Seems I have upset poor Scotty. Not enough time to do a proper post, but she is vexed over my treatment of her commentary and attempts to enjoy the sagacity of my nautical prowess.
I shall blog properly in good time.
I must away - chumrade awaits with a bottle of Burgundy and freshly filled pipes to point meaningfully at one another.
UPDATE - SAT PM
Need to sort rude post out in a bit. I may have to compromise my meagre principles and take it down to sooth her savagery. Or edit it a great deal.
Still sorting out wreckage of a home now the builders have pretty much finished everything. The tip awaits. Noisy destruction and usefulness combined. Joy.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Chap Olympics
I will now shamelessly promote This Event, as I wish the gentlemen running it to make me the official 'live-blogger' of the games.
I shall be entering the Hop, Skip and G+T, plus, I really must enter 'Bounders'. That has me to a tee. With any luck I could persuade my female readership to join me in this exercise, thereby underlying my caddish nature.
I shall be entering the Hop, Skip and G+T, plus, I really must enter 'Bounders'. That has me to a tee. With any luck I could persuade my female readership to join me in this exercise, thereby underlying my caddish nature.
And how dirty are you....?
My fine is £850.60....what's yours?
Big Hat tip to the Devil who has some proper fisking going on, sound fellow.
Oh, and I may have to travel to Colonies soon. Our cousins there need my chappy ways with some work.
One will instruct them in many things - but chiefly it will involve bamboozling them about cricket and lecturing them on how to make a decent cup of tea.
Here is a picture of some cheese. It seemed appropriate.
Cheese, holding a protest, yesterday.
Big Hat tip to the Devil who has some proper fisking going on, sound fellow.
Oh, and I may have to travel to Colonies soon. Our cousins there need my chappy ways with some work.
One will instruct them in many things - but chiefly it will involve bamboozling them about cricket and lecturing them on how to make a decent cup of tea.
Here is a picture of some cheese. It seemed appropriate.
Cheese, holding a protest, yesterday.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
No, I said 'Fisk', there's no 'T' in it.
An interesting night on the wires last night. Two telephone calls which amused me a great deal. The most amusing part is that it was two young ladies who wanted a favour off me. One of which I was obliging to, the other left a sour taste in my mouth. The first conversation I relay with delight - for I can help a friend. The second is worthy of a little chappy fisking.
The first was a young lady friend (single, cute, non-target, dark haired and likes house music) who had fallen on some bad luck and needed somewhere to live. She phoned and said she was after a huge favour, and needed some help. Knowing I was a dog lover with a spare room - and she was being made homeless I was her first call. She was sweet, polite and friendly - and said that at any time if I got annoyed I could chuck her out - it was a short term favour.
Without hesitation I agreed to take her in - with her large doggy as well, until such time as she sorts herself out.
By the time she realises I live on a diet of parsnip sandwiches, minced raw chicken and laxatives it will be too late. She will then join me on the turbid pathways to Elysium via sexual extremism and 'Nude Wednesdays'.
UPDATED: Rude bit removed.
The first was a young lady friend (single, cute, non-target, dark haired and likes house music) who had fallen on some bad luck and needed somewhere to live. She phoned and said she was after a huge favour, and needed some help. Knowing I was a dog lover with a spare room - and she was being made homeless I was her first call. She was sweet, polite and friendly - and said that at any time if I got annoyed I could chuck her out - it was a short term favour.
Without hesitation I agreed to take her in - with her large doggy as well, until such time as she sorts herself out.
By the time she realises I live on a diet of parsnip sandwiches, minced raw chicken and laxatives it will be too late. She will then join me on the turbid pathways to Elysium via sexual extremism and 'Nude Wednesdays'.
UPDATED: Rude bit removed.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Giddy Up!
That's it. Up with this, I will no longer put.
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).
However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.
There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.
1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.
2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.
3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.
4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.
5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).
However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.
There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.
1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.
2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.
3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.
4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.
5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Waiting for Gordo
One's blogging has been frightfully prosaic of late. I put this down to the fact that the media is totally obsessed with Gordo the Broon at the moment - it is after all - his time in the sun - and that my domestic life has been one of plaster dust, tiles and blocked pipes. Takes up the run-time, as the 'puter boffins are apt to quote.
But Back to Cyclops. The media are clearly in his gruesome thrall. One hopes that given a short period of time, the tin-plate tarnishes, and as the Sarge used to say ' You can't polish a turd sir!'
It is not as if what he is saying is terribly new. This quote from Dizzy sums it up.
What does flatten one's tonic is that it all seems so terribly populist, Napoleon's hundred days and the like.
For example: five new Bracknells will be built on the grounds that despite they will do what they always did with new towns, they genuinely believe they will not get what they previously got. Rest of it is trite media grandstanding or the sort one expects from someone on a hideous reality television show trying to boost their ratings to a duped audience at home furiously phoning in to affect a pre-made outcome.
(I think there are a number of parallels there - feel free to insert own)
So - on that theme, I await the following blandishments from Gordo to boost his ratings:
1. Jobs for everyone, everyone for Jobs.
2. The Grass will be Greener if you elect me to be your Comrade Secretary.
3. Tough on New Labour, tough on the Causes of New Labour.
4. I'm Invisible, you can’t see me.
5. A five year plan to enhance the production of Tractors in Labour marginal seats, through taxation of those who can scarcely afford welding them ever further to a cycle of grateful dependency on me, whilst sucking up furiously to growing ruling elite created by self and perpetuated because they know better.
Obviously the last one is too close to the truth for him to say.
I do wonder what bad news they have buried whilst the 'meed-yah' is in his gruesome thrall.
But Back to Cyclops. The media are clearly in his gruesome thrall. One hopes that given a short period of time, the tin-plate tarnishes, and as the Sarge used to say ' You can't polish a turd sir!'
It is not as if what he is saying is terribly new. This quote from Dizzy sums it up.
What does flatten one's tonic is that it all seems so terribly populist, Napoleon's hundred days and the like.
For example: five new Bracknells will be built on the grounds that despite they will do what they always did with new towns, they genuinely believe they will not get what they previously got. Rest of it is trite media grandstanding or the sort one expects from someone on a hideous reality television show trying to boost their ratings to a duped audience at home furiously phoning in to affect a pre-made outcome.
(I think there are a number of parallels there - feel free to insert own)
So - on that theme, I await the following blandishments from Gordo to boost his ratings:
1. Jobs for everyone, everyone for Jobs.
2. The Grass will be Greener if you elect me to be your Comrade Secretary.
3. Tough on New Labour, tough on the Causes of New Labour.
4. I'm Invisible, you can’t see me.
5. A five year plan to enhance the production of Tractors in Labour marginal seats, through taxation of those who can scarcely afford welding them ever further to a cycle of grateful dependency on me, whilst sucking up furiously to growing ruling elite created by self and perpetuated because they know better.
Obviously the last one is too close to the truth for him to say.
I do wonder what bad news they have buried whilst the 'meed-yah' is in his gruesome thrall.
A night on the Tiles
Five long days since I have posted Chaps and Chapesses.
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Oh No.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.
After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.
Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)
Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.
One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.
But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.
Chop-Chop Alan!
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Oh No.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.
After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.
Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)
Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.
One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.
But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.
Chop-Chop Alan!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Going...going...going...going...going...
Today the Prime Minister, Tony Bliar, announced that he will be holding a press conference launching his resignation announcement speeches. With a date set as the end of June - the knowledge of the announcement-launch announcement date will be seen to be a little premature, and that these events could have been stage managed a little better.
Tony - the People's Prime Minister picture here:
said 'I look forward to announcing my resignation speech dates soon. They will shortly be followed by Captain Chipolata, Doctor Diktat and the rest of my cronies.
In other news, Gordon Broon has announced that his campaign is 'fully operational', we will see a demonstration of it's power on Alderaan and that David Milliband will come over to the dark side, crush the Emperor and they will rule the Galaxy side by side.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Monday, Monday....
It seems like a 'docker's tea' break since been at the hamster wheel.
But now, relaxing with a cheeky Sancerre and blogging from home.
So what has gone on?
Well - Chumrade and self have had chap-day-out to France.
To whit:
Exceedingly early start and on the fast picket to Cherbourg. Straight to Normandy wines to collect SWAG. Usual shenagigans to be had tasting et al, then on to Carrefour to collect decent picnic for the boat home. Frustrating telco with the yacht club committee with usual officiousness and general malaise from the most useless collection of drips. Only people who speak any sense is the Rear Commodore and myself (One hopes beyond fair reason that he shall raise his broad pennant in good time) plus sage interventions from our newbie. She is a nice young chapess who despite benighted occupation as employee of our Uber-state manages to go out with our ace helmsman and regularly offers to run show-pillow-fights with the other girls who sail with us. This generally raises interest from the more rakish crewmen, but usually turns out to be a humorous ruse.
But what of this other half holiday?
Had house guest for part of weekend. The Lovely Young 'Half-Pint'.
Half-Pint is sweet and pretty, with cascades of blonde curls, but treats me 'as a brother'. (Pah!)
Whilst adventurous (A skiing chum, no less) and generally willing to have a go at my idea of fun, she is prone to the vapours, and found the aviation - while fun - a little much, and had to take to her bed for a period whilst she recovered her lesser humours.
The flying for me was a bit ropey too. V. Windy. Chucked about the shop like pass-the-parcel in Basra.
Rest of the weekend has been spent orbiting the seventh level of hell - or 'Homebase' as I believe it is called. I do not do DIY - unless it involves, sheds, boats or very large electric power tools. I have procured the materials for my Gentleman of Trades who is arriving tomorrow to complete the tiling phases of Chez-chap. I never realised that tiles were expensive. I have spent the equivalent of a weekend in Marrakesh on wall-coverings. This serves to remind me I am 'investing' in the property - and curtails my more lurid excesses until payday arrives. Again.
In the rest of the time, I have been finally sorting out the old type-writer-screen machine so I again have wireless interweb and it appears the rest of my software is slowly re-establishing itself.
In other news, I am delighted that the Evil Socialists have taken a bit of a kicking, and the French have elected Droopy the Dog to be their new king. Will we see another enlightenment in France? Will they take on the unions? Will they creep into the 21st century? But more important- will they restore the lands of the crown in Aquitaine?
Time will tell.
In the mean time dear reader, I shall go and press my plus-fours (Servant boy's day off), finish the Sanc and smoke a cheroot. As the wheel beckons, and Artisan arriveth tomorrow, one had better lay off the magic tincture.
But now, relaxing with a cheeky Sancerre and blogging from home.
So what has gone on?
Well - Chumrade and self have had chap-day-out to France.
To whit:
Exceedingly early start and on the fast picket to Cherbourg. Straight to Normandy wines to collect SWAG. Usual shenagigans to be had tasting et al, then on to Carrefour to collect decent picnic for the boat home. Frustrating telco with the yacht club committee with usual officiousness and general malaise from the most useless collection of drips. Only people who speak any sense is the Rear Commodore and myself (One hopes beyond fair reason that he shall raise his broad pennant in good time) plus sage interventions from our newbie. She is a nice young chapess who despite benighted occupation as employee of our Uber-state manages to go out with our ace helmsman and regularly offers to run show-pillow-fights with the other girls who sail with us. This generally raises interest from the more rakish crewmen, but usually turns out to be a humorous ruse.
But what of this other half holiday?
Had house guest for part of weekend. The Lovely Young 'Half-Pint'.
Half-Pint is sweet and pretty, with cascades of blonde curls, but treats me 'as a brother'. (Pah!)
Whilst adventurous (A skiing chum, no less) and generally willing to have a go at my idea of fun, she is prone to the vapours, and found the aviation - while fun - a little much, and had to take to her bed for a period whilst she recovered her lesser humours.
The flying for me was a bit ropey too. V. Windy. Chucked about the shop like pass-the-parcel in Basra.
Rest of the weekend has been spent orbiting the seventh level of hell - or 'Homebase' as I believe it is called. I do not do DIY - unless it involves, sheds, boats or very large electric power tools. I have procured the materials for my Gentleman of Trades who is arriving tomorrow to complete the tiling phases of Chez-chap. I never realised that tiles were expensive. I have spent the equivalent of a weekend in Marrakesh on wall-coverings. This serves to remind me I am 'investing' in the property - and curtails my more lurid excesses until payday arrives. Again.
In the rest of the time, I have been finally sorting out the old type-writer-screen machine so I again have wireless interweb and it appears the rest of my software is slowly re-establishing itself.
In other news, I am delighted that the Evil Socialists have taken a bit of a kicking, and the French have elected Droopy the Dog to be their new king. Will we see another enlightenment in France? Will they take on the unions? Will they creep into the 21st century? But more important- will they restore the lands of the crown in Aquitaine?
Time will tell.
In the mean time dear reader, I shall go and press my plus-fours (Servant boy's day off), finish the Sanc and smoke a cheroot. As the wheel beckons, and Artisan arriveth tomorrow, one had better lay off the magic tincture.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Vote! Vote! Vote!
I am taking the fast picket to Normandy tomorrow morning, and returning to Blighty in the evening laden with SWAG. - Sancerres, Macons, Gigondas, Cote de Beaunes and good Rhone Rosés. I shall lunch in St Vaast and look out across the La Manche while dining and consider my good fortune.
The down side is that I will not be able to put my X in the box.
I boycott postal voting, as it is a mere ruse by the Evil Socialists to fiddle the votes Mugabe-style. I also like the ceremony of putting my X in the box with the pencil stub and putting it in the big box marked 'BALLOT BOX'.
The best bit is of course looking forward to the outcome tomorrow night. I am an election night junkie - and sit awaiting Peter Snow with his various swingometers.
Needless to say - there is only one outcome worth considering, and let us hope that we 'wipe the eye' of the Evil Socialists and the Evil Crypto-Socialists.
We are slaving under a yoke of control freakery, nannyist, corrupt, grasping, cronyist, thieving, lying, sanctimonious, patronising, deceitful, illibertarian, and big-brother government. Your freedom to live your life un-bothered by their evil nosey ways has even come down to putting cameras in your dustbin. All that is necessary for this evil to prevail is for good men (and women) to do nothing.
I urge all of you to do your duty, and go and do anything, anything, other than vote Labour tomorrow.
I shall be drinking wine and eating oysters.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
An apology
On a recent post I suggested that as a reaction to further nannyist interference I will make available to my nephews a variety of things of which nanny would not approve.
Included in that item was the outrageous suggestion that weedkiller and sugar should be available to them.
This is, of course, highly irresponsible - and would encourage the toddlers to experiment with other substances, such as the modish hair peroxide and nail varnish remover, or the ever reliable C4.
In almost all of the cases the ingredients are dangerous and the results are unstable.
No. In future if they request their Uncle's assistance in the creation of home made explosives I will direct them to the acres of newsprint lately on the joys of the traditional Ye Olde Englishe Plant-food and Diesel recently popularised by the 'modern retro' chaps from West Sussex shown here .
As we are now going all 'modern retro' in this arena, I look forward to Nihilists committing arson, Vitriol flinging (For real not just the people carrying out their divorces in Heat magazine) - and with any luck some decent defenestration.
PS: Does Baby-Bio and White Spirit do it?
Included in that item was the outrageous suggestion that weedkiller and sugar should be available to them.
This is, of course, highly irresponsible - and would encourage the toddlers to experiment with other substances, such as the modish hair peroxide and nail varnish remover, or the ever reliable C4.
In almost all of the cases the ingredients are dangerous and the results are unstable.
No. In future if they request their Uncle's assistance in the creation of home made explosives I will direct them to the acres of newsprint lately on the joys of the traditional Ye Olde Englishe Plant-food and Diesel recently popularised by the 'modern retro' chaps from West Sussex shown here .
As we are now going all 'modern retro' in this arena, I look forward to Nihilists committing arson, Vitriol flinging (For real not just the people carrying out their divorces in Heat magazine) - and with any luck some decent defenestration.
PS: Does Baby-Bio and White Spirit do it?
Friday, April 27, 2007
Make mine a double, Nanny!
The Poor Little Greek Boy sums this up nicely Here.
I mean - how do they intend this to be enforced? Or will the evil socialists running the show get their way and bring the surveillance into our homes to make sure every piece of parental responsibility is controlled by the state. Polly must be delighted.
I'm not a parent, but I am looking forward to supplying my nephew(s) with ale, wine and spirits whenever they ask for them. In fact - I also intend to give them a Dunhill Junior smoker kit, matches to play with, fireworks, a chemistry set with really lurid chemicals, air guns, weedkiller and sugar (you either know or you don't), rubber bands, sharp objects to run with, dirt to eat, food that has fallen on the floor, insects and magnifying glasses, books rescued from the loft such as 'Super Simon Shoots Smiling Sambos', 'Tintin gasses the Gyspsies', 'Biggles machine-guns the Jerries', and 'Hornblower bashes the frogs'.
Why?
Because whatever you prohibit, the more people want. The more Nanny tries to re-educate us in the politically correct, the more we seek it later. I was forced to go to chapel at Stalag-Luft-school - and that would turn you away from religion.
Stopping kids from enjoying a glass of wine with their folks over Sunday lunch smacks of class warfare, because it is seen to be 'middle class' (Or responsible and independent - not slavishly doing what the Nanny state says).
Plus they will be round the back of the bike sheds guzzling white lightning anyway.
The prat who dreamed this up isn't fit to clear tables in a pub.
I mean - how do they intend this to be enforced? Or will the evil socialists running the show get their way and bring the surveillance into our homes to make sure every piece of parental responsibility is controlled by the state. Polly must be delighted.
I'm not a parent, but I am looking forward to supplying my nephew(s) with ale, wine and spirits whenever they ask for them. In fact - I also intend to give them a Dunhill Junior smoker kit, matches to play with, fireworks, a chemistry set with really lurid chemicals, air guns, weedkiller and sugar (you either know or you don't), rubber bands, sharp objects to run with, dirt to eat, food that has fallen on the floor, insects and magnifying glasses, books rescued from the loft such as 'Super Simon Shoots Smiling Sambos', 'Tintin gasses the Gyspsies', 'Biggles machine-guns the Jerries', and 'Hornblower bashes the frogs'.
Why?
Because whatever you prohibit, the more people want. The more Nanny tries to re-educate us in the politically correct, the more we seek it later. I was forced to go to chapel at Stalag-Luft-school - and that would turn you away from religion.
Stopping kids from enjoying a glass of wine with their folks over Sunday lunch smacks of class warfare, because it is seen to be 'middle class' (Or responsible and independent - not slavishly doing what the Nanny state says).
Plus they will be round the back of the bike sheds guzzling white lightning anyway.
The prat who dreamed this up isn't fit to clear tables in a pub.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Joy of Shirk
Been off the grid for a bit dear readers. This is for two reasons. Mostly I have been working like a Sherpa. Secondly the Catering wing and bathroom facilities of Chez-Chap are now being re-built to my exacting specifications, and this has eaten up a lot of run-time.
To keep myself sane have had the odd afternoon off playing with my pet Sopwith Camel and am slowly getting the hang of this 'staying up on rising currents of air' lark.
However, with my nose this close to the grind stone, I have had little time to reflect upon my environment - in the same way a fireman chooses not to reflect on the beauty of the conflagration before him - or a sea captain chooses not to dissolve into a brown study to contemplate the wonders of the deeps before him.
I have been considering the taxonomy of my female acquaintances. Mainly for amusement (and their good), but chiefly following a conversation with The Scot - whom I know to be a reader. (You know who you are my dear...how is Morocco?)
These dryadic delights exist in many forms and I believe they bear classification. The nature of which I have not had time to give more than sufficient consideration to bear out a few basic categories. I feel there may be telling amusement therein - so if / when I get around to it - watch this space.
But to my female readership - ask yourself this - how would you choose to stir paint? Your answer will give me a clue to the appropriate taxonomy.
To keep myself sane have had the odd afternoon off playing with my pet Sopwith Camel and am slowly getting the hang of this 'staying up on rising currents of air' lark.
However, with my nose this close to the grind stone, I have had little time to reflect upon my environment - in the same way a fireman chooses not to reflect on the beauty of the conflagration before him - or a sea captain chooses not to dissolve into a brown study to contemplate the wonders of the deeps before him.
I have been considering the taxonomy of my female acquaintances. Mainly for amusement (and their good), but chiefly following a conversation with The Scot - whom I know to be a reader. (You know who you are my dear...how is Morocco?)
These dryadic delights exist in many forms and I believe they bear classification. The nature of which I have not had time to give more than sufficient consideration to bear out a few basic categories. I feel there may be telling amusement therein - so if / when I get around to it - watch this space.
But to my female readership - ask yourself this - how would you choose to stir paint? Your answer will give me a clue to the appropriate taxonomy.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
It looks distubingly like the Proper map of the 'Good Old Days'
create your own visited country map
or check our Venice travel guide
One has to ask the following simple question about the bits I haven't been to yet:
1. Can they make a decent cup of tea?
2. Have they got proper money with the queen on it?
3. Do they play cricket?
If the answer is none of the above, then I'm sorry it is probably not worth going there.
In fact there are a few of them I have been to where they can not only fail to make a christian cup of tea, but they entertain whiggsh notions such as putting bridges on their money, and insisting that we all share it.
Savages.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Have sighted Pole star (post marked Hounslow)
I'm in T'North again. Fortunately at my favourite inn.
They have started checking the register, and 'taking the liberty' of pre-cooling a bottle of Brouilly and asking chef to keep back any game 'just in case' I should like the first refusal.
Fine fellows.
And unlike every other benighted establishment outside town these chaps know how to mix a decent bloody mary - even asked how much horseradish I would like in mine. Put in a tablespoon of sherry unbidden too.
Service like that is almost illegal. Certainly outside the better London luncheon clubs anyway.
What would Nelson say?
I have been pondering the 'plight' of the Iran 15.
I do have a couple of thoughts.
I understand the Lieutenant that when surrounded by superior gunnery, there is no shame in striking your colours to save your crew. This fellow indeed new the rules, and struck accordingly. My knowledge of current doctrine is pretty hazy, but unless the witless socialists have infected Naval doctrine, then we expect that - as we did in Soviet days - seized crew would be used as propaganda tools.
I therefore imagine they knew they would be used as such.
I do, though, want to pick up a few bits.
Compare the following:
A battered John Nichol - who had banged out of his kite when they shot his tail off with anti aircraft guns as he flew at 20 feet bombing an enemy runway - blinking out SOS on Iraqi telly….
To…….
The milksops who blubbed that nasty guard had taken his iPod, and dear Queen of Hearts Failing Seaman Faye who was prepared to 'Do Anything' to get home in time to see her daughter.
I nearly choked on my Earl Grey when I read that.
Surely that undermines having women in the front line doesn't it? Say anything to the Enemy to get home in time?
Correct me if I am wrong, but the traditions of the Service is that the RN consider themselves superior as everyone, everyone goes to the 'front line'. You all go to sea.
I have always held the Senior Service in the highest regard, but these two pointless knicker wetters have lost my sympathy.
I pay my tax so you guys go out there, shoot people, get shot at, dodge torpedoes and the like. You join the navy to go in harms way.
In the course of your duty you should also expect that your government would look after you, and if you are illegally seized then you won't rot in some third world jail or if you have to go through a show trial, they will get you out somehow.
I can understand that you know the witless socialists in charge haven't got the balls to sort anything out and would fuck up something like this, and do-gooder rules of engagement you have to work under are written by similar knicker-wetter social worker Islington dinner party types who can't tell a 4.5'' shell from a diversity outreach seminar. (Probably something in them about rewarding the anti social behaviour - or that they are failed consumers really)
Also the government spin machine probably thought we would buy this tommy-rot as counter propaganda - so got them so sell the more victimish stories on, as a tear jerker - 'Oh How they were saved.'
BUT....
Was this the same service who fought in the South Atlantic, dodging Exocets and thousand pounders in bomb alley? The same Service of Nelson's Band of Brothers? The same grit as the heroes of the Atlantic convoys?
Whining that you were roughed up, cried for your mum 'cos the nasty boys took your stereo or you would happily derelict your duty to get home for your daughter's birthday?
This behaviour we expect from the RAF, not the Navy.
Oh, and I reckon this is covered by Article 10.
I do have a couple of thoughts.
I understand the Lieutenant that when surrounded by superior gunnery, there is no shame in striking your colours to save your crew. This fellow indeed new the rules, and struck accordingly. My knowledge of current doctrine is pretty hazy, but unless the witless socialists have infected Naval doctrine, then we expect that - as we did in Soviet days - seized crew would be used as propaganda tools.
I therefore imagine they knew they would be used as such.
I do, though, want to pick up a few bits.
Compare the following:
A battered John Nichol - who had banged out of his kite when they shot his tail off with anti aircraft guns as he flew at 20 feet bombing an enemy runway - blinking out SOS on Iraqi telly….
To…….
The milksops who blubbed that nasty guard had taken his iPod, and dear Queen of Hearts Failing Seaman Faye who was prepared to 'Do Anything' to get home in time to see her daughter.
I nearly choked on my Earl Grey when I read that.
Surely that undermines having women in the front line doesn't it? Say anything to the Enemy to get home in time?
Correct me if I am wrong, but the traditions of the Service is that the RN consider themselves superior as everyone, everyone goes to the 'front line'. You all go to sea.
I have always held the Senior Service in the highest regard, but these two pointless knicker wetters have lost my sympathy.
I pay my tax so you guys go out there, shoot people, get shot at, dodge torpedoes and the like. You join the navy to go in harms way.
In the course of your duty you should also expect that your government would look after you, and if you are illegally seized then you won't rot in some third world jail or if you have to go through a show trial, they will get you out somehow.
I can understand that you know the witless socialists in charge haven't got the balls to sort anything out and would fuck up something like this, and do-gooder rules of engagement you have to work under are written by similar knicker-wetter social worker Islington dinner party types who can't tell a 4.5'' shell from a diversity outreach seminar. (Probably something in them about rewarding the anti social behaviour - or that they are failed consumers really)
Also the government spin machine probably thought we would buy this tommy-rot as counter propaganda - so got them so sell the more victimish stories on, as a tear jerker - 'Oh How they were saved.'
BUT....
Was this the same service who fought in the South Atlantic, dodging Exocets and thousand pounders in bomb alley? The same Service of Nelson's Band of Brothers? The same grit as the heroes of the Atlantic convoys?
Whining that you were roughed up, cried for your mum 'cos the nasty boys took your stereo or you would happily derelict your duty to get home for your daughter's birthday?
This behaviour we expect from the RAF, not the Navy.
Oh, and I reckon this is covered by Article 10.
On the Barky
Well yes, less said about engine trouble the better.
We all say a day on the water is better than a day in the office, even if you are stuck alongside with a busted water pump and impeller fault.
Here's what we should have been doing. Obviously without the leeches.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Another Bank Holiday bites the dust
IN the good old days, this Chap used to indulge himself thoroughly at Easter. I would either take the barky over to Normandy raid the wine shops, eat oysters, langoustines and scallops and go out for sumptuous 8 course dinners, then toot our way home to stay awake in the wee hours of the darker watches.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.
Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.
Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.
Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.
Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.
I had been doing my decking, borders and been to the tip twice.
He had stained his shed and made some rather fine Chili and Tomato jam.
We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.
We have both become our Dads.
This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.
Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!
We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.
Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)
Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.
We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.
We have both become our Dads.
This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.
Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!
We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.
Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)
Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.
An incentive to get the front lawn done.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Prune-Man exceeds like excess itself
I don't need to hat-tip or link this, because everyone else has, and it is getting blanket coverage.
But, Keith, dear boy, Keith - we were all expecting to have to snort your ashes to get that unusual high - on the grounds that you had hoovered all the good stuff up already.
Rock and/or Roll. Love it.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Back on the blockade duties
A Channel crossing, yesterday.
At last a chumrade has conspired and planning some vacational activity. This currently comprises two fiendish plots.
Plot one.
Fast packet out of Pompeii and rapid dash to Cherbourg. Baffle Les Douaniers, confound the Bonapartistes and make a dash to Normandy Wines. Purchase summer wine requirements, eat sumptuous fish luncheon in St Vaast. Drink strong French coffee, get on fast packet home. Spend rest of bank holiday communing with swag, eating off mega-grill in the courtyard (whilst throwing bones over fence into Vet's garden for added amusements) then pootle off to the flying club, where we can strafe our own airfield in return for the local pikeys not stealing our land rover again.
Nothing like a good holiday at home.
Plot two.
Same conspirator, plus a chum who is an unreconstructed champagne Marxist.
Take the barky on the slow route to Normandy from Gosport. Spend relaxing week buying wine, eating sumptuous fish luncheons in St Vaast, Honfleur and Cherbourg. Eat quantities of French meat off barbecue on back of boat, tossing bones at the marauding packs of French curs while we drink strong coffee - for extra amusement.
Then on return to blighty, throw all cheap tobacco overboard to make up for not having to queue to go through customs.
Nothing like a good holiday away.
Take the barky on the slow route to Normandy from Gosport. Spend relaxing week buying wine, eating sumptuous fish luncheons in St Vaast, Honfleur and Cherbourg. Eat quantities of French meat off barbecue on back of boat, tossing bones at the marauding packs of French curs while we drink strong coffee - for extra amusement.
Then on return to blighty, throw all cheap tobacco overboard to make up for not having to queue to go through customs.
Nothing like a good holiday away.
There will be no rowing skiffs, nothing to do with the Thames and absolutely no dog coming with us, will there, Monty.
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