Once again I'm in the wars. I had spent a Saturday afternoon looking after my Godson, Stuart, and his two year old brother Laurence, while Mum attended an introduction to the Japanese School in London. To be fair I had been treated to a scrummy sushi lunch. Eventually having been told off for playing with toys in the School hall, we went to investigate outside, and discovered a play area. Stuart was eventually inveigled into football by some "other boys", so Laurence and I took to the swings. After extensive swing pushing, I decided to try something different. I walked round to the front of the swing and pulled it towards me,
"Are you holding on tightly?"
Two year old assent.
I let go of the swing. It became patently clear after the apogee of his flight that he wasn't, as the swing returned to me and Laurence didn't. Consequently, I spent the rest of afternoon carrying him in both his traumatised, and later, comatose states. Laurence is a dense little boy and, in the sleep state, his molecules appear to coalesce down to something resembling one of the heavier metals. Later I handed him over to Father, and went home.
On Monday, cycling in, I stood on the pedal to move out of a T junction, and was rewarded with excruciating lumbar pain, this rather slowed my journey, and has led to the bike having a holiday at work. To add insult to literal injury, I was shouted at by a pedestrian as I was moving across a crossroads on a green light.
"There are people crossing!"
If I had felt that I could get off and give the lady a piece of my mind without more damage I would have, pointing out that while there were indeed, people crossing, they, including her, were crossing on a red light. Instead I made an expansive gesture designed to include the lights, this was wilfully misinterpreted.
"Charming!"
I pedalled painfully on, with both mental and physical anguish.
Consequently I now suffer from "sock terror", this is the conviction that when one puts on one's socks (impossible to do without bending, no, it is, try it), there will be a crux point where, after a ripping sound, the wall opposite your back will be studded with vertebrae, and your unsupported head will be making the acquaintance of whatever lives under the bed (in my case a warren of dust bunnies, the occasional bogeyman and that pair of trainers that disappeared). I shall leave "underpants terror" for a more, less salubrious occasion.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
Spice of ...
My Father was mild-mannered Clark Kent, he stayed mild-mannered Clark Kent, and never transformed to Superman, lifts, revolving doors and telephone boxes were never compromised in my Father’s realm, he was the same as everyone else’s father, who only ever transform in the cocoon of the imagination of their adult children, and then only post-mortem.
Drinking: towards the end, he moved from a cream sherry towards a half of lager and lime, oh and gave up sugar in his tea, wine (new-fangled at the time) would be Anjou Rose or Lutomer Reisling, red was far too outré.
Smoking: he moved from the pipe to cigarillos, usually Manikin, surely unmoved by the bouncy chest of the blonde as she loped athletically along a tropical beach before plunging carelessly into the surf.
Food: He took up salading as a hobby, bought books on how to compose salad, and let rip: chicory unmanned with the flick of a knife, a series of circumcisions, and there was the poor vegetable displaying its contours to a melange of tomato and tinned sweetcorn before suffering the indignity of being dressed with a vinaigrette of malt vinegar and vegetable oil, flavoured with a, literal, dusting of dried mixed herbs. Sometimes the then Chinese Gooseberry, the now Kiwi fruit, would be seen lurking behind the audacious walnut. He also liked the adventure of the Vesta curry, a jumble of stuff plus some non-rehydrating beef chunks, with occasional spice. It was the daring of difference that captured him, the daring of difference advertised nationwide on the TV as different and daring.
I had staggered home from an evening with Dean, it had been Graduation Day and a female student had made me blush – with fulsome praise rather than a lewd suggestion ( sadly, I think my days of women making lewd suggestions to me may be over. Any and all detractors please contact me as soon as possible). We had gone to the pub so that Dean could watch the first half of England v Croatia. I was the sightline that he returned to only during the pauses in the match, for the rest of the time I had the unrivalled opportunity to map out the veins on the underside of his eyeballs.
At half-time Dean skedaddled off to the station, and I swayed into the supermarket to check out the “reduced” shelf, Wednesday seemingly being a very poor night. So it was that I returned home and raided the store cupboard turning up a packet of soba noodles and cold soup mix. I decided that the onomatopoeic qualities of the soba noodles sounded attractive, given my state, and so embarked on preparation (or to be more honest, opening the packets). The soup turned out to be redolent with wasabi, offsetting the chill of the noodles with sharp needles of spice. This was the point that sent me drifting down the temporal stream to a visit from Dad to London (where he would be going to an IST meeting to talk about chemistry syllabi). I decided that I would take him to Diwana, a vegetarian restaurant that specialised in Bombay street food, which would certainly be more adventurous than a Vesta.
We had Aloo Papri Chaat (potatoes, chick peas, onion, tamarind and yoghurt and poori pieces) and Sev Poori (semolina vermicelli, onion, tamarind and so on). I think that Dad may have lost his taste for spice that day, or perhaps just lost his taste, the sev poori had a chilli hit that would have cleared the sinuses of large pachyderms in one cathartic spasm. I’m not sure if he enjoyed that meal, or whether it may have tipped him against the sub-continent, at least nutritionwise
Moral: Though it may look like a good idea at the time, it still may destroy your sense of taste and, perhaps, trust.
Drinking: towards the end, he moved from a cream sherry towards a half of lager and lime, oh and gave up sugar in his tea, wine (new-fangled at the time) would be Anjou Rose or Lutomer Reisling, red was far too outré.
Smoking: he moved from the pipe to cigarillos, usually Manikin, surely unmoved by the bouncy chest of the blonde as she loped athletically along a tropical beach before plunging carelessly into the surf.
Food: He took up salading as a hobby, bought books on how to compose salad, and let rip: chicory unmanned with the flick of a knife, a series of circumcisions, and there was the poor vegetable displaying its contours to a melange of tomato and tinned sweetcorn before suffering the indignity of being dressed with a vinaigrette of malt vinegar and vegetable oil, flavoured with a, literal, dusting of dried mixed herbs. Sometimes the then Chinese Gooseberry, the now Kiwi fruit, would be seen lurking behind the audacious walnut. He also liked the adventure of the Vesta curry, a jumble of stuff plus some non-rehydrating beef chunks, with occasional spice. It was the daring of difference that captured him, the daring of difference advertised nationwide on the TV as different and daring.
I had staggered home from an evening with Dean, it had been Graduation Day and a female student had made me blush – with fulsome praise rather than a lewd suggestion ( sadly, I think my days of women making lewd suggestions to me may be over. Any and all detractors please contact me as soon as possible). We had gone to the pub so that Dean could watch the first half of England v Croatia. I was the sightline that he returned to only during the pauses in the match, for the rest of the time I had the unrivalled opportunity to map out the veins on the underside of his eyeballs.
At half-time Dean skedaddled off to the station, and I swayed into the supermarket to check out the “reduced” shelf, Wednesday seemingly being a very poor night. So it was that I returned home and raided the store cupboard turning up a packet of soba noodles and cold soup mix. I decided that the onomatopoeic qualities of the soba noodles sounded attractive, given my state, and so embarked on preparation (or to be more honest, opening the packets). The soup turned out to be redolent with wasabi, offsetting the chill of the noodles with sharp needles of spice. This was the point that sent me drifting down the temporal stream to a visit from Dad to London (where he would be going to an IST meeting to talk about chemistry syllabi). I decided that I would take him to Diwana, a vegetarian restaurant that specialised in Bombay street food, which would certainly be more adventurous than a Vesta.
We had Aloo Papri Chaat (potatoes, chick peas, onion, tamarind and yoghurt and poori pieces) and Sev Poori (semolina vermicelli, onion, tamarind and so on). I think that Dad may have lost his taste for spice that day, or perhaps just lost his taste, the sev poori had a chilli hit that would have cleared the sinuses of large pachyderms in one cathartic spasm. I’m not sure if he enjoyed that meal, or whether it may have tipped him against the sub-continent, at least nutritionwise
Moral: Though it may look like a good idea at the time, it still may destroy your sense of taste and, perhaps, trust.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
The Cough
It starts as a tic, a glitch, a slight thickening in the air as it rolls over my tongue and surfs down into my lungs, a moment of liquefaction that subsides momentarily before starting to set the unprotected ends of my nerves all ajangle. I glance nervously round the carriage, the filling in a Crombie sandwich, and, handkerchief unavailable without considerable pocket mining, slip off my fleece hat. Then the tickling starts at the back of the throat, I force saliva and swallow, hoping to drown whatever arthritic-fingered grandparent is tormenting me, the tickle subsides then returns with greater insistence. Pressure builds in my chest, and I bunch the hat, more swallowing, a prayer to St Jude. The train stops, adding to my misery, spectacular convulsions and expectoration I can cope with on a platform but in the confines of the carriage it may startle the horses. More pressure, I now know the inevitable will happen, that I will cough but will it be the single bark and wheeze, or the tubercular rack; explosions coming thick and fast, each inhalation providing fuel for the next bombardment? And which breath will it start with, this one, the next one, the one after that? It's this one; my chest contracts forcing air out in spasm, the hat, hovering below my chin, moves swiftly up to catch the gust and any pulmonary detritus. I breathe in cautiously through my nose, this is the crux point, wake up Grandad Tickler now and I will descend into the tussive equivalent of an avalanche. The train is overheated so that the stifling air does just that, it stifles mercifully.
In the night I have to adopt a different strategy, I sleep, or attempt to sleep, with my nose and mouth submerged under the covers where the air is heated by my body. However, there comes a point where I will have to surface to find some oxygen. Like a whale I rise to sip some air, never knowing if the harpoon of the patrolling unheated-air "scientific whaling" fleet will strike, leaving my neighbours to enjoy the aural Nantucket Sleighride of my paroxysms.
Eventually I will reach for the balm of codeine linctus and glug, then wait for the forty minutes it takes to smother my throat with honey and lullaby my tormentors into the arms of morphine. There is a problem with codeine though, not only does it still the cough, it stills everything else as well so that I rise groggily in the morning, mouth filled with glue, head filled with wool, and stumble into my bathroom, my clothes, some shoes, the street. The street where the cycle will begin again, the imp in my throat cracks his hoary knuckles, reaches out and begins very gently to stroke.
In the night I have to adopt a different strategy, I sleep, or attempt to sleep, with my nose and mouth submerged under the covers where the air is heated by my body. However, there comes a point where I will have to surface to find some oxygen. Like a whale I rise to sip some air, never knowing if the harpoon of the patrolling unheated-air "scientific whaling" fleet will strike, leaving my neighbours to enjoy the aural Nantucket Sleighride of my paroxysms.
Eventually I will reach for the balm of codeine linctus and glug, then wait for the forty minutes it takes to smother my throat with honey and lullaby my tormentors into the arms of morphine. There is a problem with codeine though, not only does it still the cough, it stills everything else as well so that I rise groggily in the morning, mouth filled with glue, head filled with wool, and stumble into my bathroom, my clothes, some shoes, the street. The street where the cycle will begin again, the imp in my throat cracks his hoary knuckles, reaches out and begins very gently to stroke.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Editors would like to apologise for the somewhat conflicted nature of the following, the copy only arrived thirty minutes ahead of the printing schedule.
Old Nick's Almanac - a guide to love and fortune for 2010.
Capricorn
December 22 - January 19
New Year resolutions are really hard to keep up, though Capricorns with your stubborn pigheadedness are better at succeeding than others. Gosh I hate Capricorns, always moaning about the right way to do things, not one spark of wit or vitality.
Aquarius
January 20 - February 18
The water bearer, well, that just about sums up my resolution, let the good times roll, my arse. I hate Aquarians, always holier than thou, and we all know what WC Fields said about water....
Pisces
February 19 - March 20
Well how apt, here we are talking about fish and along come a pair. The fact that they're swimming in opposite directions is supposed to symbolise internal conflict. I hate Pisces they haven't got a clue about conflict, try being an astrologer, that's conflict.
Aries
March 21 - April 19
Look, it's a science it's got tables and everything, I have to do maths! And then what do they want, they all follow like sheep and just want you to say, "You'll have a lovely time" . Aries (how I hate you, you woolly-headed addle-pated, weak-willed...it beggars belief) you'll have a lovely time.
Taurus
April 20 - May 20
Then what happens, they go and discover more planets, they dump Pluto, what am I supposed to do? A lot of scientists are Taureans, with their desire for recognition, probably bloody astronomers, I hate astronomers even so I'm sure they'll have a lovely time making my life a misery. It's enough to drive one back to drink.
Gemini
May 21 - June 20
Twins, why is there never a pair of compliant twins when you need them? Well Gemini, you're supposed to be multi-talented, well bully for you, here's me working like a slave to produce, "you'll have a lovely time" and Gemini can turn their hand to anything, lucky, bloody Gemini.
Cancer
June 21 - July 22
Precisely, that's what you are, the lot of you, I hate you.
Leo
July 23 - August 22
The Lion, I mean why aren't you "up" in March, y'know, "in like a lion out like a lamb". Bloody Greeks, why can't they make it simple, I mean, when I started I was told there were only four elements and now there's six, with this bleeding Phlogiston and Aether, what's that all about? Whaddya mean a hundred and nine!
Virgo
August 23 - September 22
The Sun is in Virgo at the moment so I can't see a bloody thing. Look, if anything did happen you wouldn't be a Virgo any more. I give up, sod the resolution, I'm off to the pub.
Libra
September 23 - October 22
Well-balanced? WELL-BALANCED! This gin and tonic is well-balanced, if Libra were well-balanced they wouldn't be reading this tosh would they? I hate well-balanced people. Landlord, LANDLORD!
Scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Who's a Scorpio? C'mon the law of odds says one of you is. You, you, I hate you, I hate all Scorpios, they're all creeps, hiding under rocks and then blindsiding you when you least expect it. Come on then! Come on! Ow!
Sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I used to like the Archers until it got all modern, yeah you too? You're my best mate you are, you are, you are, I love you.
Old Nick's Almanac - a guide to love and fortune for 2010.
Capricorn
December 22 - January 19
New Year resolutions are really hard to keep up, though Capricorns with your stubborn pigheadedness are better at succeeding than others. Gosh I hate Capricorns, always moaning about the right way to do things, not one spark of wit or vitality.
Aquarius
January 20 - February 18
The water bearer, well, that just about sums up my resolution, let the good times roll, my arse. I hate Aquarians, always holier than thou, and we all know what WC Fields said about water....
Pisces
February 19 - March 20
Well how apt, here we are talking about fish and along come a pair. The fact that they're swimming in opposite directions is supposed to symbolise internal conflict. I hate Pisces they haven't got a clue about conflict, try being an astrologer, that's conflict.
Aries
March 21 - April 19
Look, it's a science it's got tables and everything, I have to do maths! And then what do they want, they all follow like sheep and just want you to say, "You'll have a lovely time" . Aries (how I hate you, you woolly-headed addle-pated, weak-willed...it beggars belief) you'll have a lovely time.
Taurus
April 20 - May 20
Then what happens, they go and discover more planets, they dump Pluto, what am I supposed to do? A lot of scientists are Taureans, with their desire for recognition, probably bloody astronomers, I hate astronomers even so I'm sure they'll have a lovely time making my life a misery. It's enough to drive one back to drink.
Gemini
May 21 - June 20
Twins, why is there never a pair of compliant twins when you need them? Well Gemini, you're supposed to be multi-talented, well bully for you, here's me working like a slave to produce, "you'll have a lovely time" and Gemini can turn their hand to anything, lucky, bloody Gemini.
Cancer
June 21 - July 22
Precisely, that's what you are, the lot of you, I hate you.
Leo
July 23 - August 22
The Lion, I mean why aren't you "up" in March, y'know, "in like a lion out like a lamb". Bloody Greeks, why can't they make it simple, I mean, when I started I was told there were only four elements and now there's six, with this bleeding Phlogiston and Aether, what's that all about? Whaddya mean a hundred and nine!
Virgo
August 23 - September 22
The Sun is in Virgo at the moment so I can't see a bloody thing. Look, if anything did happen you wouldn't be a Virgo any more. I give up, sod the resolution, I'm off to the pub.
Libra
September 23 - October 22
Well-balanced? WELL-BALANCED! This gin and tonic is well-balanced, if Libra were well-balanced they wouldn't be reading this tosh would they? I hate well-balanced people. Landlord, LANDLORD!
Scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Who's a Scorpio? C'mon the law of odds says one of you is. You, you, I hate you, I hate all Scorpios, they're all creeps, hiding under rocks and then blindsiding you when you least expect it. Come on then! Come on! Ow!
Sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I used to like the Archers until it got all modern, yeah you too? You're my best mate you are, you are, you are, I love you.
According to the supermarkets St Valentine's Day is looming up on us again (though not as fast as Easter apparently). Being a (reluctantly) single man there is a lot of pressure to find a significant other, therefore I have recently consulted the Nixco Dating Helpline for some tips. They have given me a set of straplines to use on dating websites, lonely hearts columns and the like, which they say are guaranteed results. I feel it my duty to pass these on in case there are any more like me out there, they include:
ECO WARRIOR SEEKS BAG FOR LIFE
STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF LIFE SEEKS BIOLOGY TUTOR
ASPERGIC SEEKS NEW HOBBY
TRAVELLER OF LIFE'S HIGHWAY SEEKS LUGGAGE
ADAM SEEKS EVE (POST-APPLE)
CURMUDGEON SEEKS SOUNDING POST
Nixco say that these have all been lovingly crafted by their team of elderly batchelors, and guarantee that the use of these will generate some form of response.
Their address:
Nixco Assisted DAting
a division of NIxco ENTErprises
Zone Industriel Lucerne, Switzerland
ECO WARRIOR SEEKS BAG FOR LIFE
STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF LIFE SEEKS BIOLOGY TUTOR
ASPERGIC SEEKS NEW HOBBY
TRAVELLER OF LIFE'S HIGHWAY SEEKS LUGGAGE
ADAM SEEKS EVE (POST-APPLE)
CURMUDGEON SEEKS SOUNDING POST
Nixco say that these have all been lovingly crafted by their team of elderly batchelors, and guarantee that the use of these will generate some form of response.
Their address:
Nixco Assisted DAting
a division of NIxco ENTErprises
Zone Industriel Lucerne, Switzerland
Saturday, January 23, 2010
I had hoped that having a laptop was going to make my life easier, I had thought that it would enable me to immediately place my shafts of wit and flashes of brilliance into the public domain. I had forgotten that the source of some of those shafts of wit and flashes of brilliance was the disinhibiting effect of alcohol, and that while those SoW’s and FoB’s were fulminating under the carapace, I would have to be able to type, which is difficult when your fingers and eyes are equally disinhibited, which is why I’m transposing this from a barely legible scrawl mainly written in block capitals so that I can translate it.
There comes a moment in an evening’s drinking where one attains a transcendental state resembling Godhood (Dionysus or Bacchus, I suspect), you can do no wrong, every thought is hilarious, you are the epitome of Adonis and Casanova combined. All this can be instantly undone by catching a glimpse of oneself in a suitably reflective surface – the Dorian Grey Moment. It’s also undone, though with a considerable longueur, the following morning when one becomes the epitome of Job and Lazarus combined.
Just before Christmas I had succumbed to an offer in my local supermarket; two bottles of liqueur for twenty five pounds, I had selected Drambuie (sweet whisky) and Cointreau (a confection of oranges). The thing about liqueurs is that they are sweet, and because they are sweet, they can do you no harm, they obviously contain no alcohol.
I had been out for an evening with Dean: Doom, Gloom, Optimism, Serenity, Pragmatism (ascribe as you see fit, they were all covered, apart from Optimism, which kept itself hidden under a rock, and is likely to stay there in the present work climate). Arriving home I decided on a nightcap and stupidly embarked on a trip around my liqueurs, a trip into a dimension several removed from self-denial, but hey, it’s only sugar and fruit it might even be good for you – my arse.
There comes a moment in an evening’s drinking where one attains a transcendental state resembling Godhood (Dionysus or Bacchus, I suspect), you can do no wrong, every thought is hilarious, you are the epitome of Adonis and Casanova combined. All this can be instantly undone by catching a glimpse of oneself in a suitably reflective surface – the Dorian Grey Moment. It’s also undone, though with a considerable longueur, the following morning when one becomes the epitome of Job and Lazarus combined.
Just before Christmas I had succumbed to an offer in my local supermarket; two bottles of liqueur for twenty five pounds, I had selected Drambuie (sweet whisky) and Cointreau (a confection of oranges). The thing about liqueurs is that they are sweet, and because they are sweet, they can do you no harm, they obviously contain no alcohol.
I had been out for an evening with Dean: Doom, Gloom, Optimism, Serenity, Pragmatism (ascribe as you see fit, they were all covered, apart from Optimism, which kept itself hidden under a rock, and is likely to stay there in the present work climate). Arriving home I decided on a nightcap and stupidly embarked on a trip around my liqueurs, a trip into a dimension several removed from self-denial, but hey, it’s only sugar and fruit it might even be good for you – my arse.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me, such as not to be an arse and to keep salacious texts to myself. It was the Bank Holiday Weekend and I had determined to ride up to Epping Forest to do some foraging, with a halt at Tesco on the way to buy some Tom Yam noodles - as one does. The day was warm, and I decided that, as I was mainly off-road, I wouldn't bother with my helmet, I also decided that, seeing as I was going to do a fair distance, I would wear my cycling shorts. I left, shutting the door behind me, and leaping onto my trusty steed prior to dusting up the towpath.
At Tesco, I parked the bike and realised with a sinking heart that I was keyless, and therefore soon to be noodleless. However, I hatched a cunning plan and approached the nice lady holding leaflets and sporting a tee shirt with "Double" written on it, it should have had "Double Points" written on it but the "Points" had vanished into the shadow of her knockers. I raised my chin a couple of inches and made eye contact, "I wonder if you'd mind just keeping an eye on my bike while I go and buy a lock. Please?"
"Alright. Just put it in there."
"Thanks!"
I beetled to the bike section, not one bloody lock to be seen, eventually I found a light and lock set but decided I hardly needed any more lights. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for I decided to go on to Epping.
The Logic: The neighbours have a spare key, if they're not in I have the spare set at work.
And so it was that I spent the afternoon getting mauled by blackberries, before a slight accidental detour on the way home, anyway I arrived and rang the neighbour's doorbell where "Auntie" let me in with a "Welcome Nick".
I explained my plight, to which she responded, "What are you going to do?"
"You've got a spare set."
"Oh I don't know where they've put them and they're in Pontin's with the kids. I'll give them a ring.
"Thanks!"
"They're not answering."
"Oh well, I'll get the set from work."
I remounted and went to work where a very nice security man called Maurice let me in, I couldn't find them!
"Oh well, let's hope Tony's answered his 'phone by now."
He hadn't.
"Oh well, I'll 'phone round and see if someone can put me up." The 'phone was on charge in the flat, the locked flat.
"Oh well, I'll spend a fortune with directory enquiries, who will have no 'phone numbers due to franchising." They didn't or they couldn't read, probably the latter.
"Oh well, I'll get something to eat and see if Tony's answered his 'phone when I get back." He hadn't.
"Oh well, I'd better find an hotel." I did - it Cost.
The girl (Carla) behind the counter was very nice and gave me an hours free internet, enabling me to find some 'phone numbers, now too late to do anything with. No-one in the hotel seemed the least fazed by this bicycling-clad figure sans bike. I claimed my free toothbrush and razor (and cotton-buds and a shower cap) and went to the pub up the road for a pint, or, in fact two pints. I went to bed, as I took my spectacles off the arm detached itself and fell, fortunately the screw landed in plain sight on the desktop, my luck had obviously changed.
Moral: If you decide not to wear your helmet, make sure that you take out the keys that live inside it so that you don't forget them. If wearing your cycling shorts, remember to transfer the keys that live in the back pocket of your other shorts to your cycling shorts. If your Brother has been for a visit, remember to take the spare set of keys that live in work (so you'll have a stopgap plus a set of keys to lend to people) back to work. Do not rely on your neighbours being in, and do not rely on "Auntie" to be psychic. 'Phones can be quite handy (as can address books) when they're not closeted behind locked doors. The people in Directory Enquiries are pants and cannot be relied upon, neither can spectacles but if you have the bits you can repair them with a penknife using a coffee-sachet strip with a hole in it as a pair of makeshift tweezers. London hotels are not cheap. The beer at the Marksman is just about alright - but only just.
I got in the next day, and sulked for the afternoon.
At Tesco, I parked the bike and realised with a sinking heart that I was keyless, and therefore soon to be noodleless. However, I hatched a cunning plan and approached the nice lady holding leaflets and sporting a tee shirt with "Double" written on it, it should have had "Double Points" written on it but the "Points" had vanished into the shadow of her knockers. I raised my chin a couple of inches and made eye contact, "I wonder if you'd mind just keeping an eye on my bike while I go and buy a lock. Please?"
"Alright. Just put it in there."
"Thanks!"
I beetled to the bike section, not one bloody lock to be seen, eventually I found a light and lock set but decided I hardly needed any more lights. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for I decided to go on to Epping.
The Logic: The neighbours have a spare key, if they're not in I have the spare set at work.
And so it was that I spent the afternoon getting mauled by blackberries, before a slight accidental detour on the way home, anyway I arrived and rang the neighbour's doorbell where "Auntie" let me in with a "Welcome Nick".
I explained my plight, to which she responded, "What are you going to do?"
"You've got a spare set."
"Oh I don't know where they've put them and they're in Pontin's with the kids. I'll give them a ring.
"Thanks!"
"They're not answering."
"Oh well, I'll get the set from work."
I remounted and went to work where a very nice security man called Maurice let me in, I couldn't find them!
"Oh well, let's hope Tony's answered his 'phone by now."
He hadn't.
"Oh well, I'll 'phone round and see if someone can put me up." The 'phone was on charge in the flat, the locked flat.
"Oh well, I'll spend a fortune with directory enquiries, who will have no 'phone numbers due to franchising." They didn't or they couldn't read, probably the latter.
"Oh well, I'll get something to eat and see if Tony's answered his 'phone when I get back." He hadn't.
"Oh well, I'd better find an hotel." I did - it Cost.
The girl (Carla) behind the counter was very nice and gave me an hours free internet, enabling me to find some 'phone numbers, now too late to do anything with. No-one in the hotel seemed the least fazed by this bicycling-clad figure sans bike. I claimed my free toothbrush and razor (and cotton-buds and a shower cap) and went to the pub up the road for a pint, or, in fact two pints. I went to bed, as I took my spectacles off the arm detached itself and fell, fortunately the screw landed in plain sight on the desktop, my luck had obviously changed.
Moral: If you decide not to wear your helmet, make sure that you take out the keys that live inside it so that you don't forget them. If wearing your cycling shorts, remember to transfer the keys that live in the back pocket of your other shorts to your cycling shorts. If your Brother has been for a visit, remember to take the spare set of keys that live in work (so you'll have a stopgap plus a set of keys to lend to people) back to work. Do not rely on your neighbours being in, and do not rely on "Auntie" to be psychic. 'Phones can be quite handy (as can address books) when they're not closeted behind locked doors. The people in Directory Enquiries are pants and cannot be relied upon, neither can spectacles but if you have the bits you can repair them with a penknife using a coffee-sachet strip with a hole in it as a pair of makeshift tweezers. London hotels are not cheap. The beer at the Marksman is just about alright - but only just.
I got in the next day, and sulked for the afternoon.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like the fact that if you're unlucky - you're stuffed!
I had forgotten that there is no intonation in text or e-mail, perhaps there should be a "tic" for tongue-in-cheek or similar icon. Sadly there isn't, so I have been hoist by my own petard on a couple of occasions now, by the simple fact that after I'd pressed the "send" button, the receiver took me seriously. My Father never had these problems, he was limited to full-frontal conversations, 'phone conversations and (the closest) letter writing, though I doubt that, "Here I am surrounded by bluebells, now all I need is a naked girl. Volunteer?" is anything that would have (overtly) crossed his mind, let alone stopped and jumped up and down in front of it.
Those that know me well replied, "No, what you need is a cold shower." those that didn't know me quite as well as I thought they did lapsed into a stunned and lengthy silence. That's the other thing about texts, they don't come with anything that says, "Oh by the way, I sent this to five other people which might lead you to believe that I wasn't being serious.
My last gaffe read, "I'm lying in bed naked. Wish you were here?", perhaps not the most sensible of things to send, I could plead Saturday morning leftovers of Friday night's alchohol - but I won't. Suffice it to say that I haven't heard from several recipients since (apart from one outraged reply). Golly, in my bonhomminous state I thought the question mark (and ancillary punctuation) might make it obvious but sadly no - apologies.
I am sort of reminded of the pilot who inadvertently texted the stewardess with a message to his wife, "I can't wait for you to go down on me." Thank God it was not from his wife to him, the implications could be catastrophic.
Moral: don't be an arse and keep salacious texts to yourself.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
A contribution from Liz in exchange for me writing her presentation on bottoms:
Nick says:
so what are you putting in my blog
Ed Balls says:
i don't know yet
Ed Balls says:
something about nakedness
Nick says:
k
Nick says:
off you go
Ed Balls says:
k
Ed Balls says:
Yesterday was my day off, and, as the weather was particularly fine, I decided to pay a visit to Epping Forest
So, mounting my trusty steed, I set off down the road with a happy song going through my head
Nick says:
good so far
Ed Balls says:
I arrived at the forest in good time, and tripped off down the nearest path, which was actually quite unfamiliar to me
Suddenly, in a clearing, I espied a group of people
Upon closer inspection, they were completely naked
As I got closer, I realised to my joy that they were all of the female persuasion
Blah blah
Nick says:
ta
Ed Balls says:
someone at work was looking
Ed Balls says:
will continue in a sec
They seemed to be performing some kind of ritualistic dance
'What the hell' I thought, and flung off my raiments
Joining them in the clearing
But something was wrong
They were looking at me with their bleary eyes, and cackling under their breath
So I legged it out of there before they could chop my balls off
THE END
Nick says:
so what are you putting in my blog
Ed Balls says:
i don't know yet
Ed Balls says:
something about nakedness
Nick says:
k
Nick says:
off you go
Ed Balls says:
k
Ed Balls says:
Yesterday was my day off, and, as the weather was particularly fine, I decided to pay a visit to Epping Forest
So, mounting my trusty steed, I set off down the road with a happy song going through my head
Nick says:
good so far
Ed Balls says:
I arrived at the forest in good time, and tripped off down the nearest path, which was actually quite unfamiliar to me
Suddenly, in a clearing, I espied a group of people
Upon closer inspection, they were completely naked
As I got closer, I realised to my joy that they were all of the female persuasion
Blah blah
Nick says:
ta
Ed Balls says:
someone at work was looking
Ed Balls says:
will continue in a sec
They seemed to be performing some kind of ritualistic dance
'What the hell' I thought, and flung off my raiments
Joining them in the clearing
But something was wrong
They were looking at me with their bleary eyes, and cackling under their breath
So I legged it out of there before they could chop my balls off
THE END
Thursday, May 01, 2008
TMFFFTTM 15
It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, like not counting your sausages before they're in the bag. On Tuesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared gloomily into the rain, as it descended like a sheet of frosted plastic in a cheap shower. After rummaging through the pannier, I retrieved my waterproofs, put on some waterproof shoes (ones without a webbing upper and cracked soles) and put my overtrousers on..... took off my overtrousers, took off my shoes, put on my overtrousers and then put on my shoes. Jacket. At the bottom of the stairs I ventured into the steady downpour and headed off for work, halfway there the jacket started to let in the rain, and dampness crept down from my shoulders with all the determination of snot leaking from the nose of a two year old. As I arrived at work, literally at the front door, the rain stuttered, then stopped. I stabled the bike, dripped my way to the office, and dug out the spare trousers and socks, the office festooned with drying garments like a laundry Christmas.
On Tuesday night I washed the jacket to within an inch of its life and then treated it to a liberal douching of waterproofing.
On Wednesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared suspiciously out at the banks of cloud scudding overhead. I compromised and donned the jacket leaving the overtrousers in the pannier. Five minutes later it started to rain. This time it did not stop as arrived at the front door. Once again the office looked like Primark on a Saturday afternoon.
On Wednesday evening, I released my trusty steed from its stable and approached the front door of the building, outside people walked with umbrellas, the puddles were dotted with bullseyes. I returned to dig out the overtrousers, which I donned with much swearing. I reemerged, people were furling their umbrellas, the puddles displayed a mirror-like surface. Disdaining to profane the air of the sacred halls of academe any further, I set off, still sporting my torture trousers. As I approached home, I looked to the south and west, a bank of cloud was rolling in like a tsunami on a hapless fishing village, under normal circumstances this sight would have filled me with joy, sadly I had to buy some bread.
As I left the supermarket, the heavens, as they say, opened, the sort of deluge that would have warmed the cockles of General De Gaulle's heart, luckily I was wearing my freshly waterproofed waterproofs. As I turned into the drive of the flats a few minutes later, the run-off from my waterproof trousers filled my trainers, running out through the crack in the sole. The run-off through my helmet trickled down my brow after dissolving all the salt accumulated since the last monsoon, the resultant brine putting the Dead Sea to shame, the sort of brine that could pickle a herring at forty yards, or slough off a grown man's cornea in under a minute. So it was I carried the bike up the four flights of stairs by Braille, and then sat down to my bruschetta, admiring the way that my hair had been sucked up through the vents in my helmet by my speedy passage and had then set into the trichological equivalent of the enchanted forest, the Sleeping Beauty one as opposed to Smurfland.
Moral: Some people are lucky and some are unlucky, if you're the latter you're fuc..... not in for a great time.
On Tuesday night I washed the jacket to within an inch of its life and then treated it to a liberal douching of waterproofing.
On Wednesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared suspiciously out at the banks of cloud scudding overhead. I compromised and donned the jacket leaving the overtrousers in the pannier. Five minutes later it started to rain. This time it did not stop as arrived at the front door. Once again the office looked like Primark on a Saturday afternoon.
On Wednesday evening, I released my trusty steed from its stable and approached the front door of the building, outside people walked with umbrellas, the puddles were dotted with bullseyes. I returned to dig out the overtrousers, which I donned with much swearing. I reemerged, people were furling their umbrellas, the puddles displayed a mirror-like surface. Disdaining to profane the air of the sacred halls of academe any further, I set off, still sporting my torture trousers. As I approached home, I looked to the south and west, a bank of cloud was rolling in like a tsunami on a hapless fishing village, under normal circumstances this sight would have filled me with joy, sadly I had to buy some bread.
As I left the supermarket, the heavens, as they say, opened, the sort of deluge that would have warmed the cockles of General De Gaulle's heart, luckily I was wearing my freshly waterproofed waterproofs. As I turned into the drive of the flats a few minutes later, the run-off from my waterproof trousers filled my trainers, running out through the crack in the sole. The run-off through my helmet trickled down my brow after dissolving all the salt accumulated since the last monsoon, the resultant brine putting the Dead Sea to shame, the sort of brine that could pickle a herring at forty yards, or slough off a grown man's cornea in under a minute. So it was I carried the bike up the four flights of stairs by Braille, and then sat down to my bruschetta, admiring the way that my hair had been sucked up through the vents in my helmet by my speedy passage and had then set into the trichological equivalent of the enchanted forest, the Sleeping Beauty one as opposed to Smurfland.
Moral: Some people are lucky and some are unlucky, if you're the latter you're fuc..... not in for a great time.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
Monday, March 03, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
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 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.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
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!"
"At least he's got ambition."
"Saves throwing a bleedin' ball, Mate!"
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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
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.
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.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
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.
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