Happiness is.....

A hanky full of freshly blown thick, glutinous mucous.

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

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

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

Scotland.

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

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.

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.

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.

New entry for next year's bounders contest

This fellow would have done well at this year's Chap Olympics - especially the bit about crashing through the enclosure and leading her and three others off into the jungle.

Jumbo Romance

Thanks to Kate for the link!

Gosh, is that a spreadsheet you're using, or are you pleased to see me?

I have often wondered what we used to do before the Internet or E-Mail when we wanted to look like we were working. (My first office job involved memos, telexes, carbon paper and the like)

There is also a whole generation for whom a Kalamazoo ledger, NCR paper and trimphone are complete mysteries…but I digress.

I also recall that we all used to trog out at lunchtime to Travel Agents and the like - a task we all delight in nowadays thanks to the Internet, as it is a) accessible from our desks and b) we can look like we are working at the same time.

I raised this matter with someone over email today - pondering that we all like playing travel agents nowadays - whiling away those quite moments - so what do Travel Agents do when they are pretending to work?

She rather wittily replied that 'They pretend to do stuff in Excel Spreadsheets- for the Glamour'.

If you combine that with the High Octane world of PowerPoint and the Dangers of MS Project - I clearly lead the life of some international playboy.

Well - compared to your local branch of 'Tommy C' anyway.

Witty quote: copyright bagelmouse 2007

Cracking Headline!

More light blogging today, despite the fact I'm in T'North and in my fave hotel.
I did see This though!

More on my Bins prediction.....

Fez Doff at the The Telegraph and Matt.

Velvet Brocade Bordello Pants

To the Gentleman or lady who googled ''Bordello Pants' and so came unto my site:

Welcome, you are among friends - even though I strongly suspect I know you already.

Mine's an Earl Grey with a snifter of Gin, please.

The Aegean Mission Part II (a)

An observer's guide to Yacht hiring in the Dodecanese - how to spot nationalities…...

No 1. British Yachtsman
Normally a couple or two couples, with loads of sunblock.
Under provision on food, over provision on beer.
Tend to sail a little over reefed.
Give plenty of swing room in anchorages and lays ground tackle with care.
Approaches stern-to moorings with discretion, care and at a walking pace and deploys lines with accuracy.
Observes inshore etiquette to the letter, including lowering of colours at sunset.

No 2. French Yachtsman
Lone elderly man made of tan shoe leather.
Load no food other than sea-weed, but flagons of rot gut wine on the foredeck.
Sails carry no reefing points, as the lines tangle around the solar panels.
Anchor with the minimum amount of chain, lays ground tackle with a shrug
Never moor stern to, instead anchor in the roads to glare at other boats
What etiquette?

No 3. Italian Yachtsman
18 people on board in speedoes and bikinis, all talking on their mobile phones.
Spend two hours arguing in the supermarkets with ten trolleys of food and then clear out the shop of retsina, while talking on their mobile phones.
Sail massively over pressed at all times with entire deck talking on their mobile phones.
Deposit sixty metres of chain in 5 metres of water, then swing wildly, over everyone else's anchors, while talking on their mobile phones.
Moor stern-to in a place too small for a mirror dinghy at full astern, involving the entire crew arguing over how it should be done. Repeated three times - with mobile phone breaks.
No flag etiquette.
Time in harbour spent hiring scooters and talking on their mobile phones.

Sausage Savagery in Salford

Pork snack anarchy hits Britain's streets!

Nice to know the CPS has nothing better today in the glorious peaceful streets of our green and pleasant land!

Errr...

I can see it is still the silly season, and I haven't missed much.

THIS

This is going to be one of those viral ones that runs and runs, isn't it.

My South Park character

I like the hat, especially.

South Park Generator

Swooping doff of hat to the The Greek Chap

It's Amaizing!

Man gets lost in own field

Couldn't make 'em up.


Chapsticks - two's company and three's a readership.

Don't say I didn't warn you

Or......



Or......

Tomorrow's Paper

More on this story, later. I may have a lot of fun with this!

Fez Doffed to the Poor Little Greek Chap for this toy!!

Topical....

Normal service will be resumed shortly, chaps. I have been afloat and things for the last few days. Also somewhat distracted. When the old hamster wheel is back up to speed - I will let you know the gruesome details shortly.

Doff of Fez to the The Devil. for the cartoon.

The Chap Olympics

The challenge about going to any kind of event where one is required to be attired in anything other than a smart suit and tie, is the amount of exposure where one has to travel with the Underwashed and Overscented and they are wont to stare and fail to understand the cut of one's jib.

I took my Particular friend to the Chap Olympics on Saturday.

The cut of the jib on this particular day involved presenting one's self in one's colonial attire. I drew upon my deep DNA memory of the steamy plantations of the Cameron Highlands, the sweat soaked gin dives of Wanchai and the dusty front lines of Kipling's Great Game. In other words, khaki shorts, pith helmet, Sam Browne belt and brogues.
My Particular Friend's attire said Twenties Tennis party with associated freshly steamed Panama.

And such that it was we found ourselves strolling (I said Marching - but apparently that's crass) through the Bloomsbury district of Londinium towards the site of the Chap Olympics this year.

Bedford Square Gardens on a July afternoon. Sun dappled lawns. Cool, white pavilions of calm to entertain the troops and a brass band to provide a musical accompaniment to an afternoon's athleticism.

We passed through the formalities at the gate and presented ourselves to the popsies handing out Gin vouchers. We duly identified ourselves as competitors and had a christian handful of free G+T tickets thrust into our eager mits.

We beheld the scene momentarily and then reviewed our appearance. Until now, we had felt confident we were quirky and unusual enough.
The scene before our eyes was somewhat remarkable.

Ladies in forties dresses, veils and seamed stockings.
Gentlemen dressed as 18th century parsons, explorers and Victorian hunters.

Fortitude was clearly going to be required and I fled to the refreshment tent.

I handed over the Gin voucher to the young lad behind the bar and demanded Military Strength sustenance.
He promptly half filled two high ball glass with Gin, then with ice and topped up the last inch with tonic and cucumber.
Military strength indeed.

I returned to find My Particular friend perusing the programme with a slight furrow in her brow, and a flare to her nostrils. She was concerned.

I read her thoughts quickly and summised we needed to re plan our attendance. No plan, after all survives contact with the enemy.

'I say, Ms A, let's view this as a recce?' Said I adjusting the Sam Browne belt and adopting a slightly rakish angle to the pith helmet.
She pondered this for a moment, while a relieved smile played across her lips.
'Splendid Idea Mr. D. Let's check out the situation, enjoy what appears to be unlimited Gin, and plot our return next year.'
'Quite, my dear.'
'We can review the crowd and think of a unique theme....'

We discussed many thoughts that day. As they are likely to be employed on various chappist activities, I am not at liberty to discuss the nature of the schemes we hatched.
Consequently, we thus devoted the rest of the day to enjoying the Gin to the full force of the liberal behaviour of the staff - I was pouring my own by the end of the afternoon - and some serious people watching.
The events were hilarious, the people delightful and the atmosphere terrific. After all - in the words of Max Boyce - 'We Were There'.

We finally took the public train home and reviewed the experience. It was a delight and it was certainly worth blogging about.

Pics Here.

This was our first official engagement, and I rather think it was a hit. It doesn't count as a cultural exchange, as you may recall it was rather her idea.

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!

It happens to us all

Was out at a gig Saturday night - a DJ called Sasha was playing in a tent in a field.
Sasha was the pin-up DJ of the 90's with a backstory that summed up the experiences of the DJ route to glory - from early days at the Hac, through Shelley's and on to the world stage with Renaissance alongside John Digweed - and becoming a global player.
His sets are fantastic - and he is, to put it mildly - a bit of a legend. A north welsh lad made good and following the whole gamut of the acid house movement from the first raves, the Ibiza explosion and today's newer more epicurean and grown up tastes.

My companion at this do was Donna-da-Lodger - an accomplished photographer for one of this social networking sites that I am very much of the wrong generation to understand.

We reviewed her photos the next day, as she was regaling us with tales of being chucked off the stage because some snotty DJ had his security to take her off. She showed me the photo of the offending fellow.

My Jaw dropped.

'You know who that is?'
'No.'
I pointed at the chap in his later thirties possibly even Nearly Forty, plenty of middle aged spread, balding (like me) and remaining hair cropped back (like me). All in all a fellow looking like a dad.

'THAT's Sasha.'
'Huh?'

Oh, he doesn't look like his publicity shots anymore. That's cos they were taken in 1994.

John Digweed doesn't look a day of 30. Still.