Scroblene...

Callow the teacher...

2012-01-28T06:28:00.006Z

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to a programme at about 4.00 am, when the day's your own, and peace reigns. It turned out to be Simon Callow's one man celebration of Charles Dickens. What a marvellous production, and well worth listening to if you have an hour and a half!

Latching on to the article here, it rang a few bells with me, because over the last few years, reading has become so important as television productions have, in the main, become so appallingly bad.

So it needs a good teacher to re-invent reading perhaps, and Simon Callow certainly does that with his show! The Dickens characters just pour out in a tumble of accents and phrases, he mimics all the voices and his enthusiasm just inspires even more reading, and also much less rubbish on the TV and unfortunately the radio as well...

And the cold winter evenings just fly by...

Rugby story...

2012-01-21T16:04:00.006Z

When Scrobs was much younger, more agile, more amenable to life in general, more athletic (that's enough 'mores' - Ed), Mr Scrobs Senior used to have a good friend who was well into his eighties.

Now this elderly gentleman was a charming, funny man, with a gorgeous, chuckling Swiss wife and a little dog whom they sometimes called 'Pisspot'. He lived in a lovely house straight out of Country Life, and had been a successful business man until the years began to dictate his time and regimen.

Now Mr Elderly was a rugby man though and through. Not for him the pathetic squealings of gormless footballers on increasingly large wages which were squandered in night clubs and boutiques (pre-flared trouser days these), he wanted to support the amateur game with no exception, and delivered homilies on how gentlemen played rugger, etc etc. He also held two season tickets in the old West Stand at Twickenham, almost on the halfway line and halfway back. They gave a magnificent view of the action, except for the small problem of a large pillar about 12' in front, which meant that he had to keep craning his head either way when play was about central, but that was a minor issue.

Because the years were beginning to tell on him, he was often unable to go to watch the matches, because it was a very draughty old stand, and was no place for arthritis and aching limbs over 90 mins, so he used to ring up Dad and tell him that the two tickets were his, for the face value, if he wanted them. They would cost about three guineas each.

More often than not, we would get a call around Friday afternoon with the offer, and we'd frantically collect warm clothes and scarves, Mrs Elder Scrobs would cook up all sorts of picnic items for the car journey, and a general feeling of excitement was felt by all at a time about now, when the Five Nations Championship matches were starting.

Dad always planned to park in a church drive close by, which always worked. They charged just a few bob, and we had a quietish spot for the pre-match picnic, maybe a couple of beers when I was old enough, before joining the festivities.

I went to lots of these matches, including the 1969 South Africa game, with the orange faced Peter Hain trying (and failing again), to vilify the sportsmen, and I also saw the All Blacks with their giants in action. We usually hated the French, love-hated the Welsh, (I'd spent several years in a Welsh boarding school, and therefore had two hats, both of them English...), we wondered if the Scots would ever win anything, and loved - occasionally - the Irish because Dad worked for Guinness. We had heroes such as Bob Hiller, David Duckham (whom I email occasionally, as he runs a Sporting Dinner Club), Ron Jacobs etc. They were all up there with God.

So fast-forward to nowadays, and when I get a chance, and when someone is generous enough to call with an invitation, I get just as excited about the trip, and begin to reminisce about the Old West Stand bar, and how nobody really wanted to leave until well after dark. And, another reality check also arrives in the equation.

I've just checked on the prices of tickets, and those same seats (or at least the same positions in the new stand), would cost £357.50 each!

Pisspot's Master would not be too happy about that, and neither would Dad actually...

Rose Metcalf - hero from Giglio...

2012-01-18T07:00:00.003Z

This is an utterly remarkable clip from the Today prog a couple of days ago.

Apparently, there were then several seconds of stunned silence, and Jim Naughtie could only express total admiration. His co-presenter was even more explicit..."Wow"!

What a Lady!

The Tattoo Ink Scare...

2012-01-13T06:04:00.010Z

Meccano Sagtrouser's sketch of Toniatellene's latest tattoo

Elias Sagtrouser has been regaling me about the recent antics concerning his stupid son Meccano and his squeeze, Toniatellene Nougat, Spinster of this Parish.

Over several pints of Spitfire, I learned some interesting facts, and it is these gems of knowledge which I can now impart to my three readers.

It's all to do with the latest furore regarding the removal of implants; you know, the ones made from carbide and heavy water by the French. Well, Toniatellene's mother, (now long fled with a copper cable expert), gave her some implants for her sixteenth birthday present, admittedly quite a few summers ago. Back then, these enhancing structures were paid for in cash, and the operation was performed by the light of a passing bus, but at least they weren't going to explode! Well, they wouldn't being made out of Cyril Lord underlay would they! But I digress.

Elias, after three more pints and two beef sandwiches, continued his verbal destruction of the human race in venerable tones and horseradish fumes. I listened obediently, because there's always a big ending to his interminable stories, some of which have been known to last for several days and nights.

He has been making a thriving business from The Tattoo Ink Scare. "What", two of you may ask, as the third wouldn't have read this yet? I'll say it again, THE TATTOO INK SCARE! Apparently, there has been much said about how some tattoos have been administered to the various bodies, young and old, who demand these embellishments. One unfortunate problem has emerged from a previously unseen paper by an ex-government minister, who will be nameless, (Bert Grope, Lab, Oopnorth Central) whose researcher found that some tattoos had been drawn using a machine with Belgian needles, and worse, they're coloured with Nigerian ink!

Now this is 'mind-blowing', (In fact, Elias was more explicit - even Anglo-Saxon on this fact, but with several beef sandwich crumbs still adhering to various parts of his body, and a small puddle of beer collecting at his elbow, I'll leave the exclamation description to your imagination), because everyone knows that the Belgians are normally excruciatingly honest about their business regime, whereas, the ink which comes out from some areas of Nigeria, especially as most of it is used to write letters to obtain bank details from people in Harlesdon, may well have all sorts of contamination in it! The mind boggles!

So when Toniattelene demanded that her doctor remove her tattoos, (not her underlays), he told her to p*** off, and not waste his time, as there is a sizeable acreage of silly blue flowers and bird shapes plastered all over her body. Meccano is almost as bad, and he has to live with the bad spelling he told his tattooist to scrawl on his chest when he first met his sweetheart, 'Tonybliaralone' all those summers ago, (he had an ear infection and couldn't actully understand her name).

So Elias is now finishing his story, and it has indeed an interesting ending, and not unwelcome at 11.30 pm, when I am tired and want to go to my bed. He has employed his idiot son to tour the clubs and pubs of various late night districts with a collection of cards. On one side, is the comment that 'Some tattoos have poisonous ink', and on the other side is printed 'Come to Elias Sagtrouser's Emporium for tattoo removal on a budget'!

So I have to ask my good friend what he's really doing.

"Oh, it's easy", he says ordering a last round yet again, "I sell 'em a bottle of paint stripper and a brush, and tell them to do it themselves! Cheaper that way isn't it, and we're on our second lorry-load already"!

Dagenham story...

2012-01-09T22:09:00.005Z

I see they're promoting a new Mondeo car here, and I'm intrigued as to how anyone could have driven the old company cars I used to have back in the seventies!

My first was a Mini van, because, as a lowly quantity surveyor, with a small building firm, they used it during the day, (usually after a fight with me), for doing the rounds of the sites when I was stuck in the office.

My first real company car appeared in 1975. It was a Navy Blue Ford Cortina Series 3, luckily a 1600 (I was carefully advised as such by a chum at my garage). This Dagenham Dustbin held sway for several years, until the inevitable change of jobs gave me - worryingly - an even older one in metallic brown, then a purple one, then a duck-egg blue one!

So, without boring the pants of everyone, including me, I reckon anyone getting something like this as his or her work horse is getting a billy-bargain, and let's hope he or she won't ever vote for Tony Bliar again...

2012 - and it's panto time...

2012-01-01T06:07:00.003Z

Roll up, roll up everybody - it's time for panto!

Coming to a town near you:-

"Aladdin boots'
Jack Whittington, an impoverished pan cleaner, finds true love with a beast and takes on a bean farm in Wonderland with hilarious results. Cindy gets her night hood, but forgets to wear it, and finishes up being goosed and less than snow white with hilarious results...

With a cast of eight: -

Vince Grass (Narg Sweebling's stepfather's milkman in 'On the buses', 1964)
Victoria Plunge (Violet Pudding's hairdresser's sweeper-up in 'Bless this house' 1948)
Gladys Pilbeam-Wollage (Gloria Lump in the never shown 'Arse about face', 1932).
Three other long-forgotten has-beens from dire trashy soaps, that nobody ever watched without an industrial sack of crisps and a gallon of economy super-strength lager.
Someone who doubles-up as the cleaner in the theatre with hilarious results.
A small beige dog called Colin who steals the show.

Scrobs would like to wish everyone who buys a ticket, a happy and prosperous New Year.

Xmonius cahke repice...

2011-12-25T06:21:00.006Z

Christmas Cake Ingredients:

1 cup of water
1 tsp baking soda
1 lb flour
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup of brown sugar
1 tsp lemon juice
4 large eggs
5 oz Nuts
1 bottle of Vodka
2 cups of dried fruit

Sample the vodka to check quality.
Take a large bowl check the vodka again.
To be sure it is the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.
Repeat.
Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.
Add one teaspoon of sugar. Beat again.
At this point it's best to make sure the vodka is shtill OK.
Try another cup, just in case turn off the mixerer.
Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.
Pick fruit off floor.
Mix on the turner.
If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers pry it loose with a sdrewscriver.
Sample the vodka to check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Who giveshz a shit.
Check the vodka.
Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
Add one table.
Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find.
Greash the oven and pee in the fridge.
Turn the cake tin 350 degrees and try not to fall over.
Don't forget to beat off the turner.
Finally, throw the bowl through the window, finish the vodka and kick the cat.
Fall into bed.

CHERRY MISTMAS!

h/t Digger Dave...

Reindeer saves the day...

2011-12-17T06:45:00.003Z

You just have to love this song about how a very special reindeer took over from Rudolph!

It takes a second to load, but I reckon it should be this year's Christmas Number One, and win the Max Factor (or whatever it's called)!

Turn the sound up loud...

Junior? Clear the table please, Honey...

2011-12-14T05:30:00.003Z

You might know this one...

Circular masterpiece...

2011-12-09T09:05:00.009Z

One of my partners has an eclectic but varied knowledge of all types of music, from Carl Orff to Clapton, Delius to Deep Purple, Albinoni to Albert Lee, Beethoven to Bananarama, Zadok to Zombies (That’s enough comparisons - Ed), and in his constant quest for more esoteric involvement in musical philosophy, harmonious chronology and form, he strives diligently to search for, and eventually discover, the higher plateaus of melodic appreciation.

However, I will never be able to forget his recent triumphant exclamation of pure joy, when this masterpiece appeared on his Mac screen…

Grimble cheer...

2011-12-06T07:08:00.002Z

Pubs in Tunbridge Wells are learning a few things from supermarkets...

Conundrum...

2011-11-30T06:44:00.002Z

How many black labradors does it take to change a light bulb?

Oohlightbulbsthey'remyfavouritecanIchaseonewillyouthrowsticksformegotadogbiscuitinyourpocketIlikemudlookthere'sanotherdogwonderwhatitsmellslikearewegoingwalkieswhatisthatthingthereforcanIeatitwonderifthatwomanhassandwichesinthatbagbetshe'dletmehaveonewhatanintersetingsmellonthispost...

etcetcetc...

H/T Hamstergbert

To listen and laugh - 'Hoots' mon...

2011-11-23T05:36:00.011Z

Reading Guido's report on the inactivity of the worst prime minister this country has had in modern times, and the list of 'speeches' he has made, reminded me, at this unearthly hour, of something that happened at a business lunch some time ago, at one of the posh hotels in town.

It was a big room, and there was a panel of property big noises, seated at a long top table, and eager to impart their superior knowledge to all and sundry, to about three hundred guests.

Our table was right at the back, in a corner, and it was an enjoyable lunch, with some great chums on the table, which seated about ten. The copious tinctures had flowed before, during, and now after the repast, while the great and the good at top table began their task of making us all feel as though we were in the presence of royalty.

So the first speaker started woffling on about yields and coupons, and we all dutifully listened and nodded sagely, occasionally twirling the wine glass stems, and signalling for more claret.

Two of my closest chums were on my left, Celine and Jan. They are both extraordinarily lovely girls, and very attractive as well. They always had to fend off gropers etc, and occasionally, at functions like this, we had to hop over and give them a hand to extricate them from an ambitious suitor. Nobody ever got hurt...

Jan and Celine worked as business development managers for two separate companies, (they still do), and I'd got to know them very well. We often made up tables of clients, funds, etc, for a damn good bit of networking, which worked very well for all of us.

Jan is very tall, and has a gorgeous figure, with striking blue eyes, and a wicked sense of humour. Whenever she walks into a room, everyone seems so much happier. We've had many laughs on countless occasions when the fun was starting, and her giggle was always the one which started everyone off. And that laugh, on rare, magic occasions, develops into an enormous 'hoot', of joy, which could usually be heard all over the room. Everyone knows when Jan is happy!

Celine is also very beautiful. She has a lovely Irish brogue, which melts your heart, and on occasions like this, is very good at serious discussion and debate, with a wide knowledge of business strategy and management. Her seriousness keeps her features almost stern and prim, except on occasions, the mask relaxes, and you are greeted with one of the most captivating smiles you've ever seen, and the fun then starts, with the biting quips and comments.

Celine's boss on the other side of the table (in fact I think Terry was the host, and he's also a good mate), but he was facing the top table, while us three and a few others had our backs to the speakers, as you do on round tables.

So the droning went on. And on. And then the microphone gave up.

The sound system was mended slightly, but not before several more crackles, thumps, and general shuffling, and the speeches were rapidly becoming a farce. Several guests went out for a fag, or the loo, and most of us just sat there, wondering if there was any more wine coming, or fiddling with the guest list.

Some of the other tables began to chat softly, Celine and Jan started whispering quietly, and I joined in on occasions, while the boring top table spouted every other word, and nobody really took any notice any more. It really was an incredibly boring end to a great occasion.

That was until the last speaker stood up.

Apparently, he was a financial analyst with some obscure mid-european bank, and spoke in a thick, gutteral voice, which was a combination of every Monty Python 'cod' accent you could think of. He was probably quite a nice man, but what with the sound system failing every few seconds, the shrieks and hisses from the microphone, the general boredom surrounding the proceedings, the aftermath of the drinks, and the occasional peek at the wristwatch or the 'brick' mobile in the girl's handbags (late 1990s), this was not going to pass by quietly...

After the very first few mangled, metallic words from the banker, we all looked at each other, and Jan's face went as if she was saying 'Ooooh'. I had to bite my bottom lip hard, and Celine started one of her smiles. Jan's face began to crease up with mirth, I had to cover my mouth, and Celine just collapsed onto the table in silent mirth. She just wouldn't stop giggling, and it became worse, because her boss was staring at her and trying not to laugh as well. By then, I was absolutely wracked with tears of laughter, and shaking uncontrollably. Jan, by then was a hopeless case, and the four of us the table were really in a disgraceful state.

It got worse then. Celine spent ages mopping her eyes, while the groaning speech moaned about this and that and the thick, unattractive voice with electronic failures just made it even funnier. Jan was an uncontrollable disaster zone. She was in the realms of hopeless laughter, and, during one lucid moment, I remembered...

The Hoot!

Oh bloody f*****g hell! If she does one of those now, we're all sunk. She's going to do one isn't she, and everyone will know it was her, and it would be unthinkable mayhem! It will be the most disastrous gathering ever, and we'll all get it in the neck, everyone will look over at us, it will be utterly shameful and we'll never be able to look them in the face again...

But we just managed to stop the giggling about a nanosecond before the hoot was due. God knows how we did it, but somehow, Celine managed to pull herself together, wipe her eyes, and stare closely at the menu. Jan was dabbing away with a serviette, and I slowly released the bottom lip, and things returned to almost normal about the time the banking bloke had grated to a halt, and we could all start clapping furiously.

I assure you dear reader, it turned into the funniest function I've ever been to, and I'd have loved it if the speaker had been this ruinous man, because I think the rest of the hall would have agreed as well...

...and that Jan could have actually done her famous 'Hoot'...!

Probably the best ad I've seen in ages...

2011-11-18T06:52:00.001Z

Absolutely brilliant!

Just watch this to the end, and have the sound on!

Travel Tips No 5. 'Buchan's Hole', a village to linger in, then move on...

2011-11-10T05:32:00.004Z

Buchan's Hole is possibly the location where the famous 'Thirty-nine Steps' story, was conceived. But there the similarity ends, as there are no steps to speak of, only steep slopes, and the title 'The Thirty-nine Slopes' just doesn't have the same ring to it does it!

BH (as it is called by a small local person), is right on the Kent coast, some say it should actually be just a hundred yards off the coast, and that would solve the problem, but that would be unfair to the population of eighty-seven, and the various out-buildings.

The estate of the Mannerings family, a well known gusset-mangler who moved to the place after the unpleasantness in Droitwich, overlooks the bay from a hill to the south. There, the brooding shadow cast by the various buildings, reminds the residents below of the main reason for the wealth, and the poverty, of the place. The BH local people manage to eke out a living by delivering pizzas, washing cars, and selling a few paltry herbs and spices, and their only pleasure is a monthly game of 'Lynch-the-bankers', which well may become an Olympic sport in years to come. (The Italians will well remember this and undoubtedly become proficient and excellent at the pastime. They will come second to England).

Theophilus Bartholemew Mannerings allowed the railway to go through his land to the village in 1831. He was paid a pittance of several million pounds, a small sum for the inconvenience we are assured, and from then on, became a benefactor to many ladies on the area, giving freely, and expecting very little in return, other than a signed affidavit denying that anything untoward ever happened.

The yelps and shrieks which come from the former artificial insemination building, now refurbished as a 'Grannex', for an errant sister of one of the family, are now down to the frequent visitations of a suave gentleman in a tweed cap, and string-backed gloves, which are used to steer his vintage Jaguar through the country lanes leading to the estate, and not the commercial increasement of the farm animals, although the process is roughly the same.

The railway was built as a branch line, but was perceived as more of a bough line, possibly only a twig line, but indeed became so insignificant, that this leaf-vein line was never even noticed by Dr Beeching as it was so faint on his map, and thus survived the cull.

The town planners, were bent on getting the railway to the place, and did absolutely nothing to assist the thriving town centre in the process. They were bent over desks, even just bent, but the new track was laid before you could bat an eyelid, and even the local building supplier, Enoch Sagtrouser, (grandfather of the current incumbent, Elias), began to rub his hands, and also his other various extremities, at the thought of all that income from such a big building job.

The utter disgrace associated with the decision by the elders of BH are graphically demonstrated here!

Clip...

2011-11-05T22:16:00.003Z

This is nice isn't it...?

Obit by popular request...

2011-11-05T05:48:00.003Z

An Obituary printed in the London Times...Absolutely brilliant!

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with
us for many years.

No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair;
- and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you
can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when possibly well-intentioned but
overbearing regulations were set in place.

Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;

I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

The saga of the purring poo pump...

2011-10-29T06:09:00.009+01:00

'The Turrets' has it's own working sewage treatment plant.

There, I've said it!

Years ago, our drains went everywhere, vaguely downhill through the graves next door, under sheds, water towers and trees, until they arrived in the woods far away and therefrom God knows where. It was a system that worked up to a point.

That point was reached when they didn't arrive in the woods, because there was a serious blockage caused halfway down this Cresta Run of detritus, well, half a ton of concrete lobbed in from a great height by an unpleasant neighbour usually has that effect, so something had to be done.

After a bit of wrangling, and a little nudge from the insurers, the Environment Agency, the council (oh yes, they had to be involved; regulations you see), and several friendly neighbours further down the pipe, 'The Turrets' became blessed with a brand new state-of-the-art bit of kit, which deals with everything you can throw at it. (I didn't say chuck at it, there are ladies present...!)

But it doesn't always work because there are two pumps in it to carry out various turdal duties, and pumps don't last for ever, (unlike Puff the Magic Dragon), and we had to get a new system PDQ. Even some of the long-buried people next door were beginning to complain, and there was a rumour of a new 'Corpse Preservation Society' being formed...

(I'm only telling you all this, because BP occasionally reads my drivel, and will wonder what I was doing on Friday, while he and BP2 were slogging their way down to Exeter and back, and couldn't get me on the phone... But I digress!)

Shawn arrived after a month of disarray. We like him, he's a great bloke, and dedicated to friendly, good service. He had come to fit the new kit, which is actually a nifty little air pump, which delivers a stream of air to the system to create the microbic environment, and a good time is had by all. There was a little work to do before hand, and Scrobs' back was suitably hurt in several places by digging a four ft deep hole, which we didn't need, but the pump went on like a dream, and began to hum and purr like a goodun.

That's until, Shawn had just gone, and Scrobs had moved the new pump ever so slightly.

S*** B***** F*** it! It was just unbelievable.

Cellphone out, and a conversation started like this...

"Hi Shawn, er... (gulp) bit of a problem, the pump's stopped working for some reason, ha ha ha..."

"Oh, er... is the plug in the garden wall mate?" (he always calls everyone mate, even his wife, which is rather nice).

"Yup, firmly in place!"

"Could be a fuse then mate, try another one, or no, 'ang on, it might have tripped, but you won't know what to do about that... Try a new fuse, and call me back!"

(F*** off, nobody tells me that 'I won't know what to do...!)

"Fine, I'll do that; buzz you back!"

Scrobs runs to shed, to look for fuses; bugger, they're not there, of course, they're inside the house, have to take big Tuscan Tony style boots off, mud everywhere...

A few minutes later, it starts to rain.

Thinking at some stage between the shed and the boot-remover, and realising that Mrs S was due back in half an hour, and she'd be livid if the job hadn't been finished, Scrobs said to Scrobs 'Sod the fuse, I'm going to take the bloody thing apart myself...!'

Out with the screwdriver. Four screws. Panel off. Wrong bit to look at.

Bugger.

Four more screws. Right panel. Getting quite wet from increasing rain. Nothing untoward.

Bugger.

Twenty minutes to Mrs S's arrival...oh hellfire...cellphone...

"Shawn, all panels are off, what next?"

"Can you see the diaphragm each side?"

"Yup, both there."

"If it's raining, you could take it all inside and do this...!"

"Good idea, buzz you back" Escapes to shed...

Screw missing on next panel to come off, assume never there. Start to have bits of pump all over work bench, and getting confused. Peer inside workings and after several seconds, see one tiny glimpse of shiny metal, which shouldn't be there, in a logical sense, because I shouldn't be able to see it if the kit's working properly.

Four more screws.

Aaaaaah, got you you little sod! The retaining nut had come adrift, and the diaphragm was not phragming at all, just sulking without it's nut! A nutless, washerless sulk actually!

Nut turns out to be the wrong size, and had just slipped onto a tiny bit of thread when refitted for the few minutes it had worked, until it stopped, after it had slipped off again.

Bugger, and fifteen minutes to go before the Ferrari Punto squeals into the drive...

"Shawn, found the nut, it's the wrong size, I'll find another one!"

"OK mate, sounds like the problem! Funny that, when I'd put it all together last night, it was getting dark, and afterwards I found two small screws left over...!"

Now he tells me! Can't find a nut to fit, and up-end a huge metal box with several thousand assorted bits to find one, eventually grabbing one and it fits. On like a dream, start to reassemble everything, with ears cocked for returning wife.

Out to the tank again, and plug in. Nothing happens. Cellphone out.

"Shawn, all back to normal, but not going yet, any ideas?"

"Take the panels off, and I'll talk you through it!"

Four screws, then three more, then panic, then small shriek.

"Panel's off Shawn!"

"See the white cross piece? Nudge it with a screwdriver."

Nudge several times, well give it a big shove, but nothing. Keep nudging, and plug in again. Nothing.

"Could be a fuse now Shawn...?!

"Yup, do that!"

New fuse, panels all back on, stops raining, no sign of Mrs S yet. Switch on...

Puuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

"Yhaaaaaah, all away again Shawn!"

"You've cracked it mate, great stuff, see you soon!"

Shawn's coming back next week, to alter the outflow, and I've got to have built a cover for the pump, as it needs to be kept nice and dry. Now that'll be a doddle, after becoming a credited drainage engineer, with two hour's acute experience and a lifetime's knowledge of various nuts and bolts behind me...

FFS Cameron, pull your f*****g finger out...

2011-10-25T21:15:00.004+01:00

Just today, I had a long-awaited meeting with three accomplished and professional property people. It had taken me three weeks to get these people together.

It was a sparse lunch, yeah, a couple of tinctures, but the theme was still exasperation, and severe angst at the failure of this blasted government with their lackey banks, to bring it on.

We discussed seven schemes. Seven big building projects, ranging from, roughly - £6m to £15 million pounds.

Each one, when costed, appraised and verified, (RICS standards I might add) showed a minimal profit for us, but, 10% of fees going to other starving businesses, like architects, engineers, builders etc. There was a huge element of 'funding' expectation (i.e. what the banks will rake in for their ludicrous 'risk'), but this stupid administration are getting as bad as the last lot. You'd expect a nulabour crowd to be incompetent and clueless where commercial expertise is required, but the piddling about we're coping with right now is insufferable.

That 10% going to others, (forget the banks' take, they'll stuff you anyway) therefore amounts to about £7,000,000 pounds, which will be used up by waiting, desperate, consultants, builders, sub-contractors etc. The figures are all calculated correctly, and they meet normal financial requirements for funding. There would also be approximately 425 jobs created from our schemes.

From now on in, we are forced to 'negotiate' with councils for planning permission. We're not digging out green belt land, despoiling the parks etc, we're commercial people, making jobs in business areas etc. Councils prefer to prevaricate for months, while the meter clocks up thousands of pounds in interest (banks again), and of course, they might well charge for their 'advice'. It's an utter disgrace that these little twerps can hold so much business to ransom, sit on their hands, and try to apply an obscure policy which is beyond his/her understanding, or they go on paternity leave.

So Scrobs is feeling a bit let down by Cameron and his bunch of wandering people. At this rate, he'll be asking the Hon Prospective Member for UKIP a few serious questions, like, 'If you get in, how will you look after your own country first...?'

The Scrobs' Anniversary...

2011-10-21T05:48:00.004+01:00

Today Mrs Scrobs and I are celebrating our 39th wedding anniversary!

Apparently, it known as 'The Lace Anniversary', so, to prove that romance is indeed not dead, we're giving each other a pair for our walking boots and going for a picnic with JRT on The Firehills near Fairlight...

The pic marks the spot where the it all started back in 1972!

Petty France ha ha ha...

2011-10-15T05:49:00.003+01:00

AN ACTUAL PASSPORT LETTER SENT:

Dear Sirs,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this.

How is it that Sky Television has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a bleeding satellite dish from them back in 1977, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was bloody born and on what date.

For goodness sake, do you guys do this by hand? My birth date you have on my pension book, and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30 years. It is on my National Health card, my driving licence, my car insurance, on the last eight damn passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the plane over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Mary Anne, my father's name is Robert and I'd be abso-fucking-lutely astounded if that ever changed between now and when I die!

I apologise, I'm really pissed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my address!

What is going on? Do you have a gang of Neanderthal arseholes workin' there? Look at my damn picture. I just want to go and park my arse on some sandy beach somewhere. And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, you'd be the last people I'd want to tell!

Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of the poxy city to get another copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of £30. Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day?? Nooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe makes sense. You'd rather have us running all over the place like chickens with our heads cut off, then have to find some arsehole to confirm that it's really me on the damn picture - you know, the one where we're not allowed to smile?! (bureaucratic morons) Hey, do you know why we couldn't smile if we wanted to? Because we're totally pissed off!

Signed

An Irate Citizen.

P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since 1776. I have served in the military for something over 30 years and have had full security clearances over 25 of those years enabling me to undertake highly secretive missions all over the world.

However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am - you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED SOMEPLACE I NEVER HEARD OF!

Sincerely,

from You Sure The Hell Should Know Who.

A party in Surrey and a song in Worcester Cathedral...

2011-10-05T05:17:00.006+01:00

Sorry to learn that David Bedford has died (obit here)

Here's a re-run of a post from a couple of years ago.

I only recently re-discovered this, while tinkering about looking for new stuff to record.

I bought the original 33rpm record soon after I saw a program by David Bedford on TV, and found that it was a quadraphonic version, which left me somewhat bemused as there were only six 'speakers' in the Turrets about then, and four of them were me and the family.

This guitar solo, which was recorded in Worcester Cathedral, just rings so many more bells, especially at a point about 55 seconds in, when the kit he was using produced a note 25 seconds long, and still creates rear-neck-hair-stand-upment... There's one hell of an ending too, if you're minded to hear the whole piece.

It is probably the most self indulgent bit of playing I've heard in a long time, and combines my two favourite instruments to perfection!

And also this is sad news here too!

I'd first heard of Bert Jansch and John Renbourn at a memorable party in Coulsdon years ago.

I must have stayed pretty sober, because I can remember another chum there, extolling the virtues of this great guitarist, and I went and ordered the record.

It is memorable to me, as it was the first bit of music I ever played the future Mrs S, on the first ever occasion that she visited the Senior Turrets...

RIP - another one; sad all this...

Bognor b******d...

2011-09-30T06:45:00.005+01:00

Ernest Sewell Marionettes

Wallis Arthur came to Bognor in 1900 and subsequently turned the coal yard at the sea end of Lennox Street into the "Olympic Gardens" after neatly boarding it in and roofing it with canvas.

He and his business partner Paul Hill were presenting Pierrots at other seaside towns. Unfortunately he lost money in his first three seasons until he joined the programme himself and helped to make his first profit.

Members of his companies were interchanged and consequently the people of Bognor saw many young performers on their way to fame; Gillie Potter, Ernest Sewell and his marionettes, Milton Hayes with his usual monologues such as “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God”, and many others.

One day a short good looking youth in a rather shabby blue suit and a straw hat came to see him. He wanted to be a Pierrot and appeared extremely nervous, pressing his light cane into the sand causing it to flick up into the air and then adeptly catching it.

Wallis Arthur who had always had such a good judgement was sadly lacking it that day for he told him that he needed a light comedian – not a low one.

So the young man went to America and the Cinema gained what Bognor had lost, for the man who wasn’t good enough to get a job in Bognor was Charlie Chaplin.

I'll get my coat...

2011-09-23T06:28:00.006+01:00

Elias Sagtrouser, Meccano and Simeon O'Blene were leaning up against the bar of the 'The Eight Bells' the other day, and while Meccano guzzled at some yellow drink with a chunk of lime stuck in the top, scoffed pork scratchings and incessantly babbled to some idiot on his mobile, Elias leaned across to me with a twinkle in his eye and told me what had happened that morning.

Three rogueish 'painters', who always paid cash, were doing a lash-up job locally, (for cash only again) and would call by first thing in the morning, to collect several gallons of the cheapest paint that Elias sold, white, and in big drums. Sometimes they even bought a paint brush, but not very often...

Elias is a lovely man; a stalwart to the construction business in times when pompous politicians and bankers waste precious resources, and cause great misery to a whole generation of good builders. However, times are tough, and Mr Sagtrouser will sell to anyone, as long as they pay.

Dave Ferret, Wayne Haywain, T-jay Noggis, and one of their brood, were picking up their paint for the day, and paid Meccano in the shop. Meccano is not very bright, in fact, he's as thick as two short planks, and while taking their money, he was also gibbering on his mobile phone to one of his squawking girlfriends, and didn't notice that he'd been given a fiver short.

Nevertheless, T-Jay, who was driving, decided to take the easy way out, rushed out to the waiting car, threw the paint containers in the back seat and drive out of the yard at some speed.

But he didn't see Mr Sandy Bletherington-Carstairs driving carefully into the yard, to buy a few nails for the barge boards on the stables...

Proper brickwork...

2011-09-17T06:51:00.002+01:00

When I was staying at ED's place a few weeks ago, I had an hour to spare before the phones would start to ring, and I took a stroll round Crystal Palace, primarily to shake off the dust after a multitude of tinctures the previous night.

In the road which goes up to the east of the park, there are some beautiful old villas, which were built around the turn of the century.

This particular house, probably now several apartments, just leapt out as a fine example of the most beautiful brickwork I have ever seen. That chimney would have been designed on cartridge paper by a draughtsman using a dip pen and Indian ink, and a skill which is lost to most designers these days, with their CAD systems with enough power to light up a small village.

I felt so inspired by that chimney breast design, that I wanted to share it with as many people as possible. This elevation, apart from the clutter of satellite dishes, is probably unchanged from the original design, and even the pipes add some interesting lines and shapes. Everything is relaxed and seems to fit so comfortably.

If you zoom in on the brickwork, you can see so so many added details, and I could stare at all this for ages, as indeed I did, at least until I felt that there might be a siren or two approaching to apprehend a somewhat dishevelled Scrobs, taking suspicious photos of someone's private house and muttering incoherently...

Yes...

2011-09-11T21:10:00.002+01:00

5.15 does it for Scrobs...

here it is.

The rock machine turns you on...

2011-09-04T19:02:00.003+01:00

I borrowed a copy of this years ago, when I was just a new arrivee on the London scene, and one of those twits who had no money, but a penchant for learning what it was all about...!

It's still a very special listen. I've still got a worn out copy in the roof, having paid a quid for it in a second-hand record shop in Canterbury. I reckon the bloke saw me coming...

This was an iconic album back then

...and I can still hear the tracks in this ol' head...

And my days definitely ain't numbered...!

Alan Coren's legacy...

2011-08-27T11:54:00.005+01:00

Here come the bubbling scum,
Out from Foskett's Alloys,
There goes a dollop of something brown,
Down from Gribling's Mills.

My little boy's got covered in boils,
My little dog's gone bald,
Ho hum, humpidy hum,
All the ducks is dead.

This was published in 'Punch' back in the nineteen sixties, and was written about the time that everyone was getting a bit fed up with pollution, and sterile rivers etc.

Alan Coren called it something like 'Contamination Lament', and, after several pints, (quite a few actually), my chums and I used to sing it to a hastily made-up tune, which still lingers today...

If anyone has a copy of 'Punch' from back then, I'd love to see how the words have stuck!

The good life continues...

2011-08-22T06:54:00.003+01:00

The new allotment tends to take up quite a lot of spare time these days, so Sagtrouser and Bucket's Plant Hire section, is getting some well deserved business.

Some implements are easier to use than others...

The importance of getting older...

2011-08-13T05:56:00.001+01:00

Air guitar...Carpenters...

2011-08-06T20:20:00.007+01:00

An astonishingly memorable riff from a superb guitarist, who must have recognised the charm and beauty of one of the loveliest voices in my lifetime, and just made this track an epic.

Hear the lovely lady here and wonder what happened to such beautiful singers...

I miss this sort of fabulous singing, she was such a gorgeous girl.

This is dedicated to my Mum, who would have been 97 today. Bless.

Australia story...

2011-07-30T06:27:00.006+01:00

As some friends have noticed, I have a healthy respect - even fondness - for Australians everywhere. This is mainly a result of my friendship with many Aussie countrymen and girls over the years, which started in our London flat in Ifield Road, and was eventually taken over by chaps regularly arriving at Heathrow from Sydney in the late 1960s.

Scrobs Inc was characteristically penniless back then, and not up to big spending (other than Thursdays at 'The Ifield Tavern', or the 'Scarsdale Tavern', where we could buy six pints for less than a pound), but it was the Aussie generosity of spirit, as well as beer that captured my way of life, and it is so easy to recall the good times, we always seemed to be laughing at something...

I can easily remember having hysterics all the way to a Finborough Arms after the first ever showing of 'Monty Python', with the awful 'Dinsdale Piranha' ringing in our ears. My friend on that day now heads up a huge Australian food company. Another man (Sod) from the same era, went back home and ran one of the biggest advertising companies with household names as clients, and all this news came from a simple need by Scrobs, to find out where everyone finished up, and poking around on the net!

It's not fair to mention names, but it didn't take long to get to a name via '123 People', and chuck in a few pointers as well. A single surname cropped up, and it was indeed the cousin (another Ifield Rd stayee) of very chap! He forwarded it to the others, and within a few days, the whole gang had reassembled! We also reached across to South Africa for the last member of the crew, and the circle was just about complete!

I couldn't have wished for a better result, but there are just a few other chaps to seek out before we have the whole class of 1971...

Come on Geoff, Warren, and Baby Bear, where are you...?

Amy and Karen RIP...

2011-07-23T18:44:00.006+01:00

I'm a bit perturbed to learn that Amy Winehouse is dead.

Throughout today, for several periods of time, I've had this fabulous song going through my ol' grey head - like whistling and humming and the rest, including the drum bit before the choir gets going...

The guitar solo is probably the best ever recorded - without exception, and I play that regularly in the shed with a pair of shears, or a trowel or something. I was intending to post this tomorrow.

Sad all this; two hugely talented girls, lost in some awful entertainment fuelled morass.

A Rugby League Life...

2011-07-22T05:44:00.004+01:00

Until now, I've never heard of the man. Rugby League was never my game, it was never even referred to round here, other than having a sneaking admiration for the likeable Eddie Waring, and we all chuckled at his manner of speech, as well as laughing at the 'I'm sorry, I haven't a clue' crowd, when they mimicked him...

If you have a few moments, just read this obit on Cec Thompson, and when you've finished, I hope you'll feel as enlightened and encouraged for the future of UK inc., as I have just been.

As long as there are people like Cec Thompson around, we can forget the miserable failures of the publicly-pursed self-servers which infest Britain; just for a few minutes.

Vera, Chuck and Dave...

2011-07-19T06:15:00.007+01:00

Back in the 1960s, Scrobs was - as quite a few others were, an interested party to all the new songs and rhythms coming from the Beatles.

The first time 'Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' was played, it was Radio London - 'Big L' which put the whole album on air from start to finish, without interruptions! They were good like that.

That evening, I stayed working late in my office in Rye, doing some building drawing, and borrowed my good chum Ro's radio to hear these latest tracks.

Rosemary and I actually share the same birthday, today, and while she is two years younger than me, there are two more old friends who share the same date, Charlie (one year older), and Maura (one year younger)! We occasionally joined our respective birthday parties into one big celebration, and a good time was always had by all!

Back then, it didn't occur to me that track no 9 would ever be significant...

;0)

3D Scrobs...

2011-07-16T06:20:00.003+01:00

The latest revelation to come out of Scrobs' shed, is this little number.

You'd never believe that a few bent nails, some old bits of wood, a margarine tub, three ft of sticky-backed-plastic, a grommett from a kid's bicycle, a few pictures from a holiday in Spain, and a cake candle, could make such an important machine!

Go for it everyone, it's the new way forward...

Shaun the Sheep delivers knock-out punch to Microsoft...

2011-07-13T05:23:00.005+01:00

In front of all the geeks, nerds and EU diktats etc, Scrobs Inc has developed a foolproof method of disabling that irritating banner advert thing in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, which infests every MS 'Starter Edition'.

He's Shaun the Sheep,
He's Shaun the Sheep.
He even mucks about
With those who cannot bleat.

He jumps at Gates,
He never waits,
He just gets up on his hind legs,
And alternates...

Dad's army - delayed yet again...

2011-07-09T19:37:00.002+01:00

So I'm sitting here, waiting for - don't rush - a bloody football match to finish!

Yup, women's football is the BBC's answer to prime time viewing now.

At about a quid a throw, I'm getting fed up with this crap organisation, which have so many overpaid twats on board, they could be members of the house of commons.

Late arrivals at the 'News of the World' Shutting Down Party...

2011-07-09T06:31:00.003+01:00

Mr and Mrs Stits, and their daughter Norma...

Er, that's it...

Drop the dead feck...

2011-07-02T06:11:00.006+01:00

Father O'Blene (no relation) rose from his bed one morning. It was a fine spring day in his new Ballina parish.

He walked to the window of his bedroom to get a deep breath of the beautiful day outside. He then noticed there was a donkey lying dead in the middle of his front lawn. Not knowing who else to call, he promptly called the local police station.

The conversation went like this:

"Good morning. This is Sergeant Flannagan. How might I help you?"

"And the best of the day to your good self. This is Father O'Blene at St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church. There is a donkey lying dead right in the middle of my front lawn."

Sergeant Flannagan, considering himself to be quite a wit, replied with a smirk, "Well now Father, it was always my impression that you people took care of the last rites!"

There was dead silence on the line for a long moment and then Father O'Blene replied:

"Ah, to be sure, that is true; but we are also obliged to notify the next of kin."

Gorgeous...(updated for Elecs, Lils, Pips, Beast and Ranter...)

2011-06-25T22:39:00.002+01:00

Bit of Scrobs' past...

And another classic, for Elecs' references to Glastonbury!

Policeman's story...

2011-06-24T06:03:00.001+01:00

The price of fish on a spreadsheet...

2011-06-18T04:55:00.007+01:00

Electric Halibut covers an interesting point on his site, and it started me off one of my big moans about the supermarkets.

He points out the changes in sizes of wine boxes, which is a new one on me, well, until very recently.

When I walk into either Tesco or Sainsbury, I become an arithmetical lorry crash, and all my mental capacity for working out prices and best value just disappears at the drop of a 'BOGOF' leaflet! I actually don't mind these shops; you're in the warm, the car costs nothing to park, the people who work there appear to be from the same planet, and you can buy a television and a pair of underpants moments before you enquire about the price of sliced ham per portion.

Mr. Halibut describes how some wine boxes have shrunk in size, but not in value, and he's dead right! But that simple calculation of three bottles not four is a relatively easy one, because you can dash back to the bottles on the shelves, do a quick sum, and swish back before the fat idiot with a dumper trolley load of Uncle Bastard's greasy chips and nourishing pot-noodles, cottons on that there's possibly a bargain, and pinches the lot. However, we've only just noticed this three-not-four trick and it causes much more dashing, which at my time of life is inadvisable.

But the biggest moan for me, is the way they price their items to confuse the customer. How on earth can anyone be able to convert an item priced in kilograms (or 100 grams - worse), to price per pound in the few seconds before Waynetta prods you in the back with a garlic baguette? Or how does one work out the cost per item when a similar one next to it (from Bulgaria), is priced per pack of seven, but you get extra points and a free sandwich on Thursday! And in your head?

Of course, I blame 'MS Excel' for all this. Ever since Bill Gates said that apart from earning squillions, he'd invent the most irritating programme on the planet, the futile aspirations of anyone fiddling about with a spreadsheet, and discovering what will happen in the future, have meant that there's an awful lot of people nowadays, wondering what went wrong.

Except the supermarkets.

I'd just love to see their spreadsheets for the whole store. It's not just wine boxes is it? Surely it's the cheap bread on one day, the own brands, the Cola (I actually prefer the Tesco 17p one), the tiny packets of crisps, and the choc-ices which are the best value I've seen in years! That final line of figures on an enormous Excel page with an area approximately the size of East Anglia, would show that Scrobs paid just a few pennies more than he thought he was, and that's the icing on the cake (four for the price of three...)!

So I'm probably the same gullible old shopper, thinking I've spotted a bargain, (and sometimes I really have), but as that Monty Python character with all his limbs chopped off shouted once, 'I'll get you on the way back';

...and they do!

Chilling...

2011-06-14T05:03:00.003+01:00

Goodbye John Mackenzie, who 'talked' Bob Hoskins through the most chilling and memorable ending to any film I think I've ever seen...

And the bricks lie down on Crystal Palace...

2011-06-11T05:27:00.011+01:00

A serious tincture-intake event caused Scrobs to stay over in the smoke yesterday, as there would be pandemonium on all the various forms of transport which would have to be deployed to enable such a late return home (pogo stick, hands and knees, horsedrawn landau etc), so ED generously said 'come and stay with us'...

The next morning, of course, they both sped off to work as is their wont, and after a great chat and putting the world to rights with his delightful Daught, Scrobs was left to his own devices for an hour or so before business restarted for the day.

As ED and EDP live near Crystal Palace, it is not difficult to vault over the fence, and survey the park at a leisurly pace. I've done this on a couple of occasions before, under similar circumstances, and find the place just totally beautiful and inspiring.

To think that I used to live just down the road, and that I'd drive past the place thousands of times without ever venturing inside, makes me somewhat ashamed that one of the much loved buildings (or ruins) of this dear country never got a peek from Scrobs (except for a visit one evening to watch a chum do the high jump in 1969).

Just wandering around the ruins of that great building is a humbling experience. The demise in 1936 is of course well documented, but to me, with the Brownie Box camera slung over a spare limb, it still seems as though the firefighters have just stamped on the remaining glowing embers, loaded up the buckets and hoses, told the people watching to buzz off, switched off the lights and gone home.

I hope the plans to refurbish the place come to fruition one day; I won't hold my breath, as there are more pressing requirements around, like mending the country, but I'm so glad that the army of gardeners keeps it in pretty good shape. It will look even better when they can get rid of the wire netting everywhere, but I just love the place.

As an aside, on the way home, I'd noticed in a road nearby, a stunningly beautiful example of intricate brickwork, which is a whole story in itself, so I'll post that soon.

Meanwhile, the Crystal Palace's foundations settle a little lower, move a few bricks around, and slumber on for another few years.

Lovely to see you both M and M, you recognise the theme of the title no doubt...

The plot thickens...

2011-06-04T05:30:00.012+01:00

October 2010...

Last month...

Back in 1988, just after the big storm the year before, I built a sizeable barn replacement for a local farmer.

His old barn had blown over, and of course, he needed a replacement pretty quick, as his cows were beginning to low a bit louder, and generally become unionised over the wet hay issues, as well as having nowhere to sleep when it was cold.

So Scrobs was called in to build a new one, and it was ever thus.

Apart from the frame collapsing spectacularly, while I was chatting with the old boy and watching from the side, we got it going pretty quickly, and had to decide what to put on the roof.

The natural farmer's choice is corrugated asbestos, because it looks the part. I originally wanted metal, but the noise would have been too great during the one thunderstorm we were due to get before this summer we're in now, so the farmer won the argument, and asbestos it was. The roofing weights were recalculated, and it all went up like a dream.

Just this week, at the allotments, a very generous soul has given our group down the end, a large plastic and steel container for rainwater collection. He gets these for free from a place which would have to 'recycle' them in the Meltdown Chamber at Dungeness Power Station, or somewhere similarly bureaucratic, because it once contained wood preservative, but they are magnificent for the job of collecting the faint dribble of mist which we might get before July is out.

The agreement is that I fix it up next to our shed, and divert the downpipe which normally goes into the bath I use for water, into this big tank. That's fine, but in doing so the roof needs recovering because it wasn't built by Scrobs, and there are various deficiencies in design, which need rubbing out.

Our generous soul also came up with the idea of supplying some corrugated metal sheets to put on the roof, but I can't get them home to cut them, and have already mucked up my hacksaw trying to do it without power. So I was b******d.

Until GS suggested that I might like some spare Onduline sheets he has lying about. Now, this stuff is peculiar, corrugated bitumen stuff, and I knew very little about it, until in a jiffy, I'd picked them up, snipped them to shape and fitted them all last evening!

Great result! We have a red roof at the front, and a cream roof at the back, and I'll pop on the ridge sometime today!

This is the stuff he gave me, and it's exactly what was needed for the job.

But why the connection to a barn built in 1988 you ask? Come on, I can hear the whisperings, the sideways glances and rolling eyes! You're all (both of you) muttering 'That silly old fart Scrobs is losing the few marbles he has left, and is killing time before his next tincture...'!

Well the answer is this. The farmer at some stage, suggested that all his agricultural chums were rooting around for sheets like this, because they were perfect for the oddities of uneven roof joists, leaning structures etc., and could be cut with a clasp knife, and why don't I use them on his barn?

He looked decidedly crestfallen when I'd said they would be useless...

Wish I hadn't now...

Fish...

2011-05-29T21:49:00.002+01:00

Fish is a bloody good singer isn't he...

Stingers...

2011-05-28T05:57:00.004+01:00

Not a lot of people know this...

Nettles are great as a soup and as a window cleaner (soaked and used as a bunch in a gloved hand) They are also nitrogen-rich, and can be steeped in rainwater for a seriously powerful garden nutrient, and they attract lots of butterflies!

The Romans also whipped themselves with bunches to warm themselves up (this is of course, pre-Rita Chevrolet, so no sniggers from the girls please), and used them as an antidote for hemlock, although why anyone belts around imbibing Chateau Deadly Nightshade, just so they can get a few extra slurps of nettle hooch is beyond me...

The fibrous stalks are also stronger than flax, and can be made into bed linen, ropes, and seriously violent underpants.

(There is a theme of sorts here, which somehow reminds me of politicians and other high-spending wasters, but perhaps that's my vivid imagination...)

And when I was about four, I pushed Peter Hickey off a farm trailor into a huge bed of nettles, and was told off by the Headmistress for being so unkind! (I'm so, so sorry Peter, that was an awful thing to do, and I've always regretted it)!

A drive in the country...

2011-05-22T06:03:00.006+01:00

My chum, Quentin ffoxley-Cabbage was discussing the attributes of his new car to anyone who bothered to listen.

'Q' is a great chap, well liked, and with a ready smile and wink to all and sundry, as well as a stash of large denomination notes in a cavernous wallet, which he opens more than often to buy rounds of drinks for those who care to join him.

All in all, like Damon Runyon's immortal character, Feet Samuels, 'Q' is a very honourable guy.

The latest story went like this...

'Q' was driving to a new site, which is way out in the sticks, and is reached via a series of country lanes. He was driving his new Ferrari, and had not a care in the world, until there was a sort of splutter from the bonnet of the car, and it sighed, stopped and coasted to a halt in a layby.

'Q' said 'bugger' under his breath, then on top of it as well for good measure. He also said several other words, but as Toniatelline Nougat was on the bar pumps, and doesn't like rude words, (unless they're being whispered in her shell-like), he didn't tell us what they were.

He got out of his car and gingerly lifted the bonnet. All he could see was a myriad of pipes, wires, gleaming steel bits, something red, and not much else. As he was staring blankly at the engine, wondering what to do next, he thought he heard a voice say 'red electric capping loose'!

Looking both ways he saw nobody, and heard nothing. The voice repeated the words 'red electric capping loose'. Again, 'Q' looked all round and saw nothing moving, except for a couple of old horses munching their way across the field nearby. One was watching him closely.

So 'Q', in desperation, nudged the red item in the engine, and sure enough, it moved slightly! He quickly realised that it needed a twist of some sorts, and sure enough, it tightened up immediately, which is something Ferrari are always proud of, especially where certain parts of the body are concerned, but we won't go there for the time being...

'Q' took one last glance around, and seeing nothing except the old nags in the field, he got in, started his car, and drove off.

In the next village, he realised he needed a short tincture to alleviate the pangs of pain at the thought of having a broken car which had been mended by unusual circumstances, and which was now running as it should, so he stopped off at 'The Haywain', to take on supplies.

The bar was occupied by a few local worthies as is usual, and the chat was all about nothing in particular, so 'Q', in his usual generous way, offered them a drink while he started to tell them why he was there. Of course, they all listened, especially when they started on the various pints 'Q' had bought them, and it seemed a good time to listen to a story from someone with a big red car and a big wallet as well.

'Q' explained how his car had ground to a halt, and with a guilty smile on his face, kept them aghast about the 'voice' which told him to check the red capping piece.

The bar went quiet, as the assembled worthies digested this information, and one old boy in the corner piped up and said, "Were there two horses in the field where you stopped"?

'Q', of course, admitted that there were indeed two old chaps wandering round eating grass and one had been looking at him.

The old boy then said, "Was there a grey horse and a brown one in the field"?

'Q' agreed there were two horses, and one was brown; the other grey.

The old boy then said, "Which one was looking at you then"?

'Q' thought for a moment, and recalled that it was indeed the grey one which was peering at him, so he told the old boy.

The old chap then let out a huge snort and a bellow of laughter, and said, "I thought as much; it's just as well the brown one didn't see you, because he knows fuck all about cars..."!

Mornin'...

2011-05-14T06:11:00.011+01:00

Here is a view which hasn't been seen from this point in 'The Turrets' for about 200 years.

Uninterrupted early morning sun!

There used to be two big old trees in the way, and one of them was struck by lightning a few years ago, (which frightened the s**t out of us, as we were just going out with JRT, and the air outside the door just exploded), and eventually succumbed to the saw, and the other one was given the chop a few weeks ago, because it had a terminal disease, and had been looking pretty sad for years.

So, we get the benefit of this great big ray coming at us this early in the morning (about 6.00am), and it'll get better of course!

Marvellous things chainsaws aren't they...

One 'mmmmmm' and you're off...

2011-05-08T05:58:00.003+01:00

The best way to save electricity?

Directly a song comes on the radio, and starts with a few soulful chords, and some groaning, wailing 'mmmmm's, it gets turned off!

Just like that! PDQ!

I've saved loads of money that way, and best of all, my blood pressure remains at a constant 'just OK, but don't buy any green bananas' level...

202 leeks...

2011-05-01T11:59:00.005+01:00

In honour of Paul Mealor's fabulous piece of music at the Royal Wedding, I've just planted out 202 leeks...

I think I should also mention Karl Jenkins in the same post, as he is doing some great things as well and he's come a long way from the days of Soft Machine!

Floreat daffodil...

Sod orff...

2011-04-24T21:26:00.001+01:00

Bliar and Drown are not wanted at the wedding next Friday.

Perfick...

Easter whodunnit...

2011-04-22T06:32:00.007+01:00

There's a folk song somewhere out there with some of the lyrics which go a bit like this...

Hey Willy, Willy,
Come to your window'

Hey Willy, Willy
(something or other),

There are (something or other - relating to young men joining up, possibly American Civil War...)

And its 18??

And - er - that's it...

For those of you with the musical touch, the guitar chords are a basic C then Amin; C, then Amin, rather like the beginning of 'His latest flame' by Elvis Presley! The years change with the final line in each verse, so the next verse may be 1866 instead of the previous verse which might be 1863!

I used to do this occasionally back in the sixties, and changed the name to 'Jenny', because she was a lovely friend, and married Eddie!

As usual, the winner gets a big hug, and the second place will get two hugs, as I've been out in the garden all morning and it's a bit hot out there...

(And it definitely isn't a song by 'The Hollies', but it was the only pic I could find with even half the title of a song I can hardly remember, and which may well be the meanderings of a junior Scrobs' mind, while under the influence of seven pints of 'Old Dreadfull' and 20 Three Castles Tipped...)

Stunning intro...

2011-04-16T20:19:00.001+01:00

A few years ago, (just about now) when both Daughts were living at 'The Turrets', there were the usual discussions about films, programmes, life in general etc., and because our lovely girls were both well towards adulthood, I found the discussions enlightening and informative.

To be honest, I learned an awful lot from our two lovely Daughts.

When 'Philadelphia' (the film) came out in the early nineties, my dear old Mum was becoming embraced in the realms of Alzheimers, and was safely and softly planted in a pleasant home in Hastings. It was a difficult time for everyone, including my Dad, who wasn't well either. We were all in limbo for several months.

I can easily remember listening to this on one particular drive over to Canterbury, where I worked, while I was coming off the M2 onto the A2 down towards the city. This song on the radio was Bruce Springstein's seminal theme song from the film, and I remember feeling utterly miserable on hearing those first enigmatic major/minor chords, with the simple drum beat in the background.

It really hurt - oh yes, it did...

And so, later on, I watched the film at home with both Daughts, and they explained exactly what was going on. And I mean exactly, i.e. why the story in the film was so important.

And I learned some more from our Daughts, some more news of the present world, which I'd probably been ignoring so I could focus on what we all wanted as a family; like holidays, gardens, money...

So then, I bought the music from the film (still broke, last recession biting hard; got it from Cranbrook Library when they sold off all their old tapes; cost me a quid...) and it is now safely in my shed with Younger Daught's old tape player, so I can listen to great music like this to my heart's content, while making the rocking horse for GD.

If ever there was an incredibly powerful soundtrack to any film, then this one must be up there with the best of them. It is totally absorbing, and means an awful lot to an ageing Scrobs. There are several other songs on the soundtrack, and if anyone wants to ask me, then I'll provide the links, because one particular intro just melts...

Well known typing error...

2011-04-11T05:26:00.005+01:00

This big house has just come onto the market at a cool £1,675,000, and I hope it sells well for several reasons.

It was the first private house Scrobs ever worked on as a very junior quantity surveyor, way back in 1968.

Back then, it was one of the biggest new projects being built around Rye, and it still seems strange to remember that the final account came in at a shade under £35,000 to build!

The house was built for one particular family, who were pretty well off, and I haven't seen that staircase since I stood there when the job was virtually finished, and was peered at down an imperious nose by the lady of the house one day. I'd called in because I wanted to re-check a measurement of the copper tube, which made up the central heating system in the place. The builders, Turner Bros., of nearby Winchelsea, had put in bills for two near identical amounts of this 1/2" pipe, and I just couldn't reconcile the money, which was about £35.00!

So it was my job to remeasure every single run of pipe and check the lengths against what they'd ordered. It was the first barney I ever had with a builder, and although I was proved right, it was an unnerving experience! But of course, to Mrs Imperious, this would have gone right over her head...

What will probably come out in the open though, is the fact that it was eventually bought by Spike Milligan, and he died while living there. He's buried in Winchelsea boneyard, somewhere in the distance of the pic!

Spike famously said once, that he thought that the house had been designed by a blind architect! I got to know the chap pretty well back then (always Mr McLachlan), and in fact he was one of the most skilled and laid-back designers I've ever met in past or present! He never assumed that we thought he could walk on water, as so many under-talented designers do these days, and I remember him designing a chimney detail in his beloved 'Bradstone' with just the basic drawing board and 'T' square, and doing it in ink, with no pencil, and immediately describing for the builder what he wanted! And it worked of course!

So much for 'blind architect', the working address we used for the house was 'Dumb Woman's Lane'!

Thumper...

2011-04-09T21:12:00.008+01:00

For no reason, I started humming this song a couple of days ago. I actually quite like a forceful beat, not rock-ape thicko stuff, but something with the occasional brain cell included in the price, and that's why I liked Joanni by Kate Bush! (Well, Kate Bush looks like Pips, so I'd have to wouldn't I...)!

Any'ow, I can easily remember the Bee Gees on their first outing on the Beeb's Top of the pops, and they played (or mimed, as their guitars weren't plugged in) this song.

When Mrs S was seriously poorly, and in hospital with all sorts of bits going wrong, the Babes were under Scrobs' control, and doing their level best. On one visit, I managed to get a request on the hospital radio, and we got Massachusetts played. The Babes became even more precious then...

Some say that Scrobs is losing his marbles, but not to his face thank goodness...

Census story...

2011-04-02T05:10:00.009+01:00

I've recently filled in our census form, because, despite being shredded by banks, politicians etc., like most small businessmen, I quite like keeping records, and if any despot really wants to know where I live and what I was doing last night, I can imagine that the last thing he's going to do is click through the 500 million odd forms to find my address...

In the 1901 census, I discovered that my paternal grandfather, the builder who built quite a lot of Letchworth, and Welwyn Garden City, was listed as a 'Tinman'.

Now, apart from whistling 'Yellow Brick Road' a few times, and also this lovely little song by some old heroes, I was surprised by this, because:-

1) I thought he'd always run a plumbing firm, and later, a full building business,

2) I couldn't find out exactly what a 'Tinman' was, apart from the obvious connection with - er - tin! I thought of 'scrap' (nooo), 'tinned' joints in plumbing (maybe), but finally gave up!

Only recently, I uncovered some rare notes written by my Uncle Jack ('twill be another post, but not here), which had several paragraphs on what was going on in the Scrobs ancestry in the early 1900s. He mentioned a workshop in Grandpa Scrobs' early life, where he'd based his plumbing business, and where, in his spare time, he made kitchen implements like bespoke pots, saucepans and the like, (perhaps an early version of these) and they were sold in a shop in Leys Avenue, Letchworth! I imagine they did the job properly, (otherwise they wouldn't have sold) and hope that they stayed the course! Apparently, he loved the work too!

So there you have it; just a small census yarn about a 'Tinman', and which also causes me a bit of a grin, because, as all three readers know, Scrobs spends ages in the shed, doing this and that, and his entry in the census says - er - oh hellfire, I didn't say...

The carpenter's yarn - priceless...

2011-03-31T05:23:00.002+01:00

A carpenter was giving evidence about an accident he had witnessed.

The lawyer for the defendant was trying to discredit him and asked him how far away he was from the accident.

The carpenter replied, "Twenty-seven feet, six and one half inches."

"What? How come you are so sure of that distance?" asked the lawyer.

"Well, I knew sooner or later some idiot would ask me, so I measured it!" replied the carpenter.

h/t Davethespread

Act of kindness...

2011-03-26T05:38:00.005Z

At a time when it seems that UK inc is chucking money round the world like a man with no arms, and with little regard for it's own citizens, it might be a good idea to recall a singular act of kindness towards us, which occurred many years ago.

Lynmouth was ravaged by a huge flood on August 15th, 1952, and in straightened times, was international headline news of a huge tragedy to this delightful little town.

The events are well documented, and I well knew Charles Dobbie, the Consulting Engineer who was on holiday there at the time, and provided unique expertise to the council in bringing the place back to near-normal.

During the aftermath, and at the start of the reconstruction, there was a visit to the town by a certain Mr William Bustamente, who was then a Chief Minister in Jamaica. The Caribbean had experienced a devastating hurricane a year before, and Jamaica had taken the brunt of the storm.

Mr Bustamente arrived in person, and came down to Lynton to express his sorrow and regret, and wanted to reciprocate the largesse of a cash-strapped UK, by bringing with him a lorry load of bananas, sugar and coffee from his own country, which he happily distributed to everyone in the crowd - especially the children.

Now that was a nice thing to do.

Wheel Hoe or, Hoe down...

2011-03-21T07:15:00.004Z

Scrobs/Growster Inc. PLC. Wheel hoe.

Idea - Slightly different version by Scrobs, some years ago...

Confirmation of idea - Seeing one for sale, but in a 1988 Marshall's Seed Catalogue, (discovered clinging to the back of an old gardening book) and causing panic in 'The Turrets'.

Further information - loads of pics here.

Wheel - 'Discovered' in pile of rusted mangled metal by the allotment tipping patch.

Handles - The old lawnmower handles somehow left in the roof after all these years...(they were also the subject of a mysterious series of letters between a certain Ms Bunty Binstock, The Grafas Fruning Graplecard, The Beast, The W-Bs, and of course, Modo, which wandered in all directions and eventually centred around the daily life of a deranged community in Scotton Pinkney many years ago! I ask you!)

Handle extensions - From Sgt. Wilson's motorbike - an idea pinched from a pic on 'Gurgle Images'.

Body - Bits of the old oak posts from the church notice board (the rest of the stuff was made into a rustic mantle shelf and return on the fireplace.)

Main axle - 6" bolt from sadly-now-closed local ironmongers over twenty years ago.

Screw bolts - From Hendon 'Homebase' (see Scrobs passim), and our old greenhouse.

Hoe blade and brackets - Old car/bike bars from past cycling forays in Bedgebury Forest before the arrival of JRT. They were sitting there doing nothing, especially after the said bike was commandeered by Sergeant Wilson... (the blade is now also updated with piece of metal from Mrs S's mum's old magazine rack...)

A typical picture of Scrobs, wearing the traditional garb of a keen but occasionally confused agriculturalist...

The idea of this type of hoe, is that the wheel enables an easy forward motion, allowing you to push your way between the rows of verdant, luscious vegetables, with the blade scraping just below the surface, thereby disturbing and aerating the soil, and also consigning the weeds to oblivion. It is also very quick.

It actually works extremely well thank goodness. There are several American websites which show nice expensive tools and contraptions, all very shiny and bright, but what's really wanted is a quick and easy way to clout the weeds and chuck the soil around a little, before getting home to a tincture or three of a Sunday morning!

p.s. The song is a favourite from the triple compilation album, 'The Music Makers', which would clatter round the flat after a few sherberts in 'The Two Sawyers' all those years ago...

Jet Harris - R.I.P...

2011-03-19T06:21:00.003Z

Sorry to see another 'hero' shuffle off.

For many young lads in the fifties and sixties, 'The Shadows' were the first real rock and roll group, but you didn't really call it 'rock and roll', because:-

a) Your mum and dad didn't like it.

b) Rock and roll was by some American group, and didn't sound anything like The Shadows.

Somewhere in the roof, I still have seven or eight EPs by The Shadows, and wouldn't mind getting them out (or on Ebay pehaps), because some of the music was good back then, especially one particular track. As usual, a story goes with it...

A few years ago, on one Sunday morning, I was making something in the garage and had the wireless on, listening to Invicta Radio. I also had a monstrous hangover, the sort which makes you wince at the sound of a small nail dropping to the floor, and feel faint when you have to bend down to pick it up!

Over the wireless, the presenter had a slot where he would play a bit of music - say a drum solo, and ask people to phone in with the answer. Now I never normally take any notice of these items, because some phone-ins are so dire, that I have to turn the sound down while Bert from Margate gibbers about, says 'you know' a dozen times, and generally makes the air painful, especially the air around a throbbing head and ears...

DJ Bob from Invicta was cracking on through his programme, and playing the same drum solo over and over again, and nobody was getting it at all! Directly I'd heard it, I recognised it as Tony Meehan's solo from 'See you in my drums' from The Shadows' first album. Well I would know it, as the prefects in the studies below our dormitory at school played it incessantly for about ten weeks...

And so I'd bought the EP, and listened to it for several more years, and life eventually went on without too many plays, until now!

After about twenty five 'Berts from Margate' had got it wrong, I had to do something about it, so I rushed in the house, grabbed ED's tape recorder, asked her to listen out on the radio, and be ready to hear her daddy, and then I called the DJ...

I was put on air immediately, and luckily, didn't stammer, say 'you know', or worse still get it wrong (I'd written it down on the back of a sanding disk, remember I had a hangover, and was shaking more than somewhat), and luckily, got it right. We chatted on air for a minute or so, and he promised he'd send me a prize, which was an album by The Three Tenors, which I gave to my dad.

So that was the one and only time Scrobs ever became famous, and it was all down to The Shadows, with bass guitarist, Jet Harris playing all of three notes over and over again, from start to finish...

'Bye Jet, your music was pretty good back then, and you were a Diamond!

Cadets and 'The Who' sell out...

2011-03-13T06:19:00.006Z

Yesterday, Mrs S and I were murmering about how much we liked 'The Who', and actually played their seminal album from the sixties. I'd known all these songs almost by heart since then and a chance visit to 'Circuit City' in Richmond VA, had unearthed a cassette, during a visit some years ago.

This all started because for no reason, the song 'Substitute' came into this ol' grey head, and I immediately thought of 'Senior Service Cadets' cigarettes.

Back in the impoverished student sixties, the young surveyor's salary wasn't that great; in fact there were even a few articled surveyors still around, which is an anachronism which would make today's business starters reach for the protest march handle.

The few pounds I earned were upgraded by my generous Dad, who'd always urged the Sprog Scrobs to go for a profession, or something similar. The accumulated cash (about £8.00 a week) usually went on much the same as anything today, like digs, rugby subs, train fares, egg and chips, a few beers, and of course, some fags.

When I returned to the vast bosoms of my landlady, on a Monday, I'd be well in with some folding money, and her rent (£4.00) was always paid on the dot. And, because the rest of the cash was holed up in a rapidly burning pocket, the week would start with twenty 'Players Gold Leaf', which would last about a day and a half. This would continue until about Wednesday, when it was down to one egg and chips, and I also needed some shillings for a few halves of bitter most nights, but by the Thursday, the pocket was considerably lighter than it had been on the Monday.

That was the moment when these tiny sixpences and shillings were counted up, (several times) and I'd realise that 4s-7d (23p), was out of the question for any more Gold Leaf, and it was down to the Cadets at 3s-9d (19p).

And so the last evening at work (I went home on Friday evenings), was spent enjoying the rasp of those little smokes, a couple of halves of the cheapest bitter I could find in 'The Duke of Marlborough' Ashford, and - yes, with the chums agreeing - a threepenny play of 'The Who's 'Substitute' on the juke box...

Yet another junket...

2011-03-10T20:19:00.004Z

My dear Mum used to make this stuff regularly.

Somehow, because of the expectation of something sweeter than the chocolate drops I'd buy by the hundred-weight from the local shop on a Saturday afternoon when I was about ten; my lovely sister and I would go 'Woooooh' and scoop it down without a murmer.

While nurturing GD today, she sat in her high chair, (Grand Daughter, not Mrs S...), and proceeded to spit out another similar delicacy from the Scrobs' formative years - egg custard!

The subsequent discussion ended in confusion, GD looking slightly bilious, and JRT rushing round the floor, hoovering up anything which had been dropped! We both wondered why we used to eat junket, or egg custard, and have decided that it was a delicacy which will always remain in some infantile fantasy, something which was so special because our Mothers had decided it was, and we'd better sit down and enjoy it - or else, but, it will never actually get a mention on a McDonalds menu.

More's the pity, I learned that egg custard had nutmeg sprayed all over it, and also what rennet actually did to milk all those years ago.

Fat lot of good that did...

One too many mornings...

2011-03-05T06:10:00.003Z

Yesterday, I caught a radio snippet of an obit on Suze Rotolo, whose picture graced many a schoolboy's study wall in the nineteen sixties.

The commentator mentioned that Joan Baez, after she had become Bob Dylan's squeeze, popped a few songs into her covers of Dylan's songs.

It might have been a bit thoughtless for Joan to sing a love song which Bob had written for Suze, but there you go...

Does anyone know what this bit does...

2011-02-28T19:19:00.002Z

One of my business partners has given me a printer. It is a good printer, and because he is a photographer par excellence in his spare time, he makes sure that his pictures are top quality. So when a new printer is put on the market, he is generous to a fault about what to do with the one he is replacing, which is an honourable state of affairs, and one for which I am eternally grateful, because our printer packed up recently, and I'm using a pencil.

So today, all three of us in Scrobs Inc. had one of our regular get-togethers, with another old chum who seems to know where the money is, and from whom we have had some spiriting advice and assistance as well as a lot of friendly banter.

BP brought the previous printer with him to pass on to me and I was drooling at the switches, lights, etc, which these state-of-the-art machines seem to sport these days, and I was commencing to dream of being able to write pompous letters to 'The Times' and do other pursuits like scan old pics etc.

That was right up to the moment that the said printer was being tranferred from the boot of his car to the clutches of your very own Scrobs. We'd covered the printer with a plastic bin bag because it was raining, and BP was busily collecting the various items for me, while I said 'cheerio' to our guest and friend.

There was suddenly a resounding crash, and pieces of Epson were heard hitting the tarmac with quite a lot of anguish, and plenty of noise.

There was a deathly hush; I eventually regained the skin out of which I had jumped in terror, and BP was understandably very upset that the rain had made the plastic very slippery, and the printer had gone extremely south.

There was no need to remonstrate, you just don't need to do that because we are friends, and so I took the bag containing the bits of printer home and Mrs S and I examined the damage.

The lid was broken off, and several pieces of important plastic were rattling around in the bag, but, after several false starts, it all seems to be back in one piece, after a little glue here and there, and a choice version of various curse words everywhere, such that JRT has vanished clutching her ears with her front paws.

So tomorrow, when all has dried, I'll see if it works, but I'm puzzled by just one item (above) which doesn't seem to have a home, and I'd be delighted if anyone can recognise it and tell me where it goes!

I thank you!

Reevers' reminder of Scrobs' Big Idiot Card...

2011-02-26T21:58:00.007Z

When Scrobs was a younger bloke, and just finding out a few things, he joined several friends and went on a couple of holidays in Spain and Italy, for a little water skiing, several drinks each lunchtime and evening and a multitude of Three Castles tipped...

It was a grand couple of weeks on each occasion, and among all the general festivities being enjoyed by our throng (about fifteen of us), there was community singing in the bar each evening, with Scrobs on a very basic, but much loved guitar.

As Reevers has prompted me to reminisce, we used to have several party pieces which crept into the repertoire after certain levels of tinctured jollity, and 'The Three Bells' was a late entry into the finales of each evening, much to the chagrin of most of the other residents, and sometimes a few of the hangers-on as well...

It's been mentioned here that this particular song has a great history with the Scrobs dynasty, and so it seems, with the Clan Reevers as well!

So, at the risk of repeating myself, saying everything for a second time, and reiterating past posts and comments, I can safely say that when we used to sing this song, we could always forget the order of the verses, and also the order of each of the lines - even the words in each line or verse as well! After much happiness and laughter, the song would echo into the rafters with a giggle and a chuckle and a "where are my my smokes", or "who's shout is it..."! Yates would always say 'What key are we in' and he was tone deaf!

One year, we all went to a party which was intended to be a post-holiday re-enactment of all the fun we'd had at these various gatherings. When the evening was going full swing, our host (an osteopath of some renown) called the meeting to order, handed Scrobs his concert guitar, and ordered everyone to sit up and listen. He the proceeded to unfurl a huge roll of paper on which he'd written the correct words to the song for us all to sing - probably for the first time ever, and it worked like a dream!

Magical moments like this last a lifetime.

That lucky old sun...

2011-02-25T15:00:00.002Z

I have a sneaky suspicion that the Scrobs frame and brain has been interspersed with a teragram of Vitamin D!

Why, yesterday, the sleeves of the 'Twickenham/Hard Winter/stop being a prat and light the bloody fire' jersey were nearly rolled up, and today, I forgot to take a scarf when we walked JRT!

This must be a sign of 'Globule Worming', and I claim my five splonders...

R.I.P. Ron Hickman - Workmate inventor...

2011-02-19T06:48:00.006Z

Ron Hickman was a proper inventor.

This obit says far too little about all the work which has been spawned by such an amazing piece of kit. I inherited two Workmates, and always use the original one, (I gave the later one to my BIL). Mine is made of the distinctive blue painted alloy struts, and is one of the very first ever made in the sixties. I love it, because it has made work at home so much easier! They really were a godsend when they first came out.

Mine (in fact technically ours, as it once belonged to Mrs S's dad), has had all sorts of things done on it, and before anyone asks, the answer is 'no' as it's the wrong height...

We've used it as scaffolding (plastering and painting ceilings), a vice of course, in every position imaginable (again - 'NO'), very recently as a frame to hold the 'Scrobs White-Finger Saw', a BBQ table (it comes out every year), and it probably gets a run out every week of the year on some job or other! It really has emerged as an iconic piece of machinery, and has endured all sorts of abuse for over forty years!

I even tried to make my own version when we were first married, and couldn't get to the price, which was - I think, about £36.00 back then...

And, to cap it all, this man designed the Lotus Elan, a car which has always been a fantasy buy for Scrobs, which must be a whole story in itself!

'Bye Ron! I'll be out in the shed using that special bit of kit today and will think of you for a while. I'll also raise a tincture in your memory, just a nano-second before I walk round one of the extended lower legs, and trip headlong, as I've done on over three million occasions...

Couch potato...

2011-02-13T20:20:00.007Z

As the search for more of 'The Good Life' continues unabated, the new plot we've taken on in the village (actually, by pure coincidence, the very same one we gave up 22 years ago, when we moved to 'The Turrets') has handed us a huge restoration job and this bleeding piece of earth is getting a right blasted 'seeing to'.

Because it is in dire need of some TLC, we're giving the plot some institutional reformation, because we're digging out the couch grass by hand.

The diggable area is about 30' by 30' - 100 square yards, and it's taken us way over 45 hours of hard slog to clean it properly. There are about 12 square yards left to dig and clean, and the couch grass will be a thing of the past, but it has been a right sod so far...

That 45 hours has yielded about forty wheelbarrows of the dreaded weed, and somehow, I find the work very therapeutic, being able to dig a few spits with the sod flicker and from there on in, by applying a flurry of clops with a clod breaker, (fashioned from a WW2 Land Army cultivator, and a piece of yew from the tree behind 'The Turrets'), which makes the poor old soil sit up and await some TLC from the gentle hands of Mrs S...

Update - Just found this, which explains why Scrobs walks tall and without a hump...

Still makes oi larf...

2011-02-11T07:00:00.000Z

Dear Mr Addison,

I am writing to you to express our thanks for your more than prompt reply to our latest communication, and also to answer some of the points you raise. I will address them, as ever, in order.

Firstly, I must take issue with your description of our last as a "begging letter". It might perhaps more properly be referred to as a "tax demand". This is how we at the Inland Revenue have always, for reasons of accuracy, traditionally referred to such documents.

Secondly, your frustration at our adding to the "endless stream of crapulent whining and panhandling vomited daily through the letterbox on to the doormat" has been noted. However, whilst I have naturally not seen the other letters to which you refer I would cautiously suggest that their being from "pauper councils, Lombardy pirate banking houses and pissant gas-mongerers" might indicate that your decision to "file them next to the toilet in case of emergencies" is at best a little ill-advised. In common with my own organisation, it is unlikely that the senders of these letters do see you as a "lackwit bumpkin" or, come to that, a "sodding charity". More likely they see you as a citizen of Great Britain, with a responsibility to contribute to the upkeep of the nation as a whole.

Which brings me to my next point. Whilst there may be some spirit of truth in your assertion that the taxes you pay "go to shore up the canker-blighted, toppling folly that is the Public Services", a moment's rudimentary calculation ought to disabuse you of the notion that the government in any way expects you to "stump up for the whole damned party" yourself. The estimates you provide for the Chancellor's disbursement of the funds levied by taxation, whilst colourful, are, in fairness, a little off the mark. Less than you seem to imagine is spent on "junkets for Bunterish lickspittles" and "dancing whores" whilst far more than you have accounted for is allocated to, for example, "that box-ticking facade of a university system."

A couple of technical points arising from direct queries:

1. The reason we don't simply write "Muggins" on the envelope has to do with the vagaries of the postal system;

2. You can rest assured that "sucking the very marrow of those with nothing else to give" has never been considered as a practice because even if the Personal Allowance didn't render it irrelevant, the sheer medical logistics involved would make it financially unviable.

I trust this has helped. In the meantime, whilst I would not in any way wish to influence your decision one way or the other, I ought to point out that even if you did choose to "give the whole foul jamboree up and go and live in India" you would still owe us the money.

Please send it to us by Friday..

Yours sincerely,
H J Lee
Customer Relations
Inland Revenue

Electronical unsodditment...

2011-02-04T22:03:00.002Z

This week, the electricity company ravaged us...

Not in the biblical sense of course, but they caused severe things to happen, and where elctricity is concerned, these events always occur in threes.

1) Mrs S's computer decided to sigh and die last Saturday. It went with a little warning, i.e., strange shapes on the screen, grumbling from the disk, and eventual terminal sulk.

2) The electric kettle stopped (IN SYMPATHY NO DOUBT) on the second boil of the regimental two cups of tea before any communication with the outside world is achievable.

3) The old Hoover we keep in the shed to scoop up JRT's fur, crumbs, dirt and rubbish etc from the Punto Lagonda Supercharged Bastard suddenly decided to stop during a wild clean-up.

So, the Scrobs input into the sphlogobeer has been limited for the last few days, and I'm having much fun playing the new gadget, which has grown Windows 7, and also some interesting, but tedious new programmes.

And, all this happened just a few days after Lakes and his team solved a huge problem for Scrobs Inc!

There is life in the old dog yet...

Fawlty Turrets - The Lakelander's Cut...

2011-01-25T07:10:00.002Z

The scene : - A small hotel near Tunbridge Wells, Kent. A frustrated Basil O’Blene (Scrobs...) is peering at a computer screen with increasing anguish and frustration.

Basil O’Blene: - "Polly, I thought I asked you to sort this blasted contraption out"

Polly: - “I’m sorry Mr O’Blene; I’ve just got too much to do here, what with Manuel having one of his turns, and Chef doing a stupid thing with the eggs again...”!

Basil O’Blene: - "Well, it’s just not good enough Polly – Manuel is a waste of space anyway, but I’ve always thought you could sort him out – one way or another”!

Polly: - “I know he’s useless Mr O’Blene, but at least he tries to help; he is from Barcelona you know...”!

(Sybil enters the reception area of the hotel; she is looking very sexy and wiggling her bits about as usual...) (Pru moment...)

Sybil : - “Basil, I thought I told you to sort out that computer of yours! It’s there in the office, making squawking sounds, and smells of something unpleasant! Sort it out will you - NOW”!

Basil O’Blene: - "Yes I know ‘Dearest’, it has a mind of its own! It is a COMPUTER Dearest, a machine which makes life easier! (hits forehead with palm of hand in exasperation. Aside and softly) Something you’ll never understand”!

Sybil : - “I heard that Basil! I don’t care what you do, just make it do what we paid all that money for, and get us some customers!”

Basil O’Blene: - "Yes Dearest Heart... (aside) ‘witch of the wind’...”! (rolls eyes).

Sybil : - “I heard that too Basil; if you spent more time talking to our guests, and less time fiddling around with that silly machine, we’d all be much better off"!

Basil O’Blene: - "Bye bye Dearest; presumably you’re off out somewhere? The golf course maybe? The Coven"?

Sybil : - “You’re not funny Basil; I’m actually going to meet the ladies of the new crochet circle, they have a small party arranged for people with real skills, not playing with things they don’t understand...! And while I’m gone, just call ‘Lakes Computers’ and they’ll have someone there who knows what they’re talking about.”

Basil O’Blene: - "But I’ve already called Mr O’Reilly, Sybil, and he told me that he deals in Apples all the time, he’s also much cheaper...”

Sybil : - “He deals in Apples because he is a greengrocer Basil; now do as I tell you and get it fixed!”

Basil O’Blene: - (ignoring her, then looking up) "Still here Sybil? I thought you had to get stitched up somewhere”! (starts to laugh inanely at his own joke. Sybil gives him a pitying look and wiggles out of the front door). (Another Pru moment...)

Major : - “Evening O’Blene, anything happening this evening”?

Basil O’Blene: - "Evening Major, not much to report I’m afraid; typhoid outbreak in Tunbridge Wells kills three hundred, outbreak of rats in Westminster! Earthquake in Hawkshead! I can’t get the computer to work, so I’m afraid that the drinks are limited tonight; the brewery didn’t get the order!”

Major : - “I knew a commuter once, he used to go to London every day to work in an office! Rum way of life don’t you know”!

Basil O’Blene: - "No, this is a COMPUTER Major, an electric machine which does things for you, it's supposed to help you and let you get on with life”!

Major : - “Oh, I don’t think he did anything like that, he worked for a bank”! (wanders into the bar).

Manuel : - ”Meeza O’Blene, Polly she say tha’ yo’ compuher no work! I fix”?

Basil O’Blene: - “Manuel, I’m more likely to get it mended by a dyslexic one-eyed terrapin than by your efforts! Just get out to the kitchen and start with the tables, and clean the silver tureen while you’re at it”!

Manuel : - ”Turin...Turin, but I come fro’ Barcelona...”! (looks worried).

Basil O’Blene: - “I said TUREEN Manuel, TUREEN! God - didn’t they teach you anything in that dungheap of a place you were dragged up from?”

Manuel : - ”Que?”

Basil O’Blene: - “The tureen is the large silver bowl we serve soup from Manuel! It is in the dining room! Just go and get the polish”!

Manuel : - ”Que? Polish, bu’ Meeza O’Blene, I say I come from Barcelona...no Polish...”! (wanders off looking hopelessly lost).

(the phone rings, Polly answers it)

Polly : - “Mr O’Blene; Mrs O’Blene is calling to ask if you’ve rung ‘Lakes Computers’ yet”? (Yet another Pru moment...)

Basil O’Blene: - “Polly, I only have one pair of hands, and Manuel is going to get both of them round his neck any minute now! And no, I haven’t rung ‘Lakes Computers’ yet so tell her that I’m trying to run a hotel, not fool around with one of her chums that she’s met at her golf club”!

(Noise of Sybil’s screech from receiver, “I heard that Basil”!)

Polly : - “Mr O’Blene, the number’s here, on this post-it note, with some – er - pencil flowers wound round the name and a few – er – crosses in the corner...” (stares at note with vaguely distant expression...)

Basil O’Blene: - “Well don’t just stand there Polly, call ‘The Lakelander’! Tut; ‘Lakes Computers’! What sort of name for a firm is that! Why not ‘Windermere Wiring’, or – oh – ‘Kendal mend-all’! Pah! (slowly shakes his head with a pitying smirk, tuts and rolls his eyes).

(Polly dials the number).

Polly : - “Yes, is that ‘Lakes computers’? It is? Oh good!.....what?.....how did you know we were going to call.....you know everything because Syb.....you know her from the golf.....how many times.....Thursdays.....and Fridays....oh.....and Mondays!!! Look – er – Mr Lakelander.....oh, it’s ‘Lakes’ is it.....er, we have a problem with our.....oh, you know all about that you say.....riiiiight....”

Basil O’Blene: - (exasperated and crashing his fingers all over the keyboard) “Polly what’s going on? (peers at her) Polly, you’re all flushed – are you alright"?

Polly : - “I’m fine Mr O’Blene.....just fine.....I – er - think I need to go outside and perhaps, oh, smoke a cigarette, maybe dream quietly for a few minutes......” (she pulls herself together and leans over Basil, breathing heavily).

Basil O’Blene: - “So what do we do then Polly? Has the ‘Coniston Cableman’ explained how to find the Holy Grail?” (stares back at screen with wild expression).

Polly : - (softly and calmly) “You just press that key there (presses key), then do this, (clicks mouse) now this (presses two keys), now watch...”!

(the computer hums into life, and immediately begins to work perfectly)

Basil O’Blene: - “Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs...”! (stares in wonderment at all the messages bubbling up on the screen; the printer hums, clicks and starts working, and the speakers send out the crescendo from ‘Zadok the Priest' at full blast)

Polly : - “He is just fantastic”! (stares at screen then Basil)

Basil O’Blene: - “Polly, I’ve just decided that I’m going to give you the biggest hug you’ve ever had! (alarm all over Polly’s face).

(Basil grasps as much of Polly as he can with two hands just as Sybil walks in the door)

Sybil : - “So, as soon as my back’s turned Basil, I come back and find the Major drunk in the bar because he’s had two pints of Creme de Menthe and Dubonnet, Manuel is lying unconscious with a soup ladle embedded in his right ear, and here you are groping a lady member of the staff and just about to have your wicked way across the computer....(slowly stops ranting and stares at computer, which is humming away, and working perfectly.)

Polly : - “It was ‘Lakes Computers’ Mrs O’Blene, he pressed all the right buttons...”

Sybil : - “Yes. I thought he would Polly. He does know which buttons to press doesn’t he..." (gazes into middle distance, and touches her pearl necklace slowly They both stare at faraway objects in the room for a few seconds, while Basil looks with increasing horror at the screen He suddenly jumps up and escapes into the hotel lobby)

Sybil : - (turning back to the screen) “We’re fine now Polly, all our messages are flooding in and so are the new reservations for next...” (sees something which makes her frown, then fume, then explode). “Basil, BASIL! What are these pictures on the screen. Basil, who exactly is Ivana Havitova, asking what massage you ordered.....and....ohhhh yes?.... what’s this on-line poker money you’ve won, and – Basil....what’s this, ‘Teenage Tales of the unexpected – explicit”!

(sound of front door banging shut. Grinding sound of Austin 1100 failing to start, with Basil screaming yelling and cursing it from inside...)

Sybil : -(running after him, brandishing a crochet hook) “BASIL, you just come back here this instance! Basil, COME BACK HERE! BASIL! BASIL! BASIL! BASIL! BASIL.....”!

Rorke's Drift, 22nd/23rd January, 1879

2011-01-22T11:49:00.005Z

You've seen the film a hundred times, heard the story a thousand times, marvelled at the number of VCs...

This weekend is the anniversary of the The Battle of Rorke's Drift and is always remembered in The Turrets because somewhere in the roof, is an old CCF cap badge, with The South Wales Borderers emblem.

I got History 'O' level on the strength of all that, which surprised me and also my long-suffering history master, who also told me once that I had a good game of rugby, and showed some 'guts'...

We learned a lot from men like him - thankyou DJ, you don't really know how much all that meant to a budding Scrobs!

Excellence...

2011-01-18T17:53:00.003Z

Yet another superb guitarist, who was never on the Scrobs radar...

This is seriously well played, and what a great chap!. R.I.P.

(Hat tip BP, who knows these things...)

Nah na nah nah, nah na nah nah, Hey, Heyaah, what a...

2011-01-16T06:56:00.006Z

The following article appeared in the Sunday Telegraph in 1989.

CULT STATUS: 25 - BLOW-UP FRUIT

Rattles and scarves are old hat among the followers of the new-look Football League. Today's fans prefer to leave home equipped with inflatable fruit, preferably bananas, with which to demonstrate their approval of the skills deployed on the park.

Suddenly, bananas are everywhere. Like gigantic market stalls come to life, the terraces are burgeoning with six-foot finger fruits. The Mexican Wave has given way to the Tropical Tribute.

It began, so legend has it, with the arrival of a lone banana at Manchester City's Maine Road. The reason was the appearance of a talented player, Imre Varadi, known to the aficionados as `Imre Banana'.

The dirigible digit with which he was applauded was an immediate hit, and soon the yellow peril had reached Arsenal - inflatable cannons must have been too difficult to make. At West Ham, however, blow-up hammers were soon making their impact felt, while at Grimsby the air-filled fish surfaced. Bury's bloody response was the world's first black pudding blimp.

League officials were nonplussed. Bananas were mushrooming to the extent that a view of the pitch - and the action between the goalposts - could only be obtained from the touchline. Spectators were even turning up at the turnstiles carrying children's inflatable dinghies and airbeds.

There was no alternative. Police sent in the Ludicrous Crimes Squad and began to confiscate the offensive fruit, and soon the sight of a billowing banana may be as rare as a bottle of scotch in the Ayatollah's cocktail cabinet. A sad day indeed for the seriously silly.

(Just to prove that Scrobs is not just a grumpy old man who hates football. He's just been reading the obit for Nat Lofthouse, who was never a 'Jodrell Banker', but he was a damn good centre forward).

January economics...

2011-01-12T11:47:00.004Z

Sometime at the end of last year, those of you who are over 60 years old will have received a heating allowance payment.

This is indeed a very exciting programme and I'll explain it by using a Q&A format:

Q. What is a 'WHA' payment?
A. It is money that the government will send to taxpayers.

Q. Where will the government get this money?
A. From taxpayers.

Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
A. Only a smidgen of it.

Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
A. The plan is for you to use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.

Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China?
A. Shut up.

Below is some helpful advice on how to best help the economy by spending your compensation cheque wisely:

* If you spend the money at Currys, the money will go to China or Sri Lanka.

* If you spend it on petrol, your money will go to the Arabs.

* If you buy any fish, the rest of the EU will get it.

* If you purchase a computer, it will go to India, Taiwan or China.

* If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico, Honduras and Guatemala.

* If you buy an efficient car, it will go to Japan or Korea.

* If you purchase useless stuff, it will go to Taiwan.

* If you want a plumber, it will go to Poland.

* If you pay off your credit cards, or buy stock, it will go to management bonuses and they will hide it offshore.

Instead, keep the money in England by:

1) Spending it at boot sales, or

2) Going to football/rugby games, or

3) Spending it on prostitutes, or

4) Buying Beer, or

5) Getting tattoos/body piercing.

(These are the only UK businesses still operating here profitably)

Conclusion:

Go to a football/rugby game with a tattooed/rewired prostitute that you met at a boot sale and drink beer all day!

No need to thank me, I'm just glad I could be of help.

Post Christmas Blues...

2011-01-09T17:14:00.002Z

I'm sorry to see that Blue Eyes has decided to park his mouse.

I always liked his posts because they seemed to be individual, personal, often enlightening and above all, sincere. As Damon Runyon might have said, he seems 'An honourable Guy'.

So, when you're reading this Blues, and even if you're outside a few tinctures of the chilled material, then call by as an Anon, or an acronym eh?

I'll look forward to being the first to spot your reincarnation!

Sprinklers at dawn...

2011-01-06T12:51:00.002Z

Get ready for the the last - and the best one!

Nut screws washers and bolts...

2010-12-30T05:44:00.011Z

I'm taking a few days R and R to indulge my passion for making things, and you'll never believe what's going to be next. As usual, a story goes with it...

Several years ago, I worked for a Scottish industrial building company. They were a hard bunch of guys - and gals as well, and it would have been easy to be intimidated by the business environment they all worked in. Scottish engineers are still alive and kicking, and the chaps I worked with were a great bunch of innovative, design-proud, commercial characters, and we all got on pretty well, despite the fact that I came from near Tunbridge Wells, which is a bit of a downer in certain company...

We concentrated on packages of work for prisons, universities, hospitals, and, best of all, retail sheds. It was during the big boom in out-of-town shopping, and huge stores were cropping up everywhere. They all looked very much as they do today, but the building obstructorenti were nervous of the Italian materials we used, (until UK Inc's dead-handed regulators eventually let us make them here), and each scheme was always a slow starter.

On one particular job, which I cannot of course identify, (Homebase in Hendon), we were having a hard time; a very hard time. In fact it was rapidly becoming a Ken Disaster! Writs were forming by the minute and lawyers were dribbling at the prospect of a dishevelled Scrobs, crawling stark naked through the trenches...

The conversation between Glasgow and London went something like this: -

Scots Business Director (God):- "Scrooobs; yiew down there? Can ye hear me? Wha's happening a' Haindon eh? Tell me wha's goin' on!"

Scrobs:- "Er, morning Dairek, er - the subbies didn't turn up today; or yesterday... in fact they weren't here last week either..."

Scots Business Director (God):- "Aye. Aye! (long agonising pause) Well; wha' you goin' ta do aboot it then Scrooobs?"

Scrobs:- "Er, well, (gulps), we're chasing them hourly, but the fax machine is broken, so all the new details are somewhere between here and the Isle of Dogs; ha ha ha; (gulp)..."?

Scots Business Director (God):- (softly, in the most terrifying voice imaginable) "Scrooobs, will ya listen to me! I wan' you thaire every waking hour, to supervise an' make sure our money is safe. D'ya unnerstand...?"

Scrobs:- "Er, yes of course, Dairek!" (lapsing into the accent was a secret weapon, and occasionally defused any further commercial banter/libel/violence)

Scots Business Director (God):- "Good man Scrooobs! Aye; ya'll be reporting to us early each day, eh?"

Scrobs:- "Er, fine, er I'll, er, do that..."(wondering how on earth he'll swing all this...)

Scots Business Director (God):- "Aye Scrooobs, you will!"

Sound of telephone handset being gently replaced on Bakelite receiver somewhere near Paisley...

So Scrobs was set a target of completing the job in two weeks, which meant leaving home in the dark, and also getting home way after bedtime. The subbies did return, slowly, rather like that scene in 'The charge of the Light Brigade' when they all trudge back with limbs hanging off, and we began to see daylight, or, rather the reverse, as we were in fact fitting the roof then...

On one occasion, I had my usual daily arse-wrenching meeting with the Main Contractor, explaining how much over the contract time we might be. Luckily he was a kindly man, and always stopped at physical abuse, (although the mental scars are still prevalent in the occasional nightmare), and we got on pretty well under the circumstances.

My Uncle Jack (the Builder), had told me once that he personally used to sweep up his building sites every evening. It may have been just a house, or maybe a factory, but he did it himself, as he was on a salary, and the men were paid hourly. When a Director from the firm visited the site once, he asked Uncle Jack, "Why spend your time cleaning up now - you're in charge"!

Uncle Jack replied "Well, it's so the men have a clean place to start work tomorrow, and they'll do much more if they don't have to work with muck everywhere'" There's no argument to that, and his site was always spotless at the end of the day, and the job was much better organised.

So, Scrobs, on the long drive to Hendon, decided to take a leaf from all this, and one evening, swept the whole site, which was after all, a DIY superstore and not exactly miniscule! There was an urban myth around about that time, where the MD of a roofing firm had gone round the site one evening, and collected all the bolts, screws, etc, which had been dropped during construction and had not been used. He piled them all on a table, costed them, and deducted the value of all these fittings from everyone's wages. That really stopped the waste!

I finished up with a huge cardboard box full of hundreds of these fixings! They were all unsorted, and I could just imagine the problem of getting them back in their boxes, as I really did want to get home some time that night...

So they went into the boot of the Scrobmobile.

This was back in 1982, and after all these years, I still have a hundred or so of these expensive bits of kit, which cost a fortune at B and Q, (perhaps Homebase as well...), and I've used them on almost every job I've ever done since that fateful day!

And if anyone recognises the kid's lunch box which keeps them safe, it's because there are also some other things I can never throw away...

A Christmas carol...

2010-12-22T05:35:00.008Z

Back in the early 1990s, computers were still hit-and-miss affairs, and words like '286', and 'floppy disk' were still spoken with some embarrassment, because they were almost a foreign language. I remember someone pointing at a '386' and drawing gasps of envy from a geek who dribbled for ages at the new machine lurking in the corner of one of the offices!

YD was in her last year at school, and I used to pick her up from the music rooms, where she would always stay late for prep and extra piano practice. One evening, I found her at an electronic keyboard, with a computer screen in front of her, and several wires leading off to a new computer. She sat me down next to her and told me to make a chord, which I did. Then she pointed to the screen and there were the notes displayed on the staves! Then we played a few more notes and the harmony was created and also showed up on the screen. It also played back exactly as we'd played it!

I was utterly hooked, and totally blown away by the possibilities of all this expensive equipment. After a few more forays on the keys, we went home and for the rest of the evening, I badgered Mrs S about getting something similar, and because times were good back then, we started the research. We were within a whisker of buying a Yamaha 1200 series Synthesiser, because it nearly did the same things as all that kit at the school, but after several visits to the shops, it became clear that what we really needed was a proper PC, because the music bolt-ons could come along later.

And it was ever thus. We bought the best PC we could afford and tentatively joined the human race! Because it was near Christmas, I was in party mode, and in London for various business tinctures. On one of these occasions, I was early for a function, and spent a happy hour wandering around Regent Street looking in shop windows. Chappells had their shop down there back then, and peering in the window, I spotted the advert at the top, which shone out from a box of equipment which was exactly what we (I) wanted! It really was a magic moment!

After long discussions with the guys in the shop, a lot of money changed hands, and I nursed the box all the way home to 'The Turrets', (having of course, partaken of the various afore-said tinctures - no need to spoil a good evening)!

It worked like a dream, and once connected to a keyboard, was the epitome of composition, and for years, I was hooked into all sorts of masterpieces where I could overlay sounds and rhythms, and listen to these through earphones to my heart's content. The software was all contained on just two floppy disks, which seems amazing these days, when now you need about eight CDs just to get a letter printed!

Of course, it's all been superceded now, and the Cubase has been replaced by Cakewalk, which is too old even for Vista, and so there are new apps like Tuxguitar, and Wavosaur, which do more or less the same thing, and for free!

So, this time of year, I can always relate to hearing some good sounds, remembering some good days, enjoying the company of good friends and family, and listening to this, by the bloke who started it all for me!

Have a happy Christmas one and all; next year will be a cracker!

Update...

Wellington's Mum has reminded me of a classic piece of Mike Oldfield, and linked me to the piece below!

Many's the time I heard that theme, and there is one part of the piece which I will always remember. Simon Groom asked him why he played the theme at half speed, and Mike Oldfield quite candidly said it was because he couldn't play that fast! (Been there and bought the twelve string...)

The comments also show several people who liked that bit too...

Real estate of play...

2010-12-19T06:51:00.005Z

I'm sure that the occasional reader in the building business - and other work of course - will recognise these symptoms.

It requires an awful lot of good will and 'spec' time to get a development started; a sketch scheme, a few costs applied, a realistic view of planning, a nod from the investors,and all this happens after me and my two BPs have undertaken a seriously hard look at the Excel figures on an ageing computer, and applied forty years of knowledge...

But we refuse to waste anybody's time if the chances are anything less than 'pretty-damn-sure'.

(This could be a post all by itself, and may be one for the New Year, because things will pick up in next spring, and somehow, all those firms which haven't taken risk recently, will lose out immeasurably. We have a lot of markers to repay, and also a few scores to settle - you know who you are)! Did I say banks?

But this blog post and others on his links, had me rolling in the aisles! It was sent to me by a kindred spirit and really sums up the issue!

Christmas competition - all prizes gratefully received...

2010-12-10T07:17:00.008Z

As was kindly pointed out by Nick Drew, the 'Scrobs' site is going through a 'low anticipation sitemeter non-spike situation' (i.e., not getting to the people), so as is often the case, I can only regrope, (or perhaps regroup) and while I'm doing that, how about a competition?

As BT (until I got rid of them), and others were continually sending me new mobile phones to use at my expense, the issue of ringtones became more pressing. I once mentioned to Lils that I had the opening bars of 'Dirt Farmer' on my phone for several months, and it usually turned a few heads on the train. She offered a few other suggestions which are great of course (well, she and Elbers have enough tracks by 'The Grateful Dead' to last until Easter Sunday, 2067, so she does have some serious knowledge in that department), but yet another new phone demanded a further change.

So I went for the start of a record which has always been a favourite, and lately, I still feel that it is an iconic reminder of earlier days in the sixties, when the world was one's oyster (see Scrobs passim). I just love these few bars!

If anyone hears this on a train, then by all means come over and say something like "You are Scrobs, and I claim my five splonders"! (It might not be me of course, in which case any embarrassment must be borne by the perpetrator, but if it is, then expect a huge hug, especially if you are a lady, when you might get two or more)!

So, back to the competition. It has several categories, and a complicated scoring procedure will ensure that only one person will win, rather like FIFA run their competitions for the Whirl Carp. Take your time, write on both sides of the reply box, and make sure you bring a pencil sharpener and a rubber (or even just a 'sharpener' if after the witching hour).

1) Most memorable opening bars of any piece of music. (my ringtone is my best example for the time being).

2) The earliest moment in any performance either live, or studio, in a piece of music, when the congregation realise what they're going to get. (Echoes - David Gilmour in Gdansk for me; it takes a nanosecond after Rick Wright's 'plink').

3) The biggest cheer at the end of a live performance, when everyone is ecstatic ('Fool's Overture'; Supertramp, 'Live in Paris', or 'Cinema show'; Genesis on 'Second's out').

(Editor's note - Sorry Nick, this is all I can do for the moment. I will try harder next time, but what with the snow, and the economic depression and bastard troughing politicians getting uppity, and students chucking bricks at everyone, the world is in some turmoil, so, best to just quieten things down a bit, and ask the other two readers what they think...)

pps - What do you think of the economy poster at the top; rather dapper don't you think?

Nick Drew's challenge - glove accepted, the 'spike' rears it's head...

2010-12-04T06:50:00.003Z

A few years ago, The Grafas Fruning Graplecard (for it may have been he), awoke early one morning alone in the bedroom of his stately home.

Things were different, and a pleasurable warmth permeated the bedchamber.

He had surprised himself...!

The Grafas rang for his butler immediately, "Lickbottom", he called excitedly, "I find I have an erection"!

"Oh congratulations Your Grafasness, shall I fetch the Lady Grafess"?

"Good God no - dammit man, fetch a blanket and bring round the Rolls immediately, this is a London job"!

(With sincere apologies to all family and friends, and any other ladies (maybe chaps of a groaning disposition) who may have heard this before. It was told to me by one of my oldest friends, on several occasions back in the 'sixties... many times in fact, on most Fridays, Saturdays, occasionally Sundays and the odd week when we were water skiing in Spain or Italy, or playing rugby in Bexhill. Ron, you were a star then, and this yarn is dedicated to you, wherever you are...)

Bollock naked in snowdrift...

2010-12-01T05:58:00.002Z

Sorry about that, no pictures, no script!

I'm just figuring out how 'Sitemeter' works, and see if there's a 'spike' today!

(whistles...)

Stone the crows, an' starve the lizards...

2010-11-27T16:52:00.003Z

Our favourite walking place is having a face lift, mainly thanks to the stroppy Tunbridge Wells BC.

The Forestry Commission guys and gals have to rearrange all their parking for visitors, because they are actually too popular, and any overflow parking is now frowned upon by the burghers of this man's town for some obscure reason.

We don't mind too much, because we always get there pretty early and give JRT the run off the place, or as far as her long lead will allow her, as if we ever let her off, she'd vanish in the direction of the nearest rabbit, and never be seen again. But she's a good walker, and we usually stay mates all the way round the place.

Recently, the Forestry bods had to fence in some areas of the car park, because of the proposed works there. They put up plastic fencing around several areas, and we found out that it was there to retain all the lizards for relocation, which is rather sweet! They saved 69, and presumably, the reptile population will flourish to be eaten by other reptiles or whatever. But a couple of weeks ago, the powers-that-be had some sort of night time experience, where they lit up the trees and charged everyone about £16.00 to walk round and admire the scenery in the dark. Somehow we couldn't see the point of all this, but the offshoot is that when they did all their cabling and preparation, the wild life seemed to hide and shrink away.

As you know, there are several large fish in Marshal's Lake (nuclear scientists etc), and they've vanished. The ducks all fiddled and farted around for days afterwards, and seemed fed up with the whole blasted issue, the two resident shags (ha ha ha), don't know whether they want a shit or a haircut, and we're making friends with several crows which seems somewhat odd!

We're gradually getting the ducks back, the fish are taking much longer, but the crows are becoming proper characters. Mrs S carries a few crusts for various wildlife, and one morning, left some pieces for three crows, which were lurking in the trees nearby. We've become rather attached to Charlie, Chris and Crusty, because they immediately squawk, and dip down to feed as soon as we're away, and seem to be very happy birds.

But, this morning, Mrs S forgot to bring the comestibles, and we were followed round, spied upon from the trees, 'cawed' at, and on several occasions swooped on with a 'whoahhhgh whoahhhgh whoahhhgh' straight out of Hitchcock's movie! They're gorgeous, and they seem to telegraph their mates on the next reservation, that one old fart and his wife are back, flinging cheer and Hovis in all directions.

Sharp intake of tinctures...

2010-11-20T16:55:00.008Z

This year's business network/company bash/generous hospitality season has started early.

So early, that Scrobs has been caught unawares, and has already attended two massive events which have resulted in an incredibly short memory for names, and a very long pain in the forehead, parts of the neck, most of the body and all of the psyche...

The previous week was bad enough, with Private Eye's favourite company providing the comestibles. The guys I work with there are all very professional, and have spent numerous hours working for nothing on our potential schemes, because someone has to these days. The banks and the politicians still get fees and expenses for getting out of bed, while working companies continually get the crap thrown at them from all angles, but hey, it's the best depression they've had to 'handle', so stop whinging...!

But last Thursday's evening was a real killer! It was fabulous!

We were kindly invited to a grand evening by a firm of Lawyers who always let me know when something's happening, and who always do it right. Their hospitality is second to none, and one of these days, when the depression created by the 'Three Bs' (Blair, Brown and Balls) is finally kicked into touch, and their legacy is buried in painful concrete far below the surface of the biggest dump in the world, I'll have the greatest pleasure in calling this firm's property partner and asking him 'How much to do this and when can you start...'!

But until then, we do the circuit seeking business leads, tweaking yields, machining Excel calcs, and this last event finished in an alcoholic haze sometime after 9.00pm, somewhere in Wardour Street.

By God, it was fantastic! Your correspondent, together with Business Partner and also accompanied by highly esteemed and serious property man from major co, arrived at 6.45 pm, slightly damp from a long hike across St. James' Park, and from there on in, the stunningly beautiful ladies who were proffering sustenance in the form of Frozen Margaritas were at every turn. The property dinosauriad were out in force, released temporarily from the depths of Jurassic Park, the hosts were as ever charming, friendly, and the stock of business cards which Scrobs hands out to interested parties was diminishing fast.

I've never spent such an evening in such salubrious company, and even now, 72 hours later, the scars on the headache are still lingering. I put it all down to drinking out of a wet glass, and having to negotiate those crackly white chips round the edge, near the salady bits!

There was an incredibly attractive dark eyed lady offering shots from a holster and cartridge case belt strung about three centimetres above stunning legs; the Margaritas were installed in an overhead liquid carriageway which tipped gallons of the stuff down a throat at the touch of a guest list, at last a proper Chardonnay was on offer, (sorry BP, had to say it...) I nearly lost my laptop case (and possibly my lap if I could have found it...) to a lady from Viet Nam, there were unassailable stairs nearly three miles long to encounter on the way out, I had to stand on a box to speak with two of the tallest people I've ever met, and one of them didn't mind (at all as it happens) my nose being within three inches of a fabulous cleavage, my liver's risk assessment now includes the terms 'Paaaah, disaster impending, consider not buying green bananas, and forget putting long playing records on the gramophone', and somehow I've got to mend a small tear in my trousers.

I stayed with my long suffering ED, who kindly guided me home via mobile phone and coaxing sat-nav from somewhere near Dulwich (I think), and she had the hot water bottle, cocoa and understanding nods ready when I eventually poured myself though their keyhole between - oooh, say 9.00pm and midnight!

And the next morning? Wow, toast, coffee, friendly banter, promises not to tell Mrs S, and a trip home in style!

Who could wish for such a grand time, and the collection of cards and notes from the evening (it was work after all), already seems to have started to create some real business prospects for next year, so it was all worthwhile!

Of course, I cannot mention the firm who provided such a grand evening for legal reasons, but they really do know how to get business marching on despite all the efforts of politicians, banks, quangos, civil servants etc., to stifle ways to make money.

I've got one more to do in three weeks, after which I'll revert to tea and comfort until we open our Christmas half-bottle of Wincarnis and really live it up...

Henryk Gorecki R.I.P...

2010-11-16T07:01:00.004Z

I've only just learned that Henryk Gorecki died last week.

His 'Symphony of Sorrowful Songs' (which floors me each time I hear it) is already pencilled in for a serious blog post one day, because a story goes with it. But now's not the time.

In his obituary in The Daily Telegraph, there was mention of Arvo Part. Now, although I reckon myself reasonably well tuned in to composers, I've just missed all this music, and have never knowingly heard any of it.

Just try listening to this, and I hope you'll be as dumbstruck as I was!

Hymn to remember...

2010-11-14T11:47:00.003Z

In the church behind the Turrets, they always sing this at about 11.20 am, just after reading the names of the fallen. I always try to stand in the garden and hear the brass band belt it all out, and today was no exception.

I've always found it an incredibly moving hymn, and today, after getting absolutely soaking wet trying to do some work in the garden in all the mud and rain, it was even more humbling to remember just what the words are all about, while the cornets, trumpets and bandsmen gave it their all.

Rupert Bear - 90 years old today...

2010-11-08T17:38:00.005Z

I was delighted to hear that my first hero was 90 years old today! His creator, Mary Tourtel has a delightful sign up in Canterbury, and this is fondly recognised locally.

I used to have nearly all the Rupert Bear annuals, and still have three or four, all lovingly decrepit from being read constantly in the days when animals could talk, and I'd always agree with them!

Only last week, we were strolling through the woods, and I saw what reminded me vividly of a story I'd read (and been frightened by on a few ocasions). It was this picture below: -

...and I have to confess that it immediately reminded me of this story below: -

Who says men never grow up...

Don Partridge R.I.P...

2010-11-03T06:48:00.004Z

Don Partridge made a huge difference to the pop scene in the 1960s.

'Rosie' was - and still is, a great song, and was sung by anyone who had a guitar as well as many who didn't!

This song was always in the Scrobs repertoire, and the only reason why I didn't do the kazoo bit at the end, was because a) I didn't have a kazoo, and b) If I had got one, it was impossible to keep it steady on my wire coat hanger harmonica holder...

'Bye Don, and many, many thanks...

Automatic reciprocating saw (in white); for Thud...

2010-10-31T05:29:00.015Z

As the icy winds from northern climes prepare for their surge to the south, to cleave the intertesticular extremities and create howls of pain of protest from people who reckon they know why a brass monkey has two reasons not to like low temperatures, O'Blene Industrial Kinetics (OINK), continues its journey on the yellow brick road which leads to equality with Dyson and Baylis.

A few years ago, Mrs S Senior gave the company an electric reciprocating saw, because there are logs and branches on the 'Turrets' estate which need a few clops every now and then, to remind them who actually is boss round here! (A chain saw was not an option at the time, as the safety trousers were the wrong colour...)

Now this implement is a powerful machine, and while it is not in the industrial category, it takes quite a lot of muscle to keep it going longer than a few minutes, because an unusual condition creeps into the system, i.e., it begins to hurt.

This pain is a version of 'white finger', which was a pesky condition experienced by miners and other handlers of machinery which create high levels of vibration. In fact, after a few minutes of operation on some hard logs, like rhododendron, the 'white finger' quickly merges with a variation called 'very pale elbow', and then transgresses into 'sod me shoulder', and finally ends up (via 'bugger that hurts trembling back-bone'), in a state of 'white clenched arse, loose teeth and red vision'!

It had to change, as after each session at the bench, the journey from the shed to the house took longer with each faltering step, and even with a recreational tincture as a prize, those few minutes were agony...

I mentioned to Thud, whom as far as I can see has the best job in the world, and has superb results to prove it, that I'd altered the design of the saw to help me over the crisis, and here are the pics I promised him. In the world of sharp objects, 'elfun saftie' is always written large on the box, but weighing up the pros and cons of the design and also the operation, I'm taking a bet that this is probably a safer way to use the saw than by swinging it around like a dervish at every twig or bough which gets in the way. If I'm proved wrong, and that is the prerogative of Santa Barbara, and also Mr Gilbert Fiddler, of the local 'Sharp Objects Inspectorate and Licensing (SOIL) office, than I'll have to retract the statement...

All I've done, is to activate the switch permanently, and attach the whole machine to a frame which allows a downward swinging arm motion, That way, I can secure the beast in the jaws of the 1966 vintage Workmate (one of the best inventions ever), and connect to the juice as normal. As the machine is technically on because the handle is depressed, the master switch cuts off the power when necessary. The logs fit securely into the 'V' joint and stay firm, and the saw cuts only downwards with slight pressure on the handle near the blade.

Although this is a prototype, it's done a full morning's work, but is also showing signs of 'white screw loosening' which is exactly what used to vibrate the operator's body to some interesting levels, and I'm already working on version two, which creates a monocoque structure and the vibration reduces as it becomes integral to the operation and which hopefully will allow me to finish the pile of logs which is threatening to topple over and crush 'white Fiat-Ferrari-Punto-Turbo', the 'white branch Acer Palmatum Atropurpureum', which is a pride and joy, and also the various visitors we have calling to ask me why I'm up and about so early, and didn't I realise that the clocks went back today...

Satisfying high-tech result...

2010-10-28T17:19:00.003+01:00

Sergeant Wilson's motorbike (conclusion)...

2010-10-23T06:24:00.006+01:00

Scene 3

(Walmington-on-sea High Street. Capt. Mainwaring is walking to work, and Jones is putting up the awning on his shop)

Cpl. Jones: “Morning Captain Mainwaring, lovely day again”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Good morning Jones, it is indeed a beautiful day! (looks up at sky) Bit noisy up there last night, I suppose The Hun has retreated with his tail between his legs as usual”!

Cpl. Jones: “Yes Sir, there’s also a couple of official looking lorries out in the forest. They seem to be searching for something”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “Well as long as they don’t interfere with our training, they can stay there as far as I’m concerned. Good to see the ordnance around though, it gives everyone comfort to see their island being defended”!

(Capt. Mainwaring walks on and disappears into the bank. Walker is approaching)

Pte. Walker: “Here, Jonesy, did you see that lorry parked up by the crossroads? I heard it was on the lookout for stolen army kit! Watch out for your van, they’ll take it if they see it”!

Cpl. Jones: (blowing his cheeks out)“They’ll not take my van, it’s a reserved vehicle that is”! (goes back into shop muttering to himself).

(Walker continues on down the street, and sees Sgt. Wilson approaching)

Sgt. Wilson: “Morning Joe, lovely day”!

Pte. Walker: “Morning – hey, (takes Wilson’s arm) if you’re in a spot of bother, I can get you a new motorbike, but it won’t be the same as your old one”!

Sgt. Wilson: “Well that’s very kind of you Joe; it really is a bit of a bind, having to walk everywhere”.

Pte. Walker: “Just leave it to me; I’ve got a few feelers out for you”!
(Walker and Wilson go their separate ways)

Scene 4

(An office in the Home Guard Command building in Eastbourne. The senior officers are all assembled)

Colonel Peat: “Now Chaps, we need to get to business! Any news from last night”?

Major Elbers: “Well, they certainly made a racket overhead, but as far as we can see, there was no real damage – apart from a couple of greenhouses on the estate being shattered”.

Colonel Peat: “Oh well, that’s what we have to expect, but at least we have a few tricks up our sleeve, eh Major”!

Major Elbers: (warily) “Ooooh – er - yes, definitely...”.

Colonel Peat: “Any news on the requisitioning programme, have we found any unattended vehicles”?

Major Elbers: “We’ve ended up with three Austin cars, a Riley bread van, several bicycles and a GPO motorbike”.

Colonel Peat: “A GPO motorbike! Damn Post Office loses everything these days”!

Major Elbers:”Well, they’re all impounded now, and going to Brighton tomorrow”!

Colonel Peat: “Good, well done Chaps, now, what’s next...”?

(scene fades).

Scene 5

(Private Walker is passing a shop at the bottom of the High Street. He does a double-take on realising that it has only just opened for business)

Pte. Walker: (enters shop with door bell clanking) “Morning! Anybody home”?

Shopkeeper (Mr. O’Blene): “Good morning Sir, and how can I help you”?

Pte. Walker: “This is all new isn’t it? Funny time to start a new business these days, there’s a war on y’ know”!

Mr. O’Blene: “Oh yes, and that’s why I’m opening here! I’ve got a shop in Eastbourne, and a workshop in Pevensey. I repair and sell bicycles”!

Pte. Walker: (holds out his hand to shake and introduces himself) “Joe Walker; I can get you most things you need round here, cycle lamp wicks, real leather saddles; got a nice line in rubber inner tubes; cost you a tanner each...”!

Mr. O’Blene: “ Always looking out for a bargain Joe, (shakes Joe’s hand) Friends call me Stan, I get most of my stuff from a bloke in Eastgate, but he’s finished up in Lewes Prison recently”!

Pte. Walker: “Pleased to meetcha Stan. Blimey, what did he do”?

Mr. O’Blene: “Oh, he came round the corner from the High Street too fast, and buried his car in the gates on the crossroads! He’s still sorting that one out I can tell you”!

Pte. Walker: “Ha ha! Do you – er - sell motorbikes as well”?

Stan O’Blene: “Oh yes, any make you like; Matchless, James, Velocette, you name it, I can get one”!

Pte. Walker: “Can you do a deal on a GPO BSA? I may need one”!

Stan O’Blene: “Ooooh, I’m afraid you’ve got me there Joe, they’re protected vehicles you know, most of them were snapped up by the requisition boys recently! The GPO’s going back to pedal cycles again! (rubs hands) I can do you a Brough Superior, got one out the back, but it’ll cost you”!

Pte. Walker: “Blimey, I’m not made of money, haven’t you got anything smaller for about five quid”?

Stan O’Blene: (sharp intake of breath) “Not a lot, but I’ll keep my eye out for you. Call by tomorrow and I may be able to help”!

Pte. Walker: “Certainly will! Can I interest you in some copies of ‘Tit Bits’? Unused”?

Stan O’Blene: (quickly) “I’ll take a dozen; leave them round the back...”! (looks out of window with glazed expression on face)

Scene 6

(The Drill Hall. The Platoon is standing at attention).

Sgt Wilson: “Platoon! Er, At – er - ease don’t you know, just relax a bit”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (fuming aside to Wilson)“Wilson, you’re giving orders, not just lining up a ‘rugger team’ before ‘prep’! (to platoon) Now listen men, I have to report to Area Command about Sergeant Wilson’s missing motorbike. Has anyone got any news"?

Cpl. Jones: “Permission to speak Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes Jones, what is it”?

Cpl. Jones: “I’d like to be the first to report Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Right Corporal, what have you got”?

Cpl. Jones: “I’ve heard absolutely no news at all Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (exasperated) “Well why are you making a report then”?

Cpl. Jones: (smugly) “Walls have ears Sir! Careless talk costs lives”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (even more exasperated) “Yes I know all that Jones, but I’m asking you in confidence man! We’re a fighting force; welded to duty; united in defence! What can you report”!

Cpl. Jones: “Well Sir, nobody’s seen hide nor hair of Sergeant Wilson’s motorbike”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Is that it”! (turns to Wilson with despair written all over his face)

Cpl. Jones: “I have to report the truth Sir, if I said anything else, I’d be in trouble”!

Pte. Pike: “Mum says you’ve caused her an awful lot of bother, Uncle Arthur! She said you’re having your tea in the kitchen tomorrow”!

Pte Frazer: “Aye, that’s punishment enough these days”!

Pte Godfrey: “My sister Dolly likes to take tea in the summer house, it reminds her of her childhood! She met many a suitor there, and so did our ‘uncles’; most of them in fact”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Oh, this isn’t getting us anywhere! Wilson, have you heard anything at all”?

Sgt Wilson: “Not a dicky bird Sir, I really don’t know what to do next”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Not a ‘dicky bird’ Not a ‘dicky bird’! This is a serious matter of national importance Sergeant! We may all be arrested if we’re not careful”!

Pte. Walker: “I think I can help Captain Mainwaring”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “You Walker? What have you found out”?

Pte. Walker: “Well you know that new bicycle shop which has opened at the other end of the High Street; well, I met the new owner, Stan O’Blene, and he’s got something which may well suit Sergeant Wilson”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Oh, I’ve seen him; bit of a shady character that one; seems to be coughing all the time. Elizabeth went there to purchase a small nut and bolt for something, and he ended up selling her a new handlebar basket, three gallons of oil for a front lamp, and a footpump”!

Pte. Walker: “Sounds reasonable to me Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Nooo, not really, she hasn’t got a bicycle”!

Pte Frazer: “Well I think I know what’s happened to the wretched thing”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “You Frazer! Well what have you heard”?

Pte Frazer: “Well..., the requisitioning brigade has been lurking around this week! The hearse had to be hidden round the back away from prying eyes! There was a casket on the rollers”!

Cpl. Jones: “You’re right Frazer! They eyed up my van on Tuesday, and it still had a load of sausages in the back"!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Well, what did you do Corporal”?

Cpl. Jones: “I sold them a pound each sir, and also got rid of a lot of chit’lings which don’t sell well Sir”!

Pte Godfrey: “My sister Dolly cooks chitterlings on a slow stove; they’re delicious with a little French mustard and some of her home-baked bread”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (exasperated) “Godfrey; Jones, that’s enough! Now Wilson, it seems to me that your motorbike has been requisitioned, and you’ll probably not see it again! I can’t say I blame them, you should have kept it out of sight..."!

Pte Pike: (interrupts)“...like Mum said you should Uncle Arthur...”

Capt. Mainwaring: “...Quiet Pike! So, that’s probably the end of all this”!

Pte. Walker: (returning to his earlier statement) “I think I can get you another one though Sergeant. Stan O’Blene is making ordinary bikes work with alternative engines”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “What on earth are you talking about Walker! How does he do it”?

Pte. Walker: “Oh it’s quite simple Sir, he takes an ordinary bicycle, and fits a motor to the wheels”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “That’s a French idea isn’t it? Not sure I like the idea of their designs being used in England. They use them in places like Paris! Ooooh no, that sounds shady to me”!

Pte. Walker: “Well apparently, he’s invented a rechargeable motor which fits over the wheel, and drives the bike along”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Oh, this is preposterous! What do you mean by ‘rechargeable’ ? It’s a banking term! This man O’Blene isn’t the sort of person we want in Walmington, making – er - French things”!

Pte Pike: (giggling) “heugh heugh...”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (hopelessly) “Stupid boy”!

Pte. Walker: (continuing his piece) “Well anyway, you plug the connecting wire into the 15amp socket, and it makes the battery last for longer. You can then use it for a while, ride home, connect it to the mains and after a few hours, it’ll go for another few miles”!

Sgt Wilson: “Oh, you mean an electric device like the cars we used to have in Belgravia”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (mimicking Wilson) “’Belgravia’ – that snooty place! All money and no work! Doh, this is ridiculous! It sounds like something out of Jules Verne! I can’t see something like that ever working”!

Pte. Walker: “Well, he’s made several, and there’s an even bigger one with two motors! I can get it for you for five quid! No petrol coupons, dead easy to drive”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Look Wilson, you’ll have to find out more about this in your own time, speak to Walker afterwards, we’ve got a war to run”!

Sgt Wilson: “Yes of course Sir, we’ll chat later Joe”.

(scene fades)

Scene 7

(In the High Street, outside Stan O’Blene’s shop. Walker and Wilson arrive at the same time)

Sgt Wilson: “So what is all this Joe? I’ve never met the man before”!

Pte. Walker: “Well he may look a bit funny, and have some mad ideas, but he’s only doing the best he can under the circumstances! I’m selling him some talc for punctures – pongs a bit, but it was old stock from Timothy Whites before the war”!

Sgt Wilson: “Well, we’d better see what he’s got then”!

(they enter shop and a bell clanks)

Stan O’Blene: “Morning Joe! Morning Sir, how can I help”?

Pte. Walker: “Morning Stan; I want you to meet the gentleman who wants a motorbike”! (aside and behind his hand – usual commission – 10%! Stan nods)

Sgt Wilson: “Good Lord, you’ve got some of the Sturmey-Archer gears from before the war! We all had bikes with those on the estate”!

Stan O’Blene: “The very items Sir! Brand new and wanting a good home”!

Pte. Walker: “Well, Sergeant Wilson wants something with an engine actually Stan, one of your electric bicycles should do the trick”!

Stan O’Blene: “Oh, you mean the O’Blene Flyer! Well I definitely can help you there! Come out the back”! (shuffles off wearing carpet slippers, coughing all the time, towards the back of the shop)

Scene 8

(the yard at the back of Stan O’Blene’s shop)

Pte. Walker: “Blimey, you’ve got enough stuff here Stan”!

Stan O’Blene: “Oh, this is only some of it, the main shop is in Eastbourne”! (pokes around in a box of bicycle pieces, finds an electric cable, coughs, peers at it closely and wanders across to an odd looking bicycle, leaning up against a wheelbarrow)

Sgt Wilson: “Good Lord! What on earth’s that”!

Stan O’Blene: (proudly, and puffing up his chest) “That Sir, is the prototype ‘O’Blene Flyer – Mark 1’! It has two engines, one for each wheel”!

Pte. Walker: “Blimey, it is something from outer space”!

Stan O’Blene: (slightly hurt) “Well I wouldn’t put it like that Joe, (hastily) it really does go well, and costs nothing to run”!

Sgt Wilson: “Well I think it’s a splendid machine Stan! Er, how much do you want for it”?

Pte. Walker: (hastily) “Stan said you could have it for five quid Sergeant”! (winks at Stan)

Stan O’Blene: “That’s about it Sir! And I’ll throw in a spare wire for the electricity charger”!

Sgt Wilson: “Can I have a go first”?

Stan O’Blene: “Well of course! Just pedal as normal, then pull that switch there, (points) and you’ll start the engine! Goes like a dream! Not up to your Vincent speeds, but at least it costs nothing to run”!

(Wilson pedals off, flicks the switch, and the bicycle starts up. He vanishes into the High Street in a cloud of dust)

Pte. Walker: “Another satisfied customer Stan! We could sell a lot of these, you and me! Now, what about an engine on a bath chair for Dolly Godfrey”?

Apodeictic dittography...

2010-10-17T05:23:00.006+01:00

It's no use!

'Sergeant Wilson's motorbike' is taking much longer to write than I ever imagined!

I've had to scrub round the ecene in 'The Bells', where Captain Mainwaring has one over the eight, and sings 'Eskimo Nell' at the top of his voice, and upsets the Vicar.

Gone also is the bit where Private Pike experiences - er - feelings with the young blonde cashier at the bank, and has to go home early.

Scrapped - yes, SCRAPPED, is the hilarious scene where Hodges has to return to the hall to find his trousers!

It beggars belief that us case-hardened comedy writers (with a whole freshly edited blockbuster novel in the can; oven-ready for publication at the drop of a hat)*, can have so much on their plates that even the metaphors dry up!

I promise that it will be ready soon, and that's as good as a definite maybe isn't it?

*Morning Mr. Penguin! Any - er - news?

Interjacent essay...

2010-10-09T06:14:00.005+01:00

The intention was to write 'Sergeant Wilson's motorbike' (previous post), in two, or even more episodes, and run them consecutively. They would then culminate in the funniest, most ingenious ending you could ever read, which of course is a result that Scrobs always strives to do for his four readers!

Well, it hasn't been finished yet, because at the moment, Scrobs is bogged down with a few other things which seem to be taking up far too much time...

1) Ebay are offering a free weekend, and Mrs S has instructed me to get rid of (quite rightly as it happens) all my old Private Eye collection, because they smell, and also seem to be selling at around a quid each, and it takes ages getting the sale docs together...

2) I still have to work a full day, and some, to keep Scrobs Inc. striving for a payout in the middle future; we can't stop now, and we have got to recoup all the money squandered away by the ruinous nulabyrinthine 'Three Bs', (Blair, Brown and Balls)...

3) I still haven't cut the hedge...

4) We need to take out all the runner beans, tomatoes, cucumbers and courgettes, because they're almost finished...

5) I'm on tenterhooks, because (chuckles to self), I've just emailed a synopsis to Penguin Books, and, like about ten thousand other people who've written the one novel they all have in them, I'm expecting an email saying I'm going to have my name in lights and would I like as much money as J.K.Rowling...

6) There's a load of gardening to do at Mother-in-law's place...

7) We've just taken on an allotment and it already has a fine crop of three foot high couch grass, which seems to be getting sustenenance from the compost heaps of outer Sydney...

8) I've also got to write a post about Australia again, as there's been a fantastic development...

9) There's another post in the folder about 'Leicester story', which also threw up (not literally you understand), an interesting result...

10) I've almost finished automating my electric reciprocating saw, which is attached to a 'Workmate', (not Mrs S you understand) and is capable of cutting logs up to 5" thick...

11) We are spending ages picking the mushrooms at the Pinetum, because they are rife at the moment, and Mrs S has sprung a leak on her wellies which now need a patch...

So...

I'll be working on 'Sergeant Wilson's motorbike' during the early hours of each morning to ensure that the four readers can spend many hours in good humour, when it's eventually finished!

I just wanted to let you know this...

Sgt. Wilson's motorbike (part one)...

2010-10-03T21:21:00.006+01:00

Dad’s Army – Sergeant Wilson’s motorbike

Scene 1

(Walmington Home Guard (Vicar’s) Office. Captain Mainwaring is writing at his desk. He looks up at Sgt. Wilson.)

Capt. Mainwaring: “You feeling alright Wilson? You look distinctly pale! Anything wrong”?

Sgt. Wilson (mopping brow): “Yes I’m fine Sir, I really am - just a little - er - fraught at the moment”.

Capt. Mainwaring: (leaning back in his chair and fiddling with a pencil): “Oh? Really? Fraught? You can –er - tell me you know, I’m your friend and confidante as well as your commanding officer”!

Sgt. Wilson: “Yes I know Sir, that’s very good of you to enquire, but I assure you, I’ll be alright very soon”.

Capt. Mainwaring: (pausing, then leaning forward): “Wilson, I need you to help me run this Platoon. If you’re wandering around in a daze, it does nothing for the morale of the men, and I can’t have that”!

Sgt. Wilson: “Yes I know Sir - well - , there is something actually - er - don’t you know".

Capt. Mainwaring: (triumphantly) “I thought as much! I’m not an Officer and a bank manager for nothing you know! I earned these positions! (points to his right epaulette) Now come on, out with it; tell me what this is all about”!

Sgt. Wilson (resignedly and running fingers through his hair): “Well you see Sir, it’s like this - er - I’ve - er - lost my motorbike”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Lost your motorbike? What on earth happened? There’s a war on, you can’t just lose a motorbike”!

Sgt. Wilson: (waving his arm) “Well it’s gone, and I don’t know where it is at all. It’s all very distressing”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “Well where did you lose it then? Outside the bank? In Eastbourne? Where man”!

Sgt. Wilson: “Well it’s all a little embarrassing Sir, because it was parked outside Frank Pike’s house”.

Capt. Mainwaring: (leaning back in his chair and looking slightly bemused): “Pike’s house? But why, he’s been away hasn’t he? I gave ‘C’ Section 48 hours leave! When did you lose it then”?

Sgt. Wilson: “Last Sunday, you gave us the weekend off, yes, and Private Sponge took over the watch at Beachy Head”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “But how long were you there; half an hour, an hour? Not long enough for a thief to call by is it”?

Sgt. Wilson: “Well it was a little longer than that Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (pompously and losing his patience) “Wilson, as your Commanding Officer, I have to know! This is serious, and I don’t want the police coming round here asking questions! It might impinge on the bank, and there’d be hell to pay! How long were you there”?

Sgt. Wilson: “Well, it was actually all weekend Sir”! (looks away in embarrassment)

Capt. Mainwaring: “What; all Saturday and Sunday? For God’s sake man, what did you get up to for all that time?

Sgt. Wilson: “Well Mavis – Mrs Pike, needed some work done around the house. She needed an extra pair of hands, taking a few things down, and putting things – er - up, you know - and I – er - said I’d help out”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “Why couldn’t Pike do it then; he’s mended a few things at the bank, and knows a little about carpentry, well, what he learned at school that is – probably better at that than financial matters”.

Sgt. Wilson: “Well Sir, he wasn’t there was he; he was away at camp with the Scouts".

Capt. Mainwaring: (beginning to understand at last) “Oooooooh I see! Hmmm. Look Wilson, er - I’m a man of the world, but this has got to stop you know! We’re a finely honed fighting force, ready to take on Hitler’s hordes, and we can’t carry out our duties if half the platoon is – er - carrying on this way”!

Sgt. Wilson: “I know Sir, but Mrs Pike was desperate for someone to see to her curtain rails. The blackout curtains were only nailed up by Pike, and were letting in the light! Warden Hodges had been very rude and threatened her with arrest! He’s an awful man I know, but he was always looking for lights showing through. He spent a long time peering though the gaps with that awful grin of his! So, anyway, she asked me round to help”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Well, it doesn’t take that long to fit a few curtains, let alone what else you got up to! And, oh my God, I’ve just realised; there’s another problem! Was your motorbike disabled while you were – er –er – putting things up inside her house”?

Sgt. Wilson: “No, I lost the ignition key years ago, so I use a paperclip”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (fuming) “A paperclip! This is disastrous Wilson! It could have been a Nazi spy poking around! HQ will ask questions and I won’t have any answers! You’ve done it this time man”!

Sgt Wilson: (fiddling with a piece of paper on the desk) “Yes Sir, I know, I’m terribly sorry Sir, it’s all very worrying”.

(there’s a knock on the door which opens and Cpl. Jones marches into the room and salutes into various directions, eventually facing Capt. Mainwaring. He salutes him twice, and then salutes Sgt. Wilson, does a complete turn, looks bewildered, starts for the door again, realises he’s facing the wrong way and returns to face Capt. Mainwaring).

Cpl. Jones “The men are fell in Sir and awaiting your countenance with expectancy”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes thank you Corporal, return to the ranks and we’ll be out shortly”!

Cpl. Jones “Right Sir, thank you Sir”! (starts saluting everywhere again and eventually reaches the door, and goes out to the hall)

Capt. Mainwaring: (thoughtfully, after a long pause) “Listen Wilson, I’m going to stick my neck out for you”.

Sgt. Wilson: “Oh, that’s awfully kind of you Sir; what do you have in mind”?

Capt. Mainwaring: “I’m going to get the platoon out on patrol and look for it! Simple as that! What sort of motorbike is it”?

Sgt. Wilson: “It’s a BSA Sir. A lovely 500cc machine, I bought it from the Post Office Garage for £4.7s.6d before the war! It’s very fast. We drove at nearly fifty miles an hour on the Old Downs road near Eastbourne last summer”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (smugly) “Oh yes? Fancy yourself as a latter day Lawrence of Arabia don’t you? Tearing round the country at high speed, with hair blowing in the wind! You public school people are always trying to get one over us chaps who had it hard”!

Sgt. Wilson: “Oh come, come Sir, it’s only a motorbike, not a Rolls Royce; (regretfully) although my governess used to take me out in the family Rolls saloon on picnics when I was very small”!

Capt. Mainwaring: (wistfully and not listening, and fiddling with a pencil) “Elizabeth didn’t ever like riding on a motorbike you know. She was a skilled horsewoman when she was a young girl you see. She said that it was unnatural sitting astride something that throbbed like that”! (stares at nothing out of the window)

Sgt. Wilson: “Well I don’t want to cause any trouble you know Sir, but if anyone’s seen it, I’d like it back at some stage”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “Trust me Wilson, I’ll get to the bottom of this! Fall the men in”!

Scene 2

(The Drill Hall. The Platoon is standing at ease)

Sgt. Wilson: “Platoon! Platoon ‘shun! Bit quicker Jonesy, if you can”.

Capt. Mainwaring: “Now listen men, I have to report a very serious matter, which will need all our skills and local knowledge”!

Cpl. Jones: “Permission to speak Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes Jones, what is it”?

Cpl. Jones: “I would like to volunteer my skills, and local knowledge, for your serious matter Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “But you don’t know what I want to ask yet Jones! This involves National Security! We may have to be asked to explain ourselves at High Command”!

Cpl. Jones: “Then I’d like to volunteer to not know what you need local skills and knowledge for Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Jones – er - just wait a moment will you, (aside) Wilson, I have to tell them a little more you know, just be prepared to answer – er – any questions as you see fit”!

Pte. Frazer “Permission to speak Sir, if it’s anything to do with the hearse being parked on the crossroads; that was my fault! It ran out of petrol and I’ve run out of coupons”!

Pte. Walker “I can let you have some Taffy! Cost you five bob, no questions asked".

Capt. Mainwaring: “Walker! Frazer! That’s enough! No, it’s not about that, although – er - parking has got something to do with it”! (Looks haughtily at Wilson, and sniffs) There you see Wilson, I knew I’d get the men round to the subject in hand pretty quickly, its leadership you know! (To all) Now listen men, I have a delicate matter to discuss with you, and it has to stay within these four walls. (everyone cranes to listen to the announcement) One of our essential pieces of fighting equipment has gone missing”.

Cpl. Jones: “Permission to speak Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes Jones, What is it”?

Cpl. Jones: “I’d like to volunteer to search for our missing vital, important and essential equipment Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes thank you Jones, we may need your van at some stage, but everyone must take this information very seriously. Now gather round please, we don’t want Hodges or any of the Vicar’s staff listening in”.

(everyone crowds round Capt. Mainwaring and he emerges with glasses askew and in general disarray).

Cpl. Jones: (from the bottom of the scrum) “The men are gathered round in secret Sir”!

Capt. Mainwaring: “Yes I’d noticed Jones! Now men, (quietly) Sergeant Wilson has had his motorbike stolen”!

(There is an embarrassed hush, followed by a few of the platoon muttering and looking at each other with questioning faces).

Pte. Frazer “Well Sir, so what”?

Capt. Mainwaring: “So What Frazer? This is a huge problem for us all! These vehicles are a major part of our armoury, and we are responsible for everything within our control, which can be used in the event of invasion”!

Pte. Pike “Is that the motorbike that you and Mum ride about on Uncle Arthur”?

Sgt. Wilson: “Yes it is Frank, have you seen it”?

Pte. Pike “No, but when you come round for your tea, Mum always asks me to put it round the back, so it won’t get seen”!

Sgt. Wilson: (hastily) “Yes Frank but this time it was out on the road”!

Pte. Pike “But I didn’t see it, did you see it Mr Godfrey”?

Capt. Mainwaring: “Er – Pike, just be told that it was near your house when it went missing”!

Pte. Godfrey “My sister Dolly used to have a motorbike with a sidecar. It was Rudge Sports. She called it Boadicea, and we used to keep a posy of wild flowers in a little metal cup attached to the sidecar’s windscreen”.

Cpl. Jones “When we were in the Sudan, we used to have despatch riders on Royal Enfields. And one day, one appeared on the horizon in a cloud of dust, and we could see him from about three miles away! And we saw him getting closer and closer, and all the time, the dust cloud was getting bigger and bigger, until just a few yards away from us, he vanished from sight”!

Pte. Walker “What happened then Jonesy”?

Cpl. Jones “He drove straight into our trench and killed himself”!

...to be continued.

Red Ed - a chemical analysis...

2010-09-29T06:36:00.002+01:00

Red Ediesel fuel is only slightly different chemically from regular automotive diesel fuel, but there can be a significant difference in cost. The cheaper Red Ediesel fuel could conceivably work in place of the more expensive automotive diesel fuel, but that would defeat the purpose of a fuel tax. In order to ensure that home heating oil, which is minimally taxed, is not used as diesel fuel, which can be heavily taxed, revenue agents require home heating oil to receive a special red dye. This liquid red dye can be detected in even the smallest samples taken for examination.

Using Red Ediesel for reasons other than home heating is generally considered a criminal act, since the buyer did not pay the proper tax for regular diesel fuel. If there is reasonable cause to inspect a vehicle's fuel tank or storage tank, inspectors can quickly and conclusively identify the presence of red diesel and take appropriate action against the offender. Without the creation of red diesel, it would take a trained chemist to differentiate between home heating oil and automotive diesel fuel.

Different countries use different solvent dyes to create their Red E-diesel, but the purpose is generally the same. The dye has no negative effects on the fuel itself, but it does allow revenue agents to determine at a glance if a violation has occurred.

Hat tip: http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-red-diesel.htm

Leicester story...

2010-09-25T05:33:00.007+01:00

There have only been a few times in my short life when Leicester has been a place I really thought about. This is definitely not knocking the place, quite the opposite actually, but when you've spent your formative years in the South, and a few in South Wales, it seems that anywhere further North will crop up one day, but it's not actually pencilled in the diary yet...

1) My flatmate went there in 1969 for an appointment to sell plywood cases to a funeral business.
2) I met Peter Wheeler at a rugby club dinner in 1988.
3) I also have a good business chum who was a stalwart of the 'Tigers'.
4) I was at school with a chum named Taylor, and he came from Leicester.

Er... that's about it - until last week.

As the three people who read this know, I'm an inveterate recaller of useless things, rather like all the characters in 'Last of the summer wine' but not actually finishing up in the river with shrieks and hoots of laughter as the music squeaks and bangs onto the next programme.

Since the nineteen sixties, I've had a song in my ol' grey head which I've never been able to find again. The bass line - even now, was repetitive, and bound to stick in the mind, as it has done for all those years. I still find my self humming it!

I was convinced Youtube would come up trumps, but nooooo. Even Itunes - your kidding aren't you... (you couldn't even get 'The Wall', by Pink Floyd until only recently), said 'no cigar'. And Google failed me for ages, until that is, I spelt the name of the band differently. You see, the song was a 'Fab Forty' hit on Radio London, and Tony Blackburn, Dave Cash, John Peel et al, were knocking these songs out with a lot of fun. 'Big L' really was required listening back then, unless you wanted to listen to David Jacobs and Pete Murray...

'And I cry', by 'The Four Sights', (I was searching for 'The Forsytes') as I've just been finding out, was actually up there with the rest of the big names back then, and the song was very popular on the pirate stations, as well as, presumably, in the clubs and pubs of Leicester! The band members were obviously well-established accomplished musicians and it was a good sound, and, although one member seems to have departed this mortal coil, the others should well be hale and hearty, although, like me, in their sixth decade and feeling the aches and pains more than somewhat.

The big search found this man - Lyn Nuttall, from Queensland, Australia, who has a website which seems to cover just about every piece of music ever performed! All I did was vaguely mention to him that I'd found a picture of a demo disc of the song, and he came back immediately with so much information, that it took me an hour to figure it all out! Thank you so much 'Young Man', your archive is incredible!

I won't steal Lyn's thunder from his side of the story, (he knows an awful lot more detail), but in the link here, you'll see so much about the band members, and a lot more besides!

What is so good, is that if you click on the MP3 link, you'll understand why Scrobs is wandering about with a huge smile on his face...

Hat Tip - Mr Nuttall, Australian Extraordinaire! and also, if he has a few minutes to flick back a couple of posts to the Rock Robin post, I hope he'll see how much this all means to a greyish guy in Kent, wondering what to search for next...

Sounds about right to me...

2010-09-21T06:39:00.000+01:00

Let's put the Seniors in jail (if they want to go that is), and the criminals in a nursing home, (whether they want to go or not).

This way the Seniors would have access to showers, hobbies and walks, they'd receive unlimited free prescriptions, dental and medical treatment, wheel chairs, etc. They would have constant video monitoring, so they could be helped instantly if they fell over or needed assistance.

Bedding would be washed twice a week and all clothing would be ironed and returned to them, and a guard/orderly would check on them every half hour or so and bring their meals and snacks to their cell/room.

They would have family visits in a suite built for that purpose. They would have access to a library, excercise room, spiritual help if they want it, a swimming pool and enlightening education. They'd be given free simple, comfortable clothes, and legal aid would be free, on request. Private, secure rooms would be designed for all, with an exercise outdoor yard and gardens - including a kitchen garden for those who still yearn for the good life...

Each senior could have a computer, TV, Radio, and daily phone calls. There would be a board of directors, to hear complaints, and the guards/nurses would have a code of conduct, that would be strictly adhered to.

The criminals on the other hand, would get cold food, be left all alone and unsupervised, and unwanted. They'd have their lights turned off at 8pm, and a bath once a week. They'd live in a tiny room for the rest of their lives, and have no hope of ever getting out.

And they'd have to pay £5,000.00 per month for the privilege.