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!

Economy Blogging

A refreshing view from Boris on HE today:
Here

The Aegean Mission part II

I never lose the sense of anticipatory romance from arriving at an airport in the dead of a scorched night and having to walk across fuel spattered tarmac.


Jetways are great, but you get a sense of the real achievement of the engineering you have encountered when you descend the steps and glance back to giant turbines, red strobes and hard hatted erks scurrying around the belly of the beast in which you flew.


It connects you with the reality of it - and as an aviator one's self, you feel the connection between yourself (who is used to wire controls and propellers) and the chap perched 50 feet above you in a white shirt with a clipboard in his cockpit.


In someways it helps for those who fly not well to have the experience sanitised. Jetways and soft lighting removes one far from the harsh reality of flaps, ailerons and landing gear.


Sanitisation, though is vital when one is to be whisked away from chav-city-luggage handling to one's Yacht.


It is far better to be carried off far from the madding chavs in their charter airline finery, then to cope with public transport at 4 am in a foreign clime.


And thus we found ourselves in the back of a car that awaited our arrival.

Cheeky chappy cabby he was, having had Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston in the back of his cab.

Yachtie heaven was a short slink away. The First Mate and I grinned with anticipation while the strange banter wafted over our heads.

And so to SY Athena.

My First Mate has clearly be brought up with noble austerity, for she was suitable impressed by the yacht. I found her a little on the small side (Last time I was here, I rented a Dreadnought) and listing to starboard - but the Cream Leather sofas, cooling fans and Ice box worked their magic and soon we were established aboard.

One needs no reminding at this juncture, that a boat grows a foot shorter everyday.

The first day is always handover. The Boat chap (In this case an ex-KriegsMarine Petty Officer) comes along and runs through the controls with us, indicates the location of various items of kit aboard, goes over the sailing ropes and ticks off an inventory.

We met shook hands firmly and we exchanged knowing looks.

'Where do you sail Herr D--?'

'English Channel, old boy.'

'Ach, you know they say there is no seamanship East of Gibraltar!'

'Indeed, one must watch out for rogue Italians!'

'Jah! We understand each other!'

The check out took five minutes. Being a nautical cove, he clearly saw the cut of my jib and that of the studious first mate and reckoned we were right seamen. (In the non-gender specific sense of the word)

Now - a quick reflection - when one hires a boat in the UK, the owner comes aboard and counts the teaspoons. One gets charged for every chip, scratch and scuff on the plates.

In Greece they understand the commercial realities, and treat one with some respect. In other words, he didn't count the teaspoons, which considering his Teutonic nature was rather gratifying. When one has handed over the thick end of a thousand Euros in cash, a ten cent spoon or fifty cent wine glass does not break the bank.

Like the UK, Greece has a glut of charter boats. The difference is, in Greece, they treat me as a customer who has chosen their business. In the UK, one gets treated as a nuisance who should be punished for the smallest transgression of cutlery.

Renting a boat in blighty is somewhat akin to taking rooms off one of those sorts of 'landladies' who seemed to exist in the 1950s. They come along afterwards and check the pillows for stains. There may be more boats than crew in the Solent, but while they are largely run as tax sinks to escape Gordo's thievery, we will scant see the likes of service I enjoy from my chums in Greece.

It is afterall cheaper to fly to Greece and hire a boat for week than it is to do it from Scotland.

PS: I have a photo of the barky, but she's going to require upload and editing.

Been busy today, but:

There was a bit on the Radio this morning about the Gdansk shipyards facing large cuts because of EU competition regulations - on the grounds of their massive state subsidy.

Story Here

I'm not bleating a position either way on this, but it would be ironic that the birthplace of the Solidarity movement which heralded the lifting of the freedom of association restrictions in Poland - heralding the decay of Communism there - would fall foul of another Superstate.....

Or that it only survived the fall of the wall with massive state aid......

In other news....the Beeb has yet again leapt to the aid of Gordo by publicising some data errors in a Conservative Briefing. One wonders why they didn't castigate Patsy (remember her...?) when she pumped money into marginal constituencies, or is there any in depth investigation as to who appointed all the denying chief execs - and just what Millbank's hold on them is.

To be honest when faced with shaming their lords and masters, they will all close ranks, won't they.

Hat tip to Kate for the source for the second one.

The Aegean Mission - Part I

Every Journey, they say begins with the first step.

Ours was a faltering, drunken and yet dignified saunter to the Gate.

I took the liberty prior to starting the trip to ensure that the journey was to be as comfortable as possible. To that end I had procured access to the Business Lounge in Gatwick.

'Why bother?' I hear you ask.....

Well - we could only acquire flights on a charter airline.

This meant we were to be delayed by about three hours.

Therefore - what better to soothe away the ills of public transport than an unlimited free bar, with pretzels.

I calculated we spent the cost of the facility in mixers alone before we had completed the first hour's delay.

Value for money was achieved when they had to change the gin bottle.

It is a shame that they no longer call you for flights at Gatwick anymore. There is a certain something to reclining heavily imbided in nectar awaiting your name to be read out along with words like:

'Final Call' or,

'Your flight is waiting'.

More to follow soon.....

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.

As Emma Hamilton said: 'Could it Possibly be...?'

Yes, I am returnéd.

A week of ploughing the sea, contemplating the wonders of the deeps, escaping the mighty Kraken and quietly pickling myself in only the very finest crown-capped retsina.
As my wits over the many years have been roundly addled by years of pharmaceutical and alcoholic abuse, I have kept a log, a journal as it were - not only of the matters maritime as one should - but also of the thoughts and observations of the environ and the crew.

They make for revealing reading as to the character of the trip.

Circumspection means that they are currently in for editing - for in their raw un-distilled and un-matured state they make for a heady brew of high adventure and even higher living - and some of the topics in their pure form may be too strong a liquor for my readership. (And I dare not risk the wrath of the First Mate who has a far better memory and who has kept an alternative, lest my delusions of grandeur soar too high).

I will publish installments as the week wears on - and I get the hamster wheel back up to speed.

In the mean time - I now have skin of the appearance of old shoe leather and everything tastes vaguely of pine disinfectant - or is it retsina...?

I may even hazard a peek at the news and general current affairs - but I fear it is as a disgusting a sight to any sea-farer as the one that beheld me on Saturday - that of the yacht I had sailed for a week being equipped with an American flag on the port crosstree the very moment I hauled down my colours. (Well-wishers will be pleased to know that their eye was truly wiped when they sought my counsel on the appropriate application of chain as an anchor warp in Aegean waters! Even my First mate was moved to join in the discourse - and she is most taciturn under such circumstances.)

But anyway - I am back. Tales of derring-do, drinking and debauchery abound.

Offline for a week

The Beloved and I are off the the Med being nautical for a week..

Hopefully she won't kill me and throw my body overboard.


Feel free to amuse yourselves!

Rum, Sodomy and the Lash

My time of late is precious and I have little of it to spend afloat, what with my Aviating commitments. I have not even been able to lurk the tents and steal egregiously from the barbecue at the Corrie at the Pimms-fest that Cowes has become..(Fowey week - much nicer)

This has caused grief among the Regular Crew.

'Oh Captain, you are leaving us!' cries one of my lesser spotted and rarer crew members. (Dulux, as it happens - why is she called Dulux? You know that dog in the paint adverts....?)

Even more remarkable was Scotty the Engineer promising me the earth:
'We will all line up and salute you, and wear matching uniforms with the boat name on them for you! And call you Captain all the time...'

Gloria Stitts even weighed into the debate:
'Oh will you hoist your pennant on our boat?'

How can I refuse such offers?

My message to you all is: Fear not, most loyal, desperate and misguided crew - we shall cruise the waters of the chops of the channel and harry the enemy shipping again - and I shall hoist my pennant aboard.

My fee - the usual. First go in the barrel and a double ration of salt horse.

Assistant Heads wiper fourth class reporting for duty, sah!

Non Chappy serious point

This cartoon from today's only half decent newspaper kinda sums up my view of this current shower running the show.

Risk your life for this bunch of failed social workers and poisonous trade unionists? Don't expect anything back. But attach yourself to a cause celebre of the left wing media? Expect plaudits and laurels.

Livingstone will probably have a parade for them.

UPDATE: Add homeowners to the list.

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.

Tis to glory we steer!

I am delighted to report that the Beloved has seized her duties as First Mate on my Aegean mission with both hands. She has been poring over the Greek Waters Pilot with vim, vigour and verisimiltude.

However, she has taken over the packing of the medical chest.

Her exposure to the Good Books are limited - a cursory flick through M+C being the best she has managed so far.
Therefore my demands for Coca Leaves, 200 pints of Laudanum, Steel Bark, Blue Pill, Slime Draft, Portable Soup and a Trephine Saw have been met so far with at best her Gimlet Stare, and at worst The Steely Silence (Chills the blood like a banshee's howl, dontchyerknow.)

Even more worrying were the things suggested for 'My Own Good.' Gone was the Rhubarb cure, replaced with things like Immodium. (I mean - if I get liverish, is it not the Captain's duty to sweat and strain on his seat of ease?)
Sunblock? I mean, what on earth am I to do with SP30?
How am I to maintain my raffish weathered looks if I apply sun cream? At best Castrol GTX, at worst Zinc Oxide.

Still, revenge shall be mine when I superglue Uffa Fox into the boat CD player.

In parallel to this, She has been arranging her return of the cultural exchange by a trip to the English Lakes.I have been reviewing her notes on this and I am already planning the most nonchalent set of cufflinks to be seen in 'O'er Dale'.
Despite all the activities she has prescribed seeming rather healthy and chappy, it does give the impression of being dangerously close to requiring that modern evil 'Gore-Tex'.
Tradition when faced with this would be to take her to the local steeple and demand that I am shown the real 'North Face'.

I do have one reservation: we seem to be accompanied by a northern sounding cove called Wainwright.
I am disturbed as she is claiming that we will be 'doing some of him' - a reference I sincerely hope is not some gruesome troilistic ritual.

My First Officer, at Nautical school.

Just say No..to PBO

I will not be converting to Practical Boat Owner.
It is the Yachting equivalent of 'World of Shed'.

I need a Holiday

Blogging has been both light and of a slightly less Chappish quality of late. I put this down to the fact that the hamster wheel is threatening to come of it's runners (a source of consternation) and that I am in need of a vacation.

From this weekend I am off to the Greek Islands with the Long Suffering Beloved in tow. She has gracefully accepted the role as First Mate and Chief Muse for a whole week.
I shall either return refreshed and with tales of derring do - or she will have mutinied on day two, and my remains will be washed up on the shores of the Levant in a number of months.

If you don't hear from me in two weeks, you will know it is the latter.

Sailing Rant 2

My little heart used to skip with joy when I received my Yachtie-Porn (Yachting Monthly).
I used to pore over it with glad rapture when it came through the post and I used to disappear into the heads at home and serve my IBS as I read it from cover to cover.

But nowadays it has gone downhill .

5 pages of news - but nothing new......(even the article on Drinking and Sailing seemed strangely familiar)
3 Columns from the usual columnists - Libby Purves turning hers into the Sailing equivalent of watch with Mother, (though in this case half the article is about a box of fog, and doesn't seem terribly original...but her closing argument, I buy)
Nigel Calder on about sea-sickness remedies (which Libby wrote about two months ago) and Tom Cunliffe about why he is brilliant. (No change there, then)
3 pages on Dinghy explorations - Swallows and Amazons revisited.
A couple of articles on long distance cruising....vaguely readable ('No shit, there we were, thought we were gonna die'... or 'Oh The Majesty of what I have beheld')
1 article on cutter rigs with a scant 6 columns of copy....little about the dynamics or what it would do to your insurance.
The requisite article from Rod Heikel
2 boat reviews - which are slightly too toadyish to the manufacturers
A couple of bog standard reviews (Which lifejacket/flares/compass/bucket..)

The sailing skills is a rehash of the same articles they always publish.

The reviews are no different to any article you get in any geek-mag from Running shoes weekly or Lightbulbs monthly. (Fluorescent tubes - we try the best!)

The rest? Page after page of standard chandlery adverts, with a couple of pages at the back on Classifieds, which we all read online anyway.

There is more to this noble sport than this. We all rant to each other about the best restaurants in this Haven or that, the gouging of marina fees, the scant regard for hygiene that anyone who has used the showers at Cowes Yacht Haven will have suffered or the threat to red diesel.
We postulate on training techniques, which school is good, etc.
We fulminate at the standards of seamanship exhibited in harbour and on the water.
We then Shudder at the water quality on the Medina.
We complain about the quality of beer in the many hostelries - and the standard of welcome given to people who should be their stock-in trade.
Observe the wildlife - or lack of it - and talk about the threat to our oceans and hazards to navigation.

Where are these written up?

Chaps - if you are reading this - time to raise the game. Time to get your teeth into the issues that affect us part of the 3.5 Million water sports participants.

We want to see the south coast marina monopoly challenged, poor service and rip-off sailing confronted, Government disdain campaigned against at the highest level and the RYA taken to serious task about it's general cosiness with the powers that be.
We need articles that reflect the experience of all of us, not the same people all the time collecting their £500 fee for another 'what I did on my Holiday you paid for'.

In the mean time, sorry chaps - your mag is now formulaic and tired.
I have cancelled my subscription.

UPDATE: Have re-read the article about cutter rigs and it is actually quite good -shame about the rest of the mag......

Saying that....

This

Writers Block

Feeling particularly uninspired at the moment.
I look at the news with despair, nothing worthy of comment.

Bleuegh.

Aviate, Navigate, Communicate

Right now, I don't even feel like basic paperwork, far less dashing about the clouds in the Sopwith.
However - Duty may be it's own rewards, but command is a bitter brew.

I have standards to maintain.
I will, despite the most pleasing and fragarant of destractions (who will no doubt do her commanding best to retain my presence), firmly don the flying tweeds and sully forth to the Club.
There, I shall spend the afternoon being lantern jawed and commanding with a couple of radios, biro and requisite clipboard.
Plus some shenanigans with the flights roster (launch marshal's boon, dontchyerknow) I shall have an aeroplane to fly on sunday with a working variometer.
It is, for the first time in months, looking vaguely soarable.

The soft soothing words of the beloved and her perfumed embrace will have to wait.

This Chap has a rendezvous at five thousand feet.

With a Cloud.

Light Blogging Alert

What does a chap do, when faced with long hours, stress and a challenging lifestlye?
Does he
A) rest well, and awake refreshed for the morning?
B) get blind drunk with his lodger rant about the workings of the royal mail and awake with a grade IV eye twister of a hangover?

That's right - B!
Too fragile, feak and weeble to post any meaningful diatribe.

Attached a picture to soothe my battered nerves and my aching liver.

For none are so free as the sons of the waves?

This chap, dear reader, has a very strong streak of libertarianism in his veins. I detest Big Government interfering with my life and spreading it's evil tendrils of legislation into my life.
As you know I take part in two sports which are currently out of the reach of the Nanny state. Gliding - which the Campaign Against Aviation doesn't touch (regulated by the British Gliding Association) and Sailing.

Sailing is what my rant of today is all about.

It is currently (still) my god given right as a free Englishman and subject of her Maj to take to the water in any personal vessel I choose and sail where I want to. I need no permission, ticket, licence or examination to do so. If I wish, I can go and drown myself. The chief rescue organisation is a charity RNLI (to whom I lend my financial and one day physical support).

The onus on safety is a personal one. I am not obliged to wear a Lifejacket, crash helmet or even waterproof clothing. One's awareness of the fact that the high seas are a dangerous place means that there is a natural selection process at work. Should I wish to be able to carry out the sport with a modicum of personal safety or comfort, then the onus is entirely on me to seek out competence training. Again, this is administered by another charity - who also receives money off me The RYA.

The small overlap we have with the world of legislation and government is in buoyage.
But even then, one doesn't get their photograph taken for passing a port hand marker to starboard. The onus is on you to be aware, awake, know what you are doing and know where you are - so that if you chose to leave the 'Jack In The Box' to port on the way up the Lymington river - it is your fault and your fault alone that you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting for the tide to lift you off that rather spectacular mud bank. An Ignominy that no amount of cheerful bonhomie or two water grog will quench.

It is self controlled, and regulated. Peer pressure of standards of behaviour mean a stern look from the Harbour master if your crew are rowdy is as sufficient a reproach as the pressure of a drunken attempt at mooring costing your GPS antenna, next door's pushpit rail and the capital crime of damaging the paintwork - committed in front of an entire marina laughing at your feeble skills.

The traditions of the sport have been so deeply entrenched that they have outlived the current concept of democracy - after all we have had a Navy since Alfred burnt the cakes - and these waters run deep. Blood is the same salinity as sea water, we sons of the waves stand by our traditions of behaviour, honour and care for one's self. The epitome of a society freed from the yoke of state legislation.

Sea faring Libertarians - if you will. Sail and let sail.

OK - to make a vessel work requires leadership - but it is a contract entered voluntarily - and to make it work requires more self discipline than anything else - we need each other's mutual skills to make the thing work. Ask any racing crew who is the most important member of the crew - and they will all answer that it is everyone but them.

There is a cloud on the horizon, scudding towards us like a line squall.

We live under a very illiberal government. The regards 'us' as dangerous. Our views and behaviours are a threat to their approach to running our lives.

The fact we are aspirational enough to carry out the dream to work hard to earn a slot on a vessel - either by accumulating wealth enough to buy the smallest bilge bucket - or by working up the skills to earn a slot on a race crew….

We represent all the things they hate.

We are self reliant, self disciplined, aspirational and require no law to show respect to our fellow sea farers.

We must therefore be stopped.

The full pernicious forces of the Nanny State are being turned on us. The legislative Guns Of Navarone are being trained on us, while the vile officers of this movement load the shells and powder to batter us into their ways.

As the interweb's heir to David Niven (don’t laugh) this Chap needs to draw the attention to my audience to the first triffidesque tendril, the ranging shot from Nanny to our way of life.

They are a cunning foe. They use the full armoury of the Left on us.

The poisoned apple? Their trojan horse?

Good Old Health and Safety

It is for our safety. The Safety of others. How can we argue with that? Well buried within the lines - there are dark forces demanding the very things we fear.
The old chestnut of creating a problem, then being seen to crack down on it is the other tactic.

Drinking and Sailing .

Hold on, you cry, all they are suggesting is that you chaps shouldn't be pissed on the water. Well, by and large we aren't.

Is it for our safety?
Well, the Marine Accident Invesitgation Board only reported about 24 fatalities on leisure craft for 2006-2007 - out of half a million users. Less than half of those were alcohol related
(Link via RYA website)

Even RoSPA and the Coastguard say:

"The members agreed that the current statistics that were available from MCA, SEAREM and INREM were all unreliable as a source for accident statistics for watersports." -
Source

So - we have a problem that doesn't exist. So why legislate against us?

I have a theory - this is a perfect reason to enforce compulsory licensing of craft and the testing and licensing of their skippers.

Why? If you have pulled someone over for drinking, the sanction will be to take a way a licence. You can't imppund the vessel - it probably doesn't even belong to them.

Right now we don’t need one - as I mentioned before the sort of person who takes up sailing is the sort of person who wants to know about it and is prepared to learn.

So, cue government issued sailing licenses and tests and permits (with test centres etc) as well as water-fund licenses. The sea will be nationalised….how long until charging a tax on mooring or anchoring in British waters?
All To be paid for, by us - the sailing public. Yet another stealth tax.

'No, no,' you say - 'they can't mean that - there must be another sanction'…. Well - here is what they are saying:

The Act also enables the Secretary of State to designate additional classes of people as 'marine officials' with the power to detain a vessel if they reasonably suspect that a person who is or may be aboard the vessel is committing, or has committed, an offence, pending the arrival of a uniformed constable to administer a preliminary test. - Stephen Ladyboy

Hmmmm…..bit of hole in this - most boats are rented, making that a form of piracy. Red Herring I reckon.
But in there was another sinister line.

'Marine Officials'.
A waterborne police force with powers to stop and check, take you off your yacht and off to the rozzers for a breath test?

So - will they tow your vessel? Will they know how to sail? What about your crew?

Anyway - have a read of what the Chaps at the RYA have to say.
http://www.rya.org.uk/NewsAndEvents/newsroom/news/drinkqanda.htm


But what of the motive behind this? More people die changing their duvets (probably) than have booze related accidents on the Solent alone. Good sense and self preservation take care of that.
Well, we are currently out of their reach - what better way to crowbar their way into our lives than under the pretext of our safety?

Us 'rich' yachties are a prime target for legislation. With legislation comes us handing more money over to the government to employ busy-bodies to come and tell us what to do.
It is a way of levying stealth taxes on us, and if we complain - we can easily be lableled as 'rich' and they can stoke the fires of resentment against us.
But what else to come?

Compulsory lifejackets? More standards and inspections…….

Compulsory lifelines and jackstays? Again - standards and inspections…...

Full Commercial DfT standardisation of every vessel - think of all the extra public employees!

Inspectors, visitors and scrutineers - all to be paid for by us - the so called Have Yachts. The bitter nannyists must be licking their reptilian lips in delight at all of this.

Lets get things straight - most yachties are like me. We scrimp and save so we can access a boat. Not all of us are footballers (They have scumseekers anyway). Our boats are shared amongst many and are slavishly kept going well past their sell by dates out of love. You can go sailing for under a grand a year.

Ultimately - this represents another attempt to shift of our liberty into the hands of the state. We can only go out and play if Nanny licenses us to do so. And then we must play to her rules.

Interestingly, the legislation is also rather poorly thought out. It is full of holes - meaning it will be open to abuse. In all sorts of amusing ways.

"I am satisfied that in bringing in an alcohol limit for non-professional mariners and in setting the exclusion limit at 7 metres and 7 knots we are providing the best balance between improving safety and avoiding unnecessary regulation.
Stephen Ladyboy at it again.

Interesting that a 5 metre RIB with a 200hp motor is exempt, yet an 8 metre unpowered skiff is not. Which is more likely to be a risk?

How will they determine length and Maximum speed?

Anyway - feast your eyes on the background.

http://www.rya.org.uk/General/Issues/alcohol.htm


Final thought - and this alone demonstrates that the landlubber who dreamt this up is the very worst form of window-licking mouth breather:

Jet skis will not be included in the regulations for now because the Court of Appeal has ruled that jet skis are not ships and are not therefore within the scope of the existing legislation I intend to consult on extending the legislation to them in due course."

You would have thought that the most annoying and unsociable things on the water would have been targeted, wouldn't you.

Despair shall drive me to my tincture.

Uh-oh

It seems that a mention aside to Mr Dale has blown up in my face.

Oops.

Sorry dear!

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..............

Vote! Vote! Vote!

Now dear reader - time for me to shamelessly self promote myself have fun and gain kudos as well.
Thanks to My Girlfriend - I have got 1 vote for Iain Dale's list for this year. I would like to make it 2.

Last year Top Tory blogger - Iain Dale published a list of the Top Political Blogs in the country.

Political blogging has come a long way since the early days - there are even people like me involved.
To be honest - Mr Dale is also vicariously responsible in a convoluted way for my current nauseatingly chirpy 'hullo clouds - hullo sky' demeanor, as I may have followed a link last year which set off a chain of events too disturbing to report. (Yes, it was from Iain, not Guido, dearest, fairly certain)

Now I have emailed Iain this list, and I will shamelessly ask you to do the same thing - except with my name at the top. (Told you it was utterly shameless... :-))

I will get around to blog rolling my more regular reads, of course, but I am still a tad busy.
It is worth noting, that no serious or high minded journalist, or proper blogger would dream of actually referring me - as what I write is generally good natured garbage - but this is a piece of fun.


Mr Eugenides
Dizzy Thinks
Devil's Kitchen
Archbishop Cranmer
Boris Johnson (even if it is mostly his Telegraph Columns)
Order Order
Spectator Coffee House
Iain Dale
Reactionary Snob
Natalie Solent / Biased BBC
Cityunslicker
Chase Me Ladies
Beau Bo D'oR
Dr Rant
Chicken Yoghurt
Right For Scotland
Hobycartoons
Kateshomeblog

Add to your email list and send it to:
Iain@iaindale.com with 'Top Twenty' in the 'about' section.

Vote For ME! If I make the top 1000, there will be a pint in it for each one of you who votes for me. There - shameless bribery - I could run for mayor.....

PS: I don't have time to put links in.....

PPS: I already owe you a pint on this Kate

Statto Porn

Just installed the Google analytics.
I can now found out where on earth everyone comes from - other than googling 'Velvet Brocade Bordello Pants'.

A rambling post about sailing

We stared out of the windows out of the World of Pie at the sheeting rain on Friday night. A black dog haunted myself, the Commodore and my chum Arch Chap and co-conspirator in much of my Chappy endeavours.

An autumnal slick of rain and spray filled the night sky - this was November in July.
We were supposed to be striving with a full crew to blood, glory and treasure to sink, burn or take as a prize the fleet of bloated galleys departing the Isle of Blight to cross the chops of the channel down to Weymouth.

We were supposed to be racing.

I shall avoid the details, but we lost a full third of our crew even before first muster - one for work reasons - the other for a reason so awful - he could not be expected to deliver his duty and compliments to his slot aboard.
Our fourth and remaining crew member arrived to find us in ale and decided she should join us.
Now, we are normally chaps of resolution - we can certainly serve out the equipment aboard with only four of us - but we had complications stacking up like writs from your tailor for payment.

Firstly - crew member number four - whilst a Chappess and more than capable of handing, reefing and steering confessed to being of a somewhat more delicate disposition than normal. She too had seen our forecast.

Second, the forecast - to make it back to home port to get me to the hamster wheel on Monday we had to chase a tidal gate known as 'The Anvil'.
This meant we needed to slip at the sort of hour one is normally only just getting warmed up in a lock-in at the Belgravia gaming tables.

This meant sailing in watches - or in this case - two handed. Not a prospect we relished especially when one looked at what they met chaps were offering.

The forecast for this time was 'alarming'.

Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis SW veering W later 5-7 Occ 8, heavy rain. Rough to Very Rough.
In non yachtie speak - Blowing a full gale - with a following sea of waves 4-meters high.
We concluded by pint four, that we would rather be in here cowering in ignominy, than out there in a blue funk faced with the horrors forecast.

Democracy reigned and we voted to scratch the race.

With the pressures of racing off our mind, we set our heads straight for a loon about the Solent.
Now, Arch Chap has not been float for a couple of years and his influence on the barky has been sadly lacking.

His influence is largely on myself and the demeanour of the boat - rapidly transforming it from fragrant racing yacht to foul tub smelling strongly of recycled curry and goats. However - he means well and despite ongoing scatalogical references, it is all done in the 'best possible taste'.

Our Dear Lady Honorary chap soon smoked this and was able to present a humorous outlook on affairs. A chirpy bonhomie, even.

This was to be eroded so suddenly and with such vigour that I feared for her fortitude - and her spirit was so sapped that she was hampered in her duties the following day.

The events that caused the mental disturbance occurred in the Saloon - a communal sleeping area - as it were.

A parenthesis:

A misconception that many have of yachts, is that they are vessels of luxury.
The reality? Try and imagine a caravan with the electrics of a Skoda and the furnishings of a 1973 Mk2 Ford Cortina and you get close to it. With a hand pump toilet.
They smell of Sea water, diesel, urine and seagull poo.
Now - many Chappesses wrinkle their noses at such privations and are never seen again - this is why I salute any fragrant or high minded young filly who sails. They can take such privations with fortitude and they are oft to see off a challenge from the French or the like with alacrity.
Such 'gels' are made of stern stuff - and two generations ago would have been on the veranda with a Martin-henry seeing off the natives. (I think nowadays one might be a blogger of some note)

So what caused the turn of fortunes you ask?

It was the Commodore and the Arch chap's snoring.

A harmonic not unlike pigs trying to sing the halleluiah chorus to an air-raid siren is the closest we come to describing it.

They complement one another to form a continual tone similar to the cutting of stone….. And when they snore together the resonant harmonics make the hatches rattle and one's ears pop.

The result?

When we arose and shone, she appeared pinched, worn and troubled. Lines cut into her visage like the Corinth Canal and she had the haunted look of one who has faced phantoms and ghouls.
Needless to say - her spirit was broken. The horrors had clearly filled her head with most terrible visions - and her wits had been discombobulated such that she could barely sit upon the rail and balance the boat.

We took a simple decision.
We shall eat a hearty breakfast, potter about in the lee of the Island, moor up for some luncheon then repair to our favourite hostelry for fortification then a stiff curry - and so rest with the hatches ajar, lest we slide further into a silage like aroma.

The mooring was a fine exercise in some advanced seamanship for which I was forced to congratulate even myself (cross-tide ferry gliding donthcyerknow) and luncheon stood us until tea time of cake and biscuits and ale.

Cowes greeted us with congestion and we were forced to establish a cat's cradle of mooing lines in the second harbour. I am delighted to report that we provided no spectacle in the Internationally renowned hobby of 'watching other people make a hash of their moorings'.
I brought the barky in and gently kissed it alongside a visiting Frenchman, no doubt spying.

Ale soon ensued, and a thumping good curry.
One to write about no less.
News which delighted our ears was that two thirds of the race fleet retired due to heavy weather citing gear failures aplenty - spars and sailcloth carried before the winds.
We congratulated ourselves on our wisdom, wit, choice of curry house and all round greatness and settled to a night of rich loamy aroma and autumnal marbling smells - while the gale howled and the rain beat a tattoo on the coach roof.

Our Dear Lady Fourth Crew member took a wise option and slept in the forepeak - with double bulkheads and ear plus.

Hubris before nemesis, as always in this column.

06.30
Annoyingly chirpy chap leaps aboard bashes his halloos and requests and requires we move the boat so he and his papa can catch the tide home.

Fiend. My sweetest dreams of home comforts and a dear friend shattered by the grey chill and a witless grin of the interloper.

The rest of the evolutions are technical, involve warping out of the basin and a reluctant sail home in the early morning gloom.

One crumb if comfort.

In our efforts, we woke the entire marina up, especially the Frenchman next to us.
We congratulated our selves on our efforts, and set off for home with vim, vigour and verisimilitude.

Try this Dave

This is the sort of campaign we need........

International Chappism

I note I have readers on every continent other than the Antarctic.
Welcome to my twisted world, a gentle satire on the gritty reality that my life has become.

To get that accolade - does anyone know anyone in the British Antarctic Survey they can forward a link to...?

I bet you chaps are never wanting for ice in your G+T, are you.

Nationalised Industries - where we should be grateful for what we get

I have a rather amusing post about sailing this weekend - but this chap's humour has been sapped by having to deal with a Nationalised Industry - where us, the customer, is a nuisance who gets in the way of putting put new posters about their targets and getting paid extra to do it.

Another one of my chappist predictions here - I would pay to see a doctor for a routine requirement in a time that suits me, not that suits them. I am a customer, they would therefore compete for my business and serve me according to my needs.
There is a gaping hole in the market (Are you listening Tesco...?) for medical care at a reasonable price in a time bracket that suits me.
£18 for a consultation between 05.30 and 07.30 and £15 for one between 17.30 and 21.30

Pay in advance, by card. People would turn up, on time as they have an incentive to do so.

In other words - a bit of market pressure might liberate things.

Not being a NEET / useless / student / unemployable / pensioner / interminably lazy - I am required to work for a living.
I therefore have to take half a day off - how else do they expect me to be available in their 'office hours' (09.30 - 16.30)

But why the urgency to see a Quack?

I need an Epi-pen.

I have a specific allergy to a specific nut, and my dearly beloved has become insistent that I carry said item, lest I be laid low while we are harrying the sea-lanes.

I tried to facilitate the acquisition by speaking to a Doctor (His call to me - charge £15 - you see where this is going, don't you....)

I spoke to him, but I received no satisfaction. He will need to see me.

But, I cried, 'am I not registered on your database as suffering from an anaphylaxia.?'

Indeed I am. And the doctor can see it. And when I was last hospitalised with said needle into the heart.

'So - why can't you issue the prescription and I can collect it at my leisure - without losing half a day's most precious leave?'

He insists on seeing me before he will prescribe this potentially lethal injection.

'Why?, I asked, 'Short of giving me a patch test - which the Nurse would do to ascertain the accuracy of my claim, and that I am who I say I am - is there anything you could discern about my condition by observing me in the flesh that would preclude the provision of said gadget'.

'No, Mr. D.' He said coolly - 'It is so I can be instructed in it's use.'

I thought about this.

'Listen Sawbones, old chap' - quothe I, 'If I need it - I am already about to throw a seven, and it would be my compatriot who would have to administer it, Pulp Fiction stylee through my sternum. Not I. '
'Yes, I appreciate that - but if you administered it to yourself incorrectly and died, your estate might sue us.'

'Will I have to sign a disclaimer showing that I have received these instructions?'

'Of course not.'

'Ah, but would the person administering it have to sign one on receipt of it?
'No, but it should only be used by someone with correct medical training.'

'A device designed to be used by an amateur in a first aid situation should only actually be used in a hospital with a doctor present?'

'Well, not strictly...'

'Don't tell me, if it is used by anyone other than a trained medic, all liability is excluded?

'Even so Mr. D - you will need an appointment.'

'Very well - You can see me at 06.45 on Friday morning'
'That's not our office hours'......
'Your office hours, correct. It is when I am available. When can you see me?'
'I'm not permitted to make appointments, you will have call reception separately.'

Fucking marvellous. £15 to be told to come back and see them all to get something they know I need, but so they are seen to tell me that if I use it it is at my own risk.

This is a bit like writing on a life jacket : 'This is not a life saving device and should not be used in water by someone who cannot swim. Using this device excludes the manufacturer from any liability. ' (I have actually seen that on an American lifejacket)

My cool has departed me. Not a happy chap, now.

The image suggests that a little bit of practice with biro would sufficient, anyway. Bloody thing is intramuscular, not even intracardial.

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?

A Factual Correction

My particular friend has rather accurately pointed out that it was actually me who ran the bath, lit the candles, created the bubbles and I may have indeed poured the gin.

My collusion in said crimes is actually indicative of the surrender.

The excellent feast in the kitchen was actually prepared by her and I am duty bound to point out it was delicious, healthy and very welcome.

It must be pointed out that other facts regarding the infestation, my domestication and over-running of my defenses still stand - at least until I realise what is good for me, and withdraw the whole damn thing.

Nicodemus E Chap, esq.
Tuesday lunchtime.

Romancing the Home - or the Story behind those Daily Mail headlines

No one would have believed that in the early years of the twenty-first century that my ablutorial facilities were being considered by the fairer sex. Few could have conceived that across the timeless whorls of London that minds immeasurably superior to mine regarded my toilet with envious eyes.

Slowly, but surely they drew their plans against me.

As some of more my astute readers will know - I have been waging the most terrible war of attrition.

The frontline has been my bathroom, the shells have been bottles of unguents unknown to mankind and the prize complete domination of my house itself - for fripperous purposes.
I drew attention to the horrors of this recently - when I had noticed candles and bottles appearing like magic in the clean minimalist bathroom.

I predicted that it was the 'Thin End of the Wedge', 'The Shape of things to Come' - and a harbinger of my doom.

However - because I had confronted the terrors, I had told myself that it was a mere border incursion a few stray rounds in a cold war of lavatorial simplicity.

I could not have been more wrong.

The infestation stepped up a gear after I had been lulled into the falsest sense of security by my particular friend whilst away playing yachts on Friday. A pincer movement of Rommelesque beauty was being carried out under my unsuspecting nose.

I was merrily taking her through 'evolutions' - you chaps are aware of the sort - flag drill, copious saluting, salt horse and dried peas, weighing anchor, more saluting, mooring up to buoys, running the great guns in and out, divisions and dog-watch skylarking. All in all a healthy day of maritime training and healthy outdoor fun.

I heroically drove us home lantern jawed, betwixt flooded roads and swollen rivers in the Alvis and returned to Chez-Chap in some style.

We merrily set about preparing a dinner together and running a bath of fresh-water to wash away the salt of the cruel sea and relax.

Hubris comes before nemesis - but the hubristic never see it coming.

With dinner bubbling in the galley-stove I trundled upstairs - only to be greeted by a sight grim enough to chill a man's heart to stone.

Now - Chappism takes many forms - from the anarcho-dandy through the louche cad to the austerity of the Colonial planter facing down the natives and protecting the memsahib with the 'Gatling unjammed'.

Like many chaps - I have many aspects of this within me - but the nautical chap knows there is a beauty to simplicity in his facilities. Lounging in the velvet brocade bordello pants in one's fully fitted Indonesian sitting room is one thing. A chap's bathroom should only ever contain Dettol, a wire brush, Euthymol toothpaste and - if more hirsute than this fellow - coal-tar shampoo. Not for I pommade, brylcreams or other unguents. No - they compromise my simplicity.

I didn't mind that cushions and other things have appeared in my house.

Nor when the Kitchen was re-arranged at me.

I grinned and bore it when Coordinated Interiors catalogues appeared in my bedroom.

The Bathroom was the final frontier. My last stand - one round left in the Martini Henry with my back against the mealy bags and bayonet fixed.

The line in the sand.

My Imjin River - the Kidney Ridge to the Afrika Korps of fripperies invading my house.

However, discretion is the better part of valour - and it is a wise Captain who knows when he is out gunned, when the weather gauge is against him - and his 26 gun frigate is surrounded by a pair of French 74's, treble shotted and your mainmast gone.

There is a time to fight to the last-man-last round and a time to salute your foe, declare that 'this will no longer do', run down your colours and hand-over your sword with a bow - and hope that you are treated with respect, your parole accepted, and you can live out until the peace in luxury in Paris.

This was such a time.

I stared defeat in the face - all I could do was strike my colours and hope for some clemency.

My Particular friend had not only filled the bath with unctuous steaming hot bubbles, but warmed the towels, lit the candles and was waiting within with a glass brimming with iced Gin and Tonic.

I crumbled - my resolve weakened beyond hope.

Knowing that this was the last stand and after this my house was no longer mine - but the preserve of women - my bottom lip trembled and my eyes misted.

All a chap can do when faced with such - is to behave as any Englishman should - stand proud and face defeat with resolution.

'Get in then', she said from within the bubble bergs and flashing a heart melting smile.

Gulp.

How could I resist?

The rest is D-Noticed - but suffice to say my surrender was unconditional. Within hours, the shock troops of frippery had congratulated themselves on my armistice.

My domicile now a mere Sudatenland to their evil gains.

Within a day the Lodger had secure her beach-head and has broken out - turning my once peaceful abode into a bawdy house for the meedyah. Again, decency prohibits me saying why - but she is associating herself with the very worst form of televisual type.

I can only work with my conquering heroes now. I can only look forward to reorganising my bedroom, decorating the hall and replanting the garden.

It is a matter of time until they 'Anchsluss' my Garage - replacing my Large Motorcycle with a push-bike with wicker basket. For Flowers.

I fear I am now domesticated.

There will be a short memorial at the Castle, Gosport this Friday at 10pm.

No Flowers.

PS: Alright! - I'm letting it happen - but she is rather nice - and I happen to love her, ok? And yes, I did the bath bit, and the bubbles. But the battle was already lost - and I'm a collaborator.

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.

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.

I did warn you chaps

Speaking as someone who has probably got a parking ticket today - even though it wasn't affixed to my vehicle.....

Big Brother is here...

PS: Can anyone advise if it is still valid if they do not affix it?

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.

Da Nu-Who

I have always maintained to my dear Brother Sigismund that Doctor Who is a tad homoerotic. (I mean getting Kylie on the Christmas special..??)

Here...

I was emailed this by my particular friend and when I had ploughed through the impenetrable yoof-speak it was rather amusing.

An Arch Chap

Go for it Bozzer. Time we rid ourselves of that idiot Ken.
Time London had a libertarian instead of that illiberal, statist, islamist creeping, demagogue.

You know it makes sense.

Didn't see you at the Olympics on saturday, though chummy.

Lest we Forget

90 years ago today, men stood and died for freedom. A freedom those who govern us now take terrible liberties with.

Passchendaele

Their courage is beyond our comprehension - for my generation have been spared the horror. Have we a land fit for heroes - or one where those who seek to risk everything in the name of their country are sneered at by their paymasters.

Sleep well, brothers in arms.

Their name liveth for evermore.

Under my Buccin' Hat!

I have been skulking in the west country of late, servicing the needs of my more rudderless colleagues while they wheeze and groan their slow route to realising what the devil is going on with the business and finally, finally grasp what the blazes I have been going on about.

A number of factors have been trying my sang-froid of late - that being one of them.

I have also been feeling under the weather too. I am pleased to report that it wasn't Malaria this time, merely some blighter who has taken up residence in my stomach. Clearly this character has had enough of machine coffee and finally fled to freedom leaving me lighter, refreshed if not a little flushed and much in debt to Mr Andrex.
It is only when one is free of such protozoan devils does one realise it has been bothering you a while.

My working day culminated in a 60 mile round trip to collect a front door key as my lodger had neglected to remind me that I ought to take my own keys to work.
(I shall wreak my revenge though - the candles in the bathroom shall be the first victims of the fight back - you watch.)

So combined with feeling peaky, somewhat stressed and worn out by recent exertions - and despite a piece of personal record breaking aviating at the weekend with another cultural exchange (Yachties) I arrived home last night feeling like a brown study was upon me.

Possibly even a swoon.

I searched the house in vain for suitable matters to cheer me up. The Laudanum was dry, so no precious respite from the panacea.
My post merely revealed the usual nonsense and blackmail letters - so nothing to bring joy there.
There were not any parsnips in the fridge either - so I could not indulge in parsnips and sprouts with toasted cheese.

The evening looked grim indeed.

There was, however, a large parcel for my dear lodger.

Donna-da-Lodger is planning on attending one of those outdoor music festivals - and the theme is one of pirates. To that end she has procured what can only be described as a 'Carry On Buccaneering' costume from a purveyor of said items on the interweb. A brief glance at the site indicated that their purpose wasn't really outdoor, nor for that matter all-weather - but judging by the accessories and the rather ostentatious hat - it betrayed a slightly more animalistic intent and were perhaps more suited for indoor entertaining, possibly for the negotiation of affections or the other onanistic pursuits.

On her arrival home, I indicated said gift whereupon she squealed with delight and promptly started to get changed in the living room while i drew the curtains. It being Wednesday - I feel it is my duty to encourage her as such, as I am still eroding her resistance to the Nude Wednesday Paradigm. (That did not go unremarked either - so I fled to my kitchen to secure some wine, while she slipped into her cossie.)

With the pink frilled hat and pink skull and cross bones, my sombre mood broke at once. I began to giggle.

I was duty bound to try said hat - ensuring further hilarity and wheezy old jokes about where is one's buccaneers.

She then set about her laptop to procure various accessories along the more fripperous line - items of a world unknown to a chap. One does not quite know where the wonderment ends and puzzlement began - either the fact that she was furiously picking lacy and similar foundation garments to accompany the costume, or that she would think that my opinion in such matters was worth a bean.

I am pleased to report, dear reader, that after that I felt better than James Brown and will be partaking in my outing this weekend as planned.
The one reader who has actually been reading me for a while may recall that myself and a certain journalist have elected to take part in the Chap Olympics this weekend.

'What?' I hear you cry - 'Energetic work, from you? Never!'

Indeed not.

I shall be attempting to draw a wry smile by whispering Rabbelesian filth into her ear, whilst plying her with Gin. For this, I can win a prize. My talents lie well in this area.
If I do not draw a smile, I can then at least elicit a slap by indicating anatomical peculiarities I posses and how we could apply them with the assistance of the Moroccan house boy.


All this, with free gin, has taken my mind off the dreary world of coaching skills I am supposed to learning.

Still they have a well prepared croquet lawn, if an indifferent cellar here - I shall be occupied.

Quiet

I am away at the moment being re-educated courtesy of the Big Grey. Hence the lack of posts.
As soon as I am back I will tell you all about Donna Da Lodger in her pirate costume, why Sigismund is obsessed with Brighton and steal a rather natty image about Alistair Campbell from the Sultry Journo.

I may even have a revolutionary song about tractors.

Apply within

Best Job In The World

I shall dash off a letter at once - but only if they can provide their equipment in XXL.

Ironically enough the manager of the shop where I had my first Saturday job 23 years ago said I would end up doing something 'ludicrous' and he stated the example given above.

A prophet no less.

Clarification

When Myself and Arch co-conspirator chaps refer to 'making an exhibition of ourselves', it is not bad behaviour in public, merely one of exceptional gluttony.

A fine example is ordering a 'Grand-Gourmand' meal in our favourite restaurant in Cherbourg and eating every single morsel of the 9 course feast. With bread. And a bottle of Burgundy each worth the price of the meal.

We leave the throwing of bread rolls and loud miscreations to Mockneys, Grammar School types and Champagne Socialists.

Erotic Uses for Moths

I am braced for a weekend of intense chappy activities this weekend dear reader.

I am effecting another cultural exchange with the Sultry Journalist - by taking her to a Cricket Match at the Oval. It's only 20/20 so warming her up for the total wonderment and nail biting tension of first class Cricket (5 days of terror!).
I eagerly await her return stroke - I have a terrible sinking feeling it may involve installation art or even worse poetry.
Actually poetry isn't that bad - not this modern beat rubbish - but the sort that requires 18th Century costume and looking consumptive whilst experimenting with horse tranquilizers.
My breath is baited.

She goes her on her way to a function in South London on Saturday……...However, I shall be entertaining some of my loyalest shipmates with Mr Grill.
King Prawns, Squid in turmeric and kilos of sausages shall grace the table.
The fragrant garden will be further enhanced by my inspired dog-ear-scented candles to keep the Bluebottles off the meat.

Sigismund has pointed out that Bluebottles are a good substitute for Moths, should none be available. He has requested I reserve some for his visit, keep them fed in a Jar, which he will take home amend the jar and apply to his sordid purpose.

When fed, we shall attempt to drink the cellar dry, dissuade the others from wearing the lodger's underthings on their heads (calling Tokyo…calling Tokyo…) and collect our urine in a flagon for the amusement of the local constabulary.

The weekend is rounded off by intense avaiting activity and a guided tour of the local Indonesian sitting room.

The Lavatory paper is in the fridge chilling as I type.

She will doubtless be glad of the respite. Might miss the aviating though. I have pictures, and I am NOT afraid to use them…..

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!

Doctors for Bombs

I am looking forward to the Failed Teacher explaining why ID cards would have stopped those dodgy docs from ram raiding Glasgow Aiport.

I can assure you that they were fresh when they were frozen, sir.

Welcome! Welcome!

This sorry tale starts on Saturday.

riiiing!

'Hello, I would like to reserve a room, please. It is for myself and I require the room on Tuesday and Wednesday.'

'Oh sorry sir, reservations only work weekdays.'

Pause. Gather breath.

'You are a hotel are you not?'

'Sir.'

'In which case - I would like to reserve a room, please.'

'OK sir, I will have a go....(muffled giggles)......Which Nights was it sir??

'As I said, Tuesday and Wednesday.'

'Both nights'.

'Remarkable that isn't it - I request a room for two nights, and I would wish to stay for both of them, that must never happen.'

'Sorry sir, but you want both nights?'

'Yes.'

'Just yourself is it?'

'Indeed. I mentioned that before too.'

'And you want the same room for both nights?'

'Please.'

'Just yourself - no one else on the booking?'

I am now starting to think she is making game of me.

'Yes please. Me. Myself. I want a room for two nights, being Tuesday AND Wednesday.'

'I see sir....'

'Do you?'

'Right sir what name please?'

I tell her my name and the firm and our corporate rate. My usual hotel 'The Strange', know me by now, and merely the sweetest tinkling of my voice normally suffices. They were full this week, however, so I am denied my well kept cellar and decent menu.

Instead I am having to rely on one of these bloody chains.

'What address please sir?'

'I can see no earthly reason why you require my address. Every time I have stayed with you, you request it. If you stored it, you would no longer require it, merely confirmation of my postcode. If you did not store it, then you would have no use for it at all.'

She read my post code back to me.

'All booked sir - can you send a confirmation from your work email please?'

'Not now.'

'Why not sir?'

'I am not at work. It is Saturday.'

'Oops sorry silly me.'

Interlude.

Tuesday afternoon.

'Good afternoon R--J-- York.'

'My name is D- and I have a reservation.'

Clickety-tip-tap.

'No sir, no reservation for you, when did you book?

'Saturday'

'Ah well reservations aren't on duty on Saturday.'

'She did seem a bit hard of thinking.'
I proceed to recount the highlights of my fun from Saturday.

'I'm terribly sorry sir, I have reserved you a room, may I have your card number.'

Financials were transacted.
Arrangements made.
Bookings procured.

And so it cam to pass that I arrived at the hotel.

Chirpy individual of smiling ability greets me.

'Good evening sir!'

'My name is D----. I have a reservation.'
Furious tapping ensues.

'Ah sir, there doesn't appear to be one here. What's your address please?'

Deep breath.
Count carefully: One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check canopy.

I thus regaled the young lady with the woes previously recorded here.

She apologised and tapped furiously. Again,
A quick check on my post code, and I did exist and had two reservations.

No I only need one room.

It is only me.

I am only staying for two nights.

I do not need the second room, it is their fault it has been booked.

No, no one else is joining me.

She gives me a particularly vapid smile.

'Would you like a free copy of the Independent, sir?'

'Not if you paid me.'

I trundle up to the room.

The Door is ajar...so I enter and behold a couple sat on the end of the bed, chatting merrily to one of the liveried running-girls.

'My room...?'

'Sorry sir - we are using this for demonstrations'

'You need to demonstrate what a hotel room is...?'

'It is our open day.'

Oh, closed normally are you?'

'Do follow me to reception sir...'

The woman at the desk sensed my impending ire. A single raised eyebrow produced a bottle of complimentary wine with my dinner. The second raised eyebrow produced the porter for my dunnage and a free newspaper. (Telegraph, natch.)

Surprisingly the severe matron who runs the restaurant recognised me, and placed me a goodly distance away from the children. (Why do people with children take them to hotels - can't they afford boarding kennels?)
I appear to be in my very own situation comedy. Nowadays, the staff are Polish, not Spanish.

T'North - A solution to their woes!

Northern types off to refresh the collective revolutionary consciousness

Alas - the monsoon hit the north rather hard this year - so what to do?

Well given the view from my window in the first class compartment as I trundle my merry way T'North - traditional arable agriculture is obviously waterlogged. Mile after mile of soggy field.
I have had a thought. This should be seen my our enterprising chums in T'North as an opportunity!

What wisdom can I - Chap 'o' T'North impart on my comrades?

Yes, comrades.

As they are as a rule a bunch of unmitigated socialists - who somehow believe in the inherent nobility of toil in fields, mines or the like, then my suggestion will suit them down to ground.

RICE!

What are the benefits...?

They get to do back breaking toil bent over in waterlogged fields bare foot in freezing water (loads of scope of whining about the toil)

They get to go back to their classical agrarian roots

They get to wear the same black Viet Minh pyjamas and coolie hats - loads of revolutionary cred and solidarity with their Viet worker brothers (if somewhat 30 years out of date)

Lots of trudging nobly behind water buffalo

The return of decent illnesses like Dhobey rot and Trench foot.

We can even set up speakers at all the corners to play stirring revolutionary songs to them while their children denounce their parents for harbouring bourgeoisie tendencies.

Loads of red flags everywhere.

Gordo gets to wear a Chairman Mao suit while telling even more outrageous lies of how glorious everything is under him while his cabinet of muppets bark on about how their own slice of the cultural revolution is perfect.

AND….the final boon - price of basmati falls to reasonable levels - it's practically extortion in Waitrose.

So - I ask you….what's wrong with a bit of Maoism? It could be what we need in this country. Just so long as in a few years the benighted squad of onanists in Downing street get toppled in a very bloody counter revolution and we embrace Singapore / Hong Kongesque ultra capitalism, then it might be worth enduring the appalling tailoring and the water buffalo crapping everywhere.

My Latest Invention

One of my particular friends who visited me to celebrate my impending eld on Saturday rather took to Donna-Da-Lodger's dog.

Stoney (The Dog, not the Friend) is a delightful mastiff. An amiable, if somewhat odorous brute - who is totally hand tame, but has a taste for soft furnishings and is bright enough to remove most obstacles placed on the sofa - thereby allowing him forbidden luxuriation.
As with most large dogs, they tend to have a weak spot - and Stoney's is his ears. He is a sucker for having his ears rubbed. He will snuffle, snort and generally drool on one for a rub of his large velvet ears.

Friend was playing with said ears, when he was seized by a motivated to clean them. They needed doing, and he also felt motivated to comment on their state whilst he and dog frolicked on the quarter deck.
'I'm most concerned for his ears', he said with a worried look.
'Indeed.' I responded, pouring the chilled Sancerre into a large glass which I had inspected for spots, dead insects and other detritus one expects from taking supper Alfresco.
'There is so much wax- seems such a waste of resources - is there any use we can put it to?' He asked.

I pondered the prodigious wax-like effusions and it stuck me.

'We could make particularly disgusting scented candles.'

I have since pondered what to do with a dog-ear scented candle. Other than for the purpose of attracting blue-bottles, I can think of no other practical application.

The only purpose of attracting blue-bottles could be a morbid desire to experiment with maggots - betraying yourself to be desperately unpleasant - or have a liking to catching Tench. Neither pastime of which is suitable for a gentleman of style and panache. (Barbel - maybe, but Tench, never.)

I shall add them to my useless inventions list. I may return to that theme at other points. In my various conversations with my chap-orientated chums, one often dreams up such odd juxtapositions which makes one smile to oneself on the train - and it is high time I recorded them for posterity.

Car bombing - update 3

CCTV Footage

Thanks to Harry Hook for that - made me laugh.
Touches tip of white pith helmet to Mr Hook, and reminds him to stay on defaulters.

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.