Tarka and the Bilge

Warning. This is a bit nasty.

Shortly after I met the Dear Northerner she came and me and chumrades to Sardinia for a spot of yachting. Being a lady of delicate sensibilities and somewhat vapourish we decided to practice our nautical wit upon her and suggest that as it was a nature reserve there would be no using the heads for solids at all. Not just wipeage, but jobbies as well.

On her arrival I presented her with dutifully labelled freezer bags and six squares of Mr Andrex's shiniest and said there you go dear - this is your very own personal collection for the week.

Poor dear was so traumatised she was astonishingly constipated for a whole week. A feat she bettered in India mind you - with events coming to a grisly conclusion in a deserving Hotel in Munnar. (Another story - but it took a double Tarka Dhal and three Senokot maxis to dislodge it......)

So Her next sojourn upon the ocean wave was to require a more wholesome methodology for relief.

A plan was hatched.

Now the marine facilities are small-bore by comparison to the British Standard Bog. They tend not to account for neither the modern diet, not the fact they may be needed in a seaway.
A stance must be maintained such that one does not fall off the throne, yet ensure one doesn't feel the effects of one's remains accidentally and at the same time cope with any pitches and rolls, without falling off at the wrong time and Tarka making a break for the bilge to join his mouldering chums below the decking.

Hence was born The 'Tip and Grimace'.

Just think - using grab-rails over-head and wedging the feet against the door one can accommodate all eventualities and not have any embarrassing accidents at the same time - whilst encompassing all the actions and outcomes and grisly nature of it's failure.
For some strange reason we both found this highly amusing (her humour clearly dragged down to my schoolboy level).

The word has now morphed in to merely requiring the bath-room.

Tip and Grimace.

Kind of a ring to it too, eh? Think of it next time you are caught short in the Dog and Duck and need to void yesterday's curry.


I did say this was a nasty post.... :-)

The Life Aquatic 1

A busy Greek Supermarket, yesterday.

The privations of the life aquatic tends to suit a chap. One can cheerfully eschew the drawing room, unlimited real ale and access to the new chapmobile for a few weeks bobbing about on the briny, taking potshots at the French and a god-given right to drink rum for breakfast. Sodomy is optional, the lash essential.


Not the usual scumsail flotilla life for us in the Aegean, either.

Rampant individualism oft flying in the face of folk wisdom or marine training calls the day.

And it is as thus one flew out t’other week off to the Cyclades to introduce the Dear Northerner to a life on the ocean wave - a ruse to the idea that we should retire to a marine existence – sort of a pensionable version of water-world, sans avec Kevin Costner.


I have taken two prior Miss Chaps to this place with limited success. They prob don’t read this anymore which is just as well. Neither were suitably amphibious to cope.

Now there is a separate post coming about her appreciation of the marine facilities known as the ‘heads’ however it is worth reflecting previous and recent experience on the daily privations of life afloat.
Namely:  supplies.

I have known a couple of girls get through fresh water at ludicrous rate. Now, every chap knows the trick for making his pants last a month – and lets face it – most of the time one can spend the time in one’s birthday suit as there isn’t a soul about. Add to that baby shampoo to wash in the sea (it really works) and shaving the head to keep the worst of the weevils at bay then one can settle into pelagic squalor with joy.

Previous Miss chaps have tended to guzzle fresh water – but they have neglected seamanship duties normal to a fellow afloat – such as tidying up after themselves.

Dear Northerner is the complete opposite. Like a good Yorkshire lass, she is exceedingly house proud and if the boat had a front step, she would have scrubbed it. Now admittedly she had a Yorkshire taste when it came to the local food....nothing ‘dirty’ , ‘greazy’, 'garlciky' or ‘oily’. (That excludes almost all Greek food)...
But she took it upon herself to supply a level of 'tween decks cleanliness that would make an Admiral proud. However she did tend to use a lot of the valuable fresh water for this - and .....a lot of 'products'.
Now, a chap tends to sluice everything out with sea water, pump out the bilge and then set about a large Aubreyesque dinner of sea-pie, moussaka, baklava, salad, fish, baked chicken and spotted dog, washed down with ouzo, retsina, metaxa and liberal quantities of mythos.
The Greek Islands.
They are somewhat remote, pleasingly non-commercial and backward and ideal for basic comestibles. Sun baked, whitewashed Choras reveal little but tomatoes, salt fish and grizzled old widows scowling over their fly-blown laps. Sea-miles away from Blackberry reception and modern conveniences. And I might add - Tescos super store.
I had provisioned our little ship with all the kit we needed for a fortnight afloat. Undaunted I was dispatched when first we touched ashore (Skhinoussa, as it 'appens) to acquire some 'products'

It is indicative of the dear gel that I got this as a shore-going shopping list.

Rubber washing up gloves
Antibacterial wipes
Femifresh
Antiseptic gel
Floor cleaner
Toilet cleaner
Stainless steel cleaner
Washing up liquid
Tin foil
Pan scrubbers
Metal scourers
Brillo pads
Sponge cloths
Kitchen Roll
'Dinner'.

To her ongoing horror I returned with Anchovies, Ouzo and Coca-cola.

PS: Ouzo + Coke is a particularly astonishing tipple. Heartily recommend it.

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 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!

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.

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.

House guests.

As predicted Dulux thoroughly disgraced herself during her visit. Not only did she paralyse herself with faffing - but - as predicted - she fell asleep and dribbled on my sofa.

I picked her up from Stevenage station where she was negotiating with the ticket clerk over her failure to buy said billet. Giant wheelie case in hand - I enquired if she was planning on staying for a month or more? Tricky as the Donna-da-Lodga would be back soon and she would have to vacate the spare-room - and move to the parcel shelf in room 3.
Indeed prepared for the two nights only - but she 'felt the cold' and had brought her entire skiing wardrobe, jumpers and long johns. And she borrowed a fleece.... All this 'healthy living' has obviously broken her internal thermostat - and she must be in need of a decent sticky suet pudding to reintroduce a ready-brek glow.

Light supper followed by early night - as tomorrow we were to fly.
I roasted a little salmon which we ate with green salad and the like. All terribly abstemious - I had offered a small rib of beef with dauphinouse pots, mountains of fine Hampshire cabbage and some gravy to be washed down with a presumptuous Chateaux Neuf Du Pape. Apparently this represented all of her forbidden food groups - and could have killed her stone dead. Personally I would have preferred that than the self-imposed starvation diet of steamed grass roots and inedible stalks. Better to go like a burning comet than dying by degrees, eh?

We arrived at the aerodrome the next day with her half asleep and me needing tea. I introduced her to one of our more jocose instructors and soon despatched her to play with an aeroplane - in a state of bewilderment. The planes she is used to have jetways, stewardesses and airports attached. They are not towed around a grass strip by a golf buggy driven by an old man who smells strongly of pipe tobacco.

She's a nice lass, but she is prone to asking a lot of insensitive questions - a LOT of questions in a steady stream. This caused some amusement.

Much of the amusement was derived from her demanding to know how many years her flying instructors had been teaching for - and at one point refusing to fly with someone.
This caused hilarity rather than rancour - and a spate of the instructors insisting amongst other things - that they had been flying a week and had the book on how to fly (with the pictures all coloured in neatly too), they had a note from their mum, the charges were dropped last time and that he got away with it last time as he was wearing a parachute and the insurance covered the burial charges.

Despite spending a good half of the day pretending to be asleep in my car at the end of the runway when we all knew she was reading 'Hello!' she flew twice - and even soared for a few minutes on one. How someone can feel airsick though from 6 minutes is beyond me.

I, on the other hand spent the entire time in my flights scrabbling around at 1100 feet in two knots of sink and manfully failing to stay up for more than 7 minutes.

She completed the evening by dining on a particularly tasty roasted prawn and red pepper Provencal with basmati rice and a bottle of Savigny Les Beaune 2005 - which is clearly a grand, grand year - and delicious for a white only two years in the bottle.
A glass of Cremant completed the evening - and allowed her to fall asleep - entirely as seen in my prophecy - on the sofa. Head lovingly nestled on the Dog's arm-rest to commune and share in the sleepy world of dribble.

Her appearance in the morning on the sofa was akin to an old English sheep dog who had fallen asleep in a washing machine. Yet again she was paralysed with faffitude for I had been to the gym (I know, I know - but the body beautiful is paid for in sweat and self denial and I cannot brook the latter) and prepared breakfast before she had emerged into the world, dripping and betoweled from the only shower in the house.

'Sorry dahlink I didn't know you were back…are you being all organised?'
'Yep - and I am turfing you out. I have to be airside by 13.00 and it is quarter to twelve now.'

The rest is fairly tedious and doesn't bear much blogging. Drop off at Station (with attendant fashionista air-kisses), drive through countryside, duty at airfield - radios, clipboards and gliders zipping about the place.

Home for tea and curry.

And time, I think to wash the sofa arm covers again. They are getting a little sticky. As I don’t like the central heating too high I am loathe to warm the house purely to allow my guests and my lodger's doggy dribble to congeal into a brushable crust.

Dulux's day out.

My chum Dulux is having one of her cathartic phases. We have a small book running as to how long this one will continue. It has got noticeably worse since the Scot slunk of to Greece in a futile attempt to capture the glories of my previous commands in the Aegean and the Ionian.
This particular phase involves a great deal of self denial washed down with activité. Last time I saw her - afloat - normally a haven for epicurean excess - she was living entirely on sprouting beans, carrot shavings and wheatgrass juice - with the attendant vapourishness that such hideous repast would incur. Consequently when the situation demanded something approaching a slot of exertion she fainted dead away.

I had put this out of my mind of late as I have had some of my own particular worries to concern myself with - on a professional and personal front - and my runtime has been pretty consumed. Hamster wheel has demanded a lot of amperes (Factory wide outages no less) I have had the CAA breathing down my neck demanding I learn their scripts as well. (I did rather well in in my exam by the way dear reader)

Until I received a text last weekend whilst I was rummaging in the farm shop.

It read about something about Lucinda and horse tack with mentions of Jodhpurs and riding and the like…..It was from dulux. Hello, thought I, she has finally discovered her inner pervert. I queried back - never one to let such a comment go unpassed.

The reality was she was actually riding in Gloucestershire - and immediately asked if she could come aviating.

Seems phase two of the project hair shirt is getting out of London and doing shit. Riding one day, flying the next.

'Nice to be of service', said I.
'Donna da Lodger is off sweating out what's left of her youth in Ibiza - you can use her room - Just don’t call me captain at the flying club. I will get more of a reputation than I already have.'

'What reputation is that skipper?'

'Never you mind old girl. What would you like for dinner?'

'No meat, dairy, yeast, alcohol.'

'No vegetables that cast a shadow? Bale of hay perhaps? '

She let that pass.

'Anyway Captain I'm absolutely shattered so please don’t be too alarmed if I just sit on your sofa, fall asleep and dribble all over it.'

'Be my guest', said I - 'you will be in fine - if a little desiccated company'

'How so?'

I indicated that there is a section of the sofa in which there is a special cover to accommodate the fact that is where Donna-da-Lodga's dog chooses to rest his head. He also is wont to dribble.
'Surely it can’t be that bad' she said and we rang off.
Little does she know. She will soon be languishing in oodles of dried doggy dribble.
How fitting.

Outgunned

Not satisfied with infesting my bathroom with unguents, festooning my lounge with scatter cushions or threatening to rearrange my boudoir - the girls have started getting united.

The warning sign was the other evening - Donna-Da-Lodga and My Particular Friend were found giggling to themselves on my sofa when I entered the room. A few days later a ghastly image of me appears on her blog - one that Da-Lodga had taken in jest.

Now I discover they have opened a popular front - and are emailing each other.

Lord alone knows what fripperous trivialities they swap. But one thing is certain - like the displacement of my dettol - this could be the thin end of a another grisly wedge.

They must be stopped.

Something must be done.

Up With This, I Shall Not Put..............

The K21 two seat training glider

I never smile for photographs, me.

The K21 is renowned for safe handling, gentle stall characteristics and a reluctance to spin or flick roll even when roughly handled.

The trainee seat in the fore cockpit is comfortable and allows the wearer to relax in their parachute - allowing the early pilot time to focus on enjoying themselves.

A robust airframe with strong undercarriage means that the maintenance overhead won't blow the training fleet budget - and all those bumpy landings will be brushed off with ease.

UPDATE: The pilot is a bit of cuteness too, don't you think? If I offer some help with the Joystick in the Cockpit, do you think she would give me her phone number?

Don't say I didn't warn you

Or......



Or......

We ARE the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain

There comes a time in a Chap's existence when the strains of the Ukulele do not merely represent the wheezing histrionics of a Lancashire fellow engaged in fenestrative cleansing duties.
They are a form of high humour and an ironic look at the modern popular culture of music.

I have seen their work on a number occaisons....

Last night I took My Particular Friend in hand and introduced her to the delights of these Fellows., dispensing their Teenage Kicks to the audience.

Believe me - I am indeed just a teenage dirt bag, baby. It has also been known for me, on some occasion, to listen to Iron Maiden, maybe.

Gosh, I am rather with-it what?

Hegemony - an update

Bottles are breeding in my bathroom like Triffids.

Whilst it is nice to have a Lady Caller and Donna-Da-Lodger about, they have achieved their beach-head and are setting about the wholesale take over of my domicile.



Not just candles, now, either.



Like Lionesses marking their scent - other things crop up.



Four different types of fruity shower gel.

Make Up remover pads

Shampoo and other haircare products

Several types of towels

Hygiene products

A set of trolleys containing I know not what.



I even came across a magazine which chilled my blood to ice. I cannot even utter it's title - suffice to say it was about coordinated interiors.



I know I'm doomed.

I know it is cushions, pot-pourri and wooden salad bowls to come.

Tablecloths.



I shall be making my last stand by the Electric Laundry device.



Fabric Softener? Just say NO.

Things are all right in the world

As you, dear reader, know I am blessed with friends who are not ordinary. In fact, there is nothing terribly ordinary about me either.

I am delighted to report that a chumrade of mine has returned to form, after many months in the wilderness.

Yes, she has been pursuing the baser forms of animal gratification with a gentleman - meaning she has been on what can only been described as best (soppy) behaviour.

Instead of high wisdom I hear tales of moon-calfing about, puppy-dog eyes and holding hands as they stroll through the crashing surf. Or something like that.

This has caused consternation in Chateau Chap, as there are times when I expect, nay, demand loftier things from my chumrades.

But high wisdom has returned.

I am delighted to report that The Scot is back on form.

I received an email, this morning detailing her morning report......

Scotty - I give you joy of your High Fibre diet!

Hegemony

Some of my dear readers are blessed with knowing me in Real Life - as in outside the Interweb.

They know that I normally lead a life of peaceful contemplative solitude, interspersed with high adventure - but chiefly that my domestic arrangements are ones of clean simplicity as I immerse my self in the noble self discipline of an uncluttered existence.

But, alas, there is a slow creeping hegemony going on. As relentless as the tide, it marches it's fripperous way into my life, and it's sinister tendrils invade my pristine existence with the dark and malevolent forces of no-good-at-all.

It started simply. A woman moves in to my spare room - a damsel in distress and I am duty bound to assist.
But that carries risks, you see. Not only have the wine glasses been turning up on the wrong shelf - but other things arrive.

Unauthorised things.

Decorative items.

Knick-knacks.

Fripperies.

Oh, it all starts innocent enough. The special decorative olive oil thing in the kitchen.
Fabric softener for the electric laundry unit.

Then there are the bottles.

Creams oils and unguents for the bathroom, multicoloured vials containing I know not what.

I let all this go with a resigned smile - I must be accommodating and I do wish my house guest to feel at home.
But as sure as a lioness marks her scent, there are markers, cropping up.

The surest sign I noticed this morning as I took my cold shower, applied the dettol to the wire brush and set about my thinning locks with the vosene.

Candles.
In special holders.
In the Bathroom.

I stood as one thunderstruck when the terrible realisation dawned - and my soul filled with cold dread.

It Is A Slippery Slope.
The Thin End Of The Wedge.

I leaped from the shower and instantly logged on to wiki to confirm my worst fears.

A Woman's Touch.

It is only going to get worse. Now I have a particular friend visiting for tea and sandwiches on occasion, I am fairly certain that this is indeed the Thin End Of The Wedge.

A grim future awaits - scatter cushions, fabric softener, mood lighting and 'Coordinated Interiors'.

Is it any wonder us chaps have Sheds?

Coo err gosh......

befor you kno it you ar under the spel of GURLS