable.
No. In future if they request their Uncle's assistance in the creation of home made explosives I will direct them to the acres of newsprint lately on the joys of the traditional Ye Olde Englishe Plant-food and Diesel recently popularised by the 'modern retro' chaps from West Sussex shown here .
As we are now going all 'modern retro' in this arena, I look forward to Nihilists committing arson, Vitriol flinging (For real not just the people carrying out their divorces in Heat magazine) - and with any luck some decent defenestration.
PS: Does Baby-Bio and White Spirit do it?