Hellfire...

Mrs S. has become very adept at growing chilli peppers this year...

Over the last few years, she's experimented with growing our own, saving seed from various types and planting them with interesting results. This year, she went the whole hog and bought some serious 'heat' to see what happened...

Hellfire...!!!

That's what's happened; they are fantastic, and becoming very addictive! I didn't know until I read Annie Hawes' fabulous book, 'Extra Virgin', and the sequel, that peppers become a necessity in much of the Italian (and presumably the rest of the Mediterranean) diet! They can then become addictive, they're pretty good for the system and, presumably, the 'Ring of Fire' is a by-product...

I spent a whole day in a darkened room recovering from peeling one of these, and accidentally touched a spare eyelid. Absolute agony, and it even hurt the next day, although it was well worth the pain.

Mrs S. instructs me, (from behind an Atomic Bomb shelter with eight inch glass) to decant the ordinary olive oil into a special bottle with pourer (thanks to the King of Oil, 'Tuscs', it is a great pourer still...), and then the heat builds up!

And up...

And up...!

They apparently become a serious habit, because the desire to try something hotter/stronger takes over, and eventually, you get to a point where only the most volcanic will do, and even then, that's not enough!

You'd think I'd just stick to red wine wouldn't you, but there again, on the downside, we've had a problem with the poor old tomatoes.



Late blight (here, this is what you look like you bastards...") has struck with a vengeance. We've lost about 25 plants, and only saved a few pounds of toms from them! It is the same strain which brought Ireland to it's knees, helped of course by the government and the landowners...

Nonetheless, we'd planted loads more, spread all over the Turrets Estate, and they'll keep us in the buggers for a few weeks yet...

Next year...plans already afoot...

"I saw Trubes standing there..."

Trubes' word is her bond, and she's posted a marvellous one here - you lucky Girl...!.

When I was at school, we formed "The Bootles", and learned every song the real Beatles had done up to then - 1964! It really was a great time to play a guitar, and not many of us had one surpisingly. As you can see if you peer closely at the pic, the black steel bedsteads and total lack of comforts were 'de rigeur' in dormitories like this, and this was one of the better ones! But it was the place to practise - and so we did. For ages. And every weekend.

My guitar had cost £7-10s-0d new (proceeds of holiday work on the hop farms in the summer...), Simon's was second-hand at a few quid, and Henry (second from left), drummed on a cardboard box, which was actually a surprisingly good sound. Warwick was actually our friend who actually didn't do much, except tap his feet and hum a bit, so we made him - er - 'Manager...'!

So Trubes, here are the Fab Four who didn't quite make it to 'The Cavern', and I'll dedicate it to you, as long as you'll tip your rather smart hat to Simon R-M, Henry T, and Warwick W.D., without whom, I'd never have persevered...

(I'm on the right wearing the only pullover we were allowed out of regulation Harris Tweed jackets and the rest of the thornproof uniform. Simon (on the left), is wearing jeans on pain of death (after prefectural mutilation and public humiliation...)

Good Guys.

Leg over...

It seems that 'legs' have become quite an interesting subject of late. I suppose I'm interested because I am an unashamed 'Leg Man', and continually admire the shapely, well-turned limbs of girls like Lils, (adorned my garden seat), Pips (we've seen them Pips; you showed us...), Trubes, (whose legs apparently go up to her armpits), Apricers, Hats, Mrs Elecs, Merms et al.

Iders' legs have started a huge fan club, and even Tuscs commented on the apparel, so this is a subject where I'm going to bound in, and swing my arms about!



These legs (shown with huge plaster casts c1955), have had the following atrocities visited on them...

1) Op as above (both broken and re-pinned to cease OLDS (One Legged Duck Syndrome). Seven massive stitches in each one, plus eight scaffolding pin holes big enough to hide a small garden implement.
2) Broken knee cap from crashing Lambretta in 1965. (My fault, but it was raining).
3) Torn cruciate ligaments, (rugby injury while falling in hole on Lewes RFC's first's pitch).
4) Two stitches after bad cut on a hop bine ground anchor, while playing hide and seek years ago...
5) Several stitches in each knee from same Lambretta incident.
6) Schlatters disease in one of them (can't remember which one), meaning six weeks in plaster and much ridicule! (Also a bit of a pong, as I couldn't shower...)
7) Varicose vein repair, when they used to stick them with some gunk and keep you swathed in a tight stocking for six weeks, and make you walk three miles a day).
8) Trendelenburg 'rip-out' of said veins when the glueing didn't work...
9) Septicaemia from an unknown invasion of something or other again after a rugby game, probably at St Mary's field, Bexhill; it was built on an old tip...
10 Lacerations (bloody great long ones) from yet another rugby game at The Polegrove, Bexhill, during the hottest autumn in living memory.

and...

11) Two nipped toes courtesy of JRT, who gets a bit excited when I'm wandering about in sandals...

So, you can see that the title, to commemorate what could well be an historic day's cricket, coupled with a few anecdotes from the Scrob archives, is the most apt for the moment. I couldn't think of anything else...

Paul's early mobile...UPDATE...

I've only ever seen Paul McCartney in the flesh on one occasion, and that was a few years ago in Rye. He sometimes gets in the local pubs near here, and nobody really makes life difficult for him, (except possibly the local council, but they can piss anyone off at the drop of a hat), which is an agreeable situation all round.

He's done quite a lot for the local community too - especially the hospital, and he gets a good welcome generally.

When Mrs S and I were taking the air in Rye, up near the church where we were married ages ago, there was Himself, with a mobile glued to his ear, and not really making any issue with life, which made us all feel pretty good.

What really made me sit up though, that this picture here was taken years before mobile phones were invented, or even thought of!

Just shows what a few lyrics and a funny looking bass can do for one, and why not indeed...

UPDATE...While I'm up in the roof looking for Mrs S's MONO copies of her Beatles LPs, can we please just make this a general Beatles discussion, as it saves me all the hassle of thinking of another inane subject to bore everyone with?

This is all down to Lakes!

I thank you...

and have a nice day...

Another fighting story...

Tarfers (Old Tarf...), Iders (Iders) and a few more, are all getting understandably energised about the failure of our miserable politicians' "work" in running the war in Afghanistan.

When I was a kid, we'd only just finished WW2 a few years before, and my Dad was still on reserve. When Suez cropped up, he told me once, while we were in the garden, that he might have to go and fight the enemy again. This made me look down at the ground a bit, and hope that he was wrong...

The pic shows Mum and Dad working on the same flower bed where he told me how he'd possibly be gone tomorrow - his bag was already packed!

So, to complete the nostalgia, I reckon that a visit to another song about yet another war just forty years before this worrying time in my little life, is beautifully described by Mike Harding here and still makes me think a bit...

(Listen to the song too - it's powerful...)

Scrobs to charge for views...

The Grauniad has just reported that Murdoch's papers will soon charge for viewing on line.

So this means that I'll have to pay to read 'The Sun' and 'The News Of the World', from now on, as well as 'The Times' of course. (I willingly pay to read The Wall Street Journal already, because I can easily do the 'Terminally wretched' Sudoku in about 8 minutes...)

Well, Rupert, (may I call you 'Roo'?) I agree whole-heartedly that we are getting far too much for nothing these days, and a nominal charge per click - say five pence, will ensure that everybody can read the news displayed by your excellent organs knowing full well that the money will go to a good cause, and we don't ever have to worry again about stories reaching the public, because, like the BBC, our payments will cover every eventuality, free from political interference!

In fact, this will mean the end of all blogs as we know them, because everyone will rush to spend as much money as possible on Murdoch sites to pay for such information! There may well be another run on the banks for cash to throw at these papers. Almost certainly, Gordon Bruin will tax everyone for some unknown reason!

And so, the Board of Scroblene Enterprises has recommended that we charge per view of this blog, with immediate effect. The move has already been voted on, and JRT has indicated her agreement by biting the hand that feeds it...

Tariff: -

One page view - £1 per session
Two page views - £5 per session
One comment - £20 per line
Two comments - £50 per word
Three comments - £100 per syllable
Anon comments - £500 per letter
Bad spelling, sloppy wording - £1000 per event
Rudeness - £10,000 per insult
Foul language - £100,000 per expletive
Dirtiness/nastiness - £500,000 per bit of filth

and...

Boring stories about politicians shagging, celebs bonking, footballers punching waifs, town halls skiving, politicians punching waifs, celebs bonking footballers, town halls shagging footballers, shaggers waifing politicians, waifs bonking town hall footballers with politicians and celebs at both ends...five times a night

well...

you tell me...

Boom boom...

At last Gordon Brown decided to throw in the towel and resign.

His cabinet colleagues decided it would be a worthy gesture to name a railway locomotive after him. So a senior 'Sir Humphrey' went from Whitehall to the National Railway Museum at York, to investigate the possibilities.

"They have a number of locomotives at the NRM without names," a specially-sought consultant told the top civil servant. "Mostly freight locomotives though."

"Oh dear, that's not very fitting for a prime minister," said Sir Humphrey. "How about that big green one, over there?" he said, pointing to 4472.

"That's already got a name" said the consultant. "It's called 'Flying Scotsman'."

"Oh. Couldn't it be renamed?" asked Sir Humphrey. "This is a national museum after all, funded by the taxpayer."

"I suppose it might be considered," said the consultant. "After all the LNER renamed a number of their locomotives after directors of the company, and even renamed one of them Dwight D. Eisenhower."

"That's excellent", said Sir Humphrey, "So that's settled then, let's look at renaming 4472. But how much will it cost? We can't spend too much, given the expenses scandal!"

Well, said the consultant, "We could always just paint out the 'F'."