Aberdeen Rolls

Glancing at the 'Aberdeen Mad' messageboard, (a forum for supporters of Aberdeen Football Club) I came across a thread devoted to the 'Aberdeen Roll' or 'Rowrie' as it is called. My friends from Aberdeen stuffed gazillions of these down my throat some years ago and I have never forgotten the experience! The Rowrie is one of those things you just cannot stop stuffing into your big gob, or mine preferably! The 'EatScotland' website gives a few details of these lovely eats and if you ever happen to be in the Aberdeen area ensure you grab a few. It must be said these do not come under the heading 'Healthy eating.' That particular joy is one Scots tend to forego! Add to this a smoking habit and an ability to down pints of beer only Danes and Germans can equal it comes as no surprise to find Scotland has one of the highest rates of heart disease in the world! Certainly people eat better now than a few years ago and smoking is on the decline, however to much emphasis on fatty foods and slovenly lifestyle still brings a sad end to far too many. That said if someone force feeds me a bag, or two, of Rowries I will let them! I recommend a visit to the 'EatScotland' site for a touristy glimpse of Scots nourishment, however I do not suggest a visit to the Aberdeen Mad site. You see while the tourist site is written to be understood by one and all the football site is written in a language known as 'Doric.' This is a form of English which is unreadable outside of the North East of Scotland. While our good friend Mike S, will be cognisant with it there is no chance you and I, normal folks, can understand half the words.



Last night I found I had finished the book I had been reading. I searched for a light, easy on the eye tome to take to bed with me. I would have searched for a twenty something blonde but the ASBO prevents this. However in spite of the books all around me I could find nothing to suit my mood! They were all too heavy, wrong subject, or caused me to think, and that is something I attempt to avoid these days. In the end I found myself reading a 'Somerfields' magazine, one of those free things they leave at the checkout for dumb blonde's to get inspiration from. What is happening to me? I put myself to sleep reading about 'Griller Thrillers' and vouchers for hairspray!

When does the football season start again?

Van Morrison, 'Hymns to the Silence'

Simply one of the best albums ever made!

The Days of Not So long Ago!

Watching a poor actor, that's poor in acting ability not cash, I was intrigued by the need to actually dial a number on the round dial of the aged phone he was using. How long ago is it since we used such old fashioned equipment? Well, not very long ago actually! The speed at which life changes appears to get faster with each passing day. If you happen to be a youthful geek then it is possible to understand a small hand held device that not only males phone calls but acts like a computer, makes the tea and Hoovers the house. However if you have known something of life such devices are somewhat irritating, even when useful. I came here thirteen years ago from the centre of London, and London was quite pleased I can tell you! However I had to spend several minutes in a phone box, a big red thing designed in the thirties, call an almost helpful operator and demand a phone was installed in the pig-pen. This duly arrived, late, and as far as I can recall it was a proper white phone with a dial. You never see them now! Today there is a generation to whom the phrase 'Press Button 'B' and get your money back' is meaningless! OK, I realise you will all pretend you belong to this generation. In the days before decimalisation phone boxes collected (usually 4) old pennies for each call. There were two big buttons marked 'A' and 'B.' If the called number answered you pressed button 'A' and the money dropped in and your call went ahead. If there was no answer button 'B' was pressed and your four big coins dropped out into your hand. Today's generation (Including you) has no idea about such things. Nor do they appreciate the need to use the digit finger to choose a number on a dial and slowly, oh so slowly, turn the dial at each number to make a phone call. This lot just press a few buttons, or for the regulars on their phone, just press one from a list of names and the call goes ahead (today's generation always get answers from their fellow brats as they are always on the phone).

I remember the days when we could not afford telephones, they were for the middle classes, not us. However one distant aunt possessed a big black creature not unlike the one pictured. It had a distinct 'bell like' ring which you hear on old black and white British films of the fifties. The wire was always inclined to twist into a mess ensuring that answering the phone led to several minutes of fighting with the cord before conversation could take place. By the seventies almost everyone had one and the phone people began upgrading the service and have never stopped since! However it is only a few years ago I am talking about, not just the black phones of the fifties, but the red fancy ones of the nineties also - they have all disappeared! Life moves too fast for me!



I mean look at this beauty! I used to use one of them when working nights in the hospital. Small and quite easy to use when it was quiet but slightly complicated when flustered if busy. The real busy time was late at night when the nurses would phone home and say 'Good night darling' to their loved one, or early in the morning when the same lass called home and voiced 'WHERE ARE YOU, I WANT TO COME HOME, NOW!' Shortly afterwards he would arrive half dressed. These boxes opened in two parts, the hinge was on the left hand side. This produced the funniest moment as the engineer unfortunately opened the box and dropped the whole thing while attempting to service the beast. His language was somewhat unfortunate, and not helped by our convulsed laughing. The pictures come from this fascinating site, 'Telephones UK' Brilliant stuff!




Also bewildering to this spoilt generation (No I am not jealous) is the television with big round dials. These were useful in combating the 'couch potatoes' of the day as in 1957 the Independent television service was introduced. This gave competition to the BBC, until then the only TV channel in existence, and forced people to get up from their seat, cross the eight feet to the set, and turn the (difficult) dial to the other side. Usually there were cowboy films (always in black and white of course) on both at the same time of course, cowboy films which still appear far too regularly for my liking I can tell you, even today! At least it gave exercise, now all the exercise is for women. They exercise their tongues complaining men hog the 'remote.' This is not true, men just get rightly fed up with the meaningless pap which dominates the coverage and appears to be watched by women determined to obtain Alzheimer's earlier than they should. But again it was a dial, now we press a button, if we can get the remote, and if the battery has not died. Colour TV only arrived here in the seventies, and half the nation, if not more, cannot understand watching black and white telly. Yet I was using one until 1989!

These are small things, but they were items in use just yesterday.
I wonder what we will use tomorrow.....?

Fuzzy Dice

As I pointed out on the comments the readers of these scribblings are folk of a high intelligence level. (FishHawk posts here also by the way) Add to this a few friends, yes I do have them although heaven knows how they remain friends with me, and one of them revealed his intellectual capacities this morning. The postman arrived early, and girns somewhat when I refer to her as 'postman,' and proffered a small, unexpected, packet. Smiling sweetly she appeared to be giving me the 'glad eye' but then kicked my shins and left me pondering the handwriting on the address. The constant use of e-mail means few addressed items arrive through the dirt covered hands of my postie and this leaves the opportunity to recognise handwriting, especially legible handwriting, as rare. I rushed up stairs as fast as my knobbly knees, and new bruise, would allow, and ripped the brown paper from the packet like it was Christmas morn.
Inside my eagle eye beheld a pair of 'Fuzzy Dice!'

I must make clear for the Johnny foreigner types among my limited readership, (that's limited in numbers not 'limited' in anything else my lawyer insists I should make clear) that this has special reference regarding where I live. I now reside in Essex a county with a reputation all of its own. During the eighties when Maggie Thatcher was destroying all the good and throwing thousands out of work while shovelling huge sums of money into her friends hands the term 'Essex Boy,' or indeed 'Essex Girl' took on new meanings. Their particular, noticeable, accent, the 'Essex Boys' amazing ability to attract money towards himself, and his fascination with the Ford Capri car (complete with 'his and her' names on the top of the windscreen, usually 'Tracy' or 'Sharon' over the passenger side and 'Dave' over the drivers) a fascination topped with the ever present 'Fuzzy Dice' dangling like his morals in a position designed to block his view. Therefore when I opened the packet this morning I laughed out loud, and still do when I think of this! 'Essex Girls,' on the other hand were never renown for their intellect, they tended to become 'Jordan' or 'Kate Moss,' or are they one and the same? I can never tell. The jokes about them abounded. However the only one I can remember is, "How can you tell when an Essex girl has an orgasm? She drops her kebab!" Today those women are the mothers of all the 'Chavs' the nation has produced. One day they will work out who the fathers are.

Must go, I have to look for a Ford Capri going cheap. (That's cheap, as in price, not cheep as in er, 'cheep,' by the way....)

Changing the World

Unearthed Outdoors True Marble Imagery

I want to change the world. I have attempted this in many ways, charity work, helping old ladies across the road, forgiving enemies, being nice. The charity work revealed that human beings are nasty sorts of people. They take and take and then ask for more! Charity work without understanding the corruptness of human nature is foolhardy. I kind of expected folk to say thanks and appreciate what was done for them, this did not always happen! Making allowances for those whose mentality hindered them there were a great many who played the system and took all they could. Some said thanks and were grateful, many did not. Forgiving enemies is a good step forward, especially if they do not realise that they are enemies, however this is not always easy, especially when you have to do it constantly. Helping old ladies over the road is always good, but not if they wanted to stay where they were. Being nice is good, but women are suspicious and trust you less than when you are just being yourself. Saying 'Good morning' often leaves the bitch wondering "What does he want?" or "My hair is out of place," sometimes,"He wants me." The latter producing one of two options. If she is happy about this she will not let go, find out she has misunderstood and blame you! Or if she is not happy she will turn icy cold and hate you deeply. So I always remain passive and simply say "Morning bitch" as this saves a lot of hassle and wasted time as she searches her emotions to work out what "Good morning" actually meant.

The world does need help. Natural disasters brings out the best in people, money is donated, help offered by governments, and lives improved, usually. Sick folks abound, and we are often among them. The good sense of the Labour Party in 1945, with the consent of the people, gave us the marvellous NHS! Their greatest achievement! I spent several years there and saw many helped with serious and minor problems, and sometimes dealing with the dead. Of course had I actually gone on to become a nurse, an idea I once toyed with concerning changing the world I would have been dealing with many more dead and several years imprisonment! People were often grateful for the help received, yet all we read in the press are complaints and failings! In other places the health service can be limited and many do good work among the sick in outlying poor areas.

Hunger in many places causes suffering and we could take a Malthusian attitude if we were hard hearted enough. However consider this, while a TV programme, that still runs, gave us the delight of several people sit round a dinner table and discuss the meal created for them. While this programme was on air thirty seven countries had food riots! 37! Bread had doubled in price, rice was in short supply also, and the poorest suffered most! While the middle classes stuffed themselves on telly. My stomach and my fat belly made me sick at the time also! It still does!

Sick folk, hungry folk, badly housed, or badly clothed, drinking polluted water and in crime ridden areas. This is world wide and you can tell there is much to change in this world. Here in the rich west there are problems caused by wealth. Greed is never satisfied, those who have always want more, not to share with those who have not. What are you pointing your finger at me for? While some struggle even here we have deeper 'spiritual' problems, although that may be the wrong word. Moral laxity, indiscipline amongst many of the young, the meaning of life hidden behind tabloid newspapers, mind sapping television and kebabs and takeaways, and a live for today attitude, for tomorrow we die, although we don't like to think about death! The Victorians made death an example of class status and fashion, we ignore it, although when it happens we then consider - just for a moment.

I used to want to sit down beside folk, listen to their tales of woe, and help them through it, but now I do nothing. I have no spare cash to feed the hungry, and that annoys me, I have no energy or ability to help those in need around me. Old wifeys attempting to cross the road can search for a bot scout, and those lacking purpose who annoy me may find me armed with a Kalashnikov if I can find one. In my mind I still want to change the world. Cynicism, selfish people, my failings and inabilities, the attitudes of the moment all get up my nose somehow. I knew what to do once. I still know what to do! But I don't do it, all too often don't care, and if I tried the world would slap me down with political correctness, health & safety regulations, or just selfishness and abuse.

Am I a touch cynical tonight, or could it be the thing that always need changing is not the world around us, but the self, me, inside? Hmmmm, yes I am afraid it's not the world that needs changing, it's me!

No Post Today!

No post today, no bills, no junk, no final demands, no nothing!
This is very disappointing! There is nothing worse than no mail thudding onto your carpet early in the morning. There is nothing better (OK, I lie!) than an exciting letter containing good news of one sort or another making the world appear a better place. I realise, and how, that in the UK 70% of the bulging postbag that wears down the postman's shoulder, and his morale, is of course junk mail! Junk mail to a postie consists of the routine bills, adverts, charity bumf and bank statements that, while useful in some cases, can never be regarded as exciting.

Twice during my tenure as a postman I was informed a woman, always a woman, was on the phone asking why she had not had any mail for three or four days. On both occasions I took a perverse delight in informing the delightful office lass that there was a reason for this, no one liked her! "She has no mail because no one wants to write to her," I said somewhat sarcastically. "The gas board don't send her a bill, neither does the electric people, and charity adverts avoid her like the plague they wish to cure in an African backwater." I considered her situation, checked the frame, now overflowing with post I had to deliver in spite of my condition, "Aaaand she is getting NOTHING today again! Not even junk mail as I will with hold it!"

You see both women were suspicious that the postman was eating their mail. None had arrived for a few days and clearly the postman was putting it through another door, stealing the cash included in birthday cards, and chucking what was left in the nearest skip! It never crossed their heads that not one person junk or otherwise was attempting to contact them. it was the posties fault, it always is. Funnily enough when I get no post for a few days I begin t wonder what is going on.

Now I confess to putting mail through the wrong door, it happens, and most folk are good enough to shove it back at you - sometimes in a full and frank manner! With between one or two thousand letters some days it is understandable that mistakes are made, but they shouldn't be! The best mistake was ringing a woman's doorbell as I needed a signature for a recorded letter, and then shoving it through the door at the same time! She understood my stupidity! I sometimes miss that job, it was fun, the folks were good and it gave me money as well as pains in the knee. Few of them miss me.

Letters get a welcome no other source of communication can equal. If it comes as a surprise all the better, and if it is sent to someone lonely, like an older person unable to get around much, it is sometimes the only event in their day. I know older folks deliberately send of for junk mail as it is something to look forward to each day! When I went south, in the days before cheap phones or mobiles, I was told send your mother a postcard every so often. She will think you care and be happy knowing you are all right. Also there is not much you can say, and what you have been doing is not what she wants to hear anyway! This is still a cheap and effective way to keep in touch. However I knew one lass who sent her mother an eight or more page letter every week, and received the same in reply! What on earth was there to say? Women amaze me sometimes.

The letter box, one of thousands around the country, has the letters GR on the front. It is the habit to place the sovereigns initials there to indicate this is 'Royal Mail.' Whether the present queen ever actually delivers any herself I cannot say. I suppose that is a state secret. In 1953 the arrogant English naturally welcomed Lizzy to the throne by placing ERII on the front of the box and on all the vans etc. Typically they erected one of these in Edinburgh and pretended it was OK. Now it doesn't take a genius to realise that Scotland, unlike the oppressive English, has never had an 'Elizabeth' as queen. Therefore offence, and action, was taken. The 'Scottish Patriots,' a group determined Scotland should be recognised for what it is, shoved a stick ( a small one) of gelignite inside the box and blew it up. Naturally this was done without upsetting anyone, Craigmiller was a newly built area then and warnings were issued. However the police could not find anyone responsible for this act. This it must be said was long before IRA violence became popular, and no 'terrorism' as seen today was ever a threat. From that moment on all Royal Mail items in Scotland bore the crest ER, without the II. Quite right too!

May something nice drop through your letterbox in the morning!

Sunday Evening

Sunday evening and the jacket I wore this morning when taking my morning constitutional has almost dried out. Just what kind of weatherman waits until I am out there wandering about early in the morning to turn on the taps! A few spots of rain I can endure, but bouncing off the roadway? It's a disgrace! I would write to my MP but he is busy negotiating with some foreign banker at the moment. Now of course there is not a cloud to be seen in the sky. A deep blue after the sun has descended behind the trees over to the west (I once saw the sun go down over the sea. There was a terrible hissing and billowing of steam on the horizon as it did so.) yet the light has not yet faded. How I love this time of year, when I can see it through the clouds, the long days, short nights and abundant flowering plant life. Lovely!

D-Day: 65th Anniversary

Today we commemorate the sixty fifth anniversary of D-Day. That great British led military operation that set in motion the downfall of the Third Reich. Three beaches were taken by British & Canadian forces, two by Americans. The total losses from the 130,000 troops involved were far fewer than expected in such a great adventure, however that I suppose is no consolation to those who appear on the statistics. The Americans suffered badly on Omaha beach. Their failure to use the British made ‘funnies,’ (tanks adapted to clear minefields, deal with obstacles, lay metal roads, and support the infantry) left them totally exposed on wide open beaches. What tanks were used, the ‘floating tanks, designed to ‘swim’ ashore like boats, were launched far too far from shore and sank! However General Montgomery’s overall tactics worked, the bridgehead was taken, and in spite of difficulties the operation was a magnificent success! The allies had landed and alongside the Soviet forces pushing in from the east, Germany’s fate was sealed.

The sixty fifth anniversary was not intended to be as big a commemoration as the sixtieth or seventieth, however when the president of the cheese eating surrender monkeys decided to use the visit of US President Obama as an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Yanks Britain had to act. The fact that the queen was not invited, and the British prime minister ignored should not surprise anyone who has knowledge of the French. Twice these folks have allowed themselves to be invaded by the Germans in the last century, twice they were unprepared, twice the called on Britain to get them out of it! Their misuse of their men in the Great War led to the only strike in that awful conflict. The knowledge that incompetence was still found at the highest level in 1940! Several of the old generals still ran the show, and tales of their sufferings told by ex 'poilu' fathers to their sons caused whole divisions of French troops to surrender to the advancing German armies. Some went on to work happily alongside their invaders, some indeed fought for the Germans against the 'Bolsheviks,' and many fought back in the resistance, and I doubt the last have forgotten the British and American dead on their shores.

Many who fought that day still carry the memories of that time. Wounds they endured, the loss of friends and the impossibility of mourning. The sight of the dead and dying, the destruction of towns and cities, and the ever present fear are not things easily forgotten. For many the guilt of survival, especially when friends have died keeping you alive, eats away in their minds. Many men who attend such ceremonies can no longer cope with the emotions of the day and perish soon after. There was no care for such men after the war, you just had to ‘get on with it,’ an attitude that can still be found all too often today concerning our servicemen. While help is available it appears even yet insufficient. As the men who indeed brought freedom to the world during the forties leave us one by one I think we ought to stop for a moment and remember their deeds. It is not 'warmongering' to give a few moments consideration to those who put their lives on the line to end a great evil!

In contrast to the self sacrifice shown by those men we have a picture today of a petulant, self indulgent lass who has failed to obtain what she considers her deserved reward. Caroline Flint who had appeared before the cameras on Thursday evening telling the world she was 'right behind' Gordon Brown discovered the promotion she craved was not forthcoming. During his press conference to inform the world he was carrying on regardless she walked out of his cabinet to give him as much embarrassment as she could muster. She complained of 'misogyny,' and that female members of the cabinet were just 'window dressing.' Now call me cynical if you will but am I right in saying that this woman thought too much of herself? Would I be called 'misogynist' for stating that this is typical of a pushy, selfish, bitch who finds she is out of her depth? Is she attempting to say that the awful Harriet Harman is mere 'window dressing?' Harriet who stills believes she may one day lead the Labour Party! I am amongst those who are sick to the teeth of woman hiding behind their sex whenever things go wrong! Far too many use their bodies to get advancement, and if that means walking over other women that's just too bad! I long for the day such PC nonsense is put aside and men get equal pay to women, I long for the day women like Caroline risk their lives as the men on D-Day did. I long for the day i could say women in parliament understand the needs of women working in Tesco, or as posties, or driving buses for a living. Somehow I doubt my longings will never appear gratified!

Friday Evening

No-one is around on a Friday, so it makes no difference what is written here does it?
So here is a poem instead.

A Man's a Man for A' That

Is there for honesty poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave - we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A price can mak a belted knight,
A marquise, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Robert Burns

Election

So voting time has come again! This time our democratic system allows us the privilege of voting for a variety of unknown persons who wish to 'represent us' at 'County Hall' as members of the County Council. We also have the opportunity to select one of the fifteen parties who wish to represent us at the 'cash cow' that is the European Parliament. Oh joy!

So early this morning, with the sun shining brightly and the chill east wind blowing right up my trouser leg I sallied forth to obey my democratic duty. As I sauntered past the contents of a takeaway chicken dinner left by one of last nights less thoughtful revellers and kicked the green glass from another broken beer bottle into the gutter in an offhand manner I cogitated on the lack of information available concerning our hopeful contestants. Consider this, I am to choose one from a dozen names for the European election, and I know absolutely nothing about any of them! Fair enough there has been at least one five minute 'Party Political Broadcast' for most,if not all, of them, but this does not appear to me to inform us sufficiently regarding the individuals concerned with lining their poc, I mean serving the nation. Whether the slime balls who appear in such, nowadays often glossy, programmes actually tell us what their real objectives are is of course debatable. This means we cannot vote regarding the individual standing, only the party they represent. I consider this poor form. Surely the individual is more important than their party? Far too many vote for, or against, a party leaving themselves a man (surely it must be a man?) who may be rubbish at his job. Only when the candidates are much of a muchness should the party policy be important. What information we have we glean from leaflets through the door, and in our case a short 'pen picture' of the Council candidates in the local rag. There is NO information regarding the Euro contestants

There were leaflets through the door. The Conservative gave me at least three, each featuring his fat smug face and informing me of his quality while remaining silent regarding any expenses fiddle he may have undertaken while serving on the Council so far. The Labour man, his main opponent, only sent one leaflet, in an envelope, personally addressed to me and my neighbours. What a waste of space that is! The name labels (it used to be hand written envelopes) are attached to envelopes then pushed through letterboxes wasting time and insulting the intelligence of the householder. Do they expect us to vote for someone because a name is on an envelope? It certainly shows a disregard for cost and wastes much time, and that speaks volumes for the party concerned. Either way it matters not, both Tory and Labour put the leaflets for the 'Centre' district candidate through the door but this house is covered by the 'Eastern' region, so as well as wasting time and money they do not even know the voting boundaries very well! I will vote for their efficiency won't I?

There was a leaflet from the 'English Democrats,' one of the many racist parties formed in England today. Also one from the 'Green' party, the lunatic element of the Liberals of old. UKIP, (United Kingdom Independence Party,) the right wing Empire loving element of the Conservative party managed a leaflet, one of the parties who say "Fog in the Channel, the continent isolated!" Claiming to represent the UK they naturally care only for England. Of course the BNP also managed a leaflet, one which ignored the Nazi element and concentrated on 'British jobs for British workers. Their advert for this featured a picture of American workers, but never mind that eh? Naturally all these leaflets were more concerned with the County Council election and not the European one although I suppose it covers both.

On this occasion there were several others also casting their votes. In times past I have walked alone through that hall, heels echoing round the auditorium, with every eye behind the desk on me alone, each wondering what would go wrong with this one? On one occasion in London, just as I was about to enter the booth to vote a bedraggled woman came out from behind the small curtain then used to hide the voter and asked, "Where do I put my cross?" I was about to say, "In the pro-cycling, Anti-smoking, Men's Liberation Party," but I noticed the eyes at the desk looking towards us, heavy with weariness at yet another brain dead creature with the right to elect our representatives. Voting alone in the local election is something else. If so few vote is it no wonder the local Councils are filled with such self servers or incompetents? So I was glad I was not alone this time. I was surprised to be given such a long voting slip as I had not realised there were fifteen to choose from at that time. The Council election only had six, and that was easy enough but deciding from fifteen in such a small cubicle is disconcerting! Just who were

'Animal Count,' 'Jury Team,' 'United Kingdom First,' 'Libertas.EU,' 'No2EU:Yes to Democracy?' I was aware of 'The English Democrats,' and 'The Christian Party,' and those parties already mentioned but I had never heard of some of these! One man stood as an independent! What a way to throw good money away! The friendly staff were actually enjoying work, a change from the local council office from where they were borrowed I suppose. I put my crosses in the appropriate places, forced the papers into the box, smiled at all around, that worried them, and strolled out into the sunshine content that my democratic citizens duty had been accomplished. The small matter of neither of my choices actually getting in placed a small cloud on the day but that is nothing unusual I suppose. Normally I select carefully at elections however at one council election I voted for a chap I had seen often in 'The Goblet' in Rose Street. I knew he was into politics as he had been seen with the rest of his crowd at a strike in Rosyth which had absolutely nothing to do with them. It must be stated that Gordon Brown was one of this crowd, although I didn't know it at the time. Maybe I ought to have sent him a note saying 'I have the photos!' I suppose I would have ended up in Guatamano Bay if I had.

Soon we will be doing this again, this time for the big one. Our Gordon will declare a general election next Spring unless the backbenchers 'stab him in the back to his face' as one footballer once complained of a manager doing. Certainly the results will go against him today, and there is no doubt the greedy parliamentarians will have lost the Tories many votes also paving the way for the lunatic fringe to step up. One suspects that the thuggish racists of the BNP will find itself in a reasonable position this time tomorrow. Dearie me, roll on the next time I place my cross!

Benefit Thieves!

Driving Test

Lying stretched out on the settee behind me lies Michael, my guardian angel. He has just gone through most of a bottle of Sainsburys cheapest 'French Brandy' and is now gurgling, head in hands and muttering "All over, it's all over." This in between kneeling, head on floor Islam like, and offering prayers in strange languages. Possibly the sun has got to him, possibly just my driving, whatever I understand he is off to Turkey for a holiday in Collossae now. I pointed out to him that nothing there remains except a dirty big hill, as yet untouched by the archaeologists spade. "I know," he muttered, leering somewhat, "I know!" He then went back to the bottle spluttering somewhat about emptiness and "space to breathe again."

Now as you know I took a driving test this lunch time, and during this the aim is to drive in a confident and competent manner. There is a drive along a varied route, including at least two manoeuvres. The scoring system is simple, if you have what they call a 'serious' you fail, end of story. I managed two of these last time! However you are allowed fifteen (15) 'minor' faults and if you manage sixteen (16) of those you fail. 'Minors' are not faults that could lead to disaster but a lot of them do indicate a problem.

Today, in spite of the instructor leaping out at the roundabout on the by-pass, I managed to accumulate fifteen 'minors' but no 'serious' faults. This means I have passed the driving test, although he did say, "It wasn't a good drive!" But he managed not to spit as he said this and gave me a pass. He also 'suggested' I should do the 'Pass Plus' with a somewhat desperate air I thought. However I forgot to tell him this was a bloody sight better drive than the one I practised during the hour beforehand! I would not have passed with that one.....

Or indeed the one from the week before when during the 'bay parking' attempt I had made a right hash of it then sat back and watched a woman attempt the same lesson. She parked perfectly first time! The bitch! Not only that but she was blonde! The bitch! Wimmen are such spiteful beasts!

Now all I have to do is fill in paperwork, obtain photo, and get new licence. I suspect this will cost more money.

The instructor is desperate for me to buy his dads car, cheap and a runner, but I canny afford a bus fare now and need a sudden influx of cash, 'scuse me while I consult Michael, hold on he has vanished! And the bottle is full again, strange that. Anyway, now I must get work. I will make a new advert,

"Idiot (with licence (just) ) seeks (easy) work"

That should do.

Now I am off to bed until Thursday.....

Sunday

My skin is beginning to tingle and a reddish hue is showing through. This is caused by a phenomenon known as 'sunshine,' something many are well used to but the average citizen of this island only meets when abroad. Indulging in their Spanish breakfast, lunch and dinner of fish and chips, washed down by lager, while reading the 'Daily Mirror' or 'Daily Mail,' this specimen of Britannia's finest strips themselves bare revealing white arms, legs and far too much of the other bits for their own good. Forty eight hours after arriving the white has turned beetroot red, the skin is painful to the touch and the only cure is not sun cream, which has as yet not been purchased, but yet more lager following on from more continental dining, either kebabs or curry! These folk will laugh when told that the US of A has a 'culture!'

Today felt very much like a Spanish resort, except there was no seaside, towering hotel blocks or drunks. Instead the park, where I had gone to soak up a little sun and read a book, was hosting a brass band afternoon. This brought a surprisingly large number of the retired folks out for the day, an event they obviously enjoyed regularly judging by the way they all came well prepared, and a smattering of the usual park types. Crivvens, even the kids were behaving themselves! However the red burning skin was too be seen in places and even worse, the white stuff also! Now the sight of pencil thin white legs sticking out from under shorts that have been lying among mothballs for several months is one thing but fat ones are too much! A few passed by, and kept waddling along, but one pair lay down within my line of vision. From my bench, dedicated to the memory of someone or other, a very good memento in my view, I could see clearly fat legs baring all for the sun intake. I coped well with this, but when the red top was rolled up to reveal acres of white belly I swear I heard someone shout "Captain Ahab! Thar she blows!" But I could be mistaken. However the man at the next bench turned to me for no reason and asked if I was reading 'Moby Dick.'

After trundling up the old railway early this morning to make the most of the weather, enjoying again the robins singing in the trees, and there are lots of them just now, the blue sky, and even the folk passing by I came home to discover a strange event on TV. The 'God slot' on early Sunday morning BBC was filled with God! Because it was 'Pentecost' they dropped the meaningless debate show that bores the pants of normal folks and gives Nicki Campbell yet another few thousand quid for exposing us to his personality disorders and gave a church service. Now at Easter, the day the resurrection of Jesus the Messiah is celebrated, the Beeb covered a service from Southwark cathedral, the centre of the homosexual movement in the Anglican church. Instead of 'Preaching Christ crucified and risen' we were informed that homosexuality was all right and we should be 'inclusive,' 'non bigoted,' and 'welcoming.' The fact that the 'gay' lifestyle is one that destroys and Jesus came to bring life appeared to be ignored by the Dean. Of course Jesus wants homosexuals included and loved, but like everyone else as repentant sinners who understand what his death means! How sad that churchmen lead them astray to eternal loss! Today however the service came from a bouncing, too much in my view, church in Peterborough. here at least Christ was preached, sort off, and Jesus worshipped in spirit and truth. Folks from all backgrounds had found a new life in him, many being healed, changed and refreshed, and the stuffy, often boring service replaced by lively worship and folks enjoying being in Gods presence. What a change for the BBC!

Early night tonight, not for the bike ride tomorrow, but for the driving test, number two! If I fail this time there will be no more. Just despair, self pity, and a credit card filled to overflowing for nothing. Woopeee.

Something Nice

I've been getting too cynical these days, but I'm sure nobody has noticed as usually I am so nice and hide it very well. However I decided just a minute ago to follow the prompting to 'stop hating everything' and say something nice. So I shall.

As I toddled up the old railway on my bike early this morning I enjoyed the early morning sun, remarkably warm for this time, the blue sky, almost cloudless, and the greenery full of chattering birdies. I also enjoyed the emptiness as all too often this is the time the women take the dog for his walk, I suspect the holiday means so many of them have gone of for a few days, how lovely- for us! An occasional jogger puffed by, moving slower than an MP admitting he fiddled his allowances, and one man, struggling on his bike up the slope like I was, passed by with a grunted cheery greeting. Few others were to be seen and that is how I like it. This way it is possible to stop and just sit there, breathing in mouthfuls of flying beasties, among the dappled sunlight and listen to the quiet sounds all around. A squirrel rustling the leaves as he chews on his breakfast and then scuttles high above leaping with no hesitation from one thin tree branch to another, the robins which seem to abound just now singing loudly from a branch, stopping only to observe my movement and then continuing happily. Wood pigeons chase one another, crashing about the district with similar consideration for the neighborhood seen in drunks leaving public houses, and a frog suddenly appears from nowhere sitting in the path, oblivious to the danger from great hairy lumps on bikes! In short, this old railway is just lovely!

To avoid the heart strain caused by too much exertion in a fat slobs body I turned at the far end instead of continuing like my mind wanted to do. There are innumerable things my mind has wished to do in recent days that my body refuses to co-operate in, although some would say that is a good thing! For many years my mind and body were often in agreement as to what ought to be done, although innumerable others disagreed with us. Such is life! It must be stated that my mind is often at odds with my mind itself all to often these days. I suppose a combination of age and genetic stupidity are probably to blame there.

The mind was alert on the way back however when I came across, almost literally, a tiny blue tit which was shaking the wings and posting himself in the middle of the pathway. As I cogitated what to do here the mother, or perhaps father, appeared and began to feed the mite. Having completed the duty the parent flew off again to search for the next course. At this time of year the parents will be busy sometimes having seven or eight chicks to feed at one time! Thousands of caterpillars, insects of all kinds, and most probably peanuts from feeders in folks gardens, go towards rearing these delightful cheeky birds. Delightful is the word unless they have pecked their way through the top of your milk bottle of course! I wandered what to do with the little bird and as I was afraid he had yet to develop a fear of the outside world I gently place my front wheel around him as a form of protection. He just sat there trustingly! Another bike came towards me and I informed the rider what I was doing, he just passed by understanding what was happening and avoided crashing into the bushes at the side. The bird sat still apart from the fast shaking wings. i eventually coaxed him into the side hoping the woman with the big mutt coming along behind me did not let her brute near my bird. Hopefully he will have escaped into the grass and one day produce his own brood.

There, that's nice.

True Reports from British life .......!!! BRITISH NEWSPAPERS

True Reports from British life .......!!! BRITISH NEWSPAPERS (it says...)

Commenting on a complaint from a Mr. Arthur Purdey about a large gas bill, a spokesman for North West Gas said, 'We agree it was rather high for the time of year. It's possible Mr. Purdey has been charged for the gas used up during the explosion that destroyed his house.' (The Daily Telegraph)

Police reveal that a woman arrested for shoplifting had a whole salami in her underwear. When asked why, she said it was because she was missing her Italian boyfriend.. (The Manchester Evening News)

Irish police are being handicapped in a search for a stolen van, because they cannot issue a description. It's a Special Branch vehicle and they don't want the public to know what it looks like. (The Guardian)

A young girl who was blown out to sea on a set of inflatable teeth was rescued by a man on an inflatable lobster. A coast guard spokesman commented, 'This sort of thing is all too common'.
(The Times)

At the height of the gale, the harbourmaster radioed a coast guard and asked him to estimate the wind speed. He replied he was sorry, but he didn't have a gauge. However, if it was any help, the wind had just blown his Land Rover off the cliff. ( Aberdeen Evening Express).

Mrs. Irene Graham of Thorpe Avenue , Boscombe, delighted the audience with her reminiscence of the German prisoner of war who was sent each week to do her garden. He was repatriated at the end of 1945, she recalled -'He'd always seemed a nice friendly chap, but when the crocuses came up in the middle of our lawn in February 1946, they spelt out 'Heil Hitler.''
( Bournemouth Evening Echo)

TV Car Adverts

Why are TV adverts for cars so bad? They are all about image, nothing at all about performance, and none of them make any sense to me! Who buys a car because of the TV ad? What small minded cretin is convinced any car is for them when it is advertised driving across a desert, or in the fantasy world of the Audi advert? What does this do for them? One featured cars attached to balloons floating into the sky. Why? What cobblers! Just give us the details and....oh, of course, if we know all about them we would move on and buy a better car wouldn't we? So instead of facts we get 'image!' This car makes you look 'top dog' instead of a nobody! This car makes you look attractive, powerful, strong or manly, instead of the wimp like loser you really are. These adverts are aimed at men, and I thought women were daft!

Early Morning

The sun is bright, the sky has been blue since four o'clock, and I rise at five thirty. After a disgustingly unhealthy breakfast I cycle along the old railway enjoying the silence, bar the birds of course, and the greenery around me. Returning through empty streets I wander around loosening up the stiffened knees and watch the beginning of life arrive. I was up so early even the paper shop had not opened! There followed the warmest day of the year, so they said. I believe them! I sat for fifteen minutes in the park watching the young mu...birds building nests and listening to their songs, and in that short time I was roasting! Lovely!

Today marked the end of the football season, bar a cup final or two, and I am in need of a rest from football. The emotional strain wears you out by this time, and a rest is required. Now we await new signings, sackings, departures, press speculation (or lies if you prefer) and soon will be looking forward to our next great anti-climax!

Get up early? Good idea but I'm completely knackered now!

Fragrance

I was surprised by the warmth of the sun early on this morning, and as I crossed the park to look for beer cans left after the neds evening capers, I was also surprised by the fragrance emanating from this flower bush. I am not sure if this is some sort of rose as flower names beyond tulip and daffodil escape me. However the fragrance was very strong and really made the morning even more enjoyable. There can be little more enjoyable than an early morning with the birds singing, the sun shining and flowers giving of such a pleasing aroma. The day was indeed warm, even hot! Now that is the first time this year that this can be said. However there is a bank holiday on Monday so already there has been a warning of rain! Typical! However today folk made the most of it and I suspect they will do so tomorrow also.

There are good things and bad in such weather conditions. The idea of walking around unencumbered by heavy anti-rain gear, the freedom from ice cold temperatures, and the sight of lassies wearing as little as possible. This however has two side effects. One reminds some of their age as the mothers of said lassies are younger than my nieces! The other is the unfortunate sight of fat women! I cannot get over the number of fat women in this country! Not only are there too many they dress inappropriately. Now some women have a stout build, others remain fat after having children, but surely these girls are fat because of slobbishness? There can be no reason but laziness for such sights. I know how hard it is to, lose weight, and the only effective method is eating smaller, better and exercise like it or not, so I cannot see anything other than the 'couch potato syndrome' at work. The thing is that these are women! I expect women to have some respect for themselves, they spend much of their time doing just that, so why do these girls wind up like Billy Bunters sister? One reason it seems to me is the chav influence. So many appear to be of the 'lower orders' it seems. But why should this make them slobs? It is more expensive to eat badly in my view than to eat better! I should know, and yet those lassies on low incomes appear to me to be the worst. It's all very sad, both for the lassies, their health and their families, and for those of us who have to look at them!

Awful Day

So you start the day with good intentions and by midday you begin to realise that some days are best left to themselves. This has been another of those. However, if true, this did bring some cheer.

"This was actually done by an Aberdeen fan......

Dons fan signs up on a Rangers forum, makes a couple of posts and no-one is any the wiser he's a Dons fan.
Then he makes a thread saying . . .

Quote:
If you want tickets for next week's title decider away to Dundee United, read here...
Since the away allocation for Rangers fans of 5000 is long sold out. Tickets for the home end is the only solution.
But as we all know, if you’re not on Dundee United's official club/supporter database then you won't even be able to buy tickets for the home end.

Here's what to do..
Phone up the club shop. And ask to buy a pair of Dundee United kit socks. Don't even mention tickets for Sunday. They will become suspicious.
Then when they take your sock order, personal details and process your payment your details will then be stored on their system.
Give it a few hours until there's a shift change, phone up again and order your home tickets for the Rangers match and because of your sock order, you will be on their system and you will get your match tickets. It's perfect lads.

Turns out, there's no such database and all these Rangers fans have ended up with hundreds of pairs of Dundee United socks and no match tickets."

Mistake

The Oxford Online Dictionary describes the word 'Mistake' as :-

mistake

• noun 1 a thing that is incorrect. 2 an error of judgement.

• verb (past mistook; past part. mistaken) 1 be wrong about. 2 (mistake for) confuse (someone or something) with.

— ORIGIN Old Norse, ‘take in error’.

This is interesting. This morning, as every morning for the past couple of weeks all we hear about is members of parliament claiming allowances for mortgages, dry rot, clearing their moats, and floating platforms for the ducks in their ponds. Every single one who has appeared on TV has claimed all actions they took were within the rules and under advice from the correct people, adding "I admit I made a mistake," "Mistakes were made," and "It was an error of judgement, a mistake on my part." All then happily go on to state that the House of Commons must change, the system is outdated and needs reformed, something needs to be done. Not one has said "I admit it, I was grabbing as much as I could," or "I was on the take mate!" "Nose in the trough, too right pal!" Now these chaps may well have been within the rules, although pressurising the four accountants who had to control six hundred and fifty pushy MP's had nothing to do with it, and spending money on your boyfriends dry rot on his house in Southampton when you are MP for Luton over a hundred miles away was some mistake!

Several things come to mind. First there is the rotten system that allows them to fiddle it (should that read 'mistake' it?). Then there is the arrogance from those that knew they could get away with it. There is also the serious matter of how much an MP or member of the Scots and Welsh parliaments earn, do they really get paid enough? The system will be overhauled, some grasping chancers will be forced to stand down, but the arrogance of some will of course remain. How much they earn does need reviewing. I have thought for a long time that members of parliament ought to be on at least £250,000 a year! Add to this a decent allowance for secretary/researcher and running costs and we ought to have a better government. In Germany and France they are indeed paid more, I suggest not asking about the Italians, if we are corrupt just what are Berlosconi's mob like? The bigger the money, commitment to one job only, allowances made for keeping informed of their 'proper job,' and a better standard of member could be brought into the house. This cannot be bad for the nation. Some thing £60,000 a year plus add on's is sufficient, but when footballers can get that each week, and mediocre BBC interviewers get more and the Paxman's of this world almost a million something is clearly wrong! There will always be those that fiddle it but at least we could have better UK government this way. Until independence arrives of course.

The other thing is the whining about MP's! This bothers me. Certainly for the unemployed and those on minimum wages £60k sounds a dream, however whatever wages they are on do they fiddle their employers? I know they do! How can folk who spend all day avoiding work, phoning their friends, e-mailing others, passing the buck and taking all the 'perks' going then complain MP's are bad? Pots and kettles come to mind.While I have worked with many good people I also know many members of parliament were not on the take, and attempt to do a reasonable job, as long as their party leaders are obeyed! It never fails to amaze me the answers MP's give you. 'Their party is always the one with the answer, the other is at fault and no we cannot help because it's their fault.' Maybe if we all started being more honest life would be better for everyone?