Bang Goes the Theory!

When it comes to physics, there are quite a few laws and theories.

There are the obvious theories, such as Einstein’s Relativity or Newton’s Gravity. Now we have the Higgs Boson which always reminds me of the film, Back to the Future for some reason.

But there is a law of physics that applies to us all each and every day, a law which drives us all mad. This law is known by lots of names; some know it as ‘Murphy’s law’ but I know it as Sod’s Law’.

Sod’s law is the law that states when you drop your buttered toast, which is what happened to me this evening, it shall always land buttered side down!

Sod’s law does not only apply to buttered products, it is far more diverse than that! The law applies to every atom in the fabric of the universe.

When you are in a busy queue in the super market and you suddenly notice a till that has just one sweet little old lady waiting to be served, so you quickly gather all your things together and move, with the smug satisfaction that you shall soon be away with your bounty of products that you neither wanted or needed. But then for no other reason than pure spite, Sod’s Law decides to kick in. 

The old lady can’t decide what she wants to buy, and wants to change a few products. Then she has to count out all her payment in pennies which she has been saving for twelve years just for this moment. Meanwhile the queue you were in starts to go down faster than a Brazilian footballer in a penalty area!

Then the old lady decides that she can’t afford to pay for all her goods so she has to decide what to send back. By now your temper is starting to fray, as the people that are in the queue that you have just left start to snigger at you, because they all knew about the doddering old dear in front of you.

You are now so desperate to get through the checkout you offer to pay the difference in her shopping. She snaps back that she’s not a charity, and although it’s very kind of you, she couldn’t possibly take your money.

The people that were standing behind you in your previous queue are now walking down the aisle and home with all their products purchased, they are now grinning at you because they know that you have just entered into a conversation with the little old dear!

Now for no reason whatsoever, she feels the need to tell you about her Grandson who has just been circumcised, because his willy swelled like a sausage when he tried to have a pee!

You, on the other hand, are wondering what the law is against punching old women in the face!

Your heart stars to skip a beat, as she slowly gathers up her products to bag them; meanwhile, the people that were in your other queue are now at home, knocking up a bit of lunch.

Just when you think you are home and dry, rid of the old bat forever, she drops a jar of pickles on the floor. The mess scatters everywhere and she turns and smiles sweetly to you with a knowing look which says "Never leave the queue you are in!"

Another law of sod is the money trick. The money trick works like this. To prove I’m right, take a piece of small thin circular metal - any will do. Now take this piece of worthless metal and throw it around. Now pick it up and throw it over your head, now pick it up. Now shut your eyes and throw it in any direction you wish. Now go over to it and pick it up, no problems are there?

Now get a coin, one of quite a high value works best for this experiment. Now drop it gently on the floor in front of you. Now pick it up… that’s right, you can’t find it, can you?

It has rolled down a crack in the pavement which is only just big enough to fit the coin if it rolls in a certain way. In fact, I have doubts that the crack in the pavement even existed before you dropped the coin. This experiment works even better if it’s your last coin, or if it’s the only coin you have for a parking meter.

When you drop a coin, it makes a dash for freedom as if it’s following some invisible Pied Piper! You can see it rolling away at warp factor nine before going into hyperdrive and disappearing for good.

There are of course many laws of Sod, some of which are only just coming to light. I discovered a new one only last week. I need to get it verified by the institute of Sodology! It might even be the same law as "never leave the queue you are in".

I have spasmodically been having a go on the national lottery for the last year or so. I only do this because I have noticed just how many poor people there are in the world… and I don’t want to be one of them.

So I decided on a collection of numbers and used them faithfully every week. Of course I haven’t won anything: totally zilch!

A couple of weeks ago, I changed my losing numbers for some sure-fire winning numbers.

The week after, five of my previous losing numbers came up on the Wednesday draw!

Sod It! 

Emotion in Motion Olympiad

When it comes to emotions, I’m an Olympic champion.

I run head-on at problems after jumping to conclusions. People think that I just sail through life without any problems, but this is not true. I have had to box clever to get where I am now, and even throw a few tantrums to get what I want.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t wrestle with my conscience from time to time. But I always manage to overcome all the hurdles that are put in front of me.

It’s no good diving in head-first, as I often find that my work is like swimming with sharks, who always want to take a bite out of me.

But there are others that try to help me hammer out any problems that I may come across, when I find myself having to back-pedal.

When I’m riding high, everyone is my friend but when my back is on the mat, no one wants to know.

But once I lift the weights off my mind, I feel like doing somersaults.

I have to remember that life is a marathon and not a sprint. But once I pass the finishing line, I know that I shall strike gold!

But my main problem is that I just can’t be arsed!

Call Me?

The really wonderful thing about writing this blog is that people anywhere in the world can read it, so for all of you out there who take the time to read my inane rants, thank you!

But there is a problem that I’m finding when writing for people whose first language may not be English; rude words. Different words mean different things all around the world. To prove this, I would like you to read this poem from my first book, ‘The Spot On My Bum’.

My Name Is?

Oh, I wish I was called Lynne

Or Gemma or Lucy.

Any name will do,

I’m really not that choosy.

They could call me Charlotte,

Or Emma or Jane.

They could call me anything,

Please just give me another name.

Yes, Mum could have named me

By lots of names,

From Kirsty to Annie,

But she went and named me after Grandma,

She went and named me Fanny!

Now if you’re not British, you might not get the joke; lots of British people will either think it’s rude or funny depending on your sense of humour. 

One thing you must understand is that we British have lots of names for certain body parts. When it comes to genitalia, we probably lead the world for the most names. It makes no difference whether it’s male or female, different people use different words for their genitalia. But when it comes to the female genitalia the most common name by far is… yes you’ve guessed it, Fanny!

But just to confuse things even further, in America your backside is called your Fanny! In Britain a bum is your backside. In America a bum is a tramp. In Britain we have a bum bag, in America, they call it a fanny bag. This is something completely different in Britain.

My Father, in the ;fifties, was posted to Düsseldorf in Germany for his national service. While he was there he became very good friends with a local lad called Billy. My Father often spoke about Billy to the day he died in 2006. I could never understand why he didn’t try to trace him and get back in touch. But that was my Father , he didn’t like a complicated life.

Now here in Britain Billy is a very common name, nothing unusual about that. Except Billy’s full name was Billy Shite! Trust me, you don’t want that surname in Britain. I’m led to believe that it’s quite a common name in Germany. I don’t know if that’s the correct spelling, though, but when I was ten years old that was the funniest name in the world. If you don’t know what shite means in English, look it up.

Once when I was having problems with my local council about drainage I received a really snotty letter from a council employee; the letter was signed Richard Head.

Again if English is not your first language you wont get the joke immediately.

The old English word for Richard is Dick. Richard Head = Dick Head!  Again if you don’t get the joke, look it up. 

Now the reason I’m going on about all this is because here in Britain there is a commercial for a brand of pop, mineral water, soda pop, again, it  depends where you’re from.

In the commercial the mother and Grand mother of a new born child insist on naming their new child Fanny!

When I go into high schools, I sometimes read the above poem, which often gets me into trouble, so it’s good to see it being used on prime-time television. Well, it’s not just the poem that causes me problems; you see, there’s a story that goes with it.

When I was young I used to stay with my Grandparents. On Friday evenings a bus used to call around the neighbourhood and pick up all the old ladies and whisk them off to play Bingo, lotto, tombola - again, it depends where you are from.

One Friday evening, I had the misfortune of having to go with my grandma. Although I loved her to bits, a night at the bingo was more than my little mind could take. The weather outside was blowing a blizzard and we were dressed ready for the worst. We walked up the road to catch the bus and to meet with my Grandma’s friend, Mrs Roberts. When we arrived at the bus stop Mrs Roberts was already there with her sixteen year old daughter, called Fanny. 

Fanny, like all sixteen-year-old girls, was more interested in fashion than keeping warm she wore nothing more than a flimsy dress and a cardigan. The wind howled and the snow bit at our extremities. Because my Grandmother was Italian, she had a very strange way of speaking English. 

She looked at Mrs Roberts, then looked at her daughter called Fanny. Again she looked at Mrs Roberts, then at her daughter called Fanny.

Finally she turned to Mrs Roberts and said, “Oh Mrs Roberts, your Fanny must be frozen, dressed like that!”

I think it might be the story that gets me into trouble!

  

To Be, Or What To Be?

I have just been informed by a young man that he’s a chef. So? you may ask -  well, exactly; that’s what I thought. But he was under the impression that I would fall at his feet and worship him when he informed me of his profession.

Seemingly, to be a chef is the new superstar status? He wasn’t too pleased when I told him it was, ‘just knocking up a bit of dinner!’

He then took great pains to tell me just how difficult it is to create a new ‘taste sensation?’ He should have gone into advertising.

As I seem to say on far too many occasions, I am part Italian, and have grown up to eat a Mediterranean diet. My Grandma was, in my opinion, one of the greatest cooks ever to live. It’s not just me that thought that, all my friends were introduced to pizzas way before they were a fashion in Britain.

I now cook all the food in my house and have, on many occasions, sold some of my recipes to chefs who want to create their own new, ‘taste sensation!’ But it’s still just knocking up a bit of dinner.

The problem we have is that young people don’t regard some skills as skills anymore, while worshipping the useless.

Some professions that I hear that young people aspire to all the time are;

Actor.  Someone who pretends to be someone else.

Model. A person who puts clothes on and takes clothes off.

Footballer.  A person who kicks a ball

Celebrity.  A fuckwit!

Now, please don’t get me wrong; if I was offered the chance to do any of the above jobs (with the exception of model) I would jump at the chance. And I write and tell stories for a living which, let's face it, is not rocket science, is it?

When I left school, I became a joiner on the building sites, because that’s what my father did for a living.

All the building industry is now suffering because there are no apprenticeships and no skilled people to do the jobs. Being a joiner or brickie or sparkie or plumber is skilled, hard work and deserves to be regarded as such. That’s why they earn so much money now. The same has to be said of engineers and any other artisan skill.

The next time you have a flood in your house, call a model and see what use they are. Most skilled trades people, what ever their trade, would know enough to avert a total disaster. I’m not saying that other jobs are not worth while; on the contrary, I’m saying that any job is a worthwhile pursuit. Try going without your bins being emptied for a few weeks and just see how important refuse collectors are. If I were a refuse collector, I think I would still prefer to be called a ’binman’, though - I don’t know why, but it just sounds good.

So it’s about time that all people were shown their worth, whatever their jobs whether they are hard working teachers, nurses, trades people or ’binmen’.

People should realise that yes, some actors can earn quite a bit of money, but most are just struggling by.

I know lots of young people in the eighties all wanted to wecome wankers...wankers... sorry the key for the letter wetween A and C is not working. They all wanted to work in finance and wecome wankers.. .And they all achieved their dream.

Ye Cannae Take My Freedom!

I have, for quite a while now, been thinking about the true meaning of freedom. Being married as long as I have sends you like that.

We are none of us ‘free’ in the true sense of the word. To be really free you would have to take a bow and arrow and live in a jungle by yourself. I can guarantee that if you think this is such a romantic idea, your thoughts would quickly change from freedom to survival.

You see that’s the problem we have, freedom means different things to different people. We have to have rules and laws, otherwise humans could not function as a group. All creatures on earth have rules of their species that they obey, but there are a few Mavericks.

The recent events with the newspapers here in Britain gave me cause to worry. The west likes to think that it leads the way in democracy, but whose version of democracy?

In the past, you read a newspaper that reflected your political stance. You then knew which side of the fence you had to paint. But in time, some press barons became more powerful than others. And the political scene in Britain changed, as son of Thatcherstien, Tony Blair formed ‘suits R us’ and all parties jumped on the bandwagon. The problem was that without definition, they need spin; so they climbed into bed with the press barons.

Politicians in bed with the press and vice versa is a corrosive and deceitful affair, that, as we have just seen, can only end in tears. Gone are the days of real press men such as the Australian reporter John Pilger, who spoke out against Britain's and America's foreign policy because he saw them as colonialism, and in came the "who’s shagging who" brigade.

Newspapers don’t carry news any more, just shit about so-called celebrities, none of whom I have heard of. They are usually talentless attention-seekers that would sell their child for a paragraph in one of the daily red tops! Do you really care who other people sleep with? As long as they are not sleeping with my wife I don’t give a toss, come to think of it even if they are sleeping with my wife I...no, just kidding.

In the past, a celebrity was - as it said on the can - ‘A person whose life you celebrated’.

When one of my heroes, Gandhi, visited the west, a reporter, seeing a good headline asked, “Mr Gandhi, what do you think of western civilisation?” To which Gandhi replied, “Yes, it sounds like a good idea!”

Can you imagine any politician anywhere in the world now with the wit to say something as clever as that?

You see, true freedom is intellectual freedom, free from political, social or religious dogma. The right to think freely without having to conform or obey ideologies that have been fed to us over many years.

I love the quote that is attributed to Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet). “I disapprove of what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” I believe this with every atom of my being. (The last line was mine, not Voltaire’s).

To be truly free intellectually is probably even more difficult than buying a bow and arrow and moving to the jungle. We have all been bombarded from birth with the views of people which we have come to take as the truth without ever questioning them. They become our snuggle blanket that we wrap around ourselves in the mistaken belief of truth.

I have, for many years, been trying to rediscover the real world, viewing it without my biased, bigoted glasses of my past given to me by both my parents and my social background. It is very difficult, as I no longer have my snuggle blanket as I’m constantly confronted with people whose beliefs are entrenched into their very fibre. The world is a big, diverse planet full of amazing, wonderful things. Some of which we know lots about, some of which we know very little. I wish all people were given the chance to go with an open clear mind out into the world and see and feel its true beauty, without the brain-damaging ideologies their societies force on them from childhood.

We can not achieve intellectual freedom unless we have the ability to understand what others have to say and, in turn, communicate our ideas back to them. Every person on this planet should have the right to a proper free education. Without literacy we are again reliant on others to give us information, this of course will be their version of events.

Now for the shameless promotion of my work. I have been quite fortunate in my life and had a bit of success in my chosen field which if you don’t know is writing and comedy or both. My first book, ‘The Spot on My Bum’ has become a book which children and adults love. It was written at first to encourage my son Lee who is dyslexic, I now travel the globe trying to engage young people using humour and rude poetry. I try to show them the fun side of learning; the rest will then follow.

I have recently started to write for older teens and for adults. These books are fast-paced stories with strange twists. I want adults who wouldn’t normally read to pick up a book and have a go. My stories hopefully are written in a style which is all story and no padding, so you can pick it up and put it down when you like - just like freezing a DVD. It must be working, as my new book Changes, is up for an award (vote here on the side of this blog!)

This is why I have been thinking recently about freedom. My publishers have let me experiment with styles which in truth can be hit and miss. I also have a radio show on Phoenixfm 96.7fm which goes out every Wednesday at 2 pm till 4 pm British time. I present the show with my co-host Chantel (she hates it when you spell her name wrong!) and it’s just chat and comedy. Again Phoenix lets me experiment with the content of the show.

There must be lots of people out there who have a talent for art. Whether it be for writing, painting, sculpture, music or any other form of art. Who have never had the chance or the opportunity that I have been lucky enough to have.

So I want to start some sort of artistic movement, where beginners can work with established people in their chosen field. I want them to have the intellectual freedom to try out new ideas. You wouldn’t believe how many times people tell me, “I would love to write a book!” Well, come on then, do it!

I don’t care where you are in the world or what your background is. This is where artists new and established can swap ideas free from doctrine and dogma to create new art. I have called my new series of books Twisted Minds; I think that would be a good name for my new venture.

I have no idea how this will work, but if you like the idea then post a comment or send me an e mail.

Remember this is an artistic movement not a political or religious movement.

Do you have a twisted mind full of other peoples ideas?  Let's untangle the knot!

Now I have to go cook a meal for my wife, when I have dropped off some presents to her sister's house for her. I do love my freedom!

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow!

When I was a young man, the hair on my head was thick and luxurious, my skin was smooth and my body firm.

Now my body is like a sack of silly putty, my skin is like an Axminster carpet and my luxurious hair has turned into African scrub land.

I think that my hair is trying to escape my body bit by bit. It all started out on the top of my head; now it is slipping down my body. I first noticed it trying to climb out the bottom of my nose. Then to my surprise I found what looked like a family of daddy longlegs living in my ears. These turned out to be long thick hairs that had either grown two inches overnight or managed to hide in the cavities of my ears.

It wasn’t long before all my head hair made a break for it, in one mass exodus. Hairs appeared around my nipples, on my fingers and toes. But the biggest shock came just a few years ago.

After having a warm relaxing bath one evening, I found myself wondering into my bedroom. I seem to do this a lot lately. My legs set off walking while my brain is preoccupied with other matters. I find myself in various rooms, totally unaware why I’m there. So I decided to dry myself off and get dressed. Because I was dripping wet from the bath, I thought it best not to sit on the bed to dry off. I could have an affair, drain our bank account or smash up my car, but to wet our new duvet cover would be certain death for me if my wife noticed. She is quite a tolerant person but wet duvets are just a step too far for her. Well, that, and walking through the living room with my shoes on. I know what you are thinking, but we have been together for so long that marriage guidance is useless, we would only leave the counsellor needing counselling.

Anyway, I decided to dry myself while standing in my bedroom. All was going well until I tried to dry my toes. This was when I found out that I have a talent for yoga! Standing on one leg while lifting the other and bending forward. If I was a yoga grand master, this would be called something really pretentious like ’Hail to the Sun!’

But because I’m from Huddersfield, we would call it, ’Watch you don’t fall over, you daft bastard!’

While I was in my ‘Hail to the daft bastard’ position, I noticed something that freaked me out. In the reflection of the large mirror on the wardrobe. Some how someone had removed my tight smooth behind and replaced it with the arse of a drill monkey! How could this happen?

This is no joke: my arse is no longer human. Viewed from below a large tree in the Amazon jungle, my arse would look completely at home. In fact you might be forced to comment on what a nice arse that is, swinging up high in the trees. But being reflected back at you in a bedroom mirror in a house in Huddersfield, it was unnatural. It didn’t need shaving; it would need Napalm to deforest this mass.

But there was worse to come, when I pointed out my worry about how much of my head hair was trying to escape from my arse to my wife Carol, she just sighed and said, “ Have you only just noticed it? I have had to look at that for years!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“No I didn’t know that I now have the rear of  a monkey. I need to get rid!”

“What, of your arse?!”

“No, you ejit! Of the monkey hair on my arse.”

“A waxing it is then!”

That night, armed with a strip of waxing paper, Carol set about "operation monkey boy"! There’s no point in me trying to tell you that this story is going to have an happy ending.

With the first go, she managed to attach one of my balls to the waxing paper. Her arm action, as she ripped the paper backwards was the same force needed to get a fighter jet off an air craft carrier. My left testicle was one moment lying peacefully in a slumber only to be snatched backwards at warp factor nine the next. The scream was registered by scientists watching for aliens in deep space, as my wife performed her DIY vasectomy, followed by a pathetic little whimper usually heard from frightened puppies. Which incidentally described my bollocks at this moment in time.

Carol gave me a smile that would give Hannibal Lecter the creeps, “Sorry, did that hurt?” She enquired sweetly holding a piece of waxing paper full of pubic hair and scrotum!

Tears streamed down my face as I crawled from the bed desperately trying to escape the mad woman with the waxing paper. I crawled to the bathroom and locked myself in. I don’t like to cry in front of her!

So, needless to say I now have one arse cheek far hairier than the other, and my hair can escape to where ever the hell it wants. 

Waxing is fine for tables, but not for arses!

 

An Unhappy Smile?

I have just had the misfortune to sit through five minutes of a TV programme called Eastenders.

This programme has all the warmth and humour of cold turkey at a funeral. For the people who are not resident in Britain and are reading this, you may not know what I’m talking about.

The programme is set in the East End of London, which is home to a group of people known as Cockneys or as they like to say Cock,eneys! These people used to be seen as happy chirpy types such as Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. (I know he’s not a real Cockney, see previous posts)

If you asked them to describe themselves, you would always get, “I’m a Cockney, guv'nor, salt of the earth we are!” No I don’t know what that means either. The criminal fraternity or Cockneys used to have their very own language. It is known as rhyming slang.

Plates of Meat = Feet

Apples ‘n’ Pears = Stairs

Butchers Hook  =  Look

Load of bollocks = Rhyming Slang

Get the idea?

Now the East end seems to be all gloom and doom, no one smiles, and everyone is having affairs with their neighbours.

But this set me off thinking, which is never a good sign with me. Which are the happiest and the saddest countries in the world? So I had a chat with my friend Google.

The happiest country in the world, according to Forbes and other academics, doesn’t really come as a surprise to me. I have friends there who always seem happy and well balanced, Hello Annie, Rune and Christopher. The country is…. Norway!

When it comes to wealth, health, freedom and lifestyle they win hands down. Strangely Britain, America and Germany are not in the top ten - but Ireland is.

I’m part Irish and it wasn’t a very happy place when I was young, but on recent visits I can see the transformation.

Now to the saddest country in the world; the criteria for this by the way is the opposite to why Norway won.

I was shocked to find out the country regarded as the unhappiest people in the world. When you think of all the famine, wars and religious persecution that happens on this crazy globe of ours, these people wouldn’t come any where near the bottom of my list of unhappy people.

According to all the polls, Nigeria is the unhappiest place, I really don’t believe this. Surely the people of Somalia are having a harder time? Not only that but when you think of a stereotype you think of a happy smiling Nigerian don’t you? But now seemingly it’s just an unhappy smile.

On my own travels, the friendliest people I have met are the Portuguese and the least friendly. To be honest there’s good and bad wherever you go! But watch out for those Cockneys!

I don’t think you can really say what is the happiest or the saddest place because what makes you happy might not make others happy. After all people watch Eastenders and it even wins awards, personally I would rather have my teeth removed with a hacksaw than watch it!

But let me tell you now, that the happiest place on earth, at this moment in time, is here in my living room where my little five month old Granddaughter giggles and my family chat and I sit typing in the warmth after a lovely meal. True happiness.

And the most miserable place? Batley wins hands down!

Honest, I swear!

Today, I want to talk about something close to my heart -  my ribs!

Just kidding.

This week, an old lady stopped me to say that she was a fan of my blog. I was taken aback that such a sweet old thing would read my ranting. Her hair was grey and thinning; her smile revealed gaps where teeth once lived. She pulled her coat up about her neck to fend off the cold as she smiled and said, “The only thing I don’t like about your blog is that you seem to swear a lot.”

I told her to “Fuck Off!”

Of course, this story is not true (or is it?) but it proves my point. When you read that, you either gasped with shock or burst out laughing. Or if you were my mate Mick you would have said, “Quite right! Interfering old bat!”

There is nothing wrong with swearing, as long as it’s used for effect. This can be for comedy or anger; it emphasises the point.

I’m not talking about the mindless foul-mouthed babble heard from the back seats of buses. Where young people try to show just how grown up they are to ‘Eff and Jeff’. I’m talking about a well-placed naughty word just to liven up a conversation.

It has to be said that, with some of my friends, I too can slip into mindless babble mode. A few have asked if they can visit schools with me to see what I do. I have never ever sworn in a school, well not since leaving school that is. If I were to see their faces I would slip into "out speak" and probably never work again, so best not.

The Irish have a lovely way of swearing and making it sound almost poetic, ’Feck me!’ is a phrase often heard in Irish bars. And one of my favourite Irish phrases is, ’You little gobshite!’  Just how good is that?

So I’m advocating a "bring a swear word to work" day. This is for all the people who are faced with a pile of shit given to them by the public.

On Monday the 18^th of March you can bring a swear word to work and use it for the day.

Can you imagine what fun you would have if you worked in a call centre?

“Hello is this Overpriced Insurance Inc?”

“Yes it is. What the fuck do you want?”

I would buy insurance off someone who said that to me, rather than the irritating, “Have a nice day!”

Or what if you were a teacher calling the register,

“Samson?”

“Sir”

“Slanting?”

“Sir”

“Smith? Smith, where is the little twat?!”

Wouldn’t you love that teacher for life? I would!

So who will join with me to start a campaign for "bring a swear word to work day"? The 18^th March every year from now on.

Now fuck off, I’m off to make a coffee!

Doh!

Right. Before we start, I need to point something out; I’m Stupid! I know I’m stupid. Do you want me to prove it?

When I was just a young sprog, knee-high to a grasshopper, I saw the film Mary Poppins, followed a year or two later by Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang!

Can you imagine my shock when I found out that Dick Van Dyke was an American?! Honest, no joke, I really thought he was a regular Cockney Geezer! Doh!

When I was a young carefree teenager, I found myself a girlfriend who was obviously madly in love with me and totally devoted to me. She would spend most weekends away, staying with her Grandmother. Can you imagine my surprise when I found out that my devoted love was just using me as a front for her parents so she could spend the weekend with her hunky 24-year-old lover! Doh!

Once, while on holiday in Portugal, I  gave a parking attendant a 20 Euro note to change for my parking charge. Can you imagine my surprise when he ran off with it? I later found out he was just some homeless guy that happened to be passing, and the car park was free of charge! Doh!

I once whispered to a teacher in a school that I was visiting that a rather portly male teacher who walked around the place strutting like a rampant stag, was more than a bit lecherous and creepy.

She agreed with me, and added that, “He wasn’t like that when we got married though”. Doh!

There is a reason that I’m divulging my gross stupidity to you all, so you can laugh and sneer at me. No I don’t get any pleasure from being humiliated; I would like to come across as a suave debonair James Bond type.

The reason that I’m pointing out that I have the IQ of a grated carrot, is because of a trip to the supermarket today.

I saw a product which said, ’I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!’

Just how fucking stupid do they think I am?

The Circus of Life!

Roll Up! Roll up! Welcome to the circus of life! Let us beguile you, amaze you and fool you, the audience.

Bring on the clowns, like Abu Qatada and other radical preachers and priests. Like all clowns, they are big and scary, and not at all funny!

They appeal to the young and the naïve; they love chaos, cars blowing up for instance, but have nothing of substance to offer the audience. And like lots of clowns, they are just a distraction from the main event. They have nothing to offer but mindless chaos.

Then we have the strong man, who walks around the ring showing off his might. Like all dictators, he likes a flash of strength, picking on his weaker audience members to bolster his ego. He has only one trick, and that is his show of strength. His audience soon sees through his act and looks for someone bigger and stronger to bully them. A few tire of the strongman act and move on to more free-form art. But all strong men get older and weaker until, one day, they are no more than one of the clowns!

Next we have the trapeze artists that fly high above the audience, looking down. We marvel at their daring swinging from one side to another, twisting and swerving. These western politicians aloof from all that matters fly in their own worlds, where one or two occasionally slip! But don’t gasp too loud, as they always have a safety net to catch them. Except for the one who thinks he’s invincible, he will fall the furthest and hardest! But they always see themselves as the stars of the show.

Next we have the dancers, with all the glamour and style of a bauble. We stare with lust and jealousy, at the media and celebrity show case. But while they distract us, we don’t notice the driving force of the circus, the behind the scenes workers, moving things and changing things before our very eyes!

Holding this all together is the ring master, shouting out his orders, dressed in all his splendour. But we really know that the ’United Nations’ are really just a men in a suit! They have no power by themselves, but daren’t join together.

Before you go back out in to the cold night of reality, you must marvel once more, at the circus financiers.  Without them there is no circus; they hold all the strings. The clowns have nothing to rise against, the trapeze artists have no safety net, the strong man has no strength and the dancers are just puppets. Without the financiers, the show can not go on the road. Without the financiers there is no circus, they bring the whole show tumbling down.

So marvel!, wonder! And gasp in awe, as you, the audience. are fooled and used with nothing more than smoke and mirrors. But always remember,

‘The Audience Always Has To Pay!’

If Only I Could Do That!

There are lots of things that people complain about, when getting older. I have always tried to exercise and look after my body as much as I have abused it, which, to be quite honest, has never been easy.  My body has had more abuse than a blind cobbler’s thumb! They say your body is a temple, but I have never been very religious so mine has never been worshipped much.

I have, in the past, smoked too much, drunk too much; I have also been a kick boxer, and also I have a penchant for cooked breakfasts. All these together make me a happy chappy, but don‘t make for a healthy body.

But to balance all this up, I work out and watch what I eat, with the exception of the cooked breakfasts. I eat fresh cooked food, and no longer drink too much or smoke at all, so for my advancing years,  I think I’m quite fit.

So getting older doesn’t bother me that much, as I can still do all the things I did when I was a lot younger. Except for one thing, a thing you might find disgusting. Something I used to be able to put in my mouth, but now I can no longer do it, and I do miss it, (no not that!) I used to be able to bite my own toenails.

I know it sounds gross, but I liked to watch TV while having a chomp on my toenails. My ability to do this didn’t stop when I was just a sprog, it only stopped a few years ago, and it stopped very abruptly. One day I could sit happily with a mouthful of toe, the next I was about as supple as a stick with arthritis. Why this should happen is beyond me, I haven’t put my hip out or broken any bones! My leg just refused to offer up my foot any more. Perhaps it had developed  manners.

Other than the lack of toe action, I honestly don’t feel any different now to how I did twenty years ago. I know I’m a bit slower, but I still spar and play Badminton sometimes for up to two hours at a time. I travel quite a lot and can set off at two in the morning and arrive back home at eight at night on the same day without a problem.

A friends of mine said, “You’ll just drop down dead with a heart attack one day, you smug bastard!” But I hope that I do - that’s the way to go.

Talking of travel, I really want to visit Australia to work. This sounds strange but you get to see the real country when you work there. You get to know the people, and get to see the good and the bad, rather than a tourist fantasy.

Out of all the countries that I have visited so far, Germany is the one that surprised me the most. I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did! Like all countries it has its problems, but the Germans know how to work hard and they know how to play hard, it’s my kind of place.

Australians seem to have the same qualities, plus the country looks like one hell of a place to visit. So if there’s any Australian school teachers or librarians reading this that want to book me, what are you waiting for..? I have tried this a few times but, as yet,  not a sausage!

Like Germany, I bet there are loads of other countries in Europe that we Brits don’t think of as holiday destinations, but would be a good place to visit. As I have already mentioned I’m lucky enough to travel with my work so I go to places we wouldn’t visit otherwise. Like Luxembourg, I think it’s a country people drive through to get to somewhere else. To be honest it’s better to leave it like that, there’s nothing there to be seen that wouldn’t take you more than an hour!

But what about some of the eastern European countries? We all have an image of cold barren places (well I do) but having seen the football I was surprised just how interesting some of the cities looked. But Burnham-on-Sea looks like a nice resort whenever I’ve seen it on the TV. If the world has an armpit it’s modelled on Burnham!

Travel, even if it’s just around your own country, broadens the mind and opens you up to new ideas. For me it keeps me going and keeps me thinking and feeling young, but I still can’t  chomp on my own bloody toenails anymore!

Don't Do That!

On a recent train journey to Leeds, I was sitting minding my own business in a practically empty carriage. The automatic doors opened and my nutter alarm went off! A lady of certain years looked around the empty carriage then noticed little old me sitting all on his lonesome, so she then waddled over and plonked her excessive bulk next to me!

I did what most people do in this situation I looked out of the window: if you can’t see them they’re not there.

“It’s cold today isn’t it?” she screeched, like a banshee with piles.

I nodded in agreement.

“I’m off to the hospital!” The pitch of her voice was making my left eye vibrate.

She then launched into her sizable list of medical complaints, most of them to do with her ‘nunny’ the thought of this was making my teeth itch.

It wasn’t until I was safely on my way after leaving the train that I thought how odd some people are. Why would you tell your personal details to a complete stranger?

Then I thought: just what is acceptable and unacceptable when you first meet people? I would have to do a bit of research. I would start by asking some of my friends what they think is the right etiquette on a first meeting. If you have read some of my previous blogs you will know that this wasn’t going to be straightforward. My friends are the stuff of a market researcher’s nightmares!

I turned up at Mick’s house. He was sitting eating a pork pie and noodles in the same bowl. (This is the guy who ate the slug).

I looked at his lunch as he ate with gusto, “Is that not a tad dry?”

“What’s it to do with you, I’m eating it!”

“Wouldn’t it be nicer with some mushy peas?”

“Don’t have any, I had sweet corn or noodles in the cupboard, sweet corn tastes like shit! What you up to?”

“I’m on research duties”.

“Who are you winding up this time?”

“No one, honest. I want to know what you think is acceptable to do or say the first time you meet someone?”

“Why?”

“Research duties.”

“Dunno You’re an adult, do what you want!”

“So you think if this was the first time I met you, I could do and say whatever I wanted?”

“I suppose so… You’re not going to do something weird now, like piss on me carpet are you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because all this is strange and I’ve just legged meself up, by saying ‘do what you want, it’s fine by me’”

Mick wasn’t the best choice for this kind of research.

I called the next day at Dave’s house and asked him the same question. He gave it some thought for a few moments then said, “You should never fart without thinking!”

“What?”

“You should never fart without thinking.”

“What when you first meet someone for the first time?”

“Any time! I did once; I had to get undressed in the shower, took me completely by surprise it did.”

I left without asking any more questions. So I‘m no wiser, but any comments on what you should or should not do on a first meeting with anyone would be appreciated. They are bound to make more sense than my friends’ answers!

Word Up!

Language is malleable, forever changing. Bad is now good, wicked is happy and dope is .. well the arseholes that use this kind of language!

But it depends on your point of view just what words mean, which is why they are so powerful.

Do you not think it’s strange that ‘Banker’ and ‘Wanker’ are only separated by one letter but have the same definition!

A ‘cynic’ is someone who states the facts, whereas an ‘optimist’ is one who ignores them.

People call eastern Europeans that come to Britain and cost the state millions, ‘Scroungers’ while others call them ‘Royalty’! It all depends on your point of view.

A doctor is a person who devotes their lives to saving others, while to doctor the brakes on a car will take lives.

Here are a few words and their true meanings, from the world of advertising.

Free, The price is in the small print!

Fat Free, full of sugar!

Pro Biotic, a live yogurt (which only costs 10p)

Fresh and Light, no substance, all pumped air!

90% say they prefer? 90% who were given free products and didn’t want to be rude!

Stain Removal, Soak it in hot water!

Organic, expensive!

The Drive Of Your Life! That’s how long it will take you to pay the finance back!

Money Back guarantee! You wont have read the small print!

But now advertisers have a new one to add to the list,

Beef Burgers!… You can fill that one in yourself!