Hello – I just thought I’d write a quick note to explain my distinct lack of effort recently.
A 5 minute photo shop session in the style of a corporate motivational PowerPoint slide, and a badly copied clip from the news are pretty much all I’ve managed in ages, so I thought I’d better apologise.
I’m not lazy – just distracted.
First of all we spent a long weekend away up North visiting some very good friends, who turned out to have a rather interesting collection of cheese and wine. Then we popped over to see my family, and spend some quality time with the olds.
This was mighty nice, but not very conducive to responsible blogging, due to the distinct lack of Internet usage.
Anyway – that’s not the only problem.
The other problem is that I’ve got into reading again. Actual books!
I’m not the fastest of readers, and I’m genetically coded to only be able to single task, so I’m afraid when I’m stuck in a book, I can’t write much.
And the best time to read is on my commute – which is coincidentally when I usually write. You see where my problem lies?
So it’s not my fault at all, it’s that pesky Douglas Adams.
I love Douglas Adams.
Well his writing anyway – even if he was still alive I’d find his insistence on being a man a turn off, when it came to loving anything else.
Currently I’m re-reading his Dirk Gently books and am nose deep in The Long Dark Tea Time Of the Soul – quite possibly the best book ever written, easily on a par with the first two ‘Hitchhiker’s guide’ books.
I last read Dirk in the early 90’s, so I’m quite enjoying the contrast between not being able to remember what comes next, and yet being completely familiar with the story. Also age is allowing me to see another side to the text that I missed last time around.
Adams, alongside Terry Pratchett, is a huge influence on me, both in my written humour and my personal real life humour. I may not have the depth or the quality but I do admit that I at least try and copy some of the style. It is difficult, if not impossible, not to emulate your heroes when you write – successful or not is immaterial, the point is their influence is magnetic and draws you in, even if it’s only in your own head.
I imagine I’ll be finished my book by the end of the week (yes I really do read that slowly when I’m enjoying a good book. I have to take every word in, devour every sentence, and absorb every paragraph. I can’t skim read class) so as long as I don’t get distracted by the temptations of the Hitchhiker’s trilogy on my bookshelf, service should swiftly be restored to its almost above average self.
When you read a really good book, do you speed up and finish it without taking a breath, like my wife who can Kindle her way through Stieg Larsson in 6 minutes? Or do you sit back and let the words slowly envelop you?
.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
2 Years
Something I missed.
Last week Glen’s Life passed the two years mark.
For two whole years I have been sitting here tapping away on my keyboard – desperately trying to be
Rumbled.
In that time I have learned a mountain about writing, and improved my grammar by almost exactly three and a half percent. Most of that improvement was seen after my wife taught me how to spell grammar, if I am honest – the first time I used the damned word I spelled it grammer.
It took me a whole year to be brave enough to write the word ‘whether’ or ‘weather’ in any post, and I still get in trouble over the word ‘to’ or ‘too’. I just can’t seem to figure it out (in fact I wrote a whole post about that problem, purposefully never once using the word, apart from as a description under quote marks, which was absurdly difficult, but it was rubbish) (yes I know that doesn’t usually stop me publishing the post).
In two years, I have made some cracking virtual mates and now actually read blogs with a genuine interest.
Am I really the only blogger who never actually once read a blog before they started writing?
Madness – but there you go – I’m guilty.
Now I have some blogs that I know I will always read – you know who you are!
In two years I have been published once and guest posted two and a half times (the third guest post is written and due on Where's My Glow next month).
In two years I have achieved a relatively small readership compared to an awful lot of my much faster moving peers, but this I reluctantly accept as they are, at the end of the day, better blogs.
Oh I’d love to be Johnny McMany Followers, but in reality I absolutely love that anyone at all comes here and reads, and though my stats may be small, they are consistent and include some pretty damned impressive names in blogland, and I am proper excited to have you here.
So there you have it, I have begun my third year of writing down the nonsense that goes through my brain, on the assumption that it is interesting to people all across this planet of ours.
Successful?
Depends on your point of view, but probably not.
Crazy?
Yes.
Fun?
Absolutely love it. My fingers tingle when I write, my heart genuinely skips beats when I get comments, and slows down when I don’t.
It’s only supposed to be a hobby, but it isn’t.
It’s me.
It’s who I want to be.
It’s who I need to be.
Thank you – for helping be that person.
Thanks.
P.S. Katie and Marla – ‘blog’ more often please. Unless you are too busy writing a book, in which case carry on with that instead. Otherwise write woman.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Naughty Mr. Fox
 |
| Fox in need of McDonalds |
These sights you get used to seeing, to the point of them becoming invisible.
Sometimes you awake to see something new.
Yesterday I saw a fox.
I tried to get a photo, but the selfish git refused to stand and pose so it isn’t very clear.
Not that you would want a good photo of him anyway as he was in a right state. His fur was mottled and ugly; his eyes were weathered and aged. Basically he was looking a bit rough.
I wondered what such an addled looking fox was doing walking about the London streets at this time of day.
And then it hit me.
Mr. Fox was doing the walk of shame.
It may feel like a century ago for me, but we have all done it at least once.
This fox had been doing the ‘Sheen’ the night before, and was now attempting to get home and showered in time for work.
“No photos” He shouted, as he desperately tried to get across the road. This lucky beast has just had the night of his life with one lucky foxy lady.
A lot of vodka was drunk.
Two packets of cigarettes were smoked.
Someone suggested Tequila.
Before he knew it, he was lying in someone’s bed with a worried smile on his face as he tried to remember if her name was Kylie, Karen, Kara or Susan. He’d just have to call her Darling and be done with it.
Sure he’d call.
Sure he’d find her on Facebook.
“No worries Darling, Tweet me your details, yeah”
In the morning he would have just had time to get ‘a quick one for the road’ before legging it out of the door, before she asked for his number again, he’d already forgotten what false number he had given her earlier.
Now Mr. Fox had to walk across town among the commuters, wearing his success like a badge of honour in case he bumped into Badger or the others, but with his head down low because somewhere among the throng of people, could be his boss.
His manager had last seen foxy earlier on the night before – chatting to the company’s accountant, who just happened to be his daughter…
When the Tequila fully works its way out of his system – he is going to realise who he tried to give false numbers to. Let’s hope he only did a ‘Sheen’, and not a ‘Schwarzenegger’.
No wonder the dirty animal was unhappy when I ‘papped’ him!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
A pussy, some tits, and some very poor puns
Some of you may remember me talking about Harry before. Harry is our neighbour’s cat and is somewhat prone to getting up to mischief.
Yesterday I caught him doing a little window shopping.
Harry had decided to check out the pick ‘n’ mix from the self service counter in our Apple tree, and like any other three year old in the World, stood in an open cased sweet shop, he couldn’t quite resist having a little try.
We built the bird box last year, in one of those –“We are such a wonderful family, that never ever fights or argues and certainly look after our planet” moments, just in between Daniel hitting Jamie with a bike lock and me sneaking back to the house to watch the Formula 1 Grand Prix.
We try.
Anyway, I’d kept a straight face as the lady showing us what to do asked us what kind of bird we were hoping to get in our box, so she could give me the right sized hole to ‘poke through’. I even ignored it when she asked if the birds should enter from the rear. However, I was pushed too far and lost it when Jamie declared that he wanted “a box for tits.”
I was messy.
I was thoroughly glared at.
And so it was, that late last summer I nailed up a bird box, following some amazingly detailed instructions for how totrap collect house Blue Tits.
I had no confidence at all that this would work. I’d found it quite difficult to balance the compass and tape measure in one hand at the top of a ladder, while swinging a hammer with my other hand.
Getting hold of a pair of tits is a tricky science you know.
It was worth the effort though, because Harry discovered a little secret that I otherwise would not have noticed.
We have birds.
Not just any old birds either, because while Harry sat on the box shrugging his shoulders and asking me, “Do you have a ten pence for five twos? I don’t think this vending machine accepts copper coins.” on the branch of the next tree along sat an absolutely fuming Blue Tit.
No, I didn’t manage to get a photo – sadly, it just didn’t occur to me at the time – this is why I’m not a photo-blogger.
The Blue Tit was going absolutely mental at Harry, that bird was not happy at all, and I suspect strongly that if you could translate the chirps and whistles into English, you would need to get hold of one of those bleep machines fast. That bird had a beak from the gutter, I can tell you. The Blue Tit would not budge from its spot and would certainly not stop swearing, even when I pointed out there were children present.
As the penny dropped in my head that our box had indeed attracted Blue Tits, which is beyond all rational belief, I made a quick decision and shooed Harry away (I didn’t have time to ask my wife what I wanted to do, so I just had to guess what she would want me to want to do about it), much to his annoyance, and Barry ‘the Gypsy’ Blue’s relief.
The boys, and my wife, all absolutely love the discovery, as do I.
Especially because I can now tell my wife that I’m putting the zoom lens on the camera so I can photo her tits, without getting smacked.
Unlike last time I tried it.
 |
| Harry the cat - on my bird box |
Rumbled.
Some of you may remember me talking about Harry before. Harry is our neighbour’s cat and is somewhat prone to getting up to mischief.
Yesterday I caught him doing a little window shopping.
Harry had decided to check out the pick ‘n’ mix from the self service counter in our Apple tree, and like any other three year old in the World, stood in an open cased sweet shop, he couldn’t quite resist having a little try.
We built the bird box last year, in one of those –“We are such a wonderful family, that never ever fights or argues and certainly look after our planet” moments, just in between Daniel hitting Jamie with a bike lock and me sneaking back to the house to watch the Formula 1 Grand Prix.
We try.
Anyway, I’d kept a straight face as the lady showing us what to do asked us what kind of bird we were hoping to get in our box, so she could give me the right sized hole to ‘poke through’. I even ignored it when she asked if the birds should enter from the rear. However, I was pushed too far and lost it when Jamie declared that he wanted “a box for tits.”
I was messy.
I was thoroughly glared at.
And so it was, that late last summer I nailed up a bird box, following some amazingly detailed instructions for how to
I had no confidence at all that this would work. I’d found it quite difficult to balance the compass and tape measure in one hand at the top of a ladder, while swinging a hammer with my other hand.
Getting hold of a pair of tits is a tricky science you know.
It was worth the effort though, because Harry discovered a little secret that I otherwise would not have noticed.
We have birds.
Not just any old birds either, because while Harry sat on the box shrugging his shoulders and asking me, “Do you have a ten pence for five twos? I don’t think this vending machine accepts copper coins.” on the branch of the next tree along sat an absolutely fuming Blue Tit.
No, I didn’t manage to get a photo – sadly, it just didn’t occur to me at the time – this is why I’m not a photo-blogger.
The Blue Tit was going absolutely mental at Harry, that bird was not happy at all, and I suspect strongly that if you could translate the chirps and whistles into English, you would need to get hold of one of those bleep machines fast. That bird had a beak from the gutter, I can tell you. The Blue Tit would not budge from its spot and would certainly not stop swearing, even when I pointed out there were children present.
As the penny dropped in my head that our box had indeed attracted Blue Tits, which is beyond all rational belief, I made a quick decision and shooed Harry away (I didn’t have time to ask my wife what I wanted to do, so I just had to guess what she would want me to want to do about it), much to his annoyance, and Barry ‘the Gypsy’ Blue’s relief.
The boys, and my wife, all absolutely love the discovery, as do I.
Especially because I can now tell my wife that I’m putting the zoom lens on the camera so I can photo her tits, without getting smacked.
Unlike last time I tried it.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The unbelievable excuse
Hello – it’s RBU today so please, please, please - pop over to Real Bloggers United to read it, and (go on – you know it makes sense) maybe even comment over there as well!
This month’s theme required me to simply include the phrase “I opened the door…” somewhere within the post.
Seems simple enough, if you are normal...
This is what I came up with.
Maybe I'm not normal?
Thanks Glen.
This month’s theme required me to simply include the phrase “I opened the door…” somewhere within the post.
Seems simple enough, if you are normal...
This is what I came up with.
Maybe I'm not normal?
Thanks Glen.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Broken without you
The minutes crawled into hours. The hours crept achingly slowly into days. When the days became weeks I began to fall apart, and as the weeks lurched hopelessly into months, the numbness took hold of my soul and wrenched it to pieces.
My heart never even noticed when the months became years.
I am broken.
Every hour that passes.
Every minute.
I am without you.
You are not with me.
The weight of your absence presses a tonne of despair upon my every breath. You were my air, you were my light.
Without you I cannot see, I cannot breathe.
My chest tightens now, as I look at the photos of us together from those days; those special days.
We were together.
We were one.
On the good days I laugh at the memories we shared – the closeness we felt and the warmth that you gave me.
On the bad days I crumble, the pressure of my loss forces my head onto the table, I revel in the pain from the hard surface pushing against my temple. The pain is physical. The pain helps.
I lost you then, and I’ve been losing you ever since.
I am not me; without you I am nothing but a shell; an empty vessel drifting along the tide of life.
I’ve lost you.
And you are never coming back.
Well, not on my head anyway. I notice you have no problem growing out of my nose or on my back, you bastard.
My heart never even noticed when the months became years.
I am broken.
Every hour that passes.
Every minute.
I am without you.
You are not with me.
The weight of your absence presses a tonne of despair upon my every breath. You were my air, you were my light.
Without you I cannot see, I cannot breathe.
My chest tightens now, as I look at the photos of us together from those days; those special days.
We were together.
We were one.
On the good days I laugh at the memories we shared – the closeness we felt and the warmth that you gave me.
On the bad days I crumble, the pressure of my loss forces my head onto the table, I revel in the pain from the hard surface pushing against my temple. The pain is physical. The pain helps.
I lost you then, and I’ve been losing you ever since.
I am not me; without you I am nothing but a shell; an empty vessel drifting along the tide of life.
I’ve lost you.
And you are never coming back.
Well, not on my head anyway. I notice you have no problem growing out of my nose or on my back, you bastard.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Delays in time
I’m trapped on a train.
A train held at broken signals.
A train that should have got me home by quarter to seven,
It is now ten pm and we are going nowhere,
Not even setting off to join the queue of trains in front,
Bored, bored, bored.
I’ve tried writing posts.
Really I have.
I’ve tried writing a book,
Honest,
But the posts are getting less and less funny.
And they weren’t exactly Gary Larson to begin with.
Bored, bored, bored.
I can’t help feeling that I’m wasting my time,
I should be doing something creative,
But as time drags by I’m just getting older,
I’m just getting sleepier,
I’m just getting hungrier.
My dinner is getting colder,
Bored, bored, bored.
So instead of creating a masterpiece,
Like a modern day comedy version of Philadelphia,
I’ll settle for writing the world’s crappest non rhyming poem,
And taking a blurry photo to reveal my inner anguish.
Bored, bored, bored.
Looks like I picked the wrong day to experiment with eating salad for lunch.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Tooth Fairy
Jamie, my 6 year old, had his first visit from the Tooth Fairy on Friday, which left me one massively excited, and suddenly rich, young boy on Saturday morning.
I saw him grinning at himself in a mirror and doing the maths – Jamie very quickly had worked out that he is sitting on a goldmine; all he has to do is wait!
The tooth falling out came as a complete shock to my wife and I. Jamie had not mentioned his wobbly tooth at all.
Under interrogation we found out why…
“I thought if I told you, you would pull it out”
Do I really fill my children with such fear?
After giving it some thought I remembered that my son is the youngest in his class, and probably the last to loose any teeth.
I’ve been scratching my head, trying to remember when his older Brother, Daniel, started to loose his teeth. It is one of things that you think you really ought to know. Somehow you feel that knowing things such as the date your first born cuts his first tooth and then the date that it falls out – is proof that you love him.
Not having the first Scooby proves beyond doubt that you are a hopeless and uncaring parent.
Ah well - I would have got away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids…
Though I failed to remember how old Daniel was, I did remember the time he left a little note next to the tooth, which asked the Fairy what she did with the teeth. The smile this memory evoked stayed with me for about an hour.
The fairy’s reply (which looked oddly like my writing would if I did it with my left hand) mentioned selling them on Ebay for profit.
It didn’t.
I’m not saying what it really said.
Anyway, the thought came to me that Jamie is at School with kids that are older than him; kids that would undoubtedly have many interesting opinions about what happens with teeth. Children love to spin a good yarn, especially if it scares the willies out of the person they are spinning it too.
“Yeah, as soon as you tell your Dad the tooth is wobbly he will be after it when you are asleep so he can put under his own pillow and I ain’t even lying. I made that mistake on my first wobbly tooth – I told my Dad, and woke up to find him trying to chisel it out – look you can see the scars, and it was the wrong tooth – really hurt. My Mam gave him a right earful though, but then when the tooth finally came out, I woke up and caught her trying to nick it right out from under my pillow, with Dad watching from the door, before the fairy had chance to get to me!
They were in it together!
Take a tip from me – keep schtum and hide it yourself – don’t say a word until the cash is safely in your piggy bank!”
Jamie had been determined not to let on, but had failed to conceal the gap from his Mum – luckily.
So for the record – Friday 6th May 2011 – Jamie’s first tooth came out.
There, I wrote it down this time…
I saw him grinning at himself in a mirror and doing the maths – Jamie very quickly had worked out that he is sitting on a goldmine; all he has to do is wait!
The tooth falling out came as a complete shock to my wife and I. Jamie had not mentioned his wobbly tooth at all.
Under interrogation we found out why…
“I thought if I told you, you would pull it out”
Do I really fill my children with such fear?
After giving it some thought I remembered that my son is the youngest in his class, and probably the last to loose any teeth.
I’ve been scratching my head, trying to remember when his older Brother, Daniel, started to loose his teeth. It is one of things that you think you really ought to know. Somehow you feel that knowing things such as the date your first born cuts his first tooth and then the date that it falls out – is proof that you love him.
Not having the first Scooby proves beyond doubt that you are a hopeless and uncaring parent.
Ah well - I would have got away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids…
Though I failed to remember how old Daniel was, I did remember the time he left a little note next to the tooth, which asked the Fairy what she did with the teeth. The smile this memory evoked stayed with me for about an hour.
The fairy’s reply (which looked oddly like my writing would if I did it with my left hand) mentioned selling them on Ebay for profit.
It didn’t.
I’m not saying what it really said.
Anyway, the thought came to me that Jamie is at School with kids that are older than him; kids that would undoubtedly have many interesting opinions about what happens with teeth. Children love to spin a good yarn, especially if it scares the willies out of the person they are spinning it too.
“Yeah, as soon as you tell your Dad the tooth is wobbly he will be after it when you are asleep so he can put under his own pillow and I ain’t even lying. I made that mistake on my first wobbly tooth – I told my Dad, and woke up to find him trying to chisel it out – look you can see the scars, and it was the wrong tooth – really hurt. My Mam gave him a right earful though, but then when the tooth finally came out, I woke up and caught her trying to nick it right out from under my pillow, with Dad watching from the door, before the fairy had chance to get to me!
They were in it together!
Take a tip from me – keep schtum and hide it yourself – don’t say a word until the cash is safely in your piggy bank!”
Jamie had been determined not to let on, but had failed to conceal the gap from his Mum – luckily.
So for the record – Friday 6th May 2011 – Jamie’s first tooth came out.
There, I wrote it down this time…
Monday, May 9, 2011
What is funny?
Humour is a funny thing.
How do you define it? How do you control it?
I set out, almost two years ago, to write a blog that I hoped would be funny. I figured this should be pretty easy as I considered myself relatively amusing.
It’s only when you start trying to make strangers laugh on purpose, that you realise how difficult it is.
Where are the lines to draw? What makes other people laugh?
What is okay to laugh at?
In my country, jokes that include Princess Diana still make people wince – such as…
“First the DODO died, then DI died and DODI died – I bet DIDO is crapping herself!” (I should point out that is not my joke, but I have no idea who to credit it too).
Now I personally found that hilarious the first time I heard it; did you? However long ago that was.
So what sparked this post?
Well, the other day I checked out a jokes website that had been recommended to me, in search of inspiration for a post – I found it, but not in the place I expected.
The website (that I have now decided NOT to advertise) specialises in ‘near the knuckle’ sick jokes. The kind designed to make you wince a little and look around before laughing.
I have to say I’m not against that at all. Anyone who has read any of my Breeze Van Santo posts will know that.
However – I was very naive.
I had read and giggled to a few jokes about Osama (hot topic) and perverts and footballers etc. Some were just rubbish, some were very funny. I winced on occasion, even sucked air through my teeth once – but still laughed, knowing that, IN MY OPINION, the joke was not offensive.
And then…
Then I came upon a horrendous sentence – I can’t actually call it a joke – about something, or someone, the author called “a spade”.
Suddenly I sat bolt upright and read it again – and a couple underneath it - in shocked silence.
Do people really still talk like that?
Really?
I looked around for how I could report this to someone, or block it or…
And then it hit me – of course I couldn’t block it, of course I couldn’t complain. I was on this site voluntarily, laughing along at all the other jokes about subjects that I KNOW FULL WELL would be upsetting to somebody, somewhere.
Where do you draw the lines?
The joke was actually part of a whole category – labelled under ‘RACIST’. An actual category dedicated to the art of racism.
And there I was – adding to their stats!
Suddenly, I felt foolish. How could I complain, just because my own lines had been crossed – when I’d already crossed over someone else’s?
I left the site and vowed never to return or to refer anyone else to it.
There were – IN MY OPINION – some very funny, shoulder tightening, jokes on there, but my goodness there was some shit as well.
How do you define it? How do you control it?
I set out, almost two years ago, to write a blog that I hoped would be funny. I figured this should be pretty easy as I considered myself relatively amusing.
It’s only when you start trying to make strangers laugh on purpose, that you realise how difficult it is.
Where are the lines to draw? What makes other people laugh?
What is okay to laugh at?
In my country, jokes that include Princess Diana still make people wince – such as…
“First the DODO died, then DI died and DODI died – I bet DIDO is crapping herself!” (I should point out that is not my joke, but I have no idea who to credit it too).
Now I personally found that hilarious the first time I heard it; did you? However long ago that was.
So what sparked this post?
Well, the other day I checked out a jokes website that had been recommended to me, in search of inspiration for a post – I found it, but not in the place I expected.
The website (that I have now decided NOT to advertise) specialises in ‘near the knuckle’ sick jokes. The kind designed to make you wince a little and look around before laughing.
I have to say I’m not against that at all. Anyone who has read any of my Breeze Van Santo posts will know that.
However – I was very naive.
I had read and giggled to a few jokes about Osama (hot topic) and perverts and footballers etc. Some were just rubbish, some were very funny. I winced on occasion, even sucked air through my teeth once – but still laughed, knowing that, IN MY OPINION, the joke was not offensive.
And then…
Then I came upon a horrendous sentence – I can’t actually call it a joke – about something, or someone, the author called “a spade”.
Suddenly I sat bolt upright and read it again – and a couple underneath it - in shocked silence.
Do people really still talk like that?
Really?
I looked around for how I could report this to someone, or block it or…
And then it hit me – of course I couldn’t block it, of course I couldn’t complain. I was on this site voluntarily, laughing along at all the other jokes about subjects that I KNOW FULL WELL would be upsetting to somebody, somewhere.
Where do you draw the lines?
The joke was actually part of a whole category – labelled under ‘RACIST’. An actual category dedicated to the art of racism.
And there I was – adding to their stats!
Suddenly, I felt foolish. How could I complain, just because my own lines had been crossed – when I’d already crossed over someone else’s?
I left the site and vowed never to return or to refer anyone else to it.
There were – IN MY OPINION – some very funny, shoulder tightening, jokes on there, but my goodness there was some shit as well.
When you get down to it – you can only really work to your own sense of humour when you write a supposedly funny blog – and I shall continue to try and do that. Hopefully, I won’t cross too many lines.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Practically breaking out into a sweat
It’s Friday – thank goodness. I’m so ready for it.
Do you know I was expected to turn up and work 4 whole days this week?
ON THE TROT!
Not just four random days spread across a month, but four consecutive days IN ONE WEEK!
If that isn’t bad enough, my house has had hardly any chocolate in it throughout this arduous stretch of labour.
How is a guy supposed to cope?
I’m used to living in a home that is full of treats, and taking time off work during this Easter and Royal Wedding break.
I took the ‘magic three days’ off work too, which was an absolute brilliant piece of thinking.
For those non British or vaguely educated among you, here’s how it worked…
Easter weekend meant that Good Friday (22nd April) and Easter Monday (25th) were holidays. Then Friday 29th was a holiday for the Wedding and Monday 2nd May was ‘May Day’ bank holiday. Therefore because I booked April 26th,27th & 28th off work, I actually had 11 consecutive days at home for the price of 3. How class is that? The weather turned out to be summer holiday standard too – making it a brilliant time to be lounging about at home playing and working my way through a stash of chocolate eggs.
Being back at work and chocolate free has been a bit of a shock to the system I can tell you.
Anyway, I need to go and have a bit of a lie down now; I have to prepare myself for next week’s seemingly impossible 5 days of commuting. That’s like practically every day (mostly).
It’s just a good job we have another bank holiday at the end of this month, otherwise I don’t think I would survive it all!
…and people say the content of my posts is inconsistent…
Do you know I was expected to turn up and work 4 whole days this week?
ON THE TROT!
Not just four random days spread across a month, but four consecutive days IN ONE WEEK!
If that isn’t bad enough, my house has had hardly any chocolate in it throughout this arduous stretch of labour.
How is a guy supposed to cope?
I’m used to living in a home that is full of treats, and taking time off work during this Easter and Royal Wedding break.
I took the ‘magic three days’ off work too, which was an absolute brilliant piece of thinking.
For those non British or vaguely educated among you, here’s how it worked…
Easter weekend meant that Good Friday (22nd April) and Easter Monday (25th) were holidays. Then Friday 29th was a holiday for the Wedding and Monday 2nd May was ‘May Day’ bank holiday. Therefore because I booked April 26th,27th & 28th off work, I actually had 11 consecutive days at home for the price of 3. How class is that? The weather turned out to be summer holiday standard too – making it a brilliant time to be lounging about at home playing and working my way through a stash of chocolate eggs.
Being back at work and chocolate free has been a bit of a shock to the system I can tell you.
Anyway, I need to go and have a bit of a lie down now; I have to prepare myself for next week’s seemingly impossible 5 days of commuting. That’s like practically every day (mostly).
It’s just a good job we have another bank holiday at the end of this month, otherwise I don’t think I would survive it all!
…and people say the content of my posts is inconsistent…
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The death of Osama
This will not be a standard Glen’s Life post. Maybe you would prefer to come back tomorrow? I do apologise in advance for this post, as there is absolutely no way of writing it without offending at least one person.
I have waited a few days to say my piece on America’s success against the leader of al-quaeda. This is because on the whole I try very hard to keep politics out of Glen’s Life, as it is simply not what this blog is about.
However some things are too important to ignore.
Also some things are far too complex not to contradict yourself a little when you talk about them, so don’t be surprised if I do that.
The media are now having an absolute frenzy, desperate to be the first to report anything at all – so desperate that as usual, they never stop to think about if they really should report it.
What I wanted to do was to stop and think.
Think about what I was saying.
As regular readers will know, I am ex-forces and so my opinions will, of course, always slant in a particular direction, and this is no different.
The mission was a massively important success.
I can’t get excited and party over the death of any particular individual, but the fact is that this was an important battle in an ongoing war, and deserves to be heralded as such.
In war soldiers die. Why should that be different for the generals?
The media are raising questions about Bin Laden not getting a proper trial.
Did the people in the Twin Towers get a fair trial?
In fact, I believe that Osama has already had his trial. After every atrocity that his group have carried out during his reign, this man has videoed himself accepting responsibility and congratulating his troops for their actions. He has very much pleaded guilty already.
What possible sentence could he have been given? What possible difference could putting him in court have made?
Now the media and indeed the free thinking people as a whole, via the Internet, will desperately try to pull apart the story in order to prove or disprove elements of it, without any thought whatsoever to the consequences of doing so.
Essentially, this is one time where I do believe we Westerners should go back to ‘old school’ wartime propaganda control, and just shush. Every time we go over this we are handing a portion of the victory back to the terrorists.
This is a man whose own importance within the organization he was apart of, had waned significantly over the years – who was becoming less and less significant to his people.
By taking him out we have handed them back their figurehead. This is a group who firmly believe in the honour of dying for their cause. If we are not too careful, we simply raise an otherwise fading star, into Martyred superhero status.
I couldn’t agree more with America not releasing the photos – please don’t.
The terrorists simply know how much political damage showing those pictures would do in Western society. It is not for America to prove he is dead. Let the terrorists prove he isn’t – after all, that should be pretty easy right? I have heard the theories that say he is being kept alive and interrogated somewhere, free from any scrutiny or control because the detainee is already dead. Maybe this is yet another piece of fiction, maybe it isn’t.
The man is gone. One way or another, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care after that.
Was he armed before he was killed?
How many people on the London Underground were armed before they were killed?
How many people struggle to live each day even now, coping with their own internal torture, no matter how many years pass, because of the horrors they were put through? Am I supposed to be upset about Osama's treatment?
I know I should probably be more caring and more sensitive to his Human rights – but I'm not. Maybe I’m not as nice a person as I pretend to be.
I do not celebrate the killing of anyone, and I do not think for a moment that his death will significantly hurt al-quaeda. I do, however, think that this was necessary, and that America has got it absolutely right so far.
I do think that we, as a people, have to back off now and stop helping the terrorists by being so desperate to find the holes in the story.
If there are gaps, if there are inaccuracies, let the tiny minority of very, very nasty people find them by themselves, and more importantly, let them prove it rather than just suggest it. We must stop doing their work for them and giving them what they want.
There is no grey area or doubt about his guilt – he already admitted everything with pride.
Now let him serve his punishment.
This is only my opinion, you may or may not agree with some or all of it. I welcome your thoughts and I absolutely welcome both agreeing AND opposing opinions on the comments form here, but please be respectful. I will not delete any well written viewpoints, but I will delete hurtful and unnecessary racial abuse of any kind.
I have waited a few days to say my piece on America’s success against the leader of al-quaeda. This is because on the whole I try very hard to keep politics out of Glen’s Life, as it is simply not what this blog is about.
However some things are too important to ignore.
Also some things are far too complex not to contradict yourself a little when you talk about them, so don’t be surprised if I do that.
The media are now having an absolute frenzy, desperate to be the first to report anything at all – so desperate that as usual, they never stop to think about if they really should report it.
What I wanted to do was to stop and think.
Think about what I was saying.
As regular readers will know, I am ex-forces and so my opinions will, of course, always slant in a particular direction, and this is no different.
The mission was a massively important success.
I can’t get excited and party over the death of any particular individual, but the fact is that this was an important battle in an ongoing war, and deserves to be heralded as such.
In war soldiers die. Why should that be different for the generals?
The media are raising questions about Bin Laden not getting a proper trial.
Did the people in the Twin Towers get a fair trial?
In fact, I believe that Osama has already had his trial. After every atrocity that his group have carried out during his reign, this man has videoed himself accepting responsibility and congratulating his troops for their actions. He has very much pleaded guilty already.
What possible sentence could he have been given? What possible difference could putting him in court have made?
Now the media and indeed the free thinking people as a whole, via the Internet, will desperately try to pull apart the story in order to prove or disprove elements of it, without any thought whatsoever to the consequences of doing so.
Essentially, this is one time where I do believe we Westerners should go back to ‘old school’ wartime propaganda control, and just shush. Every time we go over this we are handing a portion of the victory back to the terrorists.
This is a man whose own importance within the organization he was apart of, had waned significantly over the years – who was becoming less and less significant to his people.
By taking him out we have handed them back their figurehead. This is a group who firmly believe in the honour of dying for their cause. If we are not too careful, we simply raise an otherwise fading star, into Martyred superhero status.
I couldn’t agree more with America not releasing the photos – please don’t.
The terrorists simply know how much political damage showing those pictures would do in Western society. It is not for America to prove he is dead. Let the terrorists prove he isn’t – after all, that should be pretty easy right? I have heard the theories that say he is being kept alive and interrogated somewhere, free from any scrutiny or control because the detainee is already dead. Maybe this is yet another piece of fiction, maybe it isn’t.
The man is gone. One way or another, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care after that.
Was he armed before he was killed?
How many people on the London Underground were armed before they were killed?
How many people struggle to live each day even now, coping with their own internal torture, no matter how many years pass, because of the horrors they were put through? Am I supposed to be upset about Osama's treatment?
I know I should probably be more caring and more sensitive to his Human rights – but I'm not. Maybe I’m not as nice a person as I pretend to be.
I do not celebrate the killing of anyone, and I do not think for a moment that his death will significantly hurt al-quaeda. I do, however, think that this was necessary, and that America has got it absolutely right so far.
I do think that we, as a people, have to back off now and stop helping the terrorists by being so desperate to find the holes in the story.
If there are gaps, if there are inaccuracies, let the tiny minority of very, very nasty people find them by themselves, and more importantly, let them prove it rather than just suggest it. We must stop doing their work for them and giving them what they want.
There is no grey area or doubt about his guilt – he already admitted everything with pride.
Now let him serve his punishment.
This is only my opinion, you may or may not agree with some or all of it. I welcome your thoughts and I absolutely welcome both agreeing AND opposing opinions on the comments form here, but please be respectful. I will not delete any well written viewpoints, but I will delete hurtful and unnecessary racial abuse of any kind.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Responding to tags
Last night I remembered that I had been tagged here and there, for a few different things, and I have yet to respond.
I was so upset about this that I almost immediately went to sleep and forgot all about it again.
So anyway – I thought I’d better say a big thanks to those of you who have tagged me, I do love it – but sometimes I just can’t be arsed – sorry!
Right…
First of all there was Barbara over at JoBart, the woman with the gift of knowing how to melt you a little bit with her photography. She tagged me for a 3 by 9 meme – only I completely forgot about it
Then London City Mum – who, like Barbara, is one quality British blog writer, even if she is ridiculously healthy, I mean, what possible good can come from sport anyway? I have no idea – but you should read her anyway. So LCM tagged me on the Guardian’s Life and Style Q&A meme, and I really did mean to get around to doing that one – I did.
Lastly, and most recently, I was tagged by the ever awesomely Britaustrian Emma, from Mommy has a headache and co-author of the impressively successful Cocktails at Naptime, who tagged me to find out what was in my fridge. Now I honestly was going to respond to that one – I really was, but then Jo pointed out the following (this is a direct quote)…
“Post a photo of the inside of my fridge on your blog and I’ll kick your balls off.” After some careful consideration I decided that I believed her, so I left it.
So please note that I am sorry for not joining in this time, I’m not a complete grouch – honest!
I was so upset about this that I almost immediately went to sleep and forgot all about it again.
So anyway – I thought I’d better say a big thanks to those of you who have tagged me, I do love it – but sometimes I just can’t be arsed – sorry!
Right…
First of all there was Barbara over at JoBart, the woman with the gift of knowing how to melt you a little bit with her photography. She tagged me for a 3 by 9 meme – only I completely forgot about it
Then London City Mum – who, like Barbara, is one quality British blog writer, even if she is ridiculously healthy, I mean, what possible good can come from sport anyway? I have no idea – but you should read her anyway. So LCM tagged me on the Guardian’s Life and Style Q&A meme, and I really did mean to get around to doing that one – I did.
Lastly, and most recently, I was tagged by the ever awesomely Britaustrian Emma, from Mommy has a headache and co-author of the impressively successful Cocktails at Naptime, who tagged me to find out what was in my fridge. Now I honestly was going to respond to that one – I really was, but then Jo pointed out the following (this is a direct quote)…
“Post a photo of the inside of my fridge on your blog and I’ll kick your balls off.” After some careful consideration I decided that I believed her, so I left it.
So please note that I am sorry for not joining in this time, I’m not a complete grouch – honest!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
A Right Royal Bun Fight
So royalist or not, British or not, I do hope you all had fun on the 29th?
I did.
The day started with me determinedly drinking tea out of my unbelievably naff Wills and Kate mug (a whopping £1 from Wilkinsons – we are talking class gear here), and trying to get the boys interested in watching several hours of the dullest TV imaginable. Whoops of excitement from me at the sight of Kate’s sister in that slinky little Bride’s Maid dress failed to engage them, but a fresh batch of left over Easter Egg helped no end.
I put some free (and quite literally awful) bunting up at the front of the house, and then moved it to the back when Jo reminded me who makes the decisions in our house.
The couple were married.
Hoorah – etc.
With the ceremony over we headed over to a party in the park at Wantage, which was pretty good. They had a list of local bands playing and most importantly of all – a beer tent.
The crowds were in a good mood and it all felt relaxed, until a mixture of ice-cream over chocolate over fizzy pop finally took its grip on the boys.
As I peeled them apart for the twentieth time, I mused that perhaps a change of scene would help.
So we went to Abingdon for a bun fight.
Well, a Hot Crossed Bun ‘catch’ really.
For some reason that I cannot be bothered to Google, the town of Abingdon in Oxfordshire, marks Royal Weddings by throwing buns from the Town Hall roof to the crowds below (If you came here expecting well researched and considered detail, you may have come to the wrong blog, if you came here looking for inaccurate and badly spelled quippery – welcome to Glens Life!)
This year was no different; even though the scaffolding for the refurbishment of the building made the Town Hall look more like Deep Thought, from ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, than a Town Hall. Something like 3000 – 4000 buns over twenty minutes were tossed from the gantry, down to the huge and hungry throng below.
What a laugh.
It was utter madness, joining in with the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ as buns bounced about people’s heads had me laughing myself out of breath.
My well worked out excuse of being too short to catch any buns was quashed at the sight of my two sons walking away with five between them! The little rascals insisted on eating one as well, no matter how much I tried to stop them once I discovered that they had found them all on the floor!
Ah well, if it is in the name of a Royal wedding then it is fair, I guess.
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