Thursday, September 30, 2004

Panic? Moi?

Tonight we (Ad Hock) are recording our new live cd at Geneva's bar in Peterborough. As usual we haven't rehearsed anything. We haven't played together as a group in a month. We haven't discussed what we're going to be doing. We haven't actually done anything. I haven't even spoken to the guys in two weeks. So nothing new there then, it's situation normal. I can't see a problem with that. We've been doing it for years. It'll be great.
Mike Fowler took away my mandolin for emergency treatment day before yesterday, I gave him new strings to put on it. He forgot. He brought back the mandolin with the old strings on, it's worse than before and one of the strings is broken. He's got my spares, he said he'd drop them round last night but didn't, so, I'm not panicking. No really I'm not. The strings are only buzzing like fuck and we're playing tonight. Do I panic? No because I'm a professional. I'll dig out a suitably sized guitar string and use that. I've fixed my 12 string, using some industrial nuts and bolts from a Russian car. Not pretty but it wont break again, ever.

Today I have to try and fix my Mandolin. It'll probably mean using the cardboard from a Weetabix box, some sticky back plastic and an old washing up liquid bottle. As a kid I was never able to make any of the things shown on Blue Peter because I didn't know what sticky back plastic was. Now if they'd just come out and told me that this legendary sticky back plastic was actually sellotape well I could have made Pencil holders, desk ascessories for my Dad, beautiful little kitchen napkin holders for Mum, I could have transformed Cornflakes boxes into filing cabinets and lemonade bottles into the Starship Enterprise, but they insisted on calling it sticky back plastic. My life will never be the same. I could have seen their point if we watched the Australian version of Blue Peter over there they call sellotape "Durex". You can imagine it can't you? "Now children take your Durex .................." Kids will be running upstairs looking in Dads bedside cabinet to get some Durex so they can make the "must have" kitchen roll holder for Mum.


I gotta go I have a date with destiny and several feet of sticky back plastic. hey ho what it is to be a musician.

Rock on Dudes

iPod now playing - You need hands by Max Bygraves

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Wednesday, September 29, 2004

A day in the life

Oh the joys of being a musician. Last night Paul and I turned up at the pub armed with Guitars. As we walked in this guy, obviously drunk, came up to greet us.
“Hey whens you’s guys playing? You’s guys are fucking great.” he’s pumping my hand with a vice like grip. Oh the joy of being famous and being recognised. “Remember me?” he went on. “I was at the front table when you’s guys played the Wheatsheaf.”
“Yeah great.” I said.
He turns around and shouts to whoever would listen “Fuckin top man this”, and he has his arm round my shoulder like we’re best mates or summat, but all I want is for him to go away. He’s a big fella, close cropped hair and a Ben Sherman shirt. “That’s my dad.” He says pointing to an equally drunk guy leaning heavily on a table. “Yo Dave!” he shout’s, then confidentially to me, repeats “That’s ma da’.”
Dave comes over and they play fight a bit, sparring, a bit of ducking and diving. Then they sit down. We order drinks and Ben Sherman man comes over a few more times to tell us how “Fucking awesome we are.” I just want to tell him to “Fuck off. “ but I stay polite and patient.
Simona turns up with his Bongos and Gibson J200 guitar, then Mike Fowler with his Gibson Epiphone Electric semi acoustic. We start playing and get through a few songs. The verve, REM, Stereophonics, U2. Suddenly there’s screaming and shouting. Ben Sherman man is flying across the room fists clenched, he crashes into a table occupied by a local football team having a post match pint or two, they’re really upset about their beer being knocked over. They all stand. One of them gets an elbow in his ribs. It’s enough, he wades in. Meanwhile Ben Shermans father picks up a chair to throw but it’s knocked out of his hand before he can swing it. The Landlord wades in and gets the shirt ripped off his back for his trouble.
We’re sitting there watching in disbelief. Mike Fowler breaks into “The Lion sleeps tonight.” And I sit back and savour the moment where we’re all playing and singing “wimoway, wimoway, wimoway.” while all around there is carnage. Chairs flying and fists blazing. The football team descend on Ben Sherman man, they have him on the floor, he’s given a good kicking, people give him a boot as they walk past, just because they wanted to. The biggest footballer is sitting on his chest telling him to calm down. But he wont be calmed, he’s still thrashing away so they kick him some more. The girlfriends are screaming to let him get up and the father is still waving a chair around and we’re still singing “Wimoway wimoway”.

It’s just another day in the life of a musician

iPod now playing – Wonderful world by Louis Armstrong

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Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Zen and the Art of Custard Pies

Greetings Earthmen. It's now Tuesday again in your Earth calendar and so I guess it's story day. Not so many votes this week. Had a few phone calls from people last night saying alternatively that they had a good excuse for not voting ( I believe you) or (being very honest) couldn't be arsed. So 66% of you went for Custard pies. I would have chosen that myself. It's one of my favourite stories. And of course it's absolutely true, ask anyone who went to the Wendover carnival that year. Bet you can't wait. So here it is...........

Zen and the Art of Custard Pies

It was the summer of ’76 the hottest driest summer I can remember and Wendover carnival was getting close. Dave the youth leader at our youth club announced that we’d been invited to organise something for the carnival in the main arena. Anything. It was all part of the community spirit, everyone coming together to have a good time. Dave asked for ideas. We sat there not being able to think of a thing that we could do. We were just a youth club. It was not as if we were some themed club that could demonstrate out amazing abilities at the martial arts, or gymnastics or such like. Just a bunch of guys and girls from the estate. Suddenly I had an idea. “How about a custard pie battle?”
“What?”
“A custard pie battle. It’ll be great, we get a load of custard pies and throw them at each other.”
Dave was not convinced but it seemed to strike a chord with everyone else.
“Yeah yeah Yeah. Lets have a custard pie fight.”
“Where do we get the custard?” asked Dave.
“No problem.” I said.
Well readers who pay attention will by now know, due to a recent comment, that I used to live in a Transport café, I could get more custard than you can shake a stick at. I got my mother to obtain from cash and carry a huge catering pack of dry mix custard. Just add water.
The night before the carnival Dougal (Dougal is a girl, her real name is Denise) and I spent hours making up gallons and gallons of custard in the café kitchens. You see no one told me that custard pies are not really made of custard. I was young. How was I to know? The next morning with help we carried it all down to the carnival along with paper plates. Loads of them.
The carnival was great fun with carnival floats driving up and down the street, a fun fair and all the novelty stalls you can imagine. It was really well organised. Finally toward the end of the afternoon just after the police dog demonstration, the tannoy speakers announced “The Wendover youth club custard pie battle”.
We arranged two pasting tables 20 feet apart and loaded then up with the plates of custard. We had two teams each standing next to one of the tables. Dave the youth leader blew his whistle let the battle commence.
We hadn’t thought of any rules or if anyone would win or not. It was just a matter of chucking custard pies at each other. Which was great. Except it caught the imagination of a lot of other kids, who ducked under the rope fence and joined in. Then they were nicking the pies and running into the crowd with them throwing custard pies at their friends and anyone else who got in the way. It was getting out of hand and there was still loads of pies unthrown. Custard was going everywhere. Dave blew his whistle to stop the fight, but it was futile. We had cried "havoc" and let slip the dogs of war. Little old ladies sitting behind the ropes on their fold up chairs, were getting one right in their freshly blue rinsed perms. Mother with babies in pushchairs, splattered. The organisers came running over to take control they got splattered. Oh the joy! The total anarchy of the situation. We just watched in disbelief as the fight slipped from our hands. Dogs were running around excitedly joining in the game. No one within throwing distance was spared. The plates were thrown and still it carried on with kids scraping custard off the grass by the handful and smearing it all over each other.
Then the aweful realisation. It was hot, the custard was drying on our clothes and in our hair. It wouldn’t just wipe off. It stuck like glue. We were getting crusty.
Then came the complaints. The elderly, covered in custard marching up to the organisers tent. Mothers, complaining that their childrens best clothes were ruined, and dragging their kids off for an early bath. That evening there was a steady stream of people walking home with crusty hair and crusty clothes.
Do I regret it? Am I sorry for the little old ladies with the blue rinses? Am I remorseful that it got out of hand and escalated into mass hysteria? Do I worry that Wendovers highly organised traditional summer carnival, had descended into a slapstick? Naah! It’s a whole new meaning to a pie in the face of authority.

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Monday, September 27, 2004


This is Richard and Abi for those who have forgotten what they look like. Occasionally you can see photos of Abi in magazines and on hair salon walls. To know her is to love her.  Posted by Hello

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The Monday Voterama

I' m back from and eventful weekend and I've had a think and come to some very simple conclusions. I see ghosts. So f**king what? It's not a problem. It's not as if I see them everyday, they don't affect my life, things can go on as normal. Spooky things happen to me. Again, so what? The more I think about it the more I realise that "spooky" things have happened to me all my life, it's just that I've never thought about it that hard before. So there is no problem. I'm just the same as I was last week, the only thing that's different is someone took the trouble to point out to me the bleedin obvious. To bring together all the "spooky" stuff that's happened to me, so I see that they aren't all one off coincedences but an ongoing pattern of events that can't be rationally explained unless you accept certain things. And you know it's easier to just accept that this stuff happens and it's normal, than worry about it. So I'm drawing a line under this one. I'll let you know if anything else happens of course, but the panic is over. I'm very comfortable with the situation now.

Another thing I'm drawing a line under is this Anony Mouse thing. I don't know who it is and to be honest I don't care. It was interesting at first, but now ....... well I have better things to do than waste my time on someone who is too pathetic to identify him/herself. I've had it with losers. Life is too precious to waste playing stupid games. So that said on with the show.............

Saturday Richard came to see me from the band "Within". Seems he and Abi had a gig and it was such short notice that his band couldn't make it. He asked me if I could help out. Well apart from the fact I didn't know any of the songs on their set list or had ever played any of them before, it wasn't a problem. I just play. I've been doing it for years most notably with my own band Ad-Hock. There's never a gig goes by without them throwing a new song at me and I'm expected to play it. We never rehearse, there's no point, we never know what we're going to play, our gigs are like a live request show where people shout out what they want to listen to then we play it.

So Saturday night we found ourselves in Quinks hometown, Stamford. More specifically at the Green Man at the top of the High Street. Rather than struggle through the crowd we passed all the equipment through the window, speakers, amplifiers, guitars etc and set up. Richard and Abi did the first set as a duo then in the break we went through a list of songs we were going to do. Richard told me the key we were going to be playing in and the general sequence of chords, which was a luxury for me, normally I only get "one two three" bang and we're into a new song, I have seconds to figure out what the song is, what key we're playing in, and catch up. So being prewarned.......... well it's as good as knowing what the hell you're doing. The gig was brilliant fun. I even got paid. Wow! It's great to be appreciated. Richard and Abi were buzzing. Itwas the first time they'd ever played their set acoustically. It sounded fabulous. We even had this guy Chris in the background playing conga's big Tom Tom drums. The Landlord Tony was really pleased and asked us to play again. I don't know if "us" will include me, as I was just a stand in for the night. We'll see. But it would be fun.

Anyway nows the time to send me your vote on the Tuesday story, here are the four runners:

In trap one ..............The Johnny Grays (you can never be too prepared)

In trap two..............Spying (the security of our nation is at stake.....)

In trap three............Custard Pie (When you lose control of a situation)

In trap four.............Flies (Nature takes it's course)

I'm afraid there's no sex or perving in any of these stories, well not much, sorry Del, I've had it with people thinking I've got a dick fixation or a urine fetish. So cast those runes, throw the dice, what ever, choose your fate, like the flapping wings of a butterfly, your choice could have repercussions through out the world.
Nothing like a good build up.

Rock on Dudes

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Friday, September 24, 2004

Closed for the weekend

I'm going to leave you guys for the weekend. I'll be having a think and getting to grips with this new phenomenon that has befallen me. I'll be talking to a few people. I'll be getting used to the idea. Already I'm a lot calmer about it. But there's still a few things I need to think about.

I'll be back first thing Monday morning, guns blazing and firing on all cylinders, OK it's going to be a quiet weekend. usually I feel like shit 1st thing Monday because I've been having a great time. But there'll be the usual voterooni on the Tuesday story. NO perves this time I'm afraid. People are beginning to think I spend all my time either showing people my dick or fixating on urine, neither is true. I hope that hasn't spoilt peoples opinion of me. Also I'm being informed I am crazy. Well on that one I wont comment but I wont endorse it either. I leave it to you to make up your own minds. Funnily enough if you trawl through blogs it's remarkable how many youngsters put in their profile "I am insane" perhaps that's a prerequisite of being young and cool nowadays. It doesn't sit so well on older shoulders.
More next Monday

Spook on Dudes

iPod now playing Whispering grass by the Inkspots

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Well I'm totally fucked up now. I never asked to be psychic. I didn't want to be psychic. I was really happy with my existence as a confirmed athiest. Before everything was black and white. It was certain. But now everything is in shit loads of grey. I don't know what to think. I don't want people to think I'm crazy because I've seen ghosts. I don't want people to walk away from me because they think I have over stepped the mark of reality. Christ I'm a scientist. Things have to be proven to me for me to accept them. but this sort of stuff can not be proven. All I can say to you is I am still Mike Da hat. But I'm Mike da hat who is temporarily totally fucked. I don't know where it's going. I never planned this. I didn't ask for it. I want my life back where it was safe and secure.

A friend Emailed me privately and said "When I read your post John lennon sprang to mind" they weren't his exact words but basically that was what he said. Shit I was listening to the new John Lennon legend CD when it happened. This is another example of what is happening to me.; I'm 45 years old why now? I'm too old to change my way of life. My way of thinking. other people already know what I'm thinking. That's scary.

At the moment I am going through a lot of shit. You're going to have to be patient with me until I sort it out in my own mind. Stuff has happened thatI haven't had time to tell you about. It's happened so quickly. I don't even understand it myself. I can't explain it to you. Friends have told me quite sincerely that a door has been opened for me and I only have to step through it. But you know it's scary having to step through that door into the unknown, When I was really happy before. A few posts previously I said that I would not mention this again. But things are happening so quickly that I reserve the right to change my mind.

I only hope you guys don't write me off as a crazy bastard. I promise you I'm not mad. This is frightening me more than you can imagine. My psychic friend keeps telling me that it's not scary it 's normal. But I have to think about that for a while. Be patient. I'm not mad Honest. I don't feel mad I just feel confused. This is all new to me. I'd prefer not to see ghosts. I'd prefer to live my life normally.I don't want to be psychic.It's too much for me right now. I haven't seen anything tonight. I haven't felt anything. I am normal.

iPod now playing We are normal but we dig Burt Weedon by The bonzo dog doo dah band

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Thursday, September 23, 2004

Ghosts

You know strange things have been happening to me lately. Spooky things. I never used to take much notice but since talking to my Psychic friend I've taken the trouble to actually think about it. Last night yet another spooky thing happened. I was having a quiet night in and my psychic friend came round for a chat and coffee. So we were sitting there listening to music and talking and she said she was going to the bathroom.
I lay my head back on my settee shut my eyes and listened to music, half way down the hall way I heard my friend stumble and say "oops sorry!" I didn't think anything of it.
A minute later I heard her come back into the room and I opened my eyes, it wasn't my friend but this strange dark shadowy figure walking across my room, I sat up and tried to focus on it. But as I looked harder the figure just evaporated before my eyes.
I must have still had my gob wide open when my friend came back in the room, because she just said "I see you've just met my new friend then?"
"What?"
"I passed him in the hallway and I fell over your shoes letting him pass."
"Let who pass?"
"Him. Come you saw him too , I know you did, I can tell."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know it's the first time I've seen this one, seems friendly enough though, Don't you think?.
"I'm not sure he didn't actually introduce himself or even herself I really couldn't tell."
"You poor dear you are really struggling with this aren't you?"
"it's not what I'm used to."
"You will, you are very receptive, I noticed that the first time I saw you. You have the power. "
"No I don't."
"But you have, don't be scared of it, accept it."
"But I'm quite happy not having the power."
"You've got it whether you like it or not, it's like saying you are blind just because you refuse to open your eyes."
"But I never saw ghosts before. Why now?"
"Because I'm here. It's like you're riding a bike for the first time and I'm holding the saddle for you. In time you won't need me to be anywhere near and you'll see them all by yourself. I'm just allowing you to see, I'm opening your eyes."
"This is just too spooky for me."
"I told you before it's not spooky it's normal."

Well friends I don't care if it's supposed to be normal or not, it's fucking spooky. I'm not sure I'm ready to learn to see ghosts. I'm not sure if I want to. I wish I hadn't met my psychic friend. I was quite happy in my ignorance. I'll be seeing friggin ghosts all the time now. My friend said "you know some places are like Picadilly circus." Jesus I'm having enough trouble coping with seeing one ghost, never mind a crowd of them all milling around. I'm not sure I want this. I never asked for it. You guys know me I'm an athiest. I don't believe in such things. I'll take the piss and poo poo any one who says they believe in ghosts. I'm a musician, lover and bad dancer. I'm no psychic. Take it away.

iPod now playing Ghost town by the Specials

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Nobby

........and then there's Nobby. Nobby is famous in Peterborough, he lives in a bus shelter on Oundle Road near all the posh houses. As you drive past you can usually see him sitting in his bus shelter wrapped up in a sleeping bag, with a bearded head poking out the top. He never bothers anyone, he's no trouble. Once a particularly snobbish resident started some action to have him removed because he was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. The amazing result of this was that nearly all of the locals in their posh houses leapt to his defence, they wanted him to stay.
He's been living in his bus shelter for longer than I can remember. My girl is nineteen now and I remember pushing her in her pram past Nobby's bus shelter. I reckon he's staying a bit longer so he can qualify for the councils right to buy scheme. Or is it that if he stays in the bus shelter long enough without anyone saying anything it automatically becomes his. I wonder what the freehold value of a bus shelter is?

Nobby used to be a School teacher, he's very intelligent and thoughtful he never says much. It's almost impossible to have a conversation with his, he will speak but it's always a non committal answer, for instance if you ask him how he is he replies "Mustn't grumble." It all fell apart for him when his whole family died in a house fire. he was never the same.

One Christmas eve many years ago it was freezing outside and my thoughts went to Nobby all alone in his bus shelter with no heating and protection from the elements on only three sides, the front being totally open. So I gathered up my children and loaded them into the car.
"Where are you taking the kids?" asks wife.
"We're going to see Nobby."
"Are you mad! It's freezing out there."
"But it's Christmas. I want to go and see Nobby." It's not like we were best friends or anything, it's just that it was Christmas.
So we drove to Nobby's pied de terre, stopping along the way at a garage for 20 ciggies for him. My Christmas present for him.
We arrived and the snow was on the ground, it was dead quiet the snow scrunching under our feet, Nobby was huddled up in his bus shelter surrounded by crates of beer, bottles of whiskey, sherry, Port, tins of biscuits and cake.
"How are you?" I asked.
"I'm fine." he said in his soft scottish accent.
"Warm enough?"
"Can't grumble."
"Here's a present for you." I handed him the packet of cigs.
"Thank you." he says and looks them over. "I don't smoke these" he says, and hands them back. "D'ye drink?"
"Yes ocassionally."
"Well help yer sen to a few cans. I've got plenty."
"I couldn't possibly. They're yours."
"Well you had the kindness to bring me a present let me have the privelige of offering you the same kindness. What will it be, Stella? Kronenberg? Grolsch? Heineken? ... er I have some bottles of Abbott Ale here somewhere... let me see....."
"No really. It's not necessary."
"I insist laddie. Now what will you be having?"
I chose the cheapest lager I could see, Skol. He gave me six cans. I thanked him and walked away with the children.
"Daddy? Why did that man give you beer?"
"Because he wanted to."
"But I thought we were supposed to give him a present because he's poor and has no money."
"That's what I thought."
I get home and the wife looks at me carrying the cans of beer, I tell her Nobby gave them to me as a present.
"Typical." she says "only you could go and visit a tramp and come away with more than you left with."
But she didn't appreciate the guys dignity. I felt aweful taking the beer, but I had to allow him his dignity, my wife couldn't see that, she only saw I had taken from a tramp. That was another blot in my already overflowing copybook.

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Life? Don't talk to me about life.

A friend of mine has a young man living in her car park. His name is Mark, his girl friend kicked him out after a period of writing to a prisoner in jail, he was coming out of prison and she invited him to live with her so she kicked Mark out the door to make room for the ex-con. Mark didn't have anywhere to go, all he had was his car, so he now lives outside my friends house in his car. He has his camping gas stove and cooks bacon and beefburgers on his gas stove. The car is his front room. because he is a single guy he has almost no points to get housed, he can't work, because he is recovering from a serious accident, so he can't afford his own place. So everyday he sits in his car, occasionally walking down to the shops and buying the out of date food at a cut price. His patio is my friends garden wall, on which he sits watching the world go by.
Now you may be thinking "what a waster". But you'd be wrong. During the day he is selling stuff door to door a scheme similar to Am-ways. It's about as much as he can do at the moment. He has an order book currently with £400 worth of orders but he doesn't have an address. So my friend lets him borrow her address when his area manager comes to visit him. When it's time for bed he drives his car ten yards to the corner of the car park and goes to sleep on the back seat. First thing in the morning he drives it back to the wall again.
I spoke to him today, he is so desperate that his only hope is to stop taking his inhalers and catch pneumonia, then when he goes into hospital to be treated they wont be able to throw him out because he's homeless, the council will have to give him a place to live. That's his theory, how desperate is that? Today was the first time he's had a bath in four weeks. My friend took pity on him.
Now the funny bit. He has become best friends with the ex-con who is regretting the day he ever moved in with his prison penfriend, he says he had more freedom in prison, she's on his case 24/7, so he spends his time sitting on the wall with Mark trying to avoid the girl friend. They sit and talk football and if they're flush they might go and have a can of beer or two from the supermarket. It's a life.

And finally.......My mate went to the sex shop to buy a blow up doll, the guy behind the counter asked him if he wanted an English doll or a terrorist doll.
"what's the difference?"
"The terrorist doll blows herself up."

Rock on dudes

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Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Levi 501's

I don't know if I've told you this one before and I can't be arsed to go back through the archives to find out, but it's relevant to the Tuesday story this week. I went to the College Arms in Peterborough one night and I was wearing a pair of Levi 501's that I had inherited from my brother. He died in a diving accident. Scuba diving. He died trying to save his best friend, but that's another story. Well in his memory every day I wear an Item of his clothing. Maybe that sounds crazy but it helps me. For instance today I am wearing his socks. Yesterday I wore one of his T-shirts. Never a day goes by when I don't wear something of his. Apart from my memories it's all I've got left. Anyway this night I wore his old Levi 501's, they are the ones with the button flies. So after a while drinking copious amounts of the falling down water, I had to go and recycle. All was going well until it came to button up again. The buttons were really tight. I was struggling. People came and went and I was still wrestling with my fly. All of a sudden I noticed this guy looking at me, while the last guy was finishing off, two shakes and a tuck, he gave me a wink. I continued trying to do up the ridiculously tight buttons. He assumed I was stalling for time to get rid of the last customer. He waited some more over by the cubicles. Then I was alone with this winking guy. He made a comment like "nice bum." And I still had four buttons to do up. I cursed my dead brother for having such bad taste in clothes, and pulling down my jumper I ran out the loos back to my table. Where my friends started asking me what I was fiddling with under the table and that perhaps I should have kept what I was doing private, in a cubicle. If only they knew the circumstance. Perhaps they'd have been more sympathetic. So sorry bro' I'm not wearing those jeans of yours to the pub again. Perhaps you'll come and see me again one day.

That's a bit weird I know. But this is something that happened to me and I can't explain. My bro' died on the Sunday and Father said to me "we've got to go to Scotland to sort everything out. can you look after the business while we're gone?" Well is the pope Catholic? Of course I could. So I ran the family business for three days Monday til Wednesday. Wednesday night came and I couldn't take it anymore and I fell into a black hole of grief and despair. My good friend Steve took me to the pub and filled me full of ale and lisened patiently while I talked absolute rubbish all night and blubbed. Later he took me home and put me to bed. I was incapable of anything by then. I struggled through Thursday, Friday and then Saturday, coping with custoimers and trying to carry on. Then at 10:30am I felt it. It was like a rush. My brother flew through me. That's all I can describe it as. A whoosh. But I knew it was him. Suddenly I felt great. A weight was lifted from my shoulders I started smiling and feeling good about myself. But I'm an athiest so I couldn't rationalise what had happened. I kept quiet for six months for fear of people thinking I was a crazy loon. Then after six months I was in a pub with my darling sister, we were chatting I said "Don't think me crazy but a strange thing happened after bro' died. he came to me."
She said "Was that 10:30 the following Saturday?"
Shit! Hairs standing on the back of your neck or what?
"Yes that's the exact time."
"Same thing happened to me. Did you feel good after?"
"Yes I did."
"That was James, telling us he was OK."
I've never felt him since. My mother has a phone in her house. It's a very old phone. One of those dial phones. It's not even connected. It's just an ornament. But in the middle of the night it rings. Mother knows it's james calling her she picks up the reciever and talks to him. A few times she's been clearing out cupboards and has opened a door and everything falls out. Guess whats on the top of the pile? A photograph of James. Or a letter from him.

I'm still an athiest. But you know, it makes you wonder. I must confess I have now moved on from being an absolute athiest to being a sceptic. For chrissakes how many more clues do I need? Where have you heard that before?

I still have, what I think is, a healthy aversion to religion. I have Christian values but I'm not a Christian I don't believe in God. I hold no truck with Islam or seventh day adventists, Jehovas witnesses, I'm not a methodist or a babtist, I'm not a satanist, mainstream religion leaves me cold. I am not a religious man. But there';s something out there. I don't know what it is. Perhaps one of you guys can tell me what it's all about. I'm a hard target. I don't give in too easily to the supernatural. I have been trained as a scientist, but so many spooky things have happened to me, that I begin to wonder.

My psychic friend told me last week "it's not spooky, it's normal. You only think it's spooky because you don't believe. Once you accept that it's normal everyting will fall into place. You don't have to believe in God or any religion, just accept that this is how it is. Then all your worries about "spooky stuff" happening to you will make sense."

Well that's OK for the rest of you. But for me that's a huge leap. I haven't even scratched the surface of all the "spooky" things that have happened to me. I don't talk about this often, it worries me. So this may be the last time I mention it. So if you've got any ideas.................

Thanks for being there

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Zen and the Art of Perving

Well the vote was overwhelmingly infavour of the perve story. As Del said I think we've found the level now. It just goes to show what a degenerate lot we all are. You for choosing it and me for writing it.
So heres the Tuesday story. It's true by the way.

Zen and the Art of Perving

Gary and I were on a trip round Europe Interailing, after travelling on trains for twenty four hours straight from Switzerland, we arrived in Belgrade. For a capital city Belgrade Central was not much to look at. Run down and dirty. Bladder bursting, I descended into the dark dank depths of the stations toilet. Standing at the free standing urinals, I let go. But something was not quite right. Yes I already knew I was standing tip toe in an inch of water. There was something else. I looked under the porcelein and noticed the down pipe was sawn off and was emptying straight onto the floor at my feet. As were all the others. I was standing in one inch of piss. A mop appeared between my legs. A little old women, dressed head to toe in black, was trying to mop the liquid from between my feet.
“Mop somewhere else.” I said. But she didn’t understand. I gesticulated with my free hand for her to get out of my way. But she was determined to mop for my pleasure and comfort. For Chrissakes the whole floor was under one inch of water. Mopping round my feet was going to make no difference at all except to push little waves of piss over my shoes and into my socks. I started hopping from one foot to the other, it couldn’t get any worse. could it?
It got worse, I looked to my left, and a man was in the corner was looking at me over his shoulder with a big grin on his face. He had a big round sweaty face and thin greasy black hair combed back over his head. His clothes were dark, grubby and loose. I noticed movement that wasn’t consistent with the usual two shakes and tuck away routine. It was more pronounced, more rhythmical, although adagio rather than allegretto. He swivelled his body away from the corner to reveal his manhood. Ever so slowly, and proudly he pulled at his hard on. The old lady continued to mop round my feet totally oblivious of the guy in the corner exercising his wrist. He looked at me again and raised his eyebrows. Then looked down at his swollen parts. For Chrissakes! How long does it take to empty your bladder? The man in the corner gave me yet another of his lascivious grins. By now he’d become vocal “Eh Eh. Eh.” He grunted. No time for any shakes, I splashed my way to freedom tucking away as I went. They were welcome to each other.
I got back to the platform “You wouldn’t believe what I just saw.”
“We must eat.” said Gary.
“Yeh but you’ll never guess what’s going on down there.”
“Where?”
“In the toilets.”
“There’s some guy down there.”
“Yeh? So?”
“He’s wanking.”
“No!”
“Yes and there’s this little old woman in black mopping the floor.”
“That’ll be his Mother. She probably brings him along to work so she can keep an eye on him. Anyway I was wanting a piss, but I think it can wait now.”
We left the station, We’d already been arrested by the police once that day in Zagreb, and beaten up, we didn’t want anymore trouble, but that’s another story………


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Monday, September 20, 2004

Voterama

Firstly I admit partially ripping off Scaryducks format. But personally I'd be happy if we had someone do this for every day of the week, not just Tuesdays and Fridays. The amazing Scary stories come to you Fridays. You can vote on Thursday. Apparently, like mine, all absolutely true. They are not scary and they aint about ducks. Just damned funny.

Hoorah! I have four stories for you to choose from this week. Actually I have loads, but I'm giving you a choice of four to make it easier on you. They are:

Custard Pie.......... cry "havoc" and let slip the dogs of war.

Perving............ for he is an honourable man.

Johnny Grays......... for protection is a blessed gift.....

Infiltration........... he lay down with the wolves.

I'm not even going to try and predict what you guys choose this week as I'm usually wrong.
So vote now for tomorrows story.




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Sunday, September 19, 2004

Gemmalah lah lah

I've just taken my daughter Gemmalah to university. Lincoln University. She's doing film studies. There were tears as I picked her up to take her. Her mother gave her a box of Kleenex. We drove to Lincoln and got our pass to the syudent car park to unload. It was absolute chaos. Cars everywhere unloading the youngsters and all their belongings.
Gemmas room justlike everyone elses is small with a long work bench/desk, a bed, a wash stand and a wardrobe. This is going to be home for her for a while. Mind you she has a lovely view of the river from her window. She's also got free internet broadband connections in her room. Jeez I never had that. Mind you when I was at uni the computers were the size of rooms
WE then discover Gemma has forgotten to bring her duvet, They don't supply them. So it was a walk to Morrisons. On the way coming the other direction were loads of people all carrying hugs bags of shopping and duvets bought at Morrisons. So she was not the only one to forget. I grabbed the last one. Hey it was only £5.99. BARGAIN. 15TOG.

We stayed a while so she didn't feel abandonned. Then sort of forcibly introduced her to a girl wandering the corridors who happened to be realy nice and doing the same course. Result. So after more tears and more hugs and half a box of kleenex we left her to her fate.

Back at home hours later:
I phoned her ten minutes ago. She was at a party, music was blaring and she was having a great time.
So no point worrying there then. She'll be OK.
IN a way I envy her because I remember I had a great time at uni. But it's her turn now.

Then it'll be Jamielah in three years time.


That's it for today. No funny stories, no amusing anecdotes just a proud Dad sending his baby off into the big wide world of further education.

Sock it to 'em Gemma.

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Friday, September 17, 2004

Bomb disposal

I thought I'd try out a new pub the other night, it was out of town and very posh, hand cream in the gents, and the soap on saucers which had little paper doylies underneath. Up above the free standings were picture frames and in each frame was a page from the daily Telegraph to read whilst recycling the beer.
So I'm standing there recycling, and an article catches my eye.
A man was digging his garden and dug up a landmine, he bent down to pick it up and accidently pressed a button on top. Now he had a dilemma, if he let go of the button he'd blow himself up. . So he calls his wife and tells her to evacuate the children and call the bomb disposal team. With his thumb getting tired he then instructed his wife to tape his hand to the bomb. His next great idea was to get a bucket and bury his hand and bomb in the bucket of sand, that way supposing that if the bomb went off, he'd only lose his arm. Well he'd certainly need to buy a new bucket anyway. Eventually after standing in his back garden with this bomb taped to his hand that was buried in a bucket of sand the bomb disposal team arrived, his adoring wife was frantic by this time and had refused to leave her beloveds side, reasoning that if he died she might as well die as well. The bomb disposal men carefully dug out the bomb and the hand from the bucket and with careful consideration examined the device. Only to find that the bomb was a discarded part from an old Citreon car. The bomb disposal man commented "it was an easy mistake for anyone to have made."

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Thursday, September 16, 2004

Rats

I've been reading a few blogs recently and I've noticed that a few people were talking about rats. Well I've got few stories about rats. Here's a short one that doesn't warrant a full vote. It's an incidental story.

I was working as a landscape gardener and this building company commisioned us to landscape a few of their show houses. So my team and I were busy one morning laying turf when suddenly we heard a blood curdling scream, and this young women ran out the front door of her house, totally naked apart from a small towel wrapped round her important parts. She was quite cute as it happens, but with all the screaming, any excitement on our part was somewhat disappated. We were just confronted with this very pert young lady screaming blue murder on her front building site. We hadn't landscaped hers yet. Steve leapt forward and took off his donkey jacket and wrapped it round her shoulders. She was still screaming and clinging to him when I got close enough to talk to her. Steve, married, six kids, was distraught. He'd played the Sir lancelot part and then felt the guilts. He disentangled himself andwalked away. So I tried to console her with an arm round her shoulder, and trying to find out what had happened. She clinged on to me sobbing for a few more minutes, soaking my shoulder. I'm thinking "what's below this little towel". but of course I'm a professional. I'm the foreman and I don't take advantage of the situation, even though I'd love to. Eventually I got the story out of her. Hubby had gone to work and she thought she'd have a nice relaxing bath in her VERY new house. So she was soaking away and suddenly the toilet seat moved. It got her attention, this huge rat had climbed out of the toilet bowl poked its wet nose in the air, jumped out of the toilet and scampered across her bathroom floor. This is the point at which the screaming started. There was no murder, no rape, no robbery just a confused rat.
I shouted to my boys "There's rat in her house."
it was like saying "cats" to a terrier. the boys all rushed into her house with their spades. "don't worry love my boys will sort it out for you." you just stay there snuggling into my neck.
Well there were shouts from the house and crashes and cursing and more crashes. A few screams. I'm ashamed to admit my boys/men screamed a little. OK a lot, when they found the blighter. Eventually after ten minutes of crashing about, smashing up furniture and creating havoc in this poor girls brand new house, Steve came out triumphant holding the bloody lifeless rat by it's tail.
"take it away, take it away." the young girl screamed, snuggling even closer to me. There is a God! I gave her an extra tight squeeze to make her feel more secure. Yeah yeah yeah it's not every day you get to hold an almost naked and very cute girl in your arms, who needs the strong arms of a man to comfort her.
Unfortunately as soon as she saw the rat had been disposed of she calmed down, centred herself and said "Thanks a lot boys" and released herself from my grip. We never spoke again. She didn't complain about the damage to her house or furniture. Except half an hour later when she came out, very matter of factly, and fully dressed, gave back Steves donkey jacket. He never washed it again. It was his private fantasy. I had my own but I wont go into that right now. Rats. I love them.

So next week I'll have a few stories that you can vote on. This is just an extra. A little bonus cos I'm bored. You may care to take notice of the thread that's going on ref: the vasectomy story. Seems someone from my past has found me. We will wait and see what happens. I will not make any comment right now.

So rock on dudes until next time.

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Princess Margaret and Gregory

Here's a rather strange conversation that went on in the pub the other day. Do you recall Princess Margaret (God rest her soul) burnt her feet in bath water which was too hot? Now the crucial thing about this is the word "feet" not foot but feet. Now correct me if I'm wrong but Feet is plural ie more than one, so that's both feet. Can you see where this is going? Who the hell burns both feet in a bath? Surely you get into a bath one foot at a time. And then you always test the water with your toes or swill it around with your hands first. So the only way to burn both feet is to jump in. let's take it further. Princess Margaret (God rest her soul) was in her sixties. Is she going to jump anywhere? Can you imagine anyone doing the high jump, from a standing start, feet together, into a bath? It doesn't happen. You'd slip and crack your skull or something.
So what were the circumstances of this "accident"? How can you possibly get into a bath both feet first, without first testing the water?
Conspiracy theorists would have had a field day with this one if they'd have picked it up. Aliens would have been blamed. MI5 implicated. But the reality is much more interesting, the Queen and Prince Philip were fed up with her indiscretions and forcibly, between them, lowered her into a bath of boiling water to teach her some respect. It's the Royal mafia. With the Queen as Capo de capos. She's got the muscle. She has a whole entourage of minders, men in black. She also just happens to be one of the richest people in the world. How come? When previous monarchs were almost destitute. Well she's running the biggest money laundering scam in history. She has her own mint. It's so blatent she even has her own picture on bank notes. That and the drugs. It all started with Queen Victoria at Balmoral. Huge drugs parties went on,there is documented proof that the local chemist supplied truck loads of drugs to Balmoral castle. They later decided to cut out the middle man and stop the rumours by producing their own drugs. To that end they had Princess Margaret buy an Island, on which they grew all the raw product they needed. What do you think is in all those diplomatic bags that they carry all over the world? But Princess Margaret wanted a bigger slice of the action. She threatened to expose the lot of them. Hence the foot torture. That kept her quiet and off her feet for a while.
So now you know the truth. And bang goes my bleedin' O.B.E..

I have this theory that everything is duplicated. Take school for instance. I guarantee that in every school there was a Gregory. In your school, like mine, there was a Gregory. he may not have been called Gregory at your school but he was there. A Gregory was the guy who turned up on the first day of the new school year in last years uniform two sizes too small. He had national health specs with sticky plaster over the bridge. His pen always leaked, his fingers always blue from the ink. His homework was always late or never appeared and he had an infinite number of excuses why, ranging from the dog ate it, to his Grandad had one of his funny turns and they all had to rush him to hospital, where the nurses thinking his homework was Grandads medical notes filed it in the system, never to be seen again.
Then there was the Howard. The Howard always turned up one the first day of the new school year wearing not the regulation school blazer but an Armani jacket with the school emblem tacked on with yellow cotton, as a token of conformity. He never excelled acedemically but for some strange reason always made it to oxbridge.
Isaac turned up first day of sixth form riding a Kawasaki 900 His school uniform was his leathers. He would inevitably be found in the carpark, surrounded by boys admiring his wheels, he'd be telling them "it's pulls 5000 in third." they'd all gasp, because they're supposed to but really they hadn't a fucking clue what he was talking about. But it sounded impressive.
Trevor was a rebel.His shirt was never tucked in, his tie askew at all times, and he habitually carried a Sainsburies carrier bag full of porno magazines, which he sold to the second formers at exhorbitant prices.
Robert, or Rob as he liked to be called, was so cool. He was immaculate, never a hair out of place, won the cross country race four years running made head boy and went on to Cambridge and then star in the Red Arrows formation team before being killed in the gulf war by an exocet missile whilst flying a Harrier on a top secret mission.
Chris was a dork. Dropped on his head when small. Grew to gigantic heights 6'7" when last seen and was regularly beaten up by first formers. Hadn't a clue how to defend himself and despite his height and stature was the smallest person in the school. Frightened of his own shadow. Went to work for local government, in the archive department.
Aiden was a music junky. He had a vast collection of music on vinyl. He knew everything about contemporary rock. He'd sit in the French language workshop with his headphones on listening to "Snow goose" by Camel. Instead of "Bonjour Je m'appelle Aiden."
Clive, a genius, never bothered attending classes and still got grade A in everything. He was so clever he couldn't find it in himself to lower himself to even speak to us idiots. We couldn't understand a word he said, it was like he spoke in a foreign language. We understood the words but not what he was saying. Teachers gave him a lot of slack because he never failed anything.
Nicholas. the music teachers favourite pet. Music teacher queerer than a nine bob note. Nicholas regularly invited to music teachers house on a Sunday afternoon for tea. never heard of again.
Michael, one of the smallest guys in school, didn't grow one inch until the fourth form but by then had changed his name to Mike Da Hat for effect. Couldn't stand to be ignored, became slightly insane and did crazy things just to get noticed. Grew two foot in one year and became one of the tallest boys at school. Didn't excell in any thing except the subjects he didn't choose for A level. Scraped by with 3 pathetic A levels and went to unknown further education establishment to do a degree in biology. Never heard of since.

You may have guessed that I went to an all boys school. So I don't have any examples of the typical Elizabeth or the typical Sally. So if you girls can help me out here. I'd love for you to fill in those gaps. You guys can tell me if you had a Gregory or a Clive in your School, or anyone else. They were in every school. I knows it. Am I right or am I right?

Rock on dudes

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Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Zen and the Art of Going Private

In the pub last Saturday I met a lovely young lady who I’ve known for about twenty years, but haven’t seen in about two. We chatted over a drink and I was telling her some of my stories. She said “I think the funniest one has to be about your vasectomy.”
“What? How do you know about my vasectomy? I never told you.”
“Er no. I er ........ I mean.......um......”
“Come on how do you know about that?”
“Well the nurse who was there at the time is one of my best friends, we still laugh about it.”
“Thanks mate.”
“No really, you should write that story.”
So here it is, it seems everyone and his dog knows about it locally anyway so I’ve nothing to lose, you may as well have a laugh at my expense as well, everyone else has.
Having already brought two children into the world, my wife and I decided that our family was complete. We decided that I would have a vasectomy. Well actually I was shamed into volounteering by this rather dominating woman at the clinic who pointed out to us that for a man, the operation was a very minor affair. Whereas for the woman it was a lot more invasive and “You certainly would not want to put your wife throughthat would you?”
“Er no. Of course not.”
“Then it’s decided.”
The next appointment was with the doctor who advised us “yes you can have the operation free of charge on the NHS.” Whoopee! “But.” he went on “there’s a waitinglist.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Well generally about eighteen months.”
“What we could have had two more babies in that time.”
“You could always go private.........” he suggested helpfully.
“Yes and how much will that cost?”
“£150.” he said quick as a flash. “And what’s the waiting list, if we went private?”
“We can have you in........” he checked his computer, “......next tuesday.”
“WHAT! Surely I can have a little more time to get used to the idea.”
“No time like the present.”
After a few nudges from my wife and promises of a “better life” in the future, we divvied up £150. It would be worth it. Tuesday came and I went to the private hospital. It was more like a hotel. With porters to carry bags. A lady in expensive clothes walked in behind me with six suitcases as if she was checking into a health farm for a week of pampering. I presented myself at reception dressed in jeans and T-shirt.“Ah Mr De Hat. We’ve been expecting you. George here will show you to your room.”
“Room? I get a room? Of my own?”
“Of course all our guests have their own private room. Do you have any luggage?”
“No just what I stand in.” I wished I had brought a few suitcases for George to carry for me. But I wasn’t going to be staying. I was shown to my room down a corridor. It had everything. TV, bed, ensuite facilities an arm chair, table (with flowers on) absolute luxury. Well by my standards anyway. But no mini bar. Oh well you can’t have everything. George told me that I should get undressed and into the gown provided on the bed. I wondered as he left if I should give him a tip. But decided against it. Why is it that they make you wear these gowns that tie up at the back? You wander up the corridor looking for a coffee machine and women turn round and stare, saying “Hmmmm nice bum!” What’s that all about? Well the porter arrived to take me to the theatre. He had a wheel chair. I said “I haven’t had the operation yet, I don’t need a wheel chair. I’ll walk.”
“No you’ll sit in the wheel chair.”
“No it’s OK I can walk, I’d like to walk, just show me the way, you can come if youwant.”
“No you must be in the wheel chair. It’s the rules. You’d be surprised how many men collapse on the way, their legs turn to jelly.”
I thought ‘well that’s not me, I’m made of tougher stuff than that. Just like that King going to his own execution, just give me another shirt to wear so people don’t see me shivering and make sure it covers my bare bum. I’ll be alright.’ I sat in the chair and he wheeled me to the theatre. I felt such a fraud in that wheel chair. But those are the rules.The theatre was open plan with huge panoramic windows overlooking the countryside. Two nurses were busy at one end of the theatre, preparing instruments.One glanced at me briefly and told me to strip off and lay on the table my hands behind my head. I did that but felt very exposed. I was the only naked person in the room. It wasn’t fair, surely the nurses should be naked too, I wouldn’t have felt so selfconscious. I imagine people out in the woods sitting in tree with lojng telephoto lens snapping papparazzi shots of me as I lay there exposed and vunerable. Finally the nurses turned round and came toward me. One of them stopped stared at me and said “It’s you.”
“Yes it’s me.”
“No, you are the one who fixed my microwave. Here Doreen. This is that nice man I told you about who fixed my microwave oven.”
I buried my face in my hands “oh no this isn’t happening. As if I don’t have enough to go through without people recognising me.”
The surgeon arrived. He started of with his usual “Good morning.....” checks notes“....Mr De Hat. How are we today?” routine and got out the big needle.
The nurse turned to him and said “This is the man who fixed my Microwave oven.”
“Really?” said the surgeon bending over me with his hypodermic “that’s really interesting because mines not working very well at all, do you think you could look at it for me, sometime?”
“Yes sure. No problem. But shall we sort out this job first.” I said getting rather flustered. I wanted this guy to really concentrate on what he was doing, I didn’t want any slip ups. He continued with the injections. “ This will take a few minutes to work.” Then “So. How long have you been in the microwave business?”
“About five years.”
“Good good! Do you feel this?”
“No.” he picked up a scalpel and moved in to stab me in the scrotum, “Yes my microwave seems to be behaving rather oddly, it all seems to work perfectlybut sometimes things come out cold. What do you think?” He's hacking away at my downstairs department, I didn’t want to think anything. But I replied “Sounds like a loose connection on the magnetron to me.”
“Marvellous. Is it serious?” he continued hacking.
“Only if you don’t make a mistake, with what you are doing.”
After a few minutes of what felt like gentle pulling and tugging of the downstairs department, it was all over. The nurse came to me and said I needed support in the form of a jock strap. She looked at me and said “A small, I think.”
“What! Not even a medium?” I’m paying privately, surely that should qualify me forextra large? To make my inidignity worse, when I finally tried on the small it was too big. What a cruel trick to play on the male psychology.I was wheeled back to my room where waiting for me was a fresh pot of tea, a cup and a plate of biscuits. All for £150. An hour later I was home again. My darling wife greeted me like a conquering hero.“you’re so brave.” she said.
“It’s nothing.” I replied, quietly enjoying her admiration of my bravery.“
Now you must go to bed. You must rest.”
“But I feel great. I tell you what, I’ll help you with the washing up.”
“No Mikel you’ll go to bed.”
“I’ll do the hoovering then.”
“Go to bed for chrissakes.” I went to bed. She’d been to the library and got a huge pile of books for me to look at while I recuperated. I glanced through “Castles of England”and was immediately bored. I shouted from my bed “I bored! Send the children to talk to me.”
“are you sure?”
“Yes absolutely. Send them up.” Well I love my children, they are such good fun. We have fights and games on our big king sized bed. I read them stories and they jump on me. It was heaven, me and my children playing on the bed. My wife walks in the bedroom and sternly warns the children to be gentle with me.
I say “Don’t be silly we’re having fun.”
“Have you had any of those paracetamol I’ve left by the bed for you?”
“No I don’t need it. I feel great.”
“well if you’re sure.” she said “But you really should take a couple.”
Ten minutes later the anaesthetic has worn off. The kids are still jumping on the bed and I am in such excruciating pain I can’t move. I have not got the strength to pus hthe kids off me and still they bounce. Weakly I call my wife. “help! Save me!” She rescues me, telling the children I am poorly sick and bad. I want to die. Someone has kicked me in the balls really hard. The pain is intense and I have to endure that along with the “I told you so’s”. I down paracetamol like dolly mixtures. Slowly the pain ebbs away. I live. At about the same time my brother in law had a vasectomy and that afternoon after he was riding his bike. Me? For days after my wife wouldn’t walk with me I was understrict instructions to walk either ten paces in front of her or ten paces behind in Sainsburies, because it looked as if I “had had an accident in my trousers.”Three years later our third child was born, Joshua. We loved him to death. His older sister and brother doted on him. he was our communal baby. The family baby for everyone. He is Autistic but that’s another story.

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Monday, September 13, 2004

Bits and pieces

Exactly as predicted there's three comments/votes. Looks like we're "going private" tomorrow. There was one vote for the pervert in a toilet at Belgrade station. So guess what? I might write that one up and put it in for next weeks vote.
I've just been speaking to my friend Danny with the lethal weapon. That is his in car stereo that kills at five paces. Well if you recall he was going in for a competition at Donnington for the loudest sound system. He won. He managed 147.2 decibels from his rig. His prize........ tickets to some car racing finals at Silverstone. Also he qualifies for the finals of the in car stereo competition. There's some minor competitions in between that he "knows" he's going to win. Jeez he's so laid back and confident. I tried to get him to be enthusiastic about winning, but you know he was, so matter of fact about it. As if he didn't even have to try. It was a foregone conclusion. All he had to do was turn up to get first prize. He sounded bored as he told me. Yes I've got the most fuck off sound system in my class. I can't loose. What more do you want?
Although he did have a few accidents on the way to the top. He showed me a few months ago what was left of his old speaker. He put so much power through it that it ripped itself apart. I still can't get over the fact that his in car stereo is louder than our whole bands PA system.
At the moment he's looking for a lap top computer for Gemmalah my daughter, they call them note pads now, I think. Come on I'm a musician, if I'm wrong kill me. Gemmalah is starting university on Sunday. So we've got less than a week to find her the best laptop money can't buy.

If you're in the area on Thursday 30th September, the band and I are recording our new live CD. We're playing Geneva's bar. The last CD that was made was at O'niells bar. I wasn't on it because I joined a month after it was recorded. The man who can not be named (love the horse) is bringing his skill and expertise to do the recording for us and the post production editing. This time we'll have an audience microphone. So if you want to be there to scream and shout on our CD you've had ample warning.

I've had a few Emails about this "love the horse" business. No comments of course. My readers apart from the three, don't usually comment. Well the man who should not be named is a staunch Ipswich supporter. Their emblem is a horse. He often wears a football shirt with the emblem on it. We all have to stroke the horse for good luck. Except I'm a bit worried about that because "the horse" is inevitably right on top of his nipple. So I think am I stroking the horse or indulging is it some homoerotic thing. But that's my problem not yours. I must point out for fear of broken fingers that the man who should not be named, is in no way that way inclined. I have to say that because I value my fingers, I need them to play guitar. Jools if you are going to break my fingers can you at least wait until after the 30th. Shit! I've mentioned his name again. That's me dead.

My roadie came back from her holiday in Rome. She was sitting on my bed as I came out the shower. She said "Put on those pink frilly knickers."
"No!"
"Oh go on." she pleaded. "Please......pretty please.......sugar on top."
"I don't want to. I'm already traumatised."
"Go on just for me. I want to see what you look like wearing them."
So naked and dripping from the shower, and against my gut instinct, I put them on for her.
She pissed herself laughing. Tears rolling down her cheeks. She was still laughing as we walked to the pub.
"I'm sorry." she said, "it's just so funny."
"I'm glad you think so. You made me do it. How can I hold my head up in society again?"
"I wont say a word." she promised. Except at the pub she was still laughing and had to tell everyone who asked why. Oh the shame! I should be a respected musician. Now I am known as the guy who wears pink frilly knickers. My children who read this will not want to talk to me again and my ex-wife will say she knew all along I was a wrong un. What happened to my macho image? I just want to be dangerous and mysterious but when you're known as the guy who wears pink frilly knickers that goes out the door. So I guess I've got to tough it out. Live it down. Pretend I did it for a bet. It doesn't seem to matter that I was under threats to do this. The fact remains I was the guy who wore pink frilly knickers. So did Del Tony and the man who should not be named. No one comments on them wearing the pink frilly knickers. No one thinks twice. So why do I have to suffer? Why do people take the piss out of me and not them? Maybe because I am traumatised and they don't give a shit. What's the point of taking the piss out of someone who doesn't give a damn? There's some issues here. I think I'm going into therapy very soon. Or not. Del said it would be liberating. Well maybe he was right. Because now I don't give shit what you think. What's done is done I am still Mike Da hat. Musician, lover and bad dancer.

Rock on Dudes

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Charitable

Greetings Playmates.
I've decided that I'm going to be charitable this week. I buried myself in this little corner over the weekend and I've three stories for you to choose from. I guess there will only be two votes, possibly three.
Yes I'm realistic. I am condemned to have shrinking violets as readers. They just wont leave comments.
They send me personal Emails. I ask "Why don't you just leave a comment?" To which the reply is "I can't think of anything clever to say." But they're quite happy to write three pages in an Email.
You see a lot of my friends are of the opinion that you need the wit and genius of Oscar Wilde to qualify to leave a comment. That every comment has to be a razer sharp riposte. A smart arse, knock 'em dead, one liner. I can't always think of a comment. One day I took to writing "I have a doctors note excusing me from commenting today." because my mind went blank. So today commenting is going to be really easy. All you need to do is just write one word. Unless of course you weant to write more. And that one word is your choice for this weeks story. So here's the short list.

Johnny Grays (sorry that's two words)

Going Private (Oh no that's another two worder)

Air base (Two short words)

OK I lied you've got to write two words, alright. I didn't expect the spanish inquisition, our two main weapons are surprise...................etc etc But you're let off creativity this time. So don't beat yourselves up, just vote.
It's not as if you have to work too hard is it? I mean who's doing all the work here? Who has to write all these stories to keep you amused? Who has to go to the trouble of having a bloody fabulous exciting life just so you can live it by proxy? It's not easy being fabulous you know. It takes time and dedication. If you don't watch out I'll tell you about the pervert in the toilets at Belgrade station. Be warned. Vote now.

Rock on dudes


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Saturday, September 11, 2004

What ever can go wrong will go wrong

MY blog counter is getting near 1000 hits. OK that's small fry to some people but it's a mile stone for me. Soif you're reading this and the counter Below and right says 999, then you are 1000. Make a comment let me know who you are. There's no prizes. NO accolades unless you make your own with a brilliant comment of razer sharp wit. Just be smug in yourself that you were the one to hit the 1000 mark. You could look at the counter and see it's already at 1000. Then maybe you can clain the accolade of being the one who was here when it hit 1000 although technically you were 1001. Whatever I'm too tired to argue semantics.

I'm not allowed to talk about tonight. So I'll just mention stuff relevant to me. We didn't play. My guitar broke. The jack plug where I plug in my lead disappeared inside the guitar. The only way to fix it is to take off all the strings. And there's 12 of the buggers. Certain parties made a stirling effort to salvage the night. I can't say more for fear of broken fingers and retribution, but tonight wasn't our finest hour. Whatever could go wrong went wrong.

The only sensible thing I can do now is to shut the fuck up and go to bed. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow we will conquer the world. But for now I'll quit while I'm still ahead. Before anything else goes wrong.

Goodnight campers.

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Friday, September 10, 2004

Zen and the Art of Blagueing

I was going to wait until next week to tell you this story. But what the hell. It's written so why wait.


I was working at the Ministry of Agriculture many years ago as an assistant scientific officer. For some reason my pay wasn’t getting to me, someone of a similar name was getting it and so despite my protests I was very poor. In fact I was so poor I used to go to Guildford market on a Saturday afternoon as they were closing and pick up the vegetables out the road that had fallen of the stalls. You know a lot of it was good stuff and free. Then a trip to the park to fight with the ducks for bread, followed by a trip round the back of the pub to decant all the drips from the optics whisky bottles into one small bottle. I lived on vegetable stew, which became by Monday spicy vegetable stew and by Wednesday vegetable curry. By Thursday it was either all gone or inedible. I starved Thursday. God I was poor.
So you can imagine my dismay when walking around Guildford, I noticed a poster “Neil Innes (Ex Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band) in concert. Tickets £10” I just stood there playing elephants ears with my empty trouser pockets. How could I find the money to go?
I couldn’t. I had borrowed money from just about everyone I knew and a lot of people I didn’t, my credit was stretched to breaking point and still no sign of my wages.
I hatched a cunning plan.

On the night of the concert I dressed in my black suit and white shirt, and went to the stage door at 6:30, carrying a small briefcase full of sound equipment requisitioned somewhat unofficially from the ministry stores. I knocked loudly at the door. A man opened it and said in a gruff voice “Yes?”
I held up my Ministry of Agriculture Fisheries and Food Identity card, “Ministry.” I said, “I’ve come to check sound levels at this concert.”
“Oh you’d better come in. Where did you say you were from?”
“The Ministry of Agriculture Fisheries and Food.”
“I didn’t know they did this sort of thing?”
“MAFF is into a lot of things, it’s all under the one umbrella, the min of ag isn’t just about farming you know. We have our fingers in a lot of pies.”
“Oh I see. I’ll fetch the stage manager.” He ran off and all eyes were on me. I tried to be as cool as possible standing there with my briefcase in front of me. The stage manager arrived.
“I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” He said.
“No that’s alright we rarely give warnings. It’s just a spot check, nothing to worry about.”
"So can I get you anything? Do you need anything?”
“No thanks all the same I have everything I need here in my case.” I gave it a tap.
“Well OK then. I’ve got to get on the show starts in two hours.”
“Yes don’t mind me. I’ll just have a look around at the speakers and try not to get in your way. Oh yes there is one thing. What amplification are you using tonight?”
“We’re running two fifteen hundred watt amps, slaved off………” he went on telling me stuff I didn’t understand,but I just nodded approvingly, and pretended to make notes in my note pad.
“Excellent.” I said and wandered off.
I made for the bar and being professional, and broke, I bought a pint of ice water with a dash of lime and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible, which is hard when everyone is whispering and pointing at you. Finally the doors opened and the crowd came in. I mingled with the crowd, standing in the centre. Neil Innes came on stage and started playing. He was brilliant. So good in fact that I forgot I was supposed to be taking spot sound checks. It was noted. As the final applause died down and people started making for the doors. I noticed the stage manager looking at me from a distance rather sternly.
“I want a word with you.” he shouted.
Shit! Rumbled. I ducked down into the crowd, and head down, made my way in the opposite direction to him.I took off my coat to disguise myself. I could see him jumping up and down trying to spot me. He signalled to some security guards, but they just shouted “What? Who?”
Too late I was out the door and running.
I’d like to apologise to Neil for depriving him of a well earned tenner, especially as it was such a good concert. I’ll make it up to you Neil, you can come to one of my gigs for free. I'll even buy you a pint.

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Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Zen and the Art of Wasping

When I was young and foolish, I used to kill wasps with my bare hands, and when we lived in Cyprus, Hornets too. My technique was creap up behind them and clap my hands real fast stunning them. Then I'd belt the living shit out of them with a newspaper. But I got stung once, and it was not while trying to kill one, this made me very wary of the little buggers from then on. We've had a few wasps plagueing us recently which reminded me of this weeks story......................
I was foreman of a landscape gardening company and we were building paths, roads and steps at Winkworth Arboretum near Guildford. A young lad of sixteen called Andy was working in my team and I had him scything grass. He was stripped to the waist slashing away at the long graas when we heard him scream and start running, arms flailing all around his head and body. He'd scythed through a wasps nest hidden in the grass. WE caught up with him a dragged him to my landrover and covered each sting with white bite cream from the medical box I carried. Well that and him catching the sun made him look like Mr Blobby. White spots on pink skin. During dinner he sat and sulked and after a while he wandered off by himself. Steve spotted him ten minutes later half way up the hill marching toward the wasps nest carrying a small can.
I shouted up the hill to him "What are you doing Andy."
"I gonna burn the buggers."
"What with?"
"Diesel."
"NO!!!! Don't do it." Too late he poured the diesel onto the nest and tried to set fire to it. Nothing happened except he'd pissed off the wasps again and again he was running down the hill arms flailing.
More white cream later and I tell Andy to leave them alone. But he was really sulky by now. He never said a word, just sat there, contemplating revenge. He gets up.
"Where are you going?"
"No where."
"You leave them wasps alone. You hear me? Leave it." I said in my sternest foreman voice.
"I'm just gonna take a leak. Alright?" he said and disappeared round the back of the hut, we carried on chatting in the sunlight, enjoying our dinner break.
A few minutes later we spot him again standing by the wasp nest. This time with a spade in his hand. Instinct told me exactly what he was going to do. I got up and ran towards him screaming "NO DON'T DO IT."
But he was already swinging the spade high above his head. "NO ANDY NO!" Down came the spade. SPLATT right on the wasps nest. It didn't kill the wasps, the nest was made of paper so it absorbed the shock and just split open. This time not tens of wasps came out, but thousands. All with a serious attitude problem.
I stopped running towards him when I saw the cliud of wasps rise as one and did a u turn and ran as fast as I could back down the hill. As I got to the others they started running as well. Meanwhile Andy was screaming and running down the hill. The wasps fro a third time hot on his trail. This time they didn't give up the chase. In desperation he hurled himself headfirst into the lake at the bottom of the hill. WE watched from the other side. He didn't come up. The cloud of wasps were hovering over the point of entry. Buzzing around angrily. Shit! he hasn't come up. I'm dreading the idea of diving in after him. Suddenly something black and slimey appears yards away amongst the reeds. It had a head and arms. It was vaguely human but........ Andy crawled out from the lake, thick black clinging stinking mud all over him. He'd stirred up enough Methane to light a small town for the night. The wasps didn't like it and flew off. He staggered towards us "Don't say a word. Don't say one fucking word. Alright?"
As foreman I knew the word had to be said "TWATT!!!"

Next week I might tell you about Andy and the Dump truck, or maybe Niel Innes (ex bonzo dog doo dah band)and the Ministry of Agriculture or maybe Dennis the queer hairdresser at the YMCA. I haven't decided yet. If you have a preference I might take note or I might ingore it, whatever. I don't like being told what to do ALRIGHT? or as my dear old mum used to say "Those that ask don't get, and those that don't ask don't want." I never figured that one out. I tried getting my brother and sister to ask for me, but she had and answer for that as well "He's got a tongue in his head hasn't he?" The moral of this lesson is. You can always get what you want by bribery and corruption, dishonesty and deviousness. I thank my parents for teaching me the finest ways of the world. Even if my interpretation is not quite what they meant.

Sock it to them Dudes.

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Sunday, September 05, 2004

Pink knickers and belly dancing

I'm standing in my bedroom staring at a pair of pink frilly knickers that are lying on my bed. Nylon. I just can't believe it. Am I really supposed to be wearing these? Are they seriously expecting me to turn up at the pub wearing these? Why didn't I choose a different set of friends a few years ago? I suppose if I did those friends would be boring. Del and co may be a lot of things but boring isn't one of them. The pink knickers lay there tormenting me. I'm naked and dripping from the shower. I remember Dels words "It'll be liberating Mikel." BASTARD!!!!! I don't feel very liberated. Gritting my teeth I pull them on. I feel such a twat standing there naked apart from pink frilly knickers. I can't even bring myself to look in the mirror.
I wonder if I have deep dark psychological problems that needs to be addressed before I can lead a full and productive happy life. Why have I got such a problem with this? They're uncomfortable and itchy. Thanks for pointing that one out Anni, I promise I'll think twice about buying any loved one knickers made from man made fibres.
I decide to cheat. I put on my regular comfortable cotton shreddies, and put the pink ones over the top. I still feel like a twat but............ they don't itch and scratch so bad.
We all meat at the pub. The man who should not be named (love the horse) is wearing the "Penelope Pitstop" knickers, Dels son (10) is wearing "Boudoir babe" knickers I'm wearing the pink frilly knickers with a little bow at the front, so is Tony, and Dianne is wearing Dels shirt and white knickers. Yes we checked. Debs never said anything about her knickers but maintained her crossing dressing code was wearing trousers instead of a dress.
"There'll be no trying to pull tonight Mikel." says J. "You'll never explain the knickers when you get her home."
So after a quick drink we got a taxi to the Cypriot restaurant, the other side of town. We ordered the Meze all round several bottles of Retsina and some Ouzo slammers. At half past nine the belly dancer came drifting down the stairs, the little coins on her belt clicking away and she shimmied and swayed. Very cute. She dragged me from my seat and sat me down in the middle and proceeded to dance in front of me. That was great until I was told she was in fact the mother of one of Dels sons schoolmates. That sort of took the magic away some. Four courses and plenty vino later we're all smashed, we'd all danced with the belly dancer. Tony confessed he'd cheated as well and was like me, wearing two sets of underwear. Thank you Tony. At least I wasn't the only one.
Then back to Dels for more Sangria and peach schnappes. I left when Del and J decided to play UEFA cup football on the playstation.
Two in the morning and I'm walking up the road back to my place. Drunks stagger past me in the opposite direction. I hope I'm not mugged and then beaten because they found I was wearing pink knickers.
Never again. My roadie texted me from Rome. "Don't throw away those pink knickers. I can't wait to see you in them." Help!! I need a (sex) therapist.

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Cross dressing for fun?

Oh the shame! I'm a writer. The best writers are honest. They don't hold back the truth. Even if it hurts the truth must be told. And not wanting to dissillusion myself that I am not a REAL writer I must confess.
I am sitting here writing this wearing womens pink lacey knickers. AND it's not nice They could have delivered knickers made from natural fibres. But no, the cheapskates, they gave me man made fibres that don't breathe and itch like f***. I bet you want to know about the night. What with the belly dancer and the Retsina and the ouzo slammers. Well I'm smashed. So hard luck I'll tell you about it if I can remember what happened.


Block on Dudes

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Saturday, September 04, 2004

Pink Frilly Knickers

It's Dels birthday. We're all going out to celebrate. We're going to a greek restaurant. We're going to the pub . We'll have a few beers. Great!!!

Now will someone remind me why Del insists that tonights dress code is womens pink frilly knickers. I am being threatened by extreme violence and humiliation if I don't conform to tonights dress code.
Earlier this evening Diane and The Jools (He who must not be mentioned......love the horse) 'specially came round to my place to hand deliver a pair of cheap pink nylon knickers. Size 16. Not even cotton for chrissakes.
"You will be wearing these."

I worry about Del sometimes. I wonder if the child protection agency knows that his son will be wearing pink Penelope Pitstop knickers. I think not.

I'll let you know..................

Dare I say it?

Frock on Dudes!!!!!

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Dannys lethal weapon

Danny just came to visit. He's a computer expert. He has this crap little Peugot compact car with a sound system that is worth three times what the car is.
"Come and look at this Mike." he says. He goes to the back of the car and opens the hatchback boot. There is no boot anymore it's one massive, fuck off speaker, made of inch thick MDF, with stainless steel baffles and an 18" speaker. The wires leading to the amplifier are as thick as my thumb. "Cool huh?"
"That speaker is twice the size of our stage speakers."
"Twice as loud as well. Listen to this." and he grabs his remote and points it at the front of the car. I almost leap three foot into the air as the sound hits me, drum and bass.
"Fuck that's loud."
"Nah that's only low volume. that's driving about volume."
"What you drive about listening to music that loud? How's your hearing?"
"OK."
"What the hell do you want all this for?"
"Competitions. I've won the last three I've entered. I'm going to Donnington tomorrow and I reckon I'm going to win."
"How does that work? What sort of music do you play?"
"Oh you don't play music in the competition. It's a special noise. An oscillation frequency. It's on for two seconds. Wanna hear it?"
So I'm standing at the open door of his car while he sits in and fiddles with the stereo controls finding the special track, I'm not even in the car, when he switches it on. no warning.
Blam!!!!! The sound nearly knocks me off my feet, it goes straight through me, suddenly I feel sick and dizzy, every part of my body shakes with the resonance of the noise, it lasts two seconds but feels like more.
"Wanna hear at full volume now?" I am too stunned to reply as he slips out from the seat and hits the button again. BLAM!!!!!! Fuck! That's not a car stereo it's a fucking weapon. I'm near helpless as the sound rips through me again. "Cool huh?" Danny says. I am speachless. My whole body has turned to jelly, I feel unsteady on my feet. "That's about 146 decibels." he went on.
Apparently he's in one of the lower competition groups. In the higher groups they have multiple speakers and get up to 160 decibels. But in his group it has to be a standard un modified car and the speakers must be below the level of the windows.
He's gone now and I'm still shaking. It would be a great tool for crowd control stopping riots. Blast them with sound and reduce them to a quivering wreck. I'm sure it would work.

Whisper on dudes. Pardon? What did you say? Sorry I can't hear you. Somethings happened to my hearing.

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Living with my destiny

I met Jules in town last night. Oooops sorry I'm not allowed to mention Jules on the site, you know that Ipswich supporter (love the horse) top man an all. Anyway I met this guy in town last night, who happened to be called Jules. he was with Tim, who at the time of my arrival had his head almost between the ample breasts of this lovely young girl. I think he was trying to appear attentive to what she was saying, the reality was something quite different. OK it's a lad thing. He sat there trying to be really cool in his plaster casted arm. Now if he can't pull with that on................ He broke it whilst out on a lash with J. J said to me in a faux sob, "He's another of my drinking buddies I've broken." We didn't get into the whys and wherefores of how J actually broke Tims arm. I just accepted it was an every day tale of an everyday night out on the razz with J.
We walked to the Cherry Tree. My mate Tommo was playing. Actually he doesn't play at all he sings, or as Tommo himself points out he shouts. His wife Karen stands next to him on stage and between them the husband and wife team make up the vocal section of The Hinge. I don't know if it's significant but everytime Tommo sang, sorry shouted, she laughed.
So I stood there with my pint of summer lightening and this girl came up to me. "Hi Mike how you doing?"
"Great." I say wondering who the hell she was. How does she know me?
"Lovely to see you, not playing tonight?" we chatted some more and she skipped off to a bunch of friends where she's talking to them and saying "It's Mike over there." they all turn round and wave at me. At this point I'm a bit self conscious. they're all waving at me and I don't know any of them.
Tommo breaks into "Knocking on heavens door" which he dedicated to his Dad who died on Tuesday. He had the whole pub singing and in wanders round the crowd with his Radio mike urging them on to sing louder. Then he hands me the mike "Sing a chorus." he says. I did.
On the way home I was crossing the town bridge, Colin and David, lead singer and drummer from Citizen Smiffy, stepped out of a taxi. "We've been paid." says David with a grin.
"Charters then?" I enquire.
"Too right." says Smiffy (that's Colin) and after handshakes and smiles, they descended the metal steps down to the converted barge on the river that is Charters Bar. I toddled off home via the police station the Lido open air swimming pool round the back of the Cathedral past my, by then, deserted local and up my road avoiding the many drunks and discarded take aways that littered my path.

Tonight J and I plan to kidnap Del because it's his birthday. We've no fixed plan, it will all unfold in time. There's a destiny to everything, life is full of choices as Dave the chef likes to tell me. "Revel in it Mikel. Make the beautiful choice, it's all yours to make, enjoy it, be a master of your own destiny, make that choice. Do it now or be sad for the rest of your life."
"OK Dave I'll have a pint of Summer Lightening."
"Atta boy."

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Friday, September 03, 2004

21 per cent carrots

I popped into my local hostelry last night for a pint and met Dave the chef and Mustafa the Kurdish ex policeman refugee. I stood chatting and noticed Mustafa had got a new watch.
"Nice watch Mustafa." I say.
"You like?"
"It's OK."
"Is gold.... you know gold?"
"Yes I know gold."
"yes is 21 percent carrots, you unnerstan me."
"21 carrat gold yes I know what you mean."
"This is 21 percent carrots, not 18 percent carrots, 18 per cent no good this is 21 percent, you unnerstan me?"
"Very good." I said wishing I hadn't started the conversation.
"You look, you feel it's from Dubai, you unnerstan Dubai, plenty gold in Dubai, is very good." He takes off the watch and hands it over "You feel, is heavy, no?"
I let him drop it into my upturned palm. Ok it was heavy but not that heavy, and now I had it I supposed I'd better examine it just to please him, and make some kind comment. I examined the watch.
"So gold huh?"
"Yes 21 per cent carrots."
"So why does it say stainless steel just here."
"No is gold you don't unnerstan."
"But it says stainless steel."
"No! Is gold, my brother he send me. From Dubai."
Meanwhile Dave the chef is having none of this arguement and stands back a little smirking. Sorry smoking. But then again maybe both. Smirking and smoking.
"So why does it say stainless steel here?"
"I don' know why. " I suspect Mustafa was just beginning to realise that either his brother had ripped him off or his brother was stupid and got ripped off or both. He put's the watch back on picks up his packet of Turkish smokes and fiddles with the pack. he takes an unnecessaruily long time to take one out and light it. he reaches down to the bag at his feet and pulled out a parcel wrapped in newspaper. It's 200 of the foulest smelling turkish cigarettes. He passes them furtively to Dave the Chef. Who after a brief glance and the removal of 20, sticks them in his day sack. No money changes hands. Dave sparks up.
"I gotta go now guys." I say trying not to breath in, ther's second hand smoke and there turkish cigarette second hand smoke.

Gotta go Gemmalah is stuck at the Cinema having lost her bus fare home. So it's Daddy taxi time again.
C'est la vie

Rock on Dudes

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Thursday, September 02, 2004

Zen and the Art of blowing things up.

My good friend Kevin came to see me today. He's NOT a musician. In fact he's an engineer. He's a welder in a manufacturing business. He's also a keen explosives expert. Now I use the term expert loosely. He's been blowing things up for longer than he can remember. It's his hobby. He can blow just about anything up.
The other week the boss of his company went on holiday so he decided that he'd blow a few things up. It started with an upside down metal bucket with a plastic bag full of oxyacetylene in the yard. They never found the bucket again. Then he wanted to make a mortar, so he welded a steel plate onto the end of a scaffolding pipe. Drilled asmall hole in the plate end and covered it with insulation tape. He filled the pipe with oxyacetylene and rammed a brass disc into the end of the pipe and hammered it home. Took his acetylene torch to the insulation atpe and stood back. He aimed at the industrial waste bin. The brass disc shot out with a large bang and went straight throught the bin and out the other side half demolishing a wall. Afer that he decided tomake his explosions a little less dramatic. So he got a load of zip top plastic bags and filled them ful of the old oxyacetylene with insulation tape fuses and dropped them around the work benches. he swears he's never seen someone with shell shock outside of a war situation. He blew up one of his work colleagues three times a day for a fortnight while the boss was on holiday.
One day he thought he'd try fertiliser to remove a tree from his garden. he dug a hole among the roots and stuff it full of a sodium chlorate mix. The tree ended up in the next door but ones garden.
Then he thought he'd blow something up inside a lorry trailer but used too much explosive and it ripped the whole of one side of the trailer apart. Good job it was already a scrapped trailer. It could never be used again. He once had a scrap microwave and filled it with explosives then with a very long extension lead switched it on. The microwave oven disintegrated with an almighty bang. Didn't do his extension lead much good either.

He is planning to do a course with the scuba diving club on underwater demolition so, with his certificate, he can have access to real explosives. God help us. What can he do with half a pound of C4? Or semtex? At the moment he is only using what he can make from domestically available materials. Now he's talking about using liquid Oxygen and other stuff. Liquid oxygen? Easily available from BOC.

He has a neat trick using hair spray aerosol cans. I won't go into details about that one for fear of being responsible for complete demolition of your houses. All I will say is it works with various deodorant cans as well. You've seen James Bond wasting that snake in the film using his hair spray aerosol. This is much worse.

Talking to Kevin it's amazing we are all still alive considering the explosive potential of all the stuff we have sitting in the cupboards under our kitchen sinks .

Apparently he started his pyromaniac interest by buying loads of penny bangers as a kid and wanting to make the bang a bit louder. He did this by collecting the gunpowder of several bangers and putting them all into one big banger. From then he was hooked. He claims he can destroy just about anything using stuff you can find in the average house. I wonder why he has converted his car to run on LPG. I'm sure he is planning something. What is he going to blow up next? He's not political or a terrorist. He just loves blowing things up. He told me today he is teaching his children. Oh My God! Three little Kevins on the loose. He has a daughter, I pity her husband if he crosses her. Forget burying the body there wont be a body to find, just bits. They'd need DNA testing to find out who it was. The body would be spread about a square mile. People would be picking bits off their washing on the line wondering what it was. Kevin is a great guy but I'll think twice about inviting him to one of my parties.

Rock on dudes

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Zen and the Art of Learning Guitar

This weeks story was inspired by someone asking me how long I've been playing guitar. I thought about it... a long time. It occurred to me I don't remember actually learning to play, because I never had lessons, I taught myself, a few people along the way showed me a few tricks. But there must have been a time when I didn't know how to play. This story is about that time...............

I was at university and I figured it would be cool to learn guitar. So I went to the local trading post where I’d seen a guitar for £45. I went in and handed over the money. It included an amplifier. The shop keeper handed me the guitar and then said “Don’t forget yer amp mate.”
I turned around to look where he was pointing. It was twice the size of a large suitcase. With the guitar slung across my back I struggled out of the shop with the amp and made my way through the crowds to the bus stop and waited. A bus came, the driver stopped opened the door and said “You aint comin’ on with that thing.”
“But…….”
“We’ve no room, this is a bus, not a bleedin’ lorry.”
“But…...” The bus drove on leaving me at the stop. “Bastard!!!”
Another bus came, this time the driver was sympathetic and suggested I tuck the amp behind his cab.
I got back to my digs, it was about 11:00am on a damp Friday morning. The house was empty the landlady was off shopping and her children were at school. The next door neighbour was stone deaf so I thought I’d try out my new guitar and amp.
I switched it on, there was a gentle hum followed by a loud echoey pop as I plugged in the guitar. I knew three chords then. A D and E so I hit those strings. Whammmm! Brilliant. Kerrang! Need more volume. Wham Strammm. Blimey I’m good. Whammm whammm kerrang. More volume! I turned that bad boy up full and hit those strings for all I was worth. I was Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix and Pete Townsend all rolled into one. I was for that moment a guitar God. Wham whamm whammmm. The windows shook and the light fittings rattled. It was great. I was thrashing away at the three chords I knew, revelling in my imaginary stardom.
Suddenly there was a terrific crash. Christ! What was that? I switched off the amp and listened. Nothing. My ears were still ringing. I looked toward my door. Little puffs of white dust were coming up from underneath the door. I slung my axe on the bed and went to open the door….. slowly. I peered out.
WHITE OUT! The whole of the landing was covered in plaster and dust, the ceiling had fallen down. Shit! What have I done? Moments panic. What to do? If I left the room I’d leave footprints in the plaster dust. I’d be caught. Step back shut the door and sit on the bed a few minutes to have a think. I don’t think the house was designed for that level of volume.
A few seconds later I had the answer. I climbed out of the window, shinned down the drain pipe, crossed the back lawn and hopped over the wall. Ran up the road and caught a bus back to Uni. There I stayed in the union bar for a few hours amusing myself with a few friends playing table football.
At six I got back to my digs, opened the door and stood there saying “Oh my God what’s happened?”
My landlady came out the kitchen. “Looks like the rain we’ve had has brought down the ceiling.”
“I guess it was an act of God.” I said, not mentioning the fact it was the act of a guitar God.
Now I said I wasn’t very good back then, well as a post script to this story, I was later in a friends room in the halls of residence, showing off my remarkable prowess at guitar. I was a natural talent. Well I thought I was, until my good friend Mark ripped the guitar out of my hands and chucked it out of the seventh floor window. We all rushed to the window in time to see in plummet downwards towards it’s inevitable destruction. It hit the paving stones at the bottom with a delicious crash and discordant twang.
Mark said “That’s the best that guitar has ever sounded.” I've improved since then.


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