So, Why Exactly Are You Staying With Multi-Millionaire Wayne Rooney?

Oh, ho....oh ho, ho, ho....aaah, tee, hee, hee, hee, hee......fnaar, fnaar. A classic!
My views on celebrity/chat magazines aimed at women have been aired here before but this just can't go unmentioned.
An advert for Closer magazine is trumpeting the rag's thrilling, front page story this week about chimp-eared, ugly-stick-victim and footballing genius-cum-yobbo Wayne Rooney and his significantly chav other, Colleen McLoughlin. "Get this week's Closer magazine", it barks, "and find out why Colleen stayed with Wayne after his brothel shame."
Uurrrmmm. Ooh, now, let me think. Because of his sparkling intelligence, razor-sharp wit and leading man good looks? Because of her deep and spiritual love for him which makes Romeo and Juliet seem like just fuck buddies? No, no, it's got me. I shall simply HAVE to go out to buy Closer. I can't wait.

........And Back To The Studio.

Further to my last post about the total collapse in the standards of news reporting, I have just watched the television news and one item illustrated perfectly just how appalling things have become.

The fluffy newsreader said to camera that four people had died in a bomb explosion on the outskirts of Baghdad - she didn't say WHEN this had happened but we had to assume it was today. I can't remember verbatim what was said next, and forgive me if I indulge myself a tad to help illustrate the point, but it went something like this:
Fluffy: "We can now go over live to Baghdad and our on-the-spot correspondent, Nigel Snetterton-Halfwit. Nigel, what exactly has happened over there?"

A pimply, horse-faced youth, bedecked in his brand new Battle-Zone-Reporter-At-C&A outfit and standing in a road - with his hotel just visible in the background - appeared on the screen looking grave.
NSH: "Well, Fiona, I talk to you today from a city living in fear, a city in the grip of violence, where nightmares stalk the streets, where the hand of fate is on the shoulders of the residents, where the big hand of doom is ticking inexorably towards the high noon of destiny, where........................."
Fluffy: "Can I just interrupt Nigel? What exactly is the situation on the ground?"
NSH: "Well, Fiona, details are sketchy at the moment" (ed. This means 'I know fuck all! I was in the fucking bar playing cards when we heard it on the radio'.) "but what I can tell you is that there has been an explosion."
Fluffy: "What kind of explosion?"
NSH: "Well it was very loud and sources I have spoken to say it probably shook windows nearby. I can also tell you that the explosion has claimed the lives of four people. It happened in an area the Army is calling the outskirts of Baghdad."
Fluffy: "Has anyone claimed responsibility for the bombing?"
NSH: "Well, Fiona, I can tell you that as of this moment in time, as I speak to you, there has, as yet and up to now, been no-one available to tell us if anyone has claimed responsibility."
Fluffy: "Who do the security forces suspect was behind the blast?"
NSH: "Nobody knows at all, apparently, according to the Army press office, but what I can tell you, Fiona, is that speculation is rife here that it may possibly have been someone who was unhappy about something.......or it could have just been a faulty gas tap."
Fluffy: "What was the intention of the bombers?"
NSH: "Well, no-one knows but what I can tell you, Fiona, is that, as I speak to you now, that is not quite true because the bombers will certainly be able to answer that question but we, as I said in my earlier bulletin, at this current moment in time, haven't been given a press release about it."
Fluffy: "What is the atmosphere like there?"
NSH: "Well, what I can tell you Fiona is that it is hot here in Baghdad. Very hot. Informed sources have told us that, for a moment at least, it would have been even hotter at the scene of the blast. But I can certainly confirm the overall hotness of the situation. I might also add that this is a city in the grip of heat, the heat of destiny, where the very furnace of Hell is inexorably engulfing............
Fluffy: "Nigel, sorry to butt in at this point, but do we know anything about the four people killed in the explosion?"
NSH: "Details are sketchy at the moment, Fiona, and that is very difficult to answer, Fiona." (ed. No it fucking isn't! Just get your spotty arse over to the fucking scene and start asking a few people!) "I can confirm that all four people killed by the suspected bomb, or gas leak, or something, are in fact dead. What I can also tell you is that there were four of them and sources I have been talking to tell me that they were either soldiers, insurgents or innocent civilians."
Fluffy: "Could they be British soldiers?"
NSH: "Well Fiona, that, of course, is the nightmare scenario and one we all dread, and it is highly likely they were some of our brave lads, even though the British don't serve anywhere in Baghdad, are in the south of the country, and this wild speculation can only serve to upset people at home and get me an award."
Fluffy: "How are the people of Baghdad reacting to this latest atrocity?"
NSH: "Well, I can't say" (ed. Yes you fucking can! Fucking ask some!) "but what I can say is the people in our hotel didn't look very happy this morning. My poached salmon was over cooked at breakfast and our lunchtime Chablis had hardly been chilled at all and so, informed sources have told me, it is possible that the staff were not very happy, but that could just be because they spend all day running around after us. I must reiterate at this moment in time, however, Fiona, that currently, as I speak, this is just speculation at the moment."
Fluffy: "Nigel Snetterton-Halfwit, thank you and be safe."
NSH: "Hello? Hello?.........."
Wanky reporters who don't know what they are doing and care even less, it's off to Grantham with you.

Crisis? What Crisis?

I am celebrating an anniversary this week. It was exactly a year ago that I quit PAYE to go self-employed. Time to break out the party poppers and mark the first milestone in my new life, you might think?
Well no, not really. You see, I am no nearer knowing what I want to do with my life now than I was last February when I walked out of a newspaper office for the last time. All I have managed to decide is a list of things I DON'T want to do.
I abandoned hard news and mainstream journalism because.....well.....to be honest.......it abandoned me! The job I did, the job I used to love, didn't exist anymore and still doesn't. A year on I know I was exactly right to get out when I did. Just a cursory flick through ANY newspaper, a quick glance at the TV bulletins or an earful of the so-called news on the wireless will confirm to even to dullest of people that news is dead. It is no more. It has ceased to be.
They are all now obsessed with celebrity gossip, "lifestyle features", the latest from Hollywood, cutesy little pieces on lovable toddlers, appalling "you the public tell us" items of shite and, when real news is unavoidable, war "reports" packed with unsubstantiated and ludicrously speculative crap or carefully crafted army press releases, all delivered from the comfort of hotels or from highly managed media corrals. All you see or hear is reporters interviewing reporters about the one press release they have both been given, blonde fluffies giggling at comic book University of Southern California survey results and plastic, narcissistic, oily, lounge lizards pretending to know about how this country is run. Underpinning all of this is the modern reporters' golden rule - "It's not the news that is important, it is who is bringing it to you. Look at me! Look at me!!"
By going freelance I was turning gamekeeper. It is my job now to bullshit the bullshitters and get stories into the media for clients. I can't say it is something I am particularly proud of but I have done my years of stupid hours for little financial reward, all in the name of integrity. Fuck that! Time to swim with the rats and earn some dosh. The trouble is, because you live in a world of PR bullshit, the people who offer you work or say they are going to pay you are all full of shit, obviously. Consequently, they tell you that you have a contract, you cancel other work accordingly and make plans but then they renege on the "gentleman's agreement" you had. They don't even have the bollocks to tell you. They just ignore you, hoping you will go away, and when you finally track them down they bullshit about "problems" which have come up and how busy they are. What narks me most is that they should even TRY to bullshit me - ME!! I've got a fucking Masters in bullshitting! Sadly, the end result of all this is that, as my mother used to ramble, it don't butter no parsnips.
So, news is dead and freelancing is financially precarious. What to do? I have had to concede that my pole dancing days are over, not that they ever started. Catering for blind pensioners with no sense of smell and having to buy a purpose built, concrete reinforced titanium pole would prove more dodgy financially than freelancing!

I could become a bra-fitter? Then again, the ladies who shop at Contessa don't really take to assistants who dribble and pant. A marriage guidance counsellor? - on second thoughts. Becoming "The Face of L'Oreal" appeals but I think I would have more chance becoming "The Arse of Andrex"! I could always just get any old job, driving a truck, sweeping the roads or stacking shelves at Tesco's, but somehow I don't think that would satisfy. Oh, I don't know.
So, to recap, I am 46, about to get divorced, cash strapped, not enjoying my work, in search of something else, clueless about what to do and yet with a burning desire to do SOMETHING, to leave my mark, to change the world and live life to the full. I have this irrational feeling that I should have climbed Everest by now, even though I am scared of heights. I am chewed up by the fact that I did not discover penicillin, though God knows I've used it! I should be fighting lions in Africa, I should be walking on the moon, no, make that Mars, I should be rowing the Atlantic, I should be a wild west hero, I should be.............I should be............I should be certified, I think.
It is called "a midlife crisis", I believe. Actually, that was a phrase dreamt up by women out of spite because biology decreed that they should almost all become "yampy" over the age of 35. To me, men in a midlife crisis are those types who go out and buy a massive motorbike and new leathers and then cruise around with their other fat, businesmen chums, pretending they are in Easy Rider. If they don't do that they buy a toupe, dress in ridiculously tight fashions designed for the yoof of the nation and then hang around bars trying to pick up 18-year-old Waynetta-types. Thankfully, I am neither of those types. Still, midlife crisis IS the nearest I can come to describing my current situation.
Well, the midlife crisis can, in future, be the sole preserve of Granthamites. Or can it? You know, I can't really decide.

On Patricks and Long-Chain Polymers.

I should have stayed in bed, nursing the remnants of my cold but no, I had to go out, didn't I? I had to go to my local to watch the rugby. It was the first time I had ventured out of Pither Towers in a week - just about as big a mistake as that evening, 50-odd years ago, when Noel Edmonds' father said to his mother "Fancy an early night?"

England lost by a record margin to the Fenian horde - they were TW (The Worst!). To say it was an embarrassment is a slight understatement. We were outclassed in every single department and even I had to applaud the performance of the Irish. It was inspiring.
Being an English, socialist man, you get used to defeat and humiliation. Sport, in particular, is not one of our strong points. Inventing games, now that's a different cup of piranha juice. We can invent games for.......for.......well, for the world. That's the trouble. The rest of the world soon catches on, learns how to play those games and proverbially rams it up our traditionally restrictive sphincters at every available opportunity.
So there I was yesterday, proudly sporting my England rugby shirt, looking like a model of the snow-covered Malverns, with a prime seat in front of the landlord's bedsheet (NOTE: The pub, thankfully, doesn't have a big-screen TV so, on the very rare occasions when a game warrants watching, the gaffer uses a projector to show the action. Unfortunately, he's too tight to splash out on a proper projector screen so hangs up a bedsheet - complete with outline traces on it of his urinary and sexual habits. "Come and watch all the bigsheet action," he proudly proclaims).
The landlord is as Irish as a green Irish thing in a bog, complaining about something and looking for a fight, so your first task is to try to outshout him. That is not a problem. The annoying part is sitting next to loads of other people during the afternoon, chatting about how brilliant Sherbert Fountains were and who was your favourite Banana Split, when they announce just before kick-off that, although they are patently English, they will be supporting Ireland. "My grandfather was Irish, you see," they explain. What!!!! EVERYBODY'S GRANDFATHER WAS FUCKING IRISH!! There's a reason for that. Emigration became very trendy on the Emerald Isle about 160 years ago when Spud-U-Like closed down over there and two million overly picky eaters among the populace went in search of branches abroad.
My soon-to-be ex-wife's grandmother was Irish. In fact, here's a true story. When my STB EW was a little girl, she was sat at her granny's knee and, having been taunted about her family at school, asked that white-haired, little old lady whom she worshipped if it was true that she used to smuggle guns for the IRA. Her granny, in a thick, Irish brogue, put her mind completely at rest by snapping: "That was never proved!"
Anyway, back to the point. What is it with these millions of Plastic Paddies? You shall know them by their utterances. They are the types who say "feck" instead of the recognised English expletive because they have watched Father Ted and think it will make them sound like a street-wise, Shane McGowan type. I'll tell you why they pretend not to be English and claim Irish citizenship. It's because it's trendy, because they can lay claim to being from an oppressed, downtrodden, victimised people and not a member of a race which was/is noted for its imperialist ways and its habit of subjugating people around the world.
Don't get me wrong, there are thousands of episodes in Britain's past (for the words England and Britain are interchangeable to the Irish) which do not leave me bursting with pride. What the British did to the Irish is not something to rejoice in, even though it was the Catholics who asked the Brit army to go in to protect them from the Proddies in the first bloody place. No, what sticks up my oversized hooter is the highly selective memory of the Irish. So, collaboration with the Nazis never happened, did it? Innocent men, women, children and even fucking horses weren't blown to bits by Fenian murderers on the British mainland, were they? The IRA didn't become one of the world's largest gangs of organised drug peddlers, did it? Knee capping their own was not a favourite pasttime of those "fighting for liberation", was it? They didn't massacre their own innocents at places like Enniskillen and Omagh, did they?
Bloody Sunday was mass murder of innocents by the British. It was, no-one can deny it. This is not ANY justification for a massacre, but how many times do the Irish tell you that the Black and Tans went in to Croke Park with murder on their minds because 14 of their own had been slaughtered by Irish gunmen? It's not justification, but it does take the gloss off the poor, oppressed, victimised, "wouldn't hurt a fly" nation angle a bit.
I am not a brain-dead American and so fail to see all-consuming, twiddly-diddly-dee romanticism in Ireland, let alone feel a desperate need to lay claim to it. I am happy with what was thrust upon me at birth - MY nationality. More than that, I am not overly keen on nationalism full-stop! I thought we were all as one, struggling against life itself, not against each other.
I seem to have wandered off the point a bit. Never mind. Anyway, Plastic Paddyism can go to Grantham. If these people feel so fondly for Ireland then why don't they go over there and actually contribute to the country by paying some taxes instead of propping up the evil empire? "Oh, no darling. Jackasta, Gemma and I would miss the Rotary Club, that charming little Korean eatery in town and our amateur dramatics club cheese and wine parties. Besides, Ireland is an awfully long way away, isn't it, and the people smell?" Feck off!

Oy Vay. First You Say Sink It, Now You Want Build It. Make Up Your Minds.

Oh lord. Where to start? I have been healed and there is so much to say.
Well, there I was, dozing happily in the armchair, the central heating snuggling me nicely, the television gently chuntering away in the background. Peace.............. Then it happened.
"BUILD THE BISMARK!!", the TV screamed. I was jolted awake, completely startled, but I didn't panic. I hastily donned my slippers and made for the garage as quickly as I could. Once there, I grabbed my faithful old tool box, a saw from the wall and two pieces of plywood leaning up against the wall. I was up to the task.
Then my brain started to gain ground on my body and I began to come round from my near sleep-walk. What the Hell was I doing? Why, in God's name, had I suddenly felt obliged to build the infamous Nazi pocket battleship? I trudged, bemused, back to the telly from where I had received my orders.
It was another one of those ludicrous adverts plugging a mindless magazine like the one with which you could amass your own pile of rubble. This publication offered you the chance to build your own model Bismark by including parts in each issue. The advertisers trumpeted that the first issue was 50p but they were then forced to detail on screen that to complete the model you would have to buy 139 other issues at £4.99-a-time! By my calculations, that means that this tribute to death and destruction which was the pride of the Nazi regime - so you would no doubt love to have it sitting on your coffee table - would set you back £694.11p! Hell's teeth!! You could almost raise the original bloody ship for that much!!!
Sorry boys. Extortionate models of the Fatherland's most feared fighting machines can just sail off to Grantham.

I Knew A Man Called Michael Finnegan..........

(Blessed Are The Big Noses).

Well? Waddya think? Hmmmm? Rugged? Sexy? Intellectual? Indiana Reg-ish? Hmmm?........... No, you're right, I just look like a tramp!!!
I have been suffering from man-flu (I may just have mentioned it once or twice) and the viral nasties have stopped me reaching for my razor since Tuesday. As the growth continued but my health improved I decided to keep away from my TurboBroadsword Z7000ShavyMax-For-Men (and David Beckham)deliberately, just to see what the result would look like.
Well, tomorrow will be B-Day - to beard or not to beard? It has got to that stage where I am just a day or so away from having a recognisable beard but at the same time I am only one bloodless and painless shave away from a return to the old Reg. What to do?
As I said earlier, I think the way ahead is clear. It's got to come off! Instead of looking distinguished or intrepid or even vaguely studious I just look like.........well......a bloke who hasn't had a shave! I would probably be prepared to settle for plain "beardy" but even if I let it take hold a bit more I know that the end result would be more Catweazle than Cat Stevens.
God has not been kind to me, follicly speaking. First of all, He decreed that as time went by and the hair in my ears and up my nose began to blossom, bush-wise, the hair on my head should disappear to compensate. I thought I had thwarted his attempt to make me completely physically repulsive to all women in later life when the shaved-head or "grade" look became all the rage. It was trendy for us own-up-baldy types to have our hair cropped right down, a la the Marines, and so I went ahead and had a grade. Instead of looking cool, a bit like Ray Winstone or someone similar, I just looked like a recruitment officer for Combat 18. In short, a thug - a hooligan.
I decided to grin and bear the indignities of what life had in store for me - it's called male pattern baldness - but not so long back my confidence was not given a gigantic boost when I was in a pub and went to the bar, to hear one of my friends behind me shout "Oi, Cadfael! Get me a beer!"
No, the beardy look has got to go. Henceforth, baldness and bad beards shall belong only to people in Grantham (the men as well).

Whatever Happened to the Second and Third Commandments?

I'm not a fan of modern art or modern artists but this bloody government seems to want to promote it and them at every turn.
"Action art" is possibly one of the most ridiculous of the modern art disciplines and, as you are no doubt well aware, involves people hurling paint, whitewash, flour, rotten vegetables and other such stuff at a "canvas" and then calling the resultant mess "art".
This abortion of a craft is obviously favoured by this bloody government as it has decided to establish an open-access, action art centre in the House of Commons lobby, of all places. What a waste of money and what a bomb site this hallowed area is going to be turned into.
The launch of this paint and rotten fruit-throwing centre received wide coverage on the television today. It basically consists of a large, bronze statue of the devil bitch Thatcher. No doubt it will be widely used by the public and Westminster vendors of paint, flour, rotten eggs, mushy tomatoes, hammers, chisels and flamethrowers will do a roaring trade. But is it art and is it an appropriate place for it?

Back in the real world, WHO THE FUCK PAID FOR THIS BLOODY THING? You can bet your spotty, voluminous arse that "we" bloody did!! I don't remember getting a letter through the post saying "Hello, old bean. We're having a bit of a whip round to buy a statue of Mrs T. Would you like to chip in?" It is a disgrace. The only positive thing I can find to say about it is that it is at least appropriately made of bronze - the age that bitch took us back to!!
The bronze lady can sod off to Grantham.

Hello, How Are You Today?...Click...Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I am on a list somewhere - and I want off it!!
I'm not sure how I got on this list but, over the last six months, I have been getting anything up to 10 cold sales calls on my landline every day. The final straw came today when I heaved myself off my sickbed for the third time to answer the phone, only to discover it was yet another arse trying to flog something.
I am still feeling as rough as a badger's backside and yet when I answered each time, sounding like Lee Marvin singing on a third normal speed, the dimwit at the other end opened with the same lines each time:
Pither (in barely comprehensible Wanderin' Star croak): "Yuurrgh."
Dimwit (usually with Asian twang): "Huurrlloooooo Mrs Pither."
Pither: "You tryin' to be funny?"
Dimwit (unperturbed): "How are you today Mrs Pither."
Pither: "'Ow do I sound, clothears? I feel bloody awful."
Dimwit: "Good, I am glad to hear that.I wonder if you could spare me a moment. This is not a sales call."
Pither: "You're lying, intcha'?"
Dimwit: "Oh, thank you Mrs Pithers. Can I ask you if you have a mortgage?"
Pither: "No, course I don't. I'm independently wealthy and always pay cash for my houses. Now, let me crawl away and die. I suggest you do the same."
click.....brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
I have now decided not to answer the landline. If anyone important calls about anything other than my mortgage, gas supply, life assurance or to tell me that I have been chosen from literally thousands etc. they will leave a message I can pick up later, I assume.
This has just got to be down to my soon-to-be ex-wife. She just can't stop replying to bloody surveys, whether over the phone or when posed by those gits who insist on accosting you in the street, clipboard in hand.
I have to admit, however, that she was responsible for one priceless line after I decided to wind up one of these cold calling reptiles. He called to try to flog me employment protection and so, fed up with his breed, I arranged for him to call round - on a day when I knew there would be no-one at home. He rang again subsequently to say that he had got no reply at the front door and I apologised, explaining that my grandmother had been taken ill and I had rushed her to hospital (she died - in 1972!!!). We rearranged another appointment and once again he arrived to find no-one at home - my wife and I were away on holiday. His follow-up call duly came, I apologised once more, put forward some fatuous excuse and fixed up a third appointment at a time when I knew again that there would be no-one at home.
Clearly exasperated at his time being wasted on a third fruitless visit, the said reptile phoned once more to ask what had happened and STB EW, by chance, answered the phone. I overheard the conversation. This will sound as though it is made up but I swear it is true. The conversation went like this:
STB EW: "Oh dear, I am sorry about all this. Was it a man you spoke to?"
Reptile: "Yes."
STB EW: "Did he sound middle-aged?"
Reptile: "Yes."
STB EW: "Oh heavens, I suppose he said he was Mr Pither?"
Reptile: "Yes, he did, why?"
STB EW: "I can only apologise. That must have been Randolph. He's not allowed to answer the phone. He's very naughty."
I actually applauded when the phone went down. A classic. We never heard from the reptile again.
The trouble is, great tactics like that are time consuming and I really just can't be bothered anymore. So, cold calling salesmen and women can just ply their infuriating trade in Grantham from now on.

Man-Flu.

There are those who think that bird flu will spell the end of civilisation as we know it. Well, I have something worse - far worse! I have man-flu.
I feel truly AWFUL. You know those bored evenings at home when, for something to do, you empty two tubes of Superglue up your nose and then hit yourself over the head with a hammer while rubbing your throat with sandpaper? Well, that's how I feel.
This potentially killer virus moved in, predictably, last Thursday evening - just before I was due to go to London to spend a long weekend at a friend's. I went down, as arranged, and lasted the whole of Saturday but by Sunday morning I had to raise the white flag and came home at lunchtime. I have been in bed or wrapped in a duvet on the settee ever since.
My soon-to-be ex-wife has gone up north to see her mother - I think there is an SS reunion on or something - and will not be back until next week. As a result, I have no-one to plaintively whimper to or to look up at with cow eyes, pleading for sympathy. Illness is no fun if there's no-one there to witness your pain and say you are being "a brave little soldier" (I'm only 46). I actually used to look forward to being ill when we were married because she would put her nurse's outfit on to tend to me! The tearing up of the marital contract has, sadly, put an end to costume dramas round here - how I miss those romantic evenings when she would dress up as a Japanese admiral and we would re-enact the battle of Midway. I suppose I may try to squeeze into the old nurse's playset myself later on, but it's just not the same. Trying to take you OWN temperature anally requires a mirror, a great deal of patience and a good eye. I don't think I am up to it.
Ho hum. Well, I am at least trying to do something positive. I am growing a beard. By this time next week I should have a completely reversible head. That will be something to look forward to.
In the meantime, man flu can go to Grantham.

The Roll Tax.

One last thing before I go. The following was passed on to me by The Big Green Thing and, as he said, just has to be highlighted.
Apparently, there is only one month left to register your objections to the 'Pay As You Go' road tax being proposed by our New Labour-Old Tory leaders. With a nod to the principles of democracy and consultation, anyone opposed to the idea can sign a petition posted on the Downing Street website. If it attracts 750,000 signatories then the Government says it will abandon this idea (evidently dreamed up by the "oh, I cycle to work and hate cars because I work part-time at my local library and don't have to do a proper job involving travelling anywhere else and my wife lives in London and so uses the Tube and doesn't need a car" brigade).
The petition, as I said, is on the 10 Downing St website but....................and here's New Labour in action for you...................the Blair Bunch hasn't told anyone about it!!!!! It's a belter!!
Currently, only 250,000 people have signed the petition - a third of the total needed to tell the Government to go fuck - and, although this is a pretty hefty total considering its existence is being kept a secret, more names are needed.
Once you've given your details (you don't have to give your full address, just house number and postcode will do), you will be sent an e-mail with a link in it. Once you click on that link, you'll have signed the petition.
Just how appalling is this latest New Labour wheeze to screw even more money out of us to spend on war, NHS consultants (non-medical variety) and armed militia to shoot smokers?
The basic premise of this new tax is that the more you use your car, the more you pay. Sounds fair, doesn't it? Sadly, like Thatcher's poll tax, it takes no account of ability to pay and is a tax on those who HAVE to use a car because where they live or their employers demand it.
The road pricing policy means force you to buy a tracking device for your car and then pay a monthly bill to use it. The tracking device will cost about £200 and, in a recent study by the BBC, the lowest monthly bill was £28 for a rural florist against £194 for a delivery driver. A non-working mother who used the car to take the kids to school paid £86 in one month!! She should send her children to school on the school bus, you might say? WHAT FUCKING SCHOOL BUS??? She should pop them on public transport, I hear you ask? WHAT FUCKING PUBLIC TRANSPORT - NOT EVERYONE LIVES IN FUCKING LONDON!!!!
On top of this massive increase in tax, you will be tracked. Somebody will know where you are at all times. It's like being fucking married all over again!! They will also know how fast you have been going, so even if you accidentally creep over a speed limit somewhere then will probably have to expect a Notice of Intended Prosecution with your monthly bill.
To quote the opponents of this rubbish: "If you care about our freedom and stopping the constant bashing of the car driver, please sign the petition on No 10's new website."
The website link is:

http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/traveltax/

God, I thought bird flu was Blair's last chance to leave a legacy, the legacy of being the biggest political twat since King Canute, but this could be his "belt and braces" bid. Fuck him.
New Labour - off to Grantham with you, along with Trading Standards (why haven't they prosecuted Blair for selling himself and his cronies as Labour. Surely, just inserting the word "New" does not provide an adequate defence to a charge of misrepresentation of goods?)

That Sinking Feeling.

I have been more than little upset today. My alsatian, Padfoot, is not well. Actually, he has not been well for a while now but his illness is starting to take a firm hold and I feel so sorry for him.
The first sign that anything was wrong presented itself last year when Pad took to standing with his hind legs bent, sort of crouching, unlike his front legs which were straight, as they should be. I had noticed that other alsatians (or German shepherds if you prefer) tended to stand with their backs sloping down from head to tail and so had not been unduly concerned, putting it down to some sort of trademark of the breed, but when Pad began to find it increasingly difficult to stand up after he had been lying down I suspected things might not be as they should.
I took him to be checked over and after the vet carried out some basic motor reflex tests he diagnosed that Pad was suffering from "degenerative myelopathy". I was right about one thing - it IS a trademark of the breed, but not a good one. It basically means that the nerves to his back legs are wearing away. The result of this is that he is gradually losing the feeling and use of his back legs and eventually will not be able to get up. Bizarrely, alsatians' front legs are not affected by this condition.
The stages in the degeneration Pad and I have to look forward to are, firstly, when he is not able to get up unaided, secondly, when his walking becomes very laboured and, finally, when he is not be able to walk at all or even stand up.
It all seemed a bit distant when I heard the bad news and so, at the time, I shrugged my shoulders and carried on with the daily Hell which was my life. Then, today, I noticed Pad had begun to drag one of his back legs and frequently walked on paws clenched up like fists. Things have moved on much quicker than I had anticipated.
All is not lost, however. I remember that the vet told me last year that Pad would not be in any pain, he would just become an invalid, and there WAS something I could do to keep him artificially mobile in his dotage - I could have him fitted with a trolley affair strapped to his back legs (see below). Effectively, Pad would haul himself around on casters!!! The indignity of it all!!

This deeply humiliating contraption costs about £4,000 but I am hoping that, when the day comes, his insurance will cough up. If not, I will sell one of my livers. If that fails to raise enough cash then I will make one of the fucking things myself!!
Anyway, my soon-to-be ex-wife will be giving Pad lots of TLC over the coming few days as I am going down to London to see an old pal. My lack of blogs will not, therefore, indicate that I have finally caved in to the pressure of life and topped myself.
In the meantime, degenerative myelopathy can go to Grantham.

Stupid Cupid.

I would like to take this opportunity to convey my warmest wishes to all those of you who tonight will be enjoying a special dinner, the scent of roses, the sound of soft music, candlelight AND A GOOD SHAG..........you lucky bastards!
Valentine's Day has come and gone here at Pither Towers with not so much as a wink from our gay postman or a nuisance obscene phonecall. I did get one red letter - from Powergen (thanks guys) - and YET ANOTHER MENU FROM A FUCKING PIZZA PARLOUR but they were the only things which penetrated a tight opening round here.
Ok, ok, so I don't agree with Valentine's Day anyway. It is, after all, a supposed celebration of the agonising execution of some bloke, who was otherwise a jolly decent chap, just because he wore a crucifix to work (See British Airways staff manual). As I've said before, if you can only tell your special someone that you love them on one day in the year, and make money for some Nazi card manufacturer in the process, then your relationship is in deep shit. The high moral ground, however, is not high enough to stop you seeing hordes of doe-eyed lovers at every turn and consequently feeling slight tugs on your heartstrings.
As many people will by now be aware, both the Avenue D'Amore and the Boulevard of Marital Bliss have been dug up as far as Pither is concerned, although as I didn't instigate the roadworks it is fair to say that a contra-flow system is in operation. Still, as Pontius Pilate was overheard saying "There ain't a fat lot I can fucking do about it".
I suppose this evening's offerings on the Devil's Lantern will be peppered with slushy films interspersed by adverts aimed at us singletons with messages like "Go on, do it - open a vein" as we sit there chomping through our Vesta Chow Meins-For-One from the firm's Saddo Loser range.

Ho hum. Never mind, tomorrow is another day and everyone will be back to rowing at home, having affairs, trashing their marriages and staring at each other in stoney silence over the microwaved mush they are forced to share at dinnertime on the 364 other days in the year. Hurrah! Welcome back to the real world.
It's got to go. Valentine's Day is about as welcome as a Harold Shipman home visit and so can waltz its way off to Grantham.
NOTE: After I finished writing this, a jerk two doors down started letting off fireworks in his garden!! What's that all about? Picture the scene - "Hello honey, I'm home and I've got a Valentine's Day surprise for you. You know you wanted us to go out to dinner and then come home and make love in a warm, soapy bath? Well, I thought that instead we would stand about in the pitch black night, freezing our tits off, and let off incendiary devices. Whaddya say?" I fear we at the About-To-Be-Divorced Club will be getting a new recruit tomorrow.

Sometimes I Just Think Funny Things (And Hear Voices).

Having just watched a documentary on the bombing of Pearl Harbour I got to thinking. If the battle cry of the Jap pilots was "Tora, tora, tora!", did their suet-cide comrades (the not-so-Divine-Wind) scream "Atora, Atora, Atora"?
Sorry, I've not been well.

A Little Learning Is An Infuriating Thing.

Apologies to my Big Green Thing chum but.................I hate pseudo-professional, humourless, nerdy pub quiz teams.
This rant is brought to you courtesy of a supposed pub quiz Orkney-Bound and I went along to last night. It turned out not to be a quiz in the normal sense of the word but was, instead, a Family Fortunes-style test - you know? Name five things George Michael has not rammed up his or anyone else's bottom; Name five things Victoria Beckham has ever eaten, etc.
As the beer flowed, so did the fun. "Name five things designed to be wheeled about", called the quiz master. "Prof. Stephen Hawking and Vanessa Feltz's gut," we scribbled among our answers. "Name five series of books penned by Enid Blyton." "Noddy Gets Down and Dirty" and "Radical Marxist Development and The Workers' Control of Factories in a Neo-capitalist Western Society", we wrote.
Not surprisingly, we didn't win the shellsuit and year's supply of Wife Beater lager which together constituted the first prize up for grabs but, Hell, we had a hoot.
It got me thinking. We had a laugh because EVERYONE else there was having a laugh. There is, however, usually at least ONE team devoid of any chuckle muscles at these nights out - Yes! That fucking pseudo-professional team.
They are nearly always the same. There is a supposed leader who the others look up to in awe. He is the type of insecure wanker who joins Mensa and drones on about how high his IQ is to anyone stupid enough to listen. He is invariably a skinny, bearded, sandal-wearing twat who smokes a pipe, last smiled in 1932 and spends his sad, pathetic existence away from quizzes swotting up on the name of Alexander the Great's favourite goat and who is the 23rd tallest person in Swansea.
He is invariably accompanied by the following: a fat, sweaty, computer geek-type with a schoolboy haircut, two ugly bints - one bloated, the other anorexic - both wearing floral print dresses and "comfortable shoes" and a po-faced, acountanty-looking accountant whose idea of casualwear is his shabby, grey work suit with an acrylic, hideously loud, round-necked pullover worn over his shirt and tie, a la Tories relaxing at a weekend brainstorming session! They are usually teachers, librarians, IT weirdos, accountants, teachers, teachers and teachers!
While everyone else gives their team a name like "Beryl's Bags" or "Nigel's No-Hopers", they jot down some massively pompous Latin or Greek phrase at the top of their answer sheets, smiling smugly to each other every time they do so. (They should, of course, be compelled by law to call themselves Nietsche's No-Marks!)
It's always them who quibble over the answers. "Oh, I think you'll find that Snetterton's Compendium of The Banal lists golf as Attila the Hun's THIRD favourite hobby, NOT his second." Fuck off!!!
Like primary school children, they curl their arms around their answer sheets while writing, in case anyone dares to copy. Fuck off!!!
They always like to be first up with their completed sheets and make snotty comments to each other which are meant to be overheard by everyone, like "It's so easy this week, it's embarrassing". Once again, fuck off!!!
They always win, obviously, but, having pissed everyone off with their pomposity by the end of the evening, they walk up to collect their prize to a complete absence of applause or congratulations.
I have a way of lancing this boil on the bottom of life. Pub quiz prizes should be things which these arseholes would rather die than win. Things like hemorrhoid cream, sweet German white wine, membership of the BNP or a season ticket at Milwall.
They would soon stop turning up, spend their evenings at home instead and consequently realise what meaningless, pathetic existences they were leading and so kill themselves. Harsh but fair.
Fuck 'em. Pro quiz teams can go to Grantham.

A Poultry Excuse For A Legacy.

Maybe I'm missing a few things here but, why is there all this mass panic about bird flu?
I mean, I love animals, don't get me wrong, but if a few chickens, ducks and turkeys end up feeling a bit achey, with a runny beak and a cough, it's not the end of the world, is it? A few days in bed dosing up with paracetamol and they will be back on their feet in no time. It's not as if going down with the flu will mean they will have to take time off work. Farmers may not be my favourite group of people but I don't think they have yet resorted to yoking up foul to pull their Range Rovers around.
Ok, maybe one or two pensioners in the national flocks may not pull through but I don't think that should come as a surprise - Darwin covered this principle, I believe. Shit happens.
What's the worst case scenario? Birds start dying left right and centre? Well, what exactly were they being bred for? To become computer programmers? To enter the medical profession? To fight our wars? To enter government? No, I kinda think their career prospects were somewhat limited from the moment they hatched. Instead of having to run around screaming manically, covered in blood and wielding a machete, farmers will instead have their work done for them by Mother Nature (although that will doubtless take a lot of the fun out of farming for them!)
Then we come to the food chain. A few people in China and such places who spent their lives up to their arses in chickens were supposed to have contracted bird flu and died as a result. Well, you will pay the price of not getting a proper job - like on the Stock Exchange, or in investment banking. Over in this country, who puts themselves in such a similar position, surrounded by millions of chickens? Yes, it's Bernard Matthews. Are you seriously trying to tell me that the loss of old Bernard would lead to months of national mourning?
Then his and his fellow farmers' birds end up being bought by us and so we are all supposedly at risk. Well, I will admit, people who eat raw chicken could face tricky times ahead. Then again, with the possible exception of people who frequent McDonalds, who does? You see, COOKING KILLS OFF THE NASTINESS - just as it kills off salmonella, botulism, Deng water fever and all the other bugs our birds are doubtless already infected with. If you are a shite cook, you die! Tough but fair.
No, there is a hidden agenda here. Have you spotted it yet? Yes, that's right. The Blair Government wants to create another panic and then leap into action to fuck things up even more spectacularly than could ever have been imagined. After all, the pressure is on Blair to surpass Inspector Clouseau's record for fuckwittedness. He's bollocksed up The Dome, made a complete arse of tackling Foot and Mouth, jointly started an unwinnable, illeagl war in Iraq, wasted billions of pounds of our money bringing the NHS to its knees, presided over an explosion in crime which has made Columbia seem like genuinely safe place to live, totally and utterly fucked up education in this country, ushered in the demolition of fundamental principles of the legal system and stuck a large, red-hot rivet up the bottom of racial tolerance. Not a bad record, you might think, but Tone needs his legacy. The complete and utter farce which will be the 2012 London Olympics will come too late for him. He needs something else, and he needs it now. Then fate presents him with his salvation - chickens!! He's fucked up everything else but chickens have so far avoided his blithering incompetence. With their imminent annihilation through pointless culls he will finally have achieved a legacy - the biggest, plastic-grinned, insincere, incompetent, self-obsessed, British political dickhead since King Canute!! Hurrah!!
To bring things to a conclusion, before my eyes start bleeding again, I shall hereby banish poultry panic to Grantham. The End.

Lost........................or......................A Very Unhappy Non-Christmas To You.

I may have said this before but it does seem to be a recurrent theme in my life - you're never ahead for long!
My soon-to-be ex-wife, who returned from a conference in London last night, bounded up to tell me today that she had bought me a Christmas present I would really like. Bit early, I thought. "Bit late," she said. Turns out she bought it for me for Christmas past (just past) but forgot to give it to me.
"How come you forgot to hand it over when I gave you your new rugby boots and the moustache trimmer?" I asked, cheerily. "I hid it," she said. "The trouble was, I forgot where I had hidden it."

Nothing I say from now on will sound like anything other than ungratefulness but this kind of thing is typical of STB EW. She would bag gold medals galore if freestyle losing things was an Olympic event. One of her most often spoken sentences is "Well it was there yesterday". Her most frequent utterance, however, has to be "It just fell apart in my hand".
Anyway, to return to the story, I thought that, late or not, a gift would be very welcome after what has been a difficult week or so. I said that, overwhelmed as I had been by the actual Christmas presents she gave me - socks, a DVD of Sleeping With The Enemy and a self-help book on body odour problems - I would really like to have my belated gift. The ensuing conversation went something like this:
STB EW: "Oh, no, sorry."
Reg: "Any particular reason."
STB EW: "Well I STILL can't remember where I've hidden it."
Reg: "Ah!"
STB EW: "It's really great. You would have loved it."
Reg: "What is........sorry, I'll rephrase that. What WAS it?"
STB EW: "I can't tell you that."
Reg: "Go on, I'll buy it - why?"
STB EW: "Well, that would spoil the surprise.
Reg: "The surprise of only finding out what it is when I open the present I'm not going to get, you mean?"
STB EW: "Yes."
Reg: "Why are to you telling me all this?"
STB EW: "I thought it would cheer you up to know that I had bought you a present?"
Reg: "A present which I'm not allowed to know about and I'm not going to get because no-one knows where it is?"
STB EW: "Yes."
Reg: "Well, you've certainly put my mind at rest on one or two things there and I am obviously feeling much better now, thanks. What's the number for the Samaritans?"
See? Ahead for a brief moment..........then, back to the world of dreams.
Never mind. Losers - and I mean that literally - can go to Grantham, if they can remember where it is.

Absent Friends.

I feel in a reflective and somewhat sombre mood this evening having read my Orkney-bound pal's blog. He was the jolly cove who accompanied me last night on what I now believe to have been the 23rd worst evening out of my life.
He was writing about the imminence of his move north and how he will miss those closest to him. I am fortunate enough to be counted in that number but in a manly, back-slapping, see-the-rugby-game? kind of a way and absolutely no girly, gay, kissy-kissy nonsense - that's right out!
He has been going on and on about his move for what seems like years and so it has not been something I have given much thought to but it has now finally dawned on me, having read his words, that he WILL be gone very soon - and it's not as if he's moving to the next town. He's going to islands which, he has told me, are nearer to Norway than to Britain! All I know is it's a bloody long way and so our meet-ups in future will be, to say the least, a little more spaced apart than they have been to date.

Pither and Orkney-bound pal (right) at Dambusters reunion.


Now, that may well be good news for his liver but it is going to be a blow to Pither. Not only is he a good confidant and source of support, he makes me laugh. A lot of the time he doesn't MEAN to make me laugh, but he does, all the same. For instance, he is giving up his career as a sports reporter but not taking a slight diversion into, say, novel writing. No, he's going to become a fucking pig farmer!!! (Shades of Python's chartered accountant who wanted to become a lion tamer.) He is as soft as a soft thing and I have told him repeatedly that he won't have the heart to kill any of his livestock. No, knowing him, he will give them all names and end up surrounded by shedloads of porcine pensioners!
I shall miss not having someone around who was born in Cambridge but insists they are Irish! I shall miss going for late night curries with someone who once fell fast asleep, face down, in a plate of chicken something-or-other. I shall miss having a pal around who has the upper body of Martin Johnson and the legs of Kylie Minogue. I shall miss someone who is so indecisive that he ended up with THREE best men at his wedding (I was one of them). I shall miss a pal who is about as punctual as the Americans were for World War Two. I shall miss having someone who is stuffed to the gunnels with dreams.
I know I shall be jetting up to Wicker Man territory when I can but it is just not the same.
Anyway, it would be better if I sent him to Grantham - at least it would be nearer - but no, he most definitely belongs with the rest of us. It is long distance friendships which can go in his place.

Better Out Than In.

Well, that was fun! I must do it again some time - like, the next time Hell freezes over.
Things had been getting on top of old Pither and so he decided to get a different perspective on life. As is his way, he decided his predicament was best looked at through the bottom of a glass!
I took the decision to have a livener when a call to ales came from soon-to-move-to-Orkney chum yesterday. He was in the neighbourhood and wondered if I fancied popping out for a dry sherry at lunchtime. It seemed like a sensible idea at the time - two old pals thrashing out the problems with the world (and themselves) over a couple of foaming ales in front of a roaring pub fire - a sort of cross between Smith and Jones doing a head-to-head and Stadtler and Waldorf from The Muppets!


To be honest, I should have smelt a rat when my pal turned up - carrying a sleeping bag! (honestly!) Anyway, when I finally got home from our little outing I glanced at what seemed like my four watches and noticed it was..................3am!!!!!! Oh...my...God!!! That's what I call lunch. To say things got a little out of hand is like saying the Elephant Man would not have made a particularly good Avon representative.
We had ended up in Small Town which, like all towns, becomes Chav Central after 8pm. Things are pretty much a blurr but I do recall one place we visited was hosting a karaoke night. Have you ever heard a 23 stone, paralytic, sweaty oaf with beer stains down his shirt (no, not me) singing I Will Survive? It's an experience, let's just leave it at that. I think irony was lost on him.
A lot of the bars had notices up outside declaring that there was a strict dress code. Judging by the people inside, I'd love to have seen the fine print of those codes - "Men must wear a tie (around their waist) and a jacket (donkey variety). Ladies should wear some kind of cotton postage stamp and the management insists on them getting their baps out at any available opportunity - knickers forbidden."
We finally lurched into a vodka bar and spent a delightful hour knocking back chocolate, peppermint and chewing gum-flavoured (seriously!!) shots until whatever it was that had been in our systems was well and truly out.
Back at Pither Towers it was too late to order the normally obligatory curry and so we watched Python and Ripping Yarns until we both fell asleep in our respective armchairs - that's a full working day, lad!!
Anyway, considering the excesses of the night before, I don't feel too bad today. Soon-to-move-to-Orkney chum is still here - oh, how his wife will laaarf when he finally gets home - and I am preparing to do some work. As Peter Sellers said in the marvellous Balham, Gateway to the South, "It does you good to have a fling occasionally."
What can be Granthamed from this little experience? I think it has to be people who insist on growing old with grace and dignity.

I thought I had touched sediment. I thought I could go no lower. Wrong!!!!!
I am 46, overweight, balding, a smoker, I drink too much and I have a face like a camel sucking a biscuit and the dress sense of Timmy Mallet. Then, last year, it was announced to me that my marriage was shortly about to end. Anything else?
Well, with my self esteem lower than Vanessa Feltz's gut, a little surprise dropped through my letterbox yesterday which must have surely taken me down as low as it is possible to go.
The surprise? A Valentine's Day card. Not something awful, you might think? Something to actually bring a smile to my face, you might think? Wrong again!! For the last 17 years I have not received a single Valentine's card. The reason is that for the last 17 years I have been married and my wife (soon-to-be ex-wife) and I agreed early on that Valentine's Day was just an excuse for card companies to make money. If you have to wait for one day in the year to tell your other half that you love them then your relationship is in serious shit.
All of a sudden I am single and in my first year of singledom I get a card. Hurrah, you might think. Pither's pants are still radioactive in women's eyes. Nope. You see, the problem is..................it's from a fucking dog!!!!! No, not one of those dogs, a REAL dog. It's from Ellie, the dog I sponsor through the Dogs Trust.


So, to recap, I'm 46, overweight, balding, a smoker, I drink too much, have a face like a camel sucking a biscuit AND................my only female admirer in the whole world is a mongrel bitch!!!!
Thanks Ellie, but it hasn't helped. No, Valentine's Day can fuck off to Grantham.

All White?

Praise God!! I think we've made it! The white-out of doom some believed was foretold in Revelations has struck - but puny mankind has stood up to Mother Nature and the Horsemen of the Apocalypse appear to have fallen at the first........ Yeah, right! What an unadulterated load of crap!!
The news reports yesterday would have had us believe that Britain was on the verge of a climatic disaster to rival the one which drove Noah to go out and build a boat. The first hint I got that things might not have been quite as bad as had first been feared was when I actually woke up this morning - I had thwarted the Angel of Death, I thought. I counted my blessings and switched on the wireless to listen out for advice from our leaders on where us few survivors should try to rally, assuming any of our leaders had made it through the blizzard. Why were there no emergency broadcasts advising us to flee south by whatever means we could? Why was there no information on who was still with us and had a tin of beans and a slice of bread to share? Which port of evacuation to the continent was still serviceable? So many questions, not the least of which was................why the fuck was Nicky Campbell still alive and spouting his usual brand of Jock crap?!
One look out of the window provided me with the answers. Jesus H Christ! Was the snow up to the rooftops? Was it bollocks! I put more sugar on my Frosty Wheatyflakes at breakfast! As for continued downpours, I have experienced worse standing next to someone with bad dandruff in a strong breeze!
No doubt some creatures were suffering. I mean, it must have been an inconvenience for the odd ant or two, trying to trudge through a white carpet which came up to their ankles (ok, ants don't have ankles, but you get my drift - no pun intended). There again, most of their brethren had no doubt stayed indoors and heeded the advice not to travel "unless it is absolutely necessary".
I'm sure there were a few aphids who had to spend an hour or so this morning clearing the snow from their drives. Obviously, Axa Sunlife would have been deluged with claims from protozoans whose fences had collapsed in the "blizzard". Apart from them, I don't think the rest of us were too badly affected.
So, to all those dickheads who went out yesterday and cleared every shop in the land of bread, eggs, cheese and milk, tough titty! Looks like you're going to be eating omelette on toast for the next fortnight. How long do you think it is going to take you to work through that stockpiled mountain of Alphabetti Spaghetti? What exactly are you going to do with the 5,872 candles you bought? Melt them down and fashion a lifesize model of your own stupidity, perhaps?
It's the same old story in this country every time snow is forecast. The same old predictions of doom and the same old non-event consequences. Jesus, even rats learn when they are negatively reinforced enough times. I mean, it makes you wonder how the Inuit get by? Do they rush out every afternoon and stockpile emergency seals just because Radio Eskimo has forecast a white-over - AGAIN? Do they listen to portents of doom every night on the 6 O'Clock News? Do they spend their lives stuck in their igloos because EBC 1 has advised them "not to go out unless it is absolutely necessary"? Je ne pense pas!!!
Oh dear. No, panic caused by "snow blindness" can drift off to Grantham.


NOTE: Since writing this, more snow has fallen. It is now about an-inch-and-a-half deep so apologies to all those ants, aphids and protozoans whose plight I might have underestimated. Is that the distant sound of horsemen I can hear? Quick, has anyone got a spare tin of Alphabetti Spaghetti?

The Cost of Sex with Saxon Sheep Minders.

Leslie Ash claimed that she broke a rib and punctured a lung during sex with her husband, Lee Chapman. Well, if her health insurance swallowed that belter then I could be in with a chance.
You see, it looks as if I'm going to have to claim on a policy by saying "She injured her leg falling off the back of an alsatian during sex!" That should tax the comedy claims department.
I'm not acting on Leslie's behalf, although she seems to have such an adventurous sex life that it does, admittedly, sound as though it could be one of hers. No, the injured female in this instance is my littlest dog, Tilly.
Our Till gets very excited when she goes in the car, so excited that she feels the evidently overwhelming urge to hump my alsatian, Padfoot. Pad is a shy, retiring kind of lad and is not overly keen on the attention but, with him, Till and two other dogs in the kennel compound in the back of my car, there is little room for manoeuvre. He just stands there and takes it, with typically British stoicism.
It's not easy trying to screw a dog which stands about as high as a Shetland pony. I'm not talking from experience, you understand. I'm talking on behalf of a dog which looks like a cross between a beagle and a hamster and is a mere 10 inches from paw to shoulder. Love making with a reluctant partner involves a lot of clambering and clinging.
Till, as is her custom, was aboard Pad yesterday afternoon as I drove the dogs to a local country park for a walk. She was getting to whatever the female equivalent of the vinegar strokes is when she fell off with a dull thud. She has been limping ever since.
If there is no improvement in her condition by tomorrow I shall have to take her to the vet. The vet's bills are extortionate but all the dogs are insured up to the hilt and I should be able to claim on this occasion.
Anyway, in the meantime, bizarre injuries resulting from sex with alsatians shall be the sole preserve of the people of Grantham.
NOTE: For the more obser-vant readers, Pither Towers is not actually some kine of squat - the torn wallpaper and chewed plaster in the photograph were a gift from Caty, one of the other dogs, and are about to be renovated.

A Liver Bird and Tree Phallus on Holiday.

A pal of mine is on holiday in Borneo. She e-mailed me this today to let me know she is having a good time! Her only comment was "Hurrah, they do grow on trees!" I'm not sure she'll be coming back!
Speaking as a man who is desperately trying to find some purpose in life, I feel compelled to banish todger trees to Grantham. Life is tough enough as it is, without arborial replacements getting wood and waiting in the wings - however poorly they are endowed.

Of Dogs and Salt and Wounds.

They say dogs have a sixth sense. They say they know when you're upset or worried. They say dogs can just sense your pain, without you having to outwardly weep and wail. I have always believed this.
I have had a truly awful day - truly awful! You know, one of those where if anything could have gone wrong, it did. I finally made it home and slumped onto the settee to stare into space and ponder my lot in silence. Just as I did so, the dogs gathered round me at my feet. They looked knowingly up at me with wrinkled brows and faces full of consternation. They stared for what seemed like an age but then quietly took themselves off and went upstairs.
They think I am best left alone, I thought. They sympathise deeply and want to help but all they can do is make sure they don't get under my feet, don't clamour for attention and don't make a noise. Their sixth sense has kicked in, bless them.
Their apparent thoughtfulness eventually prompted me to get up and go to them, to say thank you, to say everything was all right, to stroke them, to pat them, to let them know they were special.
I found them in my bedroom...........................two had crapped on my bed, a third had chewed up one of my training shoes and the fourth had wet on the landing!!! Bastards!!!!!

The Use of the Pudding is in the Heating.

On a weekend which has proved blogtastic for me, I have just one more thing to tell - you're never ahead for very long in this life!
I spoke yesterday of the gratitude I felt for friends who had gone to the trouble of making me a steak and kidney pudding, a dish I have always adored but have not tasted since I was young.
Well, I put this king of puddings on to steam this afternoon...............but forgot that the water boils away after a while and unless you top the level up regularly you end up with..................a fire followed by.................well, by this....



Oops!



.......but what are a small fire and a house full of smoke when this is the result. Thank you God (and Phil and Sarah).

Jumpers for Goalposts - Isn't It?

This is the most serious subject I have written about to date - football. I never thought I would EVER say this but football is now AWFUL. It can be the town sport of Grantham for all I care. The rest of us can enjoy what I always used to see as the game for toffs - rugby union!
I used to be obsessed by football. From the age of about five, when my late dad took me to my first ever game, I ADORED football. The very mention of it made by eyes resemble dinner plates. I spent EVERY SINGLE DAYLIGHT HOUR outside school playing it. My little pals and I used to race home, wolf down our tea and then charge up to the local park to get in as much of a kick-about as we could (my mum was glad to get me out of the house and the fear of being preyed on by paedophiles was not then prevalent). We re-enacted the great matches of the '60s and '70s, we used to pretend we were certain players (I was ALWAYS Ian Storey-Moore), we used to excitedly scream out our own commentary as we raced around with the ball, it WAS jumpers for goalposts and we loved it - ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT!!! The park keeper used to walk the outskirts of the park ringing a bell to tell everyone that he was locking the gates and we used to up-jumpers-and-ball and run to get ahead of him, start playing again and then decamp to the next near-gate spot when he caught up with us. We came home filthy, covered in cuts and bruises, tired but happy that we had actually managed to score that crucial extra goal against Poland which would, in the real world, have taken England to the 1974 World Cup Finals (yes, it still hurts!). If, by any chance, my pals weren't available to play (they had to provide a doctor's note!) I used to kick a ball against our garage door for hours on end, trying to place the ball in the furthermost reaches of a goal I had painted on myself (I got a severe slap for that!) In school I always played for the school teams and lived for Thursdays (double games in the afternoon) and Saturdays (a titanic clash with another school and, if it was an away game, the trip home on the bus listening to Sports Roundup).
I collected Shell football coins, Shoot comic stickers, I kept a league table and moved the little, card teams up or down, depending on that Saturday's results, which I also logged religiously, along with the following day's newspaper clippings of my team's game.
When it was too dark to play I used to play Subbuteo (a table football game) with my next door neighbour and kept equally detailed tables and reports of how my teams had performed. When that became impossible (because my mate's mum wanted me out of her house) I used to play the F A Cup board game - ON MY OWN!!!
When my dad died we moved to another place 70 miles away but I still travelled back to watch "my team" whenever I could. When my knees and my lungs no longer allowed me to play I still went to watch my heroes.
It was socially important as well. Towns lived and thrived on their football teams. A good run in the league or the cup brought prosperity and, in the case of my boys, international respect which no army of spin doctors could ever generate. A football team used to be the life and heart of a town.
All that ended about five or ten years ago - I forget. It all changed, and changed massively for the worst. MONEY became the God. A couple of teams started it. Managers were no longer important, it was players and their obscene wage demands which counted. Fans were sent to the sidelines. Shareholders and boards of fat, inadequate, publicity-seeking directors took centre stage. We had win-at-all costs football, a league ranked on how much a club was worth (THAT IS EXACTLY HOW IT IS RANKED AT THE MOMENT) and a yawning chasm appeared between about five greedy outfits and the rest. The others now have no chance whatever of reaching the heights, of winning "The Cup" or of joining the big boys.
The majority of the players are all utter, utter, utter, utter juvenile, chav, thick and obscenely overpaid wankers. They roll about in agony if their perm snaps, they cheat, they dive, they attack referees, they collect onyx ashtrays and awful, tasteless homes and knock off any braindead, under-age disco tarts they can find. I hate the fucking lot of them. They have ruined such a beautiful and special thing - as all Thatcherites do.
No, some years ago I started watching the posh boys' game - rugby union. I put aside my inverted snob prejudices and discovered what a fantastic game it is. Real men playing a real game. It's got nothing to do with being macho. It just happens to be more exciting than today's predictable footy debacles, more honestly played and more keenly contested. Bollocks to anyone who thinks it is only for public school types. The Welsh ruled the rugby world in the '70s and I don't recall many members of those famous sides attending posh schools - it was the pits for them, literally.
I hate to say this, because it has been such an important part of my life, but football can sod off to Grantham (no doubt in an extremely expensive Italian sports car).

The Land of The Point.

Time for a bit of vicarious venom, I think.
A good chum of mine is busy trying to break her leg or contract green monkey disease so she will not have to attend a work conference at which, she knows only too well, she will have to proverbially dance the powerpoint polka.
The prospect of this useless, tedious and annoying annual get together prompted her to call on conferences to be Granthamed and I have to say I am happy to oblige.
I don't have to attend work conferences in my line but I have either covered them or been along to keep my soon-to-be ex-wife company at ones she has been to in the past. My experiences, therefore, have not been particularly souring - I got to stop in a hotel somewhere different, I got the chance to nick some new towels for Pither Towers, to add to my internationally acclaimed collection of plastic shower caps and to drink myself into a stupor, all at someone else's expense! Hurrah!
The poor saps who, however, had to attend the daytime talks, presentations, workshops, discussion groups and similar assorted bits of business bollocks were not quite so fortunate and they had my sympathy.
The focal points of all this crap are the loathsome "powerpoint presentations". They basically involve some git - who probably doesn't want to be there either - droning on and on and intermittently using an executive pointy stick to point to words he has just said but which are also on the screen behind him!! What (points to powerpoint screen) is the fucking (points again) point in that (final, vigorous point)? The room is always too warm, there is always the hum of the air conditioning and so it is hard enough not to nod off but then the subjects of these little slices of death make it almost impossible - "The 21st Century client and the continuing need for socks", "Cash flow projections for hosiery and associated sub-divisions of Pants R Us", "Know your customer, know yourself" and "Retail, rip-off and retire."
Then there are the completely facile "workshops". You sit around with a bunch of other pissed off people and try to thrash out some problem of great import, such as "Breaking into Taiwan with the self-assembly, flange-powered grommet leveller."
Alternative sessions challenge you and another bunch of idiots to fashion something like a serviceable spacecraft out of cardboard boxes and some party poppers left over from the Christmas party! Why? If it could be done, wouldn't fucking NASA have done it already?
The whole nightmare is usually rounded off by an address by the bloated, smug, Fascist git who runs the company and he or she tells you that while Nazi Knitwear "believes and invests" in its "team" it wants profits increased from the paltry 700 per cent rise this year to 8.5 billion per cent by this time next year. Fuck off!
My chum made the not too ridiculous suggestion that all this crap should be written down and posted out, thus saving on the expense of an hotel and the bar bills of men who have just gone along to keep their soon-to-be ex-wives company. The reason, apparently, is that everyone has to get together to "bond". If you actually WANTED to bond with these people, wouldn't you have done it already? You don't "bond" because the only thing you have in common is the fucking awful job you do. If you happen to quite enjoy your job you are tempted to believe it is fucking awful after you have attended one of these corporate scrums. It's like having to meet up with people you met on holiday - you realise on your return home that the only thing you had in common with them was that you were both on holiday at the same time!
No, corporate conferences (points with pointy stick) can go.