Christmas with the family.
Hat tip -Punch - circa 1975.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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.
Drinking.
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.....
Drinking.
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.
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.
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.
Chapsticks.
The blog where two's company, three's a readership and four is unlikely.
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.
Chapsticks.
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.
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.
Why?
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.
Horror.
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.
Why?
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.
Horror.
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?)
'Yes.'
'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?'
'Why?'
'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.
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?)
'Yes.'
'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?'
'Why?'
'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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
A Police Priority
As you know we now live in a glorious socialist workers paradise - where as a consequence of the boundless munificence of Gordo no one need want, as we have the middle classes to pay for everything.
As such all crime has been eradicated - and the police are free to devote their efforts and capital to automated crime - such as bus lane cameras, speed cameras, parking meter infringement, box junction crossing cameras and other ways to criminalise the tax-paying classes for the smallest of infringements that can enforced by a short subroutine.
It is not a police priority anymore to investigate Private Property that is now being broken into twice to three times a week.
Obviously because we have had another vehicle stolen, our club house trashed, radios taken, meagre bar takings (£5 in change...) robbed, hangars damaged and the property rendered pretty much uninsurable we cannot be considered as at being in any risk. After all, we are not a police priority. How can we be. Nothing left worth stealing.
I suspect if we winged one of the fuckers with a bird-scarer we would be in terrible trouble - but we live under Labour - which means as a sport club encouraging flying we are not a Labour client group and as there are no votes to be had from the aviation community we do not feature in the politicised priorities of the boys in blue. Except, of course - if I do 33 mph on the way home, then I deserve all I get - obviously.
I bet if one of the scrotes broke in, walked into a prop or tripped over onto one of the sharp objects we have lying around we would have to pay compensation.
As such all crime has been eradicated - and the police are free to devote their efforts and capital to automated crime - such as bus lane cameras, speed cameras, parking meter infringement, box junction crossing cameras and other ways to criminalise the tax-paying classes for the smallest of infringements that can enforced by a short subroutine.
It is not a police priority anymore to investigate Private Property that is now being broken into twice to three times a week.
Obviously because we have had another vehicle stolen, our club house trashed, radios taken, meagre bar takings (£5 in change...) robbed, hangars damaged and the property rendered pretty much uninsurable we cannot be considered as at being in any risk. After all, we are not a police priority. How can we be. Nothing left worth stealing.
I suspect if we winged one of the fuckers with a bird-scarer we would be in terrible trouble - but we live under Labour - which means as a sport club encouraging flying we are not a Labour client group and as there are no votes to be had from the aviation community we do not feature in the politicised priorities of the boys in blue. Except, of course - if I do 33 mph on the way home, then I deserve all I get - obviously.
I bet if one of the scrotes broke in, walked into a prop or tripped over onto one of the sharp objects we have lying around we would have to pay compensation.
Smoking
Who googled 'Dunhill Junior Smokers set'?
That's madness. Everyone knows that - and I was wrong to suggest I was going to give my Junior school age nephews such trinketry.
I have given them fireworks instead.
That's madness. Everyone knows that - and I was wrong to suggest I was going to give my Junior school age nephews such trinketry.
I have given them fireworks instead.
Where there's muck....revisited
I blogged a while ago in a singular piece of genius about how the invisible hand of the market would intervene where the Local council decide they will halve their rubbish service, yet charge the same fee.
In an interesting twist, not only have many of them decided to go to fortnightly (I am in one of those poor areas) but they have decided to charge extra if you create more rubbish.
Great idea - but only if you can then select with whom you pay for your services. Otherwise it is just another localised monopoly.
The bit that gets my gripe though is that these services are being reduced, but is the local bureaucracy which supports it going as well, and will my council tax bill reduce with it?
Will I get a discount if I don't fill my bin? What's stopping me taking my spare waste to the local tip and getting rid of it for free?
Methinks we will see rubbish on the streets again - just like the last Labour administration.
It is a matter of time until not only will there be an alternative to your fortnightly collection - but I reckon it will be cheaper, greener, cleaner and quicker than the one provided by the bloated state monopoly.
Just you watch.
In an interesting twist, not only have many of them decided to go to fortnightly (I am in one of those poor areas) but they have decided to charge extra if you create more rubbish.
Great idea - but only if you can then select with whom you pay for your services. Otherwise it is just another localised monopoly.
The bit that gets my gripe though is that these services are being reduced, but is the local bureaucracy which supports it going as well, and will my council tax bill reduce with it?
Will I get a discount if I don't fill my bin? What's stopping me taking my spare waste to the local tip and getting rid of it for free?
Methinks we will see rubbish on the streets again - just like the last Labour administration.
It is a matter of time until not only will there be an alternative to your fortnightly collection - but I reckon it will be cheaper, greener, cleaner and quicker than the one provided by the bloated state monopoly.
Just you watch.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Gunpowder, treason and pot
Ahhh the joys of Autumn!
I have spent the last couple of days acquiring a license from the campaign against aviation to use a wireless set whilst airborne. These means I can whirl about the heavens broadcasting my particular brand of humour not only at the blogsphere, but also at bemused Air Traffic Controllers, other aircraft and mole-like military listening posts.
We were all issued a standard 'Bridget-Jones' bra for head adornment should we wish to call Tokyo as well.
But now I am back. My factory is live and my head in a space to venture forth into the world yet again with mischief in mind.
And Autumn is one of the finest seasons to do so! Oh, spring has all the joys of the sap rising - but autumn holds all manner of treats, cold weather racing, frosty mornings and the first log fires of the year to seduce phillies in front thereof. It is after all, magical the effect that a glass of champagne, a giant real fur throw, a dozen oysters and a roaring log fire has on a young lady's drawstrings. Not to mention a little Sodium Penathol to loosen the morals.
A season of autumn racing - and dark parties in dark towns to behave darkly within.
A season of epicurean delights, not to mention the bounteous harvest of the sea and woods!
A season of frosts and cold ears and 'Come by the fire my dear, you will catch a death!'
The first peak of the season which one gets to show off one's derring-do, is of course bonfire night.
The smell of powder, a slight whiff of petroleum and bonfire smoke! Roasted tatties and the best excuse to let off your out of date flares from the boat while getting blind drunk.
And we get to play with fireworks.
Lots of fireworks
Not for us chaps the weedy excuses of the stuff of Tescos. Oh no.
An hour's careful searching online reveals the joys of the Trade sector:
75mm mortars!
Rockets that require blast shields!
Cakes that fire for 10 minutes!
Starbursts!
The joys of leaping about the garden while a little taken with wine and having the joys of setting light to things and running away while the explode should be appreciated by all, young and old!
Then the joys of taking the starry eyed young lady wowed by your pyrotechnical prowess indoors to the fire, some spit roasted lamb a bottle of burgundy on the table and some rigorous sexual extremism is naturally to be expected, given the fact that all those bangs makes one heart pump so.
Now we all know the firework code. No cigarettes in the vicinity - but a pipe is ideal. Alcohol should not be taken, unless in cocktail form and be careful kids, remember - explosives and Ketamine DON’T MIX.
The explosives give you a nose bleed and the Ketamine doesn't burn.
I have spent the last couple of days acquiring a license from the campaign against aviation to use a wireless set whilst airborne. These means I can whirl about the heavens broadcasting my particular brand of humour not only at the blogsphere, but also at bemused Air Traffic Controllers, other aircraft and mole-like military listening posts.
We were all issued a standard 'Bridget-Jones' bra for head adornment should we wish to call Tokyo as well.
But now I am back. My factory is live and my head in a space to venture forth into the world yet again with mischief in mind.
And Autumn is one of the finest seasons to do so! Oh, spring has all the joys of the sap rising - but autumn holds all manner of treats, cold weather racing, frosty mornings and the first log fires of the year to seduce phillies in front thereof. It is after all, magical the effect that a glass of champagne, a giant real fur throw, a dozen oysters and a roaring log fire has on a young lady's drawstrings. Not to mention a little Sodium Penathol to loosen the morals.
A season of autumn racing - and dark parties in dark towns to behave darkly within.
A season of epicurean delights, not to mention the bounteous harvest of the sea and woods!
A season of frosts and cold ears and 'Come by the fire my dear, you will catch a death!'
The first peak of the season which one gets to show off one's derring-do, is of course bonfire night.
The smell of powder, a slight whiff of petroleum and bonfire smoke! Roasted tatties and the best excuse to let off your out of date flares from the boat while getting blind drunk.
And we get to play with fireworks.
Lots of fireworks
Not for us chaps the weedy excuses of the stuff of Tescos. Oh no.
An hour's careful searching online reveals the joys of the Trade sector:
75mm mortars!
Rockets that require blast shields!
Cakes that fire for 10 minutes!
Starbursts!
The joys of leaping about the garden while a little taken with wine and having the joys of setting light to things and running away while the explode should be appreciated by all, young and old!
Then the joys of taking the starry eyed young lady wowed by your pyrotechnical prowess indoors to the fire, some spit roasted lamb a bottle of burgundy on the table and some rigorous sexual extremism is naturally to be expected, given the fact that all those bangs makes one heart pump so.
Now we all know the firework code. No cigarettes in the vicinity - but a pipe is ideal. Alcohol should not be taken, unless in cocktail form and be careful kids, remember - explosives and Ketamine DON’T MIX.
The explosives give you a nose bleed and the Ketamine doesn't burn.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Hamster Wheel
Students of Nicodemus E. Chap esq., will be aware that today was a big day in the world of work.
For those of you who know / care / or frankly couldn't care less - I have a simple phrase which will strike envy into the: Government/NHS/Lefty cultural establishment/Public Sector IT delivery bods/Simpering apologistas for the political class of no-hopers. (delete as appropriate)
On time. On Budget. On scope. To the minute.
Don't hear that very often nowadays do you.... not with this lot running the show.
Chappy misbehaviour, regular pithy blog posts and more discombobulatory adventures to come!
I've earned them.
For those of you who know / care / or frankly couldn't care less - I have a simple phrase which will strike envy into the: Government/NHS/Lefty cultural establishment/Public Sector IT delivery bods/Simpering apologistas for the political class of no-hopers. (delete as appropriate)
On time. On Budget. On scope. To the minute.
Don't hear that very often nowadays do you.... not with this lot running the show.
Chappy misbehaviour, regular pithy blog posts and more discombobulatory adventures to come!
I've earned them.
The pain and the sorrow.
I say, rather close isn't he?A weekend very much of two halves.
Uncharacteristically I awoke when Da-Lodga returned from yet another night sweating away the last of her youthful looks in one of London's louder establishments.
Full of vim, vigour and verisimilitude I at once decided to aviate.
Now, students of all things
This still, pleasant autumn weather, whilst stunning, has killed off the thermal soaring. It's all to do with inversions, and is terribly complicated and will involve graphs to explain.
As the air was so still and smooth it would perfect for some formation flying. Therefore, I took the opportunity to renew my rating on solo-aerotowing.
Aerotowing is basically formation flying, whilst being dragged through the sky by a tug on the end of a bit of long string.
I shall spare you the details - but in terms of the beauty of the day (Cambridgeshire was breathtaking in the Autumn light) and the sense of achievement - I rated it better than my first solo - or first successful climb to cloud base solo.
I landed after enjoying myself thoroughly at two thousand feet and skipped about the peri-track like a spring lamb, filled with enthusiasm and a sense of complacent joy at just how bloody brilliant I am.
It was in this sense of tearing high spirits that I wended my weary way to 'Sarf' London to chums of mine for a spot of an Ibiza reunion with a certain Rugby match in for good measure.
You can see where this is going can't you.
A couple of bottles of bubbles, some cheeky Rhone and a half decent curry later we had become refreshed to the extent that going to the pub with requisite loud funk disco had become a reasonable suggestion and one that we embarked on with notable alacrity. Certainly a journey worthy of allowing us to forget the horrors from Paris.
It is very easy to criticise one's actions viewed through the prism of sober hindsight:
We shouldn't have gone to the pub at 11.
I shouldn't have had that strong Czech lager on top of fizz and red wine
I shouldn't have been involved in Donna-Da-Lodga's mad photography attempts to persuade us gentlemen to behave like celebutards for a camera.
Dancing. (Needs no qualifications whatsoever, does it...)
Nor should I have drunk quite so much (and the rest!)
What is worse, is that there are apparently photos of this debauched behaviour in existence as we speak. (Fortunately, they are restricted to a generic social networking website belonging to DDL - and therefore almost nobody I know will ever see them)
But dear reader - as you are all aware Nemesis always follows Hubris.
My Sunday was spent the clutches of a hangover of transdimensional qualities.
It crept up - I felt fine for an hour when I awoke. (No memory as to how I got to bed either - for the concoctions which had rendered me so cheerful and willing to participate in dancing, had also contrived to rob me of my memory of some minor details - like getting home, what I did for an hour with everyone else - and who I may have drunk-dialled on the wireless telephone).
And then, when I started some gentle re-hydration therapy, it hit. And it struck as fast and as hard as an Exocet out of a cloudbank. I have had similar experiences, normally when experimenting with cheap drugs when I was int he flower of my youth.
My day? Ruined.
My head? Aswim.
My Gulliver? On spin cycle.
A poor end to such an auspicious start.
The only consolation was that this hurt more than the defeat. So, I guess in someways the sorrows had been most effectively drowned.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Society is to blame
AMAZING!
If I'm obese because I eat junk food it's actually not my fault any more. Funny - I thought it was up to me what I ate, drank and how much I exercised.
Now apparently I have no free will and it is the fault of the fact someone is still free to sell me what I want to buy. Food is too easy to buy and too cheap and I can eat fatty foods if I want to. Well blow me. Let's dismantle the entire capitalist system, introduce a board of supply, nationalise all food production and we should only have what nanny thinks we need - then we will all be fit an healthy. Just like rationing.
Rope will be made illegal next so you can't hang yourself if you choose.
Here's a quick question: Should I choose to drink myself to death and I was part of the client state - I would obviously be a victim of society - but would that still count if I am harming myself with a glass of claret a day?
Or, at what point I am I merely being a glutton or I am becoming a victim? Does it only count if I eat burgers and chips - or should I dine upon roasted fowl in oyster sauce, a shoulder of mutton,a race of hen lobsters, roasted potatoes, mash, suet pudding with vanilla cream and a bottle of Madeira everyday - am I part of the exploited or am a part of the exploiters - for such food is obviously plutocratic. Or the zero-summers will have it that because I have so much choice, I am clearly forcing those I exploit to eat McSwineys.
You know, thinking this one through - it wouldn't be beyond this socialist state to introduce rationing anyway. Along with it 'being for our own good' rationing was introduced in the last war not because of shortages - but to reduce fuel usage in distribution. Just you wait - the green lobby will want that one. Think of how carbon consumptive it is having a choice in the shops…… especially when we can queue up with our rations cards and save the environment.
Now, all we need is another created crisis to jump this one through…..terrorist stunts? Deliberate viral releases? Or another staged explosion at a fuel depot…..
Soviet Britain is upon us.
Time for a day of Chappy anti-nanny action. Better than that pathetic blog-action day.
A stay in and stuff yourself day, methinks.
Menu to follow.
If I'm obese because I eat junk food it's actually not my fault any more. Funny - I thought it was up to me what I ate, drank and how much I exercised.
Now apparently I have no free will and it is the fault of the fact someone is still free to sell me what I want to buy. Food is too easy to buy and too cheap and I can eat fatty foods if I want to. Well blow me. Let's dismantle the entire capitalist system, introduce a board of supply, nationalise all food production and we should only have what nanny thinks we need - then we will all be fit an healthy. Just like rationing.
Rope will be made illegal next so you can't hang yourself if you choose.
Here's a quick question: Should I choose to drink myself to death and I was part of the client state - I would obviously be a victim of society - but would that still count if I am harming myself with a glass of claret a day?
Or, at what point I am I merely being a glutton or I am becoming a victim? Does it only count if I eat burgers and chips - or should I dine upon roasted fowl in oyster sauce, a shoulder of mutton,a race of hen lobsters, roasted potatoes, mash, suet pudding with vanilla cream and a bottle of Madeira everyday - am I part of the exploited or am a part of the exploiters - for such food is obviously plutocratic. Or the zero-summers will have it that because I have so much choice, I am clearly forcing those I exploit to eat McSwineys.
You know, thinking this one through - it wouldn't be beyond this socialist state to introduce rationing anyway. Along with it 'being for our own good' rationing was introduced in the last war not because of shortages - but to reduce fuel usage in distribution. Just you wait - the green lobby will want that one. Think of how carbon consumptive it is having a choice in the shops…… especially when we can queue up with our rations cards and save the environment.
Now, all we need is another created crisis to jump this one through…..terrorist stunts? Deliberate viral releases? Or another staged explosion at a fuel depot…..
Soviet Britain is upon us.
Time for a day of Chappy anti-nanny action. Better than that pathetic blog-action day.
A stay in and stuff yourself day, methinks.
Menu to follow.
Monday, October 15, 2007
All quiet on the bloggy front pt 345811
My next toy.....'Ah-ha!' I hear you murmur, 'With what, to where and to whom?'
What with the old hamster wheel requiring an awful lot of amperes (Big Go-live this weekend dontchyerknow) the madness of Big Grey internal politics, food poisoning from dodgy food from Ibiza (NOT that luminous drink I consumed in DC-10 either) and a Man-Flu-with-complications (slight head cold) my time has been spread thinner than the margarine on a GNER sandwich.
On the aviating front - I have done my last flight tests - so I am in possession of the equivalent of a PPL (albeit for proper aeroplanes - sans big mincing machine to drill a hole in the sky) - and this has been taking up a lot of my run time of late.
So what next?
Well if my chum Jaguar is anything to go by, I ought to go and get a passenger rating then cue some industrial grade slithering.
He has already suggest that I should order 20 white silk scarves to give the
It does have it's merits - but Jaguar, whilst a yachtsman of average skill and caver of unfortunate renown, is the sort of individual only the foolhardy, deranged or sexually desperate should seek advice from. After all - he has fled at least three countries to escape paternity suits and is running out of continents in which he can safely show his face in the company of the fairer sex without the accompanying posse bearing flaming torches, baying hounds and a priest with good book and requisite noose in hand.
But saying that - he is a stout fellow and a good sport.
Also - on hearing this news, Scotty started texting me 'Top-Gun' quotes including the ludicrous 'take my breath away Maverick'. This is highly inappropriate, as under no circumstances could I accept a moniker quite as ripe Stilton as 'Maverick'. 'Algy', possibly. 'Binky' has a certain doomed Spitfire-ace ring to it. At worse 'Goose' - particularly as it has a certain lewd undertone.
However - the sport is far to genteel to allow such goings on - and as such I am happy to waft about skywards without resorting to grisly Americanised clichés about fly-boys offering rides on their 'jet'.
No. Gliding is more about flasks of stewed tea, curly fishpaste sandwiches and discovering new ways of peeing into bags while lying down and getting the resultant waste out of a perspex window two inches square while doing 70 knots - a practice which lacks the glamour of an F-14 and is hardly endearing when trying to impress the Ladies.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Back, from outta space
Hello again reader dear.
As you are aware I have been off the grid for a bit. A couple of day's worth of yachting about Ibiza, with some exceptionally heavy drinking and some unfortunate food. I call it unfortunate as it has made me suffer a mild dose of the bloody flux.
We are not talking hallucinations and serious griping pain - but considerable discomfort has ensued and I am restricted in not being too far away from full-bore facilities, preferably with refrigeration close to hand.
Oh, the sailing was fine enough, the scenery is absolutely staggering - but all of us who passed through the apartment taken by my chums has suffered to some extent with 'the slackening'.
This has curtailed both my time and my blogging urges. It has even prevented me from the latest phase of my radio work this evening - which is fortunate as I completely failed to either revise True Bearing calls, nor prepared my flight plan. This I shall do tonight, hopefully between bouts of suffering terribly for my travels.
The only cure I can think of is a heroic dose of the old tincture, but Tesco won't sell it to me anymore and I daren't consume more than a thousand drops. Failing that I think I need to be bled and a slime draft.
More news to follow. If you are lucky it will be followed by sports and weather.
I will express my surprise, though, as in the brief interlude whilst I was off sunning myself and loafing about the White Isle - I return to find that Gordo has bottled the election, England beat Australia in the Rugby and we have even won a one day test series.
I should do these short breaks more often.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Burma - The North Korea of the Indian Ocean?
One shares the usual horror at what is happening with Burma of late - The Greek Chap puts it much better than I - and includes links.
My mind casts back to the velvet revolutions of the late 80s - and the successes they had. Is the Burmese regime more brutal than that of Romania? It's hard to judge. What is different to then is the sponsor - the skin in the game as we call it in my profession.
Back in 89 - the Soviets were a busted flush. And as their support crumbled their satellite regimes did with them. It would appear that China - hardly a paragon of democratic openness - potentially sees Burma as a satellite - and would gleefully prop up it's regime, and clearly sees the lives of fellow humans as rather cheap.
One wonders why.
Perhaps we see the world slightly differently to them. The Cold war view isn't there anymore for us. We forget the great game between the blocs fought in the buffer states from Angola to East Germany. Things may look a tad different to our chums in Beijing. All that has happened is the Old Bear has gone bankrupt. But There is a lot of her claws left.
I also think there are a host of geopolitical factors clearly at play.
I'm no expert - but I am familiar with some of the terrain - so here's a few guesses.
Could it be unofficial empire - long memories there in the land of the dragons. From suffering at the hands of Japan in the 30s - and a hundred years before that through the colonial manufactories in the great rivers - the Pearl northwards - would suggest that a few satellite regimes with resources and friendly goons at the helm give china a sense of comfort as it grows and flexes it's economic muscles.
The Pacific rim is lined with hostiles - Japan, Taiwan and the Americano-Australian bloc. Recent interventions in the Celebetic Archipelago to defend interests of the old SEATO bloc obviously unnerve China - so landward borders with friendly or propped up regimes may tip a local balance of power in her interests.
Could it be an interest in challenging an Indian economic bloc? India represents the Anglo-Saxon model of capitalism, free trade and democracy that clearly concerns China. How else to maintain the regime if you keep the people in ignorance. With a Maoist insurrection stoked in Nepal, ongoing hostilities in Kashmir - how better to play the great game with India - a Nuclear India after all, than by keeping a modern day East Germany fizzling away to her eastern flank - to hem in any pretensions an economic powerhouse waiting to happen that is the old Raj.
Also If you can keep Kim and his cohorts ranting at the Americans across the 38th parallel and Burma worrying the Europeans - eyes can be blind to other pressures that she may wish to push - Japan - or West into the Sino-Russian frontier. Not the first time they have come to blows either. With a stroppy Russia to contend with - the great game can be played up against the old west and at the same time the old bear can be baited at leisure.
Finally - good old sea lanes. China's navy and therefore her ability to project her interests beyond the Pacific Rim is hampered by her Pacific Navy being largely littoral and the fact as far as she is concerned the scrap with Shek and Mao isn't done yet in Formosa / Taiwan - and all that island represents is the same scale of unsinkable aircraft carrier as we were to the threat of Soviet expansion across the Elbe in 45-89. With the Sea of Japan sonar-ed as tight as the Greenland - Iceland - UK gap was in 88, the Indonesian Archipelago a theocratic bloc - and the Malaccan straits covered as far as fleet movements are concerned - a friendly port in the Bay of Bengal is an ideal place to project interests to your trade enemies.
I'm no expert - but I am familiar with some of the terrain - so here's a few guesses.
Could it be unofficial empire - long memories there in the land of the dragons. From suffering at the hands of Japan in the 30s - and a hundred years before that through the colonial manufactories in the great rivers - the Pearl northwards - would suggest that a few satellite regimes with resources and friendly goons at the helm give china a sense of comfort as it grows and flexes it's economic muscles.
The Pacific rim is lined with hostiles - Japan, Taiwan and the Americano-Australian bloc. Recent interventions in the Celebetic Archipelago to defend interests of the old SEATO bloc obviously unnerve China - so landward borders with friendly or propped up regimes may tip a local balance of power in her interests.
Could it be an interest in challenging an Indian economic bloc? India represents the Anglo-Saxon model of capitalism, free trade and democracy that clearly concerns China. How else to maintain the regime if you keep the people in ignorance. With a Maoist insurrection stoked in Nepal, ongoing hostilities in Kashmir - how better to play the great game with India - a Nuclear India after all, than by keeping a modern day East Germany fizzling away to her eastern flank - to hem in any pretensions an economic powerhouse waiting to happen that is the old Raj.
Also If you can keep Kim and his cohorts ranting at the Americans across the 38th parallel and Burma worrying the Europeans - eyes can be blind to other pressures that she may wish to push - Japan - or West into the Sino-Russian frontier. Not the first time they have come to blows either. With a stroppy Russia to contend with - the great game can be played up against the old west and at the same time the old bear can be baited at leisure.
Finally - good old sea lanes. China's navy and therefore her ability to project her interests beyond the Pacific Rim is hampered by her Pacific Navy being largely littoral and the fact as far as she is concerned the scrap with Shek and Mao isn't done yet in Formosa / Taiwan - and all that island represents is the same scale of unsinkable aircraft carrier as we were to the threat of Soviet expansion across the Elbe in 45-89. With the Sea of Japan sonar-ed as tight as the Greenland - Iceland - UK gap was in 88, the Indonesian Archipelago a theocratic bloc - and the Malaccan straits covered as far as fleet movements are concerned - a friendly port in the Bay of Bengal is an ideal place to project interests to your trade enemies.
Power projection is still rated in Flat-tops. When Saddam went buying petrol in Kuwait - Both Maggie and George's Daddy asked the same question - where are my carriers? George 1, of course knew of these things - being a decorated navy pilot himself. She hasn't got them right now - but you can bet they are being built - or bought. (Good article here: Here)
In short - is Burma the soft underbelly China wants to the Indian Ocean? Or a buffer state for security in a cold war mind-set? Either way - this could be the first move in the Dragon flexing Geopolitical muscles beyond her old backyard of the Mekong to the south and represent a push in her interests Westward.
Gweilo ought to watch his step.
Lois Maxwell
Most of you know Lois Maxwell died at the weekend.
With IMDB crediting her with over 82 key appearances she will be sorely missed.
Many of us remember her for her regular slot as Moneypenny - M's long suffering secretary.
However - she has a certain cachet amongst the spods among us. Who can forget her dulcet tones as the Lt. Atlanta Shore of W.A.S.P. Troy Tempest's bit of stuff - however, why she hung around beat me because he was always chasing that annoying fish girl that Matt Munroe droned on and on about.
She was also a regular voice-over on Thunderbirds, and appeared in Several episodes of UFO. To complete the collection of cult 60's appearances - she also showed up in The Persuaders, The Saint, The Avengers and the ever silly Randall and Hopkirk (deceased). She was almost as prevalent a voice as the great Shane Rimmer.
Put simply - her transatlantic tones coloured the soundscape of my childhood.
Farewell, Lois.
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