Here we go Again (I’m running out of titles)

A big hello to all my growing army of fans – it’s true – I have one more…

… so this guy is an old school-friend and as one of my neighbours said (the one with two kids – well a kid and a monster) he must be really old.  He’s nearly fifty as it happens.

To digress slightly: –

“The monster” is a lovely kid for 99% of the time and he just goes off on one.  Last time me and MLW babysat for him and his sister, MLW had to hit me with the frying pan to make me take my hands off his throat.  Mind you he had passed through that purple colour stage and was turning navy blue.  Only kidding LS – wishful thinking really.

Anyway this little six-year-old fecker has just been across to my house with a plate-full of paella.  His speech was obviously well-rehearsed and went along the lines of – my Mummy says we had some paella left from our tea and she wanted you to have it so you can eat it later.  (MLW is away for two weeks).  The little speech was absolutely fabulous and touched my heart.

As he ran back home across the street he looked back and shouted – And don’t forget to bring the plate back!  Bless him.

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  My latest fan.  The one with twenty-two siblings.  Who I haven’t seen or heard from in decades.

My mate was always much more worldly-wise than I was – I suppose because I lived in a little farming village where the streetlights went out at midnight and he was from a “Town & Port” in East Yorkshire.  He was the first person I knew with a CV – he even knew the full Latin term and what it meant.  I didn’t even know what a CV was and he bloody had one.  The smart arse.

There are many entertaining stories from our childhood/adolescence and I will relate one now.

My big sister lived in Scarborough after she got married – whoo hoo – free holidays.  They never complained but the string of visitors must have been a right pain in the arse.  Anyway me and my mate were staying with my sister-by-the-sea.  Both of us were big lads for our age and had reached the stage when we wanted to start going in to pubs and start our drinking career.

My mate knew that if two of you walked into the pub together, one of you asked for both drinks.  Apparently asking for your own drink and then your mate asking for his is a dead give away that you’re underage.  Oh – and you ask for two pints of bitter – not two pints of beer.  That’s another faux pas for the newly-fledged young drinker.  All you lady readers don’t know half the problems young men have to put up with.  Compared to your “curse” we had a myriad of problems…

Tying a Windsor knot/how much brylcream to use/which barber wouldn’t knacker your quiff/trying to look cool wearing a school cap/… I could go on.

Right – we’re in a Yorkshire seaside town in the mid-1960’s.  We’re gagging to start drinking.  We’re shit-scared to walk into a pub – or at least I was.

Whoops – run out of time – I’m invited out to tea.  The paella’s in the fridge and will be my Sunday lunch.  I’ll endeavour to finish this tale tomorrow.

Some Saturday Night Ramblings

I have two siblings and as children we weren’t particularly buddies as there were four and eight years between us with me being the baby.  The other pair were both war babies and I was born in 1949.  I suppose Hitler was the cause of most family planning from 1939 – 1945.

As my father had missed the early years of my brother and sister’s upbringing, when I came along my mother said”this one’s yours”.  I didn’t find out this information ’til I was in my forties and another bombshell was that told me she didn’t like me when I was a kid.  She made up for it when I grew up.  Bless her.

I don’t remember our house being a very very very fine house when I was young.  We were poor but then so was everybody else so I wasn’t really aware of any poverty – apart from the fact that “no” was said a lot but I just put that down to “parents”.

I have recently got in touch with an old friend of mine.  Thank you Face Book.  We were great pals at school and it was said that we looked alike.  Losing touch is the easiest thing in the world.  All you have to do is nothing.

My pal came from a huge family – there was about twenty of them.  Ah no – I can remember six but here might be one I’ve forgotten.  My mate was the penultimate one and his little brother was extremely quiet compared to the rest of them.  I used to love going to their house as it seemed so happy compared to mine.  His Dad was a small, quiet man (but obviously a tiger where it mattered) and his mother was one of these non-stop work-horses of a woman.  T’was a very happy home.  Despite being a crowded house, I was always made to feel very welcome.

Ho hum.

Anyway – what triggered this piece of nostalgia – apart from the renewed friendship – is that I needed to right a terrible wrong.  I borrowed a book (John Lennon – In His Own Write) and omitted to return it.  A dreadful thing to do to a friend and I am ashamed of myself.  No – I have not returned the book – I’ve bought him a new one.  The original is probably worth ten million pounds now but hey, what the heck!

Sorry old mate.

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I went dog-walking this evening and saw a snake.  Its head was probably as thick as my thigh and without a word of a lie it was thirty feet long.  Wait a minute – oh yeah – its head was as thick as my thumb and it was about thirty inches long.  A real long, skinny little bugger.  However, I do have large thumbs.  It saw me before I saw it and it slithered off at great speed.  Thank fuck.

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Some or most of you will know that I live on an estate, or urbanisation as it’s known over here.  The vast majority of the people who live on the estate are English and of course vary hugely in their friendliness.  All the houses have bells or buzzers on the gates – apparently you don’t enter a Spanish property until you’re invited in.

There lies the difference in people.  One group (let’s call them the Cummins) invite you in as soon as they see you.  Another group – let’s call them Friendlies – will lie in wait for any passing stranger to invite them in at the drop of a hat.  Yet another group will prowl the streets looking for a free beer – generally these people won’t invite you in through their gate.

There was one guy – he’s gone back to live in the UK now,  I won’t say who it was but his surname was that of a gnawing animal that builds dams and his dog was the name of a very fragrant flower.   He had a pint or two in my house but I never got through his gate.  Mind you – he was an ex-Scotland Yard Inspector.  I’ve digressed.

The last group – let’s call them the Miserable-Sods would not invite you on to their property if it was thundering and lightning.  I was going to call them the Miserable-Twats but My Lovely Wife said that was too rude.

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There you go then – a bit of nostalgia, a righted wrong, a serpent and a moan about neighbours.  MLW is watching a film with an all-female cast – bloody riveting.  It’s called The Women.  Now I’m no Film Critic, but if I was, my review would read something along these lines…

“If you are of the female persuasion and you have fuck all else to do – go see it – it has to be slightly more pleasant than having a dose of thrush.  If you have the old meat-and-two-veg swinging between your legs – do anything else rather than watch this film.  Have a vasectomy, have your chest-hairs waxed, have all your teeth filled without anaesthetic, kick yourself in the balls – all these will be happier experiences”.

‘Bye for now.

Another mower story

This one happened in the early ’80’s…

Whilst perusing the postcards in Snaith paper-shop window – amongst offers of massages etcetera there was one postcard that caught my eye.  A petrol, cylinder mower for sale.  It was a good one too – a Suffolk Colt or Punch or something equally spiffing.

I made a note of the accompanying telephone number and toddled off home.  I rang the number and a strong Irish accent answered.  The mower was in the next village and yes I could go round now.  He gave me the address in his lovely Irish brogue and I was round there like a shot.

I omitted to say that the mower was advertised at £35.  This was a tidy sum in the ’80’s.

I arrived at Chez Paddy and noted that the lawns were immaculate.  He managed to find a bit of uncut grass to demonstrate the mower’s abilities.  Great – stripes and everything.

Now the hard part – the negotiation.  Don’t forget it was £35.

I’ll give you £30 says I.

Give us £25 and it’s yours says he.

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Now I know that all Irish don’t negotiate this badly because my lovely wife is a demon….

Probably our favourite holiday of all time was when we went to Goa a few Xmasses ago.  Everything in goa is cheap but MLW thought that she had to haggle.

We were browsing one of the local markets one evening and there was this fabulous pair of ornate flip-flops which would have been £20 in Europe, for sale for about the equivalent of £1.20.  MLW offered the poor stall-holder £1.  I had to walk away in shame.

Good holiday though.

Twelve bloody weeks

Hello everybody.  As I sit here typing this, one of my neighbours is screaming his head off.  As he has just broken up from school today for twelve bloody fucking weeks I am uncertain which one of us will survive.  If you’re a betting person – have a bob on me.

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I was using a Black & Decker electric saw earlier today and it fell to pieces.  Only two pieces mind but one of these was the blade which decided to part company from the rest of the saw.  You must agree that an electric saw without a blade is not much cop.  I’m fairly optimistic that the saw will repair but where do you buy spares these days?

Anyway this reminded me of a Black & Decker story from the 1970’s….

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I bought one of the very first B & D rotary mowers back in the early ’70’s.  This little mower had no grass-box but as I had only two tiny lawns, it wasn’t a huge chore to rake up the cuttings afterwards.

I mowed merrily away for several years without a problem until one day when the mower refused to start work.  The full extent of my electrical prowess is to change a fuse which is what I did to no avail.  My next step was to put it away in the garage hoping that the fairies would mend it.  This has been known to work but not on this occasion.

Luckily my Dad paid us a visit and asked me why I was so glum.  He worked in Leeds at the time and offered to take it to the B & D Repair Place/Shop located near his office.

Dad took the mower to this shop and when he went to collect it a couple of days later, the nice man said it wasn’t worth repairing but he would allow £10 against a new, improved model.  Dad told him to fu… Dad said it wasn’t his decision to make and he would let him know.

I wasn’t in a position to fork out for a new mower at the time so I waded through the long grass to return the bloody thing to the shed to give the fairies another chance.

During this period, a friend of mine from work called round to make a social call.  This guy was a fitter so his practical side was slightly better than mine (!).

Why so glum he asked.  Come to think of it, I must have looked permanently glum at that time!  I told him the story and he asked if I’d checked my brushes?  Brushes?  Come on, let’s have a look.

The mower was a simple affair – four wheels, a handle and a motor.  The cover to the motor was pop riveted on but I was amazed when my mate Andy (Gill) didn’t let this stop him and the rivets were removed in quick time using brute-force and ignorance.

Surprise, surprise.  Not an electric motor per se but a drill fastened to the chassis and poking through it where a blade was fitted instead of a chuck.  Seemples.  We swapped the brushes in the mower-drill with the brushes in my drill-drill and away went the mower – good as new.  It gave many more years of excellent service.

The black-cloud disappeared from above my head and I was no longer glum.  I was absolutely elated.  I couldn’t thank Andy enough.  The whole job had taken less than half an hour from start to finish.  The motor cover had been bolted on and everything looked as good as new.

Whoa whoa whoa there – elation?  Have you forgotten something?  Oh aye – that twat in the B & D store in Leeds.  Being a grumpy young man in those days, I wasn’t going to let this lie.  I hate, loathe and detest being blatantly ripped-off.  I did then and I do now.  It’s not big and it’s not clever.

I wrote to B & D and received a letter back saying could I describe the man.  I wanted to go to the place with my Dad and rip his throat out but instead I just lost interest.  I was much less tenacious in those days.

I don’t know if it’s coincidence but I don’t think I’ve bought a Black & Decker anything since then.

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I have another lawn-mower tail.  If one or two of you “Like” this story I will tell it.

Mixed Bag

Sorry – but I have to mention Pointless again.  There was a pair on yesterday who seemed to be very cleverly matched by God.  The question was to name a member of the Labour Government between 1997 and 2010.  She said Boris Johnson and he said Kenneth Clark.

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I would now like to welcome back to our local ants.  They’ve been away on their ant holidays listening to their ant music.  They suddenly returned last Sunday which coincidentally was the day the clocks went forward.

When I walk the dogs, my mind does tend to drift off in all sorts of strange ways so I started wondering where they’d been on holiday.  I came up with the following list: –

• Antarctica
• Argantina
• Southanton
• Northanton
• Nantwich

I suppose there are loads more…

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Tomorrow is April Fools Day.  It’s also my birthday.  I think it’s a great birthday.  When I was a kid, I hated it.  I now realise it’s a very easy one to remember.  When I was at school there were to other kids in my class with the same birthday.  Three kids out of thirty sharing the same birthday.  What are the odds of that?  Ian Wraith and Julia Rushworth.

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Why?

Part of today’s ramblings is – why do stupid people go on TV Quiz Programmes?  As I’ve said before, I’m a big fan of Alexander Armstrong, Richard Osman and Pointless.

There have been some fantastic answers on this over the last few weeks – my favourite being the Geordie woman who thought Twickenham was a First-Class cricket playing county.

One young girl thought General de Gaulle was the leader of the armed forces during the French Revolution.  Another youngish woman when faced with the question of naming a best-selling author said “I don’t know any authors”.  Why show yourself up in front of millions of people?

Do these people have an extra chromosome?  Perhaps they are lacking the chromosome which gives normal people self-awareness.  As Rabbie burns said – “Oh w’u’d some pow’r the giftie gi’ us, to see ourselves as other see us”.

Whilst on the subject of the infamous Mr Burns, I think he is also associated with the saying – “If at first you don’t succeed, throw the bairstard o’er yer heed”.  My favourite poem of his though is – “Upon the hill there stood a coo,  it musta moved it’s no’ there noo”.

Going back to thick/stupid people – what on earth are they teaching kids at school these days?  Eeh – when I were a lad if you didn’t know your 29 times-tables you’d be thrashed within an inch of your life.  Kid’s today don’t even know what a bloody inch is!

That reminds me of an old joke – best told in a Yorkshire accent.

Yorkshireman’s wife of fifty-plus years dies.  He goes to the funeral home and the discuss what he wanted etching on her gravestone.  I would like “She was Thine” says the man “as she was very religious”.  This is agreed with all the other paraphernalia about her being a wonderful wife/mother/grand-mother etcetera.  The man goes back after a couple of days to examine the stonemason’s work.

The wording is perfect – except he’s put “She was Thin” instead what was requested.  The old man isn’t upset but says “You’ve missed out the ‘E'”.  “Go ‘ave a cuppa tea lad and I’ll put it right for thee”.  The old man goes back in  half an hour to discover the gravestone now reads – “Eeh she was thin”.

I wonder why you never read on a gravestone about the miserable, rotten, old fuckers of this world?  I think I’ll write my own before I pop my clogs.

Something along the lines of…

HE WERE A GRUMPY OLD SOD

HE NEVER ADMITTED WHEN HE WAS WRONG

MIND YOU IN FAIRNESS HE WAS USUALLY RIGHT

WE TOLD HIM NINETY-THREE WAS TOO OLD TO RIDE HIS MOTOR-BIKE

HE WAS A GRUMPY OLD SOD BUT HE WILL BE MISSED

 

So then and or but?

If you don’t like people (i.e. me) having a good-old moan then stop reading now.

When I were a lad many many moons ago, I went to Grammar School.  I once saw someone on F/B who said they’d been to Grammer School – the mind boggles!  I must have listened some of the time when I wasn’t gazing at Linda Brewins.  Ah, lovely Linda my first love and the first girl I ever snogged properly.  She finished with me, the rotten cow and went off with a Modern Schooler.

Back to the point Steve…

I don’t remember much about English apart from ignoble is the opposite of noble and don’t start a sentence with any of the words in the title of this blog.

I have just finished reading a book by a guy called Glenn Cooper.  He’s written a few books but this was the first I’d read and it was called The Tenth Chamber.  It was a readable enough tale but about six times a page, Glenn would start a sentence off with “and”.  The story must not have been compelling enough because I started noticing his grammar.  Don’t tell anybody this but I found myself with a pencil in my hand (no idea how it got there) and started crossing out the “ands”.  The sentences all made the same sense.

I became so bloody mad with this fucker that I looked him up on the T’interweb.  Sure enough – he had a website so I sent him a message.  In the message, I soft-soaped him a bit – saying how much I was enjoying his book but then I asked why he started so many sentences with “and” and did he know this was grammatically incorrect?

Amazingly, he wrote back.  He called it “Artistic Licence” and quoted a couple of other authors who also weren’t perfect.  I wrote back to him and said that Roddy Doyle was very difficult to read but four wrongs don’t make a right.

The reason I quoted the very funny Mr Doyle was to show this twat that I’d read other books too!

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They’re there their.  These poor little buggers also get misused a lot too.  As do two, too and to.  Many people use “to” when they mean “too”.

They say the English is a very difficult language to learn.  Tosh.

If foreigners don’t understand words like cough, enough, dough, bough, slough, Slough etcetera, then don’t fucking use them.  Use other words like throat noise, sufficient, raw bread, tree branch, thing what snakes do to get rid of their old skin, Reading etcetera.  There’s always a way round.

What is the point of knowing the plu-perfect or other complicated tense of a verb.  If my Spanish translates as “I go to pub” instead of “I am going to the pub” – so what?  At least they would know I’m not going fucking shopping!

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I could go on but I think nearly five hundred words of pure grumpiness is enough for anyone.  Well done if you managed to reach the end.  You must be a fan.  It’s actually over five hundred words now.

Beaurocracy, Inefficiency and Downright Bloody Incompetence

I love Spain.  I really love Spain.  Spain is a fantastic place to live.  Most of the time that is.  It’s great until you want to do something that isn’t day-to-day stuff.

I am (hopefully) about to embark on yet another new business venture or call it a get-rich-quick scheme if you’re cynical like my lovely wife.  The poor girl’s glass is always half-empty.  She says it has to be to curb my over-enthusiastic bull-at-a-gate mentality.

I know if something seems too good to be true, it usually is.  Time will tell.

The new venture involved opening a new bank account.  I went into a bank in the village – I won’t name it but it’s located opposite Frankie & Louisa’s.  Everyone seems to sing the praises of this bank and I went in last Wednesday to make my initial enquiry.  There’s a lovely blonde girl who works in there who was extremely pleasant and helpful.  She told me it would take me ten minutes to open the new A/C.  She lied bless her.

I had one or two t’s to cross and i’s to dot before I committed to the new bank but went back later that day to do the deed.

I had to produce my passport and NIE paperwork (Spanish red tape) and Blondie realised my NIE had gone out of date last October.  Bugger.  She said that it didn’t matter but to renew it ASAP and take the renewed document in to the bank.  Fair enough.  I also ordered a piece of equipment, without which I cannot start the new “job”.  A couple of days she told me for the new IT stuff to be fitted to my home PC.

I know that a couple of days meant three or four so I waited four days before going back to the bank to pester.  Hello Steefen, I was greeted with.  Where’s my new piece of equipment,  I asked.

Spanish red tape now reared its ugly head – you can’t have it until you obtain your new NIE.  It’s very difficult to become angry with an attractive blonde girl but I managed it.  You’ve just wasted me four fucking days I ranted – managing to rattle the windows with my bellowing.  I then stormed around the bank, knocking things off desks, scattering leaflets, picking up chairs and smashing them against the wall.  what a mess I made – there were telephone, screens, files, folders and papers scattered everywhere.  People were cowering in corners.  The drinking water machine was slowly glugging its contents all over the floor.  Total bloody carnage.

Oh no.  Er…. hang on a minute…

That’s what I wanted to do – instead I just said I was really angry and disappointed.  I received the Spanish shrug as a response.  The Spanish shrug is not quite as good as the French one – I don’t think they’ve been doing it as long.

I now have to renew my Padron (more red tape) and then renew my NIE.  The first task is accomplished in the village bu the second means a trip to the huge metropolis of Murcia.  These trips into the region’s capital are fraught with danger and quite often end up with steam coming out of someone’s ears – mine normally.  The last time MLW and I went on a similar excursion to Murcia I was “spoken to” by one of the security guards (true).

As I said in my opening paragraph – Spain is a great place to live as long as you’re buying a tin of beans.

Ingenuity

Today, whilst My Lovely Wife is watching Desperate bloody Housewives I thought I would tell you a couple of tales of ingenuity –  one quite old and one new.

Pitmen are very ingenious and their ability to improvise is phenomenal.  Most pitmen are not well-educated but as far as intelligence, talent and ability they’re second to none.

Many years ago, I think it was the late ’70s or early ’80s,  the National Coal Board along with many other firms (I think there might have been a law passed) stopped paying their employees wages in cash but instead, everyone was paid into their bank account.  Unbelievably, quite a few miners did not have a bank account and these people were helped by bank employees visiting the pits to give totally unbiased advice on which was the best bank.

This whole thing went seamlessly and was accepted by all parties – particularly the wages department even though some of them lost their jobs.  Mrs Thatcher’s Britain – the old bastard – may she die in severe pain.  Probably.

This new regime did however cause a few problems amongst the workforce.

One guy had always kept thirteen pounds from his wages and “tipped-up” the rest to his missis.  Now however, he had to write a cheque and go to the bank and cash it.  His problem?  He couldn’t spell “thirteen”.  His solution?  Write two cheques – one for ten and the other for three.  Seemples!

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Story 2…

MLW’s first husband had two boys with MLW (she was HLW then).  Two well-balanced, lovely lads they are too.  The ex re-married (his secretary/baby-sitter) and fathered two more children with his second wife – again two boys.  These boys appear to be little carbon copies of their elder step-brothers.  The elder (of the younger two) is quite studious and is destined for university any time now.  The younger one (of the younger two) is dyslexic.

When I was a lad at school the unsympathetic, cruel bastard, teachers would have called these poor little fuckers thick and wiped their hands of them.  Nowadays, as we all know,  kids seem to get their arses wiped for them.  Sorry Jake/Annie if you’re reading.

Right then – back to the youngest of the four brothers…

The school refectory at their posh (private) school, sold coca/pepsi-cola at some ridiculous price.  The young entrepreneur saw an opportunity and acted accordingly.  With the aid of his young mum he bought a load of rola-cola cheaply and distributed these cans amongst his pears.  He was very happy – making a few bob.  All his mates were happy – saving a few bob.

The losers were the school.

They eventually realised that the bottom had fallen out of their cola sales and their enquiry eventually revealed the culprit.  They immediately, as would all schools since time immemorial, stopped these shenanigans forthwith.  The short-sighted wankers.  Surely all budding Richard Bransons should be encouraged?

They did have a bit of a re-think and decided the cola scam could carry-on providing the youngster gave all the profits to the school.  He told them to fuck off.  Good for him.

 

It’s been a while…

My lovely wife is in Ireland this week so I’m watching what I want on TV.  No Shameless, no Holby City, no Desperate Housewives…

I like to watch Pointless and Eggheads and then I mostly turn the TV off until ten o’clock when I can find normally something worth watching.  On the subject of TV – I don’t like the new format of Room 101.

I do miss MLW of course but that little bit of quiet is also nice.

It’s funny, but women seem to need to go “home” more often than men.  At the moment, MLW is away, as is Carol and Jean and Sylvie goes “home” today.  Men are from Sucina, women are from – er… another planet anyway.

To backtrack a bit to Room 101 – oh boy – could I fill Room 101.  For those who aren’t aware – it refers to an Orwellian place where things don’t come back from and the guests on the programme say what they would like to banish from the face of the earth.

One of my latest pet hates is the way loads and loads of people have started talking – you know when people raise their voice at the end of a sentence as though they’re asking a question?  There’s a posh name for it – AI something or other – which is Australian Inflection whatever – them fuckers have doing it for years.

To all you that do it – just fucking stop will you and talk proper English English.  We invented the language and this generation seem determined to fuck it up.

AI? doesn’t seem to have reached Sucina yet.  TF.

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To mention something else Orwellian – I downloaded a great tune a couple of weeks ago.  It’s call The Eye in the Sky by the Alan Parsons Project.  It was released in the early eighties and I love it.

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I would like to inform you that my little gang has a new playmate.  Mr Frank C joined us this week playing pool/ten-pin-bowling and I think we showed him a good time.  He says he’ll come with us next week – we’ll see.

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I walked the dogs last night around five o’clock and it was quite nippy.  There’s a hint that winter might me finally on its way.  Up ’til now it’s been sitting-out-warm so we can’t complain.

We bit the bullet last week and called in a professional to sort out our wood-burner.  This guy was here two and a half hours, made a few minor adjustments and charged us two hundred Euros.  He drives a big car.

In fairness he has cured the problem we were having so was it worth the money?  I suppose it was but I still feel a bit ripped-off.

Ah well – it’ll soon be spring!