Category Archives: Humour

In The dog House. Again!

Ed, Greg and I are in the dog house with PIL. She’s not happy.

On Easter Sunday the two ‘boys’ went off to Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea play Tottenham Hotspur. I couldn’t go as I was working and staying in London. They kind of wish they hadn’t now and not just because Chelsea lost. They met up with some guys that Ed had met when he went to Barcelona to watch Chelseas Champions League match (We lost that game too!) They all had a few beers before the game, a few more at half time and then went to a local pub with Eds new best friends for a few more beers. Then it was time to leave and get the train home. Late. On Easter Sunday. Essential maintenance on the whole rail network. They contacted PIL to arrange a pick up from the local station. PIL not amused.

“Get a cab home from the station” she told them.

PIL went to bed!

They contacted her again. Trains stopping at Ashford and going no further. A 20 minute drive away. Can she please pick them up from there? Even I heard the sigh as she agreed to pick them up from Ashford International Station.

“What time does it get in?”

“ERRRR. 23.50”

PIL duly arrived. Tired and ticked off. Train was late arriving.

They drove home in silence but quite quickly.

Moving onto Tuesday.

Ed going to be late home from work which has been manic for the last couple of weeks. I went to pick him up from the local station. PIL went to bed as she had an early start in the morning.

Ed hadn’t eaten so I said I’d knock something up quickly while he watched the highlights of Real Madrid vs Juventus, another Champions League match.

I chucked a couple of bangers and some oven chips in the oven. Joined Ed with a couple of beers for us to enjoy while the game was on. Forgot about his dinner. Rushed out to the kitchen when I remembered hoping it wasn’t burnt. Opened the oven door and 2.73 seconds later the smoke alarm went off!!! Our smoke alarm is VERY LOUD and there’s a repeater upstairs. I, somewhat ineffectually, waved a tea towel at the alarm while Ed came out with a cushion and waved that about for a while. The alarm also set the dog off! Bloody mayhem. Ed grinned at me and said,

“Now you’re in trouble with Mum!”

And I was. I apologised the next day and PIL said;

“For what? There’s a list.”

It’s now Thursday and that couple of sentences along with a huge number of sighs has been the extent of our conversation. I’m enjoying the peace and quiet!

Oh. Plus a comment about leaving the toilet seat up.

Have a brilliant day.

 

More Dick soon.

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Evolution Can Be a Bitch.

The average human being is a pretty incredible creature. Apparently, we consist of some 100 trillion cells (what anorak sat and counted?), we can distinguish tens of thousands of scents, a million colours and store 1000 terabytes of memories. Apart from teeth, we repair and regenerate the cells in our bodies so that every ten years we are physically a new person. Not bad for a species that is 70% water and shares 50% of its DNA with bananas, 60% with chickens, 84% with dogs and 96% with chimps. It is those minuscule differences that make us what we are. I read somewhere that if the human genome was written down, it would fill nearly 300,000 pages and only the last couple of hundred would contain the parts that make us the individuals we are. Unless you come from Kentucky where everyone has the same DNA.

We have evolved as bipeds and for humans to be able to walk upright, we do not have opposable big toes. This in turn means that our feet are arched and this enables us to walk the way we do. We continue to evolve and toes are as good a place to talk about as any. As a rule, each human has 5 toes on each foot. The big toe and the next 3 along do whatever they do, but the human little toe is evolving faster than they are. It is becoming increasingly sensitive to the extent that it has now developed into a sensor of hard objects in low light environments. It finds these hard objects by hitting them and then informs you that it has found the armchair/bed leg/door frame by sending a wave of excruciating pain to your brain. Forget child birth. Forget kidney stones. Forget a kick in the ‘nads. This fuckin’ hurts! So much so that it is impossible for the human who has recently rediscovered the whereabouts of the door frame that’s been in the same place for centuries, to swear. Instead, all that can be managed is;

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah (all very quietly because it’s 3 o’clock in the bloody morning and you don’t want to wake everyone up) ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah (until eventually) ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuck it! You manage to swear.

How do I know this? I know this because last night, at 3 o’clock in the bloody morning, I discovered where the door frame to the toilet is courtesy of that wonderful appendage, my little toe.

Have a wonderful day.

More Dick soon.

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With apologies to the inhabitants of Kentucky who, I am sure, are very nice people all with their own unique DNA but I couldn’t find a picture for Louisiana.

Sailing and the NHS

Quite a few months ago when I wrote my last post, I included this photograph:

I added the comment that some people when looking at it would think,

“Wet”

“Cold”

“Horrid”

To which Claudette over at ceenoa added,

“Sea Sick”!

Something I hadn’t considered as I don’t suffer from it but Claudette does. (Take a wander over to her blog. She does stuff with stuff and makes wonderful stuff and her photographs are a joy. You will find it here)

Whereas when I look at that photograph I think,

“Excitement”

“Fun”

“Women in wet tee shirts”

I must now add,

“Hernia”!

Yep, the day after we had gone sailing on ‘Jabberwocky’ while on holiday, I noticed a fairly large lump on the right side of my groin. I was fairly sure what it was but being a male of a certain age, I thought I’d get it checked out when we got home. I was going to go and see the Doc anyway as my right knee was giving me grief and was very painful.

So, on our return, I made an appointment for the following day and saw my GP. I explained, she asked me to straighten my leg and had a poke about and told me I had arthritis. She then looked at my groin, had another poke about and informed me I did indeed have a hernia. She printed off a form and told me to go to the walk-in x-ray clinic at the local hospital where they would x-ray my knee to confirm her diagnosis and in the meantime expect a letter for an appointment to have my hernia checked out. So, off I went, had my x-ray (how good is that? I was back home within 30 minutes of leaving the Docs). A week later, two letters arrived. One informed me that I did indeed have arthritis in my knee and to contact the hospital for an appointment for physio. The other letter was from the very Harry Potterish sounding ‘Department of Hernias, Lumps and Bumps asking me to attend for an examination.

I duly rocked up at the hospital for my examination. Now for some reason, I had got it into my head that my knee was going to be examined so I was somewhat surprised when I was asked to drop my shorts! That’s why I was wearing shorts, so I wouldn’t have to drop them, not that I’m shy.

I carried out a quick mental check:

Freshly showered? Yep

Clean underwear? Yep

Neat and tidy gentleman’s garden? Yep

Good to go.

My Mum would have been proud.

I dropped my shorts, lay down and was examined. It was an ultrasound examination as used on pregnant women. It would establish that I had a hernia for certain, exactly where it was and how big. The woman carrying out the examination explained what I had to do. I had to make like a puffer fish and inflate my cheeks and push down towards my groin.

While I did this she would use the ultra sound thingy to examine the area.

The examination commenced. The result of all this cheek inflation and pushing down and prodding with probes was that I farted.

It was not discreet!

“Oh”, I squeaked, feeling dreadfully embarrassed, “I am so sorry.”

“That’s ok Dick” said the woman. ” It happens all the time. Curry last night was it?”

“As it happens, yes it was” I replied blushing, while out of the corner of my eye I saw the other woman in the room switch on her desk fan!

“Thought so” said the first woman as she wander over to the window and opened it!

“I am still here y’know” I said feeling even more embarrassed and somewhat flustered.

“Yes Dick, we know” she said “and so is something else.”

I gave up then. There was no point arguing. Two women in a room with a man who had just dropped his guts! No contest really.

As I left and walked down the corridor after the examination was completed, all I could hear was gales of laughter coming from the room I had just left. Buggers!

The up shot of this was that at the beginning of January, I went to the K&C Hospital as a day patient, had key hole surgery on my hernia and was back home later that day feeling just fine but under strict instructions not to lift anything and not to drive for a week or two. I did as I was told and returned to work two weeks later. The NHS and the staff in particular is just bloody wonderful.

I am currently rethinking my plans to become a sailor. I really don’t want to go through that again and it is likely to happen if I start hoisting sails and stuff. Something gentler I think. Learning French is still on the cards but now perhaps I should take up photography again and maybe start a vlog. I will keep you informed.

Have a great day.

More Dick soon.

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A New Language or Two

 

I know people who would look at this photograph and think:

“Wet.”

“Cold.”

“Horrid”

Whereas I look at it and think:

“Excitement.”

“Fun.”

“Women in wet tee shirts!”

So what has this to do with a new language?

Well, I am going to learn to sail but before I do, I have to learn the language that sailors use. I will call this language “Nautical”. It’s English Jim but not as we know it.

For instance, the pointy bit at the front is called the “Bow” (as in what a gentleman does when he meets Her Queenliness)

 

The rear end of a boat is “the stern”.

Left is “port” and right is “starboard”. The floor is “the deck” while a wall is called “a bulkhead”. The driver is called “the helmsman”. “Abreast” is not what you see when a woman is wearing a wet tee shirt unfortunately, it means side by side or by the side of. The “beam” is the widest part of a ship or boat. Downstairs is “below” and upstairs is “atop”. A  room is called a “cabin”, the kitchen is “the galley” and the speed of the boat is given in “knots”! Why this should be is beyond me.

Then there’s “athwartship”! (Really? You have got to be kidding me). It means at right angles to the centre line of the boat/ship.

Then you have words where all the vowels have deliberately been removed:

F’r’c’stl’. What’s that then? How do you pronounce it?

M”ns”l. Not a clue.

See? It’s not as easy as you first think. I’m getting there though and once I’ve got it sorted and can speak like an old sea dog, I’ll get on with learning a new foreign language. Probably French.

We have all been to France several times and we murder the French language whenever we can. Recently, on a fairly regular basis, magazines dedicated to French property have started making an appearance.

Then, the other day, PIL asked if we still had the Peter Mayle books, A Year in Provence and Toujours Provence. I said I’d look in amongst the million or so books we have banging about but to no avail. So I went to Waterstones in Canterbury and bought A Year in Provence and, because they didn’t have Toujours, I also bought My Good Life in France by Janine Marsh. I’ll get Toujours some other time. I wrapped the books up, I wrote “Happy Wednesday” on a sticker and presented it to PIL when she got home. They remain unread! Except by me.

I am in no particular rush. By the time CJ finishes school and Uni’ I’ll be getting on a bit so there’s plenty of time.

Then, one day, I will be fluent in Nautical and in French and PIL will suddenly decided it’s time to up sticks, grab our zimmer frames and move to bloody Spain!

Have a brilliant day.

More Dick soon.

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Sailing

A little while ago I wrote some fiction regarding a conversation I had with Mr. Death. You can read it here.

It is a work of fiction but, as with many things, it had elements of true life in it – some of my real life experiences. One of the true items in that story is my desire to learn a new language – French (probably) and to learn how to sail.

Recently, we went on holiday. We went to Antigua. It was bloody brilliant. We flew out via Virgin Atlantic Upper Class (the posh class!) That was an eye opener. I’m not sure how PIL managed it. I think she got the geeks at work to hack into Virgin Atlantic and get us an up grade. Or it might have been her using the gazillion air miles we had accumulated over the years. We arrived at Gatwick, checked in and went to the Virgin lounge. We were offered champagne! It was 6am! Of course we accepted – it was free! We had all kinds of nibbles offered. More champagne was consumed. Our flight was announced and, slightly the worse for wear we staggered off and got on the plane. The leg room! Unfuckingbelievable!

We arrived in Antigua after a wonderful flight, being waited on hand and foot, totally refreshed and ready to go.

It was lovely. Smashing sandy beaches. Plentiful bars and restaurants. Pools dotted around. Absolute bliss. I noted a number of small sailing boats. Catamarans. I thought to myself, I can get started here. A problem arose though. We are a family that goes on holiday and we SLOB! We lie in the sun. We eat. We drink and that was the problem. Greg and I crept off to the gym at 6.30 each morning. We got back, we all showered and went for breakfast. By 9am we were sprawled out by the pool. At 10, when the bars opened we were getting a bit hot so we’d go get a drink. The intention was always to get a soft drink, 10am being a bit too early to hit the hard stuff but the bar man would point out;

“It’s midday somewhere man.”

So we had rum as well. And with no concept of portion control, they were heavy on the alcohol. After a hearty lunch I was probably too pissed to go sailing, let alone learn anything so I didn’t go.

As a great believer in not doing things by half, I decided my first experience of learning to sail would not be on board an eight foot dinghy but on a proper 50 foot sailing yacht! And that’s what we did. We chartered a yacht for the day. It was called Jabberwocky and it was owned by Nick and Kaye, who are two of the nicest people you could wish to meet.

We got a cab from the resort to where Jabberwocky was parked at a place called Jolly Harbour. Antigua is full of places with lovely names like that. We set sail. We had a choice. Snorkelling or beach. We’re slobs so we chose beach and we headed off to a place called Deep Bay. It was on our way here that I carried out my first ever sailing task:

I set the genoa!

I have no idea what that is or what I was doing except it involved some hard physical labour and I think I set the sail in front of the mast. I felt inordinately pleased with myself.

We arrived. The anchor was dropped and we took the little RIB to shore. It was just as you would imagine a desert island to be. Warm seas lapping on a soft sandy beach. There were a couple of other people there but it was heavenly. There was a small fort, Fort Barrington, on the hillside. Greg, CJ and I went off for a wander while PIL and Ed sat on the beach and swam in the sea.

The beach at Deep Bay with Jabberwocky in the background

Time for lunch back on Jabberwocky. PIL, Greg and CJ took the RIB back. Ed and I swam back. I decided on back stroke but because I’m useless, without noticing, I started to swim back to shore. The others found this immensely funny. I just got tired!

Jabberwocky at anchor in Deep Bay

Lunch was lovely. Afterwards, we set sail again heading back to Jolly Harbour.

Jabberwocky setting sail back to Jolly Harbour

Once we got out of Deep Bay, I set the genoa again and joy of joy, I took the helm and steered the yacht on it’s way back to its home port.

Me at the helm of Jabberwocky

I was in heaven. It’s a lot harder that it seems and I’m sure my course was more than a bit ziggy zaggy but I was having a great time. The rest of the family were up at the pointy bit at the front and then they started to sing!

Having an absolutely brilliant time.

 

Over the sound of the waves and the wind in the sails I couldn’t make out the words but the tune was just about audible. One of them them was singing “Sailing”, the Rod Stewart song. Despite my surprise at one of my children actually knowing this song, I felt a huge sense of well being and happiness well up inside me. We were having a great time. My family up at the front burst in to laughter and they all started singing. As they did, the wind carried the words to my position at the helm. This is what they sang:

All together now.

We are sinking

We are sinking

To the bottom

Of the sea

Dad was steering

Hit an island

Didn’t see it

Blind old git

 

Hit the island

Of Antigua

How did Daddy

Manage that?

We have sunk now

And we’re swimming

All because our

Dad’s a prat!

Charming!

Despite this, I will learn to sail and soon I will be visiting a local sailing club and begin lessons. I may just stick to smaller dinghies or catamarans but, who knows, I may go onto larger boats. We shall see and I will keep you informed about my progress.

Of course, let’s not forget that I also want to learn a new language but since trying my hand at sailing, that will now be TWO new languages to learn. The reasons why will follow soon.

Have a lovely day.

More Dick soon.

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Surprises.

The not so surprising thing about surprises is that by their very nature they take you by surprise. Some are bad like the letter I got recently informing me I had been caught on camera in Watford on the 30th April at 0657 travelling at 41mph in a 30 zone. A few days later I had another nasty surprise when the Essex Constabulary informed me that on the 12th May at 1243 I had been caught on camera travelling at 58mph on the QE2 bridge which has a 50mph limit. WTF! Are speeding tickets buses now? Nothing for ages then two come along together! I have no recollection of speeding on either occasion.

I have completed my speed awareness course where we covered the laws of physics, watched videos, had discussions on a variety of speed and driving related subjects. All jolly interesting stuff. I think I only nodded off once. For the offence on the QE2 bridge I have paid the fine and had 3 points put on my driving licence. I have informed my insurers who will happily use the excuse to increase my premiums for the next few years. Bummer!

At times like this I like to take refuge in my garden and have a good old poke around, dig some holes, plant some plants, do a bit of pruning and mow the lawn. Even this can have nasty surprises usually in the form of half buried cat shit where you least expect it and, more often than not, precisely where you are using your hands to make a planting hole slightly bigger! Nothing quite like a handful of cat poo to brighten your day or to discover new ways to curse the blasted creatures! Then there are the surprises where things you planned to happen in the garden don’t materialise. A couple of years ago I wrote about how the foxgloves in my garden were doing particularly well and were giving a good show. I said how easy they are to grow and that I just let them seed where they want. I was a bit smug about it. Imagine my surprise when to my surprise (and disappointment) my smugness bit me on the arse last year and hardly any grew at all, just a few straggly specimens managed to make an appearance.

In an effort to escape from the terrible thoughts I was having about the things I would like to do to the inventor of the speed camera and the fecal land mines laid in my front garden by an assortment of neighbourhood felines, I decided to cut the grass in the back garden. Mowing the lawn isn’t my favourite pastime but it’s the kind of mindless exercise I can live with and the end result always looks nice. So I grabbed my iPod, inserted the earpieces and started to mow. The music, the hum of the lawn mower engine, the sound of the mower blades cutting through the grass, clover and daisies allied with the buzz of a stray stone being picked up and spat out at great speed and smashing the kitchen window soon relaxed me and I started having more pleasant thoughts such as what PIL looks like naked. Probably not a good thing for a bloke to be thinking if he has a pair of secateurs in his hand but it’s fine when mowing the lawn. Then, out of the corner of my eye  I saw something that gave me a very pleasant surprise. Along the fence at the side of the garden there is a line of 25 or 30 beech trees. They may be hornbeam but I can’t tell the difference. I cut them back at the beginning of last year so that they are only about 8 feet high and they are turning into quite a pleasant-looking hedge. Birds nest in amongst the branches and lots of creepy crawlies live there and call it home. Well, in amongst the branches, arching beautifully with the weight of flowers was a lovely fox glove.

All on its own.

It looked just simply beautiful. It had white flowers flushed pink.

It reminded me that no matter how hard we try, Nature will always go two or three better and produce something in the most surprising and unusual places. I was chuffed to bits to see that.

There are three things that most people find surprising about our garden although two of those will be changing. First, there aren’t any roses in the garden. None at all. There was one by the front door when we first moved in but that went a few years ago. I understand why people like roses. They often have beautiful flowers, they come in a huge array of colours and some have a wonderful scent. To me though they are just a mega pain in the bum. They are “gross feeders” so they take all the nutrients and minerals out of the soil meaning copious quantities of compost has to be added once or twice a year or you end up with dust. They attract pests, especially aphids and diseases that spread to other plants in the garden and to top it all they rip you to shreds if you so much as touch them. Not for me. I prefer to be able to sit back and admire my garden.

I also get why people like bedding plants or annuals. Instant colour that lasts for months if you dead head regularly. I just think “aching back” and “sore knees” from planting them in the Spring and digging the blighters up again in the Autumn. Not to mention the increase in getting a handful of cat poo while digging them in. That’s changing though. PIL (aka She Who Must Be Obeyed) wants hanging baskets and that means annuals although mixed up with things like strawberries and stuff. She tends to take care of the pots too and does a fine job with them. They’ll be annuals in the pots as well. I don’t mind. It’s our garden and my only objection to bedding plants is the effort involved. I look forward to seeing how that works out.

The other surprising thing about our garden is the absence of the colour orange. Or so I thought. I’m talking the fruit colour here. Goes with bugger all. Clashes with everything. In a gloomy corner of the front garden there is a big clump of what I think are Welsh Poppies. For work reasons, I tend to be away when they flower in May. They’re yellow. Or so I thought. This year they flowered a bit later and I saw them. They looked absolutely superb in that slightly gloomy corner and contrasted really well with the white flowers in the front. (I have no idea what the white flowers are. Planted ’em years ago and I can never remember plant names. Unlike my memory for the collective noun for wombats!!) Anyhow, they looked really good but they were orange! See. Nature did it again. Nothing to do with me. They are staying. Look at the photo and you’ll see what I mean. Smashing!

On that note I must go as it’s getting late. Have a nice day wherever you may be and whatever time it may be where you are.

More Dick soon.

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Memory.

I was at work the other day. It was quite early, probably about 7 am. I heard a bird start to sing. Without looking I thought to myself, “That’s a goldfinch.” I was right. I had remembered its song. My brain then went into overdrive as it scanned its memory banks and told me some associated information. The collective noun for Goldfinches is “a charm”. My brain then informed me that the collective noun for hedgehogs is “an array” and that if you remove all the fleas from a hedgehog it suffers from withdrawal symptoms. From there my brain informed me that the the collective noun for a group of wombats is “a wisdom”. Wombats!!
Then my brain thought:
“How do I know this stuff and yet some mornings I wake up and can’t remember who or where I am!”

More Dick soon

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House Guests

We have a mate staying as a house guest for Christmas. We have known Elmer for a good many years and while we always enjoy his company, he is a bit of a nutcase. He’s a huntin’, shootin’ type of guy which is something we totally disagree with but he’s a decent enough chap in many other ways. He sometimes gets a bee in his bonnet about something or other and he will rabbit on about it for absolutely ages.

Wabbit? Did someone say 'Wabbit'? Where's my twusty wifle?

Wabbit? Did someone say ‘Wabbit’? Where’s my twusty wifle?

See what I mean? Now all he wants to do is use my blog as a platform to spout on about something or other. I’ve decided not to let him and he now has the hump about it. Never mind, maybe another day. Now I’ve got to go and play Cluedo so I’ll pause it here and come back again shortly………

Be vewee, vewwee quiet. Dick had too much to dwink last night, so I'm going to take adwantage and wight a post on his bwog.

Be vewee, vewwee quiet. Dick had too much to dwink last night, so I’m going to take adwantage and wight a post on his bwog.

I have gwown incweasingwy concewned with all the tewwible things going on.

In Bwitain, we have had a wefewendum wegarding the Euwopean Union and we decided to weave. Or wather, the Engwish and the Welsh did. The Scots voted almost to a man to wemain and are using this is as an excuse to demand another wefewendum on Scottish independence. The Judiciawy were asked to decide on whether this decision to leave should go befowe Parwiament and because they said that it should, they were attacked by the pwess and others for making a deciswion on a law made and passed by powiticians. The countwy wemains divided and no one is weally sure what is going on, weast of all me.

In the United States, the ‘peepul’ voted a man who conswiders it as alwight to gwab a woman by the bottom as their new Pwesident. On his staff is a White Supwemacist. He intends making a man who considers Islam “a cancer” head of the CIA. A man with a Charwie Chapwin moustache thought the same thing about Jews in the 1930s and 40s. Pwesident elect Donald Duck Twump intends having a former US Marine General as Defense Secwetawee. This chap thinks “war is fun” and shooting people is “a hoot”. He turned up to a meeting with a number of Elders and Militia leaders in Fallujah and said, “I come in peace….. I have no artillery….. Fuck with me and I will kill you all.” Sounds wike a fun guy.

The whole World is appawently going to the dogs but then something else happened that convinced me otherwise.

 

 

I watched a Bwitish bwoke with ginger hair standing on a tower 74 metres above a wiver with a chocowate Hob Nob in his hand. He was attached to the tower with a gloweefied ewastic band. He waunched himself into the air and a second or so later, dunked his chocowate Hob Nob into a cup of tea and got himself into the Guinness Book of Wecords.

highest-bungee-dunk-gwr-attempt_tcm25-450770

It made me larf at the cwazyness of it and it also made me thwink of all the other cwazy stuff people do. The Wedbull Flugtag and the Wedbull Soapbox waces are just a couple of examples.

Competitors - Action

soapbox

Then there is the Cheese chase down a steep hill in Gloucestershire.

cheeserolling4

cheeserolling3

cheese-rolling-2

cheese-rolling

Limbs are bwoken, heads are cwacked, hospitals are filled with casualties and yet hundweds of people turn up year after year to take part. The World is full of nutters intent on having a gwaet time.

It was then that I wealised that all was ok with the World and could weassure evewee one that it was so.

Well, until Pwesident Twump gets his hands on the nuclear codes that is.

 

Errrr. What’s going on here Elmer?

Oooops. Busted! Sowwy Dick. I couldn’t wesist it.

It’s ok Elmer. I suppose it could have been worse. It could have been Daffy Duck who came to stay for Christmas.

Ta Dah

Ta Dah

Oh good grief. Daffy?

Yeth Dick?

Yeth Dick?

Do one mate.

Charming

Charming

Bloody hell. At this rate, Porkie Pig will make an appearance.

P..p..p..p..p..p..Pardon me. D..d..d..d..d Did someone c..c..c..c..c.. Did some one call?

P..p..p..p..p..p..Pardon me. D..d..d..d..d Did someone c..c..c..c..c.. Did some one call?

 

Dear Lord. Give me strength

Dear Lord. Give me strength

 

I hope you all had a bloody great Christmas and I wish you a fantastic, happy, healthy and prosperous New Year.

Finally, a word of advise for all the perverts out there who bought handcuffs as Christmas gifts for their wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends and in certain parts of the United States, cousins:

bastard

 

More Dick soon.

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Do I really?

I have been missing from the blogging world for a few weeks now. Mainly this has been due to being very busy not just at work but at home as well. It’s not been helped by struggling to find a subject to write about. My original intention, and Lily Moose will confirm this, was to write about my efforts to build a garden shed. It has to be said that PIL took it all rather well.

Then I thought to myself that really, I have already demonstrated to the World at large that when it comes to DIY I’m a bit of a dork, so why embarrass myself again?

dork

 

A garden shed is a simple wooden structure. Ours consisted of a two piece floor, two sides, four sections making up the front and rear gables, a two piece roof, a double door and some roofing felt. A simple structure but I still managed to fuck it up! I am fully aware of my shortcomings when it comes to DIY and therefore read the instructions very carefully. I took on board the suggestion that I read them again over a cup of coffee.

coffee

In fact, I read them three times over four coffees and then I twice watched the on-line video on how to construct this shed. I immediately hit a problem. The shed was not very big. 8 foot x 4 foot but the written instructions and the video kept going on about ensuring the shed was square! How the bloody hell can a 8×4 shed (a rectangle if my memory serves me correctly) be square? So the first two hours were spent scratching my head.

finger-in-socket-1

In the end, I rang a mate of mine up who is a builder and wouldn’t be too sarcastic and he explained it all to me. So I started the build but soon discovered another problem. To build this shed required 4 hands, 3 legs and intelligence. I was deficient in all three areas so I put my tools away and waited until the following day when PIL would be home. The following day arrived and we commenced work on the shed again. Once the walls were fitted, PIL went inside while I carried on with the build. Floor, walls, gables and roof all went up and then it was time to fit the doors in the remaining space. Somehow or another during the construction the gap at the top of the door way was 46 inches (spot on as it happens) but the bottom was 49 inches! Or was it the other way round? My rectangle was no longer square! So I thought, “Bollocks” and spent 14 minutes dismantling what had taken me 4 hours to build, went in doors, had a cup of tea and suffered the laughter and sarcasm. PIL took it all rather well considering.

So then I thought “Do I really want the World to know that once again, when it comes to DIY, I’m a complete pillock?”

PIL already thinks I’m a plank.

Plank

 

My kids think I’m a fossil.

fossil-hardshellcrab

So simply put.

No.

So I’ve decided not to write about my shed building escapades. No one needs to know so I’m keeping quiet. Sorry and all that, but I really don’t want to write about it. Instead I think I might write about cars. I like cars. Or tell a real life ghost story. One of my mates has also asked to write  as a guest on my blog. Apparently, he wants to “weassure” the World about what he calls “Bwexit” and “The Twump effect”. He may also mention pesky wabbits. We shall see. In the meantime, I have a builder mate to phone about getting a garden shed built.

Have a great day.

More Dick soon.

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An Announcement.

The other day while perusing the interweb I discovered a claim that I had endorsed an imbecile!

Following the endorsement of Democrat US Presidential candidate Hillary Clinton

hillaryclinton

by The Simpsons,

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the Republicans were desperate to find a cartoon character to endorse their own Presidential candidate, Donald Trump.

 (AP Photo/LM Otero)

(AP Photo/LM Otero)

trump; vulgar. to fart.

fart; an emission of noxious gases from the anus.

In early August it was announced in Newsthump that the Republicans had found such a character. Dick Dastardly.

W.T.F.!

While I have never met the bloke, I consider the Trump to be a complete looney toon and there is no way I would endorse this man. Further investigation was needed.

Can you really believe this shit? The Presidential candidates for the most powerful and richest nation on the planet have to be endorsed by cartoon characters. God help us all!

It quickly became apparent that there is more than one Dick Dastardly! Who’d have thought it?

There is me, the cool, sophisticated, handsome, debonair chap of the World and then there is this other bloke who is a cheat, a liar, a thoroughly nasty egg who frequently tied up Penelope Pitstop, the lucky dog filthy pervert

penelope-4

and a ruffian of the worse order. He has been accused of war crimes whilst the leader of The Vulture Squadron and is wanted by British police for contravening the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 (as amended) for cruelty towards pigeons. Us Brits don’t mind you taking pot shots at pigeons with a shotgun but machine guns are so dreadfully unfair. Bang the blighter up for 10 years I say!

However, there is a fundamental difference between me and the other rascal.

The other Dick Dastardly is a cartoon Dick.

Whereas I am a real Dick!

So there you have it. It wasn’t me so you can all rest easy in your beds.

As a by the by, When the Trump was informed of the other Dick Dastardlys endorsement it is claimed he exclaimed; “I love Dick!”

Why am I not surprised?

Have an outstanding day.

More Dick soon.

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