How many black labradors does it take to change a light bulb?
Oohlightbulbsthey'remyfavouritecanIchaseonewillyouthrowsticksformegotadogbiscuitinyourpocketIlikemudlookthere'sanotherdogwonderwhatitsmellslikearewegoingwalkieswhatisthatthingthereforcanIeatitwonderifthatwomanhassandwichesinthatbagbetshe'dletmehaveonewhatanintersetingsmellonthispost...
etcetcetc...
H/T Hamstergbert
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Friday, 18 November 2011
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Travel Tips No 5. 'Buchan's Hole', a village to linger in, then move on...
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!
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!
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Obit by popular request...
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
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
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