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| Thank goodness for the 30DBC, is what I say. Without it, who knows if anyone would ever have read my blog? Apart from, WakeUpAndLive️~🚬🚭2024  .Thank you, WakeUpAndLive️~🚬🚭2024 , for spotting my blogging efforts when I first started. Your little taps on the ‘Like’ button for each of those early entries was wonderful encouragement. You pointed me toward the 30DBC and suggested I might try it, and now I can take this moment to send you my gratitude. I just hope you get that damn heater fixed before you expire in the mist of your own final exhalation. If you’re not here, who will like my entries throughout December? I know, it’s all about me, right?  I’ll be honest with you. I’m not a people person. I generally dislike everyone I meet before I’ve met them, so they’re off to a bad start, and it really doesn’t get any better. I’ll listen to, and look at this stranger who has been presented to me, and just wait patiently for them to demonstrate why my theory of dislike is flawless. I’ve never been disappointed, because I’ve always been disappointed. They’ll be boring, or annoying, or have a ridiculous tone of voice. Things will live in their eyebrows, or worst of all, they’ll have a little bit of white spit that floats across their lips when they drone on about forestry management, or their pension arrangements. They’ll make arrangements to do things. Promise not to let you down, and that’ll be the last you see or hear of them. They’re gone. The boring, bullshitting, spit lipping, eyebrow entomologists will have wasted 30 minutes of your life that you could have spent scratching your balls, or some other worthwhile pastime. But this is different. This blogging for 30 days malarkey cuts through the crap and gets straight to the interesting stuff. You guys and gals have written about your lives, and I love you for it. You’re interesting, charming, funny, profound, sad, regretful and still optimistic. Your spirt is contagious, and I care about what happens to you tomorrow. Well, some of you.  Brilliant effort, Emily  .  |
| I’m liking Tuesdays at the moment. Tuesdays are weigh-in day at WW, and so far, I’m doing okay. This week I lost 1.5lbs, which is 18lbs altogether. I was surprised because we had the weekend away with the grandchildren, in a hotel too. I admit, I was tempted and persuaded to over indulge on Saturday evening. I had beer, pizza, lamb kebab and sweets (candy). I went along on Tuesday with the expectation that it was going to be bad news. But, whatever, I’m still losing, so, I’m still winning. War Chest Are you romantic? Have you made or received a romantic gesture? Do you have an aspirational or fantasy romantic scenario? Write about a trip to another country. What did you love or loath about it? Can you convince someone else to visit? What has been you most special New Years’ experience? How did you celebrate, and why was it so special? If the magic publishing company were distributing your latest novel tomorrow, what would it be called, and what is the synopsis? There seems to be an app for everything these days. Or is there? What app would you introduce and how would it improve the world? |
| Sometimes, you just have to look at what’s in front of you for the answers. When I was a member of the BNI networking group, and I pretended to be hypnotised, another one of the members was an IT Consultant. You know what an IT Consultant is, right? They’re kind of like a Facilities Manager, or a Merchandiser. One of that whole batch of occupations that people do when they’ve failed at everything else. Anyway, this guy’s speciality was Macs. I’m going to put it straight out there, I’m a Microsoft guy. Always have been, thought I always would be. Then, one day, I visited another one of the BNI members who had asked about receiving my services. He had an iMac which was supplied by our mutual friend. First of all, it was beautiful. It was big and sexy and right proud of itself. Bit of a show-off, perhaps, but definitely confident. Bold and courageous, the outgoing type who never stood in the kitchen at parties. When this baby entered a room, all heads were turned. Cat fights and jealousy followed it everywhere as wannabe iMac groupies vied for its attention. No shrinking violet, this extrovert apple of its creator’s eye. And I’m looking at one right now. I just stroked the little minx for soulful comfort and satisfaction. I’m a convert. |
| There really isn’t very much food that I don’t like. I don’t like celery unless it’s blended in a soup or lost in a hot curry. I hate liver, or any and all offal to be honest. Pate, don’t like pate. I mean, goodness knows what evil has been added to the damn stuff, which is a strange reason to suspect its heritage as I love a good sausage, and there is all manner of nastiness going on in that devilish banger, allegedly. I remember this one time, I was on a date. Not a first date. It was perhaps the second or third time we’d met up. I’m about 43 years old at the time. Anyway, I …… I remember now. We had dinner at my hotel because it was the third date and the signs were good. I ordered the Thai Green Curry, which on reflection was probably a risky choice anyway. But at one point I thought I had a nice chuck of chicken but, actually, it was a quarter wedge of lime. I started to chew the nasty, tough-skinned little sour bomb, and it wasn’t easy I can tell you. I mean, I couldn’t spit it out, or gently drop it in a napkin, could I? That sort of behaviour is acceptable on a first date with someone you're thinking of running out on, probably through the bathroom window, but not on a third date. Not with everything I had to lose. I mean, I didn’t want to blow it, metaphorically speaking. So, I ate it. Never had Thai Green Curry since. When I was a youngster we used to make up different sandwich fillings. Like, Chocolate Digestive biscuits with Lurpak Butter. Or just plain old sugar sandwiches. Or we would have Weetabix with butter on, instead of as it’s intended, in a bowl with milk on. I like fish, but I really can’t be asred with all the bones. If it isn’t filleted, properly and thoroughly, I don’t want it. The only rather odd combination of food I can think of, that I have reasonably regularly (once every several weeks) is, Pilchards in tomato sauce with fried eggs (runny) and chips. So, chips are, I guess, French fries. Right? Salt and vinegar on the chips, salt and red sauce (tomato ketchup) on the eggs, remove the spine from the pilchards…. I know a lot of people leave the spine in because it’s very soft and you hardly notice it, but I like it taken out. ……. Then, add a chunk of pilchard to a chip, dip in egg and eat. Yummy! About 20 years ago (I was married to first wife and the daughters were young), the girls asked if we were getting the goldfish a Christmas present. We thought it was a cute question, so we did, we got the goldfish a present. It was a new sunken ship ornament or something like that. This carried on and became a family tradition. Their mom and I divorced, and our lives changed, but we still bought the goldfish presents. Today, the girls have their own families and we don’t always see them over Christmas. Like, Mandy and I were away at the weekend and we won’t see daughter and granddaughter again until the new year. But, now we have Facebook, so the tradition is I now post a photo of the goldfish with their Christmas present. The other difference is, their presents aren’t always the most appropriate. Last year they received a Travel Manicure Set, a pineapple (SpongeBob?), and a Fortune Teller Fish. This year they’re getting a tin of pilchards, a tin opener, and a bag of McCain Oven Chips. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| There was this thing I wanted to do, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. Not on my own, no way. Too scary. If there was any chance of me doing this thing, I was going to need help. Professional help. Now, at the time, I was a member of a networking group. You might have heard of it? It was part of, Business Network International (BNI). There were about 30 of us, all local business owners or Directors and we met once a week for breakfast, and to pass referrals to one another. One of the other members was a Clinical Hypnotherapist. She might be able to help. Yes, she was just what I needed. I absolutely didn't want to visit this lady and be hypnotised. The lingering remnants of the shyness from my youth, and the fact she would know too much about me and I'd still have to have breakfast with her once a week was too much to endure. But I wanted to do this thing. This wonderful thing that I had no chance of doing without her. So, I explained to her what I was wanting to do, and she agreed that she could help. Great! I don’t know if you’ve ever been hypnotised or not, but I haven’t. Not even now, after having been hypnotised several times. I just didn’t like to tell her that she wasn’t hypnotising me, so I just kind of played along with it. I pretended to be hypnotised., which, incidentally, isn’t as easy as it sounds. At the first meeting we discussed my likes, my fears, and scenarios that made me feel safe, happy, secure. She used this information to develop the specific story she would tell me to induce a hypnotic state. At the second meeting, she put me under. I tried. I really did. I wanted to be hypnotised and I hoped to be hypnotised, but nothing was happening. I just didn’t want to disappoint her, so I played dead, so to speak. But what do hypnotised people do? Do they lie down? Snore? Nod in agreement when nodding in agreement is required? Talk? Ask questions? I had no idea, so I tried all these things over the next few meetings. On one occasion I actually fell asleep. Like, real sleep, not hypnotic sleep. I have no idea what happened that meeting because I slept right through it. I remember her saying, when she woke me up, “You were deep under this week.” In reality, I’d just had my favourite dream about Kylie Minogue and Nicole Kidman with the yoghurt and the handcuffs. Anyway, Mandy and I ended up postponing our trip to Australia and I never got to do the Sydney Harbour Bridge Walk, not that my vertigo had been overcome with hypnosis. I guess I’m still afraid of heights, I think. Who knows? Maybe I was hypnotised and being hypnotised just feels like you’re not hypnotised? One things for sure, it’s not easy being me, sometimes. |
| One of the reasons I started this blog, actually, the only reason, was to support and motivate me to succeed at my diet. I thought I might be able to celebrate my weight loss, and more importantly, punish myself if a failed. Not like, “Hey, you fat loser, get down and give me 50.” But just the exercise of writing, or confessing, to the world that I hadn’t lost anything, or worse, put weight on, would shame me into trying harder. I’ve learned that, the world, might be an empty, lonely place without the 30DBC. It’s quite possible for a blogger on WDC to have hundreds of entries, good intentions and ideas a plenty, and no readers whatsoever. That’s not the point. The point is, it’s said. It’s written down and exists. It’s out there. I’m a fat loser and if no one reads it, I’m still a fat loser who has confessed. It’s a weight off my shoulders, and I’ve eaten said my Hail Mary’s. What I’ve also learned, is that I really like writing from a prompt. This is good because I don’t have to think about anything. No planning, preparation, or pondering. Just read the prompt and write. This means I can divert all of my concentration onto dieting. It’s a win-win situation, as long as I lose. Therefore, if a fail at losing, it’s your fault, not mine. This is what’s known as, The Blogging Bullshit Bill. The Blogging Bullshit Bill will get you out of all sorts of trouble. Haven’t done the housework? Couldn’t do it because Emily said, “You’ve got your head stuck in a urinal. Discuss.” The difficult part for me, is keeping my entries relevant to the prompt. Sometimes my interpretation is a little vague to begin with, so if I then drift off on some other tangent it can look too random. Apart from that, I consider myself very lucky that I’m writing within seconds of reading the prompt. And you know what they say, “Writers write can’t eat and type at the same time.” So, this blog has done two things for me. Firstly, it’s made me read blogs that I wouldn’t otherwise have taken the time over, and this has done several things for me. It’s like, compound interest, but more interesting. I’ve found myself genuinely caring for the people who are writing these blogs. Celebrating with them, and worrying about them. This is great because worry is really good for weight loss. Here we are, on day 26, and I’ve read hundreds of blog entries from way back past 26 days ago, because I can see that they belong to real people, and I’m interested in them. Secondly, I’m losing weight. The blog is doing what it was intended to do. I’m a loser, and I’m winning. It’s like being on the Charlie Sheen diet. No need to enforce the Blogging Bullshit Bill just yet. I hope I continue through the unofficial month, and on into January too. Let’s face it, without you, and the 30DBC I’m just stuck in the lonely place, blogging blindly into nothingness. Barren. Empty. Which reminds me, I need some lunch. “Lunch? You fat loser.” I’m hearing voices!! |
| Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be, the man who puts the presents beneath the Christmas tree? Well here’s a cautionary tale of how he gets his kicks, and we start our frank discussion, on December twenty-six. You’ll have never guessed the secrets parents hide, no hint or information of Kris Kringle’s darker side. So, it’s a Boxing Day debacle, and shocking things occur. The Elves get drunk, and naked, on Santa’s one day off a year. A rite of passage for many, traditions as old as Druids, when all of Santa’s helpers, exchange gifts, and bodily fluids. Rudolph’s drunk on eggnog, looks for Cupid for some mating, and what happens next exceeds WDC’s family rating. Old Saint Nick lets his hair down, partakes in festive cheer, with a respectful, and rather impressive, fourteen pints of beer. Food is on the table, delicious cake and fresh Mince Pies. Mrs Claus takes all her clothes off, the Elves, they close their eyes. But soon, the party’s over, as if nothing ever happened. Except Santa’s reputation has been soiled and slightly blackened. But let me leave you with this image, once seen it’s not forgotten, When Mrs Claus bent over and had a Candy Cane up her……. Merry Christmas everyone! |
When I left school at 16, I had way too many plans. I wanted to travel. I wanted to go to university and study art, and the history of art. I wanted to be a teacher. A policeman. A doctor. The trouble was, I was incredibly shy, and this held me back from doing most things that would have me out in the world alone, fending for myself. So, I did what my parents suggested, and got myself a trade. I took an engineering apprenticeship at Jaguar Landrover, where my father worked. On my first day, I travelled to work with dad, and he walked me all the way to the training centre where he wished me luck. I disappeared through the door and the rest, as they say, is history. When I was about 6 years old, and long before my father worked at Jaguar, he had some job or other that I can’t even remember. But I do recall he used to return home in the evening and at least once a week, he would have a bag of broken biscuits with him. Just an ordinary brown paper bag full of broken, chipped, crumbly biscuits that he used to buy from a man in a van on the side of the road. They were delicious. You never got the same biscuits twice. It all depended on which biscuits were available that day. Sometimes they were plain, Rich Tea, or Coffee Time biscuits. But other times you would get lucky and there would be Chocolate Fingers, Cookies, or Jammy Dodgers. I loved those biscuits, and I loved my dad for bringing them home. Dipping broken biscuits in a cup of tea was a pleasure then, and it's a delight today. Which is why I'm on a diet at the moment. It was weigh-in day on Tuesday and, tragically, desperately, and completely fucked-upedly, I stayed the same. Well, better than putting on, I suppose.   My dad was still working in 2012. He was 74 years old and used to deliver fish to hotels and restaurants, three day a week. He did it because his delivery round took him to Wales, his place of birth, and he got to speak in Welsh, his first language. He didn’t need to work. He was financially secure, he just wanted to. He loved his job. In the summer of that year, he asked me if I would do his job for him. He, and my step-mother, were going off to New Zealand for 3 months, touring in a campervan, and he was worried he would be replaced whilst he was away. I said yes, of course, and accompanied him on his delivery round a couple of times, to familiarise myself with the route. On the way back to the depot one afternoon, he pulled in to a layby where there was a van selling snacks. I remember him saying, “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.” The lady in the van greeted him warmly, and knew him by name. My dad asked for a box of broken biscuits and gave them to me. It was the lady’s father who used to sell them to my dad way back, 46 years earlier.  It was late October when dad returned from New Zealand, and the company he worked for were recruiting for seasonal workers for extra delivery rounds on the run up to Christmas. They asked me if I would stay. I thought it would be nice to work with dad for a while, so I said yes. On the morning of the 27th of November 2012, I was helping my father load his van. I noticed him sit down on the tailgate. I asked him if everything was okay. He said yes, he thought he had bent over and got up too quick. He said he felt giddy. I noticed his left arm was shaking. Then he collapsed in my arms. He had suffered a brain haemorrhage. He past away three days later. He had been there for me on my first day at work, and I had been there for him, on his last. I've taken Connor over to buy broken biscuits, and we open them up eagerly to see if we've been lucky. Glyn Hughes, 1937 - 2012 ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Okay, I got 5 for you.................. 1. I was in Waterstones and overheard someone ask for audio books with subtitles. I thought, hold on, that’s a book. 2. I was in court this morning charged with using too many commas. The judge said I should expect a long sentence. 3. I went out last night with drunk, smashed, plastered, sloshed, zonked, inebriated, loaded, stewed and bombed. They’re all friends from my Alcoholics Synonymous group.  Number 4 is a little bit rude. 4. When writing a story about losing your virginity, it’s important to always put it in the first person. Number 5 is very rude. Very Rude! 5. I used to go out with an English teacher, which was a bit embarrassing because she kept correcting my grammar during sex. I was like, "Who's the daddy, who's the daddy." She was, "No. The daddy's whom?" This gets a lot worse so stop now if you're not up for it. I said, "Suck it good, bitch." She said, No. Suck it well." forgive me for this line...... And she got particularly annoyed at my improper use of the colon. Happy Thanksgiving you load of blogging beauties!  |
| I think this qualifies as a book, but I’m not sure. It’s the Rupert Annual, widely available every year around November time ready for Christmas. I was gifted this annual for several years from, about, 1964. I adored it. Still do. The last edition I received was Christmas, 2016. A gift from Mandy. I’ve just found it out and have it here next to me. It looks beautiful, smells delicious and reminds me of childhood, family, and happy times. Strictly speaking, Rupert is a comic strip that first appeared in the Daily Express newspaper here in the UK. It’s the story of, Rupert the Bear, and his pals. Rupert was typically English. He lived in a typically English rural town, dressed with typically English eccentricity; and had gentle, typically English adventures that might involve a punt down the river, a picnic, conkers, jam (jelly) sandwiches, or sometimes, a run-in with the local bobby (Policeman), Constable Growler (who was a dog). Rupert wore a red pullover, yellow chequered trousers and a matching scarf. One year, my parents bought me some trousers just like Rupert’s. I was thrilled. There was a tv series on Cartoon Network in the 90’s which everyone should ignore. Damn American accents ruined it, present company excepted.  I can’t let this prompt go by without mentioning, Star Trek, and, Dr Who. I’m aware that these have been represented already, by Robert Waltz  , but they were so very significant to me as a youngster, it would be wrong not to acknowledge them.I was 9 years old when Star Trek was first broadcast by the BBC. Well, most of it was broadcast. Star Trek is my first recollection of a programme being banned for its content, and the BBC, in its wisdom, banned 4 episodes. I might have been 9 when I watched my first episode, but I would be 34 before I’d see all of them. The full story of the BBC’s ‘moral high ground’ approach to tv censorship of Star Trek can be found here.  Star Trek was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen. It was violent, controversial, frightening, and most of all, sexy. I didn’t notice the dodgy sets, ridiculous aliens, the fact that life forms throughout the universe had, for the most part, evolved in human form, and I didn’t care to. I’d found my hero, and the girls looked great. Just now, in the last couple of weeks, the Star Trek Convention was right here, at the National Exhibition Centre, just 15 miles away. Attended by a host of bit-part Star Trek actors, and big Bill himself. I didn’t go. My hero was young, handsome, charismatic, and I don’t need to see an old fat bloke masquerading as the Captain. "I love you, Bill," but not as you know it.  As a 10-year-old in 1970, I had so much more freedom that my grandson, Connor, does. He’s 10 now, but he wouldn’t be allowed to do the things I did. I’d wrap my trunks in a towel and go swimming with my pals. It would be a long hike, a bus ride, and another long walk just to get to the baths. And we’d be gone all day. But society has changed and Connor wouldn’t be as safe as we were back then. Another thing I’d do, is I’d take my younger brother to the pictures. The movies. He would have been 5. One Saturday afternoon in 1970, my brother and I set off to the cinema, The Gaumont, in Birmingham. I think we went to see, The Aristocats, perhaps? Anyway, we returned home at dusk. The light was just fading. We walked down the back-garden path, towards the rear door of the house. Through the window I could see something. Something different. I just stood there, for ever, watching through the Georgian glazed window pane at, Dr Who. It was the opening credits and theme tune. The really psychedelic sequence that accompanied the John Pertwee years. Only this time it was……….. it was in colour. Mom and Dad had been out and bought a colour tv whilst we were at the cinema, and the moment I saw those whirling colours at the start of Dr Who, I was hooked. I’ve, I think, seen every episode since. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| I’ve visited three sea life attractions. 1. The National Sea Life Centre in Birmingham.2. The Bluereef Aquarium in Tynemouth.3. The Sea Life Sydney Aquarum in, you guessed it, Sydney.My issue with them has always been, primarily, space. Most of the pretty, little, colourful fishes have everything they would have in the ocean. Except, of course, the ocean, but they don’t know that. They just have no concept of their captivity, or what life would be like if only they could be as free as a bird. So, all is well in the life of pretty, little, colourful fishes so long as you don’t mention the ocean. Just don’t tell them. “Welcome to Aquarium Keeper training. Lesson one, don’t mention the ocean.” Nemo, the clown fish, lives its whole life in and around an anemone. In the vastness of the, thingy, you know, what we can’t mention, it occupies about 4 square metres of water. In fact, Nemo is better off in the aquarium because he won’t be predated by pretty, bigger, colourful fishes. And that’s what it’s like for fish, in the most part. They live in a hole in the sand, or under a rock, in between a bit of coral, and they live their whole life safe in the aquarium, and in the dark about the big wet thing that we can’t talk about. Not the actual dark. That would be cruel. “I mentioned the ocean once, nearly had a stampede on our hands.” So, given that the pretty, little, colourful fishes have all the space they need, I’m comfortable with the whole aquarium malarkey. And, if I were a fish, I’d want to be a pretty, little, colourful fish in a big pond. But I wouldn’t want to be a big, fuck-off fish, in a small pond. “Especially don’t tell the big, fuck-off fish.” I feel differently about the big fish. The sharks and stuff, and especially the whales and dolphins (I know, they're mammals). The sharks probably don’t know much about their situation. They don’t know about the endless body of salty liquid they would have the run of. They just know one thing, and one thing only. They want to eat everything. They want to eat pretty, little colourful fishes, and they want to eat pretty, bigger, colourful fishes. They especially want to eat Aquarium Keepers. “Arrrgh, don’t eat me. I know a secret!” But, whales and dolphins are a different story. I imagine being a whale in Sea World is a bit like going to bed in a sleeping bag when you really want a king-size divan. Whales must feel like they want to spread their wings and stretch their legs, but just keep bumping their nose on the underwater viewing window. Or as the sharks call it, “The human sushi box.” I think if you give pretty, little, colourful fishes everything they need to be unaware of the existence of the Waterworld (notwithstanding the fact that you could give them a chilli enema and a poke in the eye and they wouldn’t know anything about it) then aquariums are an acceptable place for them to be. And, having seen Kevin Costner in Waterworld, the pretty, little, colourful fuckers shouldn’t be so ungrateful. The same goes for whales and dolphins. But I would suggest that the environment that best equates to their natural habitat is, in fact, the thingy wet place. Sharks too. “Hey, sharky, where’s Costner? “Hic.” Safari Parks are a whole different ball game. Mandy and I have annual passes to, West Midlands Safari Park , and we go several times a year. Usually with the grandchildren. The entrance is about a mile from our front door, and we can even hear the lions from home if the conditions are right. Just don't mention the savanna. |
| I sometimes feel like a bit of a fraud here on WDC. I marvel at the talent of writers within the community, and some right here in the 30DBC. Whereas, I am just a hobbyist. A recreational writer with no great literary ambition. Perhaps I’ll find something more one day, when I’m suddenly hit with a great idea or story, or I develop some wonderful character that swells my creativity and massage’s my momentum into motion. I just have to fight the feeling that, in the meantime, I’m letting the side down. I’m not pulling my weight or making the grade. I’m enjoying the writing at the moment. I was very pleased to win the Cramp a couple of days ago. The satisfaction of banging out 40 lines of poetry within 3 hours of the prompt being posted, and that was maybe just an hour’s writing, was really motivating. I like that short timescale challenge, even if I have to impose it upon myself. That’s probably why I ran those two contests (The Inbetweenie Contest, and, The Really Quick Contest) last time I was around. I had a couple of longer stories in my old portfolio. Several chapters of a comedy detective story set in Australia and featuring, Steve Sprinter PI. Another was about a drug sniffer dog and his exploits and seeking out the secret scents that earned him special rewards. More slapstick than the Sprinter story, but I can’t ever see me having the motivation to create those sorts of writings again. I’ve always had this short-term approach to things. Forget the business that Mandy and I have now, because before that I had never stayed in the same job for more than two years, and I had some fantastic jobs. From being 18 to 50, 32 years, never stayed with the same employer for more than 24 months. I’d get bored, run out of steam, or, most often, grow to resent the authority figures within the organisation. I actually carved out a niche career for myself as the fixer. The go-to guy who hits the ground running and turns things around when they’re failing. I’d start off, day one, as the most motivated person the company had ever experienced, yet burn out before the paint was dry on my name on the door. I’m actually in the job market at the moment. Let’s be honest, Mandy runs the business and I just float around picking up a bit of admin here, or a little project there. I was in a meeting today with a client who wants to reduce their carbon footprint and carry out an environmental audit of their impact on the local area. I’m going to write their Environmental Policy, perhaps? I wouldn’t mind something, some job, three days a week to get me out the house and stir some enthusiasms. I feel like a right miserable old bugger today, and I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to find excuses for my lack of respect for this wonderful art form you’re all so brilliant at. Perhaps I’ve arrived at the solution by coming full circle. I should turn this thing around by actually writing something, instead of claiming I don’t want to. Writers write. I should listen to my WDC peers and take note, be motivated by them, by you. You are my motivation. |
| I’m grateful to the individuals whom worked so hard at school to get grades that enabled them to go to university. I appreciate their studious nature, and their endeavours that led them on to medical school, where they became doctors, surgeons, nurses and all manner of hospital and emergency personnel who contributed towards my wife’s recovery and remission. Thank you, one and all. But, to be fair, they have no one to thank for that except themselves. And that’s what most everything I’m reading about Thanksgiving is. People mistakenly thanking everyone else for their own hard work. I’m thankful for my job, my car, my chaise lounge, my budgerigar, cupboards full of food, hanging flower baskets, the newspaper arrived on time, dry cell batteries, ffs. Most everything here, you are responsible for, and the rest is just nonsense. Thank yourself. It should be Thankstaking, or, Thanksreceiving, or, Pat Myself on the Back Day. So, don’t give your thanks away lightly when the only real deserving soul, is you. Let the other fuckers thank themselves for whatever bullshit thing they were probably going to thank you for. Give it back, that thanks thing. Tell them to keep their thanks, because you’re sure as hell keeping yours right where it belongs. Thanks to my partner for loving me. What? They love you because you’re wonderful, and beautiful. Suddenly you’re grateful to be loved? Again, take the credit for this one too. It’s like this; I’m grateful for the journey the doctors took to be in the right place, at the right time, to save my wife. I’m not grateful for the act of saving her itself. If it wasn’t those specific doctors, it would have been one of the million other doctors, all of whom have my gratitude for their own individual journeys to become qualified medical practitioners. I know I say this from the point of view of having no cultural heritage, or history and tradition, because we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK. Frankly, we don’t need a Thanksgiving Day. I’ll take the holiday, but let’s have it in the summer when we can make good use of it. I vote for a, Day of Self-Congratulation, third Tuesday in July. Okay, it had to come down to this, didn’t it? You know, the big fella. The boss-man. The omnipotent being herself, or whatever. For many of you, this is where the real gratitude comes in. Thank you, Lord, for this bounty before us. For our friends and family. For the beauty of the world, and all the gifts of nature this precious life bestows upon us. For the 4,100 children that die every day from disease caused my drinking contaminated water. I mean, we can’t be hypocrites, can we? After all, there’s only one Thanksgiving Day a year, so we have to get all our thanks in whilst we can. Cram them in there. Thank you for the more than 5 million children under the age of 5 who die every year. Sinners, all of them. Oh, and thank you for my delicious turkey. Perhaps it’s just a little obscene to dedicate a day the being thankful and grateful for what we have, when a child just died whilst you read this sentence, because they didn’t have clean water. Nearly one billion dollars will be spent on turkey’s this week. $1,000,000,000 Oops, 2 children. |
| Okay, so I thought this was going to be tough because I just don't have any time today. Then I thought, throw in a Onomatopoeia top 10. Easy. No, took me ages. Here it is. Even did a playlist, yo! Onomatopoeia top 10. 1. Bang Bang – Jessie J, Ariana Grande, Nicki Minaj 2. Tick Tock – Lemar 3. Roar – Katy Perry 4. MMMBop – Hanson 5. Careless Whisper – George Michael 6. Witch Doctor (Ooh Eeh Ooh Ah A-Ah, Ting, Tang, Walla Walla Bing Bang) - David Seville and the Chipmunks 7. Zoom – Fat Larry’s Band 8. Hush Hush – The Pussycat Dolls 9. Ha! Ha! Said the Clown – Manfred Mann 10. Jingle Bells – Dean Martin Bangin' Playlist on my Spotify account, ready to go, yo! |
| The Earth isn’t flat, it’s a toroid. Or more specifically, a torus. Everyone knows that. Der. But more importantly, did you know the sun is 400 times bigger than the moon? So, why doesn’t it look bigger? Well, allegedly, it’s 400 times further away from us, so it looks the same size as the moon. Convenient, don’t you think? There are 400 days in the Gregorian calendar, and 400 years between the writing of the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament. Or so they tell us. In mathematics, there are 400 gradians in a circle. Not 360. A right angle is 100 gradians, not 90 degrees. Think about it. This blows Hypotenuse theory out of the water because the numbers just don’t add up. Why are they lying to us? There were 400 days in a Mayan year. 400. Not 365. That’s why the whole 2012 cataclysmic event didn’t happen. We calculated it on our own version of a 365-day year. Actually, everything goes end-of-days shit-for-dust tomorrow at 3pm. Hold tight. Of course, I’ve absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. I just did two or three random google searches and came up with some bullshit bollocks by mixing together a few search results. It’s that easy to start a conspiracy theory. Just talk crap to someone who’ll listen. Those google searches did unearth some interesting facts though. Only 7% of Americans believe the moon landings were fake. 42% believe in ghosts, 26% in witches, and 24% in reincarnation. I live about 17 miles from Birmingham, the second largest city in Britain and my place of birth. In April this year, Birmingham played host to the Flat Earth Convention. Representatives of the convention appeared on daytime TV. They were interviewed by Phillip and Holly, who have some great outtake clips. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| I tend not to have lucid dreams. I dream a lot, and remember very many of them, and they can be epic. Long, complex, stunningly visual dreams with scenes a blockbuster movie director would be proud of. I’ve never felt in control of my dreams, and never been knowingly taking part in one so I could manage and manipulate it. I wish I had. It sounds like a wonderfully exciting opportunity. I went to WW weigh-in on Tuesday, and finally lost that half-pound to make the stone. I actually lost 3lbs, which makes a total of 16.5lbs so far. A side effect (or it could just be coincidence) of the dieting, is a difficulty sleeping. I’m finding it very hard to drift off at night. I’m regularly going to bed at 11ish, tossing and turning for an hour, then watching a movie or two. At WW on Tuesday we were told about an app that we can get for free with our membership. It’s called, Headspace. WW has gone all mindfulness, and wellbeing, and in your head new-age and stuff. Anyway, Headspace is a meditation app that claims it can help with insomnia. I tried it but didn’t like it. I didn’t like the voice of the people talking at me, guiding me down some river in a boat and listening to the sounds of nature as I was indoctrinated into the Headcase cult. Sorry, Headspace. I already have an app called, Calm, and it’s much better. Although I don’t use that either. Then it dawned on me (a pun to be proud of), YouTube must be full of sleep aids, meditation soundtracks and even hypnosis videos. I took a look and found one by, Paul McKenna. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of Paul, but he’s a big celebrity hypnotist in the UK, and a trusted mentor for everything from smoking cessation to Omphalophobia. I set myself in position, quiet, comfortable, relaxed, and switched him on. It was a familiar voice, which helped. For the first few minutes I was fidgety and doubted it was going to work. Then, suddenly, I felt my arms lifting from the bed. They weren’t, of course, but it felt like it. They were weightless. I should listen to this on WW Tuesday. Then my head rose, pulling my weightless body from the bedclothes. It was so relaxing, so safe and peaceful. There was a blackness approaching. Not a frightening, all-consuming blackness, but a welcoming dark space. As if someone turned the day off. I was drifting away from the light, and into sleep. And I was gone. Fast asleep. It was the worst night’s sleep I ever had! 25 minutes later I was more awake than I’d ever been. I could have run a marathon, or invented the unbreakable can opener, or wrote an interesting blog entry. I wasn’t happy. The last 60 seconds of the Paul McKenna video were a nightmare. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| Well, this is unfortunate. Being as I’ve already covered my first love, when the colour green was "Invalid Entry" . What now? Thinking time..........     I met my first wife, Janice, in a Spanish nightclub on the Balearic island of, Mallorca. It was 1982. 17 years later, we’d return to the island and I’d sit on her curling tongs. What’s that about returning to the scene of the crime? She was, of course, one of the great loves of my live, and we have two beautiful daughters to remind us of that time in the past when we were important to one another. But, my love for her was different. She was from, Newcastle, a different part of the country to me, and I loved her accent. Mandy is from, Manchester, and although I appreciate her accent, I don’t love it. I loved Janice’s accent, but I’d rather listen to Mandy. I love Mandy’s confidence, and understanding. I loved Janice’s homemaking and sense of family. Mandy is demonstrably loving, but Janice wasn’t. Mandy is daring and fashion savvy, buying loud, bright, trend setting clothing. Janice was a trend follower, conservative, safe. Two very different women. Different personalities. Two people I have loved with all my heart. But, not in the same way. I loved them each, equally, but differently. Is it true then, that all the loves of our lives are, in fact, the first loves of our life? If I love you, the reader who just went, “Whoa there, Northwood, steady on,” and I love you for all your exclusive, magical, individual and very special qualities, will this be a first love? A deep and intense love, a familiar love, but a different love? A first love, because I’ve never experienced love like this before, because I’ve never experienced love with you before? If it is, I can carry on and blog about some more, ‘first loves,’ of my life. If the fifth love of my life was sufficiently different to the first four, that I can call it my first love, then I have several first love stories to tell, and I can get myself out of a blogging black hole. I could tell you about, Gerry. I’d moved to London, got a great job and a super flat (apartment), and then I met her. My grown up, adult version of, Fiery Red. Five foot eleven inches of Financial Times journalist with the most spectacular head of red hair. I loved her more than anything in the room, whatever room we were in, and that love lasted a lifetime. It kind of depends how you measure a lifetime, to be honest. This lifetime was about 3 months, but hell, I couldn’t have lasted any longer without a Russian sponsored doping programme, and splints. Alison. My very own, Essex Girl. Another tall lady, nearly six foot. We were in a restaurant one day, for lunch. It was a quirky place, with colouring pens and crayons on the paper tablecloth, so you could draw on it. Whilst she was at the bathroom, I lifted her plate and wrote, “Will you marry me?” She said yes. We didn’t. She had three children, all younger than mine. And, she had a psychopathic ex-husband who tried to kill me every time I crossed the M25 boundary. I loved her for all the reasons I’ve loved before, and since, and one more reason I can’t go into due to the rating of this blog. Oh yes, my friends, she was special. Talented. Kidderminster Carol, was so called because her name was, Carol, and she came from, Kidderminster. You see, I tried to keep things simple during the internet dating years. It helped me not to make mistakes when answering the phone, or, indeed, meeting them. I loved more about, Carol, than I loved about any of the other women whom I loved more than anything in the world. Which sort of makes ‘love’ an unquantifiable emotion. Of course, when I loved more about, Carol, than all, or more of the others, in the world, I didn’t know I was loving a stalker. Carol loved me for longer than I loved her, and she felt compelled to demonstrate this love for several months after I didn’t love anything about her. Let’s finish with, Lisa. Lisa broke my heart. My first ever heart-break to be honest. Maybe I’d had a good run, been lucky, dodged a bullet, but I guess some will say I deserved it. If you play with fire, and all that. I had actually moved in with Lisa. We lived together as fulltime, committed partners. She had been married before, and her husband had died in a restaurant toilet after eating a big fried breakfast. Hey, I’ll take my lessons where I can get them. One day, Alison text to say she was sad. Lonely. I text back, I was sympathetic, I arranged to have coffee next time I was in London. Lisa read my texts, phoned Alison, Alison phones me, or Carol, or whoever the fuck it was. I’d been a dick, I realised, finally, because suddenly I was Troy, sitting on a bench, holding hands with Connie. I had to move out, leave. My whole life was in a half-dozen black trash bags and I had nowhere to go. I had no one. I realised that love was quantifiable after all, and that I loved Lisa more than I had thought I loved someone else more than anything in the world. I hadn’t. I’d loved for the first time and it was the most painful experience ever. It hurt to love that much. It was my punishment to love that much. I called, Vladimir, head of the Russian sponsored doping programme, bought red wine and Viagra, and phoned Gerry. |
| The quote reminded of; “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life,” which I believe is an Oriental proverb. This prompt got me reminiscing about the comics and cartoons I enjoyed as a youngster, but none of them had anything to do with DC Universe or Marvel. The Superhero, and whole fantasy genre didn’t appeal to me. My reading material and viewing preferences contained real hero’s, whom I could aspire to be like. Well not real, of course, but could have been. But that’s not exactly true, I’ve found out. Nostalgically looking back through archived clips and images, and reading search results on Google, I can see that my real heroes were, in fact, superheroes. And the comics I read contained superhero stories, but I just don’t remember them as clearly as I remember the sporting stories. I wanted to be an athlete. Specifically, a professional footballer, and I wanted to play for, Aston Villa. So, I read comics like; Jag, Eagle, Scorcher, Score, Tiger, and I read stories like; Football Family Robinson, Billy’s Boots, and my favourite of all time, Roy of the Rovers. But there were fantasy and superhero elements to their storylines. Billy’s Boots concerned, Billy Dane, a rather poor football player who couldn’t get into the local team. Until, he found a pair of his Grandads old football boots in the loft. Grandad had been, Charlie “Dead Shot” Keen, a top-class striker, and when Billy put his boots on, he played just like “Dead Shot.” That’s a bit fantasy, isn’t it? Roy of the Rovers was my hero. I wanted to be him, then I wanted to be like him, then I wanted to be better than him, then I was 25 and married. Working nightshift to afford a Season Ticket so I could go and watch Aston Villa play every weekend. In short, the story of, Roy of the Rovers, featuring, Roy Race, spanned his entire career. From apprentice to pro, through to Manager where he got to play with his son, Rocky. A real professional footballer might start his pro career at, 18, and play until his mid 30’s. Let’s call it a 17 year (or 17 football seasons) career. Roy Race played 40 seasons for, Melchester Rovers, but never aged past his mid 30’s, and there was never any mention of his strange longevity in the great game. That’s a bit fantasy too, isn’t it? I knew that Stan Lee created Marvel characters and did cameos in the movies. That’s about all. I do enjoy the movies now. I loved, Thor: Ragnarok, and Guardians of the Galaxy. The Spiderman films with Tobey Maguire were my favourites, but I didn’t like Homecoming. Loved, Deadpool. I bought and downloaded, Avengers Infinity War, watched 20 minutes and turned it off. Managed 30 minutes of Black Panther. But what would I Know? I’ve never watched a Star Wars film all the way through. Give me Star Trek any day of the week! If I could be a superhero, I’d be, Superman, and look like, Christopher Reeve. Sorry, Stan. But I’d rather be me, superstar centre-forward for Aston Villa.   Aston Villa, and Wizard. It doesn’t get any better than this! [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| So, my writing experience to date (and the date is sometime between Summer and Autumn, 2012) is a complaint letter to the Crackle and Roll Pork Scratching Company because I found a pigs tooth in my Pork Crunch, and a few creative dating profiles on, Match.com. Nevertheless, I was ready to run. Running before you can walk is a constant battle for sufferers of exuberance and enthusiasm. This has led to one or two surprising successes. Like the time I won the painting competition. I’d just finished painting the lounge at home. Not a painting of the lounge at home, but literally, the lounge at home. I did the walls in a Hint of Lemon, Vinyl Silk Emulsion, and the ceiling in, Matt White. I’d also just watched an episode of, The Joy of Painting, with, Bob Ross, and thought, “Yes, that looks easy.” I painted, Buckingham Palace, which by anyone’s measure is a step up from my living room. Anyway, I won. A keyring. The reward wasn’t worth the effort and I never painted again. For the most part, running before you can walk ends in disaster. I was beginning to become obsessed with writing, and I had a great idea. Performance poetry. Not just any performance poetry, but competition performance slam poetry. I enrolled in a workshop with two excellent local poets. Emma Purshouse and Heather Wastie. Emma was a poetry slam champion, published author and comedienne. Heather was to go on to become Poet Laureate of Worcestershire. Now about this time, 2012, your email inbox would be littered with spam mail. Spam filters weren’t as sophisticated as they are now, and everything had to be user-selected and identified as spam in order to direct it to a spam folder. So, we got to read a lot of shit. The most frequent spam mail I used to receive in those early days of unsolicited email marketing, was the magical, life changing, very latest penis enlarger contraption. Some self-sucking, growth generating, cutting edge miracle of modern science that was guaranteed to enhance my love life. For the record, I never responded to these ads. I do hope, though, that someone here remembers receiving these spam emails because if not, the consequences are disturbing. It means I was singled out as some small penis sufferer who desperately needed enlargement intervention. I quickly put two and two together and came up with the perfect theme for my first slam poetry performance. I invented a marvellous, mythical cream called, Long-Slung Stuff, and set about writing my poem. And, there were spots available at an open-mic event coming up very soon. It didn’t end well. These performance poets are true artists, with talent coming out of their ears. Sure, I did my bit, got a few laughs, but basically, I stumbled and stuttered my way to performance poetry retirement. It was a combination of things really. My material was crap, and I wasn’t a performer. It was embarrassing actually. Like taking your pants off and having a very small penis. Which I haven’t. Forgive me for what I'm about to do............... Warning, bad poetry and sexual innuendo. Long-Slung Stuff Most days, half a dozen spammers with enthusiasm and vigour, will try and sell me products to make my penis bigger. Now, I generally delete all the junk, as a rule of thumb. But one day a message caught my eye in the SUBJECT column. It said something about making me, “A legend in my own bed.” So, I opened up the email, and in summary, this is what it said…………… “Loving you long-time won’t be long enough, for a man who’s hung with Long Slung Stuff.“ Yeah, that’s right, it was a magic cream called, Long Slung Stuff they said would change my life. Because they claimed it’d make me big enough to satisfy a lover, and my wife. Well, I opened a new browser and logged straight on to PayPal. And I sent off the money, special offer, only 99 quid to make my ardour swell. I waited ages for my Long Slung Stuff. So, I drew a chart to map my impending growth. And I set myself a target for when I’d be big enough to satisfy both. Now, I kept my targets real, I didn’t aim to reach the sky. Let’s just say if I were a stallion, I’d be two, no, I’d be three hands high. Finally, I had my Long Slung Stuff, so I set about my task because I’d waited long enough. I took my, volunteer, between a finger and a thumb, and I have to tell you honestly, rubbing it in was so much fun. But suddenly, I heard a noise outside the bedroom door. I panicked, dived behind the bed and crawled along the floor. But with all that rubbing, you know, how your volunteer grows? I got a carpet burn, had to stifle a scream, got Long Slung Stuff on my nose. Then the door came flying open. It was the wife, and she was in the mood. She was looking for me hungrily but she wasn’t after food. I jumped up and shouted, “Brace yourself baby, this thing will make you flinch.” She just laughed and said, “I know you’re telling lies, your nose just grew an inch.” But it really works, this Long Slung Stuff, judging by my enlarged nasal condition. My wife said, “It’s the first time I’ve ever had a sixty-niner in the missionary position.” And she didn’t know what hit her, she was well impressed. Probably because I spent 20 minutes rubbing Long Slung Stuff on her breasts. So here I stand before you, testimony to the success of that magic cream. I’m a fully paid-up affiliate, and member of the Long Slung Stuff pyramid scheme. I can offer you, this evening, for one time and one time only, the chance to make your partner proud. Just £49.99 will enable you to say aloud, “I’m a big man, well endowed!” |
| So that we can properly allow karma its moment in the spotlight, first, a little background. Alexander 1, was King of The Kingdom of Yugoslavia from 1929 to 1934. Prior to that he was, King of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes from 1921 to 1929. But we’re essentially interested in the latter bit of King stuff. Or 1929 to be exact. It was the actions of, Big Alex, in 1929 that set in motion a series of events that would culminate, 89 years later, in karma claiming it’s dirty, racist, fascist, pro-Nazi victim. Or, he could just have been a drunk bloke on his way home from the pub? Who knows? But the story comes together much better if he’s a fascist. Anyway, the Serbian and Croatian political parties weren’t getting on like a house on fire. They were setting houses on fire. Where have we heard that before? So, Big Alex installed himself as dictatorial leader of Yugoslavia in an attempt to suppress the growing rift within his country. This move didn’t go down well at all. But Big Alex wasn’t the baddie. This was a Croatian parliamentary delegate named, Ante Pavelic, a supporter of Croatian separatism, who hot-footed it out of there and fled to Italy, where he formed a new party called, The Croatian Revolutionary Movement, or, The Ustasha. Well, you wouldn’t want your daughter bringing one of these guys home for dinner. They were a terrorist organisation with fascist, racist and ultranationalist beliefs. To cut a long story short, they were active until 1945 and responsible for the murder of hundreds of thousands of Serbs, anti-fascist Croats, Jews and Roma opponents. We need a hero! Enter, Rade Koncar. A Serbian. Well, he became a hero, eventually. We’ll start his story in 1934 when he joined The Communist Party of Yugoslavia (KPJ). For his political beliefs he served one year’s hard labour in 1936. Rose up through the Communist Party ranks until, in 1941, he was named head of the Regional Committee of the KPJ. He became a People’s Hero of Yugoslavia, and one of the country’s greatest ever Partisans. He also became the enemy of, The Ustasha. On the 22nd May, 1942, Rade Koncar, People’s Hero of Yugoslavia, and anti-fascist martyr, was executed by Italian members of the Ustasha, for organising the resistance movement. He was just 31 years old. Now it’s time for karma to remind us all that fighting fascism must continue. In the early hours of last Thursday morning, a 65 year old Ustasha sympathiser vandalised a monument to, Rade, in the city of Split. It toppled over and broke his leg. Karma What about, Big Alex, you ask? You didn’t ask. I know you didn’t. I’m not an idiot. But anyway, he was assassinated in 1934 at Marseille. And, Ante Pavelic? He fled to Italy at the end of WW11 disguised as a priest. You can guess the rest, can’t you? I mean, who gives sanctuary to a murdering despot that killed Jews? Yep, that’s right, the Vatican. Don’t shoot the messenger. I didn’t write the fucking story! |
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