blog and gag of the month

Gag of the month - September

Wed, 1 Sep 2010 07:55:07 +0100

September Blog

Wed, 1 Sep 2010 07:54:08 +0100

Ah, September ! Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…….that time of year when you can amble round IKEA without falling over kids because they’ve all gone back to school………..a time when the hosepipe ban’s been lifted and Cumbria’s bracing itself…………and halfway across the world Pakistan’s facing God knows what, whilst nearer to home that country’s cricketers – well, a couple of them at any rate, seem to be mired in a betting scam. Looks like a tiny part of the beginning of the end of the game I certainly love, as it falls in with all major sports in its quest for money, where the razmataz and celebrity creation attracts more and more fans who know sod all about the game but do enjoy waving big rubber hands with 4 on them, and going apeshit when the big screen shows them doing so.

Hmmm. Nearly got into rant mode then. Nearly mentioned the A&E consultant who colluded with rugby cheats and sliced a player’s mouth open [CONSULTANT, mind you, not junior doctor]…………or that very strange lady who put the cat in the wheelie bin. Maybe now the whole world’s seen what she did, she’ll get the medical treatment she obviously needs. If, on the other hand, there isn’t anything wrong with her and she’s just a cruel, stupid woman who suddenly finds she has no friends, so be it.

This has been an attempt to blog. I have been reading others’ blogs and I’m still not sure why its done. Why anybody should be remotely interested in my thoughts about bent doctors, cricketers or loony bin ladies– or indeed my total lack of interest in Big Dave’s fecundity, I don’t know.

Anyway, before I shut up and go colour a couple of cartoons – I’ve been putting that off for hours because sometimes, once I’ve had the idea, I can’t be bothered drawing it – I notice that quite a few blogs have little domestic points in them. So, on the home front, all is well. The hens are all getting along just fine after the dreadful pecking order business of a few weeks back. There’ve been a couple of double yolkers recently – huge things – not sure by whom, but I did notice Annie’s eyes watering the other morning.

Maggie the Dog’s on a diet. I got conned by the vet into buying a sackful of “prescription” dried food. Cost the earth. Dog hates it. Hardly touches it. Is losing weight. Ergo, it works, but so would pebbles.

Satchmo, the cockatiel can now whistle the first four notes of “Higher Ground”. Repeatedly.
And my daughter Kate and tiny grandson Hamish are over from Australia for a visit. He’s a funny little chap. Wonderful sense of humour. He can laugh, throw up and fart simultaneously, something everyone but rugby players lose in later life.

Gag of the month - August

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 22:17:58 +0100

August Blog

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 22:17:38 +0100

Curmudgeon Fog 47

The ordinary hum-drum day – to day course of my life suggests that The Theory of Probability is redundant as a theory. Probability is fact. Pure and simple. Oft- repeated scenarios prove this. And I’m not talking about dropped toast always landing butter side down. Besides, the toast thing’s got nothing to do with mathematical predictability. Its all about gravity and butter being magnetic. Drop unbuttered toast and it doesn’t matter which side hits the floor. Butter it and said dairy product always finds the carpet first.
But it’s the countless other not – really – coincidences which wear me out.
For example, packaging which flaunts itself as being “resealable” definitely won’t. Anything labelled “easy fit” isn’t.

And the phone WILL ring when I’m trying to sneak a swift nod.

The caller will NOT be a financially profligate editor begging for cartoons, or a relative with news that my granny has exploded for a fifth and final time. Instead, it WILL be somebody who wants to know if I’m the householder and would I like my loft lagged.

Even on the rare occasions I’m wide awake and willing to chat, mobiles are much worse. “So what happened then ?” “Well, Mr SSSZZSSST ame in a h got the PCHCHCHTTT….lump hammer and sai- I- a- u………… sfmn.sssssssssssssss “ “Hello? Hello ?”

Cars turn probabilities into dead certs. If, being mindful of the fact that there are many motorists out there who really shouldn’t be, and you try to park well away from anybody else in Tesco’s carpark, when you return to your vehicle, a gobbin or gobbette WILL have parked close enough to your driver’s door to compel a passenger side entrance, necessitating crutch- splitting negotiations of the gear stick.

Carpark gobbins also follow you to deserted beaches, sit next to you, play Radio One, sing along, go “Yeah !” and have the bloody nerve to smile.

[writes Dr Whimbrel ; I have read the foregoing and find that it is utter tosh. Probably.]

Gag of the month - July

Sun, 4 Jul 2010 22:33:12 +0100

July Blog

Sun, 4 Jul 2010 22:33:09 +0100

The World Cup is over. Hurray ! The new season’s started. Groan. There’s no escape. But knowledge is power – so here’s a bit to help you cope.

Unlike more gentle human activities such as war or religious persecution, football, or soccer, as those strange American coves call it, is really serious.

Origins are shrouded in mystery and legend, involving pigs’ bladders and severed heads. The modern game features two teams of eleven, each charged with depositing the ball into the others’ net via the foot. Or the head, shin, thigh, back, chest or buttocks. But not the hand, unless you’re a short fat Argentinian with no neck.
Why it is known as “the beautiful game”, is unclear, given the facial characteristics of many fans and players. Research concludes that it doesn’t stem from football inspired epic poems, many of which are chanted at matches – e.g., “United are a load of s**t, load of s**t, load of s**t……”[repeat27 times] either.

Cynics suggest that its because football is very good at taking lots of money from the many and giving it to the few. Which for them is beautiful. Or Blatterful.

Following are brief explanations for the unwary of integral football terminology
FANS are the millions of people, predominantly but by no means exclusively male who demonstrate undying loyalty to “their” team, and who believe that “their” players could give a rat’s ass what they think. Fans, especially obese tone deaf ones wear team colours, paint their faces, sing traditional football ballads such as “United are a load of s**t” , and pay £50 a week to watch players being paid £200,000 during the same period.

THE PREMIERSHIP is the game’s top division consisting of teams rich enough to pay players a basic £200,000 a week.Those struggling to get by on such a pittance are paid a few million extra by fizzy beverage manufacturers to say they actually drink the stuff. Many Premiership players with faces like smacked tripe attract the intimate attentions of beautiful women. Strange but true.

Surprisingly, despite being a load of s**t, several Uniteds feature here.
Beneath the Premiership are teams in other divisions. Some are quite good, but many in the lower orders find it difficult to recognize opposing players, or the ball.

PLAYERS.
Players are unique in that they have incredibly high levels of loyalty. One week they are incredibly loyal to club A, then the following week they become incredibly loyal to club B after club B has shelled out 18 million notes to club A. This is called a “transfer”, or “pay – day”

Because they run about a lot and sometimes fall down on to the horrible hard grass, players get injured. Injuries these days are lots worse than hitherto when Tommy Coggins merely hurt his foot. Ignacio Savanarola now dominates World News for weeks with intergovial transceptions of the anterior metatarsal, requiring him to fly home and seek the services of a private consultant rather than a bag of frozen peas. Papal prayers are offered.[NB. The Coggins family was a relatively well – off Glossop coal merchants and could afford a fridge even in 1957]

MANAGERS.
Some, like the tiny but beautifully formed “Chosen One” are appointed by God. [but sacked by Russians]
Many know the game intimately, have had distinguished playing careers, but are hopeless. Especially when their team isn’t winning. In order to make sure their team DOES win, managers are given big sacks of cash by owners to dangle in front of players and other clubs in order to secure the services of the former.

OWNERS.
Surprisingly, many owners cannot recite the off – side rule and wouldn’t know a professional foul from an clever hen, but see football as a way of making themselves very, very rich as opposed to merely very rich. Some attend matches and identify with ordinary fans by sitting in the same 70,000 capacity stadium, humming along with “United are a load of s**t” whilst eating prawn sandwiches.

REFEREES.
Are all partially sighted morons. They run about, sometimes backwards and blow their whistles at the wrong people , often waving yellow or red cards at entirely innocent players. City supporter Desmond [Dezza] Fittock, legendary soccer poet and author of the timeless “United are a Load of S**t” recently augmented that opus with, “And so-o is the Ref. “