Politicians 'Learning lessons'...

Scrobs with mum and sister in Yalding - 1954.

Yalding has flooded since time immemorial! The River Medway takes no prisoners, and often the smaller Rivers Teise and Beult, do just as much damage along their banks, and Scrobs had first-hand experience of driving his car into a deep puddle on the Beult not far away, near Smarden in 2000, never to return (the car that was - it was a write-off)!

So politicians all decide to get in on the act, and make fools of themselves, when a lovely small Kent village gets clobbered yet again. The Prime Minister visits and utters the immortal words, so loved by people who know they will do damn all about the situation, "We are here to learn lessons"! The Leader of KCC also turns up a day later to try and explain why nobody answered the emergency phones over Christmas. Perhaps if there was a little more money around, like some wasted on obscene compensation payments paid to failed departing senior staff, he might have got a few people willing to come and help.

Rivers are a priority for The Environment Agency, and until they and the politicians and their 'consultants' stop 'learning', and actually do something about flood defences, river management, and development control in flood plains etc, I'm afraid this delightful village will get flooded again and again. My heart goes out to the good people there, as it did at Boscastle, Tewkesbury, Workington, Worcester, Bewdley and all the other places where rivers just revert to their natural state. Perhaps a few million kept back from foreign anti-flood projects might help.

But by the time something actually happens, hell will have frozen over, so perhaps that is what politicians are all hoping for.

Wensleydale - the movie...

Wensleydale cheese has been awarded Protected Geographical Status, and quite rightly, as we love it!

Here's a lovely quote in the Daily Mail: -

David Hartley, managing director of The Wensleydale Creamery, said: 'Our heritage and provenance makes Yorkshire Wensleydale cheese taste truly unique and we're delighted this is now officially recognised.

'We'd like to thank everyone for their support for our application, including our dedicated staff at The Creamery, our local community and of course our loyal customers in the UK and around the globe.

'There could be no better early Christmas present for the whole team here and it is a great platform to propel us into 2014.

Step up Wallace and Gromit!

Earning my corn...

I have successfully concluded negotiations with Mrs Scroblene in the matter of a favourite comestible, which has long been absent from the pantry.

The discussions concern that well known delicacy Salt Beef, and an order went in yesterday to our local butcher for a sizeable chunk of best local brisket. It is in the salting bucket as we speak, together with several similar orders for like-minded residents of this Parish. I am scouring the library and elsewhere for the perfect recipe to cook it, and will almost certainly use the slow cooker for a modest six or seven hours. This may have to be located in the shed, as Mrs Scroblene is not very partial to beef these days, and to be fair, the aromas from slow cookers can take over the total house in some cases, sometimes the entire village, and therefore, a couple of days before Christmas, I will hold a vigil in near freezing temperatures aided and abetted by some Belgian beer, and maybe a bottle of vodka and a hero packet of Doritos for the said period of time...

First Christmas card of the season...

I wish I'd been Alan Bailey...

About this time of year, for the last dozen or so years, I just wish I'd been Alan Bailey.

Now you may not know the chap in question, so I'll fill you in with a few details.

Alan ran, amongst many other pretty impressive organisations, a property lunch club in London, called Placemakers. The venue was a hotel in Park Lane, and every month, there would be about two hundred and fifty people in property and building attending the monthly Placemakers lunch. We would all meet in a special bar beforehand, and imbibe gin and tonics, or a bottle of white, and meet friends and guests with increasing volume, both in the noise, and also the size of the bar-bill, because of the generous measures of Gordons.

I was introduced to Placemakers when networking came out of the closet, and people were thereon expected to go out and seek contacts to do business, rather than sit meekly in the office and wait for the phone to ring. My first lunch was about 1991, and I really was a rookie then, as there were old boys who'd fought in the war, and sounded like it too sometimes...

Alan had had a long and distinguished career, and his 'secret' escapades included getting Makarios out of Cyprus in the early fifties, and he often told that story to many open-mouthed friends, as it really was James Bond stuff! In the later '90s he often used to get his secretary to ring me up, and invite me to sit on top table with his distinguished guests, and when I'd got used to the importance of some of these people, there was a good time to be had, especially as we met in a private room, where the chosen few were introduced the speaker of the day. Steve Norris was there once, and we had a good friendly chat, because he does understand building and development, as opposed to most politicians.

Now, Bailey, as he preferred to be called, would always have a fund of jokes for when he wrapped up the lunches at around 2.45pm. They were nearly all politically incorrect, sometimes downright rude, but always very, very funny. In the big lunch room, there was a large oak lectern with a microphone, and Alan would rise, make his way to the spot, and with a Piccadilly cigarette curling smoke to the ceiling, he would lean characteristically on one elbow, with his head bowed over his notes, and commence his jokes of the day. It was always a moment well-worth waiting for, and with smoke billowing everywhere, he would remain totally unapologetic about anything which might be said in the next few minutes!

in 2001, I was invited by another chum, who ran a similar successful breakfast operation, known as Movers and Shakers, to give the traditional vote of thanks to the speaker, at the club's Annual Dinner, which was held about this time of year. Now, I'm not a compulsive public speaker, and prefer small meetings, and this was going to be in front of about three-hundred and fifty well-oiled guests, and I'd better get it right. I was going to be thanking Max Clifford, and this was when he was in the public eye because of the Hamiltons, so we all knew him!

So I meticulously planned the short speech, and considered wearing two pairs of underpants for the occasion. But, I also had a wild moment of madness while driving to London, and came up with a tremendous plan which would bring the house down.

I was going to do an Alan Bailey!

I rolled up a small tube of cardboard, to look just like one of his fags, and practised leaning on the dashboard of the car, and decided that this would make the evening end with the biggest bang it had ever done! I'd got the growly but educated voice off pretty well also! The cardboard tube went into the breast pocket of the DJ, and I was ready for fame and probably fortune as well!

Naaah, I blew it. 

When I was announced, I whimpered my way to the big oak lectern, unfolded the speech, nearly panicked, but kept cool, did the business exactly as scripted, got one laugh, at least got some applause, shook Max's hand and went back to my seat.

And still to this day, I wish I'd had the nerve...

When I was a little bitty baby my mama done rock me in the cradle...

I've just been seeing a load of information on the 'Cotton Ball Diet', and was intrigued, as I always put on weight during the winter, and lose it all when I start digging in the spring, so it's a seasonal body that is part of the Scrobs routine...

Apparently, eating cotton squirted with any old juice or flavouring, enables the body to think it is full, and stops the requirement for chocolate, or biscuits, or even Guinness God forbid! All these sites are Googleable, if you're really interested!

But they've all missed one vital point, which to me is more important than any of the dieticians' comments, or the acolytes who espouse all this, and that is this...

In Catch 22, Milo Minderbinder used to buy cotton at five cents and sell it at three cents and make a profit!

Just think about it...

Lion Man, back from the embers...

Mrs Scroblene had to go and see the optician in Hastings a few months ago, and when she needed a return appointment, the guy with the lenses (I used to play rugby with his dad, so you can spot a certain age difference here...) said that he wasn't going to be there, as he was going to be in Lewes for a special concert!

Well it only took a few clicks to find out why, and here is one of the reasons why he and Mrs Optician went!

Little Lion Man

What a song! I just love the activity, the passion, and just seeing and hearing someone banging their instruments to make them sound good for the listeners!

Ten blasted days...

It's been ten days since I last posted, and I'm very conscious of the fact that neither of my viewers have had their normal excitement and enjoyment from these shores!

I'm so sorry, but I seem to have the equivalent of 'writer's block', which to me means that by the time I sit down to make up some sort of imagery for my chums, I become a blank screen...

I'm sure this will change, and please be assured that the break is just temporary, and that Elias and Co will be back as soon as the next order for concrete blocks and some blue tarpaulins is in the bag...

"Happy Halloween"...

Tyrolean Bowmen...

This is just hilarious, and well presented to show an audience really enjoying themselves, as they should with a guy like this...

Here he is...

And why, both of you may ask, is the title of the post wrote large as it is?

Well, back when I was at school, a chum used to have hysterics when P.J.Proby performed this dreadful mime, and at around 1:36, the tears of laughter just flowed...

Jasper Carrot's legacy...

This just needs to be watched right to the end!

Scooter rider enjoying a day out in town...

Better than a moped no doubt, but much funnier...

Twonk...

I've never given a penny to Live Aid, because charity begins at home, doesn't it?

I've never understood why anyone believes the twaddle this guy spouts, and his rages and rants, together with his ridiculous offspring making fools of themselves seems to make normal people switch off and go and do some gardening, or perhaps the washing up.

Fading 'pop stars', love to think they're righteous, because they swear on television.

Nice.

Trousers and their meanings...

In the nineteen twenties, these trousers were the rage at Oxford. They weren't flared from the knee, just very roomy, and probably only fitted where they touched! They were the original Oxford Bags!

But if you search online for Cambridge bags, you get this...

This is the sort of investigation which causes an ageing Scrobs much concern, and I seriously wonder if such inquiries will ever end...

Great chook play...

I want to buy me a...

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/09/24/mercedes-benz-chicken-advert_n_3980497.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular

Even better than carrying an RSJ...

Guinness have always done superb adverts, but this one beats them all...

Vegetable aftermath...

Well, after all this good harvesting, there's always a pay-back isn't there...

This has been such a great summer for growing vegetables, and it looks as though it will continue for several weeks...

Pity about the after-effects though!

Welsh voice of rugby, gone...

Cliff Morgan - another rugby hero to pop over the dead ball line.

Best try ever? You judge!

Paradise in Kent...

Scrobs and BP spent a day here (Broadstairs, and paid work for once), and the traditional post-site meeting had to take place in The Charles Dickens Pub, overlooking Viking Bay!

Stunning views of the sea, and the blasted wind turbines in the distance, (all stock still, despite the breeze), and a fearful glance at Bleak House, on the hill (top right)

This really is a hidden gem, spotlessly clean, with plenty of sun and sand for families, and fine hospitality from the pub, which went on a little as there was far too much to discuss...

Daily Grail...

These chaps grow overnight, they're all under 3" long (after the flowers have been removed) and this lot should have gone in the pan last evening, but it's too hot to consider slaving over a hot stove at the moment...

Scrobs' recipe for summer courgettes: -

Three or five like those above
Remove the flower (stuff with something else if you want to), and the stem
Shave of most of the skin
Lay it flat along the edge of a chopping board, and shave strips with a spud basher
Add a few peas (less than two hours old)
Pop in a few torn mint leaves (a few seconds old),
Splosh of vinaigrette or garlic salad cream

Boris Sagtrouser speaks the truth...

Here it is, straight from the horse' mouth...

Big log from the pub...

Years ago, back when we wore flared trousers, Scrobs and co went away on a week's holiday in Dawlish Warren, Devon.

Finances were pretty damn bleak back then, and I'd just posted a form to the bank which stated how we were going to pay off our enormous overdraft, just the day we'd driven off. It was a crap time, but hey, we were a family going away for a week in a caravan by the sea, and life was good wasn't it.

The first night in the huge caravan was interrupted by the sounds from the pub at the top of the cliff, and this song was played every half hour..

Now, as an old Scrobs, I can listen to this song without fear or trepidation, but back then (1982), times were tough...

The graunching of Scrobs' joint...

Far be it for me to be a hyperchon...hypokon...er...moan about being ill, but when I was demolishing the old timber greenhouse, (see Growster's GH disaster foundations etc passim), the last high piece came down a bit quick, and I must have hoiked the old joint more than somewhat, as it's been giving me gyp for five weeks now!

Of course, from then on, it didn't help in having to carry the demolished bits around the side of the house, chop down a twelve ft high pergola behind it all, and cut the hedge down to four ft, carry the new GH to the site, dig it out and level it all, lay the new 9" thick concrete foundation blocks along the side elevations, build the new GH, carry the glass over (with Mrs G steering) and fix it all, barrow the sand round from the front and spread it. Lay seventy-five paving slabs and twelve large concrete blocks in all directions, and have to do an extra long mow down at the 'Patch', (man-powered petrol mower) as the grass was beginning to get beyond a joke, and finally planting out two hundred and twelve leeks on Sunday!

So by Monday, the old joint had seized up completely, and all manner of exercises hadn't freed it at all, so a quick dive into the Doc's and a few super-violent painkillers, and all is well thank goodness. Mrs S has been doing all the normal work, which I should have been doing, but then she's like that!

There are so many healing exercises on the net, that it would take about three months to complete them all, but I did find a super extra one yesterday...

Hoeing!  Perfick! 

Granite and the Italian story...

As some good friends know, Scrobs has an enduring friendship with a certain purveyor of plumbing, sanitary-ware and bloody great concrete slabs, in the form of none other than Elias Sagtrouser, who is not a Freemason, or a member of Rotary, so Scrobs can divulge a small story, which touched his heart.

While partaking of a local beverage, (Shep's 'Rapscallion' - 6.3 ABV) as is the wont of all good building people on a Friday lunchtime, Elias lowered his brimming glass, and somehow the body language pronounced that there was going to be a story of some description. In fact, his loving wife, Gloriette, was also commencing a little body language of her own on account of the surfeit of gin and tonics, which seem to have disappeared in the last hour or so, and my gaze began to wander, until Elias mentioned that I must listen to him and not continue to admire his dear wife's accoutrements.

Of course, we are all very good friends, and I wouldn't dream of any impropriety; well, that's not strictly true, I MIGHT just dream, but there again, the answer would be the same, with an added preposition, being the word 'on'!

So anyway, the story began.

Elias started by reminding me about a particular customer of his who never speaks to anyone. This gentleman is known locally as Granite, as he has the sort of face that looks like he is hard, grey and very, very strong. In fact, if you can remember the voice of Patrick Allen (Barrett Homes helicopter etc), and apply that to Granite, then you're close to the sort of bloke he is, but of course, you'll never ever hear him say anything, so that's a loser from the start...

Now Granite works as a kerb-layer for a small civil engineer in the next town. He can pick up two kerbs (twenty-four to the ton), one under each arm, and carry them from the stack to the road without breaking sweat. Granite has no friends, no family and a big van which seems to carry his whole life somewhere or other, but he is always quick to pay his bills in cash, and nobody ever crosses him or insults him, because he has the sort of face which naturally deters such crass actions.

Elias waved a twenty pound note in a large circle to indicate refills of drinks to all and sundry at this point. Gloriette began texting one of her numerous friends and Toniatteline and Meccano went away to a corner to listen to their latest band 'Crudnadger', sharing a pair of earphones. I stayed and listened more intently, as once Elias has got to the point of defining a character in one of his stories, then it will get better. And it did.

Harry Bellini is the son of an ex-prisoner of war, a stonemason in his previous life in a small town on Lake Guarda, and was sent to the UK while the war banged on elsewhere. Harry's dad (Georgio), was actually involved in repairing various churches which had been bombed, and became so entranced by the Brit way of life and also the work, that he stayed on after the war, married an English girl, and started a family like most nice people do. Harry was his third son, and tried stonemasonry but as he was somewhat smaller than the average bloke, at five foot one, his stature just denied him the chance to work in such a trade, so he took up plumbing instead, and started a business on his own.

It's true to say that he started on his own, but because he was one of the jolliest men you could wish to meet,  he wasn't on his own for long as he soon became entranced by a local beauty, and married her after several hours of engagement. Harry and Lorna had eight children in quick succession, which was going some, but they all thrived in a wave of happiness and jollity, and Harry often took some or all of his family with him whenever he could, even on jobs if there was nobody to complain about the incessant shrieks and laughter from the assembled siblings.

Elias took a large draft of his beer at this point, and Gloriette looked up smiling as she knew what was coming next. Elias continued his story.

"So Harry Bellini came in the shop last week, and he had Lorna and the five youngest children with him", he started, "and you could hear them all from the car park, before they all barged in the door at the same time, squealing with laughter, and generally making a bloody racket"! Elias allowed himself a grin at this point. "The children all started to run round the aisles, where the paint and tools are, and generally caused some sort of mayhem, while Harry placed an order for some copper tube and fittings".

"While Lorna was paying for all this, the children started to explore even further, so I dispatched Meccano to see what they were up to, as there are some sharp instruments there as you well know"! Just at that moment, Granite entered the shop, and while it went momentarily dark as he passed the window, the kids began chasing Meccano all over the place, and the shop became an uproar. Granite, as usual, said nothing, and just handed me a piece of paper with an order for some slabs, and looked as fierce as he normally does. Harry was checking his bill with Lorna".

"Now we've been doing a little work in the shop, where the plaster stacks are", Elias continued, "and the area at the back is cordoned off. One of the Bellini kids, Giuseppe, had ducked under the rope and begun to climb a ladder which we'd been using to fix the shelves back to the wall. Now you and I know, Scrobs, that ladders are fine under most circumstances, but not when a small stove-lid starts buggering about with one. Giuseppe climbed half way up before we could stop him, and when he got about twelve feet up, the ladder began to slide back, and as the hook at the top was caught on the shelving, the whole bloody shooting match began to wobble and come away from the wall. The kid let out a huge yelp, and we all  rushed round to see what the problem was"!

"Harry and Lorna just went berserk, and began yelling at the tops of their voices, and the other kids started crying as well, which didn't help! Meccano couldn't do much either, and while we all held on to the shelving, we couldn't stop it moving, and things began to look decidedly serious".

"At this point, a strange thing happened. Granite actually said something"!

"DON'T MOVE KID"! Was Granite's contribution, and as quick as a flash, he barged through everyone, and stood with his back to the shelves, with his huge arms splayed out, and started to push backwards. His face went bright red, and he was all screwed up with effort, such that he was totally unrecognisable except for the old tweed cap he always wore"!

"The shelves were almost toppling, but Granite continued to hold them back, and while I stood with my foot at the bottom of the ladder, to stop it sliding further, Harry went up the rungs to coax the petrified little bugger down". When they got to the ground, the little kid burst into tears, and so did Harry, and his wife, then Gloriette, then Meccano, and finally a huge boo-hoo came from Toniattelline behind the counter, so the whole bloody shop was in total disarray, and there was very little business being carried on, which was a bit of a shame"!

"Granite eventually got the shelves back against the wall, and slowly straightened up. He looked down at the blubbing kid, gently tousled his hair, and walked straight out of the shop without another word"! Elias looked up with a grim face, and nodded slowly.

The pub went quiet for a second, and Gloriette nodded in recall, then everyone else who was listening returned to their drinks and chatting, while Elias downed the rest of his pint in one.

There wasn't much to say after that...

Bubble... FOUND IT!!!

A few years ago, I posted a little bit of happy stuff, mainly concerning gorgeous Jane Horrocks.

Back then, Youtube wasn't half as good as it is these days, and I'd despaired to the point of dribbling insanity, at never being able to laugh uncontrollably at the Nanny sketch she did once in 'Never mind the Horrocks', called 'Watch with Nanny'.

Well, thanks to Channel 4, it's now available and I've just spent several minutes crying with laughter...

Check out the Marching song, after she starts the sketch at 5.20, and the Nanny bits start around 7.40!

Apols about the tiresome adverts at the start, they seem to infest every decent clip these days...

Oh S***! then - S***! S***! S***! S***!...

Nobody was hurt during the accident...

London 1920s...

I find this absolutely charming, with some eerie and enigmatic music by Neil Brand, which seems to bring a new dimension to the film.

Also, as mentioned elsewhere, London seems strange with no skyscrapers!

Interim weather discussion...

Yet again, the blasted weather forecasters have got it wrong!

I'm supposed to be out there, clearing some garden stuff and mowing everywhere, but; Oooooh Noooo, it's bloody raining again, and now I have to wait a day or so!

What do we pay these people for?

UKIP if you want to, Scrobs did...

Scrobs is utterly fed up with being told that UKIP will be a busted flush.

Scrobs Inc. was utterly shafted by Nulab's awful leftie, pathetically inept administration, at a time when all the company needed was funding (normally granted in an economy which wants to thrive), and after that things just got worse. At least Bruin was finally dispatched to the stupid thicko expenses-laden lecture circuit in other godforsaken places, but this Cameron lot (forget Clegg, he's a nonentity) are still just useless at understanding what real business people like Scrobs actually want!

I really object to being called a closet racist, and a fruitcake. I'm also not a clown. I've been married to Mrs Scroblene for over forty years, and have two lovely daughters, and three gorgeous grandchildren, and I also have a roof over my head as well as countless things to do in the garden and the allotment, which is a passion, (and a tardy realisation that I might have liked to be a farmer once upon a time). More importantly I'm also working as much as I can in the business formed by me and my two partners, who are the two most trustworthy men I've ever had the privilege to know, and, we all have boundless energy to see all this through!

At nearly 66 years of age, I see in Westminster, just grey, waffling parliamentary oddities, mostly with very little commercial experience, spouting occasional sound bites on exactly the same theme that they've spouted for nearly fifty years of voting, and in a matter of months, Nigel Farage has now emerged as the sort of bloke I feel I can do business with. I happily voted for him last Thursday.

To think that we still have wrinkled old dinosaurs like Ken Clarke (who holds the record for the most boring after-lunch speech I've ever endured), telling me that I'm a 'clown' and that I am wrong, is frankly absurd, and uncalled-for!

Years ago, there was a series of books which centered on the life of  a confused retired army officer, who was convinced that Britain was about to be overrun by fanatical communist hordes, so he set up his home and garden as a haven for anyone who would listen, and he wrote endless letters to the Ministry of Defence, and anyone else with a title, complaining about something or other.

Scrobs will never be that man, because at last he has someone to vote for and support! That party is led by a bloke who has a much clearer vision, an understanding, and an appeal which totally conforms with the mind-set of late-middle-aged people like Scrobs.

Tree-huggers' May Day Celebration card...

Tomato plants...

I just thought that everyone who reads this amazingly erudite blog, would like to know that I have, over the last weekend, potted on over eighty tomato plants.

I was given some heritage seed a couple of years ago, which are 'Black Krim',

and they are buggers to grow and they look hideous, but the flavour is totally outstanding, and Mrs Scroblene freezes pounds of the things for all her culinary masterpieces later on in the year...

We also grow 'Gardener's Delight', which are a delicious small plum type, and 'Sungold' is the new addition this year, as they are reckoned to be the sweetest toms you can ever grow!

So 'The Turrets' will be festooned with pots of toms, in all house directions and also the greenhouse and probably the allotment, (Walls to the North, South and East as well as West) as late blight (sodding nuisance) knocks them back in some years, and we ain't having that this year!

Eighty tomato plants should provide about 240 pounds of toms, so several bruschetta and bolognese dishes await a slavering Scrobs family, and the vitamin C will also eventually stop me getting the blasted racking cough I've had since January...

Best Lady...

Back in 1979, I made damn sure that I would be in London for Lord Louis Mountbatten's funeral. It seemed the right thing to do.

Just a few days before, the Scrobs family had been enjoying a gardenised get-together, and we were all well on the way to mixing even more alcoholic flavours as the afternoon wore on.

My dad had been noticeably absent for a few minutes and suddenly came out and brought us the awful news, and of course the dead hands of the IRA murderers just stopped everyone in their tracks, and we picked up our things and went back to our small 'Turrets', and pondered.

So, there was Scrobs, back in town for the day in 1979, doing a little business, but mainly keeping an eye on the clock and waiting for the procession from a strategic position on the pavement of Broad Sanctuary by the hoardings. (The Queen Elizabeth Conference Centre hadn't been built back then, and it was just a hole in the ground and used as a car park)! Broad Sanctuary is directly opposite Westminster Cathedral.

As the cortege approached, there was the solemn moment when his horse, with boots placed backwards in the stirrups, was led up towards Birdcage Walk, and presumably home to Victoria for a well-earned bag of bran.

Just at that moment, there was a stifled groan from an elderly St John's Ambulance Volunteer, with whom I'd been swapping topical yarns, and he suddenly collapsed on top of me, and we both fell to the ground.

Within seconds, there were at least six plain-clothed officers emerging from the waiting crowds with hands worryingly inside their jackets, and immediately, they honed in on me and my wilting companion, as I couldn't hold him because he was too heavy and he was now on the ground in a dead faint!

The poor man had been on duty since six o'clock that morning  - as he told me when he came round, and by then, the 'serious squad' had melted away into the watching crowd leaving us somewhat dishevelled  but at least awake and somewhat alive!

I reckon it's worth watching Margaret Thatcher's funeral in all its glory tomorrow. Back in 1979, when Callaghan was bringing the country to its knees, rather like Brown was doing just a couple of years ago, but even more drastically, we all felt a huge sigh of relief to know that after the election,  the awful union people sending desperate, cancer-ridden patients away from hospitals, leaving stinking rubbish in the streets, and ignoring bodies on slabs, would never happen again. She was the sort of woman who just led from the front, and kicked all that into touch!

Prove me wrong all you lefties, you've got nobody in your ranks who could hold a candle to Margaret Thatcher.

Moving story...

Lilith and Elby are shifting their vast collection of everything the Grateful Dead ever performed to another abode today, and I want to wish them every good fortune on such an exasperating, exciting, exhausting, (that's enough 'exes' - Ed), day!

By coincidence, we're celebrating living at 'The Turrets' for twenty-four years to the day, well almost, we moved on the 14th, but what's forty-eight hours between friends and a couple of heavies (Oz and Dennis, Auf Wiedersehn Pet look-alikes) helpfully lugging our motley G Plan, F plan, and Scrob-Plan into a big van, driving about two-hundred yards, and unloading the lot into the various rooms, after a nourishing repast of about three Ginsters, two litres of full-fat coke, and eight Mars bars each!

Our moving day was bright and sunny, and it seems like only yesterday that we sat in the overgrown garden in brilliant sunshine, with cheese sandwiches, undoubtedly some 6.2% ABV beveridge, and a silly, thankful grin on all our faces! It really is such a great day and although I've just noticed that is raining here I sincerely hope the weather is much kinder for you in the West...

So, you two special people, I'll raise a glass or three for you both and of course the occasionally emerging Calfy, and wish you the very best of luck in your Truckin' today, and continuing prosperity and a three-fold increase in cultivation activity in 'Chateau Lilselbers'!

Queensland tells it as it is...

http://www.youtube.com/embed/Pwghabw4N80?rel=0

Lib Dems' Easter sing-song...

Funky chicken...

Norman Collier died recently, and just for the memory, I popped on this CLASSIC to remind me of how funny he really was!

Reading his OBIT here, he does seem to have been one of the dwindling genre of comedian who never wanted to upset anyone, and just relied on trying to be funny.

I saw him live in 1978, at 'The Talk of the Midlands', and easily remember all his acts, including the maniacal chicken, but the microphone sequence was always just hilarious...

Michael Caine - 80 years young...

Michael Caine is 80 today, and he is still the icon of the adolescent/maturing/composting/ageing years of a bewildered Scrobs...

Have a drink on me, Gonville/Charlie/Harry, you're the main bloke I'd like to meet one day!

Just as I thought, as I'm sat here riding this bike...

Fatty...

St David's Day Massacre...

So UKIP came second, veeeery close to causing 'The St David's Day Massacre'! I just happened to wake up and hear the result as it happened, so I may be the first non-political blogger to report the result! 

(Actually, there is another blog run by a Mr Grindo Forks, but he may well have been awake as well)!

Daffodils are such a wonderful flower to brighten the beginning of the end of winter, and yesterday, Mrs Scrobs bought her Marie Curie emblem, which was then subsequently mauled by various grand-daughters,, but at least one of them has learned the name of a new flower!

Of course, everyone over The Severn Bridge will have a great day - Bor-eh dah, and I'll play this song, because it looks like he's walking along Camber Sands...

Grot news as usual...

Won't ever happen...

Pathetic response from the awful BBC, who habitually knock anything positive with GB - especially England.

Just watch the attitude of most of their 'unbiased' reports... from the North!

As is the norm these days, we just click them off, and just watch to see what the weather is like, as at least Carol has some presence, the rest, (except Louise Minchin who always looks gorgeous), can just forget it, as they're useless.

Staying on! (Stannah Lift version...)!

Both Lilith and Electro-Kevin are moving to new houses this weekend, and I wish two of the nicest people in the blogosphere and their families, the very best of good fortune in what is always an exciting and exhausting time.

The traditional first supper in a new home has to be fish and chips, with some sort of peculiar ale closely followed by copious amounts of Chateau Turrets, or whatever one can find among the various boxes, or the near empty shelves of the local Spar at 10.30pm...

By coincidence, this week, Mrs S and I have finalised our plans to stay put in ‘The Turrets’, after a lot of soul searching and wondering about down-sizing and getting nowhere! We’re now here for good, or until one of us ends up in the clutches of Nurse Gladys Emmanuel, (which doesn’t seem such a bad idea to me, but might be frowned upon by Mrs S...)!

We even took on another allotment to replace the lost garden we might have to endure, and now we've got so much growing space, we can feed a small African country as well as keep reasonably fit in the process! I mean, let's face it, we've only got the price of a Stannah Lift to cough up if things go awry!

So, we're going through the same excitable phase as both Elecs and Lils, and that, coupled with what will hopefully turn out to be the most promising week in our business partnership (sorry B, had to say that), means that things will never really be the same again!

So, as Trevor Howard happily yelps in the lovely film of the book above, 'Time for more gin and lime...'!

Butter is better...

                                                                                                                                             












Over the years, I've been somewhat glazed about this argument, as cholesterol seemed to be high on some sort of agenda...

No more!

I'm probably the last to realise this...

So bye bye 'Benecol', 'Olivio', 'I think this should taste like butter but really tastes like money'...

Troglodyte RIP...

So, Reg Presley, the Wild thing really did pay the bills then!

Sorry you were poorly in the end, Reg, I can well remember you starting up, and really making life pretty damned good for a teenager...

Welsh hillsiders' quandary...

There is much furious foaming furore about Welsh schools not being academically on the same 'level playing field' as English schools today.

I have to inform everyone, that nowhere in Wales, which is a delightful country with lovely, friendly people, is there a single level playing field!

Michael Green decided that Welsh rugby players had one leg shorter than the other, so that they could play on their gorgeous hillsides and valleys and, for Scrobs, having played the game there for many years, there is general agreement on that score!

Listen to the question...

Oh shit...!

Neigh Lad...

This latest furore concerning meat in burgers really gets my goat!

It's another example of the nanny state, expecting people to actually find meat in food, especially those things made from old tyres and motorway service station plastic gloves!

If I was a vegetarian, I'd eat my hat, but I wouldn't because it's a natty leather one with a rather fetching plaited two-tone band around the brim...

Give me a Lion bar any day!

Aerial pics...

I just found this by accident - had to see about a site, and Googled it...

http://www.britainfromabove.org.uk/

Such gorgeous old aerial pics are so exciting, even BP is up all night, checking where he used to live and spend his hard-earned dosh...

Are you sitting comfortably...then I'll begin...

This gorgeous lady was the voice of wireless when Scrobs was a tiny tot.

Daphne Oxenford was the hugely long name of the person who would start to tell us something, when the music stopped. My dear sister and I would hang on to every word when she spoke with those beautiful tones, and I've never forgotten her.

There used to be a short piano prelude as well, which still rings...

I'm so looking forward to getting our grandchildren into a state where we can do half what this lovely lady did for me.