Quick Dit: An Ex Bootneck called round for a catch up over a pot of tea, and proceeded with a detailed explanation of an ‘incident’ that happened earlier this afternoon… Every thursday both he and his svelte elfin-figured wife drive to a local supermarket to stock up on a weeks shopping. Under pain of death – he is not allowed to enter the store with his trouble & strife (wife) due to previous ‘sulky-man shopping behaviour.’ Which is the standard ’mumbling chunter’ accompanied by emotional deep sighs, and the (repetitive) one line question of; “Are we nearly finished – good Gawd woman, how much more do we need?”
Not for him the endless (and aimless) wandering of aisles the length of a short runway… He is now left behind the wheel with his head buried deep in a book, while ‘she who must be obeyed’ saunters off to buckle the wheels of a trolley, using the packing skills of a Nepalese sherpa. At this point I must say I admire his cunning ploy that has certainly worked in his favour – so far…
This afternoon ‘she who must be obeyed’ returned from her supply expedition, and popped the back hatch to load up the cargo space with several days of logistics – all without a backward glance from my mate who was totally absorbed in the final chapter of his book. Upon completion the petal of his life SLAMMED the hatch down firmly where upon she fell heavily into the passenger seat. They both exchanged puzzled glances as the car gently rocked on its suspension; “Who are you – where’s my husband?” sez she, rather shocked – “What are you doing in our car?” My mate looked at the total stranger in bewilderment, and replied; “Who are you – I don’t know your husband?” – “This is ‘my’ car!” A Yorkshire standoff quickly developed – fight or flight was out of the question because my mate had adopted the ’sit at ease’ position – belt, and zip undone, footwear discarded (‘not as lean, not as mean, but still a Marine’!) At this point ‘she who must be obeyed’ turned up with two trolleys loaded up to the gunwales (push and pull style) just as the robust ladies husband pulled alongside in their identical Honda CR-V, looking quite bemused.
After a brief explanation of events there was much joviality all around, especially when the robust ladies husband explained how he had sat and witnessed his beloved go through the whole evolution from a distant parking spot… More laughter ensued as we both shared the tale as well as a pot of tea, because you have just read the clean censored version! Yours_Aye.
I’m not afeared of things that go ‘bump’ in the night. I know that ‘spook’s’ are people who work clandestinely for government agencies, and that ‘spirits’ are distilled beverages of varying strengths. But! Strange happenings over the past few days have made me question my sanity on occasion.
Oddly enough the occasions in question have happened whilst driving and parking my truck, the manifestation being an odd croaky noise barely audible. Parking up within my garage late at night provided the eeriest experience – even though the lights are automatic as the garage door opens, it still made me act cautiously as I locked the truck door.
This morning I took Nipper of the North into the garage with me – just to see if he would react at the sound, which more than anything else would prove I’m not losing my marbles. I buttoned the key to unlock the truck doors, and Nippers ears swiveled – we both heard the ‘voice?’
Obviously Nipper heard it louder than I, as his head cocked as I locked and then unlocked the doors once again. Upon opening all four doors as well as the tail gate, I then shook the truck. Nipper was in it like a rat up a drain pipe, and dropped to the gap under the drivers seat with his head cocked and ears locked.
“Is it a rat?” thought I, as I reached for a claw hammer. Without further ado I can tell you that it was not a rat, though a rat placed the offending irritant there quite securely. No doubt you will have now sussed out the little blighter with the automated built-in tremble sensor – whose vocabulary changes to three different intermittent sounds when disturbed; “England” – “Ahh-hah-hah” – ha-ha-harr” A bloody McDonald’s Happy Meal Minion Toy!
I know who you are, and you know, that I know, who you are… In fact I gave you a spare brand new copy of a book to read on your first few days holiday, when you and your Mrs came to visit prior to your flight to Spain that late evening. I was expecting something from the dirty tricks bottom drawer. So as to respond in kind, I surgically removed the last two pages of the books EPILOGUE (273/274/275/276) and posted them to your home address, where they await your return. He who laughs last ~ laughs longest! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh! 😉 Yours_Aye.
Barry Henderson was handed the letter by wife Roisin (inset right, together) after the local postman in the village of Buncrana, Donegal, thought the description, albeit limited, matched her husband. The letter sent to Barry was addressed: ‘Your man Henderson that boy with the glasses who is doing the PHD up there at Queen’s in Belfast’.
Only in Ireland…! I went through training with an Irish lad from Belfast, who received his first letter from home that finished with; “If you don’t receive this letter because I’ve gotten the wrong address, could you write and let me know, as your sister and brother wants to write too?” Yours_Aye.
CNN confuses black and white flag covered in sex toy symbols for that of ISIS during London Gay Pride parade!
I wonder how ISIS celebrated rainbow day within the Caliphate? Journalism at its very worst, no wonder the clown in the White House gets an easy ride by them… Yours Aye.
Absolutely safe For Work!: The British, as we all know, are adorable. They have those cute double-decker buses. They have like a thousand accents, all of them either charming or silly. And they have some of the quaintest swear words we’ve ever heard.
To hardened American ears, something like “bloody hell!” doesn’t really raise any eyebrows. But it should, as it is the most filthy outrageous language! Let’s learn how to use it properly, as well as learning the history of some common British swear words – in “How to Swear Like a Brit.” Yours Aye.
And there you have it… Yours Aye.
witches Hilarity Clinton… How is her election campaign going? Yours Aye.
“Oh I say – just look up there – good lord, what is it?”
“A chap just back from dear old Blighty told me it’s an Amazon Drone – apparently if you shoot it down you win the prize beneath it!”
“Good grief – really? What absolutely spiffing fun!”
“Well you spotted it first old bean – so you’re entitled to the first shot.”
“That’s awfully decent of you old chap – awfully decent indeed.”
It’s the best I could do, whilst hanging around for a FaceTime conference with someone in Hong Kong; at 0-crack-sparrow-fart in the morning… Yours Aye.
“Over the hill… and picking up speed.” That’s how 60-year-old UK expat and Bay Area resident Peter Barnes describes himself. Here he reinforces that statement, proving that age has nothing to do with a youthful spirit. (Dance move AKA the Bootneck shuffle) Yours Aye.
Why the Fifty Shades Of Grey book is better than the film: Novels evoke emotions in women more so than movies – and it’s all down to evolution.You can’t escape Fifty Shades of Grey at the moment as its promotional machine has been gearing up for the film’s release this weekend. But despite the book’s huge global success, critics have called the film adaptation boring, drawn-out and a turn-off.I received a call earlier this afternoon from a good friend who is an ex-Jenny WREN (who has an almighty fiery temper when angered – a true Redhead as it happens!)
Me; “War office – do you ‘wanna’ fight?” ~ “No, I have two tickets for 50 Shades of Grey, are you free to watch it this evening?” ~ “Sorry, not this evening as I’m washing my hair and trimming my moustache” ~ “What about tomorrow?” ~ “Sorry, I’m trimming my toenails and then each of the dogs” ~ “You don’t want to watch it do you?” ~ “No – not really…!” The call ended courteously without ‘Jenny’ firing off a broadside; no doubt I will incur her wrath some other time. Now if she had tickets for a digitalised showing on the big screen for ‘Zulu’ – ‘In Which We Serve’ – ‘The Cruel Sea’ or, ‘Cockleshell Heroes‘ – I’d have cancelled my imaginary domestic chores & accompanied her ‘tout de suite!’ Yours Aye.
“You must sleep some time between lunch and dinner, and no half-way measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed. Thats what I always do. You get two days in one.” Sir Winston Churchill.
Many years back I enjoyed the comfort of a two-man cabin on my own, which was great as I also enjoyed my own company. Until one mid-morning when I was joined by a fellow Marine (who turned out to be a bloody good bloke as it happened.) His first words of introduction were “I have a sleeping condition known as nocturnal lagophthalmos” ~ “Oh” Says I… He continued; “Well it’s not a problem for me, though it may be a problem for you because I sleep with my eyes open – sometimes fully open, other times just half-open.” I had to say some thing in reply to his introductory comment but words failed me, so I sympathetically mumbled “Not a problem for me mate.”
It actually was a problem, as there was more to follow… “I also suffer from sleep apnoea, which means I stop breathing too – but don’t worry because my subconscious kicks in after 30 seconds or so, then I suck air back in.” ~ “You are joking mate?” Says I… Unfortunately he was quite serious. That first night was quite bizarre, as I laid awake listening out for the phenomenon to happen. True to his word I heard him stop breathing several times, each time I counted him out until he gulped air and his respiration organ pumped again. From that day forth he was named ‘Iron Lung!’
As my bunk was closest to the window I had to walk by his bunk if nature called in the silent hours, which was quite alarming as he often laid asleep on his back just staring up into space. I once stopped and cautiously stared down at him – as he blinked and said “aw-right mate, I’m wide awake, I can’t sleep.” Which caused me to leap backwards “FOR FUDGE SAKE MAN, IT’S LIKE SHARING A CABIN WITH THE LIVING DEAD!” Fortunately I was promoted a month later, which meant a move across into the WO & SNCO’s Mess that was singular and palatial in comparison. Iron Lung enjoyed his own company in the two-man cabin up until the day he left the Corps six months later, he being deemed too unsuitable for ‘A N. Other’ Marine to join him. His leaving presents from the blokes were the usual mixture of RM Cdo Plaque, mounted Cdo Dagger, etc, as well as an unusual handmade box with an engraved brass plate atop it “In Case Of Emergency”
Contained within the box was a small hammer and three small wooden stake’s, which was more a gift for his fiancée (soon to be wife.) Yours Aye.
Music video by ‘Faithless’ performing Insomnia. (c) 1996 SONY BMG MUSIC ENTERTAINMENT (UK) Limited
We each have our own understanding over the meaning of life – a tapestry formed through a variety of multicoloured philosophical, spiritual, scientific, and theological woven threads. It has been suggested that the majority of us never seek to understand the same, nor do we question its existence, as we are happy to roll through each day oblivious to the theories behind it.
Plato and Aristotle in ‘The School of Athens’ fresco, by Raphael. Plato is pointing heavenwards to the sky, and Aristotle is gesturing to the world.
As an 11-year-old – I was left feeling a little perplexed having read ‘A Digest of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution.’ More so when I questioned the religious education Master part way through his bible punching lesson, which resulted in being cuffed good-n-proper around the ear – that led on to being dragged to the front of the class where I was caned hard on each hand, to be then thrown out of the lesson. (As was the Roman Catholic way of teaching back then) Which has nothing to do with the meaning of life, though the painful act taught me a valuable lesson. But I digress…
This morning bright and early, I was taking breakfast in the lee of a large thickened holly bush (with two contented canines, each tucking into a cooked beef sausage treat) when I suddenly realised through my ‘pause for thought‘ that I fully understood the meaning of life relevant to my own humble existence. There is a theory that we only come to understand the true meaning of life on our death-bed when we exhale our last breath. Balderdash and poppycock – that theory had now blown across a wind-swept Yorkshire Moorland. Plato, Aristotle, and their chums (above) bumping their gums whilst bickering, and blathering amongst each other in The School Of Athens over the Meaning of Life. They could have reached a verdict much sooner had they sat in the lee of a holly bush on a wind-swept Yorkshire hillside! Canines being optional. Yours Aye. Click pic to enlarge.
The tale of ‘un œuf pourri.’ This morning a kindly soul went out of their way to drop off one dozen free-range eggs onto my doorstep. When I say ‘drop off’ I obviously meant ‘placed the eggs’ within a cardboard egg container onto my doorstep, as I was away walking the canine’s at the time and found them on my return. A simple gesture of gratitude for a small favour I carried out a few days ago, an act I greatly appreciated as it meant scrambled eggs with toast for breakfast would soon follow. Throughout my adult years I have only ever fallen ‘foul’ of opening one rotten sulphurous egg (for those among you who have endured the same you will agree, it is ‘un œuf pourri’ too many.) As a young lad under instruction from my Gran I would often dunk eggs in a bowl to test their freshness, which is how I discovered todays rotten little blighter. One out of the dozen bobbed and floated atop the surface, while the remainder slowly sunk like ‘sun-dodgers’ of the silent service – to settle gently on their side. When ever I drop left over food into the small kitchen waste bin, Nipper religiously follows like a shadow – this time as I dropped the egg into the bin Nipper was nowhere to be seen. A wise choice as it turned out as I was about to suffer through my negligence… A human has about 5 million scent glands, compared to a dog, who has anywhere from 125 million to 300 million. TRUE!
The egg cracked open in the bin – just as 5 million of my scent glands detonated and almost forced my gag reflex to its maximum purge (several times!) But I managed to hold on to my early morning ‘pre-amble’ cuppa-char and fig roll – by maintaining a stiff upper lip and arching one eye brow, whilst thinking of Queen and Country – all under the watchful eye of Great Aunt Gertrude’s sepia coloured photograph! Having promptly ditched the bin outside I returned to scratch scrambled eggs from the morning menu, settling instead for fruit and toast for breakfast (sat in a wafting haze of Cotton Fresh Febreeze air freshner.) Three snouts combining 900 million scent glands soon joined me, as the divine smell of fresh toasted bread hit the air… Yours Aye.
Trendy new cocktail bar opens in a public toilets – and it’s called ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ With property prices in central London rising one entrepreneur has converted a former public toilet into a fashionable new bar. By Sam Matthew for MAILONLINE
Will Borrell has opened the aptly named ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ after an 18 month battle with residents over the abandoned underground restrooms. The businessman, who owns a Polish vodka company, has even named a cocktail ‘Nimby’ (Not In My Back Yard) after the local residents who tried to block the bar in Kentish Town, north-west London.
Mr Borrell has secured a 15 year lease for the former public toilets and has restored the building, which features a pre World War Two marble floor and traditional beams. The toilets and a wall of urinals have also been restored and a kitchen added. ‘We are signing up to a council scheme that means our toilets will be open to the public,’ said Mr Borrell.
“My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure (and it always will) to welcome you all to this grand lavatorial opening. Pray stand, or remain seated, dependent upon your requirement, and raise your glass and join me in a toast” – “May your public convenience always be flush with success!” – “Bottom’s Up!” Yours Aye.
Just couldn’t resist it… 😉
Forget about the Christmas tree! BEARD baubles are the new must-have hipster accessory this December… and they’re already selling out! A London advertising agency invented beard baubles as a decoration for their company Christmas card. The facial accessories are now a global hit, with customers in the US and Australia. All proceeds from the baubles go to Beardseason, an initiative to raise awareness for the fight against Melanoma.Christmas-tree-BEARD-baubles-new-hipster-accessory-for-December-selling-out.
‘Oh my giddy Aunt!’ On a serious note; a big thumbs up for a charitable cause, as all of the proceeds from the facial accessories go to the charity ‘Beardseason.’ Yours Aye.