Here is your gag of the month for August 2018. You can view previous gags and many more by visiting the cartoon gallery. Bill can also create personalised greetings cards, caricatures and cartoons, for more information please get in touch.
I’ve always thought of the days of the week as having their own colours. Don’t know why, but I have. Monday’s black or white. Tuesday’s lime green. Wednesday’s a nice friendly, warm brown. But it wasn’t yesterday. [Today’s Thursday. Do try to keep up]
Yesterday I got a phone call from somebody who turned out to be a scammer ; somebody who’d managed to hack into my online banking facility. He told me that he’d “accidentally” deposited £8200 into my current account and that he’d like it back. I checked and found that there was in fact an unlooked-for £8200 in my account. Very odd. I don’t use my online banking facility. I contacted my bank, told them what had apparently happened and cancelled said on line banking facility. Job done ? Oh dear me, No. I find now [7.00 am, Thursday – which is blue, by the way] that my telephone banking number won’t work and that I must contact bank security. Deep sigh. I’ll do this in an hour or so, and hope that I can speak to a Real Person rather than get sucked into the frustrating button pressing routine – you know……….”I f you’d like to speak to one of our helpful team, please hold…….”
So, be warned – somewhere out there is a plausible little rat who says he’s from BT and would like to arrange delivery of a new router as my present one is faulty. Of course, it isn’t. But because these days we are so reliant on being a tiny part of the world-wide web, its very difficult to establish exactly what’s going on with things like a router.
Anyway, this morning I’m moderately brassed off and would dearly like a couple of minutes alone with the Not Really from BT bloke.
But cartoon-wise, the show must go on. I’m in the final stages of the 2020 calendar cover. Covers are always complicated jobs because they have to feature loads of different “work” activities, all of which have to hang together as a readable whole.
Before that, though, I shall try to contact a Real Person at my bank. Wish me luck……………………..
At the time of writing, June’s nearly over. In my book, that’s no bad thing. The month’s been dominated by the fact that my email facility gave up the ghost . My internet service provider is BT which, going off past experience, has to be the worst company in the known universe. I’ve spoken to quite a few BT folk recently. Some were off-hand, whilst others were concerned and gave me the impression that they wanted to help. The local chap who comes to give my computer a dressing down when it misbehaves can’t because he’s on holiday in Croatia. But the last BT person I spoke to PROMISED that somebody who can sort things out will be in touch on Monday. I’ll believe it when it happens.
My old, no money Mazda 6 estate is due an MoT. I think it’ll be OK. It’s a cracking car despite being presently covered in seagull pooh. That’s because last week we spent a week in Staithes, up on the north-east coast. The noisiest, poohiest herring gulls in the world live there. Some regard them as a pest, but I quite like them. Beautiful in flight and very funny when begging for food. They stamp their huge feet and go, “PAPPAPPAP !” Which is what they do to their parents, apparently.
Staithes was blisteringly hot. I have a very sunburnt hooter. The village is tiny, but it has an OK beach. Wilma the Dog thought that was v interesting. She was less sure about waves.
On day three, Sheila’s daughter Dr Jen arrived with her dog Kes, an utterly loopy, naughty two year old border collie. One evening, whilst Sheila, Jen, Wilma and I were relaxing NOT watching footy, Kes stole my glasses, hid behind the settee and ate them. So I drove back as an advert for Sellotape. Actually, peaceful, gentle Wilma has Kes’s measure. If he persists in annoying her, she growls and shows her not inconsiderable teeth. But having spent six of her eight years as a stray, that doesn’t surprise me. It surprises Kes. But not for long. But I think they quite like each other really, given the way they curled up together at night.
So then it was back to the ranch to finish my present series of cartoon calendars – a bit of a ploddy job, but end’s in sight now.
My studio fan’s still rattling away because its still way too hot – has been all day. The sooner it rains, the better.
Evening meal time now. Will I watch any footy ? Only if there’s nothing else on.
Meanwhile, two days later………Stop press ! My local computer fettler called yesterday and I’ve got my emails back. Excellent !
I suppose that as someone who can’t stand cookery programmes, I should be
grateful for the preponderance of sport on telly at the moment. My viewing
is exclusively terrestrial. I don’t have Sky or any other set-ups like that
which allow you – for a fee- to view Mongolian basket weaving should you so
desire. So, I’m stuck with just a few channels, including, of course, Beeb
one and two. Presently, they’re utterly dominated by sport. Don’t get me
wrong – I like most sports – apart perhaps for golf. Golf’s very skilful of
course, but its also a tad boring. Maybe that’s because it doesn’t involve a
Presently, thanks to the Commonwealth Games, there’s an overdose of
sport readily available. One thing I’ve noticed is the way winning is
celebrated. In a sport which involves teams – even if its only two strong –
team- mates shake hands or touch knuckles or – God forbid – do a high five
after every point – even if they lose it.
Soccer is probably the best example of over-done celebration. A goal is
scored and team delirium breaks out. The goal scorer inevitably slides
across the pitch on his/her knees, then struts about, soaking up the
Maybe, at the higher levels of the beautiful game, its understandable.
Perhaps the celebrants are subconsciously trying to justify their obscene
salaries. And, even though salaries are lower, cricket’s the same. I watched
some old videos recently, featuring bowlers like Statham, Trueman and
Lindwall. They were frighteningly fast. They took lots of wickets and whilst
their team-mates were obviously pleased when an opposing batsman got his
stumps wrecked, the bowler wasn’t mobbed. In fact, in one Trueman clip I
saw, Fred got two wickets in one over. Each time, having got the wicket, he
simply turned and walked back to his mark whist the fielders clapped
The most stupid thing I’ve seen in cricket recently was the ball –
tampering episode. Not so much the actual tampering – that’s always gone on
– but the way the Australian culprits failed to hide it. Stuffing a piece of
sandpaper down your trousers, on camera, is a sure sign that something is
Time to get a bit of drawing done now. At least I won’t be tempted to go
downstairs and watch Ladies’ underwater pipe-bending.
People do get themselves into awful pickles, don’t they ? I’m thinking of the Russian father and daughter who were poisoned by “persons unknown”. I bet those persons aren’t unknown – certainly by those in the UK who play the covert and obviously dangerous espionage game. Why is it played ? Well, we’re told its played to keep us safe from people like the paid assassins who poisoned the Russians in Salisbury. And on the whole it does keep us safe. Occasionally, a lone-wolf nut-job gets through the net and runs over pedestrians on a London bridge. But insane people do tend to do insane things without being terrorists. We rely on our security services knowing about secret stuff. And they know through listening, blackmail and treachery. That’s the way its always been – from the di Medicis pouring poison into enemy earholes – to whatever it is that goes on in every country’s intelligence service.
Am I bovvered ? Well yes, I am, without having a clue about how to change things. Do they need changing ? Yes they probably do. I’m old enough to be fascinated/horrified by World War Two; by Adolf Hitler’s insatiable need for power – not just in his own country, but over anybody who disagreed with him, or, worse still, just happened to be Jewish. Donald Trump got to be President through promising certain sections of the American population to “put America first”. Vladimir Putin [he of no shirt whilst sitting on a horse] boasts of inter-continental ballistic missiles which can hit anybody, anywhere. Trump [no horse, just silly hair] does the same, although I notice that the little fat North Korean guy – also with silly hair – has climbed off his nuclear threat high horse recently. These three really should take a look at something like “The World at War”. They should look at what humans can do to each other in the name of “nationalism”. I also think that there’s an element of nationalism in the thinking of those who voted to leave the European Union.
Meanwhile, back in Wilmaland, all is good. She’s a remarkable dog who has obviously been part of a family in the past. Show her the lead, and she immediately sits and puts her head on one side so you can clip the lead on. God knows what has happened to her between then and now. Interestingly, Sheila, whilst watching Crufts on ‘t’ telly, saw that Clumber spaniels have exactly the same ears as Wilma. Same shape, same unique pattern of spots. So there’s a dash of pedigree in there somewhere. But for now, she’s happy and contented and is my constant shadow. So in the face of Russian assassins and Donald’s hair, that’s a Good Thing.