‘It has to be said that I love a good sneeze ~ an explosive one to bring leaves down from trees ~ and not just one but three in a row ~ if I’m ever so lucky I’ll knock out four!’ E-B.For as long as I can remember I have loved a good sneeze! The tell-tale tickle deep inside the nose that just appears from no where, which causes one to savour the sensitive discomfort (that is also a mild pleasure!) Then the tease of breathing in through the nose in short gentle intakes so as not to allow the tickle to escape; that then builds into an almighty wriggling tickle that needs to be released with the power equivalent to the back-blast of a 105mm anti/tank gun. ‘BOOM!’ Away she goes… Followed by the feeling of giddy rapture due to a nano second of unconsciousness; knowing full well that the next mild tickle is forming as visual sense is regained. This time trying to make the wriggling tickle last longer than the first until ‘BOOOM!’ Followed by the final ‘BOOOOM!’ Which, sadly, is the triple over and done with for the time being at least… Click pics to enlarge Being surrounded by rapeseed crops it would appear that my love for sneezing has to be curtailed, other wise I will be blowing birds out of trees as well as stripping them bare with a good old ‘KERCHOOO!!!’ For the first time ever I have turned to taking a small Piriton pill to stop me sneezing, even though I don’t suffer from the effects of hay-fever. This is more to save the canine’s sensitive hearing, because when I do sneeze even the neighbours in the village five miles away call to ask if I’m finished! ‘Nipper seeking cover from the blast’What a great morning though before popping a Piriton, and we aren’t even into Summer yet (three triples before breakfast followed by a super four just before lunch!) ;-) Yours Aye.
Biden Flubs Boston Bombing Tribute by KEITH KOFFLER on APRIL 16 2014 11:05 AM
President Obama Tuesday passed the Boston Marathon memorializing duties to Vice President Biden who, typically, screwed it up.Brainless Idiot Joe Biden Tells Boston Bombing Survivors “It Was Worth It?”
“To those quote ‘survivors.’ My God, you have survived and you have soared. It was worth it, I mean this sincerely, just to hear each of you speak. You are truly, truly inspiring. I have never heard anything so beautiful as what all of you just said.”
It was worth it? What is he even trying to say? I assume he didn’t mean their suffering was worth it. Please God, make that not be the case, even if it’s just a mental mixup. He was probably trying to relate that the victims’ remarks made it worth it for him to come to Boston. But really? Was it some kind of imposition And why is Biden heading up the White House commemoration of this event in the first place? Where’s Obama? Holding a personal moment of silence. Maybe Joe begged for the job because he wanted to show Democratic primary voters what a healer he can be. In that case, it wasn’t worth it.?
I watched Biden speak live and my toes curled up under my feet, the man is an absolute blithering idiot… Several days ago the White House ‘warned’ Russia against further military action in the Ukraine, and then announced that “US Vice President Joe Biden will travel to Kiev on April 22 to demonstrate high-level US support. Dear Gawd, which lunatic is really running the White House asylum? Yours Aye
A genuine question to those of you perusing this post. Are you aware of anyone who uses a ‘standing-desk’ from which they operate their PC’s or work stations from? Perhaps you are a user with first hand experience? Is it a passing trend, a designer ‘must have,’ or just plain ergonomic common sense? Of interest; the best bar height is at least six inches higher than that recommended in the graphic below, of which I have no problem with for hours on end (until it comes to leaving the pub at closing time!) This afternoon on a local radio station an ‘ergonomic expert’ mentioned that “medical research has been building up for a while, suggesting constant sitting is harming our health potentially causing cardiovascular problems or vulnerability to diabetes!” He went on further to state that standing whilst working is far better for posture when using a PC or work station, though the concept requires a short period of adjustment. Unfortunately; just recently I have been so caught up with an online project that quite often a pair of hours whizz by unknowingly, which has resulted in lower back pain and aching shoulders that then requires a good stretching exercise to rectify the problem (followed by a good walk and a pot of tea.) Tomorrow it is my intention to put together a ‘Heath Robinson’ system to test out the ‘ergonomic experts’ theory. In the mean time I would appreciate any valuable input over the pros and cons of standing-over-sitting whilst tickling the ivory’s on the keyboard. Yours Aye.
I may well have previously mentioned
several times or so at least that I have been around the bazaars numerous times whilst on military adventures for Queen and Country. And when the occasion has required it *“I’ve landed me-self with a Gatlin’ gun to talk to them ‘eathen kings.”
Spent more time in the desert than ‘Beau Geste; And jumped from perfectly serviced aircraft on to land, and into sea. To cap it all ‘as a true Royal Marine,’ – I’ve been part of RM Detachments on Her Majesties Ships of the ‘grey-funnel-line’ thrice. Salt water runs through my veins, and sand from a multitude of foreign beach landings sits in my boots to this day…
Seven medals, three war wounds, and a slight hint of psychological damage on the eve of a full moon – with more scars than the Grand Canyon… Fair to say I have seen life from every angle, and from every dirty corner of the world. But; what I saw today Ladies & Gentlemen, is something ‘I-aint-ever-in-all-my-life-seen-afore!’
Allow me to elucidate the circumstances and set the scene that could have been taken from a hazy day in Sodom or Gomorrah. Instead it happened right in front of me as I sat in my favourite spot on the North Yorkshire Moors, overlooking a small clearing within ancient woodland that is fed by a babbling brook…
Having perambulated the route to my small sanctuary I settled down against the tree trunk of an ever green, happy in the fact that my retreat could not be seen or overlooked by anyone due to its remoteness. Extracting my flask of tea and cold bacon sandwiches from my bergan, I contemplated my return route as I gently poured steaming brown nectar into my old tin mug. Pondering on the two options available I considered ‘the long way,’ which is easier on the heart and lungs but time-consuming. Alternatively, ‘the short passage’ over hill and dale forces the same vital organs to work like a blacksmiths leather bellow’s on overtime, which takes two hours off the clock. I opted for the later as I was without canine company, and my body required a good blow out to get rid of a few accumulated cobwebs. ‘The short passage – up and over’ Click to enlarge…Just as I took my first slurp of tea I heard voices in the far distance, it was followed by ‘persons unknown’ cursing as they crashed through the undergrowth of bramble and wild rose. I then heard two people calling out to each other - two male voices, who appeared to be lost - until they appeared in the clearing slightly below me one on either side of the babbling brook that is around eight feet wide, and two or three feet deep. My jaw dropped when I saw them both; it was the most unbelievable sight, so much so that I almost dropped my bacon sandwich from my vice like grip. Fortunately I carry a stout blackthorn staff on my little adventures that is more than capable of cracking a skull if required, though its use is for far more moderate means such as leaning against when I run out of puff, or poking dead things to make sure they are dead (if that makes sense?) Here before me were two grown men dressed up in what I can only describe as ‘fantasy apparel!’ Each wore a pair of dark leather leggings, with a type of ornate steel and interwoven leather breast-plate, adorned by an assassins long hooded cloak. They each had a long staff, and a small waistband dagger, one had a sheathed sword, and the other carried an obscenely large war hammer. They both wore black thick-soled ‘Doc Martin’ boots, as well as blue streaked lines on their faces that glistened from the heat of the day. Obviously the in vogue ‘de rigueur’ accessory had to be matching finger-less leather gloves adorned with chain mail? After much goading from each other one of the blokes attempted to cross the algae covered boulders that sit within the brook, of which the inevitable happened; in he went up to his knees, but even more remarkable was his dropped war hammer floated on the slow running water-it was a plastic war hammer (as were all of their ‘weapons’ and breast plates?) They eventually stood in the clearing and started posing menacingly for photographs using a small camera they had set up on a fallen tree, all snapped using an infra-red remote control. ‘Grrrr – Growl’
By this stage I was more than bemused as they were referring to each other as ‘Storm Dragon’ and ‘Gallactor!’ They even went through the motions of fighting each other in a slow-motion-type-of-way as the camera blinked and flashed? Enough was enough as I had finished my snack and curiosity got the better of me, it was time to ‘pee on their fantasy bonfire.’ As I stood up and broke cover I bellowed (a good seven on the Richter scale) “STOPPPPPP!” Which they both did, after almost jumping out of their skin – in fact Storm Dragon almost dropped his war hammer and took flight. I honestly couldn’t contain myself as I walked towards them both “What in Gawds name are you both doing dressed up like that?” They both looked quite sheepish as Storm Dragon replied “LARPing - it’s fantasy role play.” – “Never heard of it mate” I replied looking quite befuddled trying to grasp the ridiculousness of the situation before me.
Having recovered their camera we all returned to my little sanctuary (I didn’t wish to be seen consorting with nutters in the open glade) they also had flasks and sandwiches in a nifty little home-made canvas back pack, and as we sipped tea they explained ‘LARPing.’ Their ‘Live Action Role Play’ was that of a mixture of mediaeval-modern-fantasy-steampunk, of which they hoped to gather more individuals through a website they were putting together – hence the photographs. Phillip (Storm Hammer) worked in a bank, and Steven (Gallactor) was a civil servant; they were both in their early 30′s with no girl friends to speak of (can’t imagine why?) I sat and listened bemused as they spoke of their fantasy world, and how they hoped to bring in new members to establish a group that could travel to LARP festivals around the UK and Europe – and perhaps even attend a convention in America.
To avoid any possible invitation I clearly stated that I would rather sit and chew the feet off my legs, rather than join in such a group – but each to their own, “besides I have dogs that need my attention 24/7.” – “People bring along their dogs, as well as cats” replied Steven – who went on to inform me that such canines wear plastic battle armour. Our conversation ended on a high note, and as we bid our farewells I mentioned that the little clearing before us was ‘very’ popular with families and walkers (actually that is far from the truth, I selfishly wished to keep my little haven ‘LARP group free.’) As it happened I needn’t have worried as they had blundered across it by chance and the bramble, wild rose thicket, and babbling brook appeared to deter any possible return.
I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I yomped along the route back home via the short passage. The hideous memory of Storm Dragon and Gallactor playing out their fantasies even took away the rasping burning pain of the steep climb. I also had a cracking idea for Nipper ‘Red-Fang’ and his next Christmas fancy dress outfit, which would also double up as protection when ratting in the fields. Yours Aye… *“Soldier an’ Sailor Too”
Aliağa on the West coast of Turkey, where ‘Elf n Safety rules are not adhered to when it comes to beaching a ‘boat!’ Come to think of it, they are non-existant in Turkey… I now await the incoming flak from the salty types for referring to it as a ‘boat’…The Air Force/Army types wouldn’t understand the difference any way But being an ex ‘salt-n-sand’ type I should know better, and respect the senior service… “Down Ramp, Out Marines” Yours Aye.
Sadly, just a few days ago I attended a wake (that obviously involved copious amounts of beer, good quality draught beer, as one would expect in a Northern Public House). The majority of the 200 plus people in attendance I have known for most of my life, they are after all family, and friends…
At any time when ever I am in drink, I make a point of not speaking of politics, or religion, though each are inevitably intertwined. A simple enough rule that I have always sought to follow… Unfortunately ‘dear reader’ it was not to be on this occasion, some thing I am neither proud, nor ashamed of.
Allow me to verbally perambulate: On my way back from pointing ‘percy at the porcelain’ I returned to the corner of the bar, where I inadvertently walked into a situation that I hoped initially would defuse itself. It was soon to be apparent from the heat of the debate/argument that this would not be the case, indeed at one point it almost went to full-blown fisticuffs’; this from two people who should have known better (I should add myself as a third-party, but simply as an observer, fighting hard to suppress the thoughts going through my head).
In the left corner (appropriately so); we had a fully paid up member of the Socialist Workers Party, who is also a Trade Unionist, as well as an active ‘area delegate & representative’ of a local union branch of engineering workers. In the right corner we had a self-employed engineer who worked long months offshore, who, needless to say, had centre right-wing views, some of which were anti trade-union. Verbally the right corner had the edge, and continued scoring points left, right, and centre. It has to be said that the match was grossly uneven as far as fighting weights were concerned, the left corner being quite a fat knacker at over 6′, with the right corner coming in at bantam weight, and as vertically challenged as Tom Cruise, without the modified wedged shoes!
The verbal barrage from the right was far more eloquent, constructed, factual, and offered without malice (quite a well read, and informed chap as it happens). The left corner had run out of quotes and para phrases taken from the left-wing’s current manifesto, and as such could not recover from the sustained hits. Dignity and honour had long since gone, his brain had been placed into a neutral gear, the red flag was no longer fluttering high, it was on the ground around his ankles. With his jaws now clamped shut, it was obvious that the head was coming down to proffer a glaswegian kiss!
Which is when I stepped in to be met with a sneering “You and whose f*****g army?” “Marines mate; Royal Marines, I was never in the Army”… As I sat him down on an outside bench to catch his breath, I explained the error of his ways, and that his good fortune lay in the fact that my baby brother (6′ 4″ & 252 Ib’s) was the reserve force had I failed in my endeavour. There were no hard feelings between us, and I shook his offered hand as would be expected from members of our generation. The following day was quite a profound one in several ways…
Such is the tapestry of life, I wonder when my last stitch will be entered into it. Yours Aye.
Like him or loathe him (the later for me) but when Russian President Vladimir Putin said Chechen warlord Doku Umarov would be found and then hunted down (for the carnage created by two of his organisations suicide bombers in Volgograd) he stood by his very word.
Doku Umarov is now sat among his harem of vestal virgins, while his Islamic terrorist organisation seeks a replacement. Chechen warlord Doku Umarov (Russia’s Osama bin Laden) who threatened Sochi Olympics is ‘killed by Russia’s Spetsnaz ‘
Applicants for the role of Chechen leader should be forwarded to the senior recruitment officer ‘Mustafa Chitsoon’ Chechen Recruitment Office @ N E Post Office, The Caucasus Mountains. Or if your travelling you may wish to hand over your credentials to any Chechen jihadist’s, who are now fighting in Syria, Pakistan and Turkey, as well as Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and Palestine. All applicants living in the UK & the USA who are not involved in terrorist activities (yet), are also invited to forward their C.V. through their local Mosque as the organisation is an equal opportunities employer (bar any females, who may wish to apply for the cowardly position of suicide bomber, of which there are plenty of options available). Please Note: This position does not entitle you to the reserved vestal virgin scheme, which is a male entitlement only. You simply get the same crap life over again, except this time you get to run around looking after 72 vestal virgins, with a difference…And for those air-head marshmallow brained do-gooder’s from the political left, as well as those dwelling in la-la celebrity land; who wish to seek Syrian refugees granted safe passage to reside in the UK/USA! I would ask you to read the following link The birth of Chechen Muslim radicals. If it does not sway you to change your mind I would ask that you to fill in the same application form, and forward it to the address as detailed above. Yours Aye.
An oil tank in the Scottish Highlands has earned a place in the record books after producing the world’s longest echo. Lasting an incredible 75 seconds, the reverberation smashed the previous record – also set in Scotland more than 40 years ago – by more than a minute. It was recorded by an acoustics expert in a tank measuring twice the length of a football pitch, which was 30ft wide and more than 44ft high.
The discovery was made by Professor Trevor Cox when he climbed into the Inchindown oil storage tanks near Invergordon, and started singing and shouting. ‘I was like a toddler sitting at a piano for the first time, thrashing the ivories to see what sounds would come out,’ he said. ‘Reluctantly, after a few minutes I stopped playing with the acoustics and started preparing for my measurements.’
For the record, archaeological investigator Allan Kilpatrick, working with Professor Cox, shot a pistol with blanks about a third of the way down the 80-year-old tank. Standing a third of the way from the other end, Professor Cox, of Salford University, recorded the sounds with microphones. MORE HERE: It’s a record… record… record! Oil tank in the Scottish Highlands has the world’s longest ECHO at an incredible 75 seconds
Give up seven minutes of your busy day, because no matter what we may think about life, at one time or another we each have all been (or will eventually be) Struck by that human condition. Make sure you watch it through passed the credits. Happens each time I visit the canine rescue centre. Thats my excuse! Yours Aye.
This afternoon I was loafing on the shared ‘canine/ex-bootneck’ long settee in my office, having just returned from a walk in a cold killer wind; when my ‘mail’ pinged. It was from a good mate whose wife fosters cats for owners who require short/long stay hospital treatment. Currently they are proud foster parents to three felines, belonging to a single owner who is due to be released from hospital tomorrow. It is fair to say that my mate is a reluctant foster parent, as cats make him sneeze… Really sneeze, and I do mean REALLY SNEEZE, often, and sustained, until the cats are redeployed back from where they whence came! His good wife has assured him that this last batch of triplets are definitely the last they will ever foster; sadly she also said that in early December last year. It has to be said that it is done out of the kindness of
their her heart, as it is part of a charity assisted program. Having clicked on the JPEG images attached they eventually started popping open. From over my shoulder there was a loud audible gulp as the first image appeared!
I turned to find Nipper doing a double take at me, and then at the screen, just as the second image popped. I would swear to the fact that I heard a whispered ‘Oh Bugger‘ in a Yorkshire accent, which is the equivalent of a whispered ‘Santa María’ in a Spanish accent! I frantically tried to shield the third image as it popped open, but failed miserably!
Then I noticed the bones alongside the felines flick-claw-pads? What on ‘Gawds’ green earth am I looking at, It is a cat in full armour. In fact it is described as ‘cat battle armor’, made of real leather and works as a harness, but also “allows unimpeded movement across the battlefield or living room floor.”
Without further ado I called my mate (and reassured Nipper he was dreaming, as I gently closed the laptop screen). It transpires that my mate is actually taking delivery of a young rescue dog, a typical ‘Heinz 57 varieties’ type, which he has walked and associated with over the past few days, without one single ‘kertishoooo’ taking place.
It further transpires that the six month old canine will also have a pal, a young short-haired Devon Rex kitten, which again he has actually associated with, without any air pressured droplets being fired from his flared nostrils. He reckons it’s a fair trade-off as it will keep his ‘missus’ happy, and he has recently started working from home full-time, so big smiles all round. Except… when he arrived back home from picking up a morning paper, the cat battle armor was left on full view on his wife’s computer screen. Apparently it is actually a harness, a very well made battle harness… Schnabuble: Cat Battle Armor
Subliminal mind planted images! Did I also mention that my mate is very gullible, and that to this day his ‘missus’ can still wrap him around her little finger? Consider your self told, and I dread to think what his puppy is going to end up wearing! As if bloody cat’s require a secondary advantage Yours Aye
Over the nonsensical advice given on incandescent light bulbs. Allow me to expand and blather about a ‘happening’ that took place just before Christmas, as I meandered around York killing time. As the cold air started biting into my bones I sought respite, and found a small trendy cafe up a side street that offered refuge. What caught my eye was a hand coloured sign inviting one and all to “come and read your book in comfort, whilst enjoying a selection of our blah-blah-bah menu”; my kind of cafe, thought I… The bright wintry day was turning to dusk as I entered the warm cosy atmosphere of the cafe, and almost tripped on a badly lit step as I approached the counter to place my order.
Having picked up a complimentary news paper I chose a comfortable seat, and settled down taking the load off my feet whilst soaking up the ambience on offer. The informal background sound was a local talk radio station, not loud, not light, just sufficient to listen to the dulcet tones on offer. The place was fitted out in a traditional style of dark leather and wood, it was warm, very clean, and it had that heady fragrance of ground coffee permeating the air. However, there was a problem; a problem that I just couldn’t put my finger on, until I picked up the paper and struggled to read the words that were obviously there in back print against a white background? Even when I tilted the paper sideways hoping to catch the rays from a light bulb only a few feet away, the printed format remained faint and lacklustre, and refused to leap forth from the page. Perhaps it was the biting cold air that had affected my vision, which I know is still 20/20? Having shuffled the heavy leather chair closer to a larger bulb, the result was still the same, I had to squint through blurred eyelashes to lift and focus upon the print; the act itself brought back a haze of memories of times past…
Quick dit… Throughout my past career I have received, written, and issued NATO sequenced patrol orders in the most arduous of conditions. Whether it be through the good fortune of reading by the means of an incandescent lightbulb, a subdued arctic candle, or the shade of a right-angled filtered torch. On one occasion whilst on a local area exercise, a young ‘occifer’ (who I was steering through his first weeks within a commando unit) had involuntary ‘volunteered’ to take a set of orders at Unit level. I occasionally glanced at him as he scribed every word down in his orders book, as beads of sweat formed on his furrowed brow. Being an old hand I cherry picked the relevant points, and rewrote the orders for dissemination in situ. My young Boss scurried away and commenced to rewrite his own version, which, when finished, easily matched Tolstoy’s War & Peace. Just as dusk approached he asked that I gather the company SNCO’s to receive their briefing that was to take part in a dense wooded copse, where light discipline was an enforced order. In the dying light prior to the briefing I asked to see his orders book. Below: Not ‘the’ O group mentioned in the ‘dit’ though one similar…
“Erm Boss! You have used a red pen to write out your orders; not only that but they are far too detailed and comprehensive for the task in hand!” He looked at me aghast, mainly because I had just pee’d on his bonfire, which had taken him over two hours to build. “Have you eaten, or had a hot drink yet?” His look and my experience told me he had not. Upon which a young Marine handed him a blistering hot tin mug full of pot-mess, a bit of every thing from an arctic ration pack main meal. As he choked on the pot-mess I asked him to read out the GROUND sequence from his little book, which he attempted to do with his red filtered right-angled torch. His eyes opened cartoon size as he tilted the page side to side “Oh my fudging god, I can’t read anything at all”! I managed to stop him hovering at 10,000 feet, and brought him back down to earth by giving him my set of orders, from which he delivered an impeccable delivery at the briefing, as only an eloquent Oxford educated ‘occifer’ is able!
There were only a few customers dotted around the cafe, and it was obvious from my aggrieved dilemma that the fast approaching waitress (who was actually the owner) was either going to throw me out, or sort out the problem on my behalf. “Can I help you with anything” she said politely (this is York, and every one is ever so polite, and she did actually wish to help). I replied “Ermm, yes, would you have a spare Petzl headlamp that I could perhaps borrow”? She half smiled as my request started to sink in, her eyes twinkled the response as she said “The lighting isn’t very good is it”! I didn’t have to reply as she knew the answer… At my invitation ‘Patricia’ sat and explained that the new internal conversion meant that they had to go along with the building regulations that enforced the use of Compact Fluorescent Light-bulbs (CFL’s). ‘Trish’ (because we were now on first name speaking terms) went on to explain that they were going to strategically replace the CFL’s with old school incandescent 100 watt bulbs ‘made in china’, as they were the only source of bulbs available on the market. In spite of the Victorian era lighting within the cafe, it was never the less an enjoyable experience due to the ambience and good fare on offer. As my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, I saw the tricky step as I decamped, making my departure more dignified.
My anger, and down right rage against the enforcement of CFL’s upon the folk of Great Britain (and Europe), is against the machine ‘aka’ the grossly incompetent bureaucratic ‘European Union’, from where the faceless unelected puppets who dwell within, sit and meddle in affairs they know little of, but accept the argument given them by huge corporations, whose unproven science influences and sways them from the truth and common sense that should prevail. It is no coincidence that one such organisation that employs over 120,000 people in 60 different countries, has a huge say through its countries mouth pieces ‘aka’ Members of the European Parliament, which is one reason why I personally will never buy a PHILLIPS electrical product, ever! The real truth behind the EU con over energy-saving bulbs Earlier this morning through my usual daily perusing’s, I logged onto HMS Defiant where Curtis (ex U.S.N.) wrote a cracking article SHOCK TROOPERS OF THE UNTRUTH that offers his own feelings on the con that is being presented to us all over the use of CFL’s.
Fortunately, some while ago I was able to pick up sufficient 60/100/150 watt-General Electric-incandescent light bulbs, that will last my life time. With those left being disposed of through my ‘Last Will & Testament’ to family and friends. In my case, the light is on, and someone is definitely at home! Yours Aye.
William Congreve, in The Mourning Bride, 1697: “Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d; Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d”… Sound General Quarters and batten all hatches! Yours Aye.
Obviously what follows via the live link does not apply to those still serving, as they who remain in service meet up with their ‘oppos – mates – chums – pals – buddies- muckers – friend’s (mentally delete where appropriate) on a daily basis, grabbing a beer or a night out when ever the wind blows. What I have found in civvie street is that some married mates require a signed pass from their missus (a cinderella pass is rarely granted), which also applies to some single mates who wear their girl-friends thumbprint on their forehead 24/7. To be a happy chap, see your pals twice a week: Men’s well-being depends on meeting up with friends and ‘doing stuff’
Quick dit. Several years back I received a call from an Ex Bootneck “I need you to come and drink some beer; it’s £1- a pint and the money goes to charity”. Before he had put the phone down on to its cradle I was walking in through the door of his pub. The place was packed with serving, and ex Bootneck’s alike, the charity was going to make some money from this mammoth session.
As it happened he had just taken over the pub from the previous landlord, which required him to clear the old liquid stock to make room for his own; the delivery of which was the following lunchtime. Such is the measure of the man that he decided on the charity night. At midnight he called every one to order and stated that he was locking the doors “those without a cinderella pass that need to go home should to do so in the next 15 minutes, those who stay and make it through to morning and remain standing, can have a full english breakfast on the house”! Standing meant standing, whether it be with eyes closed and a death grip on the brass leaning bar or not… The fallen who chose to adopt the sitting/prone position were shaken afterwards with a cup of tea; a booby prize on the house. I thoroughly enjoyed the full english breakfast, after which I took a taxi home, and slept like a baby until evening dinner. The hangover was absolutely free… Yours Aye.
Transport for London’s lost property office is made up entirely of items left behind on buses, trains and in taxis across the capital. All handed over by members of the public, and carefully categorised and stored by staff in the offices in Baker Street awaiting the return of their owners. But for many belongings sadly that never happens and the storage rooms are now home to hundreds of thousands of items – 246,241 were handed in last year alone. Umbrellas? We’ve had a few handed in, around about 12,000 or so! A long while back whilst attending a course in London, a colleague and I decided to walk around Covent Garden to grab a bite to eat. We sat outside of a cafe in the lee of a small wall to keep out of the blustery wind and small autumn shower. Just as a well attired elderly city gent walked around the corner with his umbrella up; the wind caught it and blew it inside out, then back down again. In doing so it pushed several spines through the material, his shoulders slumped as he took a seat next to us.
Safe to say I am not a lover of battery driven cars, not matter what propaganda is spouted out by the makers. I love to hear the growl and rumble of a turbo driven engine sat within the bodywork of a real muscle car, or a 4×4 beast. Batteries are for torches, watches, clocks, and what ever other device requires them, other than a vehicle. So when I caught the following article, I mused over it as I poured my mid morning cup of tea.
Shares in electric Tesla Motors fell more than 6 per cent on Wednesday after a video showed one of the firm’s electric Model S vehicles engulfed in flames in Seattle. The stock dropped after the initial reports, and then again when a spokesman confirmed the fire began in the battery compartment of the car. The Model S has previously been touted as the safest car in America and it received among the highest scores ever recorded from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) in August. In an incident report, officials wrote they thought the fire started in the car’s battery following a crash, not due to a fault. (The battery in any Hybrid vehicle requires to be replaced after so many charges, on average it works out to be roughly six years. The price of the battery is roughly one third of the price of the car when bought new; A new ‘Toyota Prius Plug-in-Hybrid’ is roughly £30,000, hence a new replacement battery will cost £10,000)!
There is an electric ‘Toyota Prius Plug-in-Hybrid’ that travels along the small, narrow, country lane that runs past my home into the small village. At lease three times each week it passes me as I take my walk, always without warning, because not once has it been running on petrol as it creeps along. Each time I almost drop from a heart attack as it glides silently past. In bygone years there would have been a bloke carrying a red flag walking in front of it, to warn pedestrians of impending doom. Yesterday I walked to the village to place a letter into the post box, only to catch the driver of the Toyota parked next to the box doing the same thing thing. In a courteous manner I spoke of the problems the cars silence brings, some thing he was aware of. We both agreed that Toyota should place some kind of artificial engine noise within the system as a warning device, after all, even a new peddle cycle has to be sold with a bell; as a requirement of law. Victor Meldrew shown, not the actual driver…
This morning as I returned from a short walk I was deep, deep, in thought about research I’m involved in. When all of a sudden, a savage wild boar let out a blood curdling scream, as it almost grabbed me; In fact it was a huge lion that let out a blood curdling roar that almost grabbed my leg; No, it was an echoing scream from Cerberus the mythical creature with three heads, on one body, with a long tail, and razor sharp talons, that almost grabbed my right leg.
In actual fact it was all three of those described, or it may as well have been. Because the idiot driving the Toyota Prius waited until he was right next to me, and (((honked))) his bloody horn to warn me he was there! Sitting on a branch in the safety of a tree I could feel my heart beating ten to the dozen, as I watched him raise a hand, and wave as he silently glided away along the country lane. Yours Aye.
Rather than brush this one under the carpet I thought I would try and read through to understand the story ‘proper-like’. I have failed, miserably… CAUTION Strategically pixelated; Topless equality transexual activist causes bust-up with neighbors after insisting on doing EVERYTHING – including barbecuing and bike-riding – half-naked I also feel that 38-year-old ‘Stacey’ Schnee, the pre op (or) post op transexual who is a single Mom, was previously (presumably) a single Daddy at some point, who like most men would take off their shirts in summer to bask in the sun, without any one around taking offence.
Perhaps ‘Stacey’ Schnee has fallen into the transexual trap of keeping a psychological foot either side of the metaphorical door, caused through a chemical imbalance. Because lets face it, the position she is now in can only be attributed to the amount of chemicals pumped into her body daily.
Her quote also concerns me some what: “I’m topless and even nude in front of my kids all the time. ‘For them it’s nothing. They don’t see it as anything strange at all. They just don’t care. ‘This is just how our family is. It’s just a little different. Daddy has breasts and Daddy is now a girl. To them it’s completely normal.“ Normal is correct when used as an Antonym, certainly not when used as a Synonym. Dignity & respect sits in balance with age & gravity, there is a time in an adults life when covering up correctly in front of growing children is expected. Nature, just like the English language, is a wonderful thing, messing with each brings along its own problems.
Yours Aye, who lives in the real world.