It's Spring, no it is, really. IT'S SPRING and the magnolias are in bloom. I quite like magnolias but think that they're rather like Kate Moss on an evening out. They start off all neat and gorgeous and end up looking raddled and blowsy.

There are times in a man's life when he goes to bed secure in the knowledge of his Godhood. I would say that these times -sex apart, were based on booze. Light spirits confer a degree of Bacchanalian deification that is rapidly dispelled at about 4 a.m. when a hangover of Hadean proportions muscles its unsubtle way into your (un)consciousness. You go to bed revelling in the light of angels, and come the dawn the Devil drives his rusty pickaxe in somewhere between your Temporal Lobes and tries to lever your eyes out.

TMFFTTM14

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me, like if you are going to dress as a pirate make sure you know where you are, and don't be too convincing.
I had been surveying my surplus fat, more had been accumulating as I'd been off the bike for a month, due to the ravages of some form of tuberculosis and malaria combined (the women amongst you who have a male partner will recognise this as a cold), this with my dismal failure on the girlfriend front prompted me to leave the couch and go for a walk in the country, my first steps to a leaner and meaner me.
My thoughts were for a perambulation around the Chilterns, probably ending up at Ashridge Forest, I consulted the travel news on the Text service: Freight train has shed load at X, fear not your tickets will be valid on other alternative routes, number of alternative routes - none. I hoicked out the maps and decided to head off for East Grinstead and a mooch around the borders of Ashdown Forest instead. Back to the Text, everything seems to be working! So off I go to the bus stop to pick up a 48 to London Bridge Station.
There are no 48's scheduled for the next 20 minutes (it is at this point that readers familiar with my fortunes will be loosening clothing prior to a fit of chortling) so I decided to get the next 26 (5 minutes) and get the tube/metro/underground at Bank. Shut - engineering works. No matter, another bus will get me there - it does.
London Bridge Station at 10.50a.m, approximately 100 people are trying to buy tickets from the four ticket machines (two of them hidden by the queue of people for the two open ticket windows) I opt for a machine queue, failing to take account of the tumble in IQ of a person faced with a piece of machinery that asks them to make choices. While queueing I turn and scan the slightly out of focus departure board; "East Grinstead - see posters" this is a bad sign, I get the map out and rescan, "Haywards Heath 11.11" check map, too big, have to walk a couple of miles from the station to get out of town, let's backtrack up the map a way, Balcombe, looks ok, check departure board, hmm departure board now further away and on the limits of my myopic resolution but I think I can just make it out, "Balcombe 11.01"
So it was that I drew into Sevenoaks station half an hour later and started the trudge up the hill to Knole Park. On the way I pass a market, a rather twee market but a market nevertheless, there is a sausage stand, I peruse, they have Mergeuze, a personal favourite but I decide not to buy just yet as I really don't think that hauling a pound of sausage around, in a pack, in the sun, is going to do them any good.
I stroll around the park, taking in the air, the still-bare trees, the German School Trip, I manage to find two Roe deer amongst all the Fallows, I always think that Fallow deer look cute whereas Roes look menacing, the difference between a Standard Poodle and a Bull Terrier.
After a circumnavigation, punctuated with a brief chat with a father of two small boys on bicycles, who had discovered that the hill they didn't usually go up was steeper than the one that they did. At least I think that's what he said, it was a rather gasped conversation peppered with moments of sibling rivalry and five year old spleen.
Where was I? Oh yes leaving. As I left I decided that with my mergueze I would have sliced new potatoes cooked with lemon and olives to carry on the Moorish theme of my repast. I got to the market, there was a gap in the stalls, the buggers had gone.
Moral: After a morning of adversity, don't plan your supper until you have actually have it in the bag, this may avoid a wealth of disappointment, and make a saving on saliva.

Due to the uncertainty of future employment I have decided to enter the Country's biggest growth market:

The NIXCO Care Home for Retired Academics:

Welcome to Ivory Towers.

Nixco Ivory Towers is a special care home for the Ageing Academic.

Life getting too tough?
Young Turks ruining your life and stealing your grants?
Modern research too complicated?

Then come to Ivory Towers.

At Ivory Towers you may feel free to harangue your colleagues in our special non-pc zone.

Your own chair for life - guaranteed!

When the final call to the Great Steering Committee arrives we can assure you of a comfortable spot in our adjoining after-life facility :- Scholarest. Alternatively your ashes may be tastefully ensconced in The Stack of Remembrance.

Nixco Ivory Towers - Guaranteed Tenure for the lifetime of the Grant.

nb. Due to the demands of our trustees (Crusty, Oldbass and Tards) Ivory Towers remains a strictly male preserve. NIXCO are negotiating to build a similar establishment for the "Gentler Academic" ; Pankhurst Pavilions, but at the moment regret that they cannot find adequate funding.

The other day I met a dog called Chris, in the park. Chris was one of those rarities, a dog with taste, not for him the blind charging through the flocks of crows and pigeons, no, Chris would fixate on one individual, charge and then run under the flying bird, head held up to hold it in sight, would track him to the tree that he came to rest in, and then firmly stay, harassing the tree until the bird moved off. At this point he might get bored, run to his owner for a little chat, until a bird of such gorgeousness, ripe for a bit of chasing, would catch his eye, and he'd be off again. I spoke to his owner,
"At least he's got ambition."
"Saves throwing a bleedin' ball, Mate!"

TTMFFTTM13

It was another of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like washing your clothes in a bucket after caving to avoid mud and grit being distributed evenly through the wash rather than being got rid of.
I had been invited to my Godson Stuart's fourth birthday party and had been told that it had a pirate theme. After digging through my extensive wardrobe I liberated some likely materials, packed them in my trusty backpack and set off to have a walk through the Chilterns prior to arriving at the party, where I would change and appear piratelike in the back garden having climbed through the hole in the hedge. Well, I nearly managed all that, I got off the train at Chorleywood, where I procured a suitable present and card, then headed off up the Chess valley, keeping a weather eye out for fungi on the way (like you do). I failed miserably on the fungi (well on any edibles) but managed to navigate quite successfully until I emerged out of the woods at the back of Chez Lewis. After checking the surrounding area for pedestrians of a sensitive and potentially litigious nature or, in fact, an existent nature, I got changed, swapping my shorts for three-quarter lengths, pulling on my bright red knee socks to set off my well-trimmed calves, tying my kerchief firmly round my muscular neck and dropping a button or two to expose my hirsute but manly bosom, donning my brocade waistcoat to emphasise my breadth of shoulder and trim waist (you're correct this is fantasy but nevertheless that's what I did), and finally tying a red silk scarf pirate-fashion to conceal my luscious, but greying, locks. I then delved for the face paints, and knocked up a couple of scars and the odd tattoo before dirtying my face with gunpowder residue to highlight my three day beard, then I was complete!
I eyed (aya ayed?) the hedges. Nope couldn't recognise a bloody thing. I walked the row of hedges - nope. I walked back - no. Forward-no..... "BUGGER!" So there I stood in piratical flagrante, I produced my jolly roger mobile and phoned,
"Umm Steve.
Hi.
I'm somewhere near the back of your place.
Yeah. Umm can you come out and show me which is yours?
Ta."
Nothing for several minutes, then Steve appeared at the wrong end of the row, I hurried towards him, watching his eyebrows furrow as he took in my garb, he led me through the hole in the hedge (now moved to the other side, no wonder etc, etc.) and from thence into the house.
"Hi Ettie I .....oh."
"Stephen you left the pizza and now it's BURNT!"
"I... Oh. I.. Umm.. Sorry."
"Well, NO, it's aaaaAAARRGGHH!"
"Sorry Ettie it was my fau..... I'll just go and say hello to Stuart."

The actuality of the situation:

Steve is left in charge of the veggie pizza.
I phone and he pops out and hovers around the end of the garden expecting to see me, meanwhile I am at the other end of the row a scant 100 metres or so away.
Steve battles through the hedge having given up waiting, at the same time, the cheese on the pizza first crisps and then burns, blue curlicues of burning fat buoyed on the rising heat, head for the ceiling and the smoke detector.
Steve looks up and down the path and sees a somewhat panicked pirate waving and hurrying towards him, Meanwhile the alpha-particles leaving a small source of Americium 241, and hurrying across a small gap to complete a circuit, are interrupted by an emulsion of cheese and carbon. "Cripes!" says the Smoke Detector, "There's a fire! I'd better go off!" Which it does, with some stridency.
Next door, eight small children who have just settled down to await pizza after an orgy of dipping crudites, react to the urgency of the alarm as only eight small children can - stark terror and incomprehension.
Ettie flies from the living room to the kitchen and mutes the alarm as with one masterly, motherly sweep of her eyes, she takes in the smoke, the blackness of the pizza and the absence of her husband, who drifts in a few moments later with a bedraggled tramp of some sort. She is not in the mood for excuses.
The tramp moves next door, eight small pairs of eyes turn in his direction as do four or five adult pairs, he drops to Stuart's level and, in the tradition of all pirates (and trolls as far as he's concerned) adopts a West Country accent and roars, "HA, HAAAARRRRR!" Several of the boys roar back. On the other hand, Amber flies from the chair to the nearest bosom and breaks into inconsolable tears of fright after a fit of the conniptions. Some of the others, including parents are left wondering which of the three is the best reaction.
Pirate Nick, rather taken aback, adopts Amber's height for a chat, she retreats, bosomward, Ettie comes in and says,
"This is not an Entertainer, this is Stuart's Godfather."
Stuart's Godfather retreats to the sofa, out of Amber's eyeline, should she ever emerge again, and slumps, after a few minutes, Steve slips him a glass of Grog (red from Chile) before removing himself to the far end of the room where he slips himself one.
Moral: If you are going to dress as a pirate make sure you know where you are, and don't be too convincing.

Nick the Superhero

New from NIXCO PUBLISHING DIV, a part of JP Publishing

Nixco are proud to present the first draft of a manuscript by their recent discovery Master Edward Piron. While on a cycling tour of Cambridgeshire our Director came across burgeoning author Eddie Piron, labouring in his lonely garret on the edge of the windswept and mysterious Cambridgeshire Fens. He was given shelter from an impending Steppe-born blizzard by Master Piron where he was invited to share the Author's sparse meal of a bowl of 'Cocoa Rocks'. Later that evening while mooching around the house to keep warm, our Director came upon this ms on the pages of that budding author's vehicle of choice; the School Exercise Book. While perusing said ms, he managed to dislodge a molar-impacted 'rock' with his prehensile tongue, the sudden burst of chocolate on the tastebuds reminding him of the unstinting generosity of his diminutive host, he made a vow that such literary talent should not go unrewarded and so we present (almost unedited), for your delight:

NICK THE SUPERHERO

(A WORK IN PROGRESS)

BY

MASTER EDWARD PIRON

Nick the superhero
By Eddie Piron

First published by Jerry Piron in 2007
and illistraited by Gail Crow (also in 2oo7)
Nick the super hero

By Eddie Piron

Soon to be available from Nixco :
The Tom Landrover collection
By Eddie Piron

Tom Landrover and the wizards commentary (book1)
Tom Landrover and the indian duel cave (book 2)
Tom Landrover and the lost planet dividing (book 3)

Important message:
If you happen to be named “ Nick” , you probbably are a super hero but I am so-
rry to say this book will be about a “ Ni-
ck” you might not have met before. The
super hero by name is: Nick , Adrian , H-
ayes.
by Eddie
Contents
0. How to become a super hero
1. The beginning of Nick Hayes...
2. 53 years later
3. The humourous werewolf
4. The humourous werewolf ‘s helping hand
5. The evil army of werewolves
6. Nick the super hero!
7. Werewolves. Now known as the ultra evil werewolves!
8. Desert land
9. Nick the super hero saves the centurys!
10.1,000,000 years later...
11. Not the end of Nick!... but a very old
man!

chapter 0
how to become a superhero
To become a superhero you need a load of coloured cloth, a pair of scissors and a bannana incase you get hungry. Then you need to make sure its in your size otherwise you could look fat or, iff its too small you might get blown up. Once you’ve done that you need to fly off and do super things like mend fences and-
Iff you do that you’re not a superhero. First of all iff you’re hungry take a bit of the bannana. Then you need to do prop-er super things like save inocent people from firey biulding-s and things like that. But something even worse than that could happen in this story. Now you can go on to chapter one...

Chapter 1
The beggining of Nick Hayes
Once upon a time there was a zero year old named Nick. He died in I’mm not going to tell you because you’ll give it away years. A fact about the most spectacularly ordinary pupil imaginable. This chapter is called The beggining of Nick for a great, brilliant, spectacular, superb,fabolous and good reason. But in the last chapter of this book you might be in for a bit of a shock. I wouldn’t in one million years tell you what its called (because you might already know) but I can tell you something that would give you a very good idea of what it couldn’t be called: it isn’t the end of Nick.
By the way, I can tell you what chapter two is called because you won’t want this chapter to go on for years and years until you get to tired to read any longer. The thing is I’ve for-gotten what chapter two is and I don’t want to go back to the contents. Ha, ha! Ok, Ok, I’ll tell you. Its called 53 years later. Now days Nick is fifty-three years old. In the future he went on a wild adventure named chapter eight. But for now we’ll say that Nick Hayes is a zero year old who has just born and has no idea what will happen when he’s a grwn up. I should tell you something though. Iff you haven’t read chapter zero you must read it imedeately. This is serious as-well as amazingly humorous. The reason this is, is because only one person in a galaxy is aloud superhero responsabil-ity. Don’t ask yourself why I said that, it was for a brilliant reason. First of all this is not a true story ok?
Second of all Nick’s mum and dad were the only couple brave enogh to give Nick superhero responsability.
And third of all, don’t go thinking “everyone is gonna be a superhero!” because they aren’t.
So, you now no about superheros, their responsability and what might be happening later on in this story. But you’ll still be wondering how the rest of the story will go I haven’t told you the whole story yet. Wonder as much as you like but it’ll take a long time until you get to find out the mystery of mainly chapter eight, but also chapter three, four and five. Find out as chapter one comes to a sad end.

Chapter 2
53 years later

Fifty three years later, Nick Hayes sat on his bed being dificult with himself.

Here's a picture of the successful graduates of the Nixco School of Writing and Learning, well not really but here's some of last year's students at their Graduation last week. If you're viewing this page then you either have remarkably good taste or you've followed up the address from the WLM "flier" enclosed in the Pharmacology Students Welcome Pack.

So why have you arrived at one of my blogs? The simple answer is because someone dropped the address onto my flier "for a laugh". However, writing a blog can be a good way to expand your writing skills, you can use it to try and iron out the things that aren't making sense to you, you can use it as a diary of how miserable/ecstatic you feel (remembering that the entire world can read it of course), or you can use it to hone your web construction skills. I use them to become famous and have Publishing Houses begging at my door for copy, so if you know anyone in publishing then please push them in this direction.

TMFFTTM 12

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, such as when cooking with wine always buy two bottles. Jerry had invited me along to provide moral support as he took Eddie to the Northants Caving Club Family Weekend (please don't launch [as everyone else has] into, "I didn't know there were any caves in Northamptonshire.", there aren't, it's where they all live). This involves camping, caving and a sort of communal meal/football match (dependent on age).

We had decided to go up on the Saturday (well Jerry had, as he was doing a run [the Colworth Five] on the Friday) so I arrived late Friday, bearing what I could carry without my back exploding, consequently, I would be caving in old clothes, as opposed to a weighty furry- and oversuit combination.

Actually, arriving late on Friday didn't go down to well as Gail had cooked, and it took me two hours from London to their door (Cambridge Public Transport Committee having decided that it was a much better idea for buses to leave the Station five minutes before the trains arrived, as opposed to, five minutes after), however the salmon was still delicious, if slightly unexpected.

In the morning I was treated to the usual "accidental" door opening and stage whispers, I rose to fulfill my duties as "Second-Best Tickler". While swimming lessons took place, Jerry and I hoovered (!) and finally got the DVD player in the car working. Then we packed, installed Eddie and headed North, pausing only to buy lunch and fire up HP plus Goblet of Fire. We arrived at Birchover and found the campsite by the simple process of knobbling passing folk from Northamptonshire and saying, "Where's the campsite?" They would stop and say, "Oh Hello! It's over there". After forking out an exorbitant campsite fee £7.50/$14 ("Humph! I'd rather not have the sauna and pay less!" J), we persuaded folk to move their cars off the flat bit, and pitched the tent.

The afternoon progressed with tea, and Eddie coming over all shy, so we, Eddie and I, decided to head off for an explore, and a bit of a climb up and down a bank or two, this went quite well, only two assaults by brambles (one each) and one sitdown on a very pointy rock (Eddie). Plus, there was still tea waiting when we got back.

Eventually the caving trip was declared and we all set off for Jug Holes. Having the Ordnance map I guided Jerry onto the most direct route, after a mile or so of terror, we decided not to come back that way, and so pulled in behind everyone else at the parking for the cave. We changed, Jerry into a furry and oversuit combination, myself into my crotchless cycling trousers ( I should say that this indicates wear and tear rather than perversion ) and horridest t shirt, later followed, reluctantly, by a fleece, Eddie into "whatever young boys get dirty in" clothes.

The cave came in two parts, the first part being a large cavern entrance with a series of small muddy (very) chambers at the back. As I sat in one, waiting for Eddie to negociate a slippery slope I glanced at the boulder next to me, it glanced back at me, it was blue! I hefted it, it was blue - and heavy. I picked it up and took it into the sunlight, it was now muddy and only vaguely blue, but it was still heavy. I broke it. "Cor!" A big lump of Blue John. Thus happy we went down the hill to entrance two and the possibility of the "round trip". The entrance was a large pipe, inside there was a mine adit and halfway along a mine cart (very Indiana Jones) and a small laminated notice saying, "Don't touch the ceiling - Loose Rocks" (very Big John), after that a chamber, another truck and a bit of natural cave, muddy and tight natural cave. We squoze on, the mud lubricating our passage by the simple process of coming off on our clothes. Eventually we met the party coming the other way, some elected to carry on, others to go back with us, though sadly no-one knew the way. After a ten minute faff the through route was discovered and the shorter people (not me - for a change) assisted over, under, down and between things. The end was a twelve foot ladder climb, that was much easier if you didn't use the ladder (or eschewed it, as we say in the Lake District). This caused the most heartache for the junior members, as they were too short to climb anything but the ladder, I agreed with them, I hate the bloody things. Back in the sunlight I surveyed myself, blue Bedford cord (crotchless) trousers - now brown, grey fleece - now brown, natty striped undies - now brown (mud - thank you), horrible t-shirt - not brown enough due to intervention of fleece. We broke out the binliners and changed.

Back at the campsite there was a lot less grass visible, most of the site seemed to be full of fifteen year old school parties. I went and checked my bag, yep, there were the essentials of happy camping, ear plugs and a sleep mask, they just might work against the undoubted onslaught of RnB and rioting. Jerry, Eddie and I went to sleepmat at about 10.00, and so did the school parties, consequently we were only kept awake by the riot and ghetto blasters of the Northants Caving Club.

Morning, heavy cloud flying in from the west, casting a weather eye we dissembled the tent just as it began to rain, then we went for a little walk, which became littler as the rain became heavier. So we went home.

A couple of days later, and after an extensive flailing to remove loose mud, I did the washing, lobbing in a pair of grey trousers with the fleece, this was a mistake, I had forgotten the tenacity of cave mud (so tenacious that most cavers have a pair of underpants dedicated to caving trips, as they never wash sucessfully), consequently I now have a pair of grey trousers and a fleece that are impregnated with a fine grit, giving them a certain stiffness and a mild abrasive nature (rather like myself).

Moral: Been caving? Use a bucket!

TMFFTTM 11

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as never re-arranging furniture until guests are pounding on your door. I was meandering about the supermarket looking for something for my evening meal (I'd already found a do-it-yourself Bhel-Poori kit) when I found myself pondering the rice selection.
"Aha!" I thought (fortunately, as I find that spoken soliloquies on the relative merits of various dried cereals or farinaceous goods, tend to attract attention to oneself, and not in a "How fascinating me too, did you know wild rice isn't actually rice?" sort of way), "I've never actually done a proper risotto, pilafs yes, oodles, but never a real 'stand over the pan and stir things till they fall into a glop of the right consistency for one's own taste' sort of risotto." My hand stirred, hesitated and darted forward. Hence it was that I left with a packet of Arborio rice.
"Why - " you may ask, "with all your culinary expertise, and with all your spare time in the evenings, as I know you have no social life, have you never attempted a risotto before?"
"Well - " I reply, "what with, as you know, no social life, and the consequent malaise engendered by the same, I spend a lot of the time slouched in front of the TV. Therefore, for me to take time away from said TV, to stir rice, seems as pointless as watching the TV in the first place."
"But..." you counter, "..."
"I know!" irascibly.
Thus it was that the anxiety started, for, as you probably know, the basis of a good risotto is wine, dribbled into the pan to be soaked up by the parched rice grains, till they swell and deliquesce with oenous aromatics. But how much? I poured a sloosh, the rice glooped it down, loosened it's belt and gave me the stare of an orphan. I poured more, it did the same again this time jutting its lower lip. After the next go, I carefully inspected the bottle, took the risotto off the heat, went and got a glass, put the risotto back on the heat, poured a glass, re-inspected the bottle. I became an aid-worker in the Camp, feeling guilty, though eminently sensible, I turned on the kettle, and lobbed some East-European veggie stock into the pan.
It was a good risotto, though I ran out of wine halfway through the plate.
Moral. When wine is an essential cooking ingredient, buy two bottles.

TMFFTTM 10

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, like the fact that Supermarket staff may have more about them than you give them credit for.
It hadn't been the best of times, we'd had gales that had marooned my brother and family in London, and, Gent that I am, I'd abandoned my bed to them, occupying the sofa in a sleeping bag. The sofa proceeded to destroy my back, already in a parlous state from shopping and humping computers, consequently I had had to abandon my trusty steed and use Public Transport, the resulting bout of flu had laid me out for two days, during which time I caught up on large amounts of sleep, a fair amount of pain, and perfected my listless sigh.
I was due to go to a Beer Festival on the Thursday with a younger friend of the female persuasion, and exercising cold logic with the precision of a surgical instrument, had decided to prepare the sleeping arrangements prior to our, potentially unsteady, return from the Fest. First however, I was beset by the inevitable anxieties that face a man of a certain age when about to play host to a "young gell": would my puissance overcome her so that I would have to succumb protesting, would I be ravished(though in my post-flu state I would have served better as hot-water bottle than sex-object)?

Reality intervened, and I sorted out the bed clothes and towels, then opened the sofa bed by exerting a back-friendly downward pressure to shift the cantilevers, there would, at least, be two of us to reverse the process.

Thursday. Snow. A text message, "There's snow. I'm not coming. Sorry" I went to work, the handbasin belched forth the sort of miasma normally associated with the undead, necessitating extensive furniture moving, panel removing, flooding and calls to non-existent College plumbers. The Tube collapsed on the way home (due to severe weather conditions - my arse) causing me to skedaddle under most of the City as I sought a way home. I arrived after an hour and a half (double the normal time). My brother called to tell me that I was to be an uncle again, such was my mood that I am afraid to say that I was churlish, "Oh great, another dependant, another birthday to remember, more present expense".

I put away the bedclothes and towels, and opened the gin, later I tried to close the bed, I failed. As I applied upwards pressure, I could feel my lower back saying things along the lines of, "I really don't think you should be doing this." and "I may not know much about levers but I know what I like and I don't like this!"

My living room still contains the sofa in bed mode, perhaps it adds a bit of BoHo chic.

Moral: Never re-arrange the furniture till they're at the door or you may do yourself an injury.

TMFFTTM9

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like the fact that you can never get away from the TV. I had been dragged kicking and scheming to the pub by drinking protagonist Dean, and had just had a pint of my favourite beer put in front of me (Timothy Taylor's Landlord from Keighley in Yorkshire, which has been my favourite pint long before Madonna even discovered where Yorkshire was).
I eyed it somewhat sceptically, it lay in the glass, moribund, a few bubbles of the kind normally associated with pond scum disturbed its otherwise featureless surface, they clustered together at the centre like musk oxen attacked by wolves. I nosed it, sadly the pungent reek of aldehyde failed to prick the back of my nostrils, there was no scent of pear and pineapple, the beer was perfectly sound, just flat and lifeless, a badger that had failed to cross the beer highway. Call me stupid, I felt duty bound to drink it.
As I ploughed through the listless beverage my mood followed the meniscus on its downward curve, I ended up vaguely depressed about the whole London bitter scene; "You pay us a fortune, we deliver the average.".
Dean departed, and I decided to cheer myself up by buying some prawns to bang into Tom Yam soup. I defy anyone to be depressed after Tom Yam soup, the amount of pain it causes releases enough endorphins to get an elephant doing cartwheels. At Sainsbury's I decided to get some cash, the machine sucked in my card and counted out the notes, I heard it. The little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand. The machine counted again, the little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand - again. The machine cogitated and then produced an apology, "I'm sorry I cannot give you the money at the moment. Do not worry it has not been taken from your account."
--------------
I waited, the card did not appear, as I waited my dudgeon rose. Customer services scenting the aroma of not very good beer, glazed as I explained my predicament, then told me I'd had it, as if the Bank had ordered my card retained, that was it. I tried again, twice and once more with an overling. The upshot was that they could do nothing, I suggested they turned off the machine at least, they acquiesced, well, they said they would. I stalked off to the bus stop with two pounds forty three to my name, fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to the bank, cancelling the card whilst contemplating the credit card that could have been my soupy saviour.
The day after, I discovered my card, nestling, where it has always nestled, in my wallet. It is, of course, impotent, no matter how many slots I shove it in nothing will ever come out, what happened during that interval I do not know, did my flash of hubris obscure card retrieval, did a microwarp happen in the monetary space-time continuum, is some other card (apparently recognisable) gumming up the works of the apologetic machine?
My new card arrives next week.
Moral. While you may think supermarket staff are jumping to conclusions, they may have a point.

ADVERT

With current Government criticism of Carbon offset schemes ("You fly, we dig up a peat bog in Scotland and plant a tree." sort of thing) Nixco is proud to announce its Genuine Offset Scheme, GOSH.

GOSH covers you for life, not just one trip.

How does it work?

In the world today there are many people facing problems, many who feel they can no longer cope, many who wish the world would just stop so that they can get off. Our team of gifted counsellors seek out these people and ask them to join our Time-Out Scheme offering them peace of mind in return for the cessation of corporal function. So no more exhaling eco-dangerous Carbon Dioxide for them and an eco-enriched conscience for you!

Flick through the catalogue and decide which of these Unfortunates you would like to adopt as your Carbon Buddy. You will then be sent a Death Certificate to inform you of their progress, together with the actuarial report on how many years guilt-free travelling and squandering you have purchased. This, of course, will vary with the age of your Carbon Buddy. Not enough, simply adopt another!

Also available: An active Corporate scheme for the Business Industry. Our team of experts will work carry out a Carbon Footprint Audit of your business, recalculate this into Person Units (PU's) and, after sufficient remuneration, harvest the PU's in an "Area of Active Conflict".

And how about this Executive Deal !!

Money no object but conscience pricking? Other firms stealing your share of the Market? Yes? Then you need the Positive Offset Scheme !

Simply nominate one (or some) of your rivals and our team of ex- KGB and Stasi will harvest them for you. Our team are expert craftsmen, no mess, no comeback and no evidence, GUARANTEED!

Wipe out the competition at a stroke (or heart attack or cerebral haemorrhage).

TMFFTTM8

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like checking your anchovies before paying for them. I had arranged to take two American geologists on the historical pub tour, frighteningly they wanted to start at midday. So it was that I met them (twenty minutes late due to a bomb scare) outside the National Film Theatre, Tom already firmly outside his first pint, Pat having eschewed the notion due to the hangover from the previous night, and burgeoning jet lag.
We set off, I took a breath to run quickly through the skyline, picked out the steeple of St Bride's, "That's St Brides....."
Tom, "That's the wedding cake one - right?"
"Oh umm, right. That's Cleopatra's nee..."
" Yeah found buried in sand in Egypt, brought over in a caisson 1877/78, and erected to commemorate the end of the Napoleonic Wars, 1815, money supplied by public subscription."
"Right, let's go to the first pub!"

To be fair, I had taken Pat on the crawl before, and they had spent a large part of the previous late afternoon/evening trawling up and down Fleet Street and the Strand, mind you he seemed to have pulled off a prodigious feat of memory. We crossed the river after a brief excursion to the lookout on the top of the Oxo Building, and went to my favourite pub, the Blackfriars. This is where we decided to have lunch, always a pretty hit or miss affair in a London pub. My pie was somewhere within the treble ring, Tom's fish was closer, Pat's (why do I want to eat it's friggin' 4 a.m) steak sandwich bounced off the outer wire and embedded itself somewhere in the nether regions of the pub carpet. We carried on, sticking our head in St Pauls for all the spiritual enlightenment you can get without paying £9/$17 and recrossing the Thames on "The Blade of Light" (official) or "The Wobbly Bridge" (tabloid).
"There's a TV!" The unjetlagged using his uncanny observational skills, honed by many years of having eyes.
"Oh yeah.".
We carried on deciding to refresh at the Anchor Bankside, and, after a pause, reemerged and set forth upon our riverine trek (Oh to be in Edinburgh, to make the pun work). After a quick stroll through Borough market, with Tom failing yet again to spot the hotpants, (there seems to be something about males together, in a country not of their own, the culture shock seems to produce a bonding pattern entirely based on wishful sex and some function of the area of exposed flesh) we ended up at the George 3rd.
Later we returned to the river.
"Hey! There's the TV again!"
Somewhat mellowed we meandered on, stopping off to admire various bits and marvel at Tower Bridge, (that's the one that should be at Lake Havasu but no-one bothered to tell the millionaire purchaser that it wasn't London Bridge - har har).
At this point I was beginning to rue the fact that they were geologists, the conversation was littered with:

"Hey isn't the food in Thailand great?"
"Yeah but what about the stuff they eat in Korea!"

"Had to spend a week off San Diego, saw twelve Blue Whales."

"Wow, the Arctic!"
"Yeah but the South Pole!"
"Oh yeah"

"Hawaii, what's your favourite island?"

We approached Tower Bridge, the rest of the evening was to be spent crawling along the north bank going to the historic Thameside pubs and ending up at the Prospect of Whitby, potentially the oldest pub in London.
Three quarters of the way across Tower Bridge, Pat started,

"There's the TV!"


Moral: While there may be nothing on TV, it's damn difficult to get away from.

Here at Nixco the summer holidays have definitely started, so we asked our local scryer, Old Nick to consult his ball and advise us horoscopically where to go.


LEO July 22 - August 21
A safari. Leo males traditionally lie around sated for hours at a time in the sun, Leo females traditionally kill game animals and feed the kids. C'est la vie - don't knock it. Can't afford a safari? then come to Colwyn Bay Mountain Zoo.http://www.welshmountainzoo.org/new/home.htm

VIRGO August22 - September 21 Another quiet year for Virgos. I think a gentle water-colouring holiday will suit the average virgo. Llanidloes is nice and very handy for the Laura Ashley Factory Shop.http://www.llanidloes.com/

LIBRA September 22 - October 22 The stars tell me that Libra will enjoy a musical holiday this year, you've missed the Eistedffodd at Llangollen but there's still Llandrindod Wells Victorian Festival! http://www.victorianfestival.co.uk/

SCORPIO October 23 - November 21 The Scorpion has ten legs to deal with, rather like Line Dancing, and you can find all you need for Line Dancing at Hooked on Country in the town of Amlwch on the beautiful HOLIDAY Isle of Anglesey.http://homepages.tesco.net/~hookedoncountry/

SAGITTARIUS November 22 - December 20A centaur with a bow. Well even old Nick can't turn you into a centaur for a week (though there are several in Harry Potter ("Dull, dull, dull." Another unbiased reviewer)), but he can recommend the next best thing, Yes a pony trekking holiday in the Beautiful Black Mountains.http://www.transwales.demon.co.uk/

CAPRICORN December 21 - January 19The seagoat. Wales is the Ideal place for you with its spectacular coast and rugged mountains. Swim or scale it's your choice Capricorn, or combine the two in delightful Pembrokeshire.http://www.pembrokeshirecoast.org.uk/

AQUARIUS January 20 - February 18 While some Aquarians are decidedly wet, you are willing to try all forms of liquid, so why not try some delicious Welsh wine from Worthenburys while you relax in the delightful industrial setting of Wrexham!http://www.worthenburywines.co.uk/

PISCES February 19 - March 19 The fish in the sign of Pisces swim in opposite directions signifying internal conflict, why not lay the buggers to rest during a delightful spa break in the lovely Welsh countryside. Though I'm not too sure about the thermotherapy, no it'll be lovely you'll see (well you won't hear, certainly).http://www.escape2001.co.uk/

ARIES March 20 - April 18Aries is the sign of the ram and we all know what the ram is don't we children, it's a sheep, and where better to hang around with your ovine cousins than on a farm holiday in agricultural - Wales!http://www.croeso-betws.org.uk/acc/bb/tyddyndu.htm

TAURUS April 19 - May 19Spain! Espana! Sun! Flamenco! Sangria! Sounds fab, not a great place for bulls though! Taurus will be much better off touring varied South West Wales and visiting their "Older Brothers" at the many and fascinating Agricultural Shows.http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/southwest/sites/shows/pages/pembrokeshire.shtml

GEMINI May 20 - June 20Gemini, your twin aspect always makes you unsure of yourself and others. Old Nick recommends that you get away with that "good friend".What better way to get to know someone than to share a room in one of Wales plethora of B&B's, who knows you may progress from those "Twinbeds" to a double !http://www.britainsfinest.co.uk/bedandbreakfast/search_results.cfm

CANCER June 21 - July 21Crabs like you love the seaside and with well over 80 miles of coastline, what better place than Cardigan Bay. You can even fish for some of your crustacean buddies or indulge in some guilt-free cannibalism. http://tourism.ceredigion.gov.uk/saesneg/beaches.htm

Nixco is not sponsored by Visitwales.com honest, no really.

TTMFFTTMA 7

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like checking that the girl you're walking with has tissues.
As I cycled in the other day a taxi went past with the following emblazoned on the side:
DNT B WSTFL
"Aaaahh" I thought, "How nice, what a lovely sentiment for the mildly depressed."
Unfortunately the next line was all about recycling, so, realising that I'd misread WSTFL for WSTFL, I became wstfl.
However, in the evening I attended an "event" at Heals (a swish furnishing shop), featuring 10% off (ha, let's talk about my salary) and a tasting of Vina Mara wines. I swilled and spat at the start but then the security guard moved me past the planters.
My tasting notes from the evening:
Cava - it's cava.
Rose - it's horrid
Rioja - s'ooright
Rioja Reserva - bit planky, as in licking a freshly sawn bit of oak, or a good kipper.
Rioja Gran Reserva - not as planky as the reserva but a bit more acidic.
Crianza - Has hints of oak, like a cudgel made of that fine wood .
White Rioja - Cor you're lovely! Sorry bit of internalisation. Alright, sort of Spanishy.
White Something Else - I'm sure it would have been fine, but I suddenly found myself in Habitat (the shop opposite) with some unusual pressure bruises round my upper arms.
Habitat had come out in opposition, first of all it wasn't invites only, secondly they had half-naked, HALF-NAKED girls in hula skirts, I seem to remember that their fizzy wine was better but that could have been the Alka-Seltzer I had later, needless to say I won't be shopping there for sometime.
So thus fuelled and inspired I left for home.
Now, I've been frequenting a lot of Turkish shops lately, lured in by the cries of,
"How much? Crikey that's cheap!"
and so have adopted a form of the Mediterranean diet (lots of herby stuff with olive oil, fresh vegetables, a lot of peppers and a bottle of Australian wine, plus an awful lot of mint tea, chiefly due to the awful lot of mint.
I had started the morning with a spot of frantic maceration and had spent most of the day deep in infusion as I'd decided to introduce a piece of tuna to salsa verde. At work, after consulting t'internet, I discovered that I needed anchovies and that I'd left out the capers. Capers I had, a small jar of Spanish nonpareille in salt. I washed them four times, they still constricted the back of the throat like the first accidental contact with the Med. In my younger days, at College, a caper was a manoeuvre in Morris Dancing, though, if you were rich and used to such things, you might know that it was the green stuff in Tatar Sauce that made it taste like peculiar salad cream, but I digress.
I decided I could pick up the anchovies from the supermarket on the way home, so fortified with Vina Maria off I went. Supermarkets seem to offer much more choice that the average Italian fishmarket, so imagine my surprise when, on arriving back home I discovered that I had failed to get just, "Anchovies "and had ended up with "Anchovies with Garlic and Herb in Olive Oil", note "Herb", singular, and even that was parsley, hardly worthy of the name "herb" in my view. Anyway the purity of my concoction was diluted by a momentary lack of concentration.
Moral: Always read your anchovies.

Important message from Nixco Human Capital Division to all Nixco Workers

Dear Minion,
It has come to our attention that some of you are worried about holiday and work parity issues after the forthcoming assessment. Please do not be worried, your holiday entitlement will not change and everyone will work a thirty five hour week, allow me to explain.
For Support Staff who currently work a thirty seven hour week, an hour will now contain 63 minutes 26 seconds, and you will work 35 of them.
Similarly, those staff who take 25 days leave will now be expected to take 25 days of 14hrs and 24 minutes.
You are asked to ignore any celestial objects that might indicate that the day/night ratio is otherwise, as these objects are temporarily outside our control.
The HC Divisiuon would like to take this opportunity to advise you of our new motto - Carpe Diem.
Sally Bratt
Commander
Human Capital Division

New Weight Loss Programme from Nixco.
Following on the success of our Cardiofasterization Programme, Nixco are proud to present :
"Spintoff"
an exercise and weight loss programme.
Step one.
Buy or otherwise obtain a serviceable bicycle.
Step two.
Ride bicycle first thing in the morning between the months of November and March.
Step three. Do not sniff.
Mucus is stuffed full of glycoconjugates, and what are the first two syllables of glycoconjugates - yes Glyco and we all know what that means - Sugar!
So by not sniffing and therefore reingesting that mucus, you are contributing to significant sugar- and therefore weight- loss.
Nixco provide a fantastic range of accessories for those on the Spintoff programme, these include the Twin-Tube Loogey Luge with volumetric backpack, for those who want to quantify their weight loss.
The Spintoff Moustache, made from a material developed by NASA for spacesuit gussetting, capable of absorbing 2550 times its weight in fluid (available in a range of colours, including "flesh" for the ladies.
And for those who wish to go "au naturel " Spintoff Mucoff detergent.

TMFFTTM6

It was another of those things that your father fails to tell you about as a boy, like checking that your underpants are in your luggage. I had set off with my companion Liz for a walk in the countryside. Liz is "clubbing fit" the sort of club that plays 170 beats-per-minute music till five o'clock in the morning, whereas I have the fitness of one of the denizens of the sort of club where elderly gentlemen with red faces and carbuncle noses, snore gently under a copy of the Times, and wheeze when their cigar is reluctant to draw. Consequently a walk with Liz consists of me staring at her receding buttocks (not as in "hairline") for a few seconds, before turning my attention to her heels, and then the patch of ground immediately in front of me. Occasionally she stops to let me catch up (and, I suspect, gloat), and point her in the right direction, before she trips off into the distance, surrounded by a pink haze. I should point out, sadly, that the haze is probably less part of her character but more some sort of catastrophic vascular event that I'm going through.
This particular day we were doing a round walk from Tring Station to Ivinghoe Beacon and were on the return leg when disaster struck. My bowels (yes them again) announced their presence by going into spasm causing me to use my outdoor skills and scan the barren ground for some sort of public convenience, or, failing that, cover. Pressure mounted, this was not going to go away. Stiff-legged, tight-arsed (no comments please) I made my way towards a narrow thicket, occasionally stopping as waves of discomfort coursed down my, soon to be less, corpulent frame. Liz watched, caught in limbo halfway between pity and hysterical laughter.
"Liz, got any tissues?"
"One - but I've used it."
What sort of girl was this? La belle dame sans tissus. Inconceivable! A woman in the countryside with almost no paper products of any kind. I accepted the tissue and found some acceptably thick Leylandii. I emerged sometime later, pale, and with only half a handkerchief. It could have been worse, the same bug had caused three solid (I use the word advisedly) days of D and V in other people.
Moral: While all women should carry tissues some of them don't.

CARDIOFASTERIZATION UPDATE

A BULLETIN FROM THE UN (ALLEGEDLY).

WORLD-RENOWNED NIXCO CARDIFASTERIZATION HAS SIGNIFICANT EFFECT ON GLOBAL WARMING.
Cardiofasterization, the essential premise of the NIXCO NATKINS diet (holding one's breath during exercise to increase the heart rate) contributes significantly to a drop in Global Warming.
By holding one's breath, one prevents GREENHOUSE GAS, CARBON DIOXIDE from being released into the atmosphere.
In fact several FORMER SOVIET REPUBLIC NATIONS now exhort their populations to hold their breaths for as long as possible to obtain Emissions Credits as specified in the KYOTO PROTOCOL.