Flying the flag for tourism

I’ve not had anything worth reporting on about my commute for a while, so I was quite relieved the other day when I found this guy en route to Cambridge.


No it’s not that he was sleeping. It isn’t even that he was snoring; it is what he was doing before that.

I wasn’t quick enough with the camera to show you that bit, so you will have to believe me.

Before he fell asleep he was reading. What and how he was reading made me smile. He read with the book right up to his face, suggesting that he couldn’t be bothered to find his glasses, or maybe didn't know where they are. I’m sorry to all of you glasses wearing people (or disabled people, as I always think of you) but when you read that way it makes you look funny – end of!

Any way we were on a train leaving London and heading to Cambridge, and my man was reading a travel guide.

I don’t like stereotypes really, but this guy did look like a tourist.

A tourist absolutely devouring some knowledge about London.

While travelling to Cambridge.

In a hat with a pom pom on it.

His hat reeked of an ill advised attempt to blend in while visiting Edinburgh. I decided this guy was touring Britain and spending a lot of time VERY confused.

However, he seemed happy. Maybe getting his phone and glasses stolen in Scotland was all part of the British experience for him. Maybe spending six hours walking around Cambridge looking for Buckingham Palace will be brilliant Blog Fodder for him when he gets back to his hotel.

Maybe I just have a very twisted imagination.

Who knows?

quote of the week

This week’s ‘quote of the week’, has come from my Son – Daniel.




Daniel is very much a Tasmanian Devil; wherever he whirlwinds past, is left devastated. We despair his ability to break anything and everything he holds.

To get him to tidy up after himself is a major task, requiring rock like resolve and strength of belief.

Daniel can spend a good hour arguing why he should not spend 5 minutes tidying his mess.



That is Daniel – he is 9. I suspect he is not the only 9 year old boy that does this.



Daniel was watching something on TV with his Mum that featured a piece about some boy that had OCD, the boy constantly had to have everything about him spotless.

Jo did not se this coming and may have had a minor pelvic floor issue, when Daniel said..

“I’m like that – I think I might have that OCD?”



Absolutely priceless – I just love that boy!

Big Fat Gypsy Wedings

I mentioned ‘Big fat Gypsy Wedding’ to Katie at No Missed Opportunities the other day. This documentary is taking the UK by storm at the moment. It is a thing of wonder and has to be seen.


Channel 4 has followed a bunch of ‘Travellers’ (no, not Pikeys – show some respect), aiming to ahem dispel some myths about their culture. The method they have chosen to dispel these rumours is to let the Gypsies speak for themselves and tell you how nice they really are, while the camera backs this up with pictures – sort of!

Maybe they used the wrong camera.

You get to see the craziness of the weddings, as the 16 year old bride desperately tries to walk in the most ridiculously crass outfits you have ever seen. They repeatedly tell you how moral and chaste they are while dressing like thuppenny whores from the age of 6 onwards.

I love this programme. It is quality television.

I was in tears watching the wedding of Sam, who is an outsider – born from an ahem normal family, marrying her Traveller husband. The travellers were appalled and shocked at how rough her family was. The mother of the bride’s fake tan hid her inner beauty so well that well – let’s just say I couldn’t see it. I loved the moment before the wedding as this ‘lady’ revealed how she had jazzed up her outfit with accessories, after seeing her daughter’s 21 stone (133 kilo) wedding dress festooned with fairy lights, and getting jealous. Stuffing Sam into Jordan’s fairy carriage outside their Council house, was just plain comedy gold.

I am totally against racism in all its forms – but come on? If you can’t laugh at a bunch of pikeys telling the camera how they would never ever swear in front of people, what would be the point of living?

The heart strings were pulled a little as they desperately tried to stop their homes being bulldozed by saying “How can they do this to children?” Pointing at a bunch of 6 year olds dressed up as Lady GaGa. I know ‘moving them on’ is no real answer and I do feel for them, BUT…

They still do have to conform to the same laws we do – no matter what culture they may be.

There does need to be more tolerance on both sides of the coin, their culture is valid and real and absolutely deserves to be lived, I do not pretend to know the answer.

I just know funny when I see it…



I couldn’t find a Youtube embed code but you can see a clip here to give you a taster http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGSx87QbGsY

Writing Hard

Today I need to talk about awards and about this little beauty I received over at Fallen Monkey.

For those of you who don’t know Fallen Monkey then I can tell you now you are missing out on a useful blog. Especially if you are like me, full of ideas an words but clueless when it comes to actually writing proper England English. This is a lady who teaches the subject and who has the power to proof read for people, she knows her onions, you could say. Whereas I left school at 16 and can only spell vocabulary by using the power of spell check (I still haven’t worked out what it means though). Fallen Monkey continues to give out tips and advice in a high level but non condescending manner (you have no idea how many attempts it took me to get spell check to recognise and correct condescending).

As Fallen Monkey is someone who I consider quite knowledgeable about writing, and indeed because she has actually done what I keep trying to tell myself I am doing, which is to write a book, it was a big deal for me when she gave me an award for quality of writing.

The rules and origination for the Write Hard award can be seen here.

The basic gist is to nominate people who inspire or impress you with their consistently impressive approach to writing – among other things.

So here it is… I’m going to try not to be too obvious and mention the same blogs that I always mention at times like this, but it is difficult, because at the end of the day, they just fit the bill and deserve it.

Kev D over at Highway 10 revisited. In a world gone mad I don’t actually read that many blogs written by men. I don’t know why really, either they just drone on about how fantastic a father they are (yes I know I do) or how great a husband they are (oh dear) or gadgets, games and films (phew, fairly safe on those). I think I probably should read more of them taking notes – but somehow I just find other peoples versions of my life dull – sorry. This is not always the case, and there are exceptions – one such exception is Kev D. Funny, intelligent, well written, and definitely an inspiration to me as he sparks ideas for me to go on a tangent from. Well worth a visit.

Pearl at Pearl, why you little… Funny, and consistently well written not to mention the fact that she has also managed to actually produce a book. This is inspiration in a nutshell. I fell comfortable reading at her place, even though she talks about va – vag – I can’t say it, but it’s something that we men don’t have but try very hard to get. I read Pearl’s blog and know that this is what I’m aiming for, one day. She ‘Writes Hard’.

Marla at Butts and Ashes– YES I KNOW – sorry, I promised I wouldn’t be obvious – but how can you not be inspired by this lady and her writing? She is madder than a box of frogs and for that matter, I bet she has a box of frogs somewhere in her house, She is definitely the type that would. Required reading, sorry if I go on about her too much.

Okay that is it. If you really haven’t heard of any of these blogs, please do go visit and you all know that there are loads of blogs that I love – You know who you are, I can’t award you every time, and I promise I won’t award Marla next time – maybe.

Keep writing HARD.

** update **

I forgot to say Happy Australia Day - it is still the 26th here so it counts as being 'on time'. Hope you had a good one.

Cake Club

The first rule of Cake Club?


There is no Cake Club.

Cake Club is a myth, a whisper on the wind that never seems to fade but nothing more substantial than that- isn’t it?

I remember the first time I heard about it through a hushed conversation in the toilets at work. I was sat there, deliberating over three across (news statement, how to remove a seat belt: 5,7). I heard people talking in a whisper and my ears strained to pick out the words.

“Bake Cub - What on Earth is Bake Cub?” I wondered.

I heard the words Marks and Spencer too, before I was suddenly hit with inspiration.

“PRESS RELEASE” I excitedly shouted, and instantly heard panicked silence fill the room. By the time I came out of the cubicle the place was empty, but there was something left behind; something that started me down this whole sorry road of discovery.

Crumbs.

By the sink, on the side near the soap was a small pile of crumbs? Chocolate coloured fluffy delicious looking crumbs. But why? How?

I hit the Internet and searched for bake cub mystery crumbs, I could find nothing of worth for page after page, until suddenly I spotted something. Deep inside a forum on the Weight Watchers’ website, just one line from a question that was never answered, “What is Cake Club?”

That must have been it, I thought, Cake Club - not bake cub.

I noted with some dismay that not only was this question never answered, but this was the last question, or comment, ever made by the previously prolific “TentonneTess”.

Why had Tess disappeared so suddenly after asking about a club for cake fans? This forum asked more questions than it answered for me, and so I dug in, determined to find out just how sinister Cake Club could be.

I left the kids with the neighbours and covertly followed my Wife to her weekly meetings at Weight Watchers. This was the only link I had; I needed to start my search somewhere so I started it by peering through the hall windows. There was something quite compelling about watching big women striping down to their lightest vests and pants before stepping onto the scales, like a Boxer who is struggling to make his weight for a fight. These ladies could not spare even 2Lbs on clothing. This amused me because I wondered where it would need to end? Surely if they wore the same every week it would be cancelled out? If the theory is that each week you wear something less then what have I been doing all these years? I need to join NOW!

It was at that point that I noticed the other men looking through the windows. I was clearly not the only person trying to find out about Cake Club, this secretive cult within Weight Watchers was getting odder my the minute.

After three weeks watching the weight, I finally got a lead. I eavesdropped on a snippet of conversation from two of the women leaving the hall. As they got into their cars for the arduous journey home on the other side of the small estate, I heard them talking about the legend of the secret calories. These calories would not be charted on their trackers, could never be discussed with anyone, they had to be secret or they just wouldn’t work. SECRET CALORIES DO NOT COUNT!

I saw it all now – I understood what Cake Club is.

Secret, calorie free cake indulgence.

Everyone knows that if your wife does not know about it, then it was never eaten. The theory is sound and well proven – I now realised that it works so much deeper than I’d imagined. It’s not just keeping the knowledge from a wife that makes this work. It does not only work for men after all. This is Universal and works for everyone. All it has to be – is secret!

If no body knows about a cake – THEN THERE IS NO CAKE.

If there is no cake, then there are no calories.

If there are no calories, THEN THERE ARE NO POINTS TO TRACK.

Cake Club does not exist – it never existed – and I never went to Marks and Spencer yesterday and I certainly didn’t pay in cash so as not to leave a paper trail.

There is no Cake Club!

Fire - as it was intended

Oh yeah...

I only managed to light the fire.

Julia - was very impressed - ahem...

Oh yeah...

loving followers

I just wanted to write up a very quick post tonight to say “CHECK ME OUT”


I’m really excited about the fact that I just went into the 100’s in the follower department.

Thank you so much you crazy bunch of blog heads!

Now I have always said that followers weren’t the big thing for me – that what I prefer are readers – and I still think that way. I’d have a reader over a one hit follower any day. I really do mean that too. The aggressive ‘follow me follow you’ side of blogging has always narked me. Though I have to say I have mellowed a little on that score over time. It is just one of those things, and I have to say it is polite at the end of the day, to follow back, when you can – and you can only actually read so many blogs in a day. Which is why it is more special when people take the time to actually read you.

Having said that…

Having over 100 followers is brill.

Properly brill.

Not everyone is a faux follower at the end of the day and I know that. I love that people come here and read…

LOVE IT

What do you think the follower/reader percentages are? 20% - 30%? Maybe 50%

Okay so if we say 50% of followers actually come and read then…

Wait for it…

Sorry – just taking my shoes and socks off.

Dammit I can still only count to 22.

(I’m from the country – what can I say)

BLOODY HELL!!

I reckon, just by sitting here and writing down the daft stuff that I see around me, and because I happen to quite enjoy reading what other idiots get up to (and there are a lot of us about) something like 50.5 people (had to use a calculator in the end) now actually come and read here from time to time!

That is amazing! – I love it. It really does impress me. 50 might not be enough to impress a publisher but it would make a mighty fine swingers night (not at my house though – we only have one swing and that can’t take more than 40 Kilos, so I can’t see the party being a success).

I didn’t even have to pretend I was going to VLOG or anything – sorry, but it had to be said. You know who you are, I won’t name names but it would be remiss of me if I missed the opportunity to say something about the distinct lack of promise fulfilment! You might well be one of my absolute favourite bloggers young lady, but you are not too big to go on the naughty step.

Any way – Have a great weekend you lovely bunch, and thank you for making mine just that little bit nicer.

I am Man - Man brings fire

We decided to try using our fireplace this week. Never, in all our married years, have we attempted this feat before.


We have had a fireplace before, but it has only ever featured candles.

Lots of candles.

You know you are married when your house starts filling up with candles.

I remember the first time Jo talked about getting some, way back in the earliest days of our life together. I agreed with her completely, I was a Scout as a kid and my military life had backed up the ideals of being prepared, so the thought of having some emergency candles ready, in case of power cuts, made a lot of sense.

So, in order to impress my new wife with my prompt reaction to her request, the very next day I bought some candles from the Co-Op on the way home.

I had so much to learn.

“What are these?” I was asked.

“Candles love, just like you asked” I couldn’t understand her lack of gratitude at all – it’s not like I had been thick and bought cake candles is it? No, I had bought a pack of 5 perfectly practical candles and a box of matches, if we had lost power that evening we would have been absolutely dandy.

“But I want to light them now” was the confusing explanation I received, “I want to put them on the mantle and light them now – maybe turn the big light off as well”

“But these candles will look ridiculous on the mantle” I mused, “and if you left the light on we wouldn’t need them anyway”

I didn’t get it then.

I’m not sure I do now.

However Jo went on to teach me that buying a 98 pence pack of emergency candles, does not a romantic evening make.

Actually, over the years Jo has come to accept that ‘involving Glen in any way, shape or form’, does not a romantic evening make – but that’s a different issue.

Any way – I was introduced to candles and cushions, colour matching ornaments and reed diffusers, table lamps and bizarre little twigs that stick out of a vase in the corner. I even discovered that a fridge is not an acceptable TV stand in the lounge, no matter how practical it may be.

In essence, the first 10 years of married life is spent learning about soft furnishings.

Where was I?

Oh yes, after being advised that the house insurance might not pay out if I burned my home down by using a dirty chimney, I hit Google for chimney sweeps and found one. Sadly I didn’t do quite enough research. What I got was a man who came round and diligently covered our entire floor and furnishings (even the twigs), before getting his brushes out and swiftly, professionally and thoroughly, cleaning the chimney. Then he packed his stuff away and, because it had been an easy job, charged me £10 less than the original quote.

This is all very well but what he didn’t do – at any point – was sing.

I found this quite upsetting; surely he is supposed to sing? Isn’t that part of the expectation? I tried to encourage him into it by running in and shouting “VOTES FOR WOMEN – STEP IN TIME” and then prancing about the living room like a thoroughbred Cockney, but he just looked at me and blinked a lot.

What’s the point of being a Sweep if you can’t sing and dance? He even refused, point blank, to take the chalk off me when I asked him to draw around my ‘silly-oh-ette’. I mean, come on – you might be good at cleaning chimneys my friend – but you ain’t no Sweep!

With the insurers happy – I was ready to bring fire to my family.

Man brings fire.

I am Man.

My wife was working late and I told her to expect to come home to a lovely roaring hot fire, to take the chill of the winter air away. Her excitement was clear – maybe, just maybe, I had finally understood all her teachings about romance. Perhaps tonight I could actually be George Clooney for her, for the first time ever.

I planned it carefully and timed the lighting of the fire to perfection.

Jo came through the doors in a flurry, and burst into the room in a giddy tizzy of sexual anticipation.

Jo was Julia Roberts, and she was ready to be seduced by Mr. Clooney.

I am Man.

Man brings fire.

This is what she got.

If you look very closely you can see some wisps of smoke at the back.

That photo was taken after nearly an hour of me shouting at the fire to burn. Of me desperately trying to find flammable things to put onto it and then acting like England’s goal keeper fighting a losing battle to stop the sparks and bits of kindling that exploded from the fireplace (in the 5 minutes of flames that I achieved) from setting light to Jo’s favourite colour matched throw. By the time Jo came in, the kindling wood had burned down and the big log just sat there and smouldered, mocking me with its insistence that making smoke was all it had to do to qualify as being ‘on fire’. I tried to give her a warming hug instead, but she backed away from me, baulking at the stink of camp fire that was clinging to my clothes and skin.

George would have lit a lovely fire.

The mood was lost – Jo sat down and wrapped the least burned bits of the throw around her. Julia had left the building. The room felt slightly cooler than before Jo came home.

And so I need to do some more research. There must be something on Wikipedia about lighting fires.

The first thing I need to discover is why that log that I found outside in the garden, covered in moss and wet mud from where Daniel had been using as a stepping stone across the muddy puddle that had formed there, didn’t burn very well. There must be a reason for it but I’m buggered if I can work it out.

I am Man.

Man brings damp, mouldy smelling smoke and disappointment.

No longer a hero

It seems my work at home is done – I am no longer essential to my wife.


I suppose I knew this day would come. Maybe it was just a silly dream, but I had hoped that she would always need me – that I would be her hero forever.

Last night, it seems, she moved on.

Jo has found new heroes to replace me and what is worse; I helped to create my own successors.

All through my relationship with Jo, there has always been one constant. So many things about us have changed over the years, such our tastes in restaurants, wines and foods. My hair may have left me but this one single thing always stayed the same.

I was needed.

I was a hero.

My two legs were always called for, to help rescue my wife from things with eight legs.

My legs may well have been were hopelessly outnumbered by those of the monsters lurking in the corners plotting their attack on my wife, either by climbing into her mouth as she slept, laying eggs in her arm or simply eating her – depending on whatever her latest theory may be, but those legs were always there when called for.

The call would come.

Repeatedly – over and over again, louder and louder.

I was needed.

I would run up the stairs, cup and envelope in hand, superhero mask in place, and find the monster before it could do any harm to my loved one. Jo would be frozen solid in the corner with her hand over her eyes, apart from one small gap, which she needed in order to keep tabs on the spider’s whereabouts. Barely able to speak, she would tell me to be careful out there – this one was BIG!

I’d search for this gargantuan beast for a while before realising that the tiny dot next to the toilet was my foe. The spider would sit giggling; phoning his mates so they can hear the fuss he had caused. Finally, his mates would stop calling him ‘Tiny Tim’, now they would have to start giving him some respect as a true arachnid. He may well have been filming this crazed woman’s reaction for ‘Spider Tube’ – who knows?

I’d swiftly entrap my nemesis with the cup (always a clear cup as Jo absolutely has to see the spider in there, she simply does not do trust when it comes to spiders), and wedge the envelope underneath.

Now I could head off outside to release him into the wilderness of the garden. Jo will follow behind, if the spider escapes before leaving the house she will know about it and so will I.

This is my job.

This is what I do.

At least – it’s what I did.

I have been succeeded.

Last night at the boy’s bath time a spider was spotted.

A big one – huge – we are talking maybe up to three Centimetres at least (including legs).

This was a calamity; I was still not home form work. The Bat Signal did not work, my Superman costume was at the dry cleaners. I wasn’t there for her. I know – I feel bad.

The boys jumped into action. Jamie ran downstairs, fetched a cup and trapped the spider. Daniel fetched some card.

A small argument broke out between the two of them as to who got to put the card under the cup and carry the spider, but Jo quashed this by use of hysterical screaming.

So Daniel inserted the card and lifted the spider only to remember that he was naked.

An attempt was made to wrap himself in a towel but it fell off between the bathroom and the front door, so the people of my road were last night treated to the sight of a butt naked 9 year old releasing a spider into the wild, while his frantic Mum looked on from the door demanding to inspect the cup for emptiness before he was allowed back in the house.

No matter how you look at it though, the mission was a success. The emergency was dealt with.

I wasn’t needed.

I’ll get my coat…

The inevitable distraction of tea

The big purple mug sat and stared moodily at me from the corner of the big oak desk. Its presence mocked and taunted me, hogging my attention like a hungry toddler in a superstore full of chocolate treats. I tried to ignore it, as a mother attempts to ignore the child’s tantrum in the cake aisle, but it refused to be ignored.


I lifted and held my mug in the way it loves being held, two fingers through the handle and the rest of my hand lovingly wrapped around, just to reassure it that I had not forgotten how much it meant to me. Never before had my beloved Father's Day cup looked so sad.

I sighed as I lifted the cup and felt the coldness of the ceramic against my touch. No hot tea had blessed this vessel for some time, perhaps even half an hour by the feel of it.

“Fill me now” it seemed to mutter, the words breaking up with heartfelt tears, and echoing in my head like an explosion of emotion in a cavern of despair. “Please – I need it, warm me with tea and put me to your lips again.”

I choked back a tear as I looked into the stained pit of emptiness at the bottom of my mug, and stared miserably at the cold, thickly brown sludge resting there. I held my breath to calm the fire in my heart at the sight of the swollen wet crumbs, betraying the secret packet of Digestives that I had hidden behind the Idiots guide to Blogging. There are some things that are best kept secret in all marriages, Digestives are one such thing.

I felt the pull of the Digestives calling my attention away from the empty mug and towards the book shelf, but it did not last long. What good is a Digestive without tea?

I put the cup down with a flourish of decisiveness and determination. I was not going to be a slave to distraction and prevarication any longer. My fingers returned to the keyboard and I stared at the monitor, daring Microsoft Word to try and give me its leering look of condescending disgust again. All I had to do was concentrate, and something would write itself down on my screen, something would come to mind – something always does.

For five whole minutes, my fingers were a blur as I opened up the thesaurus and found out what prevarication meant. And condescending.

And flourish.

And gusset.

I sighed as I realised I could think of no more words to dive into and discover. The screen blinked at me. I blinked at the screen. Finally I smiled, as inspiration hit me squarely between the eyes.

With the oppressive weight of writer’s block lifted from my over burdened shoulders, I threw a flirtatious wink at my mug and laughed as I said, “Oh come on then, you frisky little devil.”

The writing can wait a few minutes while the kettle boils.

I've been caught by the Paparazzi

I’m not sure I know where to start with this one. My experience at the weekend was so typically Glen. Very few other people would have managed to do what I did last Friday, and wind up only being able to tell you the following facts.


Pretty much anyone else would be able to tell you something interesting!

But I’m Glen – sorry.

I explained in summer about the office we were moving in to being owned by a large publishing house, and how I truly think that I must surely be able to make this work for me. Well I’m still working on that, it is frustrating knowing that often I must be sharing lifts with influential people in the magazine industry (including top editors), but just don’t realise it or have any idea at all how to casually sell myself to them.

I also told you a couple of months back about my typical Glen moment, when I was watching Ewan McGregor and Emily Blunt filming Salmon Fishing in the Yemen in our building, and Emily flashed her boobs (click here if you missed that one and want to see the photo).

Anyway…



This is the kind of building I’m working in.

This is the kind of hapless idiot I am.

Friday was no exception.

On Friday evening I was leaving work to head for home and as tired as I was, I was attempting the near impossible. I was attempting to walk in a straight line without hitting anything and do up my coat at the same time. As a male I have been genetically selected to only really be able to concentrate on one thing at a time, so this was not going well.

I think my concentrating tongue may have been sticking out.

I became aware of quite a big man in my right hand peripheral vision, but by this point I had begun attempting to turn my glove back out after it had become inside out the last time I took it off, so I bore him little interest.

The man gestured towards the revolving doors and said a mighty polite “after you”.

I was grateful, but now I was attempting to find my hat so I gestured that he could go first.

It was at that moment that I got a very fast, fleeting sight of the woman.

The woman was petite, thin, blonde and very smartly and expensively power suited, I remember thinking – “nice bum”. Sadly, this was my mistake. Had my eyes decided to check out her face instead of her bum – perhaps I wouldn’t be in this mess now.

An instant later she was in the revolving door and this was where my interest began to rise. Quite unusually she had entered into the same section of the door as the big man, and they both slowly shuffled around in front of me.

I remember thinking that this was a bit odd, he was so big and scruffy, and she was so petite and smart. They must surely be very much in love to do that, but the chemistry just did not seem to be there.

And then we all stepped out of the door and the darkness of the night disappeared into the blinding light of the Paparazzi.

I absolutely guarantee you – no word of a lie – my first thought was “Why on earth are they taking photos of me?” I stepped from the door into the crazy flashing world of celebrity and just for a moment, actually had the ridiculous self centred belief that it was for me.

As time flashed slowly by, the pieces of the puzzle fitted together and I saw the big man bundling the lady into a taxi. He was no lover – he was a minder!

All I saw of the lady whose presence had excited the Pap’s so much was that bottom (ho hum, it’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it).

I HAVE NO IDEA WHO SHE IS!


NONE!

Why had I concentrated on her bottom? I could be telling you that I had ‘met’ Kylie Minogue right now or maybe right then and there, I could have been stood next to Sandra! Can you imagine that? I could have been stood next to Miss. Bullock and I’ll never know it! What an arse!

Mind you it could just have easily been somebody rubbish, like Kerry Katona’s Sister or something, so no damage done.

I have scoured the tabloids all weekend for clues as to her identity, but so far nothing.

HELP NEEDED…

Have you seen any celebrity photos this weekend of a smartly suited lady leaving a building in front of a rather bemused, scruffy looking fat bloke in what turned out to be an inside out hat?

Are you a nicely bottomed D list celebrity, who was bundled into a cab so quickly that you didn’t quite have chance to say hi to the devilishly handsome and endearingly scruffy gentleman by the doors?

Are you a member of the Paparazzi who is currently gutted because your otherwise perfect and exclusive photo of Kate Winslett with her new Wrestling superstar boyfriend, has been ruined by the man in the background waving theatrically behind them shouting “no photos – but I can do autographs if you like”

If the answer to any of those is “yes” please let me know who the lady was so I can sleep tonight.

Thanks.

Superhero or super nutter?

Easily the funniest thing in the news this week is the story about Pheonix Jones, or ‘The Guardian of Seattle’ as he apparently likes to be called.


I do not know if this is really true or just some promotional stunt – and I really cannot be bothered to investigate – but who cares if its true be because it is most certainly funny.

What a barmpot.

Pheonix has bought himself a superhero suit from Target (probably) and now thinks that he IS a superhero.

Except that he isn’t.

For one thing he recently jumped out to save someone from a fight and got his nose broken and ‘heroically’ got a kicking – as the headline put it in the Metro.

The thing that makes me laugh the most, even more so than the ridiculous photo of him trying to look heroic in his costume, surrounded by his superhero mates that haven’t yet managed to save up enough money to buy themselves a costume (really? Have they not tried Ebay?), is his superhero transport.

In a nutshell?

He gets dropped off at the scene of his daring deed by some woman in a car. She is not in any costume at all.

Now a part of me would love her to be some plucky reporter from the Daily Planet, but chances are she is his girlfriend or maybe even his Mum. Actually I want it to be his Mum.

I want him to get called back to the car to be given his packed lunch, or asked if he has a vest on under the outfit because there is a chill in the air.

The world needs nutters like this – even if only to let the rest of us feel, just for a few minutes, that we are normal.

Sadly, if this guy carries on then he won’t survive which is a shame, but if you run around taking on evil villains having bought Bruce Wayne’s million pound Kevlar Bat Suit from the sales in Tescos, then I fear it is not going to end well; especially when the Bat Mobile is being driven by your Mum.



The league of super nutters -

http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/852435-superhero-breaks-nose-but-wont-stop-fighting-crime



the treadmills are calling me...

It is January and, as it is with so many other people, I’m back attempting to be the new me again.


Once more I have remembered that I am paying to use a gym, located my kit from the world that time forgot (under my desk), and headed down to see 'Rob the Gym Man'.

As regular readers will already know, every now and again I attempt to convince myself that I can undo the damage of 20 years of neglect on my body. I’ll pop down to the gym, which I refuse to cancel on the grounds that as long as you are a member you are healthy, and make a complete and total arse of myself getting out of breath and sweaty on the long walk to the treadmills.

This time.

This time.

This time.

How many times have I returned to the gym, determined that this time I will actually enjoy it? This time the mythical endorphins really will kick in and I’ll feel this so called high that I’ve heard people talk of but never really believed in. This time I won’t fall off the back of the treadmill, or become so disoriented on the cross trainer that I wind up facing backwards.

This time I won’t lie to the machines when they ask me to enter my weight just because the truth is so embarrassing to enter, when there is some twenty year old skinny McSporty running on the next machine, mocking your very presence.

This time I won’t dodge and hide every time I see Rob (who was yesterday heard explaining to his latest crush in the changing room that he was happy to be back at work after his time off due to injury “You see I may be weak here…” pointing to his legs, “but I will never be weak here..”, pointing to his head, “90% of getting fit is in the head and I’ll always be strong there”. I seem to remember a Garfield strip about that. Rob really is a nut case.

This time I won’t reward myself for a trip to the gym, with a trip to the vending machine.

This time I’m going to make it to at least mid February before I give up, and that will be a record.

http://garfield.nfshost.com/1982/05/20/

Garfield strip created by the awesome Jim Davis, and found at
http://garfield.nfshost.com/1982/05/20/

A quick note about Breeze...

Just to let you know that Breeze is still very much alive and kicking, but I’m giving him a re vamp. Also I’m seeing where I can take the story, now that I’m past 15,000 words.

I’m busy rewriting some of the first posts to make it more separate from Glen’s Life, and also continuing the story forward. Until I know where it is going and what I’m doing with it I’m going to refrain from posting the story here.

I’m sure you will miss him terribly.

I do feel that if I am to make a go of Breeze as a book of some description, then I probably need to stop giving it away for free at some point (yes I know I’m a sell out, but have I ever pretended that I’m not at least trying to get published?).

Breeze may well still come back here to finish his tale – or start a new one after a make over, who knows?

What I do know is that I have two more chapters written and a wealth of ideas about what could happen in the story. I know I can write it, now I need to slow down and figure out how to publish it, and who – except me – might actually want to read it!

A new kind of diet

Jo came off the phone laughing the other day after talking to her Mum. The discussion had been about Weight Watchers, or Fat Club as I tend to call it.


My wife started at Weight Watchers last year, and has been enjoying some success in shedding some of the pounds that she had got bored of having hanging about. For the record she looked great before she started and didn’t need to go dieting at all – but try telling women that! (Phew, I think that should do the trick).

Any way, Jo’s Mum was asking about the set up and mentioning that she might join, and was letting Jo know so that she could recommend her.

I guess there is some kind of reward scheme for successful recommendations?

For anyone not in the know, WW assign point values to all food and then dependant on age, weight, sex etc. you get allocated a certain amount of points that you can use per day, that hopefully equates to eating healthily and still losing weight.

If you carefully track your intake and stay below your points allowance, you loose weight. That’s the theory and in general it definitely works for most people. There are some people who say it doesn’t, but let’s face it, chances are they simply lost count of how many Mars bars they ate that week.

To get to the point of the laughing, Jo’s Mum suggested that if Jo recommended her, it might mean she gets “more points as a bonus?”

We love this idea.

The more people you get to sign up the more you can eat.

This is absolutely how it should work. I’ve already worked out their first advertising campaign “Bring two friends to Weight Watchers this week, and if they sign up we will give you pie and chips – ABSOLUTELY FREE!**+”

** Friends can not steal one of your chips without using their point allowance.

+Food must be consumed on the premises on the table next to the scales during the weigh in period, to encourage the other member’s recruitment drives.



There is a small chance that this could cause riots, but I think the potential for success is greater than the potential for disaster.

Weight Watchers do a roaring trade selling branded products too, so maybe there is scope for having some kind of loyalty card. As you buy branded products you earn extra points to spend on chocolate or crisps. “Buy Weight Watchers’ new Pro Points scales, and get bonus points worth a trip to Pizza Hut.”

This definitely requires some more thought…

This year I mean it!

Hello all - today I have my list of resolutions for 2011 posted over at Real Bloggers United.

I'd be fairly pleased if you could waste spare some of your valuable time reading it HERE.

Thank you.

P.S. If your name is Kim and you grew up in Newark - you might not want to read it - sorry.

On a serious note: I'd like to pass on my heartfelt commiseration to Lori for her loss - the blogging community is thinking of you.

Comedy Gold - Completely wasted

I don’t know if this has ever happened to you but I was absolutely gutted to have an absolute comedy gold moment completely wasted.


It was Boxing Day (December 26th to anyone who doesn’t know what Boxing Day is). In order to blow off the effects of a long day of excess and excitement the day before, we headed out for some air.

We headed up onto the Ridgeway, which is a Britain's oldest road, used by prehistoric man you know! It is still accessible today giving Ramblers untold amount of pleasure as they walk along, taking in the beautiful Oxfordshire countryside. We still had snow, and plenty of it too, so walking along this ridge at this time was lovely. The boys had a whale of a time ignoring our advice about not getting soaking wet and rolled in the snow as soon as we got out of the car. This is what kids do; I almost wanted to join them.

Any way we walked, we laughed, we occasionally had to be firm in order to keep still overly excited brothers from killing each other.

It was nice.

Just as we were getting back to the car I strode off ahead purposefully, and put a small lead on the rest in order to start the car and get the seats warming, I’m nice like that. However as I jogged like a 20 tonne man, heaving and coughing bounded Gazelle like towards the car, I started to feel my trousers sag a bit. I had forgotten to wear a belt, and these particular trousers are quite loose.

Before I could react I felt them slip further, and because I know a good comedy Dad moment when I see it, I smiled.

I began to jog a little more ‘amusingly’, waving my arms and kicking back my feet. I was now rushing for the car – apparently.

My trousers fell perfectly to my ankles.

My fall into the snow was effortless and timed to perfection.

The snow stayed on my face with custard pie consistency and my ‘Stan Laurel’ bemused face was exact.

This was comedy gold – My boys would still be laughing and talking about this at my funeral (as well as how it was so typical of me to have died at the age of 100 while getting so carried away having sex with a 22 year old nurse, that I forgot to open my parachute). My wife would have come over laughing hard and demanding that I should meet a friend of hers, who is at nursing college.

That’s how good a performance it was.

I looked up.

All three of them were looking at the ‘you are here’ board and learning about the area. Not a single one of them had seen it.

Nobody laughed.

I was now sat in snow with my trousers around my ankles, my nose was sore from where I landed on it, my arse was wet – and for what?

I picked myself up, dressed and started the car.

My freshly educated, but not amused, family came over and no nurses were mentioned.

What a waste!

Have you ever performed a classic comedy moment that no one else saw?

Sending my thoughts to Australia

I’d just like to send sympathy across the globe to Australia, and to those people who are currently devastated.


No, you lot make me sick, I’m not making a joke about the Ashes!

The flooding in Queensland is terrible and not funny at all. Lives have been lost, families torn apart, homes wrecked. This is not funny.

However, if there is any nation out there (other than Britain) that can take a catastrophe like that with a shrug of the shoulders and a “She’ll be right”, it’s the Aussies; their customary wit will undoubtedly get them through this appalling display of Nature’s cruelty.

Where other people would crumble and fall apart at the severity of their loss, these guys will pick themselves up and start again.

Australians have a very secure sense of humour and will undoubtedly use it to get through this ordeal.

I genuinely send my thoughts (useless though they are) over to the land ‘Down Under,’ and to the people surviving through tragedy.

While we are on the subject of Australians – I’d just like to send a massive ‘fingers crossed’ and get well soon to Lori’s husband – Tony.

I also would like to salute the guy who had only a split second to decide what his most precious possessions were, before jumping in his kayak to save his life. This is why the Australians will never be beaten by whatever crap that life throws at them.




http://www.metro.co.uk/

 

The new year begins - hello again!

Hello again – Happy New Year.


I am back in the Internet saddle again. Mind you I’m starting to wonder if it is the Internet or myself that is in the saddle?

Just how did I cope before Broadband exactly?

I promised myself at the start of these Christmas Holidays that I would go laptop free and spend real life in the real world for a bit. I wanted some quality time with my family for a change.

Great words.

Great intent.

I think we were all getting on each others tits a bit by the end of it though, but the idea was good.

I’m not going to sit here and write up all the little family moments that happened over Christmas, as funny and lovely though they were to us, like including children’s wide eyed howls of joy as they run in to discover their stockings are full on Christmas day or the way they disgustedly discard new clothes over their shoulder into the piles of wrapping paper, “CLOTHES ARE NOT CHRISTMAS PRESENTS SANTA – READ MY LETTER AGAIN MAN, AT NO POINT DID I MENTION F***ING SOCKS”

Then there is the moment where a child, with no hint of malice whatsoever, loudly declares “Look Dad, Aunt Jessy got me the same DVD Santa got me!”

Any way, we had a lovely Christmas, I really enjoyed it but I suspect those of you with families will have all had exactly the same moments and those of you without won’t really care, so I’m not going to go too far into it.

We spent a lot of effort ensuring that this year we had a really nice, relaxed family Christmas and so that is how it will stay.

What does interest me is just how damned hard it is not to use the Internet. I completely failed to not use it. Oh I managed to stay away from Facebook and Blogging for most of the time (occasional slip ups but on the whole I kept my promise there), but it turns out that life is just not that simple any more.

Even though we did not even have Broadband in England when I got married, within such a short space of time my life has become reliant on it. How did I live without it? How did I plan routes or find out about play parks? When I wanted to buy a new stereo, how did I do it?

I got some vouchers for Christmas to buy a new music system and we have a shop in our town that sells them – so why the Hell did I wind up searching for them on the Internet? Once upon a time I would have walked to the shop, listened to the stereos, said “hmm – that sounds nice and look, the price tag says that I can afford it – bag me one up my good man, and be quick about it” and that would have been it. Times have changed. You see it is no longer this straight forward because it is not possible to walk into a store and browse with children. They will not allow it. In no way shape or form are you allowed to browse and listen to different music systems. You can walk into a shop with children if you know exactly what you want, where it is and if there is no queue at all. Otherwise forget it.

In which case in order to browse you first have to cut a deal. First you have to do a certain amount of ironing or housework in order to earn an afternoon off. Worse still you have to do a swap with your wife, and sit at home looking after the kids by yourself while somebody far more talented at spending money is let loose in town. Having waited until the January sales, this can be deadly.

Therefore your browsing time is precious and this demands that you research before hand what you want the night before online.

There is no escaping the Internet

Having ironed four massive piles of clothes AND sat helpless with children who had by now, started getting a bit frisky, while Jo abused her credit card – I finally made it into town to discover that you cannot actually listen to music these days in a shop, unless you bring your own MP3 or i-pod with songs downloaded from the Internet preloaded on them, to plug into it. I learned fast by watching other shoppers skipping from speaker to speaker playing strange tunes that I have never heard of by inserting their own i-pod (music I haven’t heard of is generally music that doesn’t get played on Heart – which is the kind of station that boasts it plays “more music variety than any other station” but like me, hasn’t been to the shops to stock up on new tunes since 1996)

Eventually I managed to find something I liked but it turned out it wasn’t in stock, and the best advice the spotty girl working there could give me?

Order it online.

Yep.

So any way – I’m back.

Did you have a nice Christmas?