About being comfortably numb ...

Saint Anley has endured a bad couple of weeks.
I guess it's no worse than anyone else.
You know: interpersonal abuse, family disputes, impending bankruptcy etc. ... nothing of global nor historical significance.
Of course, all his tribulations are utterly trivial, albeit they cause him sleepless nights.

To digress ...
Saint Anley very rarely engages with contemporary popular music.
(Who is Lady Gaga, anyway?!)
However, on Sunday, while Saint Anley was trying to look at the inside of his eyelids, Mrs St.A insisted on listening to BBC Radio 2: Johnny Walker presenting Sounds of the Seventies.
Jane is a rock-chick who likes that sort of thing.
Saint Anley was forbidden to watch Songs of Praise.

Then he heard this ...

"Wow!" he said, "Where was I in 1979?"

"What did I miss?"

Now, one wonders, how can one achieve 'comfortable numbness' without the aid of illicit substances?

Saint Anley has some difficulty in adopting this position ...

Now, empty your mind and chant with me ... "ommmmm."

That doesn't look comfortable at all!

What is the function of that barrel-shaped thing at the extreme on of the stick?

I am working on composing a quiz right now.
It will have a maritime theme.
I searched Google images for the word 'bowsprit'.
Here's one result:

Any tasteful suggestions for a corresponding question and answer will be most welcome.

How to hang out washing ...

From the teaching of Saint Anley ...

It is of the utmost importance that similar items are suspended from the washing line by the same colour peg, thus:

There are three reasons for this:
First - they'll dry more quickly.
Second - it is easier to differentiate the underwear of the two genders.
Third - Jane thinks I'm autistic, and that those first two reasons are complete nonsense!

Regarding Original Sin ...

Tracey was on the phone again today.
You’ll remember: I like Tracey.

We exchanged the customary telephonic pleasantries, without the necessity to remember my mother's maiden name or several characters from an obscure password, before she came to the point:

“Have you had an accident that wasn’t your fault?” she enquired.

I thought of several such incidents and decided to err on the side of caution.
“Yes, many!” I replied.

At this, Tracey's enquiries went up a gear. Incisively she continued: “Would you like to tell me about the first one?”

“Well, I have no clear recollection of it, but I was born.”

Tracey asked, "Are you sure it was an accident?"
"Well," said I, "I can't imagine that anyone would want to conceive me on purpose!"
“So how did you suffer as a result of this accident?”
“I suffered it well; I’ve had a lifetime of practice,” said I.

“Now, come on.” said Tracey, “Be more specific, please.”
“Well,” I responded, “How would you like to have the middle name of ‘Stanley’?”

“So is your first name ‘Accrington’?” asked Tracey.
(If only, I pondered: that would have been magnificent. I could have sported a coat of arms!)

Then Tracey asked me when this accident occurred.
I rapidly added nine months of gestation to my age and gave her an approximate date.

“Oh, that long ago!” she exclaimed.
“Who do you think was to blame for this accident?” she asked.

I paused to consider this philosophical question.
“Ultimately, Adam and Eve,” I replied.
“Oh, yes,” said Tracey, “and where are they now?”
“Somewhere in Paradise with fig-leaves, an apple tree and a snake,” was my reply.
 “ …Oh, you could try an old china-clay pit near St. Austell in Cornwall.”

Eventually Tracey announced that acts of God were beyond the scope of litigation.

Fine, but it was lovely talking to her.

Oh, how I hate parody, but I couldn't resist this ...

A Seasonal Story #3

Christmas Day at last!

In Dulce Jubilo and Sussex Carol by dogsbody

"God bless us, one and all!"

A Seasonal Story #2

To continue ...

Owing to my incontinent messages on ‘facebook’, Jane had already discovered my impulsive purchase via a third party.
I survived, and the arrival of the parcel came as no surprise to her.

The parcel looked thus:

‘C’, my vendor, had advised that I allow the concertina to warm up in the house for an hour or so before trying to play it, so I had a beer while I admired the packaging.

I took my time unwrapping it, in mounting anticipation.

Excitement heightened.

“Slow down!” said Jane, so I had another beer.

I took more photographs of the process, because I love bubble-wrap.

Removing the bubble-wrap was rather like clearing the membranes from a new-born lamb.

Eventually this beautiful instrument was delivered into my world.

An hour had not yet passed so, in order not to disregard ‘C’’s prudent advice, I had another beer.
“Slow down!” screamed Jane.
This time she was referring to my consumption of beer.

The hour passed, oh so slowly.
The magic moment came.
I removed the elastic band that ‘C’ had wisely applied in order to keep the bellows compressed while in transit.
I touched, felt and gently caressed my new baby with all the tenderness of a loving father.

I couldn’t wait any longer … I tentatively pressed one of those friendly metal buttons and began to extend the bellows.
A note sounded.
Ah, bliss! It had the musical texture of polished silver that will ever remain in my memory.

“STOP!” cried Jane.
“Now wrap it up again, put some festive wrapping paper round it and put it under the Christmas tree. You are not having that until Christmas Day!”

“B-b-b-but …” I tried to say through my tears of joy.

“OK, I’ll have another beer!”

A Seasonal Story ...

Now here’s an encouraging tale.

A couple of weeks ago, drinking beer while Jane was out, I decided to revisit an on-line auction site and search for ‘English concertina’.
This came up, and aroused my interest.

The seller’s information demonstrated that he clearly had significant knowledge of concertinas, but I was a little concerned that he indicated ‘no returns accepted’. We exchanged messages about this policy and I was reassured that if we mutually agreed that the item was not 'as described', then a full refund would be forthcoming.
He also recommended another couple of more expensive instruments that he had in stock.

The end-time for the auction was an hour away, and, so far, he had no bidders.
I went and poured a beer.
I studied the pictures again.
I re-read and remained impressed by the extensive description.
I had another beer.
With five minutes to go before the auction ended I entered a bid at the reserve price, but poured another beer before hitting ‘submit’.

Within seconds I received an email: “Congratulations, you’ve won!”
“Whoops!” I thought, “How do I explain this to Jane?!”
I had another beer and went to bed.

The following day the vendor and I exchanged courteous phone calls and emails regarding payment, dispatch and delivery.
“Yes, Tuesday next week will be fine,” said I, mistakenly believing that Jane would be out.

Then came the second phase of UK’s big freeze in the current winter.
All transport was disrupted.

We spoke again.
If the couriers were unable to move the parcel containing a valuable antique then it was likely to remain in a freezing warehouse (minus 14deg.C) until they resumed service after the New Year.
‘C’, who by now had become a friend, kindly offered to retrieve the package from his local depot, BUT it was 4.45pm!
“Let it be,” I said. “If it suffers irredeemably from hypothermia, I will regard that as ‘damage in transit’, and you can claim on your insurance!”

I remained at home all day on Tuesday.
Morning came and went.
The postman managed to deliver the customary vast quantity of unsolicited rubbish, but my organic veggie-box failed to materialise.
Neighbours dropped in greeting cards.
I was slightly cheered thereby.
In the afternoon the doorbell rang.
I excitedly opened the front door ...
and invited a couple of doorstep evangelists in for tea.
They looked very cold!
I explained my anxious state as I poured Earl Grey with lemon slices.
They were most comforting, but my neo-Darwinian philosophy excluded me from salvation.
They left.
I wept into my beer.

I settled down in my state of dejection in front of my warming log fire.
I drank more beer.

Then, oh joy!
The doorbell positively chimed.
I stumbled to open the door.
There stood a jolly, ruddy-faced gentleman sporting a long white beard, and clad in a warm red coat and hat, both of which were trimmed with white fur.
He confirmed that my name corresponded with that on the large parcel he bore.
I plied him with a mince pie and a drop of whisky.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he exclaimed with an approving ascending vocal inflexion.
“Hic …!” I responded.

I peered beyond his portly frame into the road.
There was parked an illuminated snow-mobile tethered to six manificent ungulates, the lead of which sported a magnificent red nose.

“Come back, doorstep evangelists!” I cried.
“I AM A BELIEVER!”

There are several morals to this tale:

• Santa Claus does exist.
• Doorstep evangelists are nice people.
• Never look at eBay while imbibing alcohol!

About wood spiders ...

How to beat terrorist insurgents ...

"Archers!"
"Cavalry!!"
"Infantry!!!"

"Errr ... send in the rest!"

[Aside to CIC, "Oh dear, Sir, it's not going well."]

Junior Corporal/Drummer-boy apologetically tugs CIC's tunic and cries:

"Pipes!!!"

CIC says, "Good idea, boy!"
"You lead them, MacTavish ..."

AAAAAARGH!!!

Agnostic is a dangerous place to be ...

I couldn't resist this picture.
It brings back character-forming and painful memories ...

This was a row of Victorian tenements in the town of Bacup, Lancashire, where I went to my second school.
I'm talking 1950s here.

Plantation Street, was a smelly, rat-infested development where policemen dared not venture.

We lived in a 'nice' house at the top of the hill.
One particularly fearless policeman frequently popped in to have tea with my mother.
"Go and play outside," she would say to me.

My walk to school involved 'goin' daan t' bonks'. The 'bonks' was as an abandoned quarry from which I would emerge down the lane on the right of the picture.

I was regularly intimidated by the roughnecks who lived in considerable deprivation, (as I now recognise with hindsight,) along 'Plant Back'.
Their favourite taunt was, "Are you Catholic or protestant?"
"What a strange opening gambit," I thought.
Now, I was never sure about their motivation. Nor did I know the accurate answer to their enquiry.
Even less did I know the possible lie that would save me from physical abuse.

Once, after multiple painful encounters, I responded, "Agnostic."

"Huh?" they said, half-inquisitively.
Then they beat me up once more!

'Agnostic' is a word I didn't understand at the time.
(I'm still not sure!)
I am determined that I will NEVER use that word again.

Tracey, The Underground Pig and The Ferret ...

I have an idea!
I confess it has been inspired by a comedienne’s spot on Rob Bryson’s programme on BBC2 this evening.

Do you receive ‘cold calls’ on the telephone?
You know the sort of thing ...

“Hello, my name is Tracey. I am calling on behalf of ‘The Subterranean Porcine Detection Company'."

"Do you have an underground pig?”
(Apologies to my friend, OSM.)

Now, here’s the strategic response ...
“Hello, Tracey, how nice to here from you!”
You remember Tracey, she looks like this …



You continue thus ...
“Before I answer that question I need you to respond to a few security questions, is that OK?”

Tracey, somewhat taken from behind, says, “Yes.”
(Silly girl!)
“Please tell me your mother’s second cousin’s maiden name?” you ask.
Tracey responds with an answer that may, or may not, be accurate.
You don’t really care!

“Fine,” you say and continue, “And what is the name of your pet ferret?”
“But I haven’t got a ferret!” says Tracey.
“Correct!” you say in a congratulatory tone.

“Now, I need you to tell me the 75th letter/digit of your password.”
Tracey chooses some arbitrary alpha-numeric character.
“Right!” you say, “You are successfully logged in to your account.”

Tracey - "What account?"
You - "The database of time-wasting call-centre personnel with delightful telephone voices who stimulate my imagination."
Tracey - "Oh!"

Then …
“Will you have sex with me tonight?” you enquire.

Tracey puts down the phone.
She has not made a sale.
The pig remains underground ...
and it costs you nothing not to have sex tonight!

Life is ever thus!

Tensionometry ...

As an aside to those recent posts about bicycles, I have been advised to purchase a tensionometer.
I've never seen one so I searched for images on Google ...

The caption read, "Yep, this standing rigging is properly adjusted."

Yes ...

I need one of these!

Anyone seen one on EBay?

(Jane won't let me have one!)

I wish I'd travelled by bicycle ...

I am on a railway journey.
I have booked my seat.

My seat-reservation is for coach C, seat number 29, facing the direction of travel, and conveniently next to the aisle.
I occupy my seat and, with some difficulty in the limited space, open my broadsheet newspaper.

The train departs.
Leaving behind all that urban graffiti, we cruise through delightful countryside.
Nobody has yet occupied the window-seat, number 28, so I have an uninterrupted view.

The train stops.
There are the usual public announcements –
“Take your belongings …”
“Mind the gap when alighting.”
“Passengers for Wigan must change at Timbuktu!”
Some passengers alight.
New ones get on board.

“Excuse me,” says a large lady pointing to seat number 28, “I think that’s my seat.”
I re-fold my newspaper, arise from my seat and move into the aisle.

Lady has a big suitcase. I offer to place it on the overhead rack.
“Oh, how kind!” says she.
The suitcase is very heavy!

She compacts herself into the seat by the window.
I ignore serious transverse pain in my chest.
Under the irresistible force of gravity, her generous frame, having nowhere else to go, spreads laterally.
I smile and re-occupy seat number 29.
Somehow there doesn’t seem to be quite so much room.

“Are you travelling far?” I enquire in a friendly tone.
“Oh, yes, all the way!” she responds.
I am somewhat alarmed by her broad-gauge smile.

(Did I tell you that this train is the one from Penzance to Newcastle, and we haven’t passed Newton Abbot yet?!)

I re-open my newspaper. I think I’ll settle for one of the tabloids next time, or perhaps a small paperback.

Five minutes after leaving the station the lady asks, “Is there a buffet car on the train?”
“Oh, yes,” say I, (somewhat hesitantly because I can feel what’s coming,) “I think that’s in coach D, further back.”
“Fine,” she says, “I think I’ll pay a visit.”
With my newspaper now in a state of serious disarray, I get out of my seat to allow lady access to the aisle. Lady emerges from her airline-type seat with some difficulty. She heads off towards the front of the train.
I decide to take the opportunity, while standing in the aisle, of reconstructing my newspaper.

Lady realises that coach D is in the opposite direction.
She apologises profusely as she squeezes past me once more.
Coincidentally the train lurches violently over a series of points.
Jiggerley-juggerley-dum-didderley-dum-dudderly-di-jiggerley-jug!
This onomatopoeic interlude accompanies an unforeseen entangling of limbs in order that we both manage to retain an upright posture.
Lady smiles sweetly and asks, “Is there anything you would like?”

Her voluminous bosom threatens to engulf my slender frame.

I blush.
She doesn’t!

“No, thank you!”

I tentatively sit down again, savouring the unworthy hope that there will be a very long queue at the buffet.

I search for my newspaper.
Did I lose it in her cleavage?
I don’t remember!

My earlier hope is not realised. Within minutes lady is once again at my side bearing a brown paper bag bulging with all sorts of artery-clogging goodies in one hand, and a large cup of something liquid, held at a precarious angle, in the other. Our earlier manoeuvrings are reversed. This time there is less physical contact, although some strange fluid has been spilled on my seat.

She sits.
I try to sit.
Now there’s even less room.
My bottom now feels moist.

Lady spreads the contents of her goody-bag over her own fold-down table … and half of mine.
“Would you like something?”
I politely accept ... a crisp. (Eeugh – prawn cocktail!)

To continue a description of this lady's noisy consumption of this pre-packaged repast would be unsavoury and unkind.

Anyway, I think she likes me.
I should be grateful ...
Not many people do!

I am getting irritable.
I've got a wet bum.
I am finding it difficult to breathe, though, thankfully, the chest-pain has gone.
I’d really like my newspaper back.
I daren’t look for it!

Achieving what comfort I can in a restricted space, I engage compassionate and forgiving thoughts while looking at the inside of my eyelids.
I pray for sleep to come.

My repose is soon interrupted ... “I think I need to go - err - you know where.”

Now, visualise this ...
Two fold-down tables full of detritus with nowhere to go, large person with full bladder and a 'need to go' trying to negotiate a small space ... and me ...
I stood no chance!

Once more, after scattering rubbish everywhere, we dance momentarily in the aisle.
She smiles flirtatiously again, while playfully caressing my left nipple.

While she’s away in the loo I pick up my small rucksack from under my seat, abandon all hopes of retrieving my newspaper, (wherever it may be,) and make for the ‘quiet zone’ coach.

This anecdote has a basis in historical fact.
I have made only very slight embellishments to the truth!

About Swan Vestas matches ...

I wonder if anyone else has made this observation ...
Swan Vestas matches aren't what they used to be!

1. They scatter sparks in unpredictable directions causing tale-telling burn marks, (as evidence of your disgusting habit,) in whatever clothing you are wearing.

2. "Average contents - 85." I have never counted them but, by the time you've ignited 32, the striking surface on the box has worn out!

I think I'll chop off the ends, discard the box, and take up matchstick modelling ...

Is Faith Worth It?

So, the Pope is to visit our country.

We will welcome this ‘outreach’ from the head of the ‘true faith’, won’t we?

What is he coming for?

• To admonish the wayward of these islands?
• To forgive us? 
• To apologise for the historical and on-going travesties of the Church of Rome?

We are told that the Pope's visit will cost the UK tax-payer £12,000,000 in respect of security and police protection.

If I want to visit Rome, I will pay my air fare. I will take out holiday insurance. I will pay for my accommodation. Bearing in mind my EU citizenship, I assume that the laws of that visited land are adequate to protect me at no additional personal cost.

Let the Pope bring his own Rottweilers at his expense!

From the Ancient Nonsensical Musings of St. Anley ...

I was a stranger in a strange land …

And, lo, then did I come to a great metropolis inhabited by a gentle people who called themselves Cicestrians.

Roads within that city were surfaced with a hard substance, grey in colour, and smooth in most places.

Upon this surface did machines progress, which had wheels at each of the four corners.

Some exceedingly large machines bent in the middle and were possessed of many wheels.

All proceeded at excessive speed, exhaled noxious gases, and made such noises as to make the hearers block their ears.

Almost all, apart from the ones bearing a strange emblem, ‘Stagecoach’, had but one occupant.

And then I did behold a smaller machine that did have only three wheels. The name upon it was Robin.




I heard a great voice from on high: “Go, thou, and design a mobile device with two wheels. Thou shalt call it  errr ..

... bicycle!"

... "and for your next task- the UNICYCLE!"

There must be quicker ways of saying NO!

I am a charitable person.

However, I have recently lost my patience with cold-callers.
You know the sort of thing ...

RING, RING ...

"Hello, my name is [someone] from [some charity or other]."
Let's call [someone] - err - Tracey.
Now, I have no personal animosity to anyone called Tracey, but how does she know MY name?

Tracey sounds to be a charming young lady.
In real life I suspect that she's a very nice person.
She has a trace of an engaging provincial accent - 'geordie' always gets me!
In my imagination looks she something like this ...

She arouses my ... err... attention when she seductively says, "I'm not asking you for money - now."
Not hearing that faint, closing, near-aspirated 'now', I foolishly become excited about the possibility of a freebie.

Taken aback by her imagined beauty, my mind races in anticipation.
Before I've had time to regain my composure or articulate any intelligible response, Tracey goes on.
With immaculately auto-cued diction, she educates me about all the good works and achievements of the charity she represents.
"Don't you think that's wonderful?" she asks.
She doesn't wait, but anticipates that I'll say, "Oh, yes!"
She continues, without interruption, to brazenly invite me to help financially.
"But you said that you're not asking for money," say I, when I can get a word in edgeways.
"Oh, no," she replies, "But I wonder if you'd be generous enough to make a monthly donation by direct debit?"
(Thinks - "How does Tracey know that I have a bank account?")

... "Now, how much can you afford?" !!!
... "Are you a UK tax-payer?"

If I'm in a charitable mood, and if Tracey sounds enormously cooperative, I will politely invite her to discover, as a one-off contribution, all the cash I have in my numerous pockets.
This invariably meets with, "Oh, no, we can't do that!"

If I am less aroused by her tentative contact, I will say, "OK, Tracey, please can you tell me your registration number with the Charities Commission?"
Tracey, predictably, doesn't know the answer to that, because she's not personally working for the charity. She's operating from a call centre which, (at considerable expense to the charity,) has been contracted to generate these carefully-scripted calls. Off she goes to find her line-manager. Meanwhile I hurriedly go on line to see if I can discover the information before Tracey does.

After some time we agree that Tracey's new-found information matches the intelligence that I gleaned in a few seconds.

I make the same 'up-front' offer again.
(Readers may misunderstand that sentence.)
Tracey doesn't!
She again declines by saying, "I'm not authorised."

"Goodbye, and thank you for your call," I say.
"HUMPHHH!" says Tracey.

The outcome ...

Tracey's wasted her time.
I have wasted mine.
The charity paying Tracey, directly or otherwise, have wasted their money for no gain.
My vivid imagination about Tracey's desirable corpus proves a disappointment.
My 'compassion fatigue' becomes near terminal!

The lesson ...

Get 'caller display' on your phone.

NEVER answer if you don't know who it is.

If it's Tracey, tell her you could love her dearly, then put the phone down!

Something about "Quantitative Easing" ...

Now, look here, Mervyn, what load of nonsense is this?
Here is my government's banker proposing to print money!
Surely, money has to be earned, not just printed!
















I could print money.
"I promise to pay the bearer b***** all," it would say.

I am no academic economist, but I derive from some earlier-received wisdom that such a strategy is a recipe for inflation. That would mean higher prices, increasingly widespread poverty and a devaluation of the odd pound in my pocket. I can put that pound in my bank (risky) or I can secrete it beneath my mattress. Wherever, it remains at risk of devaluation.

I have every sympathy with those who are threatened with redundancy, unemployment and repossession of their properties. I acknowledge my own good fortune in not being so threatened (yet.) Unfortunately, now we are witnessing the fruits of an overconfident, credit-orientated economic system which has come to disadvantage us all.

In youth my parents encouraged me to save. I did.
In adult life my bankers invited me to borrow. I did.
Now, in later years, my government implores me to spend.
I suppose I must!

What's your terminal bonus going to be, Mr. King?

....

On top of all that, I learn that the Royal Mint (with my government's approval) is to abandon the image of Britannia on our coins of the realm.

"Shame on you," I say, "How very dare you?!"

I wonder: what does the Queen have to say about this?



Rule Britannia! (But mind where you're putting that trident!)

Lord Colon of Borborygm

THIS

PLUS
EQUALS ... ?

There was once a noble Lord Colon of Borborygm, who is much-revered by sufferers of IBS. He was famed for methane production, and only a lighted-match away from incandescence.

Here's his eulogy:

Lord Colon of Borborygm,
So-called for alimentary grumbles,
In life committed no serious crime,
But was famed for tummy rumbles.

One day he dined on vindaloo
With poppadums for starters,
A little lime pickle and raita too,
Before he joined the martyrs.

Sweat appeared on furrowed brow.
There was copious lacrimation.
“I think I'll use the nan bread now
To mop this perspiration."

Those subtle spices burned his mouth
And made the mucus flow.
A strange sensation then moved south
And stormy winds did blow.

From the kitchen there came wailing,
Nose-holding was in the bar.
Faces all around were paling.
Customers cried, “Fetch the car!”

’Twas thus that Colon's end was met,
By methane-oxidation.
Someone lit a cigarette...
There was instant conflagration.

Glossary:
IBS: Ian Bunkum-Smith. Sorry, I meant irritable bowel something.
Borborygmi: A medical term for a noisy abdomen associated with overactive intestinal peristalsis. 'Borborygm' rhymes with rhyme!
Methane-oxidation: An exothermic reaction: CH4 + 2O2 → CO2 + 2H2O

(BANG!)