Kids laugh at anything

Why did the Baker have brown hands?

Because he Kneaded a poo.

==============

How do you make Anti-freeze?

Hide her nighty.

==============

Knock Knock

Who’s there?

I Dunnap.

I Dunnap who? (has to be spoken to make sense)

==============


A Chicken in a library goes up to the librarien and says “Book, book, book book”

While a frog stands there saying “Readit”



These jokes might not have raised much of a titter with you, but I can assure you they are killing my two boys right now!

Surviving the BBQ

I’m pretty certain I got away with the near death experience I suffered this weekend, nobody noticed.

It was horrible – a true disaster (based on Man Flu diagnosis, it’s a killer – just ask a doctor).

Okay some might try and politely suggest that it wasn’t so bad – but I most definitely do not agree.

It was Saturday evening and the sun was shining. We had been invited round to some friends for a BBQ and were having a great time. The meat was cooked to perfection, the beer cold and the Bouncy Castle, bouncy. Yes they had a Bouncy Castle in the garden, yes I went on it – how could I not?

Later I was dragged into a game of football (I say I was dragged, it was more a case of me pointing out that if I wasn’t allowed to play we were going home). The game was going well, I think I was winning. Then I was tackled.

The tackle was by a horizontal gymnastics bar that was hanging between the two posts that I cunningly had dribbled the ball through, in order to potentially score a goal at last. The bar was for the kids and was therefore at my head height.

Of course I didn’t see it – why would I?

Not wanting to alarm anyone I jumped back up off the floor and laughed it off, desperately looking around to see who had seen the crash. With massive relief I realised it was only the boys who had noticed. Immediately I passed it over as nothing, but went and sat down anyway – my eye was hurting slightly (mildly anesthetised by the Carlsberg) and I was feeling more than a little embarrassed.

Waking up the next day I could immediately feel the effects, because my head was hurting and my mouth was very dry (a sure sign of a very bad injury). In fact I was feeling quite rough and can only really attribute this to the accident. Surely the lager can’t have played a part in this headache?

You can rest assured that I have contacted my lawyer, there were absolutely no warning signs or cones in place to protect innocent drunken footballers from injury. I have taken a photo of my hideous disfigurement and near fatal injury to use as part of the defence on my case (mainly because it will have cleared before I will have chance to show anyone official).

Don’t worry too much though, I am recovering well and hope to be up and about within a week. In the mean time Jo is doing a lovely job of looking after me, bringing tea and coffee, food and clean ironed Jim Jams – that kind of thing. In fact I could do with a cup of tea now come to think of it, now where is Jo? I’d ring the bell for her but it’s too painful to shake it, what on earth possessed her to shove it up there, anyway?

England is out

Well, that’s England out of the World Cup then after a very close match that could have easily swung either way.

Oh no hang on, wrong channel.

Four – two to Germany (I know the official score was 4-1 but who’s counting). We were completely stuffed!

The hopes, the dreams, and the moments of unity that the sport supplies across my nation, have all gone again. Just for one short spell, after four years of waiting everything stopped in England and we all truly came together with one thing on our minds.

Men, kids and Women al sat and crossed fingers. It doesn’t matter whether you are normally a football fan or the staunchest of supporters, we all wanted the same thing.

We just wanted to win.

Nothing else has this effect. Prince William could marry Katie Price tomorrow and only three quarters of England would care. In 2003 our Rugby Team won the World cup in that sport and half of the Country celebrated. In 2005 we won the Ashes for the first time in 18 years, a quarter of England danced. The closest that my people have come to this level of excitement was in 2009 when Susan Boyle failed to win Britain’s Got Talent.

Football unites us more than anything else, even the continuing deaths of our Soldiers cannot raise even a portion of the interest. Football is something we all understand, something we all have played at some point. Every Child in Europe plays football at some point in the lives, every single one, no matter what sex they may be or how disabled, will be given a football to hold at some time. We might not all love football, we might not all follow it, but we all know it. And when we go into battle against the rest of the World at it then we damned well want to win at it.

For years to come, people will be talking about that goal. The goal that would have drawn us level towards the end of the first half. The goal that, in the end, meant the difference between being thrashed 4-1 and being thrashed 4-2. There is some credence in how these things alter the game of course. Had we come out in the 2nd half equal, we could have altered our game play a little; perhaps it could have made a difference.

Somehow I doubt it. After all we started the 1st half even but it wasn’t long before we were 2-0 down. At the end of the day the referee and his linesmen carry the shame for the farce of not seeing such an obvious goal, not our boys. However our boys need to address just how out classed they were by the Germans in that 2nd half, the ref cannot be blamed for that.

The thing is though, once we are out everything just slips back into reality. Life goes back to normal – nothing has changed.

Football is everything – but it is nothing.
The next morning, bills need paying the laundry needs doing, the soldiers are still dying. For ninety minutes we have an escape from all that, but straight afterwards life continues. Life goes back to normal because at the end of the day these games do not matter, they really don’t, they are just dreams.

Unfortunately people in other countries that have nothing like the pampered over paid and celebrity driven lifestyles of our Premiership stars (such as Argentina, Brazil and the rest), can dream just that little bit harder.

As much as it was a shame to see USA beat, how nice was it to see Ghana go through? There is a team working on dream power.

It really was exciting but now all we are going to be hearing about is sacking referees and managers. Get over it England. We were beat.

Now let’s sit back and watch the professionals show us how to win a World Cup!

picture from Sky News

The dance show

I’m so proud of my boy.

It turns out that my son is a real chip off the old block.

Daniel, my 8 year old, appeared in a dance show at his school this week. The dance club that he has been going to is a once a week voluntary club run by one of his teachers in their school hall. Daniel was one of a very small handful of kids from each year picked to join the club after being spotted enjoying a bit of a boogie.

The club has been fun for the kids especially because it had a mixture of boys and girls from each year group. Daniel has really enjoyed it.

Finally their first ever show was scheduled for this week and tickets came out. You can imagine my son’s excitement as he prepared to strut his stuff.

You can imagine my dread at the idea of sitting in a school hall pretending to love a bunch of kids bopping around to music in that extremely non impressive way that everyone else’s kids do in these circumstances. Why do they even have to let the other kids turn up? They are always rubbish, just a bunch of little munchkins running about getting in my son’s way and blocking my view of him.

Thankfully, it wasn’t so painful.

A lot of work had gone into this show by both the kids and the teachers. It was lovely. All the kids worked hard and all of them did really well.

And then Daniel had a solo.

Oh my.

Daniel’s solo was to stand and do the Robot.

The Robot.

I absolutely loved it. I’ve based my whole dancing life on that dance. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without the Robot. There is no way on this planet my wife would have married me if it weren’t for my skills at that particular dance.

Daniel stood there as the rest of his troupe squatted pointing at him, and moved his arms about like his life depended on it. The biggest grin spread over his face betrayed just how much he was enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

My face practically ached from supporting the largest, proudest smile ever seen in England.

My boy can Robot.

What else matters?

I gave him a massive cuddle after the show and told him confidently that everything was going to be ok. Quite possibly, I pointed out, he has managed to conquer one of life’s most important life skills, one that will get him through so many tricky situations in his future.

The Robot – there are those that can, and those that can’t.

My boy can.

I’m so happy.

Having to work for a living

Yowzers, that was a busy week. I’m not kidding this last week has been hectic and I’ve been absolutely knackered, way too knackered to write anything much.

However you Internet users, especially those of you who like to make free phone calls across it, can relax. Single handed, I have fixed the Internet for you, even if you didn’t actually know it was broken. It is a thankless task working in Telecoms but as you sit back and chat to your friend in Woolamaloo tonight for free, just think of me.

You see what I did was this…..

OH NO – I NEARLY TALKED ABOUT MY JOB!

I almost broke my golden life rule and attempted to interest people in Telecoms. This is just not possible, I should know better. Three sentences into any explanation about my work and people get the Telecoms glaze in their eyes as their heads try desperately to keep one eye on me, so that they can give polite nods and say “Really” in appropriate places, while ensuring that in no way whatsoever any of the actual words can reach the brain. It’s a little known fact that if anyone who doesn’t work in Telecoms ever actually hears and tries to understand what we do; they instantly turn into gibbering wrecks.

Look at Kerry Katona. She was riding high in the charts in Atomic Kitten. Everything was in front of her and the world was very nearly at her feet. One day she was out meeting fans and bumped into a Telecoms Engineer. Politely she asked him about his work believing that keeping in touch with the little people was important for her image. Stupidly she listened. The biggest mistake in her career was to actually try and take an interest in the inner workings of a Nortel Telephone Exchange. Those ten minutes asking questions and making an effort to understand the ‘Supernode’ concept killed her talent forever.

Look at her before she did this.

Look at her now.

Engineering chat is dangerous – just say no.

It turns out that it’s not just Telecoms that can have this effect.

The other week I got chatting to a girl on the train who was very nice but there came a point in the conversation which came to jobs and we both faltered. Both us held back trying to dodge the question, desperately trying to get away without admitting what we do. In the end we both mumbled at once. She was a Chartered Accountant.

The relief on her face when she discovered that I was in no position to sneer was obvious. We made a pact for neither of us to attempt to discuss our jobs, and instead talk about life outside. This worked and neither of us melted with boredom (well I didn’t anyway, she might still have done – had she been in the aisle seat she might have got away sooner, suddenly feeling the need to stand in the buffet for the rest of the journey – I’ve seen this happen so many times).

It was so easy when I was in the Navy. You could spend an evening as the centre of attention talking about your life and people would come back for more – actually interested. All my actual job was that I was an electrician but that didn’t matter. Nobody noticed that in fact my job was pretty boring, because what was interesting was the life.

Now I actually enjoy doing my job, it is actually interesting to do, but it has never been and nor will it ever be, interesting to explain.

Never mind, you can relax and go back to enjoying the Internet, safe in the knowledge that you don’t have to try and understand it. Meanwhile I need to sit down and do some actual writing.

Coming up soon is a post about my boy’s dance show, bless him. Looks like he has been blessed with his Dad’s dancing ability.

Picture from the Daily Mail

The signs are looking good

We went for a tour of our new building yesterday and I have to say it is looking good.

My company has been in its current office for about eleven years, we two other offices dotted around London. The idea then, is simply to move all three offices into one new one. So I’m heading over the other side of the river.

I’ve rarely been happier.

The building we are moving into is owned and run by a major British magazine publishing house. Almost all of the floors are taken up by the publishing company, with just a couple of floors rented out.

This has to be a sign doesn’t it?

I’m going to be surrounded by actual writers and publishers. Not to mention a lot of models, because they take the photos there too. I walked around our tour in a daze, occasionally skipping with delight. We walked past one window and a photo shoot was in full swing on the other side, where some very nice (if hungry looking) girl was getting the last touches of makeup applied. I’m fairly certain she winked at me.

This new office is bright, big and well equipped with rest areas, places to eat and places to simply enjoy the view – lovely. After eleven years in a fairly grotty building with drainage and air conditioning issues it is going to be quite a refreshing new start for us.

Some change is good.

We move Monday and I’m quite looking forward to it. Luckily for me my commute won’t be affected too much. I need to get a different line but essentially the timing and stress levels shouldn’t change at all really. I don’t yet know how I’m going to take advantage of working in this publisher’s building, but there must be a way? This has to be an omen of some sort doesn’t it? Maybe I will float about the lobby and then walk up to couples saying, “write something for your lady, sir?” or wear a sandwich board saying “Will write for beer” – who knows?

In the mean time I will be taking advantage of the subsidised restaurant where, from what I’ve seen so far, the ‘lard and meat counter’ shouldn’t be too crowded once you have squeezed past the rush at the ‘Salad and calorie free water’ counter (buy two chicken salad rolls and get a free FCUK branded sick bucket, is the current offer on the board, I noticed).

Something tells me I’m going to fit in very well here!


P.S. Sorry about the misleading photo at the top, if you want to know what that is all about - CLICK HERE

BP

Very, very clever.

Going cold turkey

Obsession is a tricky thing to control isn’t it? I find it easy to become totally absorbed in things to the point of having to drag myself away for my own health.

Writing & Blogging is an obsession.

Whenever I haven’t got anything specific to be thinking about, such as work or family, it is on my mind. My friends run a book to gamble on how far we will be into a conversation before I will find some ropey tenuous link to mention my blog.

“…and then we are all going to go to the pub to watch the England game, its going to be a right laugh, Jonsey’s bringing one of those Vuvuselas and Danny is bringing a massive flag. We are going to the curry house afterwards as well – beef Vindaloo’s all round yeah?”

“Sounds good – hey beef Vindaloo? I wrote about cows on my blog yesterday!”

Something like that!

I’m aware that I do this and am fighting it, but the urge to mention it at every opportunity is so strong. The urge to sit and do some writing in every gap during the day is strong too.

When I’m not actually writing for this blog then I’m doing the blogging side of blogging; reading, commenting and stuff like that. In fact I only read a handful of blogs, I can’t be bothered to trawl the Internet looking to find new followers (as is evident) so I really do only wind up reading blogs that I actually like – which is a result. Like them or not, time still has to be put aside for reading them. When I’m not doing that then once a month I have a week where it all gets a bit hectic with the Real Bloggers United. First of all getting my own post written takes time and then sitting going through the submissions and checking through them takes ages. This isn’t a complaint either – I was happy to volunteer for the job and don’t mind doing it at all. It’s just that it takes time. Then I’m trying to post on Writers Rising too. Last but not least there is the small matter of ‘Vampire Wizards with mythical tattoos’ needing to get written.

Somewhere, in the middle of all this, there is a certain person who doesn’t particularly like blogging, nor understands the urge to write, who would like some of that spare time of mine to be spent on her. She deserves to get it as well (what has she done that’s so bad? I hear you ask). Of course I have to balance in family time too, quite right.

I’m aware that I’m not the only person out there working this balance – I’m speaking on our behalf here.

In order to cover up my blogging obsession (after several heated debates on the amount of time spent on the computer) I have taken to inventing other things that I could be doing up here. So when asked what I was doing on the computer for so long, I’ll find different things to say that I was doing.

“Oh I was just on Facebook..”

“Oh I was just watching Bukake porn…”

“Oh I was just emailing our bank details to that Nigerian Prince I told you about with the urgent need to move money out of his country without paying tax…”

“Oh I was just instant messaging that woman from the 40 and desperate singles club again…”

Anything but admit to blogging.

So please forgive me if my posting is a little erratic, I am no longer forcing myself to post every day, or even on specific days. Forgive me too if I fall a little behind on my reading, I’ll catch up eventually. I’m can handle this, I can post if I want to, I can give up anytime I like – honestly.

Life, strife, kids & wife all have to come first. I have to make an effort to remember that.

Barbara – please – I beg you, NEVER EVER Google Bukake.

No I mean it – don’t.

Especially not on Google Images.

Or video.

It means ‘Nice people sitting around chatting and playing Trivial Pursuit while occasionally indulging in some very light petting.’

Honestly.

Mum, that goes for you too.

At the farm

On Sunday I took Daniel to Open Farm Sunday.

One of Daniel’s rugby team mates’ dad owns a Dairy farm and as part of a national event they had opened up their gates to let people in for a walk around to see what goes on. Using the cover that it would be interesting for Daniel, I volunteered to take him.

I think I enjoyed it as much as Daniel did.

In the great scheme of things I don’t know if this is a small, medium or large Dairy farm in England. Americans and Australians need not speak up – I’ve seen the size of your farms – but comparatively in Britain, I have no idea. One thousand cattle sounded a lot to me though, and watching 500 cows being milked looked like a pretty big operation to me.

Daniel watched fascinated and intensely, listening really focused in the way that he does when something is interesting to him (it’s equally as obvious when he isn’t interested). Up went his hand to ask questions and as usual Daniel really impressed me by asking good relevant questions that hadn’t been asked already. For an eight year old he has great ability to stump adults with really tough questions.

For example, during a toilet break while having ‘Coke & Crisps’, watching the football at the pub yesterday, Daniel looked up at the condom machine in the toilet and asked “What’s a simulator ring?” Confused I looked over to see that as well as condoms this machine delivered all sorts of things such as stimulator rings. My first reaction was try and think of a way of answering him, but on realising that I wasn’t even all that certain what it was, I decided a dodge was required. I could take an educated guess at what they are but couldn’t really be sure. So I flapped for a couple of seconds before asking him what crisps he wanted and to wash his hands properly – situation dodged.

This turned to be very similar to the tactic that his mum used earlier in the week when she had been asked “what those little tubes are in the box next to the toilet?” Daniel might not wind up having much of an appreciation of the intricacies of sex toys or menstruation but at least he will have clean hands while feeding his twenty packs a day crisp habit.

Having seen the cows being herded, and laughed as the inevitable toilet based hilarity came bang on cue in the background as our guide tried to explain what was going on, it was time to look at the combine. One of the farm’s neighbours was an Arable farm so they had brought their Combine Harvester over for the kids to have a climb in. The children loved it.

I was not the only dad to be stood there with that look on their face – you know the one; the look that says that you are desperately trying to think of an excuse to go up there and have a sit in the seat as well. I decided to try grabbing one of the really little kids that was running around and volunteering to take them up there, but after several unsuccessful attempts to get hold of one of the frisky little monsters I had started to draw some funny looks from the mums so I had to abort the plan. Just as I finally accepted that I was never going to get up there I heard Tom’s dad shouting that “Don’t worry Son I’m coming!” he was halfway up the steps already making noises about his kid being scared of heights. A couple of minutes later he came back down beaming with smug childish delight while carrying my own confused looking Daniel over his shoulder. The crowd applauded with a mixture of impressed “ooohing” from the mums and gritted jealousy from the dads that they had not thought of it. Daniel came over and complained that the funny man had made him get out of the driving seat and had then sat there for two minutes playing with the gear stick, and that he wasn’t even scared of heights.

Then Daniel found the poo.

Of course he did.

Suddenly Daniel was stood in front of me with a somewhat mixed look on his face. The emotion that only a child can portray while covered in cow poo is a mixture of horror, amusement, embarrassment and pride. Yes pride. Somehow Daniel knew he had a story to tell (as did I). As I cleaned him up I apologized to him.

When I was his age, if I had been on a trip like this I can guarantee that I too would have been that one child who fell in the poo. So I apologized for his genetics, for being responsible for his clumsiness and virtually making him fall in the mess. Daniel shrugged his shoulders and ran off to get some more cake.

We had a great time – Daniel loved it, and learned a lot.

Life is good.

Have I found my book?

Just a quick note tonight to say that I’m feeling quite excited, almost to the point of raising an eyebrow and saying “Gosh”, which for an Englishman is pretty damned excited I can tell you.

What is the reason for this unnecessary behaviour?

Yesterday, while writing what should have been today’s post, my fingers lost control of themselves on the keyboard.

You know that feeling when you just simply are on it?

Well it was that.

The story just flowed, and my typing finger was a blur. Slowly I started to realise something. The something that I realised was that I could do more with this; more than just a couple of pages for my blog. I’ve never felt this before, but it is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

When I’ve written fiction for this blog in the past (use the category list on the side and click ‘fiction’ if you want to see any that were done earlier on) I’ve always felt that the story was ‘done’, that the couple of pages used were more than enough to tell the tale and I could never think how it could be expanded out into anything more than “just a blog” to coin a phrase.

As with a most of us ‘wannabe’ authors, I’ve been biding my time. Waiting for an idea to pop into my head that might – just might – be a book. I’ve been writing here for over a year and never once been able to see how an idea I’d come up with, could ever be expanded out past blog length.

Until yesterday.

A lot of the people reading this are more experienced writers than I am so I’m sure you are thinking “Whoa there Cowboy, don’t get too excited”, and you are right.

I’m sure that you have had this feeling too at some point, only to find it peter out ten pages later into nothing of any worth. The initial excitement soon fading as you realise that by the time you have edited it, you only have one thousand useable words. These things can happen and I know that. I also understand that even if I really can spread this out into book length (not saying I’m naive but I have no idea how long “book length” actually is) there is still the small point to be made about the difference between a long story and a GOOD long story.

Mine could easily be rubbish when I come to review it.

This is not a fake request for moral support or sympathy – it’s just a fact, we have all written something that felt great only to re read it later and think – “oh!”

For now though, I’m feeling that tingle that just maybe I’ve found my book – and I’m loving it!

And before you ask – no I’m not daft enough to explain the plot in front of a bunch of more talented and faster typing writers!

If it turns out to be a lengthy story rather than a book I’ll very probably chop it into chunks and serialise it here, but for now I’m just buzzing with ideas, any body got any paper?

Only in America

Funniest report I read in last weeks Metro bar none, was about an American lady attempting to sue Google.

Warning: This is utter madness.

My heroine had found Google Maps on her Blackberry and had set off on foot to find her destination, which was probably a drop in centre for the terminally stupid. Undoubtedly as she walked, she kept her eyes firmly on the screen.

Eventually she discovered she had to cross a road. On the map it looked like a road, we all cross roads – what could be wrong with that?

This road was a major high speed duel carriageway (not the one pictured sadly).

With fast, heavy things on it.

Not knowing what the heavy things were, because there was no warning or key showing them on her map, she set off to cross the road firmly watching her screen for clues.

She didn’t get very far.

When she eventually came round in hospital she managed to get someone to hold a phone to her ear so that she could call her lawyer.

Now she is suing Google Maps for not giving appropriate warnings about the dangers of crossing roads, when in reality she should be suing her father for negligent use of sperm.

Google’s response was “but we do have a disclaimer about that?” The bemusement in their PR agent’s statement is apparent to all.

I’d love to say that this could only happen in America, but then as kids we all used to laugh about America’s obsession with suing people and claiming compensation. Now every other advert on British daytime TV is begging you to blame someone for something and get some free money. “My boss gave me the green ladder but I’m colour blind so I didn’t see it… Now I’ve got £4000 pounds but no job. Thank you Cheaplawyers.com!”

How many stories have we heard about Brits trying to blame their Sat-Navs as they watched their car floating off down the Thames when it had turned out not to be small crossable stream. It had never crossed their mind to actually look and make a decision of their own via the old fashioned art of common sense.

Stupidity is in the international gene pool – and its spreading!

Lager knows nothing about poetry

It has become clear to me that alcohol and blogging do not mix. I have learned a valuable lesson in not hitting publish while under the influence.

The other week I found myself indulging in a couple of quick ones with some friends from work before setting out on my commute. This was nice and certainly wasn’t a massive session or binge drinking fest. It was however, enough to put me in an odd mood when I got sat down on the train and opened up my laptop.

Lager, it seems, believes that I can write poetry. I don’t know why it believes this, it just does.

I was feeling all loved up anyway and suddenly the Fosters spoke to me, “Write her a romantic poem” it said “She will love it”. In less than 10 minutes I had written what I could clearly see was poetry akin to Keats at his most romantic. The romantically titled JO can be read here if you missed it and haven’t picked up on the notion that Lager has no idea whatsoever about poetry.

Lager wouldn’t know romance if it found itself trapped in a Julia Roberts movie extravaganza weekend.

What really cracks me up is that, having read it back to myself at home, with a refreshing bottle of Stella in hand, I decided that the one thing that would really make Jo’s heart melt forever, would be some illustrations. Surely if I drew some cartoons to compliment the poem, then the poignant, beautiful message I had to tell would be amplified beyond comparison and power punch the romance into my marriage. So I sat and drew some fantastic cartoons, scanned them in and pressed publish radiating smugness.

I knew that all I had to do now was to pop myself into bed leaving the post up on the screen for Jo to look at. Ten seconds after reading this and I’d not be alone – no way.

When I awoke the next morning, smacking my tongue around the Gobi Desert in my mouth I noted a distinct lack of evidence to support a night of passion. Jo did look a little tired, but this turned out to be due to the excessive snoring that had been going on when she came to bed which continued for the rest of the night.

I cunningly and subtly probed her to see if my poetry had reached her heart and was somewhat taken aback to discover her reaction.

“You arse”

Wasn’t quite the response I had anticipated.

I got up and read the post again.

“You arse”

I said.

I later noticed some polite comments saying nice things, “Your wife is lucky” made me chuckle – I can spot sarcasm a mile off.

It’s not the first time this has happened either.

http://www.glenslife.com/2009/07/hot-poem.html

http://www.glenslife.com/2009/09/poem-number-2.html

I’ve twice attempted poetry – both times under the influence of Lager. What is it about Fosters that makes me think I’m Byron? Any idiot can se that I’m entirely inept at poetry. I have not the first idea – bless me.

So there you are, no more lager influenced posting for me,

I might try drinking Ale instead – though I’ve heard it can sometimes bring on a Haiku.

Real Bloggers United today

I have two things to say today.

Firstly - A massive well done to my wife Jo for completing her 5Km Race For Life run yesterday, in the heat of an outrageously warm sun she ran the whole distance to clock up a 44 minute race time. She raised well over 100 pounds for Cancer charities too.

No jokes - I'm really proud.

Lastly, I have a post up today over at Real Bloggers United.

I'd love it if you could CLICK HERE to read it and let me know what you think.

Thanks loads - Glen.

Britain's got talent

The applause was deafening, the lights were blinding. Johnny checked his pulse again, 180 and still rising. As he walked to the front of the stage to confront the ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ judges, Johnny held his breath and wished his biggest wish ever.

His whole life had been a warm up for this moment, every dream he had ever had revolved around this chance; this one single wonderful chance. Johnny had to make this work – he just had too.

When he was six, Johnny would dance in front of his proud parents at the local social club discos, revelling in the moments when his grandparents were sat there beaming as well. His chest would ache with pride with every wink and nod that his Granddad would pass to him.

When he was ten, Johnny felt the true power of an audience when he delivered that killer line in the school Christmas show. The show had been a revelation to Johnny; it was the true turning point in his life. The drama teacher, Mr. Benderover, had managed to merge the Nativity story with The Terminator to produce the now legendary “Herod v Jesus – the rise of the heretics”. Johnny’s ad lib at the end when he responded to Herod’s “I’ll be back” with “Yes – as a dung beetle” had gone down a treat.

If Johnny had known how long it would be until he would feel like that again, he would have broken down and cried.

When he was eleven Johnny’s Granddad died and his dreams of stardom were lost. Johnny had to go to the discos knowing that if he performed now, there would be no more winks. It would never be the same.

Johnny left School and went to work in the local sugar factory. He would sing as he worked, he loved to sing. It was a silly dream, he knew this, but he needed it. Every night he would come home to his young family after being forced at the wrong end of a shotgun to marry his sixteen years old, and sixteen weeks pregnant girlfriend. Now he had to double his shifts, now he had to throw away what was left of his childhood.

For 15 years Johnny had toiled away in the heat and noise of the factory to provide a home for his alcoholic wife and their son who, with every year that passed, bore a stronger and stronger resemblance to Johnny’s best friend, Bill. When Sue finally left him to go and live with Bill taking young William with them, the penny finally had dropped.

All those years, all those dreams.

Three times Johnny tried to commit suicide and three times he failed at the last minute to kick the stool away.

Then the advert had appeared in the paper. The picture jumped off the page and kissed Johnny on the face. It was the answer, the solution to everything.

Instantly Johnny had known that this was it. He had a chance, one single beautiful chance. His life was going to turn around. He will be leaving the factory and the depressive loneliness far behind him. Everything was going to be great!

The initial applause faded and Johnny choked back the tears as he told his story to the judges. Piers struggled to keep his composure as emotion overwhelmed him. Amanda didn’t try to hide the tears, as tissue after tissue was rushed up by eager make up artists keen to keep her looking camera friendly.

Simon Cowell sat back and grinned, he knew TV magic in the making when he saw it. This was the wining story right here, he could count the votes coming in already not to mention the money. A wry smile spread over his face as he fought to make the Botox let his face look concerned for the camera.

“Okay Johnny, this is your dream finally come true – this is your moment, let’s see you make it count. What are you going to do for us today?”

“Well Simon, I’m going to play a Beatles medley on my armpit…”


Britain’s got talent – apparently.

Back to Newark

Feeling refreshed, I head back to work after a long bank holiday weekend.

We headed back ‘home’ to see my parents in Newark and they managed to top up my laughter bank.

We all went to Newark Castle to have a look around. This was an historically important castle during the English Civil War. The castle was slap bang in the middle of the main trading route between North and South, King John had died in this castle sometime (sorry I have not researched the history properly) and it was a Royalist stronghold. The siege of Newark by the Parliamentarians lasted long enough to finally make King Charles 1st to decide to surrender, with one of his main terms of surrender being the release of this town.

His terms of surrender were listened to (in part) but the castle was ordered to be demolished. The lovely people of Newark merrily stripped it of stones to make patios and BBQs with. Leaving just a shell.

This weekend there was an event on. A Robin Hood event.

It didn’t disappoint.

For the wrong reasons.

An awful, lengthy act by Robin, Marion and Friar Tuck dragged on with the entertainment coming from the maddo next to me who walked up, showed me the Robin Hood tattoo he had on his arm and then proceeded to drunkenly hackle the performers. Booing whenever Robin kissed ‘his’ girlfriend Marion but cheering loudly at every joke.

Then came the falconry display. Oh my goodness.

The man with the falcon did not have a good PA at all and so his voice came and went and droned on and on. He held on to this falcon for 15 minutes and the occasional phrase such as “She has two wings” and “Will only fly when she needs too” (so not for a holiday then?) floated in the breeze.

My boys were getting restless, 15 minutes of seeing someone they can’t hear walking round with a falcon on his hand was not entirely gripping them.

Just as I was about to give up the falcon’s hood was removed and she was off. Lola (as she was called) flew straight up to the castle ramparts where she discovered a crow’s nest. Immediately two crows flew straight up and attacked her. Defending their nest against a falcon had not been on their expected list of things to do that day, but they did it very effectively. Lola legged it (okay she winged it).

That was the last we saw of Lola – she was gone.

I was practically rolling around the floor in laughter as our man stood there spinning his little rope and shouting “Here girl, come on Lola, Don’t worry folks she’ll be back later”.

Eventually he decided to move on with the display, bringing out an owl, a hawk and a Bald Eagle, but you could see his heart wasn’t in it.

Back at my Mum’s house the entertainment continued.

On the local news was a piece about some man who is headed off to Japan to compete in some tough Iron Man type competition. They both sat as the announcer described the 2 mile swim, 100KM cycle ride and Marathon run that he would have to endure in the race.

After a minute my Dad leaned over and said “That’s some race – I wouldn’t want to do it”

Mum – “What’s that then?”

“He has to run a marathon then swim a mile before cycling 100 Miles”

“Oh”

Two minutes passed.

Mum – “Oh I’ve seen this man on something before, he has to cycle 50 miles then run a marathon before swimming back”

Dad – “Oh”

I was in tears – Parents are for life, not just for Christmas.

It was late when we got back home, but early the next morning I noticed Harry the cat sat in our garden, contentedly rubbing his tummy next to a suspiciously large pile of feathers, so much for Lola!




from the original idea at Mummytime

There is no crime in London

The place : London
The year : 2010
The black thing in his hand : A very over stuffed Wallet.
The Miracle : I believe he still has it.


Perhaps in rural Lincolnshire, or in the deep American South, circa 1974 this wouldn’t have been a miracle. Perhaps there are people reading this who are confused about what is so odd about having a bit of a snooze in the street, displaying your wallet and bags so openly.

Perhaps not.

Some people beg to be robbed and ought to be considered as responsible for supplying such temptation as those who are tempted by it.

Perhaps, maybe not.

This was not 1974 though; it was last week in central London. I watched as his lady friend went inside the restaurant, presumably for the toilet, leaving her bags with him to look after. My man got his fat wallet out and proudly leafed through it seemingly intending to pay. Then holding it right out into the street he turned his head and rested it on the table to sleep.

You can see her nice handbag, unguarded at his feet as well as the big juicy wallet being loosely held in an un watched hand. HOW DID THIS NOT GET STOLEN?

Perhaps it was all too easy, the local criminals knowing a set up when they see one. I looked about to see if I could see any TV cameras or hoards of Policemen hiding behind market stalls, but none could be found.

Five minutes later his lady came back, slapped him awake and sat down. They paid and set off down the street.

Funnily enough, shortly afterwards an advertising board sprouted legs and followed them, as did an unmarked van, two pearly kings, six ‘youths’ with hoods up, and eight men dressed as Vikings, holding charity collection buckets for ‘Victims of Crime’.

I love London.