Trawling the Net

Claiming her 'find love, your money back' from Match.com.

Some of you know that a while a go Chap went 'net dating. It was pretty paltry clench, if you ask me.

One recalls that the vapidity of the things the 'gels 'put of there.

Is it the medium, one wonders? Or those driven to use it? There seems to be an ongoing air headed cheeriness of those that use this - the saccharine smile of the end of pier beauty queen transcribed into two hundred easy words.
If you are considering it - here's a handy primer to help you decipher the sinister wiles the phillies use to try and convince you that they are not desperate heifers who's clock has gone off:

Translation into chap in italics.

I'm an optimist

The pills have kicked in.

I like to treat my glass as half full

or I would cry

I love life!!

I'm desperately boring

I love my alone time!

I have three-alarm PMT

I enjoy everything life throws at me!

The most interesting part of my day is reading the Metro over someone's shoulder

I have a colourful character

I will cook your pets when you leave me

I love Yoga,

Every woman puts this in her profile - they will think I'm weird if I don't

And Pilates,

I have no life

And Keeping fit,

I really have no life

And going to the gym,

save me from the interminable boredom of my own company

And going out for coffee

I have no imagination to invent a lifestyle beyond last night's Sex in the City

I'm active in Politics,

I voted Labour last time and regret it now

I Love environmental issues,

I once signed up to Greenpeace at Glastonbury

I love live music

I listen to Chris Moyles

I love seeing my friends

to cry

I have a travel bug

I went to Australia once

I enjoy my food

I weigh 16 stone

I have a few extra pounds

I am the walrus

I enjoy a drink or two

I will drink lighter fluid

I'm a social smoker

Fag-ash Lil.

I don’t do recreational drugs

My face is on the Bolivian banknote

I'm considering children

I will use a turkey baster if you are not careful.

Any others from my readers?

A blatant attempt....

The Northerner has stated publicly that she will convert me into being a Northerner such as herself.

Tricky, as you know you can take the Chap out of the Colonies, but not the Colonies out of the Chap.
My moral aversion to whippets runs deeper than a Cornish tin-mine and no matter what she may wish to persuade me is the done thing north of the 53rd parallel - the bathroom is no place for Amyl Nitrate.

Watch this space, reader. If 'Eckie-thump' becomes currency, let me know, what?

Two weeks since I posted?

Criminal I can hear you say, dear reader.

But why?

Well the Northerner has been keeping me chained up in the Frozen Wastes and away from my usual sources of inspiration.
In fact, inspiration has been a bit dry of late - I have been doing a fotherinton-tomas and skipping about going Hullo Clouds Hullo sky.
The only thing worthy of any kind of comment was the my espying a bottle of what appeared to be Amyl Nitrate next to the candles in her bathroom.

Turned out it was aromatherapy bath oil - sparing my imagination the joys of juxtaposing said believed content with limitless hot water and 'wet-room' fittings.

The aviating has been a bit pants of late too. No decent thermic activity leaving me desperate to do my Silver distance - despite having picked up my licence to fly to the scene of my own demise at a field other than mine own.

Got some Uncle Chap requests to deal with - but they are pretty thin stuff, frankly.

More Uncle Chap

Dear Uncle Chap,

I have increasing begun to notice that some of my circle have not been able to find new jobs (after redundancy). The credit crunch has rendered others unable to re-mortgage & are presently selling their properties.

All & all, I am find my life depleted through their sudden lack of means to socialise. I was wondering if you could advise how I can begin to quickly generate some new friends?

Anon

Dear Anon (I know who you are AND where you live...)

I have found the following to be most advantageous:

1. Improve your personal hygiene routine.

2. Give away vast amounts of recreational pharmaceuticals and lascivious sexual favours.

3. Never mention the pustules.

4. Avoid underwear and especially in your case, admitting that your are (or have been) a socialist.
Such admissions draw derision outside of a few remaining pockets of idiocy in Hampstead and student common rooms.

Follow these simple rules and your will find yourself popular at Yacht clubs, Rubber Balls and opium dens all over London.

RIP Plumbo Jumbo

Students of Chapsticks and my existence will be vaguely aware of my rather cynical take on the world of drainage.

As the recently-promoted-from-prospective-paramour-to-status-of-Miss-Chap once bemusedly asked of a chumrade - 'Why give him a drain-rod for Christmas?'
Chumrade commented - 'you haven't known him very long have you!'

My drains have been a source of both material for this blog, modern art coverings for parts of my house and a regular pensionable income for the likes of Plumbo Jumbo.

But this would now appear to be at an end.

I have recently reached into my pocket and shelled out for some horny-handed sons of the soil to re-lay my patio and block pave my drive.

No small feat this - and a Augaen stablesque task beyond the means of the local pikeys.

In the removing of the 40 tonnes of concrete and rubble form the old drive I received telephone call from my clerk of works who was somewhat excited by his find. In true Augean fashion they had discovered the source of all my drainage woes.
My main drain had collapsed a while ago. rather than a clean hygienic flow into the sewerage there was a festering pit of quicksand revealed from 'neath the concrete crust.

I arrived home at high speed and in a state of what can only be called High Dudgeon.

There was a spongey depression in the middle of what was my drive. A glance down the hades pit of a man hole cover revealed horrors beyond description. All backed up and oozing away.

There then followed a two-day long rant at insurance company, loss adjuster, drainage contractor, driveway contractor, more loss adjusters and the insurers again.

Best thing to do? I slunk off to stay on a yacht for a long weekend.

Instead of running around fretting about things in the 'danger area', I spent the time gunkholing on a boat - tiding oneself into a pool off well named Brownsea island getting 'anchored and wankered'. Instead of sitting at home surrounded by sewage, I decided to sit on a boat in a tidal pool. Surrounded by sewage.

And now a full week later I can report that all is done.

My builders? Honest and good workers.
Workmanship? Excellent - everything is done.
Drains? Flowing freely for the first time in years.

What will I write about now?

Oh - forgot - I'm off to T'Races soon. Expect essay on 'The Glory Of Debt'.

Sigismund is in Thailand. He will doubtless come back with a rash and a sore bum.

Uncle Boris

What can I say? We are looking at the end of municipal-Marxism in London, at last.

I'm hoping that the usual Gaurdianista commentariat lefty scum who were happy to keep the vile Livingslime in office because he wasn't a Tory - are now writhing with self loathing. Why don't you all move out of your Islington and Hampstead homes and practice your benighted champagne socialism elsewhere?

First step - London. Next step - the country. Labour will be reduced to a rump of the whingeing bunch of failed social workers, second rate comprehensive teachers and chippy unionists they always were.

Who was it from Labour two years ago saying that Conservatives will be reduced to a small rump in a New Socialist Britain? Choking on your Leninflakes now aren't you.

In the words of Bozza himself to tinsel-tits on Today: 'I think the media have been denied a target today.'

And to the rest of the apologists for the left - watch out.....your time is coming.....your hegemony is at an end. Blue Britain will be back - and your cosy do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do nannyistic views will be crushed. No more jobs for you lot.

Going Native

Ahhh....the fresh fragrant air of the moors.....

Like Macavity - I have been nowhere to be seen….

Some of my detractors assume that this chap has been languishing in a police cell following an incident with a statue and some KY jelly.

No, I have been getting ever terser notes from my tailor about my bill there and notes from my flying club regarding overdue landing fees.

Not, as it happens. Because of poverty - but because a young lady of not inconsiderable pulchritude has been distracting me in the frozen wastes of T'North.

I am concerned that because of her fragrant charms and fine dining I fear I may be going native.
Once I would have shunned the Northern Breakfast for devilled kidneys, a dozen oysters, a bottle of champagne and a gramme of Bolivian - a fine breakfast that would set any Christian up for the day.

Now - I have been eyeing up Black Pudding and boiled ham with Piccalilli with glad rapture.
The final grim confirmation was when I saw a man with a terrier and holding a ferret I commented that it was 'reet grand'.


After our Anglo French dinner I commented on afterwards that it ' were proper belting'.

However, I draw the line at pretending York races are anything like Ascot. I fear that despite the fact we may going to one of the local race meets, she may be tempted to wear a hat more suitable for some of the gummier sloanes one finds in Surrey. I shall do my utmost, reader, to ensure she is restrained.

In the meantime I shall be perfecting the poise of a Northern gentleman - hunting tweeds, hearty breakfasts and rounding up the glowering small holders to have them flogged for the pettiest of misdemeanours.

Not for me the grubby commercialistic mill-owning with the inexorable slide into a gruesome paternalistic socialism!

A life on the ocean wave

I am blessed with the sense and taste not to enjoy motorboats but instead with the virtue of liking my recreational travel to involve mother nature providing the motive forms.
Namely - if a fellow is to go on a boating weekend, it is not going to be in a 'Hoseasons' rubbish skip landing craft but in a genteel yacht.
Unfortunately I lack the resources to be able to swan about in a teak and mahogany number but I am able to at least scud about the south coast entirely under my own power and not be entirely reliant on Wight link and Red Funnel.

One of the manifest joys is the culinary delights.

Recent trip saw myself and others with particular tastes in the foodage line other than the requisite bacon sandwiches.

I rather enjoy utterly disgusting my crew with what I serve them - it is nutritious but inedible to all but the hungriest mariners.

Sample menu:

Breakfast (served aloft and underway)

Pickled herrings and salted Greek yogurt

Luncheon

Chicken thighs roasted in lithium grease

Supper

Stewing lamb flash fried and served with duck tripes.

Oatcakes with uncoloured margarine

Wines

Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon (Bottled yesterday for freshness)

Belgian Chardonnay

Naturally I guzzled the above with glad rapture.
Unfortunately my first mate took one look and declared it all to be 'Scandinavian Insanity Suppositories' and threw the lot over the side.

Flogging is too good for them.

Das Wrong Bike

Awesome stuff - rest assured chap rides a triumph - fez doff to Dizzy

A new reader!

Welcome to my dear friend and new reader who is availing herself of my wisdom and vacuous scribblings.

Let it be sung by the angels that she is a most delightful and fragrant individual!

Nothing to see here, dearest! Move along!

International Chappism (again)

In the words of many a GI heard in the 70's - I'm gonna get me some R 'n' R!

Or in other words sample the fragrant delights of my old home soon...... chickens feet, boiled rat and rampant unfettered capitalism.

Joy.

UPDATE:
No scotty - this is Hong Kong, not New York. Prole.

More Uncle Chap

Dear Uncle chap

I have recently been meddling in the very fabric of the universe and have acquired knowledge that clearly man was not meant to know. As a result of playing god and meddling with forces beyond my control, I now have need of an army of robot slaves. My problem is this after my space station is fully operational what is to stop them turning on me in some form of cyber-rebellion? Should I build a more mobile battle station? Perhaps a cross between a star ship and a battle station? What should I call this?

Dear reader,

I share your woes - as it is nigh on impossible to acquire half decent staff. Your solution is elegant and noble - robot slaves do not complain about health and safety, demand workers' rights or vote Labour.
I was however concerned by one or two of your points. You are guilty, I'm afraid, of lethal hubris. If you are going to embark on plans of global domination then one should at least keep one's feet on the ground.
Any recently apprehended global evil genius will tell you that Space Stations, Death Stars (tm) or Orbital Laser platforms are very prone to invasion by misguidedly honest forces of some Intelligence services hell bent on 'liberating' the world from your boundless munificence.
In addition, it is a proven fact that radiation released while raining 'god's cleansing fire' on the cities of the world scramble the brains of these robot slaves leading them to rise up, burn the sky and generally enslave us.

My advice is simple - your base and therefore plans should be based around either a volcano and some scheme to cause the major powers to waste their missiles on one another, leaving the world yours - or something in the sub-aqua line. That will combine great views with excellent facilities for torturing special agents, detaining world leaders and capturing rogue ballistic missile submarines.

In the meantime - one should consider the appropriate accessories for yourself to carry off the look with panache. White cats and Chairman Mao suits are very last century. The modern super villain should really only be seen in either a well cut Saville Row suit with a lining hewn from the skin of Japanese virgins or a traditional suit of golden armour.

Your tinfoil hat is entirely optional - but it may ruin your credibility when on the video phone to the U.N.

T'North - again...again!

I have been in the frozen wastes of the North a lot of late. By north I mean above the 53rd parallel.
Imagine my surprise in finding one or two natives friendly. Very friendly.

I may be spending a while up here until she realises the ugly truth.

Delight!

There is something uniquely chappy about devouring a plate of sauteed lamb's kidneys with toast, a shoulder of said lamb, fondant potatoes, kale and the most unctuous apple crumble I have ever tasted with light frothed custard - and then finding oneself so egg-bound from the custard that one is resorting to double-dropping senokot and a fibre tablets all washed down with a glass of fybogel to get it all moving again.

Thank god I have been laying off the Joy of Figs today as well.

I feel sorry for the Scot, who ate 10 eggs in a fish pie and is challenging the fellow who ate a box of dairy fudge with a bottle of cream soda for stickiness quotient.

More Chappy advice....

Dear Uncle Chap,
My husband has been taken away on business overseas for an extended period of time. The house is cold & lonely without a masterful male presence, could you provide a solution? (Your favourite …. apple crumble (with custard) is being prepared by cook as we speak.)
H

The problem dear girl, is that in your rampant and thrusting desire for status and external validation you have clearly neglected the fact that the epicurianism in matters digestif and sexual have been neglected.

If you have paid proper attention to one's onanistic methods - such as 'The hedgehog' then you would feel neither cold nor lonely ever again. Under normal circumstances I would only be to delighted to administer the discipline you require, indeed, and the masterful direction you so clearly require! Does not a woman such as you blossom under the smack of a firm hand?

However, the fact you require cook (Or in Your case what you really mean is Mr. Mark and Mr Spencer) to prepare your custard simply reveals the paucity of your spirit and the barrenness of your desire. Go back to Chiswick and hang your head in shame!

As a consequence I am no longer available to listen to you crow about the price of what some estate agent thinks your rabbit hutch in the garden is now worth. Apple Crumble or not, old girl. My head has been turned by a fragrant young beauty - or rather one who hasn't said no yet.

Above us the skies

OK not often I post before I fly - but time for a spot of seriousness.

Serious instability in the airmass tomorrow. Will over-develop into showers in the afternoon - but the models are suggesting the best day of the year so far. Cumulus developing hard from 3-4000 feet. Streeting all the way to the north-west.

Got my toy booked. Aerotow ready. Girl arriving later to hear tales of my aviating. With any luck will get the chance to climb aboard and take her to heaven and back too.

Fuck I love this sport.

Question

Am I the only one who uses the buttons on the steering wheel of the car as 'forward firing machine guns'?

'Shit, too close Mav! Switch to guns...'

Fleeing the continent

I've have been in Switzerland. Not filing the Swastikas of the ingots - but some tedious workshop with a squad of over eager antipodeans and Americans in a nauseating internationalist display of team work.

Two things amused me during my return to Blighty. And it is these I share with you.

One.
I was awaiting my train at a non-major Swiss railway station. I was suddenly struck by a sense of familiarity.
The low level platform.
Clock ticking.
A few uniformed conductor types pacing the platform.
Blond man in hat reading a paper seeming familiar but refusing to make eye contact.
Some people speaking German.
I could swear the chap in the hat reading the paper appeared to look like Ilya Kuryakin from the Men from Uncle.
A sense of unbearable tension. A few more types in hats looking nervous waiting for the train.

Yep. I was in The Great Escape.

Two.
Squeazy-Jet flight ex Geneva to Gatwick. French Crew serving over priced drinks and demonstrating kiddy-kraft dinghies.

I had a few Swiss Francs in my wallet and wanted to get rid of them.

The crew worked the aisles. A woman who looked like she had woken up from 1985 from her hairstyle alone - and two French waiter types serving with with aplomb, flair, style and flagrant homosexuality.

Monsieur?
I eyed the contents of my wallet.
'What can I get for Ten Francs?'

A shrug only a Frenchman could achieve.

Ze Stewardess Monsieur?

Have you got any change?

Asking chap again....

Dear Uncle Chap, following on my hangover the other day I have been lured into a bizarre form of copro-sexual experimentation. Having shaven my head with a grade 4 hangover there was nothing else to do but embark on this voyage of discovery. Essentially I have been subsisting on a diet of immodium and boiled eggs for two weeks now. I must admit the swollen, full sensation in my abdomen is very satisfying. However a week ago for a dare i added banana and senokot to the diet coupled with 6 bowls of all bran all washed down with ducolax. So combined with the delightfull almost pregnant feeling of hyper-constipation i am now feeling the pressure of a week of crapulesence enhancing chemicals. My quandary - when do i break the seal? I have a chocolate teddy's arm that is likely to split my gusset assunder and since it has been brewing for two weeks must weigh about a stone. Your advice?

Dear Anonypoo,

I cannot decide if you have been watching '2girls1cup' (I wouldn't google it at work readers) or you are suffering from some Munchhausen version of Uvula Thrax - the disease of bran addiction ending with the sufferer living in the loo. (Nasty)
Few can deny the joy of a thundering good cable lay on a Saturday morning whilst you plough through Liddle Britain in your Speccie while the mistress hops up and down outside the facilities her back teeth swimming after all the fizz you have plied her with to get the Morning Service without too much fuss.
If the circumstances were true, then said Red October would slip out like an otter off the bank disappear requiring nothing more than a glory wipe.

I would therefore await said timing as above, take your Telegraph, Speccie a roll of freshly chilled quilted, a mug of Old Spoon stander and await the pile-popping glory.

Wedding dancing

The only times a chap ought to be seen to dance is when he is in such a state as he cannot be aware of it (Booze, lust or extremely strong drugs).

Exception of course where you are best man at another chap's wedding.

I am pleased to report that at only one of those categories was unfulfilled.

Those of us who are familiar with Wally Lopez's sets at DC-10 and Space or his performances in general will be aware of a certain thing everyone does on the dance floor. (It's Ibiza, BTW)

I must report that to my shame and horror, photographs exist of me with the Groom's family doing the 'kneeling down' thing do a breakdown in a tune I knew (I did help the tuneage programming with the Groom after all).

Not pretty behaving like a caner in Ibiza with a group of bods in their late 60s - who are all copying you, jumping in the air when the music starts again with you and cheering and whistling just like it was Monday afternoon in DC-10.

Ask Uncle Chap....again

Dear Uncle Chap,

while languishing in a bath over flowing with bubbles, I reached over to grasp a glass of Louis Roederer Cristal 1990 Krug; only to find that my toe is such in the tap.

Could you please outline a 5 stage rescue plan to come & save me. The bath water is now getting cold

Sincerely, H



Dear Miss H
What?! The drinking of such indicates that you are one of such that we call the particularly vulgar type of 'nouveau riche' - for whom the mentioning of brands as such some how validates your status - but merely serves to display your insecurity when faced with breeding or even the attendance at a decent public school. It indicates a soul wedded to the crudest form of mercantilism and a mindset unfitting for polite company. I shall give you no advice, for there you should stay.

If you had become stuck as you had been sniffing the tile adhesive in a futile attempt to get high or had fallen and broken something whilst servicing yourself with the power-shower head, my sympathy would be entirely with you. As such you are fit only for the pillory and in this case, prune-skin.

Keynes would have been proud

I was delighted to hear this piece this morning on the way to the hamster wheel. Confirmed my suspicion that the goons running this nut house have actually returned to the 'post-war' consensus - or Keynesian idiocy as it ought to be known.

I'm sure they would call it investing - but like a sub-prime debt speculation - one thinks this doesn't really add value at all.

Last year 2.5 Million holes were dug, one for every couple of hundred yards of road - and yet the backlog is longer than these idiots have been in power.

Staggering.

Spending your tax pound wisely.

The Few - Crab-day

Those readers with a keen eye will recognise my avatar. His name Is Group Captain Lionel Mandrake - and he locked horns with a Colonel 'Bat' Guano, and subsequently recalled most of the B52s in 'Doctor Strangelove' - one of the towering genius that is Kubrick's greatest movies.

Now - truth be told my leanings are somewhat nautical rather than one of the Spitfire johnnies. Those of us in the know realise that whilst the credit of the 'Battle of Britain' went to the RAF - Goering was quoted as saying that even without the RAF - trying to cross the channel - even with air supremacy in the face of the World's most powerful navy - would be 'sailing into a mincing machine'.

However - it is their day. The RAF was founded 90 years ago.

Gawd bless 'em.

Ironic that it is their birthday on April Fools' day.

Well known fact: If you learn to fly with the RAF - and then join the Fleet Air Arm - it is said you need to learn all over again. At least over land you have roads to follow to get you home.

Now, this chap both flies and sails - both of which he enjoys -but truth be told, whilst the Navy has traditions, the Army (Pongos) have standards, while the RAF (crabs) have bad habits.

However - interservice rivalry aside - faced with a decrepit and failing Marxist regime in this country we ought to stand by the RAF. They are starved of funds, decent aircraft and kit - like the Army and the Senior Service.

I know they all go home for their dinner - unlike all the other services. I know they spent 92% of every conflict they claim credit for - sitting in deck-chairs or playing footie at their dispersal -and I know that they got all the girls in the last big show - and have a reputation for outrageous facial hair - but we are all in the same pond.

Until such a time as we have a proper amphibious and littoral forces, we will have to rely on them. They have to make do with an aircraft designed by an Italian committee and leftover Comets. Just as the socialists have cut back on the Typhoon, 'leased' the tankers, denied them decent bombers, AWACS and the like - the chances of us ever getting the JSF for the raptor plus proper fleet carriers with catapults are pretty slim - while this lot have to keep employing 5-a-day fruit and vegetable coordinators to prop up their client votes.

So, despite the fact they are one tenth of the age of the Navy and one fifth of that of the Army - they are just about growing up.

Well done chaps. Remember - treat your woman like you treat your 'Kite' - jump in her seven times a day and take her to heaven and back - and no, not the Gay Club.

PS: Only the most craven knicker wetting liberal or self hating Marxist poltroon would not be stirred by the sight of the Red Arrows or the Battle of Britain Historic flight - I have flown alongside the Lanc in my glider - he waggled his wings at me and I nearly wept.

UPDATE

It will upset a RAF officer to a point of apoplexy by suggesting the New Typhoon is a Copy of a Mirage 2.

Ask Uncle Chap...

I often get asked for chappist advice onto the ways of life.
How can I be a better chap? If I am to behave like a true chap - how should I deal with the vagaries that life hurls at one's miserable existence?

Well, every now and then I get an e-mail from my chums asking for such advice - and so - in an occasion series - I shall answer the questions as well as I can.

Dear Uncle Chap,
Recently I found my self suffering a terrible hangover but in need of shaving my head. What ought I do to?

Dear Reader,
The possession of a hangover can be a sublime introduction to the day, as for that matter is the essentials of appropriate grooming.
Nothing quite sets you up for a day of spanking mammon than staring at one's phisog through blurry eyes, shattered nerves and the delightful edginess of far too many recreational pharmaceuticals.
The sparkle of hot water, the waft of steam and nose tingling sprightliness of fresh dettol assaulting the senses gives you a particular edge and helps you get through the mind numbing tedium of the Today programme.

However your note suggests that you intend to shave your own head. This is not to be recommended unless you find yourself somewhere in the Vietnamese jungle, using a piece of broken windscreen from your downed F4 whilst your loyal batman and navigator holds the heliograph to reflect your dashing yet wounded visage.

No. Should one require to have one's head shaved for reasons other than lice, sexual gratification or whilst they write 'traitor' in felt tip on your forehead - then it is not done to do it by your own hand. One should at the very least engage the services of a peripatetic Turkish barber, Romany tinker or former Nazi dentist to do the act.

My chief concern is that you mention none of these, so one can only assume you have had too much stout and still wish to appear like either an East German dissident or Member of ASLEF. None of these are an acceptable way to start the day.

Inappropriate Advertising

I was languishing in my lounge on Saturday morning whilst Donna da Lodga was taking a bath.
I heard the gurgling signifying her egress from said Tub and wandered in to the hall to prevail upon her to depart so I may use the facilities in the small room.

Yet another horrific site greeted me. Water was running down the walls from the bath area - and into my electricity meter and switch gear.

The thick end of a bath full of water had dumped itself out through the bathroom floor and onto my newly decorated hall.

I was somewhat vexed.

Now, the bath is tiled in to the bathroom surrounds and is sealed. Contact to my emergency plumber informed me that I would have to give the fellow access.

Dash to DIY hell to acquire bolster and 2kg sledge hammer (BIG JOBS!).

So it was with trepidation that I set about smashing apart the fine tiling that clad the bath to gain access.
The joys of noisy destruction and usefulness!
So with two black bags of rubble, wood, tiles and dead grout I beheld the mess before me.

I espied a piece of soggy paper nestling under the bath - about a foot inside and underneath.

Upon it - writing. Curious I picked it up to read in

'Tiling By Alan (the Artisan) and Alice (his dog). Contact numbers supplied.

Now - I immediately wondered - for whom was such a note intended? The next owners? Me Later? If the tiling had failed - would he want his number there?
Would such an advertising campaign actually work? Who is the target market - and how would you test the effectiveness?

I also wondered quite what Alice's involvement was - other than drooling quietly and chewing 'Bonzo', her favourite toy.

Other than medieval cathedral stone-masons - who would do such a thing?

Fine mess though. DDL has still managed to get water everywhere. time to revoke bathroom rights, methinks.

The Criminal Mind

A modern chap has many career options.

Naturally the thought of toil makes one shudder in absolute horror and one's mind turns to alternative employ.

One has often thought that employment of some raffish gentleman thief would suit. Diamonds from dowager widows, paintings from one's own gallery - a sort of Thomas Crown meets Raffles. Or The original Sir Charles Litton (The Phantom)

In such a world, when caught for such a crime, the bumbling French detective will have let you go and you will be free to commit only the most worthy and notable cat-burglaries while impeccably dressed.

Alas - modern times bring changes wrought ill.

To-wit a modern crime - card fraud.

Now, this chap's Alvis is kindly fuelled by his employer and he is charged with barrelling about blighty imparting his guidance and wisdom. This is enabled by a 'fuel card' .

Said fuel card was recently 'cloned' in South London.

In the good old days you were either a gentleman thief (qv), an evil genius (Stealing Nuclear Submarines, stroking white cat etc) or a good honest old cockney robber (fair cop, guv, you've got me bang to rights..)

These criminal geniuses not only used the cloned card in the petroleum station where it was cloned, but put their own car registration against the log.

Society has, indeed, gone to hell in a hand cart.

Bit like the idiots who stole my bank card details, bought a mobile phone and ordered without realising it would only go to the billing address. IE - Me.

Mind you - health and Safety nowadays prevents the Police from actually apprehending anyone - so they are free to steal again.

PS: LG 52 NTC. You deserve to be caught.

Chap news

It is always a rare treat to visit the frozen wastes of T'North, however my visit of last week left me gasping for relief.

My luncheon on Thursday last comprised what I thought would be a fair to middling low-fat snack to satiate the rumbles - a Tuna salad.

It is often said that something that starts quick goes quick. What I was about to endure could not have ended too soon.
Within a short fifteen earth minutes I felt the slightest of rumbles down in the engine room. This was shortly followed by a certain feeling a chap has when he knows that the Tube is loaded and it is very much time for torpedoes away.

The disabled facilities on the second floor beckoned. They served well - for the sink was within heave distance of the main bowl. However, it was rapidly apparent by the fact that despite lavish (and rather liquid) issuances from bow and stern - that I could not remain here.

I emerged from the privy sweating like a rapist and with eyes beady as ne'er before. I had to get out, and get out fast.

Five minutes and I find myself staring into the face of Modern Socialist Britain - the NHS drop-in centre. The bearded leftie punching keys and treating me as a nuisance who gets in the way of his targets stared at me as I stumbled my way through what I thought was wrong with me.

'Do you think you will need a Doctor?'.
Why are these people employed? No, surely not, I stumble in stinking of effluent yet in a suit cut so sharp you could clean your teeth by looking at it, I can only be here to take in the decor.
Instead of my normal witticisms I gave him a look of frantic desperation and demanded the toilet key.
The loo, whilst close to the desk had a certain Cuban appeal. Overflowing bin, stench of death, rust stains everywhere, yet sign posts everywhere saying how grateful we should be for receiving so little.

I re-emerged five minutes later clutching the key to horrified gawps from the numpties there for their chlamydia checks and lobotomy stitch removals.
By their frozen expressions of primordial terror - they had heard me.

The rending sounds of the fourth level of Hades had clearly alerted the gent concerned to the fact I was a little poorly.

A medicoe awaited.

Prodded, sampled, poked and temperature taken they concluded that all I could do is let this vile flux run it's course.

I am rarely ill. When I am, I know I have about two hours before I need to be prone to lose it. Time was ticking away.

I was issued a perspex jar, a rubber glove and baggy of the sort a fellow buys his weed in and told to sample my issuances and deliver to A+E for a speccy type to stare at it through a microscope and send me home.

A+E. Jar of 'bovril' delivered to bespectacled sort who scurried off to the lab. The Doctor sent me 'home'. I explained I was three hours drive from home - and that my current holding time was twenty minutes. This was greeted with confusion. Am I away on business?

Can't beat our edukashun, can you.

Time ticked.

I retreated to my favourite hotel.

I have blogged about it many times, suffice to say it is a genuine home from home. Crisp linen, sumptuous duvets and pillows, large rooms decorated in 'country' prints, elderly books and the best English Restaurant outside the M25 - with a christian cellar to boot.

I needed none of these things.

In desperate need of chilled loo-roll and a bed to shiver within I presented myself to reception - Trembling like a tranny in top-shop.

The dear girl recognised me and plumbed the depths of my plight. She took my bag and led me to my regular suite.
Furnished with a bottle of mineral water, a pint of flat coke and an extra soft roll of Mr Andrex's finest I locked the door and prepared for a long run. A doctor even telephoned at the hotel's bequest to see if I was OK. Marvellous.

I shall spare you with the details, suffice to say that it was barely 14.00 and I had until 11.00 the next day to check out.

There followed extreme violent issuances, and a hallucinatory episode reminiscent of the time I was persuaded to use equine anaesthetic recreationally.
By 3 am, the fever had broken - as had my waters about six hours before.

I poked my nose out of the door. A tray with parkin, bottled water, flat coke and a loo roll was covered by a fluffy white towel.

During the long night I had received calls of support and gales of laughter from my friends, but best of all a call from a chum who offered to turn up in a Nurse uniform and tend to my woes. It seemed inviting, except she used to be a vet nurse.

Discretion given such circumstances was the better part of valour. I preferred to puke alone. And will wait until my breath is fresher before renewing our blossoming acquaintance.

The day dawned bright, clear and I was exhausted and rather empty. The six pack stomach was back. A pot of strong tea and a Telegraph was by my door and a note asking after my health. Fantastic service.

They didn't even charge me for the room service.

Seven deadly sins (For a chap)

I have read recently that the Papists have updated the seven deadly sins from those that are really worthy - like gluttony, avarice, etc., into the latest neo-Marxist (green) hair shirted nannyisms - such as using plastic bags, driving a thirsty car or not using the orange bin - I have been moved to update them from a chappy point of view.

So - without further ado - the seven deadly sins of chappism - one that will get you struck off the list. (Not that one exists).

1. Working hard
No gentleman should work hard. If you are forced to work for a living then one should strive to skive.

2. Auto Fellatio
It may seem clever at the time, in the dead of night to be a human hedgehog - but no amount of brushing will take that taste away.

3. Sobriety
It is unfortunate that Calvinistic swine who run the show think that the country they have created is best viewed sober. Take it from me, Mr Hendricks and Tonic takes the edge off the badger-budget.

4. Trainers
Instead of Brogues? See 2.

5. Faecal Fibre checking.
One's free time is precious. If you feel the need to do this, then you ought to be practicing 2 instead.

6. GAP
Nay, nay and thrice nay. Whilst I approve of the global manufacturing policy, one will end up permanently looking like a character on Home and Away - not for the civilised.

7. Voting Labour.
Oh 'Things will only get better' will they? They didn't and they have cut your purse open. Don't feel so progressive now, do you. At best you deserve pity, or satirical derision. Ideally pilloried and horse whipped.

Resignation

The antipodean resigned her commission last night. This followed a short period of broad dissatisfaction and matters were swiftly concluded.

She was not up to the job of being Miss Chap, and consequently she can slink off. Presumable feeling drained, sexually exhausted and wracked with the shame of not being good enough.

Was expecting to have to sack her anyway. At least I got a drink and was spared having to shoot one's dog in the process.

Tabloidism

I can imagine the journo has waited half his career for this headline:

LESBIAN VAMPIRE JAILED FOR SEX ATTACK

Filthy Garlic Soaked Swine!

this chap is pretty ambivalent about our European cousins. Oh they are chummy enough when they want our dosh: the French make good wine, the Dutch grow good weed, the Gerry is good at making up rules and the Belgians know how to breed a good Paedo.

However it was with spluttering disdain over the kedgeree this morning that I heard on the Brownshow (Or Today I think it is called) the ritualistic crowing about the EU vote.

Better bloggers than I can expound on the guts of it. Suffice to say the Lefty political coves have sold our souls to Brussels - for what appears to be a political mess of pottage.

But why?
I cannot reason any fathomable purpose other than they want to be part themselves of some super-socialist club. Untouchable by our electorate they can dream up new ways to mendaciously cut our purses. without fear nor favour of ever being held to account - just like a true Lefty. Surely we are too stupid to understand the high-minded reasoning behind such altruism and therefore we are not to be asked if we want to give everything to the European unelected political elite.

In my experience, having to face down and explain just what you are doing with the money that you have taken off someone by force makes you think about it. One can only assume that such accountability rests poorly in their thieving consciousnesses and they therefore seek to distance themselves even further away.

I suggest we bring back the pillory, for this and other crimes.

Happiness is.....

A hanky full of freshly blown thick, glutinous mucous.

One of the sincerest joys in life for me is after one has been suffering from a particularly vigorous bout of man-flu is the aftermath.

As one is now no longer suffering the ague, all one is left with is a sinus full of green rope dying to blown and pulled forth.

Satisfying ain't the word for it.
The weekend away with the anitpodean was thoroughly ruined by both this and the fact I was in the heartland of Socialist larceny.

Scotland.

She rather liked the place - being a unreconstructed Leftie (you know the type, comfortable city type, plenty of money and riddled with the hypocrisy of those who embrace such coffee-table points of view)
Frankly, them lording it up with all that stolen English gold churned my stomach a bit.

Cry god for Harry?

So Harry has been doing active duty, as his Uncle did before him.
Andy was an Exocet target and I recall he was shot at more than once or twice, including diverting at least one live missile.
Phil, also, served, got shot at and in his case fought the Nazis and saw action in the Pacific and Crete.
But royal duties aside one shortly expects the usual guff from the Lefty media.

Simple question: How many of those criticising have served and seen active duty?

Saying that - how many of our actual government have even done a day's honest work in their lives?
At least our unelected Monarchs have had experience of leading people (in this case at risk of life and limb) rather that through some grisly self promoted activity of think-tank wonkery or human rights lawyership.

Say what you like about a constitutional monarchy - at least he has the decency to do something considered old-fashioned by our current political class.

Duty.

Good one Harry. You are now better fit to lead than the entire Labour government.

Les republiques du bananes

An interesting comment by a chum of mine regarding two of the more odious fruit based dictatorships. These two fellows - Castro and Chavez - who have systematically destroyed the economies and wealth of their countries, set up evil police states, oppressed freedoms and killed hundreds of thousands, are 'OK' because they 'stand up to America'.

In what way do they stand up to America? Agreed US involvement in Latin America is hardly covered in glory - but it was largely pitched against some pretty nasty regimes with ugly motives. Interestingly those who opposed the Right Wing juntas and dictatorships South of the Rio Grande are silent about the human rights abuses committed in the name of Marxism in the region.

Political and economic oppression, and brutal police statehood is OK - provided you say it is 'for the people' and 'Anti America'?

This is the good old geopolitics of East and West again. Except that the Brothers Castro and Chavez have missed a trick on the economics front.

Remember - the wall wasn't built around the Iron Curtain to keep us out - and everyone else has learned the truism about Socialism will always test itself to destruction.

The G-Spot

Ye gods, it has taken scientific research to find This out?

I would have happily helped, you know. Especially in the development of an 'inexpensive test'. It will be named the 'Nicodemus manoeuvre', and render a woman helpless with pleasure.

I have been perfecting it over the last few years and eargerly seek female volunteers to undergo the manipulation.

In my line of work, I seldom need more than this.

A blatant attempt to take complete control of space itself, for military purposes.

Life is now a Bond movie. Although, I think this was launched from a destroyer, which is even cooler than shooting it down from a 'plane.

Satellite shot down.

Small prize for placing the quote.

Now, I would walk five hundred miles!

Off to Jockland, where chaps wear skirts (I say!) soon with the Antipodean. Like any good tourist on holiday she will no doubt have a checklist of things to 'do'.

This has made me ponder: when does a 'Holiday' become 'Travelling'? Most of what the public call travelling - what Gap years, aimless over paid kiwis and the ubiqutous quoters of 'I Love Travelling' refer unto - I call Long Holidays.
In my mind 'travelling' = 'under one's own steam, intitiative and command'. Buying a ticket from Kiwiexpress overland special bus (Loo roll included) to me is an extended and somewhat dirty package holiday. Off the beaten track, interesting and a lot of fun, but a package tour, nonetheless.

Obviously if you strung a heap of these together, to build a unique voyage then it becomes somewhat more credible - but I feel the thrust of my argument remains. That is the difference between a fairground ride and an adventure. You can't buy tickets for real adventure.

If you disagree - consider this is what the very first concept of the package tour was.

Mr Thomas Cook invented it - his first one abroad in 1849 to Calais, so that the middle and working classes of Victorian England could experience his temperance excursions, (Modern eco tourism is a good comparison).
After that, they were sold as travelling adventures. particulalry in the Middle East.

Nowadays we look down on such things as nasty and cheap, and hold these trips for gappers and the like in some kind of higher esteem.
But remember, in the 1850s, A trip to Spain or Italy was as wild, exotic and far flung then, as these bundled trips over Central America or across the Serengheti might seem today.

It is worth considering, after all that the relief of Khartoum by sending troops up the Nile was done on ships rented from Thomas Cook. Napoleon's army was thrown out by Wellington - who was supplied by P+O.

Learn to navigate, learn the language, take a case of Lucky Strike, Johnny Walker and greenbacks (The language of border guard bribes everywhere) and sail, fly, ride drive yourself there. Ok, you may need to learn how to do those things - but I think that could be my point.
Slither your way about by your wits and charm as well, I say.

I think this could make me something of a snob.

I can't stand Radio 4 anymore

Humphries, Naughtie and Stourton openly drooling at the White Hhouse nominee race churns my stomach. We all know they had a picture of GB2 on their wall labelled 'hail to the thief', but they are taking the biscuit.

My bet is that Obama won't be the next Kennedy. More like the next Carter. Remember him?

Ticked all the boxes the lefties just loved.

Turned out to be the most useless president the colonies ever chose. Whether it was because he opposed 'Nam in the same way Obama opposed Iraq or because Gerald Ford really couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time - either way he romped home, trashed the US economy, faltered over SALT, wet his pants in front of Breshnev and caved in to Khomeini.

There was light at the end of this polictical tunnel. Politicoe, turned actor, turned the Great Communicator came in afterwards. Holding Maggie's hand (May her name be praised) they ended the cold war and turned the Atlantic alliance into the Global salvation it was under Churchill and Roosevelt.

It may take 10 years, but we may see an improvement.

Our Gang

I grew up in the 70's.
Now it wasn't all Life on Mars: spacehoppers, wombles, Slade on the radio and Cortinas the colour of Spangles.
It was a time of Britain's slide into economic obscurity as Keynsian governments bought votes by propping up dead industries. It was the Thatcher revolution which rescued us from this.
Thirty years on the world has changed.
Almost everyone bought into the idea of economic freedom. The nationalised industries are gone but we now face a sclerotic state as inefficient as 1978 - with votes being bought in Labour seats by nationalising a bank.
Naturally one wonders if it had been the bank of Guildford, if Labour would have gambled the cost of twenty aircraft carriers?

But this isn't why I felt moved today. After reading an article on the true winners of the Vietnam war 35 years on in the dear Speccie, I hear that Fidel has retired.

Naturally he has passed the power on unelected (sounds achingly familiar) to his brother.

But my mind cast back over walls falling and the missile threat vanishing to a poster my dad had.

It was called 'Our Gang'.

The photograph was of a football team posing with a ball.

The World XI.

The faces?

Mao
Ho Chi Minh
Papa Doc
Kim (Elder, of course)
Kruschev
Castro
Honecker
Hitler
Stalin
Mussolini
Idi Amin

Nice to see that last of them on their way, eh?

Back from outta space

I have been away. Now of late, faced with dwindling audiences and the heady demands of the antipodean on my time I have been unable to publish much of late.

This is not good.

Much has come to pass, not in the least in real life, but with work, plus the other topics on which I usually write.

Of late it is normally yet another brush with failed plumbing or yet another descent into idiocy by my benighted lodger which prompts me to publish and be damned. However, I have to write more.
The subject and tone changes, of course.

There are plenty of better political bloggers out there. I cannot compete with the heavy weights for interesting comment. I know, I can be a stat-whore and put snappy politcal titles which get the random traffic up. I could cross post filth or witticisms to other blogs to drag the roving (bored) eye onto my pages.

But the point is - is it worth it?

Like so many - I have toyed with dropping the blog.

But, as I sit here high on night-nurse, and reeling from a java coffee enema I have decided a tack change is needed.

So.

The blog gets personal.

Firstly, I shall be blogging about some of the characters with whom I share my time. Not just dear Old Donna-da-Lodga. There are rich seams of lunacy around me.

I can cast my bloodshot eyes at what I survey. Wipe my crusty nose, sniff back and turn my chemically addled thoughts to others, too.

So. If you are one of my associates, great. You will no doubt take the poetic licence necessary to inject a bit of humour into life in your stride and realise that I speak here as I would to your face. With ribald bantering humour.

Secondly, work.
Being desperately under utilised means more time to write drivel. I shall spill the beans on the corporate lunacy I see before me, and comment on the tales I hear which make me cringe from within the city too.

Thirdly, relationships.
The chances of the antipodean finding this place is pretty slim, unless Sigismund or the Scot tries to shit stir again, and through tortuous routes of chain emails find a way to send her a link - I can share my witticisms about her here. She shall not be named, but known by this monicker alone. As AA Gill speaks of the 'blonde', thus shall the antipodean be known.

All told, I feel the time has come for a change. Out with the old. Year zero. I need to airbrush a few bits out.

So - to the two or three regular readers about - stick with the change in editorial taste.

You might like it.

If you are new, welcome. Sit back, and share a glass with me as I drone on.

The cast of characters in this grisly tale shall be introduced as I go on. Funny stuff lies within.

Les Alpes or Bust

The hour is nigh.

At the wee hours of the morning I shall be loading the Alvis on to the boat train for Calais.

The horror of crossing the continent awaits.

Not only have I got the terrors of motorway services plumbing as they call it (Small-bore I call it) but the attentions of an over eager Gendarmerie hell bent on re-living De-Gaule's permanent denial of the Anglo-Saxon saviour hood of their nation - by trying to nab me for not obeying traffic laws more suited to a gauloise smoking peasant in a 2CV, than a lantern jawed chap about the continent in his souped-up motor.

How to speed my journey - or rather - how to minimise the horrors of having to stop?

The answer is to minimise wasted time mucking aorund at stops.

I have taken cues from my flying. In soaring, one is expected to endure 7+ hours solo in a cockpit whilst zippng about the clouds in the horsa.
Now, I reckon I will get about 7 hours endurance from a tank of fuel. I have a flask for weapons-grade coffee, and a non carb snack dispenser. But what if nature calls?

It works for pilots. It shall work for me.

I shall spare you the true horrors. Suffice to say, it is possible to have a widdle while flying a 'plane, it is therefore possible to have a safe, dry widdle when driving.

I will leave your imagination to work out the technicalities - but us glider pilots know how. Just as well I'm driving alone.

Still - I shall have 16 CDs of 'HMS Surprise' to listen to, a flask of coffee to consume and a tub of Foie-Gras to munch on. (Constipation under these circumstances is clearly to be applauded)
I even have a hundred old francs in gold, three pairs of silk stockings, a beret and a phrase book; lest I have to bail out somewhere over the Massif Centrale and make contact with the resistance.
Wish me luck, chaps. I shall let you know when I have arrived, buried my kit and started to shin up Schloss Adler.

PS: 'scuse typos. Spellcheck is down and it's nearly five.

My hols

Are just around the corner......

She-tox

Verb: to remove one's self from the civilising influence of a woman, normally when she is away for a short period. EG: Leaving your gentleman's literature out, or eating of curry out of the carton whilst wearing only your pants.

The Antipodean is reconnecting with what roots one can have with a country younger than my local post box.

Do I press on and complete matters and write her sweet emails everyday and dream wistfully? Or do I wait till Donna-da-Lodga's mates come round and get ripped to the tits on their GHB and weed whilst imbibing on unreleased quantities of Burgundy and trying to watch hypnotically grotesque erotica involving ice cream sundae glasses and some curious special effects.

That's a hard call.....

One of those days

This happy-chappy is presently faced with returning to the slopes for more terror and muscle-twanning delight.
I am eschewing solo 'lone fox' operations in Austria mit Walter unt his Schloss Adler. Oh No.
this time I am travelling to France. I will be assured of a decent meal (if a little over-rich) with long queues and petulant service - such as we have become accustomed to a society benighted by socialism.

Still, the Snow is good, I have my fans with me to cheer me on and bask in my chaply munificence as I hold court nightly: champers in one hand, foie-gras nibble in the other - chest deep in an outdoor jacuzzi whilst i wonder if I will ever escape from such a hellish place.

It was seized with a bit of post holiday vim that i sought out my insurance documents. Should I break a nail, chip a tooth or worse - sprain something - I would want to be immediately airlifted by Chinook to a decent private hospital for convalescence and cunnilingus in a discrete private clinic nestling in the Chilterns.
Not for me spending 97 hours on a filth encrusted gurney in some garlic soaked sweat-pit of a breaks clinic - designed to cater for those of a more foetid continental persuasion.

However, I could not find my policy.

I regularly purge my life of many things and paperwork is one of them. It would seem that a recent iteration of removing scraps of prior life from current existence I had burned the policy document. It was no where to be seen. (Saying that - there is a good chance that Donna Da Lodga moved it in either a fit of pique or tidiness).

I recalled the underwriters and attempted to reach them. Some odd sounding address in town with an 'Axe' in it.
The girl was most helpful - but did ask some odd questions.

Particularly one which was to be the theme of the day:

'Good afternoon - I have lost all my policy information and paperwork, but I recall you may have set it up - can you help?'

'Have you got a policy in front of you?' Uh-oh...one of those calls.......

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.'

'Oh, have you got a policy number?'

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.'

'OK, have you got a broker or brokers cover note?'

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.' (Think it is going to sink in?)

'Ah, so you haven't got any reference information? What's your postcode - I could try a search'.

Ye gods.

Search produced nothing in my name - and she game me their Internet broker details to renew afresh. (I have particular insurance requirements as I tend to command vessels in international waters, things your £4.99 Tesco policy would seriously exclude)

'Can I not renew direct.?

'No sir, please use our broker...'

I braced myself for more fun on the phone.

'Good afternoon, ------ can I help you?' Uh oh. Sing song estuary English.

Repeat facts regarding paperwork. Grip desk in anticipation of more witless dialogue while I explaining I really don't have any details.

'Not a problem sir, post code and your name is all I need.......(clicky-typing noises) here you are sir - would you like me to email you a copy?'

My flabber was gasted.
It was like the re-worked parrot sketch at one of the secret policeman's balls - where Palin wrong foots the audience and Cleese by just giving him his money back and a gift voucher for the mrs..........

Still. Email is yet to get here. I may yet be looking forward to the joys of European Health care.



UPDATE: French healthcare is substantially better than ours. Go figure.

Nice shooting

Good old Guido. This one is all over the blogsphere.

How Guido got Hain.....

This is the democratising beauty of the Internet. The Left sees it as a controlling mechanism or something that needs to be managed so they can control the truth they think we need. In reality we can all use it to campaign to expose the lying thieving gits who trough up our taxes.

Well done Guido. There are journalists and other so called importants wishing they could scalp like you.

Now......Who's for Red Ken?

Great Toy

As the paucity of the concept of Socialism slowly reveals itself to a generation too young to remember the last time this country experimented with it, we find that the cries of the Left for 'more socialism!' grow louder - like a wounded beast.
The Right has recaptured the zeitgeist.
Gordo's so called economic miracle collapses like Keynesian economics did when the credit ran out in '73 and the fools who thought we could afford a Socialist state and have an international capitalist economy see their pension plundered to make way for who ever the Left's latest client group is today.

And so people realise that medicine is needed and as ever us Tories have to administer it to sick Britain.

Remember the last time this lot held the reigns, when our economy ended up as powerful as Albania in 1979?

So - in preparation for The Natural Party Of Government to return - I give you a toy I discovered on Iain Dale.

Election-Map

Cheers Iain. I have wasted an hour on a telco playing with this.

Chap approves.

Flying hat cheerfully waved at Mr Dale.

Reasons to be cheerful.

It seems like so very long ago since I last wrote for my one and only personal reader.
However, I am back.
The Antipodean has been taking up a lot of my run time. Fragrant youth that she is, she is also in possession of the legendary thirst for which her countryfolk are admired. This is one of the reasons why I have not been moved to write much. The fumes of a red-wine hangover, combined with lateness at the hamster wheel (for it is there where I does write) have meant I have neither had time nor inclination to scribble things down.

But needs must. My public, as ever, have missed me.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to bring my own slant to the domestic and the ordinary - for a Chap sees things through a different spectrum. An insight to humour or thoughts gained either because one either knows better - or through the kaleidoscope eyes of bucket loads of high powered mind altering drugs - mean that I can even find my drains amusing. (And often have)

Such a rich vein of domesticity has reared it's foul bonce of late.

My Freezer has broken down.

It is for this reason alone I have been dining on roasted guinea fowl, monkfish and bacon paella and griddled scallops.
Naturally such repast cannot go unwined and it would have been criminal not to wash down Peri-Peri green lipped Mussels without a decent bottle of Pouilly Fume or Sancerre.

It is under such terrible conditions that I am forced to toil.

God alone knows how I cope.

2008 and all that

Hello dear reader and before you go on I know I have been laying low.
Christmas is a grisly time of year. Dedicated to the duty of 'family' and in the seeing of people you choose not to do over the whole year one finds the horror is magnified in the fact that not only is one supposed to be nice to them, but nice to others.

It is in the clear blue water of the New Year that one can make the observations such as this without the unoriginal amongst the world branding one with unoriginal titles like 'Grinch' or 'Scrooge'.

My advice to those who spent this year going 'bah humbug' to me when I expounded the virtues of a minimalist Christmas is twofold.
One: go and learn another cliché with which to hassle right-thinking individuals. You sound like a nine year old.
Two: Look about your parlour. Is it now not stuffed to the gunwhales with unusable tat you never wanted? Books you will never read? A pile of clothes destined for the returns queue at Messrs Marks and Sparkies?
Do you not feel nauseous following the chronic overeating? Do your arteries not feel cloggéd following the cheese and roast tatties?

I tend to avoid the cliché that is Christmas such as I tend to avoid all clichés like the plague. (Thank you CJ).

However, a sequence of well lubricated drinking opportunities presented themselves and the good fortune of being able to upgrade an acquaintance to the status of associate with the minimum of dinners out and sufficient alcohol to allow her to succumb to my more dubious charms yet retaining wit and wisdom so as not to awake the next day wracked with guilt - ensured that even now the distension of my liver is felt still and a feeling that something must be done.
After all I am skiing soon and Johnny Foreigner won't show himself, will he.

Now, dear reader, you will recall I have always maintained that the Body Beautiful is bought in sweat or abstemiousness and one must endure the former lest you face the latter.

I have thrown this to the wind and actually given up the juice of the grape and the malt of the grain for January at least.

Cynics among you will insist that I feared (as this is my fortieth year) that this is due to concern for the lead in my pencil least not the liver in my guts, but that that I declare fie! Stuff!

For starters I am skiing with a bunch of chaps who take their PE rather too seriously for comfort. I have been pounding away at the torture machines at the S+M club (gym) for a while, but the less blubber I carry, the better I shall be at defending my position plus out-skiing them in the necessary dogfighting and challenges to my authority which shall come from the pups.
If I can stay off the ale for a month (exceptions to follow) then I shall be like a greyhound of the slopes (steely gaze to match).

Exceptions being the boat show - where once I have schmoozed my way through the champagne troughs of the boat brokers and charter chaps I shall be found propping up the Guinness tent. Exception two being the 'impromptu' champagne breakfast for associate. Hailing as she does from the Antipodes she does have hollow legs for diverse booze - but champagne in bed in the morning, combined with a caviar niblet and smidge of the smoked trout ever fails to loosen the knicker elastic I find. Personally I see such hardships as an occupational hazard.

Nevertheless. She is suitably impressed by my abstemiousness and for that matter my buffing waistline. (Told you my charms were dubious)

If all else fails, there is always the Norovirus. Shit yourself thin.