Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Cake of the Week - the fudge doughnut
This week's featured cake is the fudge doughnut. This one was purchased first thing this morning from the local bakery. It was wedged behind a metal support in the glass display case, and the shop assistant was unable to dislodge it with tongs - she had to fling them aside and resort to "bare hands". Age isn't a measure of codgerliness but this lady was well on in years - even older than me by quite a long way. I would happily nominate her for "codger of the week" - my next feature.
I seem to have survived with no ill eff-e-e-e-c-c-c-.....................
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Geoffrey goes insane
"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."
"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"
"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."
"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."
"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)
"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"
"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.
"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."
"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."
"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"
"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."
Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."
"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."
"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."
"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"
"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"
"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."
"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."
"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)
"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"
"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.
"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."
"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."
"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"
"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."
Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."
"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."
"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."
"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"
Geoffrey goes insane
"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."
"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"
"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."
"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."
"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)
"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"
"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.
"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."
"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."
"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"
"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."
Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."
"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."
"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."
"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"
"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"
"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."
"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."
"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)
"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"
"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.
"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."
"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."
"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"
"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."
Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."
"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."
"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."
"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"
Monday, 15 August 2011
Gravy of the week - Bisto beef.
This week's featured gravy is Bisto (beef flavour).
It's extremely tasty.
Why sweat over a pan? That's never a pleasant thing to do under any circumstances.
Simply Boil a kettle and make Bisto! Then pour it over your spuds or chips or sausages or all three - and if there's any left in the jug just drink it for afters.
Then get one of these blood pressure-o-meters and marvel as the needle zooms to undreamt of heights.
Not that I'm saying that there is a connection between Bisto, salt levels, and high blood pressure - no. Not at all. Bisto is a tasty beverage-cum-condiment and an asset to any gourmet's kitchen.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Some more jokes from Les Dawson.
I often browse through Les Dawson's Secret Notebooks. Here are a couple of lines that made me smile - like a crack in a septic tank as Les would say.
"Did you ever see the size of his verucca?" "No, I didn't know him that well."
"I'll have you know I'm only twelve stone and some pounds." "How many pounds?" "Sixty two."
"...[Bert]...hasn't performed since Dunkirk. He says it makes the shrapnel move."
re.holidays..."Did you have the shish kebabs?" "From the moment we arrived. Bert blamed it on the way they cooked the chips."
My parents were determined that I should carry on the family tradition of music. For seven years I sweated away on the piano stool. Then things improved - my dad bought me a piano.
My great aunt Margaret, just before she died at the ripe old age of ninety eight, called me to her bedside and whispered, nephew, if you ever fail to get a laugh as a comedian I shall turn over in my grave. That was ten years ago. Yesterday I attended a seance in Birmingham. The medium went into a deep trance and said, 'I don't know for whom this concerns, but I'm getting a very strange message through from someone called Spinning Maggie.'
All from Les Dawson's Secret Notebooks, selected and introduced by Tracy Dawson. £9.99 from JR Books Ltd.
Monday, 27 June 2011
Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac - "Oh Well", Live@ Music Mash 1969
Love Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac. Sheer class.
Friday, 24 June 2011
The Meaning of Existence (oh why not just say life) captured in a sentence #2
I don't love you any more - I haven't for years - but I'll assist you to the toilet because I won't be able to cope with the guilt if I don't.
The Meaning of Existence, captured in a sentence #1
I still love you even if you're old and you can't manage the toilet.
Thursday, 23 June 2011
Name this tune in one
#Err...#......got it yet?
Here's a clue. It's nothing out of the "hit parade". Hit parades for the last twenty nine years actually. There you go.
Here's a two and a three. #Err...err....errrrr........#
Prize is, as ever, a year's supply of pork scratchings made from real pig, but this time instead of all the bristles being removed by my own gnarled arthritic fingers, the pigs were waxed. Much simpler.
Pinky favoured the vajazzle so mind your fillings.
Is Life Worth Living?
"Geoffrey?"
"Yes?"
"Pour us a snifter and chuck us the baccy will you? It's gone ten."
"OK. Wait till I get off the bog first."
"JUST HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!!" interrupted a familiar voice. None other than the Ghastly Dr. Wilson. Covered in seaweed and stinking of sewage as usual. (why is this? I cannot be arsed explaining, but it's All There in previous posts....) Sticking his head in the window without so much as would you mind or a by your leave.
"Oh for -"
"What the Kentucky Fried Chicken are YOU doing here o Ghastly one? Lovely to see you and all that," lied Geoffrey, as he carefully replaced the lav seat and forced a smile.
"I'm here to save you two utter wastes of space from yourselves. Don't have that drink. Put that baccy down. Pop the kettle on and make some hot water instead. Don't have that bacon and egg sandwich. Rather, have a plate of cracked bulgar wheat with a splash of miso, raw garlic and a steamed macadamia nut. If you stick with that regime through the week you can treat yourselves to some Barleycup and an organic sultana each on weekends. Maybe a carob bar. Mind and go for all these cancer tests as well. And don't forget your five a day. Or your compulsory forty five minutes of aerobic exercise."
"Will we live to a ripe old age then Doctor - if we do all that you say?"
"Well you'll avoid the sanctions."
"Sanctions?"
"If you don't adhere to current medical thinking, we'll shoot you. Simple as. You've no right to be alive and taking up space on the planet if you can't take a few simple steps to protect your own health."
"What about pleasure? Cutting loose? Letting go occasionally?"
"Some might take issue but personally I see nothing wrong with having a prune instead of a sultana at Christmas. Surely you can't complain about that! Look at me! I'm a picture of health. Okay, I'm bald, I've got a bad leg, a paunch, piles, hammer toes, gout, halitosis, gingivitis, and chronic flatulence but otherwise I'm the best specimen you're likely to see round here."
"But you're only 27."
"And your point is?"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances, then nodded.
"Do you have the gun on you now? for doing the shooting part."
"Oh no! a-hahaha! I have other people to do that - nurses, for example. They get £28 a head plus an hour's annual leave. No - I'm a doctor - my role is to cure, never to kill."
No gun, eh? We were safe enough. It was time to unleash the Wheechie Net.
"Press the lever please Geoffrey."
WHEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Suddenly the Ghastly Wilson was bundled into a sturdy net and wheeched or "drawn" upwards and sidie-ways by hi-powered rope attachments towards the handy catapult which we have installed beside the house for just such eventualities.
"PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEyoinnnnnnnnGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!" catapult twangs.
"SPLAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" The Ghastly Wilson is launched bay-wards, where the ever-hungry, snapping jaws of the orca await.
"Nom nom nom.................."
"Heh heh heh. Bye bye Wilson! What were you saying about cracked bulgar wheat?"
Treble brandies all round.
"Yes?"
"Pour us a snifter and chuck us the baccy will you? It's gone ten."
"OK. Wait till I get off the bog first."
"JUST HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!!" interrupted a familiar voice. None other than the Ghastly Dr. Wilson. Covered in seaweed and stinking of sewage as usual. (why is this? I cannot be arsed explaining, but it's All There in previous posts....) Sticking his head in the window without so much as would you mind or a by your leave.
"Oh for -"
"What the Kentucky Fried Chicken are YOU doing here o Ghastly one? Lovely to see you and all that," lied Geoffrey, as he carefully replaced the lav seat and forced a smile.
"I'm here to save you two utter wastes of space from yourselves. Don't have that drink. Put that baccy down. Pop the kettle on and make some hot water instead. Don't have that bacon and egg sandwich. Rather, have a plate of cracked bulgar wheat with a splash of miso, raw garlic and a steamed macadamia nut. If you stick with that regime through the week you can treat yourselves to some Barleycup and an organic sultana each on weekends. Maybe a carob bar. Mind and go for all these cancer tests as well. And don't forget your five a day. Or your compulsory forty five minutes of aerobic exercise."
"Will we live to a ripe old age then Doctor - if we do all that you say?"
"Well you'll avoid the sanctions."
"Sanctions?"
"If you don't adhere to current medical thinking, we'll shoot you. Simple as. You've no right to be alive and taking up space on the planet if you can't take a few simple steps to protect your own health."
"What about pleasure? Cutting loose? Letting go occasionally?"
"Some might take issue but personally I see nothing wrong with having a prune instead of a sultana at Christmas. Surely you can't complain about that! Look at me! I'm a picture of health. Okay, I'm bald, I've got a bad leg, a paunch, piles, hammer toes, gout, halitosis, gingivitis, and chronic flatulence but otherwise I'm the best specimen you're likely to see round here."
"But you're only 27."
"And your point is?"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances, then nodded.
"Do you have the gun on you now? for doing the shooting part."
"Oh no! a-hahaha! I have other people to do that - nurses, for example. They get £28 a head plus an hour's annual leave. No - I'm a doctor - my role is to cure, never to kill."
No gun, eh? We were safe enough. It was time to unleash the Wheechie Net.
"Press the lever please Geoffrey."
WHEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Suddenly the Ghastly Wilson was bundled into a sturdy net and wheeched or "drawn" upwards and sidie-ways by hi-powered rope attachments towards the handy catapult which we have installed beside the house for just such eventualities.
"PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEyoinnnnnnnnGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!" catapult twangs.
"SPLAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" The Ghastly Wilson is launched bay-wards, where the ever-hungry, snapping jaws of the orca await.
"Nom nom nom.................."
"Heh heh heh. Bye bye Wilson! What were you saying about cracked bulgar wheat?"
Treble brandies all round.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yeah?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No?
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..........................
Yeah?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No?
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..........................
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Yes - Starship Trooper
Prog!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The first Yes album is their only listenable one - in my opinion. Chuck another log on the fire and let's have some more nettle beer. We're not 65 yet!
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Scots wurd o' th' day
"Bumfuck" - v., to cough loudly and suddenly in front of a horse. As in, "I got such a fright when you started bumfucking that I dropped my bananas. Can't you gargle or something?"
Scots wurd o' th' day. Bumfuck.
I'm lying of course.
It's "chitterie-chatterie", n., a piece of bread eaten immediately after bathing. As in, "I'm starving after that hip-bath - throw another lump of coal on the fire Isa and pass us ma chitterie-chatterie. Bung some crowdie on it if there's any ben the hoose."
That one IS genuine - from page 83 of Chambers's Scots Dictionary, 1959 edition.
Or
"Dorty-pouch", n., a saucy person. As in, "We dinnae hae nae dorty pouches in this hoose, ken."
From page 141, ibid. as they say.
Scots wurd o' th' day. Bumfuck.
I'm lying of course.
It's "chitterie-chatterie", n., a piece of bread eaten immediately after bathing. As in, "I'm starving after that hip-bath - throw another lump of coal on the fire Isa and pass us ma chitterie-chatterie. Bung some crowdie on it if there's any ben the hoose."
That one IS genuine - from page 83 of Chambers's Scots Dictionary, 1959 edition.
Or
"Dorty-pouch", n., a saucy person. As in, "We dinnae hae nae dorty pouches in this hoose, ken."
From page 141, ibid. as they say.
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