Grandad...

Scrobs is a normal bloke.

Being the latest exulted member of the cultural experts of Martin Scriblerus, I'm enabled to see the writings of many posters, who are far more interesting than me, but I wish to bring the attention to everyone who knows this ol' grey head, to Grandad's site.

He's having a crap time. Herself is in need of care, in a bed, far away from her home, his dear dog Penny ended her days last week, and now he's got some serious decisions to make about how he's going to deal with the next several weeks.

Throughout today, I've felt really miserable about our friend's predicament - it could suddenly occur with any of us, but about now, at an age when things can sometimes start to go wrong, I want to be with the guy, chat with him, have a glass of whiskey with him,  and generally do what old Scrobs do under the circumstances.

I've cried for you today, Grandad, you have to beat the shit out of all this...

Painted green...

Around 1973, soon after Scrobs and Senora O'Blene plighted their various troths, the rugby club was becoming second, or even ninth in our lifestyles, and pretty soon I would be giving up the game...

But around then, as the club still had a thriving singing culture after each match, we decided to prepare a 'cabaret' for the Annual Ball. I had several friends who wanted to contribute, so around seven of us collected a script of some sort which included a few songs as well!

One chum was a Welsh teacher, and as he was a big fan of Max Boyce, he knew all the words to his songs! We incorporated several of these songs in the programme, and one particular song has always stuck out in this ol' grey head, as I've never heard it sung live - still haven't in fact...

But I've only just found the actual words we used!

Thanks to Will Garood, he has reproduced the whole song HERE and I can now remember the lines in all their glory, with my 12 string guitar belting out the chords, and a bunch of drunken hooligans my fellow troubadours singing their hearts out!

My chum Paul, tactfully avoided explaining why, as the comments show on Will's piece, that one of the lines wasn't as printed at the end of the first verse, they were supposed to be as Maldwyn said in the comments!

So you can see why I never understood that line, and now I know!

(Actually, I still have the original script, all crossed out and altered, and without the words to the songs sadly, together with a reel-to-reel tape copy of the dress rehearsal, all wrapped up in the roof...)

.......................................

Thank you Will, I hope you don't mind me crediting you with this gem!

The stuff of life...

 

I don't really know why, but of late, I've been buying bread, and instead of just using it until it gets a bit stale, I've been freezing it in four-slice bags and taking them out as we need them.

A loaf of Hovis costs around £1.40, and that works out at around 7p a slice. If anyone had told me when I was a kid, that each sandwich with the butter and a bit of cheese I devoured would be costing around seven bob in old money in the future, I'd never have believed them!

So probably, I do know why I freeze those crumbs...

Nature in aspic...

Scrobs was wandering about his local churchyard with Little Big Dog the other day.

The small walk, (the afternoon one, after the prandials and a couple of tilts at the Elderberry), often takes me through this delightful area of tranquility, reverence and death...

But this year, the Vicar has lost his mowing man, who'd do the whole lot in a day, and moan, grumble  and curse all the time he was doing it, and also the lady who deals with the newer graves for burnt people has retired, so the whole shebang is a riot of beautiful wild flowers and grasses!

The picture above shows the proliference of the Virgin's Daisies - a common flower from Victorian times - and maybe not so prevalent now!

One can spot - with some difficulty no less, the Nargwort, which protudes from the cracks in the several grave chests, and creates a rather unpleasant, musty smell when touched, or weed on by said dog, which causes a long leg-cocking and a small woof.

If one looks closely, the casual observer can spot a rare specimen of the Bishop's Fingernail, an insignificant purple flower, prone to decay within minutes of a BBC 'naturewatch' broadcast, and nearby, there will certainly be a Shepherdess Cornwallage - which was a flower associated with the  girls in the fields during the mating season, and is a pretty sight, as long as one doesn't look at the teeth of the iridescent blooms!

One must, however, avoid the spectacle of the Blackened Scumblinge! This hovers around the shady areas of the plague-pit in the corner of the churchyard. It's recognised that anyone who even touches these leaves will contract the bubonics, and die before reaching the Ford Kuga parked outside!

Once one has negotiated the slippery brick paths, and avoided the lawyers gasping for compensation on account of your fall, you'll emerge from the churchyard, refreshed, but seemingly afloat from the smell coming from the compost heap, where everyone chucks the poo bags from previous doggy elements of canine bodily extraction...

Other than that, the walk is exquisite, and on meeting other visitors, one can easily discuss the weather, Leeds United, The Common Market and why the Daily Mail publishes eighty-seven articles about two lost and rather boring ex-royals in every edition of their rag!

 

Big bangers and a large pint...

Continuing the musical 'bent' of the last post, another track from the past keeps filtering into the ol' grey matter...

Back in the sixties, Scrobs was working in Old Queen Street, just off Birdcage Walk, in Westminster. It was a strange place to have an office, and it was rumoured that the Fabian Society began their shenanigans in the top floor, and the actual room was listed!

But further down the stairs, we all worked quite hard, and several friends were made in the process. One of the schemes we had on was surveying 'The Feathers' pub in Westminster.

Many an undisturbed and friendly pint and several of those long sausages were taken in this place, and a good time was had by all on many occasions! It was also one of the first pubs to have a new innovation, a 'plasma screen' on the wall, which seemed to vibrate and fizz in time with the music! The song above figured on every occasion, and the psychedelic colours bightened up the big bar with quite some intensity!

The whole experience was marvellous, and we didn't even know that half of Scotland Yard's finest, from just a few yards away, would also be sitting among us, with ears and eyes a-kimbo...

Rim shots...

 

Just recently, this track has been featuring on my Spotify account, as I still think it is one of the best drum solos I've ever heard!

Tony Meehan opened up all sorts of new drum rhythms, and I well remember the bass line, by Jet Harris, (and not all that complicated), thundering through the floorboards of the rooms downstairs at school!

One of my school chums was a pretty good drummer, and he explained to me how rim-shots were made. In basic terms, the stick is allowed to hit both the rim of the drum, and the drum-skin at the same time, giving a sharp staccato sound which adds variability to the general output of the operation.

It seems to me, that Meehan was doing an awful lot of these here, and I just love it all!

Some years ago, I was working in the garage with the radio on, listening to Invicta Radio, and the presenter had a competition going about identifying short sections of records. This piece came on and I half-hearted ly muttered the title I knew so well. He kept on playing it as nobody was ringing in with the answer, so in desperation, I ran indoors and rang him up!

The upshot was, that I immediately went on air with the answer, and had a few seconds friendly discussion with the chap, who promised me a prize and a request next time he was on!

Now wasn't that a nice little story! The prize was a decent LP of the Three Tenors, and lots of publicity stuff for the station! My request was 'All around my hat' by Steeleye Span, as back then it was on daily, and I just thought it was the right track which I liked too!

Goosnargh, Guernsey and High Offley...

Some time ago, Scrobs wrote a short piece about this hilarious book.

I still read bits when I spot it on the shelves, and only recently bought an updated copy with some new entries!

The three place names in the title here, relate to food left in the fridge...

• Goosnargh - Something left over from preparing or eating a meal, which you store in the fridge despite the fact that you know full well that you will never use it.
• Guernsey - Queasy but unbowed. The kind of feeling one gets when discovering a plastic compartment in a fridge in which things are growing, usually fertilized by copious quantities of goosnargh.
• High Offley - Goosnargh three weeks later.

Just recently, I bought an air fryer, as my daughter showed me her machine, and I was immediately hooked on all the possibilities! The opportunities for speedy cooking and fabulous chips etc., are outstanding, and I've been experimenting daily with all sorts of recipes!

The trouble is, that Senora O'Blene eats like a bird these days, so the leftover food piles up in the fridge, and I have to take a serious inventory of the flans, sausages etc., which are crowding the shelves!

The three place names above are beginning to make sense, but of course, I have absolutely no wish to denigrate their presence in our Sainted Isles...

But the whole volume is utterly hilarious, and well worth a place on any book shelf!