Sunday, 24 May 2009
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Contrast these talented animals with Chaddy the Owl, Oldham Athletic's football mascot. He decided to do wheelies on a bicycle before the match at Carlisle. Only he fell off and had to be taken to hospital.
Finally a plea to my reader or readers. Anyone recommend an above average strimmer. We seem to get through more than our fair share. Evidently we are doing it all wrong. The trend now is to go for a wallaby in order to keep your grass down. All you need is around half an acre and a large fence. Cost, male £150, female £600, (albinos are more expensive) and you need one of each as they are social animals. Job done, plus one hell of a talking point at your next cocktail party.
Finally, finally this piece is I hope free from spelling errors. (There are two ways to spell sexagenarian.) Morrisons have withdrawn alphabet building blocks imported from China. Evidently the words 'umbella' and 'yatch' were included in the alphabets words. Only two in twenty six, could be worse!
Monday, 11 May 2009
Firstly we need show the world our normal British, Churchillian spirit, adopted in times of hardship and extreme duress. In times of war the bulldog spirit comes to the fore, we become an invincible spirit feared of no one. I believe once again the time has come for us to lead the world. Our leader, Mr Brown whitters on, seemingly in control, smiling benevolently. But, to paraphrase the spirit shown by Dad's Army, 'Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Whittler.' We need firm leadership if we are to survive.
A singsong will help pass the time, and more important will help morale. The young amongst you will no doubt gustily join in renderings of We'll Meet Again, As Time Goes By or A Bicycle Built for Two. Very modern choices, but remember, granny and grandad might well prefer the likes of Down at The Old Bull and Bush, Burlington Bertie from Bowe or Who Were You with Last Night. They might be more anxious than you in these troubled times, always remember, you too will be old one day!
If, and only if you have, for any reason to leave the comparative safety of your four walls I must reiterate the importance of dressing accordingly to keep this scourge of the 21st century at bay.
Stay by your wireless and wait for the government's pronouncement that all is well once again. I am sure they are working on it to the utmost of their ability, at least that's what I'm afraid of!
'When Britain first at heav'ns command
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain;
Rule , Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never shall be slaves.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
"Why did the banana go to the doctors?"
"I don't know, why did the banana go to the Doctors?"
"Because he wasn't peeling very well!"
"Doctor, doctor, I don't feel very well, I feel like a pair of curtains."
"Pull yourself together."
Interestingly enough, the doctor joke I remember from my own childhood, which set me thinking. Do children in general still tell jokes, if so, have they changed in the main from my childhood?
We tended to tell jokes that began, "There was an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman." They all finished with the Irishman being the butt of the joke, definitely politically incorrect nowadays. Some of our jokes were smutty, repeated away from adult ears as we knew they would not approve. I recently asked a delightful young lady of my acquaintance, aged sixteen to tell me the kind of joke circulated amongst her peers. The result was a very funny story but unrepeatable, enough I suspect to make a hardened navvy blush. In our early adolescence our humour too tended to reflect our growing occupation with sex. An example is the following story, deemed rude by ourselves but mild by today's standards.Three cowboys walked into the local store to buy provisions. An attractive young lady stood behind the counter.“Can I help you?” she asked.“A bag a’ raisins” requested the first cowboy.The young lady moved a ladder to the shelves behind the counter and proceeded up it until she could reach the top shelf, showing a large expanse of stocking as she did so. She returned to the counter with a sack and gave it to the cowboy.
She looked at the second cowboy. “A bag a’ raisins,” he too requested. The young lady returned to the ladder and proceeded upwards, showing even more stocking and flesh. She returned to the counter with the sack and turned to the third cowboy.
"A' raisin?" she asked.
"No, just a' twitchin," replied the cowboy.
I have asked many of my contemporaries for stories from their childhood. With few exceptions virtually none can now be remembered which in a way is a shame. The cowboy story was told to me by a village friend of more than fifty years ago. I personally remember only two other repeatable jokes beside the doctor joke from those childhood days.
Firstly a joke I probably considered sophisticated in my early grammar school days.
Two lions were walking near Trafalgar Square in London. One turned to his mate and said, "Isn't it quiet for an Easter Monday."And last but not least my favourite joke for at least the past sixty years.
This couple always wanted a child and they were thrilled to have at last a baby boy. An unusual child, different in that, instead of having a belly button, he had a small golden nut and bolt, a half inch Whitworth nut and bolt. (We were of course unaware of the more delicate term navel for belly button. Of any case belly button was good enough for us.)People came from far and wide and his parents would roll down his nappy so that they could view this amazing sight. But as the child grew up he became embarrassed by the fact that he was different from other children. Girlfriends were amazed, but also amused and it wasn’t doing his sex life any good. So he visited his doctor. The doctor was worse than useless, so were other specialists in The National Health Service. He was desperate, willing to visit anyone who might be able to help. There appeared no way that conventional medicine could help. Which is why he found himself consulting a witch doctor in darkest Africa.“My son,” said the witch doctor, “there is only one cure for your condition. You must find a field of ripe corn. On the night of the full moon you must lie down on the ground. At exactly midnight you must pull down your trousers and wait."With mounting excitement he returned home. Summer came and he found a field matching the witch doctor’s requirements. On the right day, an hour before midnight, secretly he lay down in the centre of his chosen field. He rolled down his trousers and waited. At exactly midnight the clouds parted, the moon shone brightly and a little angel, holding a white napkin floated down from the sky. The angel alighted amid the corn and carefully unwrapped the napkin, revealing an exquisite gold spanner, a half inch Whitworth spanner. Expertly handling the spanner, he proceeded to unscrew the nut and remove the bolt.He placed them carefully in the napkin, smiled at the young man and flew silently away. The young man lay in the corn and joy overcame him. He could not believe that at long last he was the same as anyone else. His troubles were surely over, and he joyously jumped to his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, “Look at me, look at me, I’m cured, I'm cured.” And then his backside fell off.
Presumably children all over the world still tell jokes and stories. Any examples gratefully received. You never know, we may be able to blog in the future with your examples.
Labels: Englishman, Irishman, London, Scotsman, Trafalgar Square, Whitworth
Friday, 1 May 2009
“Tell a lie and find the truth.”Spanish Proverb
“‘Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched’. Aesop, 570AD” retorted Michael, determined not to be upstaged. Ernie pondered the misfortunes of the illustrious Jake.“Arthur could never be considered unfortunate, certainly where money was concerned. Niche markets were his speciality. He owned a small factory producing left handed cups that were a great success. He bought a large consignment of contraceptives, seconds that is. He resold them to Roman Catholics with the promise that they had the blessing, so to speak, of the Pope. He sold, by mail order, 78 records that purported to contain the entire work of Marcel Marceau. He became a rich man. His innovative spirit knew no bounds. And he would undoubtedly have continued to prosper, had his fortune not become his misfortune, so to speak.
A rich young man who could afford any leisure activity of his choice, he was one of the earliest riders of a motorcycle in his district. Arthur was the proud owner of an AJS, named after the maker, Mr A J Stevens. Before the age of sophisticated motorcycle clothing, any long coat sufficed, worn back to front to keep out the cold, and buttoned up before a journey by helpful friends, often of the female gender. A leather helmet and goggles, a scarf and long gauntlets completed the transformation. Throwing caution to the wind, Arthur was often seen hurtling through the villages, drawing admiring gazes from love struck young maidens, and fearful curses galore from those aged and infirm.
He had minor accidents, mishaps inevitable to so fearless a rider. And he would have no doubt continued in like vein, except for an unfortunate mistake by a pair of country bumkins, unaware of the ways of the world, the motorcycle world, that is.
Dashing down a country lane on a warm summer evening, Arthur encountered with both wheels a cowpat of particular lushness. In full view of two straw chewing yokels, seated on a farmyard gate, the out of control rider and machine flew through the air. Both cleared a stone wall with consummate ease.The motorbike sailed into an uninviting duck pond and Arthur landed face down with no small impact on a grassy bank. Arthur stared into the ground, no doubt tasted the grass beneath him and was probably thankful to be alive. That is, until the helpful yokels arrived and viewed the prone figure. Helpful to the end, that is Arthur’s end, the two yokels, with great difficulty, but equal determination managed to realign his head!” Ernie grimaced at the thought of Arthur’s unfortunate end.