Friday, March 28, 2008

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.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

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.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

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.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

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.

Friday, March 07, 2008


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.


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


Thursday, March 06, 2008

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.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

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.


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.