Monday, 28 February 2011


I've just looked at the flag/counter/pageview thingy for Saturday.

Everyone's either still pissed from Friday night's exploits or trashed with a hangover on Saturdays. My boys, my boys! I am so very proud of you.

Men's Organs and Balls

Men’s Organs and Balls.

Some years ago, I had a very entertaining lunchtime.

To be honest, the lunchtime started at 10.30am and ended shortly before 4.00pm.

Leaning against a wall, I was waiting for the good lady to pick me up from town. As I leant against the wall, a uniformed person approached me and asked if I was okay.

In my town, there exists a thing called a Police Community Support Officer (PCSO).

I looked at the PCSO and said, “You’re a PCSO, aren’t you? And I’m guessing you’re a woman, yes?”

“Yes, sir, I’m a female Police Community Support Officer. Do you need any assistance?”

Now, some of you reading this may be thinking that I’d had far too much to drink, but, in fact, I hadn’t. I’d had a few beers, but that was all. However, for some reason the need to be mischievous was upon me. Uniformed people do that to me.

“So,” I said, “what exactly do you do to deserve such a fine uniform?”

“Sir, I support the community and I’m here as backup, should it be required.”

“Good, because I’m in need of some support.”

I released the wall of its duties, put my arm round the PCSO’s shoulders and leant against her, belched, smiled and informed her that I would also shortly be needing some backup.

“Why are you going to need backup?” She cautiously enquired.

“The wife’s on her way to pick me up,” I answered.

Within seconds the wife’s car pulled up and the passenger’s side window was lowered. The PCSO looked in, “Is this one yours?” She asked.

“No,” replied the missus and drove off.

The PCSO took a few steps away from me and started talking to her shoulder.

I was beginning to think that perhaps I was a little tipsy.

“Well, PCSO, the support was adequate, but the backup was awful. Why are you talking to your shoulder?”

“I’m calling for backup.”

“I thought you were the backup. Are you talking to yourself?”

“I have a communication device on my lapel. Please step away, sir.”

I was released from the cell at a little past midnight, without being charged, and the good lady found it within herself to collect me at one o’clock.

On returning to the home that I’d provided for my wife and family, I made the good lady a bedtime drink, poured myself a wee dram and, feeling quite awake, grabbed the TV guide to see what was on offer for late night viewing.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough drink?”

“Obviously not, you’re still talking to me.”

“Why don’t you do something?”

“I am doing something. I’m reading the TV guide.”

“Why don’t you get a hobby like other men?”

Again, I’ll say, that at no moment during the day had I been drunk. I had become a victim of circumstances and had been punished for simply having a sense of humour.

“A hobby? I don’t have time for a hobby.”

“What you mean is, it would interrupt the time with your friends down the pub. Why don’t you go out with my brother sometimes? He’s always inviting you and he’s said he doesn’t mind you messing about with his organ.”

I must point out that the missus was referring to an organ of the musical variety. Four years ago her brother decided that, with no knowledge of music and with no assistance whatsoever from a tutor, he would master the electric organ.

On the rare occasions that we visit her brother, I have to sit through endless hours of dive bombing stuka-like noises emerging from his organ while his wife, who, for some strange reason has always fancied me, sits opposite wearing a very short skirt, parting her legs and giving me the vertical grin.

“Messing about with other men’s organs isn’t for me darling. You’ll just have to accept that I’m more of a beer and hot dog kind of guy.”

“You really make me angry! You’re just lazy!” She shouted. “My brother gets a lot of satisfaction playing with his organ and so do others. Just last week, Jenny (his wife) invited her friends round to have a go on his organ.”

I’d had enough.

When all else fails there is only one way to shut the old cow up.

“Look, Nicole, it’s just not my thing.”

“You did it again. You called me Nicole. My name’s not Nicole. Why did you call me Nicole?”

“I don’t think I did call you Nicole. Why would I call you Nicole?” I replied.

“You’re thinking about that copper-head, Aussie actress bitch called Kidman again, aren’t you?”

She stormed out the kitchen shouting, ”You and Nicole can have the spare room!”

Over the next few weeks, I began to think that the wife might have had a point with this hobby thing. Since my false arrest, very little had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

Though, one evening the wife did run into the front room hollering, “it’s got worms! It’s got worms!”

She dragged me from my armchair and pulled me towards the office.

As I contemplated the severity of the pain I was going to inflict on the cat, Bunty, if I turned the corner and discovered that he’d shit a load of worms onto my office chair, the wife continued shouting, “it’s revolting! Disgusting!”

There was no sign of Bunty in the office. I looked about and asked, “where are these worms?”

“Look!” She cried, pointing to the computer’s monitor.

“Oh, that’s alright. That’s just where the grandson’s been using the computer. It’s always virused-up after he’s been on it.”

I took a closer look at the image on the screen, “hey, that’s one of those butt plug things.”

“Make it go away! Make it go away!”

I looked at the missus. I thought about investing in one of those plugs for her mouth. How on earth I ever built up the enthusiasm to sire five children with her was beyond me.

“If you would, for the love of god, just shut up for a minute, I’ll do exactly that.”

She looked at me suspiciously, “My grandson wouldn’t look at that filth. He’s not at all like that…you’ve been using the computer a lot recently.”

“Bloody hell woman, I’ve been married to you for over forty years! Do you really think that I still have any interest in the opposite sex?”

“No daughter of mine would raise her son to be like that!”

“Like what? What’s so terrible? On the screen is an attractive lady who just happens to have a piece of plastic wedged up her arse and our grandson’s fifteen years old and invariably walking about with a stiffy. It’s normal!”

The wife threw up.

Right, back to hobbies.

Eventually, I took up ten-pin bowling. It seemed that quite a few of my mates at the boozer were receiving similar bollockings from their wives for having no interests other than those connected to drink, pubs and having a laugh. So, we established ‘The Dam Busters’ bowling team.

We bullied the landlord of the alehouse into buying us T-shirts by threatening to never again use the top shelf of his bar.

For a few months we would arrange a weekly, evening match against other bowling teams.

We were awful. The other teams soon discovered why we’d called ourselves ‘The Dam Busters’. In Barnes Wallis fashion we would launch our balls and drunkenly laugh ourselves to the point of being ill as we watched the balls annihilate the pins three lanes down from ours.

We had a great time. And we continued to have a great time right up to the point when the wives thought it would be a good idea to set up their own team and enter the same league as us.

One fateful night ‘The Dam Busters’ were drawn against the wives’ team. It was a mission too far. The casualties were appalling.

‘The Dam Busters’ team was no more. Never again would their balls be used.

On the bright side, the wives went from strength to strength and became fanatical ten-pin bowlers never missing a match…which meant the lads could fit in another poker night.

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Bradford, Borneo and Bournemouth

The late evening was going quite perfectly. I was nestled in my armchair, I had a large brandy in one hand, a particularly fine cigar in the other and I was becoming quite engrossed in a TV programme featuring a 900lb woman from Bradford entitled ‘Eating Myself To Death’.

The good lady came to join me; “I had a letter today from a firm of lawyers.”

“How can that woman say that, due to arthritis, she hasn’t been able to exercise and that is the cause of her being a huge slab of fat? I’ve just seen her eat six cheeseburgers and two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie flavoured ice cream for a mid-morning snack. My God in heaven! She’s agreed to take part in a programme called ‘Eating Myself To Death’, surely the dumb, obese cow can take a hint.”

“Aunt Morgana died last month.”

“Liposuction? Liposuction on that bed-ridden behemoth? They’ll be there for bloody weeks with that little tube!”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Get me the number of the guy who pumps out our septic tank.”

For no reason whatsoever, my wife whacked me with the newspaper. I looked at her, “what the hell was that for?”

“Aunt Morgana died last month!”

“Never heard of her,” I said.

“We don’t talk much about her.”

“You don’t seem to be having a problem talking about her at the moment,” I suggested, “I was enjoying this programme. Why choose now to talk about her? If I talk to you when you’re watching ‘Desperate Slags’, or whatever it’s called, I get a punch in the ear. So, why can’t you leave me in peace to watch this lard-vacuum kick the bucket rather than talk about some bloody Morgana having kicked hers a month ago?”

“The letter said I’ve been left a share of the estate.”

Oh God. There was money involved. I turned off the television, filled my glass and turned to the wife, “go on then, what else did the letter say?”

“She’s being cremated next Tuesday at eleven in the morning and then there’s a reading of the will at two in the afternoon.”

“So what’s the problem?” I asked.

“She’s being cremated in Borneo.”

“Borneo? You had an aunt called Morgana living in Borneo?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I meant Bournemouth. I was thinking of Ian Dury at the time.”

(There probably is a link between Borneo and Ian Dury, but accept that it was my wife talking and just get on with things.)

“And why, “ I continued, “after all these long, long, long years of marriage is this the first I’ve heard of her?”

The wife squirmed uncomfortably in her chair and said, “We don’t like to talk about her. She’s from the dark side of the family.”

Looking at the wife in wide-eyed disbelief, I asked of her, “The dark side? Are you saying I didn’t get the worst of the lot? There’s a side of the family that’s worse than the bunch I know? Jesus Christ, I pity the sad and sorry bastard who ended up with Morgana.”

The expected punch in the chest never arrived. She was obviously upset by it all.

I squeezed her hand, “Don’t worry darling, we’ll sort it out. Go and get the letter.”

I read the letter.

“I knew this old witch!" I exclaimed, "They’re writing about Moggy Maggy from round the corner when we were kids!” (The wife and I grew up in Bournemouth)

“Don’t call her that.”

I ignored the wife, “Moggy Maggy was great fun! She used to throw bricks at children and hang dead cats on her front wall.”

The wife looked at me, “She was a bit confused, that’s all.”


My excitement grew as the day of the funeral approached.

I like funerals. They are far better than weddings. The best one to date was about four years ago where a poor man had to say goodbye to a son. The wake was going quite peacefully, apart from the odd minor border skirmishes between different families, when the man started to argue with his only remaining son.

Fists started flying and it soon became clear the father simply didn’t have the puff he used to have and he started to weaken. To avoid defeat, he grabbed a poker from the unlit fire and clubbed his son senseless.

The next day some of us, including the victorious father, were having a post-funeral “hair of the dog” in the boozer. The man’s battered son walked in.

“How are you today then son?” The father enquired.

“Well, dad,” the boy replied, “in the last two hours I’ve been to the doctors, the dentists and the opticians, but otherwise I’m okay.”

“Oh... don’t do it again!”

And they both lived happily ever after.

Anyway, the day for Moggy Maggy’s funeral arrived and the little lady and I turned up with ten minutes to spare. The crematorium was a big place. We strolled about and waited for the star attraction to arrive.

The wife called over a withered old lady.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“A relative of Morgana’s. I haven’t seen her for over forty years.”

“How do you know its her, then?”

The wife looked at me. “Because I haven’t been drunk for the last forty years.”

The missus and Moggy Maggy’s relative were muttering together. I could barely understand a word of it and I’m not too sure the missus was getting on to well, either. She told the relation how much of a shock the death had been, and how lucky she had been in knowing such a lovely person.

Good God! The old hag used to bulk purchase directly from the brewery, so her recent demise was hardly a surprise, and sticking fireworks up cats’ arses is hardly the action of a “lovely” person.

I took my leave, and had a mooch around whilst having a quick smoke and a nip from the hip flask.

Shortly, people started to enter the crematorium and we solemnly followed them.

Sitting at the back, I viewed the rest of the congregation. Strange looking bunch.

Surprisingly, quite a few people were attending. The guy next to me had come from abroad.

They wheeled in the coffin.

I whispered to the wife, “Describe your Aunt Morgana.”

“Oh, frail little lady. Barely five feet tall, bless her.”

“Fuck me. She’s put on some weight since you last saw her.”

“Shut up, you idiot. That’s a priest up there!”

“And grown about another two feet. Look at the size of that bloody coffin.”

“Be quiet, man!”

“I think,” I began to whisper, but stopped as the priest stood up and addressed the congregation…in Russian.

The wife and I looked at each other.

We left as quietly as possible.

The wife went into the hall next door and managed to catch the last minutes of Moggy Maggy’s funeral.

I stayed outside and managed to empty the hip flask between bouts of laughter.

The wife’s inheritance was a bullmastiff and a cheque for £90 towards dog food. Both were deposited with a Dog Rescue Centre within the hour.

I’d wanted to keep the bullmastiff. It would have evened things up at home.

Friday, 25 February 2011

Wales, Boy Friends, Metallurgy, Whales and Always Judge a Book by its Cover (Final part)

To continue…

Dessert was sherry trifle.

When it comes to cooking, my wife is firmly lodged in the sixties and seventies and, though she drinks very little herself, she is convinced that a dessert is not worth serving unless it is flammable. For me this is no problem. For those that are driving it can present problems.

One of my cohorts was once pulled over by the ‘law’ as he drove home from a soirĂ©e at my gaff and was asked to blow into a ‘have you had a drink?’ bag. My mate told the officer that he was wasting taxpayers’ money because nothing had been drunk all night.

Being a law enforcer of the nicer variety the officer enquired as to where my dear buddy had spent such a fine evening. Like a fool my idiot friend said eez’s place and told the officer how much he’d enjoyed his three helpings of rum baba. The copper forgot about the breathalyser and just nicked him on the spot.

Anyway, I suffered Myra Hindley looks from both the wife and daughter for several awkward minutes as I sat at the table. Then, my charming daughter said, “Dad, I assume you’re still having the Belgian breakfasts.”

Moby looked up from his fourth dish of sherry trifle and asked what a Belgian breakfast was.

The apple of my eye replied, “well, for my father, it’s normally about four cans of Stella as soon as he wakes up.”

The wife stepped in, “now, now, there’s no need to be like that.”

Hurrah for the missus! Good on ya woman! Give it to the disrespectful little cow! Give it to her good and proper!

“At least he’s not putting vodka on his cornflakes anymore.”


Everyone else seemed to be devouring abnormal quantities of trifle, so I thought I’d go for a second serving myself. As I ate, the Hindley girls continued to glare at me and it was obvious that the youngest was preparing for another offensive.

“Mum, are you and dad going anywhere nice for your holiday this year?”

That really was too much. I know I’m male and just her father, but it doesn’t mean I have to take a verbal arse shafting.

The wife and I have not been on holiday together since she had me arrested in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport in 1988 (she continued with the holiday and her flight seat was upgraded to first class as compensation for the ordeal she’d suffered whilst waiting to board. I spent 36 hours in the slammer).

I was about to say something when the wife said, “I doubt it, but I’m off to Japan with my sister in a month’s time.”

This was news to me. “You’re going to Japan with your sister?”

“Yes, dear.”

“That’s fine, darling. Whereabouts in Japan?”

At this point, my daughter looked at me; sensing that her mother was on dodgy ground.

“I’m not too sure, but it’s on the coast and the hotel is only fifty yards from the shore. Sis’ loves her morning swims. As you know, she often swims a mile or more before breakfast,” she beamingly answered.

I must explain that in my wife’s eyes her older sister is nothing short of a goddess. Had her sister been around in ancient Egypt the slave masses would have built pyramids of such grandeur for her sister that oxygen masks would have been issued half way up the bloody things.

“The hotel is only fifty yards from the shore? Your sister will swim every morning? Does your sister not consider that to be somewhat risky?” I gently enquired.

“Er, mum…”

“Not now darling. Mummy’s talking.”

I saw the cold look that my girl gave her mum. She’s definitely my wife’s daughter. There was an “okay, you’re on your own now.” look in her eyes.

The moment that was about to occur has and will always be a rare event in my life.

The missus, in an equally gentle and reserved fashion, replied, “Why would my sister think that to be risky? I fear you have taken too much whisky, sir.” (God, how I wish she’d stop watching period dramas on BBC1)

I calmly suggested, “Because, my sweetness, I believe Japan still operates a whaling fleet.”

Moby found it very amusing. He swallowed a tongue stud and farted.

I could give you two guesses as to where the final portion of sherry trifle came to rest, but you’d only need one.

I’m not going to say too much about the ‘Always Judge a Book by its Cover’ part of this post’s title.

My beautiful daughter from Wales spent two months in a rehabilitation centre and more than five months living back at home with her mother and me after leaving Moby. She eventually got her life back.

I was never prosecuted for what I did to Moby.

When everything came to light, I could do no wrong in my wife’s eyes for at least a week. I was the husband of all husbands.

When my daughter was getting over this regrettable, but in many ways inevitable, episode of her life, I was the greatest dad on the planet. I was the dad of all dads.

Not long after, they both returned to being the money grabbing, life-sucking females I’ve always known them to be.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, to be honest.

For those of you reading that live in England, Express Food stores have bottles of ‘Teachers’ whisky on offer at £9.99. Avail yourselves. I have.

God, I love this world.

P.s. Apologies for the 'yesterday' bit on the previous post. I was going to tie these events into something else, but when I got to the last bit it became difficult. Forgive me. If, for whatever reason, you can't forgive me, you are more than welcome to simply piss off.

Wales, Boy friends, Metallurgy, Whales and Always Judge a Book by its Cover (Part 1)

Yesterday was an awful day.


First job of the day was a visit to the loo. Having consumed several pints of real ale and a bowl of chilli the day before, it was always going to be a messy affair.

For the rest of the day you go about your business in the knowledge that you can’t merely sneak one out; squidgys, wettys and follow-throughs are inevitable. The need to fart means a visit to a toilet. The country in which I live only provides a public loo if the population of the area is in excess of three hundred thousand per square mile.

Lunchtime was spent listening to a young couple discussing, for hour after hour, a potential house purchase as they sat at the bar of my local and favoured alehouse.

Brutal as it may sound, I couldn’t give a shag about the dimensions of the property they intended to purchase or the frailty of the woman’s crippled and deranged mother, who would require a granny annexe the size of Rhode Island in order to see out another few drug-dependent months on this planet.


On returning to the home where my children were born and raised, the good lady offered me a cup of tea. Lord, give me the strength to continue.

I poured myself a whisky and stared out the kitchen window, wondering in which genocide I had taken part prior to this existence, to deserve a life such as this.

A vaguely familiar car pulled up and I watched a creature get out of the passenger side.

“What the hell is that?” I asked the wife.

She walked to the window, looked and said, “that, you useless, drunken, poor excuse of a man is a modern-style car.”

I turned to look at the missus. For a moment, I felt compassion. Throughout her life she has been lacking a sense of humour. Sometimes I wonder how, after all these years, men can still talk to her. I have been both dutiful and tenacious in my efforts to instil at least one funny thought or comment in her brain.

I have spent many years trying to explain to her why one-liners are funny. The pausing of comedy DVDs and videos has become inevitable in my house as I repeatedly offer an explanation as to why the last scene watched was ball bustingly hilarious.

I turned back to the window, “I meant the thing that has just got out the car.”

“That is your daughter’s boyfriend and that is your daughter’s car,” she replied, moving away from the window.

I continued to look at the car and saw the driver get out. Again I turned to the wife and said, “I think you’re wrong. Look at the thing that’s just clambered from the driver’s side!”

She warily approached the window and whispered, “that’s your daughter.”

Yet again I looked at my darling wife. Was I mistaken? Had she developed a sense of humour after all?

The kitchen door opened and in walked…my daughter from Wales.

The last time I’d seen her she had hair extensions down to her backside, wouldn’t consider wearing anything that hadn’t cost at least the price of a decent second hand car and would lock herself in a room until a chipped fingernail had been repaired.

In front of me stood a shaven-headed gorgon from the landfill. And following her… Stig of the Dump (look it up on the internet).

She gave her mother a kiss, walked past me, went to the fridge and after a while said, “This is my boy friend, Moby.”

I felt a need to fart.

He had a spider’s web tattooed on the left side of his face and some form of hieroglyphics tattooed on the right side of his neck. There was more metalwork adorning his face than that of Robocop’s.

I felt tempted to add to his facial, metallurgic collection by ramming a screwdriver in his eye.

“Shall we eat?” Said the wife.

Being a decent and civil chap, I offered my hand to ‘Moby’ and mumbled, “Hello Moby, nice to meet you.”

With hooded eyelids and without shaking my hand he replied, “cool.”

“Okay, let’s eat,” I announced.

‘Moby’ is a vegetarian. Therefore, ‘Moby’ had a few issues with a beef stew.

“Moby,” I enquired, “what are you doing?”

“Well, like, washing the gravy off this piece of carrot.”

I watched ‘Moby’ hold his fork and wash a piece of carrot under the cold tap.

“Moby, why are you washing that piece of carrot?”

“It’s infected with meat juices…you know.”

As previously mentioned in this blog (why is it called a blog?) I am 66 years old and extremely grumpy. Grumpiness is just a side effect of being short tempered.

Enduring the glares of both daughter and wife, I fought the urge to drag the cretin known as ‘Moby’ outside and kick him up and down the road like the piece of shit he appeared to be, and tried another approach, “why the name Moby? Real name Richard, yes? … Richard…Dick…Moby Dick, right?”

“No. Moby’s my name.”

“Jeez, your parents must have been shooting something between their toes at the time,” I laughingly replied. “Honestly, what’s your real name?”

“Honestly, it’s Moby. Moby Mullet.”

I’d had a few whiskies, “oh, knob off. Just tell me your name. It can’t be that bad.”

He showed me his student pass. His name was Moby Mullet.

Moby felt the need to fart…and did so. He then muttered something and shuffled off to the loo. Squidgy or follow through? I wondered.

“Go easy on him, Dad. He’s not been feeling too well lately. He might be anaemic.”

I stood up, “Anaemic? The only way you’d get more iron in his body would be to shove a scaffold tube up his arse. The guy’s got more iron in his body than X-Men’s Wolverine!”

The wife chipped in, “Well at least offer him a drink or something!”

“Can’t. I used the last of the ‘3in1’ on your bike chain.”

“Father, really! He’s not all bad, you know!”

“True,” I replied, ”I dare say he’s very handy if you run out of nails on a Bank Holiday. Is it two or three in his left ear?”

“You miserable, drunken old sod!” screamed the wife.

“Bloody hell, woman! Look at him! The guy’s a moron! What do you think his parents gave him to play with when he was a kid? A train set? More likely a pop riveter and a fucking staple gun!”

“Actually, dad, his parents are dead.”

“Oh. Er, what happened?”


“Sorry? OD?…as in Overdose? Jesus H Christ! I bet he’s ramming a hypodermic up his butt as we speak! My daughter’s sleeping with a smackhead-spawned cyborg! Can you get chain mail condoms? He’s probably got half the Screw Fix range hanging off his dick!”

I didn’t stand a chance. The daughter attacked from the left and the wife stuck one in from the right.

The wife had me in a bear hug and the girl was hanging off my neck.

“Hey, that’s, like, nice to see. Family cuddle time. Cool,” said Moby from the doorway.

To maintain the image, my daughter kissed me on the cheek and, out of view, pinched the skin at the back of my upper arm (try it some time, it hurts like hell).

I returned to the table and gingerly sat down, hoping that my testicles would rearrange themselves naturally, “what’s for dessert, then?”

To be continued….

Thursday, 24 February 2011

Poker and How To Survive It.

Poker is, without a doubt, the very best excuse ever created for men to have a good time.

Every man should play poker. Every woman should let her man play poker.

A gentlemen’s poker night is the most important event that can occur:

Announcement: The country has a new leader.
Response: And?

Announcement: There is to be a royal wedding.
Response: Do the people have to pay for the wedding and the divorce?

Announcement: Turn on all your taps, close your curtains, wrap yourselves in tin foil, listen to your radios and be prepared for a five minute warning.
Response: Will the lights still work, though? It’s ‘poker night’ tonight.

Announcement: The Messiah has arrived!
Response: Can he shuffle?

Announcement: The children and I are leaving you.
Response: Okay, John, here’s your fifty…and I’ll raise you another fifty.

Announcement: I’m inviting the guys round at eight o’clock for poker. Can you get here?
Response: Damn straight I can get there, buddy! I’ll have to leave the mobile on, though, because the wife’s in labour. Is that okay?

Poker is not just about the game. Poker is not just about the winning. A poker night with the lads is an occasion that is to be cherished. It is an oasis of happiness and self-expression amidst the day in day out drudgery of work, bills, wives and general kicks in the nuts.

The poker table is the modern day Colosseum. It is the arena where 21st century men must fight to be the last one standing. It is not for the faint of heart. Those attending must be steely-eyed with resolve and push aside all thoughts of the bollocking that awaits them upon their return to the family home.

If you’ve never before played poker and you’re reading this imagining yourself to be Russell Crowe stepping out to face the barbarian hordes, then don’t bother. Stop reading now and forget about poker. It’s not for you. Russell Crowe is a pussy.

If, on the other hand, you’re imagining yourself more as a Homer Simpson kind of guy, then come on in and take a seat.

Basic requirements for a good, wholesome, entertaining night of poker is as follows:

A sturdy table is needed. Sturdiness is vital. As the night draws on, aggression levels can become raised. Furniture breakage merely gives a wife more ammo and unless you know of a furniture restorer who operates an emergency call out system, prevention is better than cure. Do not use one of those god-awful felt ‘professional’ playing surfaces. They stain easily and soak up liquids (the drying of alcohol/blood can hold up the event). Round tables are preferred by professionals. The efforts of the night can often result in, well, unsteadiness. No corners means no telltale bruises.

Always have at least five sealed packs of cards to hand. Accusations of cheating are best dealt with by an expeditious change of weaponry.

To maintain stamina and enhance performance it is suggested that an absolute minimum of one crate of beer and one bottle of a preferred spirit is available for each participant.

To further maintain stamina and to stave off mind distracting munchies, ensure there is a plentiful supply of snacks. Never, ever, ever provide pretzels. A pretzel is a nest-lining material and is only used by humans when bar scenes are being filmed for detective shows.

The need for a short, direct and unhindered route to the khazi cannot be emphasized enough. It is of paramount importance.

Every participant should have his own first aid kit that is securely attached to his body. Never remove it! You are just as likely to need it when you return to the wife.

A secure lock on all access points is desirable. Women are much stronger than they appear when searching for wayward husbands at three in the morning.

A knowledge of retorts, witty remarks and insults is an absolute must. Banter is a skill all serious players must learn. The following is a basic example for the beginner:

“So, what’s that criminal son of yours doing tonight? Breaking into another wine store?”

“No, the last I saw of him he was banging your wife.”

“In that case, tell him to jot down some clitoral directions. After thirty years of guesswork, it would be nice to know the way.”

From the above it is clear that the opening comment, from the professional, has drawn in the amateur, who thinks he’s won the encounter, and has successfully set up the amateur for the verbal ‘coup de grace’.

Finally, blue cue chalk (which can be borrowed from any pub’s pool or snooker table and returned the following lunchtime) is a well kept secret of the nightime poker player. Prior to returning to the good lady’s early morning interrogation apply a smear of the blue chalk to the forehead.

When asked, “where the bloody hell have you been all this time?” Merely tell her the truth: “my dear, I’ve been drinking, playing poker with the lads and I have lost next month’s mortgage repayment.”

“No you bloody haven’t you lying bastard! You’ve been down that snooker club where that whore of a barmaid works!”

The events of a poker night must never be divulged to females. A thump in the conkers for suspected adultery is nothing compared to the shame and disgrace of dobbing in your mates.

To conclude, poker nights are essential to a man’s well being and, once mastered, will enhance the quality of his life.

And for this, we, the men of this world, owe a debt of gratitude to the yanks.

My most cherished possession is a baseball cap that was given to me by a Tennessee bar owner that has embroidered upon it words that should stir the emotions of any man:

‘Liquor in the front, poker in the rear’

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Flag Thingy/Iceland

Holy shmoly! Someone from Iceland's popped in to view the goings on.

This Flag Counter thing is better than the Eurovision Song Contest. Having said that, most things are better than the Eurovision Song Contest.

I like Iceland. I was once the only person in an entire room full of people who could correctly spell the capital of Iceland (Reykjavik).

Selma was hot.

Come on Iceland!

Embarrassing Moments, Part One: Victory From Defeat.

I have to be honest and admit that at the age of 66, memory recall isn’t what it used to be and if you’re a boozehound such as myself, trying to drag up the events surrounding embarrassing moments, or, indeed, any moments, from the fog of time and alcohol can be difficult.

If the ‘embarrassing moments’ posts come at random times, please accept that I’m a booze-addled, old git and can barely remember what I’m actually writing about by the time I reach the end of the keyboard thumping session.


Embarrassing moments involving food are easy to come by for most people: anyone can fall ill and suddenly vomit over the table; anyone can eat an entire bowl of garlic dip thinking that it’s their starter and not also for the use of the other five people sitting at the table; anyone can have too much to drink and start talking with an absurd accent to foreign waiters in an insulting, unimaginative and an “I’m going to get a meat cleaver put in my head before I’m thrown through the window” sort of way.

But it takes a certain amount of intense misfortune and bad luck—with you from the moment you fall from the womb—to set oneself apart from the crowd. Uniqueness, style and high levels of social embarrassment concerning food can only come from breeding.

I didn’t know my parents that well. I can only assume they were the sort of people to spot money on the floor, to be run over by a bus whilst picking it up and then to suffer a violent mugging from the ambulance crew.

The first food related faux pas to which I shall confess happened over twenty years ago on a warm, Saturday evening at a local politician’s house; the setting sun was still providing warmth, the barbecue was glowing acceptably—if anyone knows how to get a barbecue lit please leave a comment, as the price of petrol is horrendous at the moment—and local dignitaries were chatting and mingling in justification of their expense allowances.

As is usual at these bashes, the wife had put as much distance between herself and me as possible. I’d had a few stiffeners before we’d left for the function and upon arrival had set about warranting the presence of half a dozen drinks waiters.

I spied a young lady standing to one side and decided to amuse her with some witty banter to help pass the time (all middle aged men go through the ‘I’m half pissed, therefore I must be the funniest man in the world’ stage in their lives). Carrying a double vodka, and a pork and charcoal sausage in French stick, I casually approached the attractive little filly.

She must have sensed something about me and took a few steps back with, I’m sure, a come and get me look in her eyes. She was a cute thing: nice legs, slim waist, a cleavage that would put a blimp hangar to shame, and a welcoming smile.

I came up close to her and, biding my time, took a bite from my hot dog.

French stick has, in the ensuing years, become notorious for being more of a food-propellant than a food-containment solution.

A ketchup-smeared sausage was resting on the young lady’s bosom, perilously close to her crevasse-like cleavage.

As the maiden stood there, glass in one hand and a half eaten burger in the other, staring down at a processed meat and breast combo, it was clear that retrieval of the errant banger was down to me.

Slippery little things aren’t they? It was going to take more than one attempt.

Now, when one reads a horror story the author suggests that the temperature drops markedly and the air turns foul when a malevolent spirit is present. A shiver went through me and I could smell my own fear as I recognised the scream of the missus.

“What on earth are you doing?” She hollered, looking at the now upright sausage protruding from the woman’s breasts, “I‘ve heard about that disgusting spring roll thing!”

“Spring roll thing? What the hell are you going on about?” I enquired.

“You know exactly what I mean! It’s where a man puts his thingy between a lady’s boobs and then, well, you know, does it!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, woman,” I replied, “that’s a Bombay Roll followed by a pearl necklace, not a bloody spring roll you stupid cow!”

Three things then happened. Suddenly, the mayor’s daughter started to take a lot more interest in me, for that was identity of the lovely female currently nestling my sausage, the blood drained from me as I realised what I’d just shouted to my wife in front of two hundred guests and the wife started charging at me.

Things were difficult at home for some time. But, as the months went by, the memories of the incident slowly faded and were then, eventually, forgotten.

Until, almost twelve months later, an invitation to that year’s barbecue appeared on the doormat.

On the invitation, written in gold ink, was just one name…mine.

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

The Wife's Friends

There’s no point in trying to offer a precise description of her mass of friends. The following, though, should at least give you a rough idea and you can come to your own conclusions:

One afternoon the missus told me that two of her friends would be visiting that evening. This is her way of saying that she doesn’t want me at home when they arrive. Being a dutiful husband I removed myself to the local drinking establishment at least an hour before the estimated time of arrival of her associates.

Recollection of my forced attendance at the pub is more than a little hazy. However, I am able to clearly recall deciding to use the services of a home delivery outlet, that delivered a truly awful meal to my home earlier in the week, to kill two birds with one stone.

I ordered for delivery to my address: three twelve-inch pizzas with extra garlic, onion and anchovies; three meat vindaloos (rat? Road kill? Humanely trapped? Your guess is as good as mine) and six side dishes of bhajis.

It was my intention that all this food would be turned away with no payment being offered, as the women hadn’t ordered the food, and the good lady and her two friends would be suffering with hunger pains upon my return.

She used my credit card to pay for the delivery and not a scrap of food was left.

Simply put, my wife’s friends are heifers. If ‘Jabba The Hutt’ desired a partner, he would be spoilt for choice.

I have to say that my wife is in no way overweight, but I cant think of any of her female acquaintances that wouldn’t put a dent in a battleship’s deck. Indeed, I am happy to swear on my children’s lives that when she has more than six of them in the kitchen at any one time, my house tilts towards the east.

They all have an inherent dislike of men. Though, for some reason they all think, without exception, that Mel Gibson truly is the Supreme Being’s gift to women.

I once pointed out to a gathering of the heifers that Mel is, in fact, an alcoholic who has been accused of both making anti-Semitic remarks and committing more driving offences than the entire cast of Whacky Races.

To be fair to my spouse, she did put a halt to the proceedings after one of her friends came back with a rope.

Having raised the small matter of men, as incredible as it might sound, each and every one of this herd is married. To me, this defies all the known workings of the universe and trashes the principles of ‘law of averages’ and statistics, but most definitely supports Chaos Theory.

Their hobbies (other than slagging off husbands) include making cakes, jam and pickles, and talking about making cakes, jams and pickles.

Credit where credit is due though, the sale of these homemade delicacies raises an admirable amount of money for charity. Over the years they have developed an impressive and virtually faultless sales approach.

Every now and then, they set up a large marquee on the village green (free erection of the marquee is included in the hire price, but the service is always declined as the women enjoy hurling 50kg sheets of canvas at each other). Tables inside are then piled with mouth-watering goodies.

Purchasing by the husbands is compulsory and passers by are, well, press ganged into buying calorie-ridden nibbles at truly extortionate prices and then given a free cup of tea.

Over the years, there have been a number of complaints about their marketing methods, but on the occasions when trading officials and police have turned up, it has always been decided that, for the sake of casualty reduction, retreat is the preferred option.

One can’t really blame anyone for backing off. The day of the charity cake sale is an important time for these women; the very best tartan skirts are worn and make-up is applied (I do wish women over sixty would stop applying make-up. They simply do not have a clue at that age). It really is a breathtaking sight. In fact, it’s not at all dissimilar to some of the violent scenes in the film ‘Braveheart’.

Which brings us back to Mel sodding Gibson. I’m going to the pub.

Monday, 21 February 2011

Bear in mind

If the wife is still talking to you, then you haven’t had enough to drink.


Giving your capital city a name that very, very closely resembles the name of your country is cheating.

Capital of Algeria is Algiers. Capital of Tunisia is Tunis…oh, please, where’s the imagination? Where’s the creativity? Put some effort into it guys.

General Rant

Apologies, but every now and then I just have to rant:

Every time I look at the TV news I hear the same thing. It’s always the same: the country’s going down the crapper.

It doesn’t matter which country you live in, it’s the same for everybody: “Today’s headlines, the country’s going down the crapper.”

Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not news. That’s just restating the bloody obvious over and over again. And I can find no reason on God’s Green Earth why I should have to suffer listening to, day after day, a pin-striped twat trying to explain to me why a kilo of cat litter costs more today than it did yesterday.

Then, in an attempt to prove their expertise and knowledge of the subject, they use the word ‘historically’ and try to convince me that a similar cat litter issue brought about the fall of the Ottoman Empire.

Whenever I hear a financial analyst on TV using the ‘H’ word, I turn to the bottle and trust me, if it’s the morning news it makes for a bloody long day.

Why, oh why can’t they just get a prime minister or a president to address the nation?

“My fellow citizens, there are bad times ahead for us all. Houses will simply be far too expensive for the majority of you. You will no longer be able to afford the foods that you have been eating and will have to eat dirt instead. But it’s not all bad, for, in this great country of ours, we have some of the finest dirt available.”
(reading this whilst imagining it’s Morgan Freeman doing the talking really does make it come over quite well).

Do they have to bring economist after economist onto our screens, day after day, to explain why the recession is the worst we’ve ever experienced since apes started walking upright?

Do these people think I’m not aware of the fact that it now takes an entire oil field’s production just to heat my home?

Refuge can only be found in a pub, club, boozer or whatever you care to call it. Be warned though, if you live anywhere near a so-called business sector of a city, avoid lunchtime drinking at all costs.

I would rather dine in hell with the wife’s sister than meet an accountant on his lunch break. What on earth makes an accountant, who spends his day filing the tax returns of self-employed plumbers, think that between the hours of 12.00am and 2.00pm he possesses enough financial acumen to solve global economic problems?

Why are accountants so BORING when they have a drink? The whole point of going down the pub and getting absolutely knocked sideways with booze is to lighten up and talk complete drivel.

One of the wife’s brothers is an accountant. I really don’t know if accountancy was invented so that he could find something suitable in life, or if he became an accountant to stop getting punched in the head by others around him whenever he spoke.

Once, being the true personification of tedium, he told the owner of a pub that he shouldn’t be pouring himself half a beer without putting money in the till because that would result in no sale and, therefore, no tax being paid on the sale of that half of beer. Naturally, this was the reason for the recession.

He’s 59 years old and my money says he’s never had a hard-on.

Wife’s put the TV on. I’m off.

Sunday, 20 February 2011

Eighth Member

Okay, I’ve given a rough description of the wife, the five kids and myself. However, there is an eighth member of the family.

The term ‘freak of nature’ is over used. There are many living things that are referred to as freaks of nature when, on reflection, they’re not actually that freaky. To me, a freak has to be unique in a displeasing way. This, from my point of view, sums up the eighth member of the family quite perfectly.

He is disfigured, ill mannered, repugnant, aggressive, manipulative, sometimes terrifying and is proof that drowning at birth should be, for the sake of mankind, an option at least worth considering. He is an antichrist.

If one were to take a selection of DNA from Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Hitler and Jack the Ripper, put it all in some sort of container, give it a shake and see what sort of character crawled out, you would not end up with anything as ghastly as Bunty.

Bunty is a creature that most of you will know and recognise. He haunts your dreams. When you go to bed at night thinking that things will be better in the morning, Bunty will be sitting there staring solidly and resolutely at you when you wake. He will give no quarter. There will be no respite. Resistance will be futile.

Really, I should cut this post short and just say that Bunty has been trained by the wife, but, even then, I’m not sure that anyone reading this would fully appreciate the fiendish entity to which I refer.

Bunty’s hobbies include puking in my footwear, puking on my pillow, eating my meals and then puking even more, eating rodent carcasses and puking in or on the aforementioned items, urinating on my computer keyboard, urinating on my favourite chair, urinating on any part of the flooring on which I am likely to step, catching bats and devouring them in full view of guests—I must hand it to the wife on that one—and defecating in, on or near anything other than a litter tray.

Whenever I hear a screech of tyres from the road, my hopes are raised. Moments later my hopes are dashed as Bunty saunters into the house, urinates, takes a dump, stuffs his shovel-beaten face into a food bowl and then settles down to decide where would be the best place to vomit.

I have nothing against cats or, indeed, any animal…but it is truly beyond me to find any compassion for this creature of the night.

Should any of you think that I’m exaggerating the influence of the good lady on this creature, then I would point out that Bunty is by no means the first example of her dark powers.

My oldest daughter is strange, spooky and, sometimes, simply not of the living world; just like her mother.

When she visits, she will go out with her mum at night. They will return a few hours later, after midnight, and I’d ask, “had a good time, ladies? Had a meal or something?”

They’d glance at each other and say, “yeah, we’ve eaten.”

“Where did you eat?”

“Oh, here and there.”

At this point, I leave the room and go to bed. I lock the door.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I hear strange noises coming from outside.

One time when she visited, the neighbour’s dogs went missing and other dogs in the street would howl to be let back inside.

Anyway, you’ve now got an idea of the family pet. I’m off to weed the Garlic bed.

Saturday, 19 February 2011


Well, I suppose I’d better start with myself, eez:

Early childhood was an all too familiar story of bullying and hunger, but I soon saw the error of my ways, stopped beating up other kids, stopped stealing their school lunches and turned to the Bible.

Things were good for a while, but demand dwindled and it soon became apparent that there are only so many different designs of Bibles that you can sell to ageing widows.

In the ensuing years I spent time behind bars, but, again, a change of direction soon saw me drinking rather than serving.

And now I find myself at the age of 66, totally grumpy, invariably drunk, smoking a truly horrific quantity of any duty free cigarettes I can get, looking more like Winston Churchill than Winston Churchill ever did, married for over forty years (I’ll come to her next) and solving everyone else’s problems, but mine.

All my life I have been a victim of circumstances and things have an inevitable way of going wrong for me. Examples of this are many and over the coming weeks, if anyone reads these ramblings, you will no doubt find yourself crying tears of sympathy for this walking magnet to misfortune.

On to the wife:

The darling little lady has many qualities. She’s good with her fists, above average at wrestling, and good at throwing things, though her aim isn’t what it used to be, as my neighbour would confirm when the hammer went through his window instead of my head.

She has many skills and talents that often come in handy. A recent example of her natural ability occurred when, while travelling to a relative’s sixth wedding (he’ll probably stop there because his name’s Henry), I was stupid enough to drive over a small piece of metal lying in the middle of a rain slicked road which resulted in a puncture.

It soon became apparent that the wheel nuts, which had probably been put on by some gorilla with a power wrench, were not for moving. Despite my best testicle-popping efforts, they were going nowhere. The wife intervened and had the wheel changed in three minutes dead.

I will gradually introduce you to her family and friends. This will prove to be a harrowing experience for me, so I ask that you be patient and forgive me for spreading the trauma over a period of time.

She is something of an enigma. When my kids look at her they see a smiling, loving and caring woman. When I look at her I see Godzilla with tits.

Overall, though, she has been a good mother and wife, albeit with an always-present air of malignancy.


I have two daughters and three sons. I consider them all to be somewhat imbalanced.

I won’t go into too much detail because I don’t know much about them.

My Oldest son runs a business. I’m not too sure what the business is, but he seems to earn a fair bit, as he is the one that has ‘borrowed’ the least amount of money from me.

To digress a little, I confess to having failed all my children. At no stage have I ever been able to successfully explain to any of the five of them what the word borrow means.

My second son works abroad and does something with screwed up people.

I don’t have a clue what the youngest boy does. He lives in his own little annexe to the house in which, I’m sure, several as yet unknown varieties of mushrooms exist. I suspect that however he makes money, it is not within the law.

The oldest daughter paints nails whenever she has the inclination to do so and appears to be happy surviving on state and parental handouts.

My youngest daughter (youngest of the lot) lives in Wales. I can’t really tell you much about her, but I think I’d recognise her if I saw her.

And now it’s beer o’clock.