Good intentions...

So, tonight's the night when everyone makes resolutions about something or other...

Years ago, I vowed to give up smoking (again), on the fateful night.

On the bell, I stubbed out a final Gold Leaf, (actually I accidently dropped it in 'The Wellington', Battle, Sussex, so I trod on it and that was that)! The resolution lasted for nearly seven hours, when a nourishing pint of beer at my elbow, in my old local, on New Year's Day needed a mate!

    

I once worked with an old boy who admitted to smoking two ounces of Gold Block, and forty fags in a single day, every day, before his doctor mentioned that he had not long left, so he'd better give it up! And he did, but he was still a cantankerous old bugger; 'vitriolic' was another description...

Mrs O'Blene and I actually gave up for good in March 1986, after monstrous hangovers. It wasn't easy to start with, but we eventually helped each other, and saved a load of dosh in the process!

Tonight, just after midnight, I'll start my forty-eight hour non-alcoholic break again, and seeing a good chum in Waitrose this morning, we agreed that this was a good idea for us three-score-years-and-tens...

Sod that though, going for a whole bloody January, off the sauce!

Quandary of emotions...

The awful situation in Australia prompted me to collect all my chums over there for a message of whatever support I could muster.

David Duff has a post here and the responses show such resolve, I can only commend the great spirit shown by all these good people.

It's a mixed day really. The despondence of such a calamity 'Down Under', compared with the total joy of reading all the positive comments on Guido's latest post about Boris's Brexit Bill,      Here - Woo-Hoo! leaves Scrobs somewhat bewildered, but at least the next few days will see some sort of recognition that even when we are getting the Scotch bottles polished, the turkey stuffed (through its beak - 36 hour job that), and the rest; well, life just goes on...

And 'My Dave' is arriving at eight o'clock this morning to fix the kitchen taps, hence the early-morning post!

Go Bozza...

Scrobs has decided that he will not contest another General Election.

The man himself needs a period of reflection, dithering, obfuscation, fake news, support from a failing BBC, support from anyone else, some sort of tonic wine, and also the purchase of a bullet-proof vest, to be worn back to front while the knives hover...

So we can all breath a sigh of relief, and look forward to a great year!

The Senora O'Blene has supplied the title to this post, and has been suitably rewarded!

Bob Willis R.I.P....

Just a playback from last year...

http://scroblene-webley-bullock.blogspot.com/2018/09/

Beer and cheese and a snag...

Her Fragrancy, the Senora O'Blene and Scrobs were partaking of a liquid lunch recently, and a casual remark rather hit home during the conversation, which normally accompanies such delectable actions...

'Why do pubs try too hard to become 'restaurants', when only a few years ago, they were doing very well on more 'basic' comestibles, with decent ales and wines, and the occasional G and T!

When Mrs O'Blene's mum and dad ran a very successful pub - so successful that a) I married their younger daughter, and b) they made enough dosh to pay cash for their retirement home, the key answer to providing basic lunches and suppers was exactly that, 'keep it simple and basic'!

When Scrobs was a mere stripling, aged about twenty, a good lunch was one or two halves of best bitter, or a couple of bottles of Guinness, and a cheese roll or two, preferably with a banger on the side, depending on the level of breakfast, and also whether a previous site visit in the freezing cold had formed an appetite normally attributed to a hungry leopard.

This was always fabulous fare, especially in the future Mrs Scrobs' pub, and the next fifty years were probably drafted about then, but nobody knew then of course.

Nowadays, the fare offered by pubs has to include some jollop which is called 'jus' or something similarly stupid, a concoction to make cod seem more likable without beer-batter, and an unidentifiable slop with an unidentifiable name, which might just be minced turkey...

The Senior Mrs Scrobs (my Mum) always maintained that a good pub lunch should be something with cheese, and a bottle or two of a strong ale, and she should know, as her dad also ran a pub in Campton, Bedfordshire, when beer was four old pence a pint...

Scrobs and Andy, live...

"Quite a few years ago", Scrobs was telling his old friend, Elias Sagtrouser, in 'The Bells' with a pint each of Shep's 'Buggerit'  I.P.A. 9.6 ABV,  "I had a strange experience"!

Elias stared for a moment at his rapidly emptying glass mug, and waited for the next gasp of words.

"I was tasked with attending a large property convention in Cannes, known as 'MIPIM', which was a March-dated collection of the world's piss-artists, and many others as well. I had to join my boss and several colleagues on a marathon of excessive partakement of fine wines, Bolly, Joe Bolais, and any other slop which was available in a place called the Cafe Roma, which was an establishment right opposite the entrance to the underground bunker, where the convention was actually being held"!

(Scrobs explained that he was in his element here, being unavailable when non-alcoholic drinks were around, and arriving panting, when the alternative imbibement menu was on offer)!

"My best friend, Andy and I were just getting over the flight down, after many jars at Gatwick, a couple on the flight, a taxi from Nice to our rented apartment, a sharpener somewhere or other, then off for a pizza and a bottle of red, before we started 'work'".

Elias stared at me in wonderment (for once), and asked whether he should consider arriving at The Bunker during the proceedings, next year, and maybe involve himself in the luxuries I'd described. He was on his own at this particular moment, without the delectable Gloriette, who was visiting an expensive nail bar to repair her talons, and also pick up the gossip, from Becky, who knew everybody and everything, what they did, when and how, and whether anyone found out!

"So what was this experience then Scrobs"? Inquired my friend.

"Well, it's a long story", I started, and Elias tipped his trilby hat back another five degrees, looked at his watch, sighed, and suggested that I got on with it, while indicating to the bar-lady that there were two thirsty men standing bereft of sustenance, and could she possibly leave the attentions of the two blokes lusting after her, and attend to the value of the ten-pound note he was proffering.

"Andy and I prepared to leave the pizza joint at about 10:30pm, and while we were still in a jolly mood, the rooms back at the apartment didn't seem all that enticing, so we wandered off along La Croisette, which is a long sea-front location, well known for many bars, hotels, gorgeous ladies, rich old men and much more besides. We passed several friends, all jolly, as well as pissed maybe, and arrived at the far end, from where we decided that it might be a good idea to stroll back, before we reached the border with Africa, or somewhere"!

"Such a long walk creates a strong thirst, and the bottle of red had receded in the metabolism more than somewhat, and we felt in need of replenishment! Half-way back to the main area of the bars and cafes, we passed one of those restaurant seating areas, with canopies and over-head heaters, and which opened up right onto the pavement. Lo and behold, standing next to a table, laden with all sorts of delicacies, such as oysters, champagne, French canapes etc, was a very pleasant mutual friend, together with several of his chums from the same company, and a few of his clients"!

Elias cocked his ear to the word 'clients', because it meant money, and Elias likes money, such that he continuously searches for ways to make more of the stuff, so that Gloriette can use it to buy clothes and accessories when she wants to, and also he can buy his friends ales and spirits with a clear conscience!

"Anyhow", I continued, "Andy and I were immediately ordered over to join the throng, which we did with some alacrity, as we'd worked up a serious thirst, what with all that walking, and staring at the skimpily-dressed girls parading with whatever beau they'd decided to ravish that particular evening".

Elias became more interested, especially as he knew that Cannes was in France, and all these places for refreshment meant meeting more people, although he was maybe considering that they might not want to meet him if he had Gloriette on his arm, or maybe they might!

"So", I went on, staring at the fourth pint of Buggerit which had appeared from nowhere, "Andy and I prepared ourselves for a few delectable communications with the guests and our friend, whilst partaking of the generosity of his company! The evening continued until the early hours, and several people were away, with either the fairies, or with a selection of available ladies, who had been with them when they arrived, or hadn't been, but soon would be"!

"Now, Scrobs had never in his short life, had an oyster! The stories of rampant lovelies, energetic discussions about Uganda, fevered panting, as well as severe upheavals in the lower-regional areas etc., were all known attributes of that particular mollusc, but these issues were all lost on a timid, spam-eating Scrobs, as he'd never had one! Andy was an expert, and downed several over a few minutes, declaring the quality to be excellent, such that more arrived, and he started to reduce the mound pretty quickly! I had about four, declaring them a delicacy beyond my wildest dreams, (they were - definitely), and Andy was in his element, as his wife had been a restaurateur and also knew all about these comestibles"!

"Now, Elias", I said, "Can you imagine what happened next"?

"I have to admit, Scrobs", he replied, swirling his beer slowly, "I haven't really got a clue what you're talking about, because I sell building materials to builders and the public! I don't need to talk too much to people, unless they demand conversation to ask for advice, and then I wonder how much money I'll make from that particular discussion"!

"My good friend,", I replied, "That's all a load of bull, and you know more about getting a fifty-pence piece out of anyone using the correct five-sided spanner, so I'll finish the story"!

"What happened, was that as it was very early in the morning, and the streets were emptying rapidly, Andy and I decided to try and find the apartment, which we did, after some confusion as to the address, well, the district, in fact the whole bloody town, but we eventually arrived home! Anyway, when we got upstairs, we were met with the disgusting snoring of the three other chums with whom we were sharing the apartment, and one of them had conveniently chucked all my stuff into the main sitting room, where there were beds at each end. Andy had one, and after a grimace, I took the other, and we were eventually drifting off in an alcoholic stupor, with just a few stomachial rumblings here and there".

"After about half an hour, there was a terrible shrieking noise, like a burst lorry tyre, making a terrifying sound similar to a banshee in a dustbin! It went on for several seconds, changing key and finishing with a whimper of resentment at having to stop itself, and Scrobs awoke in a petrified sweat, and wide-eyed with fear"!

"Blimey, what was it then"? asked my friend, his beer mug halfway between bar and face!

"Hmmm. It was Andy breaking wind after all those oysters! I didn't get a wink of sleep after that"! I replied.

Uppity - the real meaning...

Eamonn Holmes used this word on TV recently, to describe a 'royal', and because of one snowflake 'taking attitude', he's been given a bollocking!

Pathetic, isn't it really!

So here, in all its glory, is one of my favourite shows, giving its best to an even funnier version!

Now beat that!

Magic Grandpa's anthem...

Part of the union...

Here's a great song from way back which I seem to hum on several occasions during this Gerenal Erection...

The Strawbs were such great ambassadors back then, and I believe and hope, are still going strong!

This song just made their day - it's still making mine!

Way back then...

Scrobs has recently mentioned a time - the middle noughties - when 'blogging' was still in its infancy, and there were lots of corners which needed rubbing off;  Blogger was a bit of a minefield to negotiate as well.

Protocols of posting comments were also varied, such that there were odd and sometimes silly words to describe unconventional behaviour, un-generous innuendo, and even insults, and it wasn't for a few years later, that most people who indulge in a little light banter got to understand the ropes and contribute properly.

Of course, there is still an undercurrent of illiterate rubbish posted, especially on mentally-lightweight sites which concentrate on weak, macho messages, or just nasty subjects, and like anywhere else, these are generally ignored by most decent people.

Scrobs can remember very clearly, that a great blog concerning a small village was just starting up, and it was there that his first tentative comments appeared in shaky typing. As nonentity reigned, Scrobs made up a pseudonym in the form of Mannerings Webley-Bullock, who was a retired grumpy old gentleman living somewhere or other, and posted lengthy tirades on the website, often late in the evening with a tincture at hand.

Back then, the Labour government were doing their level best to ruin the country, and had already done all it could to scupper our young company, such that we were starved of the investment funding which is usually available when the economy is going well, but not when socialist fanatics go out of their way to stifle private enterprise at the roots.

Frustration took many forms, and on one occasion, I wrote a long and weary post which took long into the night. The next morning, I checked to see what had been the result, and was utterly mortified to read again what I had written, and also saddened to read the responses.

In short, Scrobs had been an utter arse, and received, and deserved the indignant denigration and opprobrium. Scrobs thought very deeply about all this, and decided he had to make amends in some way, so this is what happened.

Scrobs changed his name, Mannerings, to that of his sister, Miranda. It seemed a bit odd at the time, as everyone knows that Scrobs is a red-blooded male, with a heightened liking of any female who wants to avail herself of purely affectionate appreciation, and good humour, especially if she has good legs!

So Miranda Webley-Bullock was born, and began to make amends for the atrocities of her brother's rantings and bad manners. Some sort of past reference is  here: -

http://scroblene-webley-bullock.blogspot.com/2011/03/hoe-down_21.html

...and I'm pleased to note that there are still a few names in the comments, who are still with us!

But, (there always is a but, Scrobs, just get on with it - Ed), just the other day, while delving into a bulging folder of old stuff on the PC, I discovered this little 'gem', which has survived twelve years in the background, and I'd totally forgotten all about it! The blog in question was by a gentleman named Oliver Gosling, and seemed to echo a lot of the charming fantasy stories we all loved and cherished, as well as supported with inanities, or comments such as this one below, where Miranda, in her new role, was in full flow...

"Dear Oliver,

When Mannerings’ Great Great Grandfather Aloysius was stationed in Liverpool in 1810, (this was after the unpleasantness with the aunt of a servant who eventually became Mayor of Rotherham), he was ringing a peal of Superlative Surprise Major, and during the third bob, the tower began to disintegrate, and the whole steeple came roaring down in a mass of bells and rubble.

Grandfather escaped with a small bruise to the forearm, a black eye, two broken legs and a fractured pelvis, further exacerbated by internal contusions not unconnected with his love of two bottles of fine Claret before any peal lasting more than three hours.

He was also rumoured to have sired his future heir about three-quarters of an hour earlier, while choosing his looser ringing trousers in front of his then lady wife, Cymbeline.

These bells are small compared with those hung in his chosen church, St Barnabas the Arrogant, and he was renowned for taking two ropes at the same time, thereby allowing the assembled ringers plenty of time to see the not inconsiderable acreage of stomach between said trousers and his shirt.

He died in ‘The Peasant’s Crow’ PH after indulging in a marathon game of cribbage lasting one and a half days, (with three relapses for bodily functions, and also the unique opportunity to sire the additional generation of Webley-Bullocks with the Landlord’s wife, Melissa the ‘Open’.) He is buried somewhere close to the road but nobody is exactly sure where!

I thought you might like to know this!

Miranda x"

I have to admit, that I was rather happy with these communications; they took away a lot of the anguish of awful business conditions, little money and an uncertain future. The blog has sadly long gone, (Corin may know something about this), but there again, all things must pass, and that it was from these tentative comments as Miranda who was a great old dame, 'Scroblene ' was formed, and, for better or worse, has squeaked and banged its way onwards from those early heady days on the ether!

(Footnote - Miranda used to live in 'The Grannex', a sort of apartment built out of the redundant artificial insemination unit on Mannerings's farm. It was there that she could indulge in the usual antics normally associated with tinctures, shenanigans, and several clandestine meetings with several suitors, all of Scrobs' making, usually with wistful glances into a hitherto unsullied past. She was a good sport, and it was always a pleasure to let her loose on various comments)!