March – May 2017
One of the reasons I missed out writing the blog for the last couple of months, is that there really isn’t much to write about, all I do is sit at home writing, playing computer games, reading and masturbating*.
As to the writing, my word count is:
Relative Ties – 60,000 Words (vampires and revenge)
Apprentice – 30,000 Words magic and war)
Librarian – 12,000 Words (sequel to Librarian,)
Playboy Cop – 21,000 Words (playboy solves crime – shit title, I need a better one)
Orcs – 17,000 Words (orcs join humans and go to war, everyone dies)
Sapphire – 2000 Words (outline/plot only – female sheriffs’ deputy and white supremists)
Part of the problem is there is so much on the internet, especially addictive content like Facebook; I’m in my mid-fifties and am addicted to the crap that’s on there. I am also job hunting, and to date have applied for over twenty jobs. These range from forklift driver, courier, office manager, and office assistant, and haven’t had a single reply.
It’s quite dispiriting. Some of the employment agencies have a counter on the web-page when you apply for a job. This means you can see how many other people have applied for the position, one of them was up to 167, and most are hovering around the one hundred mark.
I am hoping to use my remaining Enhanced Learning Credits to do a HGV course, we’ll see how that pans out; it also means these coming weeks will be filled with the Highway Code and Hazard Perception practice.
Myself, Matt, Marc, Pat, Ashley, and Matty, spent the other Saturday at the Cambridge CAMRA beer festival. My first impression was that it was organised by a bunch of Doolally** monkeys who had problems organising a piss up in a …. oh wait! When we arrived, we spent 10 minutes queuing, got to the end of said queue, and discovered that we were in the CAMRA Members only queue. There was no sign or any information that we were in the privileged line, until we got to the part where we had to pay.
We then had to go to the end of the queue snaking in from the opposite side, and requeue for another 10 bloody minutes. This may not sound a lot, but when you have already had a shit load of coffee, water and beer, and your bladder is the size of an under developed orange, those extra 10 minutes are quite emotional.
Anyway, once we were in, CAMRA redeemed themselves with good overall organisation, and a superb selection of beers and food vendors. For those of you who don’t know how a beer festival works, the first thing you do is buy a one-pint beer glass.
This glass is marked up with measurements at the one-third, one-half and one pint marks, so when you womble up to the counter you can order those sizes, this helps prevent you only ordering pints all day and getting totally smashed.
There were approx. 216 beers, ciders, and meads. There was also a stand with wine, which I didn’t taste. To give you an example of how seriously the Brits take their drinking, here is a selection of my favourite beer names taken from the Cambridge Beer Festival website:
• Twisted 7.0%
• Lavender Honey 3.7% (with real lavender added)
• Milk Shake 5.6%
• Mariana Trench 5.3%
• Black Pig 4.2%
• True Blue 3.9%
• Henry Tudor 5.0%
• Death or Glory 7.2%
• Strawberry Sundae 4.5%
• Lonely Snake Citra & Simcoe 3.5%
• Repetitive Strain Injury 5.6%
• Brainstorm 4.0%
• Slightly Foxed 3.8%
• Ginger Panther 3.7% (this one made me think of Craig – but replace the Panther with a Sloth)
• Dark Side of the Moo 7.0%
• Chocolate Orange Stout 6.7%
• Marcus Aurelius 7.5% (apparently it’s an Imperial Roman Stout)
• Spiffing Wheeze 3.9%
• Horny Goat 4.8%
• Crispy Pig 4.0%
• Prince of Denmark 7.5%
• Fallen Angel 4.2%
• Visions of Heresy 5.7%
• Hand of Doom 8.2%
• New Balls Please 3.7%
• Mad Monk 4.8%
• Back Sack & Quack 4.2%
• Scream If You Want To Go Faster 8.1%
• Smooth Hoperator 4.0%
• Fall of Man 6.0%
• Hot Dog Chilli Stout 5.0% (Just enough chillis to produce a pleasant aftertaste)
• Bitter Invention of Satan 8.6%
Remember, these are beers or ciders, and all of them are handmade with love and affection. I enjoyed drinking them, not only for the taste, but also so I could walk up to the counter, hand over my glass, and say “New balls please.” Or “May I have Visions of Heresy please.” The other good thing about the day, was I was not the largest person there, not by a long way, in fact some of the women could have easily dominated me.
Matt and I had a most fantastic handmade pizza, which was made in front of us for lunch, and although it was slightly expensive, it was worth it. The only downside to the day was that my back had given way the week before, so I was in the most terrible pain. I was alright when I was walking, but struggled with sitting down. So the rest of the lads decided to show their caring side, and we walked the couple of miles back to the train station, and had bit of a pub crawl on the way back.
Marc held his 48th Birthday in his back garden, and he and I did a BBQ. For those of you who are unaware, Marc has a bar and a reasonable sized hot tub in his back garden, and as the weather was okay, most of us had a good time.
The only two creepy events of the evening were; Marc seemed determined to get me in the hot tub with him – I fought him off bravely; and I spent 20 minutes using a rolled-up towel to gently flick the bottom of a 6 year old girl in a swimsuit as she ran back and forth daring me. All present seemed comfortable with it. But I suspect that come my trial, it’ll be used as evidence against me.
Anyway, moving on. I’m currently looking for love, or just good old sex, on Tinder, and my age range is 45 – 60; apparently, it’s wrong of me to put 16 – 25 – who knew! One thing I have noticed is that a large number of women around my age, post pictures of their dogs, cats, horses, etc, instead of themselves. Why, do they think I’ll find the pets sexy?
How am I as a middle aged-to-old man, supposed to know if I can love you, or mate with you, in a loving and non-kinky way, when all I can see is a picture of a parrot, a pussy, pug or poodle, are the women subconsciously sending out a message as to what they think they look like? If so, they need to be seeing a psychiatrist, not looking for rejection or perverts on tinder.
Every couple of months I get my haircut by a gentleman of Brazilian descent, and the other day as I was sitting in the chair all tucked in, I couldn’t help but notice that, a) he wasn’t wearing underpants, and b) he was quite well endowed. Imagine if you will somebody walking around you in a tight circle, occasionally brushing your arm, with a small snake wiggling around in his pants. It was the closest I’ve been to sex in years, even if it was with the wrong gender.
Envisage if you will, a snake charmer whose snake is hiding in his pants and swaying gently from side to side, and it occasionally brushes up against you like a cat, or rather a snake, behaving in a non-threatening manner.
A few blogs ago I queried why manufacturers made deodorant that was good for 48, 72, or 96 hours. Since I have stopped working, quite often I’ll not bother showering every day, and my record is three days. In other words, the manufacturers make deodorant for the unemployed. And I suspect it’s not because we’re all skint, it’s because we either can’t be bothered or we lose track of time.
The other week Whilst in Norwich, I went to Jacamo to get some t-shirts for myself, and when Marc found out I was going, he asked me to pick up a couple of things for him. He wanted sleeveless t-shirts, and when I questioned him about his poor choice, he told me that sleeveless was the correct dress code for the gym. Now, to be honest, I’ve seen him wearing nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, and trust me the correct dress code for him at any time, never mind in the gym, is a burqa and gimp mask.
Julie and Pat came round the other day for dinner, and as she walked in, the first thing Julie asked was “Jim can I use your Spermy keyboard?” Great! How well she knows me. First thing she saw when she sat down at the desk was a pubic hair, I swear it wasn’t, she insists it was; I did however, strongly suggest that once she’d finished, she wash her hands thoroughly.
A few weeks ago, Craig suddenly out of the blue asked me if my mobile was a Samsung Galaxy S6, and when I confirmed it was, he said did you know they’re all wireless charging – it must be true because his mum said so. After mocking him for 5 mins, we drove to the only place we knew with wireless charging points – McDonald’s, and arrived there at nine o’clock at night.
We bet a McDonald’s meal on it. I was right, when we put the phone on the recharge pad nothing happened; however, Craig had more faith in his mum than McDonald’s technology, and went and tried a different recharge point. Bastard phone started recharging, so we stayed and Craig tried to eat his own bodyweight.
Quote of the month:
Quote: All the Islamists from Saudi Arabia are wasabi. ***
Corrected quote: All the Islamists from Saudi Arabia are Wahhabi.
How do you know that your friends are following the Slimming World diet? They turn up at your house for a dinner party, and bring Best Of Both (BOB) milk because they want to be healthy when they have their obligatory cup of tea or coffee. They also quiz you on the ingredients used in the making of the meal, and then spoil it by having four or five cookies along with their coffee!
Myself, Marc and Pat are on one of our diets again. We’ll eat healthily, but also cut out all booze for June – let’s see how that goes and who crumbles first. Marc’s trying to turn it into a competition, and is giving me daily updates as to his weight, food, and toilet schedule – and people say nothing exciting happens in my world!
That’s it for now, hopefully I’ll get a job and have something interesting to talk about in future.
*Five, the record is still five, and I’m not going to lie, I thought my dick was going to drop off by the end.
**To ‘lose one′s mind’/an idiot or, Temporarily deranged or feeble-minded.
***Wasabi’ist – someone who loves hot Japanese condiments.
Marc, my neighbour asked me to tow his van to the garage in order that they can make it work again, and we agreed that the grand journey would take place on a Tuesday morning as the theory was that the roads would be quieter. However, on the morning, Marc decided to try jump-start the van, and the conversation went something like this:
- Marc: Can u jump start me?
- Jim: Sure, u got jump leads?
- Marc: Of course.
Five minutes later after frantic searching van and house.
- Marc: Bugger, my son’s taken them, Jim have you got one?
- Jim: Yes of course.
Five minutes later after frantic searching car and house.
- Jim: Bugger, can’t find it, I’m sure my son’s involved somehow.
- Marc: Never mind, I’ve got a battery booster we’ll try that.
- Jim: Is it charged?
- Marc: Not sure, I’ve lost the charging lead.
Anyway, It either wasn’t charged or the glow plugs were too fucked.
- Marc: Never mind, can you give me a tow?
- Jim: Sure, have you got a tow rope?
- Marc: Yes of course.
He produced a tow rope that was modern in the 80’s or early 90’s and that was frayed to fuckery and not capable of towing a tonka toy.
- Marc: Bugger, Jim have you got one?
Jim: Yes, of course.
Five minutes later after frantic searching car and house.
- Jim: Bugger, can’t find it, again, I’m sure son number 1 is involved, but have no proof, and he denies all involvement.
Anyway, by this time, I swear there was clown music playing in the background. Que trip to Halfords to buy both missing items. So after approx. an hour of mucking around and revelling in how crap/unprepared we are, it was time to tow Marc to the garage.
Now he had a choice of choosing a garage nearby, or all the way across town, as in the furthest he could go; guess which he chose?
We got there by driving slowly and carefully and by not going above forty miles an hour. When we arrived safely, Marc asked in passing “How was my breaking?”
“Okay, I think, why?” And I quote him “The brakes were a bit mushy ,so I had to use the hand brake for most of the stopping.”
Great I wish I had known that up front.
Still the above episode demonstrated to me just how unprepared I actually was
I mean, I have a breathalyser, a high-vis jacket, and some spare bulbs, but I would have been buggered if I had any problems not associated with those.
Staying with the subject of Marc, he had to put his cat down the other day, and because his van was out of action, I took him to the vets. On the way back from the murder, I managed to show what a complete dick I was my saying “Meow have done the right thing.” And then several minutes later ” Be careful when you’re driving that you don’t dwell on it and go catatonic and lose concentration.”
My back fence was falling down, correction, it fell down on Marc’s van, luckily it did no damage and we both had a good laugh; me thinking, thank fuck I got away with that; him thinking, bollocks, I could have done with a new paint job. So, sorting out my money, then borrowing heavily from my sister, I called and left messages with two English fencing companies, but never got a call back, so I walked across the back road to a bloke who happened to be replacing a broken fence and asked him to have a look and give me a quote. His name was Thomasz and he was from one of the Baltic states.
Anyway, the fence has been up for over a year now and have discovered I paid a fortune for a fence that:
- One week after erection, the front gate lock stopped working; called Thomasz and left a message.
- One month after erection, the back-gate lock stopped working; called Thomasz, and left a message.
- 6 months after erection, the screws start weeping rust and the wood is stained.
Thomasz comes round has a look and promises to get back to me. A year later, I’m still peering out of the back in the vain hope that he’s hiding out there somewhere.
As an extra bonus, the fence clearly hasn’t been waterproofed and after about a year, now the wood is starting to fade and buckle. Now, Thomasz and his mate did walk around brushing down the fence with a clear liquid, that upon reflection, was either water, or the tears of his previous customers.
For those of you who love fences or wood, I’ve put a photo on the Photo page. This shows me that Baltic state workers are welcome here because they are either just as incompetent and dishonest as a large number of British workmen that I’ve met.
The other weekend I volunteered to help Marc run his table at a car boot sale on the Sunday, this was to allow his wife, Chris, to have a lay-in. For those amongst you who don’t know what a car boot sale is, it’s when a load of complete strangers bump their cars up in to a muddy field, park in parallel lines, set up trestle tables and then load them with all the crap from their houses that they want to get rid of; this can be anything; old DVD’s, clothes, books, VHS (still!), old toys and games; old crockery and cutlery, old garden furniture and tools, etc. etc…
You get the picture, it tends to be quite simply junk that people would normally take to the skip. One of the strong points is that you charge pennies for the items on sale and are open to negotiation; it’s surprising the number of people who will haggle over a used (but washed) t-shirt that you are selling for 0.50 pence. (50 pence – 0.63 cents (USA), 2.26 TRY (Turkish Lira), or 0.59 cents (Euro)).
In addition to all the amateurs such as Marc and I, there were also a number of people who do car boots for a living and some of them turned up in Luton vans loaded with stuff from either house clearances or auctions and seemed to do quite well. The couple setting up the stall next to us I recognised as my neighbours from about sixteen years ago, and we had a pleasant morning serving discerning customers and catching up on what had happened in our lives since we last saw each other. It turns out that their kids are doing quite well, I’m jealous!
The people doing the selling were British and, seemingly, most of the customers were pensioners or eastern European and a few of them had clearly eaten their own children or way too many calories (and that’s from someone my size).
Another thing with women who are large, is that they have a problem sourcing trousers or jeans, and so choose to go with the easiest of alternatives – yoga pants (Google them), the problem is that yoga pants are made from a very thin, stretchy material, and are skin tight and in the case of some large women, they give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Camel Toe’; I can tell you that some of those camel toes were either mutant or so underfed, they were trying to eat the yoga pants.
There were also a number of women who matched these pants with gilets, the tackiest of which had a hood ringed with fur.
There was also a man selling a selection of what seemed to be soft Porn DVD’s, I was tempted to ask him if he had anything harder stashed away, but then figured there might be a camera trained on the stall and it might be a blackmail trap or something. Top tip – if you’re going to buy porn in this day and age, don’t get it from the back of somebody’s car!
The highlight of the morning, other than Marc using his earnings to keep us supplied in burgers, hotdogs and coke, was a pensioner wearing a Mexican shawl, a massive sombrero and cuddling the top half of a life-size female mannequin, which was also dressed in a matching sombrero and Mexican shawl. He was also carrying a very large Mexican flag on a pole which he was waving and had a mini speaker playing Mexican/mariachi music as he danced his way down the line of cars and tables.
I was surprised at the number of boxes of jigsaws and the fact that people were quite happy to take the word of the stall holder that all the pieces were in there; it seems that jigsaws go to nursing homes to die, but to car boot sales to be reborn.
The last three highlights of the morning were some woman driving her car across the field, one of the back wheels was turning , but the other was jammed and the divvy woman dug a 25 metre furrow across the grass. I suspect the handbrake was on because she was reving the buggery out of the engine just to go at about five miles an hour; due to the noise of the engine I don’t think she would have heard all the cheering from the stalls as she destroyed the field.
Then Marc’s wife Chris appeared with fresh coffee and made us feel superior to everyone else who was drinking the instant shite from the burger stall. And finally, an old woman walked by with a child’s pushchair in which was her chihuahua type dog wrapped up in a blanket. I submit to you, if a dog is so small and useless that the only for it to move about is in a pushchair, then there is no point in its existence, unless its to give the old dear a workout picking up its miniature turds.
Spam copied from Blog:
2016/10/29 at 10:47 am
This will very conveniently be a replay again connected with 2014, when Rangers dragged theirselves through several games against the Flyers in the initially spherical, switching victories along the route. Then they were definitely forced an additional from the space to kill the Cold-weather animals in more effective, before beating often the Canadiens inside half a dozen.
I went in to the fridge the other day and found I had run out of god’s food (cheddar cheese) and went to help myself to Craig’s; however, his cheese had big bite marks in several places, either he’s taking big bites (and probably licking it as well) to discourage me, or we have the world’s biggest rats.
Update – I have been corrected; apparently sad people who own dogs that are so pointless and small and risk getting stood upon, can buy a Doggy Pushchair, or Pet Pram, to give its correct name. I submit to you, that if a dog is incapable of walking around a car-boot sale, then it’s pointless!
During the Christmas holidays I spent a day childminding Eva (aged 11 and usually annoying) as Sarah and Carlos had to go in for a day of teacher training prior to the new term starting. We began our morning with a MacDonald’s breakfast.
Whilst there Eva was tampering with her IPad and looked up and me and in all seriousness said, and I quote, “I tapped the black thing over 700 times and I died.” I snorted my coffee out of my nose and wondered what kind of porn was that interactive; however, she was referring to an ipad game where you have to tap loads of black squares as they scroll down the screen and it plays piano music
Back home next on the agenda was the DVD ‘The Huntsman, The Winter War’ which was continuation of Snow White and the Huntsman, but apparently, and I’m not sure if it’s true, but Kirsten Stewart was cut out of the new film because she slept with the director, who is about twice her age. As an obese older single man, I thoroughly approve of that kind of behaviour and would have happily paid to go see the film.
The film was followed by Eva sitting me down and giving me a makeover; lips, cheeks and eyes, and before you criticise, I’ll have you know I looked fabulous! (I have photographs) (for the Americans out there, a film is the correct word for movie)
I had Pat and Julie round for dinner and I knew it wasn’t great when Julie who worships the god of boring flavours, said “This is a bit bland!” So, the other week to try not to be so boring I made chicken in a Dijon mustard sauce, but mellowed it down with loads of single cream and crème fraiche for Julie, and even then, she couldn’t eat it as it was too spicy; but it was okay as she then made up for the lack of dinner eaten with a lot of cheese and biscuits afterwards.
Pat, Marc and I have cut down the amount of alcohol we drink for the next couple of months to assist as part of a weight-loss programme; we only drink on a Friday or Saturday night, and after having done this shit for a month, now I understand why Teetotallers are so boring! Teetotallers are almost as bad as people who both believe strongly in religion and fervently try and force it down your throat.
Some religions try and force you to convert through violence, or punish you through ostracisation, or in the case of the CoE, disapproving looks and church fairs. Teetotallers have it the wrong way around; look at the Temperance Map (seriously, look now! Also on photo page) nowhere does it show the peninsula of staying sober and having an awesome kebab, fumbling sex with a stranger (male or female –a hole’s a goal) behind the kebab shop after closing time.
It does show Malt Island, which is traditionally a beer made in the USA with inferior ingredients (Corn and added sugar), which is why it’s on this map, it’s shit! I note that Real Ale Island is missing – this means that some of the Temperance Movement were clearly fans of real ale and CAMRA*.
There is a JWhiskey Island, which means they were targeting Irish or American spirits, which shows that the Temperance Movement liked good quality Scotch and decided to play fast and loose by omitting Single Malt Whisky Island.
Prosecco Island is also missing, as is Bacardi Breezer Island, which between them have done more to repopulate council estates than the catholic church and its no-condom gospel.
Also, the alcoholic islands are in the middle, which as I’m reading it, means that you can visit them with friends, but not to get too drunk and rowdy. Also in the middle is Missionary Island; now does that refer to the Movement itself, or have they slipped in a sexual position just to check if people are actually paying attention to their whiny preachy bollocks?
Anyway, moving on, hands up, I’m crap with money. I hadn’t looked at my bank account since I retired and went on to my internet banking early this month to transfer some money and realised that I was down by several thousand pounds.
Now I know that in the weeks/months before I finished at Honington, I changed my bank details and then the week later, called the **JPAC to check it had all been done, and they confirmed it had and there were no problems. Wrong!
It turns out that the JPAC had indeed updated my records, but not told the pensions people, Equinity, that I had changed them. But not a problem, a month before I’m out, Equinity, being all professional and such, send me a letter and ask me to check my bank details in order that my pension payments are not cocked up. This I definitely did not do as I’d checked with the JPAC a couple of weeks before, so I ignored the letter – big mistake!
Anyway, I was down nearly four grand and called Equinity and they were brilliant; once I had gone through the identification process and queried where the money was, they confirmed that yes, my pension was being paid, just not to me. They gave me a clue and then helped me correct the bank details. Now all I had to do was find the missing money!
Up until I left the RAF, myself and my ex-wife had been paying fifty quid a month in to a slush fund for our delightful son, and it seems that was where all my dosh had gone; queue one frantic phone call to Ruth. Her reply was “I noticed all that money in there but didn’t know where it had come from.”
When she queried it with the bank, they also didn’t know where it had come from, and luckily for me, she didn’t spend it. The bank did think that the money either came from an NHS or military account that deals with pensions, and her husband then asked her if the money could be mine, but she told him “Jim wouldn’t be that stupid!”
The next day I met Ruth for coffee and a cheque hand-off in the Marks & Spencer café, and twenty minutes later the cheque was in the bank. Phew! As an aside, an hour later I got a text message from my son saying I had been seen with my ex-wife having a coffee – the Marks & Spencer gossip network is alive and well and still reporting to my son.
Wherever Maxine goes in the world she takes photographs and frames the nice ones in multi-frames so each wall in her house has a theme; Vegas, skiing, Venice, etc. The issue I have with this is that the photos for Florence are in the downstairs toilet, and whilst standing there having a pee I look to the left and find myself about six inches away from a photo of Michelangelo’s David; in other words, I’m having a pee and have zoomed in on a stone penis, which was clearly carved on a cold day!
My blog is now getting spammed practically every day and it’s bloody annoying having to delete all the utter rubbish that keeps turning up in my mailbox, a lot of them seem to be about Viagra or such; so perhaps they are profiling me! Below is the latest message that I received, I dare you read it all the way through:
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Pat’s had a suspected heart attack, which then turned out to be myocarditis, so he’s out of danger, but it can take up to six months for the infection to clear up, and in that time he’s not allowed to do any exercise, he’s got to take it easy; it’s amazing what some people will do to avoid having to come to the gym at 0630 in the morning. However, the good news is that he can continue to drink red wine.
I arranged for my ex-wife, Ruth to come around my house so we could sort some stuff out about favourite son number 1, but then I had to rush off and collect Eva, as her mum had to get her hair cut and didn’t want a whingy child getting in the way, so she fobbed her off to me, great move!
This meant I wouldn’t be home when Ruth came around, so I briefed Marc, my neighbour to give her my spare key and allow her to let herself in. Marc asked me to describe her so he would know who to hand the key over to, and I couldn’t help but wonder why? When was the last time a random woman turned up at his house and asked for my key, is it that often that he needs to be sure?
Eva and I got back to the house and let ourselves in to the kitchen and found that Ruth had emptied part of the fridge and was cleaning it for me, she was bored waiting and noticed a pool of water at the bottom and stripped the shelves out to investigate and just started cleaning it. Ahh, things don’t change!
Later that day, I spoke to Marc over the fence and one of the first things he said was “I gave your ex missus your spare key; mate, you were definitely punching above your weight there, no wonder she left you. Tosser!
*For the Americans, Europeans and Turks who read this, CAMRA is – Campaign for real ale. CAMRA hold beer festivals where large bearded men and women get drunk on real ale and spend the next couple of days farting, or at least that’s been my experience!
J Whisky is Scottish. Whiskey is USA or Ireland, or anywhere else
**JPAC – Joint Personnel Administration Centre – they deal with the pay for the British military.
Since I have been home all day pretending to be busy I have been bothered daily, sometimes twice a day, by telephone calls on my landline, by dodgy, usually Asian sounding, men who want to talk to me about my:
- My recent car accident – never had one, told him I don’t drive, he hung up without another word
- Microsoft engineer wanting to talk about my corrupted computer – told him I use Apple, he hung up without another word
- Man called Dan (a well known Indian name apparently!), he wanted to talk to me about the problem with my telephone line – I hung up.
- Another man called, I didn’t get his name due to his thick accent, he wanted to know if I want to block people spamming me with fake/marketing telephone calls? – Guess their greed overcome the irony of the situation – I hung up.
I am registered on the Telephone Preference Service, but it’s not made any difference; the thing is, when I tell some of them I’m not interested they get aggressive and challenge me.
Most people, no, scrap that, all people I know bar one, have a key chain /ring with their house keys and car keys etcetera. Not a certain person I know, he has two separate lots of keys; one bunch is his house keys; and the other, his car key.
He doesn’t always put them down in the same place when he comes back from work, and quite often puts the car key in a separate place to the house keys. This leads to him playing to a game called ‘Where’s my keys’, and after some few minutes or so the next round starts, which is called ‘Where’s my fucking keys’; this is swiftly followed by the final round called ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, ooh, there they are, exactly where I left them!’
New annoying thing is home deliveries; people in the street are out working so the delivery man knocks on my door and asks if I’ll hold it, and he’ll put a card through the letter box of the recipient. So far, my record for holding parcels is 9 days for two parcels containing furniture, they were both close to my size, and that’s big. Still, look on the bright side, I’ve been here for 6 years (on and off) and it’s getting me to meet some of my neighbours for the first time.
The other day I was making a stir fry and put too much Fish sauce in. For a split second I thought it was Worcestershire sauce and just walloped it in. Imagine what it smells like when a woman doesn’t wash her lady’s parts for about a month, that’s what both my dinner and whole house smelt like for the next couple of hours.
More cooking things – the other day I made a bacon sandwich and decided to splash out on a healthy alternative to normal smoked bacon, and I bought Danish Smoked Bacon Medallions
Look at the photographs on the photo page and look at all the crap that came out of the bacon, and supermarkets wonder why they are losing the trust of the people. As an aside to this I complained to Tesco’s who said they said they would send me a two-pound voucher to compensate and they would investigate and get back to me. Below is the text from the email I sent to Tesco’s Complaints Dept:
Sir, madam, I have just bought a pack of Danish Smoked Bacon Medallions from your King’s Lynn store, and I am horrified by the amount of muck that came out of them while they were cooking. First it was a liberal amount white paste that was more than a little reminiscent of semen, indeed, if I didn’t have such a craving for a bacon buttie, I would have thought twice about putting something that looked strongly like ejaculate in my mouth. Then came the water which spread the semen stuff around the pan. As the bacon medallions cooked the white stuff then started to char down in to a black and brown paste and finally in to a disgusting burnt covering of the pan. Please explain to me how; a, this is natural, and b, how this cannot be messing up my insides? I have photographs, or you can test this yourself. I look forward to your reply.
I got the voucher, which was put towards the Christmas dinner, but a month down the line I haven’t heard anything about the amount of creepy sperm in my bacon
My sister, Father, niece and her boyfriend came over Christmas day for dinner, and I bought the five-bird roast from Aldi, and too be honest, it was great; much better than dry old turkey. Once we’d all sat down and started eating my sister asked why I hadn’t made stuffing. Bollocks! I had! I went and recovered some burnt and dried out stuffing from the bottom of the oven and dished it out.
A minute or so later someone else asked why there were no yorkies. Bollocks, again! back to the oven I went and retrieved the yorkies and dished them out. Problem was, everyone had already filled their plate and so ended up having a rather sad rapidly deflating yorkie perched on top of their dinner.
The next problem was Lacey, I looked at her plate and asked her why she hadn’t piled it up? She told me she was a vegetarian. Bollocks! I had forgotten. So, she had a minimal plate of veg. This was because the Brussels sprouts were cooked with smoked bacon and the spuds were done in goose fat.
I’m on Tinder now thanks to a drunken evening in Friends Tavern with Sarah, Inna and Julie*. I am amazed at how many women put pictures of their pets on there instead of themselves; or more disturbingly, the number who have pictured of themselves with their daughters, what goes through their minds when they post that: “I know, I’ll stick a picture of me with my daughter and see if I can appeal to a pedo, because he’ll be so much better than whatever I had before.”
*Julie and Sarah’s husbands were there, and as for Inna, she’s in a relationship and apparently, she’s too good for me, so she’s safe.
Craig, my lodger, and I mark the milk in the fridge with our names, this is because we both swig from the bottle/container and since we are unwilling to swap spit in bed, we are also unwilling to swap saliva via the medium of plastic 2 to 4 pint containers. Craig has now taken things to their next level with a new glyph, that makes his bottle tops super cool. See photos for an example.
I have decided to cut out milk as I want to lose weight, and I’ll be honest it’s easier to cut out liquid dairy products than scotch, so I bought some Almond Milk. It was okay, but all you can do with it is put it on cereal or neck-it. Whilst standing there sucking the contents out, I saw the ingredients and being bored decided to put on my glasses and read the stupidly small text and made a discovery.
The list of ingredients is in order: Water, Sugar, Almonds (2%), etc, etc. In what world is this Almond Milk? The main ingredients are water and sugar; so why is it not called Sugar Water with one fucking almond dropped in as an afterthought. Are they going to try this con with other legumes?
Also, where does the Milk in the title come from? If there was milk or soya, then I could understand the Milk reference, but the other ingredients, before anything else is calcium and then salt. How can this be legal, it’s like me being called a sex object, I contain some of the ingredients; two legs, two arms, and abdominals. In fact, a surplus of abdominals, but only a blind person tripping on an LSD tab could consider me a sex object.
The other weekend Matthew, me, Pat and Julie went to Leeds Armoury for the weekend so I could touch some swords, the problem was that both Matt and Julie get car sick if they sit in the back; however, Matt decided to see if he would be okay and tried out the back of the car, it was probably the first time since he had a booster seat. Julie had to sit in the front in order not to get sick, where she promptly fell asleep; turns out that sleeping in the back of the car has different sensations to sleeping in the front.
After a long day of wandering the exhibits we went for dinner, now my choice would have been to go to Pizza Express, which was approx. 50* metres from the hotel, but no… Pat didn’t want to as he said it was basically an up-market MacDonald’s, so he bullied us in to going somewhere else; TGI Friday’s.
According to Google Maps it was a 30 minute walk from the hotel, but when you have a trio of clowns trying to follow the Sat Nav which couldn’t get its bearings because we were up north, and apparently, GPS doesn’t work up there; then it takes about 50 minutes.
Now, remember that Pat didn’t want to go to Pizza Express because of the fact it was a posher version of MacDonald’s; well, guess what TGI Friday’s is? Not only was it packed and noisy, but the menu seemed to have a lot less choices than a Pizza Express.
And to make me even happier, some ‘cee you next Tuesday’ spread tomato ketchup all over the red pleather bench we were on, and it smeared all over my brand new burnt mustard jacket. In other words, I got to wear the jacket once, and then had to put it through the washing machine.
During the journey, Pat played both the middle class and old man cards; he forced us to listen to radio two with Elaine Paige playing show tunes (serious suicide music) and drove at exactly seven miles below the speed limit there and back. Sixty-three miles on the motorways and fifty-three miles on the A-roads; it was certainly fun to sit powerless in the back of the car and watch all the traffic whizz by.
I have had the end of the garden concreted over and in order that we can park the motorbikes there, and I have had a very robust chain embedded in it so we can chain the bikes to it. The amount of comments I have had about chaining young women to it shows just how well my friends know me!
The bad news is that it cost me five hundred quid, and the good news is that the neighbourhood cats can no longer shit in my garden, which means that going out of the back gate no longer means passing something that smells like an open sewer.
I have found that my writing is coming on, but I can’t type and think; I’m okay at writing and creating; whilst putting pen to paper I can let the creative juices flow through my brain (or scotch – they’re much the same ), but I have found that transposing the written word to computer to be a real barrier to achieving, I just cannot put any effort in to typing the pages, it bores me rigid!
I’ll do quarter of a page and then go on to Facebook, cartoon sites, military sites, porn, fox news, YouTube and before I know it the morning’s gone and it’s time to play computer games. It’s both exhausting and destroying my productivity, but I have now found someone who is willing, at least for the moment, to do my typing for me; thus, my productivity has soared.
*54 yards for you yanks.
The end of my back garden seems to have become the main toilet for all the cats in the local area, and since society disapproves of me using an air rifle on them I have decided to concrete it over. To save money I decided to dig it up myself and to that end ordered a small skip. The chap at the other end of the telephone told me I needed a licence, so I called King’s Lynn Council and they said it wasn’t their issue as the land was Freebridge (the local housing association).
I then called Freebridge and explained the problem and then heard them discuss the issue for a minute or so in the background before coming back to me and telling me that it’s all good and as its Freebridge land I don’t need a license.
So, I ordered the skip and when it turned up the first words from the driver were “Hello, mate, here’s your skip, let’s see your license.” And as pleasant as he was he wasn’t going to leave it with me without a license.
There followed ten minutes of frantic telephone calls and emails before the owner of the company got involved and agreed that I didn’t need a license and so the skip lorry which had been hiding around the corner appeared within two minutes of the conclusion of the panic and dropped the skip off.
My biggest fear about having the skip out the back was that some selfish scrots* would use it to dump all their rubbish, and that has happened to a degree, but in a rare display of manners they asked me first. I suppose the good thing about living on a council estate populated with oxygen-thief neighbours is they are too lazy to walk a few metres to dump their rubbish and instead just leave on the pavement or grass outside the back of their houses.
With help from Marc and Chris, (but mainly Chris as Marc’s a bit big to do manual labour) I filled the skip to the brim with topsoil over the course of a very rainy Friday afternoon, and Saturday morning a man from a few doors down came over explained that the builders had denuded his garden and could he please take some of the soil in the skip? He ended up taking over half of the soil.
I emailed the skip company first thing Monday morning asking them to come and collect, and they confirmed back that it would be gone within the next two days. The following Monday I emailed them again to come and collect, but since I clearly had a communication problem I asked them to collect the skip in the following languages:
- Basque – Mesedez biltzeko jauzi du.
- French – S’il vous plaît recueillir le saut.
- Latin – Please Skip colligere.
- Spanish – Por favor, recoger el salto.
- Bollocks – El skipo collecto.
- Turkish – Atlamayı alınız.
- American – Collect the damn skip.
- Welsh – Os gwelwch yn dda casglu’r sgip.
They turned up the next day and I breathed a sigh of relief as I could park next to my house again.
Last month I made bacon flavoured vodka, and it was gopping**. The recipe called for bacon fat to be put in the bottle, it was disgusting, next time I’m going to use lean grilled bacon and see if that makes a difference; so I have rewritten the original recipe:
- Fry off enough bacon so as to produce a couple of tablespoons of fat.
- Put fat in the bottle of vodka.
- Eat the bacon itself.
- Leave bottle to stand overnight.
- Put bottle in freezer for a few hours to solidify the fat.
- Decant through fine cloth/coffee filter to remove the fat.
- Drink vodka.
- Grimace and discuss how disappointed you are with result.
- Pour vodka down sink.
I have been looking at jobs, either forklift driver/operator or office manager and I have discovered a common theme; civilians are terribly paid for the work and hours they put in. When I look at the wages some of the jobs attract it’s no wonder that a number of public sector workers are miserable grumpy bastards, which makes it more remarkable when you receive good service. I am really looking to work part time, that is to say, just the weekends, this will free me up during the week to procrastinate.
A friend is a teaching assistant in a special needs school, in other words she works with disabled children, and I found that TA’s used to get an extra payment for the amount of clothes they have damaged by the children at her school, but David Cameron stopped it; in other words he had a disabled son, lost said son and punished the teachers and teaching assistants for it.
In 2015 the UK gave out approx. 12 billion pounds in Official Development Assistance (ODA) or Foreign Aid as we call it; of that we gave two nuclear armed counties, one of which hates both us and women; we also gave a major oil producing country a massive amount of aid. Why; are their leaders not stealing enough from their people already and we have to top them up?
- Pakistan – 351 million
- India – 150 million
- Nigeria – 253 million
(Figures taken from The Week)
Let’s take a look at those three countries:
- Pakistan has nuclear weapons and persecutes Christians and women.
- India has a thriving space programme
- Nigeria has a great deal of oil
All of the above are, or should be, should be self-sustaining states. Last I checked teaching assistants do not have atom bombs, spaceships or oil; the government seems to be prepared to assist other nations out of poverty, but at the price of keeping its own people poor.
The argument that the government is that this money buys us influence, but I would argue that influence goes straight out of the window as soon as one of the countries has a self-interest and all that money will have been wasted.
Pat, Julie, Alexis (their two-year-old granddaughter) and I spent the other Saturday at Lincoln showground walking around the Motorhome Show and had a lovely day. As we drove up to the showground I said that I was willing to bet that since Lincolnshire is basically a giant airfield I would meet someone I know.
Sure enough a couple of hours later a lady came up to me and asked me if I was Jim Drake. Result! Her husband thought he recognised me but didn’t want to approach me, so he sent his wife. Turns out I had served with him at RAF Marham in the nineties for a year or so, we had a quick catch up and agreed that next time they were in King’s Lynn we would have a proper catch up.
A couple of hours after that we found a stall selling one of the greatest foodstuffs in the world, bratwurst and currywurst***. We got some coffee and bratties and sat down and then I bumped into the second person I knew, the welfare officer from RAF Honington; we had a quick catch-up and I listened to how shit things were and was glad that I’d left the RAF.
I saw a woman in Tesco the other day, her shopping included two bottles of Tesco vodka and Tesco Every Day Value toilet paper and I couldn’t help but think, buy one less bottle of shitty vodka and then you can afford to buy Andrex Quilted and show your arse and fingers how much you care for them.
Not too exciting this month, let’s see if November is anymore scintillating.
*Short for scrotum
**Gopping – Adjective. Nasty, horrible, ugly.
*** A variation of bratwurst (Yes, I know it looks like a syphilitic dick, but believe me, it doesn’t taste like it.
More (belated) ramblings from the metropolis that is King’s Lynn; apologies for not publishing sooner but Deus Ex got in the way and has consumed all my spare time. For those of you who do not know what Deus Ex is, it is the most awesomely superb computer game currently in existence.
I hosted a poker night the other Friday and amongst those invited was Marc from next door. It turns out that Marc’s idea of poker is to turn up with a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey, a bottle of Raki, and a bottle of Jagermeister, in other words, nearly three litres of spirits, and a stack of plastic shot bomb glasses. Pat, Marc and I started drinking beer at four o’clock in the afternoon and cooked Texas Hash (basically chilli con carne mixed with rice). Carlos and Craig turned up at about seven o’clock and the game commenced shortly afterwards.
Carlos and Marc then spent the evening swapping between Raki and Jagermeister bombs, and honey Jack Daniels and Jagermeister bombs, before going on that old favourite when the Jagermeister runs out; honey Jack Daniels and Raki bombs. The night ended with Carlos winning and then going home to throw up three times downstairs and once upstairs all over the bathroom, as well as trailing vomit up the stairs.
Marc, the true expert of Jager bombing, got home and threw up downstairs, fell asleep on the kitchen floor for several hours before crawling to the couch and then mid-morning managed to get upstairs to bed and spent all day in bed. Early Saturday afternoon the mating call of a moose could be heard from Marc’s house as he spent fifteen minutes trying to throw up, but since his body had gone in to self-defence mode the previous night, he had nothing left to give except his dignity.
Pat and I stayed with red wine and were not too bad the next day, and Craig the virgin drinker (that is to say he doesn’t really drink, not that he drinks virgins – that would be creepy, not to say really hard to do in King’s Lynn) was at work the next day and so set an example for all men in the mid-twenties and didn’t drink. Next day it took me nearly an hour to clean up, but that could also be because I was moving very carefully.
We went to an air show at East Kirkby airfield and had an absolutely cracking day watching aeroplanes flying around and stuff like that. One of the things that amazed me was the number of people who like to dress up in military gear, those who are working as actors for the day or who brought along a military vehicle and want to maintain the efficacy, I can understand, but the rest?
I always wanted to be, in order; a gigolo, a chef, or a deep-sea diver, but you don’t see me at specialist events dressed in tight fitting white pants and cravat, chef whites or a mask and snorkel. I would be happy to wear a gimp suit; however, I have found that wearing one for more than five minutes at a time compresses my waist, which in turn causes my belly to push up in to my lungs which means that I soon become short of breath and pass out.
This has led to one or two embarrassing situations since the others involved thought it was part of the whole role-playing scenario and carried on regardless. I have tried a couple of lycra suits, but they are too brightly coloured and detract from me being menacing; also, they just can’t take the same punishment as leather.
Anyway, back to East Kirkby, while we were walking around touching things the tannoy announced that the model aeroplanes would be up next and we looked at each other and said ‘sad bastards’. Then the model aeroplanes took to the sky and they were bloody massive and fast as shit coming off a slightly warmed greased shovel; they could have done part-time work as military drones they were that big and fast.
I’ve decided to pretty much take a year off work in order to concentrate on writing to see if I can make it as an author, and I now realise the amount self-discipline is more than what was required when I was in the RAF; with the advent of the Internet there are so many distractions at my fingertips.
Facebook and all the nonsense people post on there is rapidly becoming a favourite, YouTube is awesome, and as a practising Atheist, there is loads on there for me to watch debunking religion. The other day I wanted to research archery to see how I could fit it in to one of my stories and so used YouTube as my authority. Bows and arrows led to boomerangs which in turn led Quoits which the Indians used as throwing weapons, which lead to throwing axes, and then to ninja stuff. In other words, I am getting the art of procrastination down to a fine art.
Because I’m now retiring and going to be poor I have started to shop at Aldi and have to admit to feeling a little cheated; when I buy bacon from Tesco’s and cook it I always get a bonus – a frying pan full of water, which is quite good for helping to flavour other things such as onions or Brussels sprouts.
Aldi bacon seems to have no, or very little water, when you buy the bacon, that’s all you get, bacon! I believe one of two things is happening here; Aldi, are removing the water from their bacon; or Tesco’s, the bastards, are filling theirs with it. Which of the two companies do you think puts the profit worshiping, penny pinching, selfish shareholder ahead of its customers?
So I now have a difficult morale dilemma; do I continue buying good quality, natural bacon from Aldi, cheaply; or do I buy indifferent, water-pumped bacon from Tescos at an inflated price; and make no mistake, it is inflated, well at least with water.
Below are a number of statements about the two supermarkets and their bacon, what I want you to do is put an ‘A’ for Aldi or a ‘T’ for Tesco’s next to which ever statement you think accurately reflects the supermarket:
- Cares for customers
- Cares for value for money
- Cares for shareholders and profit more
- Respects customers
- Disrespects customers
- Loads bacon with water and possibly preservatives
- Sells bacon in its natural state
(if you’re struggling, I have helped by colouring in the individual statements in red or green, unless you’re reading this in black and white, in which case use your imagination.)
As an experiment I’m going to buy some chicken breast from each, weigh them raw, fry them off in a breast competition, and see how much liquid they produce and how much weight they lose; in this case it’s a win-win for me as I get to both the winner and loser in a wrap. However, Tesco’s has Heck Chicken Italia sausages which are the dogs bollocks (metaphorically, not literally)
I have now linked my blog to Google and the other search engines, but not too well it seems as I’m not getting too many hits; however, I have been cheered up by the fact that I send the link out to about eleven people, and since the 05 August, fifty-two people have viewed my blog. Trouble is I discovered a couple of weeks later that the I also get counted each time I log on to update or view the stats, so the number isn’t all that great.
This month i am going to try my hand at bacon flavoured vodka; Marc’s going half with me on both the vodka and the bacon, and obviously the drinking. The recipe calls for you to:
- Fry off enough bacon so as to produce a couple of tablespoons of fat.
- Put fat in the bottle of vodka.
- Eat the bacon itself.
- Leave bottle to stand overnight.
- Put bottle in freezer for a few hours to solidify the fat
- Decant through fine cloth/coffee filter to remove the fat.
- Drink vodka.
- I have also discovered a bacon and chilli vodka which I’ll make next time.
And finally a misquote:
Marc: “My knees are starting to hurt when I go up the stairs, it feels like I’m wearing a burka”
Correction: “My knees are starting to hurt when I go up the stairs, it feels like I’m carrying a Bergen”
(BERGEN – a type of rucksack supported by a frame, used by the military.)
That’s it for now.
Normandy 16 – 23 July 2016
Pat, Julie and I decided to spend a week in Normandy looking at the battlefields, museums, eating, drinking, French food and touching things in general; and the week went something like this:
Saturday – Picked up Pat & Julie from their house and Julie immediately played the perfect flanker:
Julie: “I can’t ride in the back as I get car sick in the back seat, and oh yes, I can’t drive on foreign roads, but I can map read”
Jim: “Do you have a map?”
And so instantly consigned herself to shotgun for the next week, my plan for the next time is to hire a Ford Transit van and then at least then we can sit three abreast on the front seat. The trip down to Folkestone was problem free and we got to the Channel Tunnel about an hour earlier than planned, but no problem, they put us on an earlier train; however, because the trains were running late we actually got away pretty much at the time we were meant to anyway. The trip through the tunnel was as expected – car rocked back and forth a little and was full of mundane middle age conversation.
French motorways are brilliant but seemingly every few miles there was a toll booth; to travel from Calais to Caen cost us 13.00 euros (roughly). On the bright side there were no (or practically none) HGV’S on the motorways unlike England where some clown driving a HGV will overtake another HGV, but since he’s only driving one mile an hour quicker, the wonderful and thoughtful man will cause a tailback as he overtakes at the same pace as slug has sex, not rough sex, but gentle sex to prolong the experience, in other words he takes the next five bloody miles to slowly overtake.
I suppose the reason for truckers not to use the toll roads it would add another hundred euros to each load.
Our hotel in Caen, the Ibis Budget hotel was nice and clean and the rooms were freshened up every day and unlike certain other hotels they actually trusted the clientele with toilet brushes; also they were liberal with their distribution of shower gel, none of those piddly little douche containers that had just enough in to lubricate the insides of your arse cheeks. Truly the only thing I can criticise about the hotel was the shower.
Quite possibly an anorexic dwarf would have been comfortable in the cubicle, but a 185cm bear-like middle aged man was most definitely not. The cubicle was so narrow it was impossible to move without the clammy-cold shower curtain lovingly wrapping itself around you; if I want that kind of affection I’ll go and drag a two-day old corpse out of the arctic ocean and cuddle it. When I turned on the shower the pressure of the water flipped showerhead out of its cradle and straight down on to smack me in the face; this seems to be a recurring theme with me.
The other issue was that the on/off lever poked out in to the (seemingly) middle of the stall, so that every move I made, meant I inadvertently either turned the shower off, or changed the temperature so causing me to scream like a little boy who has woken up and to find *Michael Jackson in his bedroom.
Julie, who it seems is brighter than me, or has more experience with enclosed spaces explained how to use the shower properly:
1. Push shower curtain back against the wall
2. Turn on water and whilst holding the showerhead and aiming it at the floor of the cubicle to allow it to warm up
3. leave shower curtain scrunched up against the wall
4. step in to shower and shower body all over and under
5. switch off shower
6. This is important – do not touch the bloody shower curtain
7. soap up
8. shower off
9. dry body
10. spend five bloody minutes mopping up water in bathroom in order that it is a safe operating environment
11. curse size of cubicle and curtain
12. move on with life until next shower
13. repeat steps 1 -13 above
Sunday – Pat being the old romantic he was had been in contact with Julie’s pen-pal from her childhood and arranged for her to meet us; but because Julie knew nothing about it and she doesn’t like surprises, when she found out she got a right monk on and had a face like a baboon’s slapped arse for the next couple of hours, not that anybody would have noticed, what with her being in the front seat and all.
On the way to the American Cemetery we stopped off at a Café called. La Cremaillere, where It was good to see that even the French have mastered the art of shit service. The waitress for our section acknowledged us immediately and then having teased us with a pleasant ‘Bonjour’, left us alone for bloody ages; that said the coffee was good, but too be honest the length of time it took she could have given us Mellow Birds and I probably wouldn’t have complained.
For the Americans and Europeans who read this rubbish and wonder what Mellow Birds is, simple; think of a cup of really good coffee that has been passed through the digestive tract of junkie crack whore and only then do you get to taste it, that should give you an idea of the type of taste. I find that the best way to have Mellow Birds is to mix it with lots of milk and several spoonful’s of sugar, and then throw it down the sink and have a glass of water instead. You can disguise the taste and pretend it’s something else but coffee, but joking aside, if you have to actually drink Mellow Birds the best way is strong and hot with a spoonful of cyanide or strychnine.
We visited the American cemetery at Omaha Beach, a seemingly clinical place to be buried, then travelled on to Pointe de Hoc, where the amount of damage inflicted on the site amazed all, as did the stories of the Rangers who climbed the sheer cliff face to attack it.
After that we visited the German Cemetery at Le Cambe, which was a much more people friendly place, lots of trees and shade. Each German soldier is buried with a comrade, and it was sad to see how many of them were simply labelled ‘A German Soldier’, this is because they have not been able to identify them. I seem to remember that Brit squaddies are now offered the opportunity to have their DNA kept when they deploy in case of the worst case scenario. We also visited the Omaha overlord museum which was a little interesting, just a bit small.
Monday – We walked in to Caen and stopped off at Café Le Pavillon and had croque-monsieur and really good coffee for brekkie, which was very nice as was the service and a good price. It was then Julie came up with one of the best things I have ever heard her say; sitting there she looked down at the floor and the 50 x 50cm pebble dashed concrete slabs and uttered those immortal words:
Julie – “They’re attractive concrete slabs.”
Jim (mockingly) – “So marks out of ten, with ten being granite inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli and one being a bag of cement and a bucket of water how attractive are they?”
Julie – “Don’t take the piss, I’d have them in my garden.”
Que one not amused Julie, but it did become a recurring theme for the rest of the trip.
Spent the rest of the day walking around Caen, the only problem was that the temperature was up to the mid-to-late thirties and very soon all were perspiring rather a lot; me in particular was suffering big time. Because I hadn’t thought about it again, I wore normal loose cotton boxers which soon became a moist sweat rag and proceeded to chew up the insides of my legs at just about testicle height. I finished up the day with severe burning on each thigh and walking like John Wayne (wide gait).
That evening a quick inspection showed both upper thighs were red raw with probably about a micro-millimetre of skin left on each before the blood started trickling down my leg. But because I was unprepared to go through the next day with what felt like a blow torch between my upper fat thighs, I had stopped off at a chemist and bought a spool of bandage tape which I applied the next morning to prevent chaffing.
But due to the fact that I’m not too bright I hadn’t anticipated what would happen when I had to remove said tape in the evening. Pat’s suggestion was to have a shower and the water would loosen the adhesive and make it easier to come off. Wrong! The shower made it easier to hide my tears, but that was the only effect it had; I was convinced that a great deal of skin came off with the tape but a quick inspection showed a lot of hair missing but no flesh.
A challenge to all who reading this – try being my size, shifting your ball sac and trying to look up between your legs; I damn near had a heart-attack with the straining I was doing to get a look. I put so much effort in to it my glasses steamed up so I had to keep coming up for both air and to wipe the condensation off the lenses. FYI – if you want to know what horrible is, it’s my upper red-raw thighs viewed up close through steamed up glasses.
We stopped off in Carrefour and I bought a pack of briefs, but the French must use a different sizing chart to the Brits as the XXL I wore were quickly renamed ‘sweaty nut crushers’.
Caen Castle was very interesting and manned by very nice and knowledgeable staff and just shows what an arse Napoleon was (from what I gather he destroyed it for no other reason than it was bourgeois), the grounds and museum were beautifully kept and a pleasure to wander around, the museum was closed from 1130 – 1400 as the country was having 3 days mourning for those who died in Nice, so we wandered off in to Caen itself for coffee.
Some people, including a politician or two, seem to be working alongside ISIS/Daish/Douchbag, or whatever they are called, and making this a war between religions – this is wrong! At the moment in the middle east more Muslims are being killed in suicide bombings than Christians are being killed in the west.
Yes, I realise that there are two main branches of Islam, but to be fighting and murdering amongst themselves is childish and ridiculous, think of all the time and lives wasted when Catholics and Protestants spent a hundred years or so of bickering over who was right:
Catholic – Our god is the right god!
Protestant – No, our god is the right god!
Catholic – Hang on, your god is our god!
Protestant – True that, fuck it, want to get drunk?
Catholic – Guinness?
Why couldn’t that be the end of Christian sectarian violence, oh I know, too many self-interests and profit. The current war, if it can be called a war, is I believe caused by two things, and neither of them are true religion:
lack of education. On the whole educated people are intelligent and capable of making informed choices of what is right or wrong, at least until either self-interest disguised as religion, politics, profit or the most evil of all, marketing, gets involved, then all bets are off.
Poverty/inequality/unfairness. In Europe the killing seems to be by those who have been disenfranchised by colour (racism) and/or poverty. They wish to humiliate the target and population that has made them powerless and humiliated them. And yes religion is a factor, but only because it allows them or those who point them to justify their act.
Rant over, and yes it caught me off-guard just as much as you, and I’m sure someone will come back to me with a rebuttal.
Anyway, carrying on.
We wandered down to a café called L’Ardoise which served very nice coffee. After lunch we walked up to Abbey aux Dames which was a very impressive building as was the church next to it and had a guided tour, which ranks amongst the shitiest of all guided tours. The tour was all in French (way to cater for your foreign tourists) and because the abbey is now used by local government we only got to walk around a gallery and a couple of rooms, seriously boring.
By this time the arthritis in my knee decided to pay a visit and I was loads of pain and knackered, so I sat down on some stairs while the guide gave a brief with lots of hand-waving. When I stood up my knee gave way and I staggered uncontrollably for about five paces and just as I was about to straighten up I hit the wall.
It wasn’t just any old wall, it was a wall with a two metre by two metre very, very old painting hanging on it, coincidentally at just about hand height. Just as I was about to slam into it, I managed to get my hand off to one side and on to the stonework and stopped myself from ploughing straight through it; I ended in a one-armed press-up position with my nose just touching it. You know that expression somebody has on their face when they catch you squatting and crapping on the windscreen of their brand new car, well, that’s the expression the guide had on his face.
By the time we had finished at the abbey, Caen castle was open so we spent a few hours walking around the grounds and museum and it was very nice, but again Jim showed all present why it’s not a good idea to go on holiday with an obese Brit. In the museum you exit the exhibits to the foyer by walking down a lovely staircase, when I say walking, I mean daydreaming and not noticing that there another three steps to go and falling down them in an effort to get the attention of the very attractive lady behind the ticket desk.
I got her attention and very nearly an ambulance, but once I had convinced her that was actually the way all large men from England came down the stairs she let me limp off while trying to hold in my tummy and maintain what dignity I had left.
When we had finished in the castle we went for a walk in Caen and was underwhelmed by it all and decided to have some dinner. We choose La Poterne restaurant which continued the theme of shitness for the day; the service was good but the food fell well foul of the trade descriptions act.
As a starter I had scampi tagliatelle, which was a real let down, it was shrimps, they hadn’t even the decency to use king prawns or prawns, but bloody shrimps – the cheapest and nastiest aquatic creatures around. The filet steak main course had bags of flavour but had the same relation to filet as I do to a great lover – it came from the same stock but in no shape or form was the real thing. It was the same size and thickness as a shoe insert and like me was swamped with fat.
I have had better frying steak from the special offer section at Tescos, and not a proper special offer, but the sad special offer counter where they put all the food that is damaged or limp or about to go out of date, you know, where it all goes to die.
The miniature glasses of red wine had aspirations of being a high quality vinegar, except it aimed high and fell low, imagine mixing battery acid and vinegar with some red food colouring and you’ll get the picture. It was a shame as the staff were so nice and helpful, but perhaps that was to compensate for the food & drink.
That evening we said goodbye to Françoise and then Pat and I went to the bar of the neighbouring hotel for a drink where met a biker called Dave who was 69, rode a Harley Davidson, was single and still lived with his mum, lucky git!
Tuesday – Went to Sword beach which we walked along for 20 minutes until Julie did her 1920’s re-enactment of a rich white woman and had a swooning fit on the beach opposite the statue of Bill Millins. So we dumped her in the shade and Pat legged it back to get the car. We then left her in the car with the air-conditioning running for about half an hour while Pat and I went to the cafe at Pegasus bridge for a cuppa, again it must have been some body’s day off day as the service was shit as we noticed the staff seemed to be having lunch around the back and only came out when summoned. By the time we actually hit the museum at Pegasus Bridge Julie had recovered enough to join us, but the experience was a little tense as we kept waiting for her to hit the floor again.
Arrived at Gold Beach just as they were closing, so Julie quickly used the toilet and we left and went to the Juno Beach museum, which was interesting and covered the Canadian contribution to D-Day, but to be honest, there wasn’t enough guns and shit, on the way there we discovered that Julie had left her handbag bag at the Gold museum, and so had a minute or so’s panic, before calming down and realising that the museum was closed so there was nothing we could do at that moment.
That evening we went to an eat-all-you-can Asian buffet in Caen, which was really nice; problem was that Pat is allergic to Monosodium glutamate (MSG) and over the next couple of days his foot became so painful he was practically incapable of walking, so he ended up spending Thursday in various wheelchairs and we wheeled him around.
Wednesday – We got back to the Gold Beach museum at crack of dawn, well at 0930(ish) in order to retrieve Julie’s handbag; the museum was, although small, very nice and well laid out and also gave some local history as well as the British contribution. From there we went on to Arromanches and visited the 360 museum there, which was quite impressive and further touched on the British contribution to D-Day.
From there we went on to Bayeux for military museum and the British cemetery. As an aside, I still prefer British war cemeteries to any other; but that said I have only ever seen Brit, German and Yank graveyards, perhaps others are nicer. As we went in to the museum I complemented the young lady behind the ticket counter on how beautiful France was and how nice the people in France were.
She replied with her nose in the air something along the lines of ‘I am not French, I am from Normandy!’, This is the kind of response you get when you speak to someone from Yorkshire or Cornwall. The best thing about the museum is it had tanks, and those who know me, know how much I love touching tanks.
Looking through the photo’s for the day I see I was wearing my pink t-shirt, and again I look like a chunky man who is torn between being a thug and wanting to come out as gay; ah, choices, choices. That evening we stopped off at Carrefour and bought some food and in the evening chilled out in the hotel garden and enjoyed a picnic.
But I am convinced there was a hidden agenda; Pat & Julie had packed a picnic set and I am sure that they were determined to use it in order to justify their bringing it along. Still, it turns out that red wine tastes just as good from a plastic beaker when drunk with friends as it does from a posh wine glass when drunk with snobs.
Thursday – We arrived at Utah Beach Café at 0825 and as we walked in the owner looked up from where he sitting at a table with a group of friends and said “I am having my coffee, go and find a table and I will be with you when I am finished” and then ignored us. This made me laugh as this is what I stereotype French people in France as. I say ‘in France’ because I have worked with French Servicemen and women in NATO and they are, collectively and individually, superb.
A few minutes later he wanders through and takes our order for three croque-monsieur and three coffees, and when I paid the bill twenty minutes later I nearly had a heart attack, 39 euros (32 quid) for what was in effect three average sarnies and three average cups of coffee. Still, Julie got to admire the concrete floor.
Utah museum was fascinating and gave a broader picture than I was expecting and was well worth visiting. From there we went to Sainte-mere-Eglise and visited the museum there, which again was comprehensive and well laid out. We got there at late morning and the town centre market was already closing, but we managed to grab a baguette with a large sausage which was full of fat; normally you would say that if it was a bit fatty then it was full of flavour, but in this case it was just full of fat, but credit where credit’s due – it was cheap.
We were meant to visit the Caramel factory at Isigny-sur-Mer but it was closed so we spent an hour walking around the factory shop, well, Julie did, dragging Pat around, I just hoovered up the free samples of caramel and cheeses.
That evening we went to Flunch for dinner. Flunch is something that would do well in GB; you collect your starter and dessert, unless it was the ice-cream, from the front of the restaurant and then choose your main course, pay up and receive a ticket. When you have finished your starter, you wander up to the grill, give them your ticket and they will cook whatever meat or fish you have ordered, then off to one side is a counter absolutely laden with various vegetable dishes from which you can help yourself to as much as you like. The food was really nice and as a follow up, the ice-cream counter was very impressive.
Looking back on this write-up one of the things I haven’t mentioned is where we went for brekkie most mornings. We found that most French eateries don’t open until 0830 – 0930 and that when we went out to the museums and such, the cost of food was prohibitive, so we tended to go to MacDonalds, which like the rest of Europe, has none of this bollocks about a breakfast menu only; they will cook you anything, but just like the British MacDonald’s the coffee was pretty good, but in smaller cups.
On an unrelated subject, I note that a number of the museums and restaurants didn’t have toilet seats on the toilets in the gents; do French men crap differently to the Brits or this just a general plan to stop blokes bowel bombing on their property?
Friday – We visited the Bayeux tapestry and were very impressed, the part that made me smile was when the auto-guide said that there is a belief that the tapestry was probably made in England; the museum was nice, but could have done with more swords, spears and war like things. From there we went to the Le Grande Bunker, a massive bunker near the sea front.
We finished the day at Merville Battery and then went back to Caen and paid another visit to Flunch where again we all tried to eat our own body weight in fresh vegetables.
Saturday morning on the journey back to England we stopped off at Honfleur and spent a couple of hours wandering around the market touching things, before finally heading home. We got to the channel tunnel an hour early, and again they offered to put us on the earlier train, but again, everything was delayed, this time by 90 minutes, but it wasn’t a problem as we chilled out in the sun with a lovely picnic and still got home in time to do some serious drinking.
June – July 2016
Let’s start with a rant – Why when you are leaving a gent’s toilets do you have to pull the door open? Every time I go to a public toilet there is some minger (or several) who either have had a piss or dump, and then walk out without washing their hands.
Invariably they have to grasp a handle to pull the door open, therefore spreading their germs and viruses to all who follow them; in other words, the likes of me are penalised, I wash my hands, therefore destroying the germs on my hands leaving a blank canvas for some dirty twat’s poison to infect me.
Since I doubt a strongly worded letter to any of the proprietors will make them rush off and reset the door to open the other way so I has to be pushed, or in my case – toed open, I’m going to have to start carrying hand-gel with me every time I go to the pub or indeed any other establishment where the architects have put zero thought in to just how minging the average British man is.
My printer is running out of ink so I went to Currys PC World and nearly fainted at the prices they wanted, so went on Amazon and bought what I wanted for about half the price, but this was also because I bought generic knock-offs, but the reviews were, on the whole, positive, and it’s Amazon so I know if I have a problem they will help me sort it out.
As seems to be typical with my life, I had a problem! I opened the ink cartridge and it immediately poured all over my hands and computer desk, funny as anything if it had of happened to anybody else. I cleaned up the cartridge and the desk easily enough, but it took several days to get all the ink from my hands and from under my fingernails.
Realising I had been cheated, or at least sold a duff product, I emailed Amazon with a complaint, and they in turn passed it on to the third party vendor, which turned out to be First Call Inks; below is the email trail between us:
15 Jun 16 – 1st email sent by me to First Call Inks about a faulty printer cartridge:
The 525BK does not work in my printer and as an added bonus has leaked all over my desk and fingers, my hand looks as if it belongs to a Dalmatian dog. Please can you replace it? All the others seem to be working fine. Please see attached photos which i hope entertain you as much as they do me!
You only get one photo, it turns out the statement on Amazon that ‘The total size of attachments must be less than 10 MB’ is actually bollocks, and it must be substantially less; to that end, i’m not too sure you’ll be able to read the error message from my PC screen, but it says ‘An ink tank cannot be recognised.’
15 Jun 16 – 1st email reply from First Call Inks:
We will, of course, replace the 525bk today for you. If for no other reason that we found our whole email very entertaining 😉 I do apologise that it managed to cover your fingers in ink and for your future reference would add that you must always remove the little label tab before the orange cradle. You may like to wait a few seconds between. I don’t mean to add insult to injury but it’s probably handy to know. As for the Amazon limit, I can confirm that it is not ‘bollocks’ as both your photos arrived for our office viewing. Any further issues please do not hesitate to get back in touch.
15 Jun 16 – 2nd email sent by me in response to reply above:
Bugger, my bad, just read the packaging. If you don’t want to replace – i’m good with that, it’ll teach me that not all obese white men in their fifties know everything!
15 Jun 16 – 2nd email from First Call Inks:
Dear Jim. We like you! It’s no problem to replace whatsoever. Plus with comments like ‘my bad’ we’re sure you’re pulling our leg at your description of yourself!!
Anyway, a couple of days later a new cartridge turned up in the post and was successfully fitted after reading the instructions, so kudos to First Call Inks for their service.
Mark and I get to the gym most weekday mornings and get there just as it’s opening, 0630, and I am amazed at the number of pensioners who are there before us; if these buggers keep staying healthy the pension deficit is definitely going to get worse.
Craig and I went to the gym the other evening (Craig’s a friend and is wonderfully flexible – a quality I appreciate in young men!), anyway we were doing our thing and we took notice of the other blokes using the weights next to us; well I say took notice, to be honest the amount of swearing and noise they were making they really demanded attention.
There was a group of about 5 – 6 of them, all white and clearly King’s Lynn born, and all were being as loud and as obnoxious as a group of England supporters in Marseille, and their liberal and loud use of the words f*ck, c*nt and wanker meant they were in effect intimidating/dominating the whole gym; they were also of the weight-training school that has the doctrine of when you complete your set, drop the weights on the floor so they bounce everywhere and let everyone else in the gym know just how awesome you are.
After about 30 – 40 minutes one of them decided the lights in the gym were too bright and went and switched off the main lights, leaving on only a low-level light that slowly pulsated through red and blue light – all very romantic, but crap for training in.
In contrast there was a group of young Brazilian men on the next set of multi-gym who were actually far more impressive in their own way; they were quietly talking amongst themselves and were having a competition to see how many wide-grip pull-ups they could do. Quite a lot is the answer, so they were a great deal fitter than the loud mouths around the corner and set a far better example; bloody foreigners – coming over her, showing us how to use a gym properly!
I spent three weeks in Bristol retraining to be a forklift instructor and I stayed in the Radisson Blu, and as seems to be the case with most of the English service industry, all the staff are foreign; Southern Irish, Indian, Eastern European and from the Baltics, and all of them are, to a man (and woman) polite and friendly.
Talking about hotels, let’s look at the difference between British hotels and American hotels. American hotels are designed around both service and profit, British hotels are designed around the same principles but approach things differently.
A Yank hotel room will have (in my experience) a kettle, a coffee machine and fresh coffee pads, a lot also have a microwave or even a two-ring hob and, usually, a small fridge. A lot of the hotels also have a laundry room which costs a couple of bucks to use the washing machines and tumble dryers.
British hotels are a lot different, you get a cheap kettle with some stagnant water at the bottom that even a frog would feel uncomfortable crapping* in, a couple of sticks of, in this case, Tchibo coffee, which despite its pretentious name, I think tastes like licking a dog’s left testicle, but there is usually a good selection of teas; and my new favourite gripe – a laundry facility which is not a launderette, but a service.
Below is the cost of using the laundry service in the hotel:
6 x T-shirt @ 4.40 = 26.50
1 x trousers @ 6.50 = 6.50
6 x undies @ 2.30 = 13.80
10 x socks @ 1.90 = 19.00
Total cost = 65.80
Their defense is, and I quote ‘They come back ironed’ – bollocks! For that price I expect them to be silver-plated and delivered by slapper who’s game for anything.
Nobody in their right mind would pay that kind of money for a week’s worth of laundry, so I went online and found a launderette called ‘At the Well’ which also doubles up as a café (or is it the other way around?) which charged me 4.00 for washing and 2.00 for tumble-drying, in other words, 6.00 in total; and I got to sit in small very nice café with a cup of good coffee and perv at the female staff.
The Radisson Blu hotel room was very nice and I had only two criticisms; very low level of lighting and no bog brush. The level of lighting is such that it’s virtually impossible to read any documents when the sun goes down; I actually had to use the torch (flashlight) on my mobile (cell) to read the control panel for the aircon. I mean it’s very romantic but I’m not here for seduction, I’m here to study. The best way to read at night is to walk ¾ mile to MacDonald’s (not that I would do that) or shift a side table in to the toilet and sit on the bog.
Update on above paragraph, I mentioned to the hotel staff how crap the light was and they provided me with a standard lamp with a nice bright bulb.
The missing bog brush seems to be a bigger issue; a number of hotels I have stayed at over the past few years do not give you a means of removing skidmarks. I’m willing to bet that cleaning ladies who work in the world’s hotels are not paid a ‘turd bonus’ for cleaning up this shit. More to the point each floor must have at least one cleaning trolley with a really disgusting brush covered in a serious mish-mash of brown DNA (the worst kind).
Found a shop that sold crispy bacon flavour vodka, but forgot where it is, for the muslims reading this, that’s like a double dose of evilness.
Traffic was awful so I elected to walk to the training facility each day, it was about two miles and gave me the opportunity to see why so many cyclists are in conflict with both pedestrians and cars. A small number of drivers were casual knobs, but the seemingly majority of cyclists had been to knob school and passed with distinction, that qualification gave them the right to cut up cars and do the same on the pavements to pedestrians.
There is an underpass at Templemead that is in the process of being renovated and it has signs up saying ‘Cyclists dismount’. Not a fucking chance! Twice I heard women tell the cyclists that they had to dismount, one of whom was pushing a small child in a pushchair, and both time I heard them take some vicious abuse from some penis busy taking pleasure from having a hard saddle up his arse.
My lasting memories of Bristol are the how good the city is set up for cyclists and pedestrians and the smell of marijuana.
My next annoyance is that Microsoft are continuing their push of American culture; they keep changing my default proofing language settings on Word to ‘English (United States), so as I type all the British words like ‘Favourite’ or ‘Flavour’ keep coming up underlined in red, therefore making me doubt my own spelling.
Now I understand that the average American may be unable to cope with the occasional crazy ‘u’ thrown in to a word, but the rest of the free world has an education system that caters for the thick amongst us and teaches us correctly. Bloody Yanks, coming over here corrupting our language with their new-fangled ideas.
The forklift instructor course was a lot more in-depth than I imagined, I thought it would be like the majority of military courses – turn up, show willing, play the game, drink tea, pass the course. Due to my below average intelligence I was studying Health & Safety legislation practically every night and getting up early to get in some extra study.
Julie, Pat and I are in Normandy for a week in July, let’s see how that goes.
*The Radisson Blu kettle was empty.