Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Joy of DIY

Now the dust has settled and I can admire my handiwork I can reflect on the madness I unleashed in my domicile.

I was so focused on the 'deliverable' I didn't have time to log on and comment about the latest fiasco going on in the wide world - as we were inventing new words for Polyfilla.

Yet somehow I feel a connection between the useful application of 'Crevice Paste' and Alistair Darling. And these scoundrels want to log every move you make in your car? And putting all your details on a database?

That is as wise as me reckoning I can strip forty square yards of woodchip with three coats of gloss paint over in it in a couple of days.

I digress.

This incredible feat of amateur anti-decorating was achieved with no less than 8 bin bags and 8 bottles of Burgundy.
We consumed three pounds of bubble and squeak, six eggs, a full kilo of parsnips and one portion of 'sprouts mexicane'.
No requisite telco to Plumbo-Jumbo to sort out that which we flushed (as from the last overhaul) but I did catch The Boy Lard putting water soluble filler down the kitchen sink with a sadistic leer about his face.
Three new names for polyfilla - from crack engungement compound to crevice paste. Via soluble-smearable for good measure. (Grown-up, huh?)

When we transferred efforts to the Boy Lard's house - we managed to remove the plaster from only half the wall accidentally.
Built and et a legendary three-day cottage pie.

And joy of joys - I return to the real world to find the wheels had fallen off my hamster wheel and Gordo slipped even further into crisis.

Every time I go away on holiday Dave climbs two points in the polls. Just goes to show oppositions don't bring down government - governments bring down governments.
I have a theory as to why we get half a generation of socialism compared to a generation of conservatism - and it's the same reason why we get bubbles and slides in the city. People are too young to realise why we got rid of the left last time, just as the current chaps in pinstripes are too young to remember the debt boom of the late 60's and resultant credit crunch following an energy price hike / energy crisis in the early 70s. Or the resultant house price crash.

But they will remember soon enough.

I have walls to paint and dust to inhale. Regular blogging will return soon.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

So Busy!

I'm away from my PC decorating at the moment - and interesting tales abound regarding lead paint and 'crevice paste' (polyfilla)....but I need to crack on.......tales of chappiness to follow...

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Not hugely original, but........

Christmas with the family.

Hat tip -Punch - circa 1975.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

The next target is:

Now the nannyists have pretty much outlawed smoking for the plethora of reasons they pertain to - the next target is our next vice.


We will have all seen the furious press releasing going on of late - latest Here.

Of course - it is for our own and everyone else's good - how can we argue? mark my words - they have seen how well the anti-fag nannyists have stubbed out the habit in the UK - they take courage (bad pun intended) and doubtless move on to the next target.

It will be meat next.

This lot will not be satisfied until we are all Level 3 Vegans - and eat nothing that casts a shadow.

(Fez doff to Lisa Simpson for that nuttiness - but I still can't laugh)

UPDATE: Who pays the piper.....?
The humble devil shows us where the money is coming from.....

The Chap awards!

Bit of a random one this - but the recipient is thoroughly deserving.

The Golden Pipe award goes to a Mr A. Farrugia of Winchester.

Why? I was aboard his yacht at the weekend - and he demonstrated chappiness beyond the call of duty.
when one is sailing, there is always an element of deprivation. It allows you to shed the clutter of the ordinary life and connect with the cruel mistress that is the sea. We may drink champagne and eat smoked salmon - but essentially there is an element of noble hardship that one expects with a sport that divides the chaps and the chavs.
Mr F has a 'new' boat. Truth be told the hull and rig is nearly as old as me - and the slow process of re-fitting goes on - however she is seaworthy and we took her on her maiden voyage at the weekend.
While underway a suggestion is made to take a dish of tea, on deck like good Christians - in the face of a force 7.

Mr F duly produced the tea - but in best maritime unbreakable cups and saucers.
No mugs for us, oh no. We were able to sit in the cockpit and take tea like honest men.

For this - the golden pipe award is truly well earned.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Passchendaele Nomember 1917

One word.

Ninety years ago Today young men stood and died in the pouring rain in the fields of Flanders, defending the freedom of others against tryanny.

In hindsight the tactics and weapons appear crude. The reality is that the likes of Currie, Plume and Haig did everything they could to preserve the lives of their men.
The used the very best weaponry and tactics available. Airborne reconnaissance for the artillery - and the creeping barrage just about viable in the murk. Ground too wet for tanks meant that the armoured advances at Cambrai could not happen. Truth be told, the guns of the day were not accurate enough to coordinate with tanks and aircraft - as was seen at the Somme Canals in 1918 anyway.

The last gasp of the battle took place form the 6th to the 10th of November with Canadian troops attempting to hold a line against determined German counter attacks.

But what for? The Guardianistas of then and now sneer at the loss of life, and view the world through rose tinted spectacles. What was being fought over? As usual, the drawing rooms of Islington provide scant learning for the realities of warfare, then as now - especially as the legal eagles who make up the kleptocracy who run the show demonstrate when they fail to appreciate the men they send overseas.

Ypres was the gateway to Belgium - and the Salient was there to keep the ports open. Lose the hub at Ypres, it is a short march to Oostende and Zeebruge - effectively closing supply routes from the East of England to the front lines.

This was known by the generals and the men at the time.

Armies must be supplied - and supplied with the best. Unrestricted Submarine warfare and heavy mining by the remnants of the Kaiser's fleet meant any route to the whole of the western front had to be kept open, on land and sea. Flanders was about defending the northern flank, and keeping the arteries open. Attack is always the best form of defence - and the three battles which ended in the Passchendaele were as vital and as dynamic as 'Market-Garden', 'Goodwood' and 'Dynamo'.

The men who fought did so with the courage and determination and bloody minded professionalism of the Men who scrabbled for a beach head at Omaha, who cleared trenches - by hand - at Wireless Ridge or today - in Helmland province.
They stood their ground as did their forefathers at Rorke's drift or in at Quartre Bas - a place not so very far from the Ypres Salient.

And Brown dares to even speak of their courage?

It churns my stomach to see that thieving, mendacious, idiot of a coward even talking of the bravery of these men and then cutting their supplies today.

It is the nobility of those who stand on parade and honour the fallen in the name of our freedoms - in front of their Sovereign - which will stop them booing Brown.

He is not fit to hold the wreath, let alone lay it.

To my readers, remember: on the Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh month, the guns fell silent.

Stand silent and stop - for their name liveth for ever more.

Wear your poppy with pride, chaps.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Happy Birthday Chapsticks

A year old on Friday - but bogged down with system issues - so couldn't mention it.

Been an interesting year. All sorts of things to say an d do about it - suffice to say I would do it all over again.

I shall reminisce (with cake and candles) later - hamster wheel demands attention.

Here's to another year!

Nicodemus E Chap Esq, author, editor, correspondent at large, inspiration for and victim of all that happens here.

The blog where two's company, three's a readership and four is unlikely.

From Horror to Terror

All is clearly not well with Donna Da Lodga and her tempestuous love-life. Readers of my little blog will know she lurches from car-crash to crisis with such alacrity one even begins to think she enjoys the adrenalin she clearly gets.

She returned from yet an other sortie into clubland Saturday morning whilst I was on my way out to sweat out the body-beautiful. She clucked and fussed while I left. So far so good.

All was not well when I returned.

She was moping around the place. A short cross examination revealed that the latest conquest was failing to come up to the grade in a number of areas, and despite denying having got her hopes up (which she clearly had) when things failed to measure up, she crashed to earth like a soviet era satellite hellbent on leaving a radioactive crater across the steppes.

It was when I went about completing my ablutive duties that the final terror reached me.

Merrily sudding myself down with the wire brush and extra dettol I could hear the ghastly strains of a certain type music emanating from below.

Think 'Power ballad'.

Think 'Leather and Lace'

Think 'Everything I do,' on karaoke. Followed closely by 'All by myself'.

I had to act quick lest my lower intestine leap out and strangle me in self preservation.

Dripping and betowelled I ran into the lounge, and there she was, karaoke machine in full swing belting them out tunelessly to the very worst 'romantic heartache songs ever'.

'Donna - this device uses more electricity than we have accounted for in the bill. I shall raise you rent immediately to £10,000 to cover the cost.'

She looked crestfallen.

'Look I know you are feeling a tad blue over this chap - but singing this sort of music is a cliché which you have bought into. Go out and occupy yourself instead of acting out this Bridget Jonesesque response.'

More crestfallen looks.

'OK - if you have to do this - at least wear some big pants. (Fig. 1), then you can wallow in the whole sad and lonely stereotype. Eat chocolate, get spots, complain then go out and pick up someone new for more meaningless sex. the Pants won't help, of course, but they do amuse me.'

Apparently she bumped into another old flame on the Saturday night. I have contacted kimberly clark and Cadbury just in case.

You will be 'all by yourself' in these.

BAN this NOW

As usual dear reader, I am awaiting the screaming headlines about some poor tot/doggie/OAP/Vicar having been terrorised by fireworks.
We have all seen the terrible injuries wrought by these things and I am sure if not already then shortly some of the more reactionary members of the press, ably stoked up by the grievance industry with a bone to pick will campaign to have fireworks withdrawn from sale to the general public.
I am surprised that a member of Nanny's quicker stormtroopers / think-tank watchers haven't trotted out the dread stats on this matter already. And how we can all go along to an authority organised event with noiseless bangs for the nervous of disposition and colourless flashes unless some particular interest group could also be offended by whatever colour of light their particular issue of the week tells them is oppressive. All to celebrate a seasonal festival. Not stopping Guido blowing up the house. (Offensive to Catholics and left wing councils)

This year, my good self and some chums clubbed together and quite legally bought some very large display fireworks. Big 'uns. Ones with defined fall-out zones and safe launch radius. Ones that actually deafened me when I lit the barrage candles.

We did a 'risk assessment' - or in other words - 'if I let this off here, will it set fire to the barn?'
We had a 'safe area' IE: The back garden 15 yards from the paddock where we were launching them.
We followed the fireworks code. (Or common sense when handling explosives - like No Smoking).

No one got injured, burned or scarred.
No animals were harmed or alarmed during the full 45 minutes of explosions and whizz-bangs.
No property was damaged, other than some scorched grass.
We even drank champagne as they went off - and (gasp) used the occasion to dispose of a couple of pyrotechnics with likely marine applications because they were 5 years out of date.
No one went blind, and we all had a magnificent time.

Nevertheless - the usual grief-mongers, nannyists, hair-shirters, wet-blankets and other leftie kill-joys will seek to constrain the sensible (us) because some chav put a roman candle in his mate's pocket - or three feral teenagers threw a banger at a pram.

Banning fireworks because of a few idiots is like banning beer and knives because someone got drunk and stabbed someone. (Sound familiar......)

I think the answer could lie within the individual rather than the thing in their hand - but then they are a product of society - they're not to blame - take the toys away from them, and they will all hold hands and be peaceful.

Next year - we are going for bigger bangs and two-stage liquid fueled rockets.
I don't care if the Nannyists says I shouldn't. They should shut up, but don't.

PS: We had a marvellous time and I'm still a little deaf in my right ear.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

The horror....

I spent an hour an a half skulking at the modern torture chamber that is the palace of physique that is my local gym this evening.


I got home to see Donna-Da-Lodga fully togged up in her liveried finest - and wafting about my abode perfumed, scrubbed and presumably ready to present herself for inspection.
She was in a state of high anxiety and looking a little like Nurse Diesel herself and soon drove me from the house. I felt sufficiently uncomfortable to be prepared to exercise to escape the burgeoning nightmare within.

Ski ski run run lift lift run cycle sweat.

I arrived home to find a white van parked on my drive.


Fortunately they have been hiding in her rooms all evening, bar the scurrying from room to heads from time to time and the furtive giggles issues through the ceiling, I remain unexposed the sordid goings-on and doubtless sexual extremism taking place upstairs.

I am retiring soon. Aviation grade earplugs are on stand by - but i fear I may sleep through the alarm in the morning.

Watch this space, reader.

School-boy error

One of the joys of having Donna-Da-Lodga in the house is the fresh perspective she brings to my outlook - and the provision of fresh material for this blog.

I had been plotting a post about the schadenfreude I had enjoyed on hearing news of the Former Miss Chap In Residence and the hard times that had befallen her despite the pot of treasure she took off me - and some rather juicy speculation about the grisly nature of the rendition that is being exacted on her frame and fibre for the charity she currently receives.

However, discretion and good taste led me to think twice. So unbloggied I was expecting a quiet evening at home.
Instead I was greeted by the DDL in full flood of vigorous activity - doing house work, and house work with notable alacrity. Not only was she cooking dinner for the following evening, but hoovering, washing bedding, sweeping the lounge and setting about the bathroom with some vigour.

She was clearly due to entertain a visitor, one she wished to impress.
As I have so far been unable to employ a coolie for my domestic engineering I thought it useful to encourage these visits, provided they are well mannered, clean and show due deference.
So in a spirit of lively enquiry I thought it appropriate to ask about this chap who was coming to entertain her.

'You're not allowed to test him' she stated with a slight smile, and a refusal to make eye contact.

'Test, my dear?' Have I ever tested anyone who has come round that you dared to introduce to me? Anyway - should I find him wanting in areas then if he is put to the Inquiry?'

'Well, he's not like 'J'.'
That chap was affable, grown up, intelligent and pleasant. I found him good company.

A thought popped into my brain.

'Donna, how old is he?'

'I'm not telling you.' even less eye contact, more fidgeting.

'He's a lot younger than you, isn't he.' (Obviously - but how young?)


'Go on. '

'He's 21.' (Ye gods. Barely out of short trousers.)

A moment's reflection considered that he probably wouldn't even notice the work she had done and would probably even pee on the toilet seat. But as the net effect was that I had no domestic engineering backlog to attend to, I thought I would keep schtumm.

A pause. Almost entirely for effect.

'Has he got a note from his mum then?'


'Staying out all night with a strange lady.'
Unprintable response.

I assume they will be staying in watching cartoons, drinking sunny delight and eating monster munch. Or whatever it is 'Yoof' do today.