Tuesday, 27 December 2016

Ooooh BUQQER...

Just to keep everyone up to speed, Basil Kalashnikov has called a snap election to be held pretty damn soon...

Nobody has a clue what he's on about, or just what he is 'on' (probably Shep's 'Old Nasty - 6.7% - Ed), but an email arrived on the PC of  Ms Emily D'Artagnan-Minge only yesterday, while she was dusting the Waitrose Digestive Halal Christmas Pudding, to remove the detritus of the previous evening's shenanigans, where PC Lumbersnatch had to leave the bosom(s) of his lamentable family and intervene, and the glass recycling box near Miss Newt's abode had to experience an emergency disgorging.

Your correspondent doesn't know which way to turn on this issue, as both the editor and also his squeeze, Charlene Faqdefarno  are indisposed at this present time, indulging in a new Ipad game, called something like 'Spot the Corbyn'!

Just as an aside. has anyone here noticed that all the Christmas cards sent to Ms Billary's address have been returned unopened, and marked 'RETURN TO SENDER'?

No neither have I...

Sunday, 18 December 2016

Chrimbo time...

Senator and Madame O'Blene
Elias and Gloriette Sagtrouser
Meccano and Toniatelline 
Quentin ffoxley-Cabbage
Miss Amelia Newt and her partner Ron Groat
Basil Kalashnikov
Sid Trumpet
PC Lumbersnatch

All send the two good readers here their warmest felicitations for a great Christmas.

Ms Billary will be sending cards by post as she has lost Willy Clinchton's hard drive! (or he's lost it or it may be on a floppy somewhere).

Saturday, 10 December 2016

Big high 'Hoover'...

The Falling Leaves

Related Poem Content Details

November 1915
Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.

We had our gutters cleaned out yesterday. At this time of year, we're bombarded by a ton of sycamore and ash seeds, and also nearly every oak tree within a hundred yards...

Saturday, 3 December 2016

Small uproar in Poorman, nobody really interested...

There was uproar in Poorman-on-Rhine's by-election, when a nobody called something like Susan Oxney became Sodden Prickney ward's elected member for something or other.

The Lob-Dum contender  had long campaigned for leaving the GLC's deplorable record on some sort of issue, mainly understood by three members of a sort of committee, mainly at the discretion of Basil Kalashnikov, and also she said that she supported some sort of vote for staying in the EU (they haven't - Ed).

So Ms Sissie Oberon had to talk to a proper person on the wireless, and found that she really didn't want the 'job' after all, and so her son grabbed the microphone and uttered the famous words 'Ok yaaaaah, we're orf down the wine baaaaar, so sucks to you lot, OK'!

This outraged Timmy Flange, who is supposed to be some sort of leader in the little party, he squeaked long and hard at proper people who definitely didn't understand that they were voting for a silly little girl, and not Zonk Silversmith!

But that's politics for you folks!

Who really gives a flying fuck!

Wednesday, 30 November 2016

Has-beens attack Brexit, not many take notice...

While Basil Kalashnikov was on holiday in North Korea, two forgotten old farts from his parish council days decided to try and develop a 'coup', by endangering Miss Newt's landlord, Sid Trumpet, and getting the postcards and letters counted again.

There was uproar in the council chamber, as Edwin A. Loser (shown left) raised a high nasal sneer at everyone who voted for Mr Trumpet and said he wished he could try and be chairman again. His chum, Tone 'Dodger' Tossier, agreed, and they both sang and danced a quadrille while chanting some sort of anthem while nobody took much notice.

Most of the village stayed at home, preferring to watch re-runs of 'Breakback Mountain biking' with sub-titles.

Sunday, 20 November 2016

The Great Race...

The film, not the recent US Presidential race...

As Mrs O'Blene and I watched one of our favourite films again last evening, 'The Great Race', with Jack Lemmon, Natalie Wood and Tony Curtis, and in between absolute hoots of laughter, we suddenly realised that the cars all had their steering wheels on the right!

This was news to me, so I had to find out if it was one of Blake Edwards' merry japes, or a true fact!

It is indeed the latter, as the pic above shows, and here's the link to more info...

Every time I've tried to drive a left-hand drive  manual-gearbox car, I've managed to change from 1st to top in one easy swipe on many occasions, but that's another story!

Sunday, 13 November 2016

The idylls of Basil Kalashnikov...

Well, as mentioned by one of our best bloggers earlier this week, 'Bugger me'!

Mr Kalshnikov has been raging and shrieking to nobody in particular, why he wanted to have Ms Billary on his table (not literally I hope - Ed), and that now she has been kicked out, he has to put up with Mr Trumpet and his lovely wife, who accompanies him everywhere, and irons his socks!

Mr Trumpet has always argued that the bus lay-by issue wouldn't ever go away, well, not until next Thursday anyway, and now he is on the Wongs and Mains Committee, he can do what he damn well likes can't he! Mrs Trumpet has already ordered a new suit from Poundland, and says she is looking forward to Christmas as well, when Mr Trumpet has offered to take her on a cruise to somewhere or other, on his yacht, which is a second-hand version of the 'Saint Philip Green', another floating gin-palace.

PC Lumbersnatch burst into tears, at the news of Sid Trumpet's enormous vote, as did all the other luvvies, out of work actors, bad singers and crap bands, who rely on the sort of people like Ms Billary and 'Willy' Clinchton for making them rich, even though they have no talent!

For consolation, Mr Clinchton took Ms Billary back to his small home in Emmerdale, and she microwaved him his favourite dinner of grits, biscuits and gravy, and afterwards, he gave her an old pendant, but only once.

So everyone else is to blame for the Billary fiasco aren't they! Directly the small yob clique in the village heard via their various thickphones, they broke the local bus shelter and shouted at everyone who doesn't drink lager.

Sid Trumpet took a call from Mr Kalashnikov, but couldn't understand a single word he said, so put the phone down on him mid-splutter.

Willy Clinchton is still ashen-faced.

Sunday, 6 November 2016

Layby woes...

Since Plod became 'emotionally' engaged in looking at various receipts in Ms Billary's Waitrose bag, it is understood that she has made some pretty shady purchases in recent months. It is clear that Mr 'Willy' Clinchton has a desire to enjoy the delicacies such as sausage rolls (you're getting too close - Ed), tartan cackleberries (do you mean Scotch eggs - Ed), and also raspberry ripples. (WHAAAT - Ed).

It is clear that her 'slots' with Waitrose have coincided with a spike in bad traffic conditions in Sodden Prickney, and that Plod are understandably miffed that as the traffic lights are out of sync for the fourth time this month, the seventeen lorries of comestibles have clogged up the system yet again!

Sid Trumpet has immediately seized on this information as evidence that Ms Billary knew about the proposed bus layby all along, and that her partner Willy was also in the ring! Mr Trumpet has now produced more evidence that Ms Billary is guilty of conniving with the Sodden Prickney Highways dept so that her constituency office has in effect, a personalised parking space right outside, and she doesn't have to wait in the rain while Mr Clinchton goes and fetches the motorcar.

PC Lumbersnatch has been patrolling the area for a number of years, and has also noticed that the Waitrose deliveries have been making deliveries on a regular basis, and he wonders why. (PC Lumbersnatch leaves all his shopping to Mrs Lumbersnatch, who is a superviser of sheets and pillowcases in Sodden Prickney's Model Steam Laundry. She is also a distant cousin of Miss Newt, and her involvement in this farrago will become clearer, when the rental deals on her 560,000 retail emporium have been completed with Mr Trumpet and his advisers, Clegg, Twillit and Twonk).

Mr Basil Kalashnikov has been seen running in every direction and yelling 'Sod everyone', for some reason only known to himself, but it is likely that he was dead keen on getting Ms Billary on his committee, (and maybe on his couch - Ed) as he rather fancies her rolling eyes, which he puts down to ecstasy. As Mr Trumpet has now taken the lead in the proposed election to the Ways and Moans Committee, Mr Kalashnikov will probably have to endure several years of hatred and despair, and most citizens of Sodden Prickney who care a monkeys, think that he deserves all that!

Sunday, 30 October 2016

Superplod wades in - again...

There was a Richter 8 commotion in Sodden Prickney's village hall last Thursday, when a resident had complained that the provision of the new bus lay-by had been pushed through by the Chairman, Basil Kalashnikov, and that the alternative, at Gatport Airwick, would be abandoned until everyone changed their mind again.

PC Lumbersnatch had realised that things were not what they should be, and had decided to check the issues yet again.

The news straddled (don't you mean overtook - Ed), (STRADDLED, as in 'got on top of', bugger off), the other news concerning Ms Billary's postcards to various citizens, and the pictures thereupon. Mr Clinchton's favourite pictures of fat ladies on the beach, and even fatter men with obese kids were being handed out like a person with no arms, and Mr Kalashnikov was having none of it! (not what I've heard - Ed).

Mr Trumpet was leaping around in all directions when he heard the news on his Walkman, and began a whistle-stop tour of every street in the village including Boris Villas, as he wanted the spotlight maintained on Ms Billary's use of a laptop (oh, not again - Ed), and also getting in touch (THAT'S ENOUGH - Ed) with residents of other places where bus-stop laybys had been used for nefarious purposes including buying kebabs at the local typhoid dispensary.

When the embargo has been lifted, there will be much more news, but suffice it to say, there will be much to learn about Ms Billary, and her partner, Willy Clinchton, and also Sid Trumpet's endeavours to negotiate with Miss Newt about the rent on her 450,000 sf retail emporium, which she and Ron Groat leased all those years ago, when life was dismal under Gordon Brown.

Wednesday, 19 October 2016

The Billary emails...

During the Sodden Prickney meeting, which was hurriedly convened (after the unpleasantness in the church hall last Tuesday), to vote in a new Chairman for the Ways, Drains and Minge (don't you mean 'means' - Ed), committee, there was some commotion owing to certain personalities causing mayhem, while Mr Sid Trumpet took to the podium. (and allegedly to several usherettes - Ed)

Ms Billary and Mr Clinchton were seated in the front row of the assembled throng, and Mr Trumpet was in full flow under the searching light of the forty watt bulbs used to illuminate the flats on each side of the stage, and still bore the sad efforts of the Sodden Prickney AmDrams to produce a musical tribute to 'Ben Hur' last autumn.

Mr Trumpet pulled a silk handkerchief from the top pocket of his Harris Tweed, and out fluttered a Victoria's Secret receipt, which was pounced on by Mr Clinchton, to use as evidence of Mr Trumpet's inclination to aver towards the ladies more than somewhat, which was always his personal domain.

In doing the pounce, Mr Clinchton crashed into the trestle table where the rest of the committee were seated, and the result was rather like group sex in an E Type Jag, all legs, arms and broken glass! At a signal from Mr Trumpet, the back two rows of the assembled throng, which consisted of the bass section of the Basingstoke Ebenezer Church Girls Choir, began to march forward in unison, pointing accusatory fingers at Mr Clinchton, and singing The Hanging Song from 'Cat Ballou'!

Of course, Ms Billary became agitated, and as is the case when she is agitated, she sent off three emails to various countries, firing a small missile in India, causing all the traffic cameras in Scunthorpe to crash and starting a small famine in Denmark. She blamed Brexit of course, so Mr Obammaloo was as pleased as ever, as he wanted to be at the front of the queue, but nobody would let him! (I think you're becoming a little confused in that last bit, Mr O'Blene - Ed).

Sid Trumpet is ninety-three.

To one.

(As erudite as ever, Mr O'Blene. Perhaps we can alter one or two or seven passages during lunch - Ed)

Sunday, 9 October 2016

Trumpet call...

Report on Local Parish Council Meeting. - (First draft)

There was uproar at Sodden Prickney village hall, on Friday, when Sid Trumpet, (a later addition to the throng) who gets his dinner at Ms Billary's cottage on Sundays after chapel at The Ebenezer Hardline Adventist Buffaloes, and often an embrocation later - taken intravenously, said that he once asked her to consider taking up a voucher for a Janet Reger unmentionable, and she had concurred; several times apparently. He was sorry but was overtaken by her astounding balcony (Change this - Ed), and wanted to make amends.

Ms Billary is a well known character in the village, having been the first person to use a computer in the Sodden Prickney library for checking waste disposal lorry times, and also the number of atomic warheads in Russia. Mr Trumpet is a well known property magnet (they're a builder's merchant aren't they? - Ed), and was instrumental in building the Sodden Prickney's vast retail, sports and fast-food extravaganza some years ago, most of which lies empty these days on account of someone losing the keys to the front gate.

(Mr Elias Sagtrouser and his wife, Gloriette, were heard to mutter that there were several bills unpaid and that a visit with a baseball bat may be the only solution).

Ms Billary and her 'partner', Mr Clinchton, who famously heard a young lady in his office exclaim, that 'she would forget her head if it wasn't screwed on', has supported him through thick and thin, although these days, it's more thin than thick, but that's God's way of telling you to wear better supportive undergarments. Mr Trumpet understands that she still has questions to answer at the HMRC, who believe that she and Mr Clinchton also had an interest in the fast-food extravaganza, but were turned away for being lewd in the queue. Most customers in the same queue were also being lewd, (it's their nature), but that's mainly down to them being sort of customers who join queues just for the sake of them, especially if there's a pizza and chips at the end of them.

(I think we need to edit this some more, Mr O'B. There's a lot to be desired, and I don't mean Ms Billary either)!

Sunday, 25 September 2016

Let's hear it for Mr Creosote...

The sad news about Terry Jones's nasty affliction has rather got to me. My dear mum succumbed to Alzheimer's, and several chums experienced other forms of dementia as well,

We were at a 90th birthday party yesterday for a dear friend. He responded to the main speech, made by another delightful friend and neighbour, and his own response speech was measured, seemingly without notes, and recalling matters that happened in the nineteen twenties with such ease, the years just did not fit the eloquence. It was a magnificent, confident, friendly delivery, which deserved the standing ovation from ninety of us!

I have a good chum in the village, who is terrified of such awful conditions of dementia, and she and her husband now do every crossword they can lay their hands on, and compete on the Brain Yoga app at every opportunity! They also do Sudoku with a passion.

Brain Yoga

Mrs O'Blene is an avid reader, having demolished most of the local library books, and she also gets through half a dozen Sudokus each day, some of them after a tincture as well! For my part, I do the Fiendish and Super Fiendish Sudokus, but the latter may take me three weeks a pop, as I don't want to fill in the possibles, and have do the whole thing in my head...(which can easily ache after a while staring at the same combinations and trying to remember them, especially after said tinctures with Mrs O'Blene...)!

But all this doesn't help dear old Terry now, and my heart goes out to him, his family and his friends. I always liked his gentler delivery in some of his Monty Python sketches, but the Mr Creosote scene, which he directed, was a masterpiece fit for recall at any time one sees a tattooed gutbucket gobbling down an undercooked triple burger with quadruple fries and a jug of full-fat Coke.

It must be so cruel that a man who definitely hasn't sat round on his arse all day, finishes up feeling like this. Keep going as long as you can Mr Jones, you have a lot of friends rooting for you.

Sunday, 18 September 2016

Apple of the eye...

For some years, since we used to toddle across The Channel to Normandy, for holidays and fun, we have been huge fans of the Regional Nectar, Calvados.

From the cheapest to the very expensive, we've long celebrated the time of year with apples all over the garden, with a few small bottles (they usually appear as 500 cl for some reason), and it is almost a rite of passage to toast the harvest in a most appealing way.

But this year, it seems that our Tesco doesn't seem to have any, and we're having to explore other grocers to locate a fair-priced bottle...

During one such foray, we discovered this, and without further ado, grabbed a couple of bottles.

Now you'd both know, that Scrobs is not really an alcopop type of person, but a good cider is well worth the few extra pence, and a Henry Weston's Vintage bottle is an investment I'm making quite regularly for this season.

And this Jim Beam is a great substitute for the non-existent Calvados! The trouble is, it's too easy to finish a bottle, and I like a good Bourbon as well, so when all the apples have gone, it'll be just Beam, I suppose...

Monday, 12 September 2016

LSD in metric...

The new five pound note is in circulation as of tomorrow. It's rather a nice little piece of kit, made of a polymer, which is undoubtedly easier to replicate than special paper, but who am I to judge, I'm only a humble old fart these days.

Years ago, I worked with a chum, who was developing the latest computer chips. There was a state-of- the-art manufacturing business in Sidcup, and it was such a hi-tech business, that the building itself was literally built on springs, to alleviate vibration from the various trains which infest South London. Each laboratory had positive ventilation, such that when you opened a door, there was a 'Star Trek' whoosh, as air was pumped out so that germs, dust, and other nasties didn't invade the procedures being perpetrated within. They also used millions of gallons of water for cooling, which made a few people at some water board or other have a seizure, but it was a good business.

Back then the quandary was how thin could a computer chip wafer be manufactured? I would think that the sort of kit we have in a mobile phone is about a thousand times thinner, and a million times quicker than anything being made in the eighties, so the mystery probably will still be around over the next century or so.

But this fiver bothers me somewhat.

I always hankered after The Royal Mint producing a general circulation £5 coin. It would be big, heavy, and carry the gravitas a good currency demands. Scrobs Senior travelled far and wide in Europe in the sixties and seventies, and always came home with a pocket of pretty useless change. When he popped off this mortal coil, we kept all the coins and used them to tip French lavatory attendants, bugger up foreign parking meters and gave them to scroungers (unkind, but useful), and we still have a huge box of them. Some of these are frankly not worth making! They're often a light alloy, have no milling, and mean very little, other than they look like some of the coins you get with a kid's toy shop till or similar.

So now we're down to a small plastic sheet, with a drawing of a proper politician! (If that's not a contradiction in terms).

I hope it works. The fivers I keep stashed away for Christmas are all old, well folded with writing/darts holes/dirt etc all over them, and I hope the small wallet I use will accept a twice folded plastic membrane comfortably.

And also I hope that it hasn't be reproduced by some gang up North, or in Scotland, or London, and printed on an old polythene bag!

Monday, 5 September 2016

The Scaffolder's wife...

I found myself listening to this again recently, and it's such a kindly observation, I just want to share it with both of you!

Mark Knopfler is a great chap to listen to for softer, more interesting music these days. I always liked the Dire Straits years, but the move onto a more simple and likeable style is very welcome!

The scaffolder's wife
Driving out of the yard
With a face that's as hard
As a scaffolder's bar -
When she goes into town
She might take the top down
On the car

The quick little steps
In the stiletto boots
And the hair with the roots
She comes in as a rule
To get the nails done
And the tan for the sun
When the kids are in school

Don't begrudge her the Merc
It's been nothing but work
And a hard life
Losing her looks
Over company books
- the scaffolder's wife

In the wicked old days
When they went it alone
Kept the company going
On a wing and a prayer
They don't pay what they owe
When they have the cash flow
- they don't care

Don't begrudge her the Merc
It's been nothing but work
And a hard life
Losing her looks
Over company books
- the scaffolder's wife

Friday, 26 August 2016

Is it really that interesting...

So someone has found an old tape of Led Zeppelin on an old copy of a dire 12 bar blues shriek...



Tuesday, 16 August 2016

How to take tablets painlessly...

Like many ladies and late middle-aged chaps, Mrs O'Blene (may her tribe increase - but only after careful consultation), takes a few tablets for things that Scrobbers and their ilk have to deal with in 'later' life, and one capsule  in particular seems to stick unmercifully in her throat, and causes some disruption to the daily record, and also some extremely bad language, and also the occasional shriek, which frightens both JRT and also my good self, as about then I am just waking up, and in need of a non-alcoholic tincture, such as a mug of Assam, and a look out of the window in a daze..

On mentioning this to our favourite, lovely (gorgeous) chemist in the village, she said ,why not try to take the capsule by sucking on a straw with some water? Pop the capsule into your mouth, take a suck on the straw and swallow, and the little beast is gone! They apparently advise all parents to do this for children with the same situation, and by George, it really works!

Even I shot down a capsule in seconds, without feeling a thing, and I can gag at the slightest need for air (except perhaps for a fine whisky, or maybe a 'Screwdriver' with real orange juice)!

Marvellous result, and thank you lovely M.... (the lovely chemist) for suggesting it!

(She can suggest anything she likes, and if Mrs O'Blene isn't listening, I'd even take notes for a later occasion..;0)

Saturday, 13 August 2016

Irish yarn...

The first man married a woman from Italy. He told her that she was to do the dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple of days but on the third, he came home to see a clean house and the dishes put away.
The second man married a woman from Poland. He gave his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and cooking. The first day he didn’t see any results but the next day it was better. By the third day he saw his house was clean, the dishes were done and there was a huge dinner on the table.
The third man married a girl from Ireland. He ordered her to keep the house clean, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry done and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn’t see anything, the second day he didn’t see anything but by the third day, some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye and his arm was healed enough that he could make himself a sandwich and load the dishwasher. He still has some difficulty when he goes for a widdle.

Tuesday, 2 August 2016

Some like it rather like Mrs O'Blene...

Mrs Scroblene (aka Ma'am O'Blene) and your old chum, Scrobs, aka 'Scrobs' or whatever, have just been seriously discussing a certain subject, which will enrage Grauniad, and other silly readers everywhere.

We're in our late sixties, and are hardly likely to commence a barnstorm for 'lefties' everywhere, but it has been a revelation for us both, as we decided to buy 'Some like it hot', to watch when the evenings draw in.

Mrs O'Blene, as fragrant as ever, just said that the final comment on the iconic film, from Osgood, saying 'Nobody's perfect', was a gay comment...

And we both agreed that we didn't have a cat in hell's chance of realising that back then...

I went to see the film in London when it came out, and remember asking two people in front of me, if they'd mind shifting sideways, as they were large (fat), and I couldn't see the screen, as most cinemas in town were pretty lousy anyway, and the seating arrangements were dire.

Anyway, for four and a half notes, plus PandP, Mrs O'Blene and I will be able to watch the whole film, in the comfort of our own tinctures, come our  44 anniversary years (October), and if anyone has any other flicks to suggest, we only need another tincture to consider them!

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Small type...

As we're clearly 'of a certain age', the fragrant Mrs O'Blene and I regularly get those confounded leaflets for items like stair lifts (good idea, but not yet), and all things to do with how to spend our huge pension pots, or asking for money for some cheridee or something! We also apparently need solar panels, which are a fashion accessory we hadn't really considered of late, and also we're told how Tunbridge Wells approaches 'diversidee', which is also an anathema, as we didn't realise that our home town - or near miss -, actually had any reason to be diverse any more!

But the latest one intrigues me, and as it's for a big UK name, and one I ought to warn you about it.

It's for English Heritage, and they want more than fifty notes to join. The leaflet quite rightly defines the richness of our country, and how there are hundreds of different venues to visit.

But there's one snag, and I wonder if either of you can spot the problem...?


Each 'venue' is printed in such small letters that you need a microscope to see them!

Someone, somewhere, in the dripping nauseous cellars where all National Heritage workers are bolted to the wall, may well wonder why there are no takers, as people like the O'Blenes can't actually read their blurb because the old glasses are not capable of squinting at such a small print!

I blame Brexit of course, and probably, so does the BBC and the Gud Rhianna and also, oh what, any other silly rag or prog where nobody understands late-middle aged normal people..;0)

I wouldn't actually know, of course, as I don't listen to or read either or any of them!

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

Why aye mun...

I'm 69 today, and Mrs Scroblene has bought me an electric bicycle!

We popped over to Woodchurch this morning and sealed the deal very easily - really nice guy; knows what he's talking about; we have a mutual chum anyway - and I went around all the lanes near here, without a care in the world!

Then I met my doctor with his wife, and was told that helmets were required...

Great day anyway, beers at a local hostelry, Mrs Scroblene looking sublime...

What else is there in this life, eh?

Thursday, 14 July 2016

Good day for Scrobs...

Although I'm not really a political animal with the skills of Raedwald or Guido, I do like to feel good when I think things may well get better when certain politicians hit the headlines.

I actually wanted Andrea Leadsom as a leader, and heard that on the Brexit night, she'd been coached to kingdom-come on what to say, but now she is in a damn good job, so then all's well with Scrobs!

Whether it is about 'kitten shoes', or whatever, with Mrs May, we have a chance now to kick the corrupt, weedy, whining, pathetic kinnockian-style tribe into touch, and really motor on.

I'm 69 next week. I never thought I'd have an ear to one or two people outside my village, but at least my knowledge of the real world can at least be laughed-at; agreed with, forgotten, and nobody really can do anything to stop that!

Also, the best news today is this!

The decision to scrap the separate Department for Energy and Climate Change (DECC) angered opposition MPs.

What a way to go!

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

Apt oink pic...

Is it a bank?

Is it a gummint cabinet?

Is it summat from Brussels?

Is it a multi-national?

Is it a lawyer?

All for the 'chop' hopefully one day!

(h/t TQWT on Guido)

Sunday, 26 June 2016

Headlines - mainly receding these days...

Hey, come on you lot!

There's been a definite UK Wide decision made only a few days ago, and we're going to get out of the EU, and now the mainstream 'meedja' are making hay on the sorry Labour lot, piddling about as usual having hissy fits and resigning, because tomorrow's debate may put them into some sort of lefty purdah. Diversion tactics fool nobody, especially an old scrote like Scrobs!

What's wrong about reporting how the British manufacturing companies can soon operate without the pillocks in Brussels telling them what to do at every turn?

My pension (small as it is - sadly as Gordon Brown pinched the upside to pay for town hall prats) is still safe, as will my state pension (the one I subscribed to for all those years), so I can live with that, although a holiday in Spain or Devon is beyond us now...

So where does all the hype go now? The BBC are leaving the Referendum debate on the back step  - funny that - and concentrating on things that don't really matter to me, as Labour's woes don't figure, but the New Exit does!

Trashy journalism going on these days. The Beeb are excruciatingly desperate for stories, and are failing us daily. The Mail is just twattage, and I now just read The Express to get some headlines which are comprehensible now as the posh rags are so dire, and uninteresting.

I usually Google their news these days, as at least they have some sort of coverage of news, but hey, what a muck-up!

Wednesday, 22 June 2016

EU Referendum - a result for common sense...

As Scrobs prepares for a night of tinctures, texts, titillation and tiresome 'remain' politicians, here is a preview of the result which will be published on Friday!

I thought you'd all like to know this!

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Day of the Jackal strikes again...

It's not often I get the chance to forward stuff, but this just strikes a chord here...

Sorry it's quite long, but the good yarns are like that!

Subject: Frederick Forsyth's analysis of the EU

 A long time ago a very wise old man advised me thus: “If ever you are confronted by a highly complex situation and a decision cannot be avoided, never rush to an early emotional judgment. Subject the subject to the four-pronged ARID. It stands for Analyse, Research, Identify and then Decide. 

 We all now face the decision: should we continue as obedient members of the EU or should we sever the link? Let me try to apply the old man’s advice. 
Any country other than a shambolic anarchy must have a government. 
That said, most governmental systems end with the five-letter “cracy” derived from the Greek for “rule”.  
There are about 10. 
We know about autocracy, rule by a single tyrant. There is theocracy, rule by the priestly caste, such as Iran. 
Add stratocracy, rule by the army (Egypt) and plutocracy (by the very rich). We have seen gerontocracy, with the reins of power in the hands of the extremely old - the Soviet politburo in its last days. And aristocracy, rule by the nobles, long gone. 
But two are with us and visible. 
One is bureaucracy, government by the officials, the constant competitor for power with rule by the “demos”: the people. Democracy. It is by far the hardest to establish. It is the most fragile, the easiest to fake with rigged elections, meaningless ceremonies and elaborate charades. 
I estimate about 100 phoney democracies worldwide. 
But ours is parliamentary democracy so let’s give it a glance. Of course it is indirect. We cannot expect the electorate to go to the polls for every tiny decision. So we divide the country into 650 constituencies with one MP for each. The party with the most MPs in Westminster governs for five years. At the pinnacle is the Cabinet and, with encircling junior ministers, forms the Government, which I will call the power. But there is more. 
The power is held to account, not five-yearly, not annually or monthly but every day. Doing this is the official Opposition but also the backbench MPs even of the government party. This “holding to account” is vital. 
Assisting these critics is hopefully a free and unafraid press. I have travelled very widely, seen the good, the bad and the very ugly and have come firmly to the view that with all its flaws the British parliamentary form of democracy is the best in the world. Not for those in power but for the people who between elections still have a voice. It is against this template that we can judge the system of the EU. 

After the war a group of men, politicians, thinkers, intellectuals and theorists, formed around Frenchman Jean Monnet, became convinced that what they had witnessed at close quarters - the utter destruction of their continent in a vicious war - must never, ever, happen again. 
It was not a bad view-point, indeed it was a noble one.  
They then analysed the problem and came up with two solutions. 
The first was that the various and disparate nations of Europe west of the Iron Curtain must somehow be unified into one under a single government. They accepted that this might take two, even three generations but must be done. This was not an ignoble vision. 
 It was their second conclusion to which I take exception. 
The whole group was mesmerised by one fact. In 1933 the Germans, seized by rabid nationalism, voted Adolf Hitler into power. 
Their conclusion: the people, any people, were too obtuse, too gullible, and too dim ever to be safely entrusted with the power to elect their government.  People’s democracy was flawed and should never be permitted to decide government again if war was to be avoided. Real power would have to be confined to a non-elective body of enlightened minds like theirs

In the 70 years since, the theory has never changed. It remains exactly the same today. 
The British Cabinet has power and may delegate that power to a wide range of civil servants: police chiefs, generals, bureaucrats. But it itself remains elective. The people can change it via the polling booth.

Not so in the EU. The difference is absolutely fundamental. 
They realised, those founders, that there would have to be fa├žades erected to persuade the gullible that democracy had not been abolished in the new utopia. 
There is indeed a European Parliament - but with a difference.  In London it is the Commons that is the law-giver; the Upper House is the vetting and endorsing chamber. 
In Brussels the EU Parliament has no lower house, it is the endorsing chamber. It ratifies what the real power, the non-elective European Commission, has decided.  
The broad masses would also have to be convinced that the purpose of the Monnet utopia was economic and thus about prosperity. This untruth has prevailed to this day and is the main plank of the establishment propaganda in our present British decision-making. 
In fact the final destination of the EU is entirely political. It is the complete political, legal and constitutional unification of the continent of Europe into a single entity: the State of Europe. 
This clearly cannot make war against itself, thus guaranteeing peace. Albeit without democracy.

It is amazing how many intelligent people have fallen for this fiction. Thus David Cameron can tell us with a straight face that he repudiates the three pillars of the EU - the doctrine of even closer union, a single external border but no internal ones (Schengen) and a single currency (Eurozone) - but still thinks we will sit at the top table. 
He believes the EU is about trade and tariffs. No, that’s what we thought we joined.

Back in the 1960s one British premier (Macmillan) after another (Heath) came to the view that with the empire departing into independence and the USA becoming more protectionist our economic days were numbered. If the world beyond the oceans was not Communist it was Third World, meaning impoverished.  Both premiers became convinced the future lay east across the Channel. 
Back then the union was six countries: Germany, France, Italy, plus minnows Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg. 
Wealthy, especially Germany, booming. Just the trading partners we needed.  
So under Heath we joined the Common Market. As a trading nation for centuries we were delighted to do so. 
Then the lies began. It would never go further, we were told. The Six became the Nine but all in Western Europe. 
Heath lied to us. He said there would never be any question of “transfer of significant sovereignty”. He had read the whole Treaty of Rome. No one else had. He knew this was just the tip of the iceberg. 

Then in 1992 came the Maastricht Treaty. We were told it was just tidying up loose ends. More lies. It was transformational. It created the European Union. Slowly, decree by decree, rule by rule, law by law, our ancient right to govern ourselves the way we wanted to be governed and by whom was transferred from London to Brussels. Today 60% of all laws are framed in Brussels, not London. 
 The lies multiplied. The entire establishment, much espoused of power without accountability, has become hugely enamoured of the new governmental system. Less and less need to consult those wretched people, the voters.  
It is no coincidence that the five professions that worship power - politicians, bureaucrats, diplomats, quangocrats and lawyers, plus the two that lust for money, bankers/financiers and tycoons - today constitute almost the whole of the stay-in campaign. Almost to a man.  
And the lies proliferate. “There is no intention to proceed to a superstate.” Really? Read the Treaty of Rome. 
That is the whole point of the EU. What is not said is that in a unified continent there can be no place for the independent, autonomous, self-governing sovereign nation/state.  The two are a contradiction in terms. Only here in the UK is that denied. In Brussels it is accepted as wholly obvious. “The end of nation” is regarded as a work in progress. Endgame is foreseen as a decade, maybe two. 


The referendum decision of June 23 will be the last ever, the decision permanent. 

So this is your choice. 
This is about the country in which we will spend the rest of our lives, the land we will pass on to our children and grandchildren.  
What kind of a country, what kind of governmental system? People’s democracy or officialdom’s empire?
Our right to hold power to account or just two duties: to pay and obey

For me it is simple and takes just five words. I want my country back.

Frederick Forsyth.

Thursday, 9 June 2016

The vote from 'The Bells'...

There was mayhem at my good friend Elias Sagtrouser's Emporium for Brazen Spigots, 1" Reinforcement Bars and pints of WD40, yesterday, when Miss Newt and another well-known renegade, Ron Groat, (who takes her to Chapel every Sunday and has his dinner at her place afterwards) arrived, to make some purchases.

Miss Amelia Newt is a well known character in this man's village, as she used to own the old corner shop by the crossroads, and sell all sorts of things including chewing tobacco and hemorrhoid preparations, but when the modest 350,000 s.f. Sodden Prickney Leisure and Athletic Themery (SPLAT), together with a modest 675,000 s.f. of retail was developed down the road, (see Scrobs passim), she decided to call a truce, as did Ron Groat, on several occasions, but that is a completely different story!

Elias and his loving wife, Gloriette were attending to a few embrocations in 'The Bells', after what was indeed, a very busy day. Gloriette's chosen tincture is usually a very small tonic and an extremely large gin, and indeed there was a good sized glass at her dainty elbow, and signs of a previous order a few inches away, so it must have been pretty busy after all! Elias had already reduced two pints of Shep's 'Summer Bastard' (ABV 5.8%), and it was a pint mug of the same which he thrust in my direction as I entered the bar for my Friday evening lunch. The action vaguely reminded me of Geoff Capes on a good day...

"It's been a real bugger today, and no mistake", intoned my friend. Gloriette nodded sagely, and her hand wavered towards the glass to ensure that it didn't escape.

"I guess you will tell me what happened, Elias, and please don't pull the punches, as you don't do that very well"! I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye, that even their painted daughter, Toniatelline and her despairing squeeze, Meccano, were sitting morosely in the window seat, nursing some sort of mauve coloured drink with a chunk of lemon and a straw poking out of the bottle.

'Some silly sod came into the yard claiming that it was good for the UK to stay in the blasted EU'! Elias exclaimed, going very red in the face, and causing Gloriette to pat his trembling hand (the one without the beer mug, which was in danger of being crushed to smithereens by the other hand)!

Elias continued. 'He said that all the foreigners coming here would be good for business and we'd get lots of work and we'd sell lots of building stuff to them'!

'Surely Miss Newt and Ron Groat don't want to be part of the Stay-on-regardless' mob, Elias', I said.

'Oh it wasn't that old pair', he laughed, 'It was some dipstick from the Kent County Council, saying that we should all 'remain' for the sake of all those poor people coming here and making our lives that much richer'!

'Did anyone in the yard agree with him.? I asked.

'Nope, not a single voice in favour of staying in'!

'So what happened then'?

''Old Ron told him to piss off and do something useful for a change'...

'And'? I started...

'Miss Newt hit him with her umbrella'!

'So it was business as usual then was it'?

'Yup, but we did sell him a bag of cement and a trowel'! Elias grinned to himself...

Wednesday, 1 June 2016

Old card...

This has been kicking around our kitchen for ages now. It used to be stuck to the fridge, then a cupboard and now back on a shelf again, because I always have a chuckle when I see it!

I didn't realise until just now though, that it was a birthday card to me from ED, in 1996...!

(Gary Larson is just about the funniest cartoonist I've ever seen, and I have most of his books, so I hope he won't mind me putting this up)!

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

There you have it...

Quite some years ago, I had a discussion with my dad, which was unpleasant and not worthy of my compassion.

We here just wanted to go away on holiday in France, and escape the quandaries and problems of my work, and Mrs Scroblene's work, and our girls' school work, and we were a good team then - not much different now, but back then something was more important. We wanted to be alone.

I wanted us all in my small family, to escape to a place of refuge, and be just the four of us. Dad wanted to know where we were going as Mum wasn't that well, and he demanded the address, and on Mrs Scroblene's advice, he was told - NO! Crossness and upsetness occurred, but we seemed to have made our pitch understood, although it was not that easy.

While we were away, having a great holiday, it was my birthday, and as usual, there were loads of presents and cards and stuff, which made us all say 'hurrah', and I was the loudest voice of course, as we all enjoyed a good lunch and I had all those presents.

I cannot listen to this track without recalling such a lovely day. It was one of my gifts.

Sorry Dad, I went to Oradour-sur-Glane a few days later, on my own, leaving the family in Limoges for a short time, and you and mum had been there once, and I felt particularly vulnerable, and the song still rings...

Saturday, 21 May 2016

Luvvies and politicians...

The Doily Moil has a story, well down online amongst the idiot yarns, about some luvvie called Tim Conte (wasn't he a boxer once?), moaning about being called the perfect name for an airhead whom nobody has heard of and cares little about!

I never bother with listening to any 'speech' from either a luvvie or a politician as the opposite is almost certainly true. This also applies to the BBC, and even during the brief moments that we watch the news, I often have a rage attack and need a tincture, especially at 6 o' clock...

Just because someone reads a few lines and expects an accolade is a poor reflection on life today. These persons really do need some help, and I suppose that's why they want to stay in the EU!

(Boris is the exception to all the above, as is Gove).

Friday, 13 May 2016

Scary, unpleasant person from IMF...

Blimey, they're rolling all the old harridans out now aren't they! How ever many more are there to struggle on TV to make some sort of case, cobbled together by quangos!

The BBC as usual, has no more mention of the disgraceful fiddling of immigration figures, and their lead tonight was all about a bloke who took his six- year old kid to Disneyworld during term time! It's hardly world-shattering is it, but while the old fiddlers at the various plonky remain camps still fret into their lattes and try to deceive the populace, the real answers have already been made by people who just never trust politicians and their quangos.

Scrobs is one of those, and funnily enough, as pollsters never get it right, and according to my spreadsheet, the BREXIT camp will win by at least five points, probably more.

And all that 'stay' money wasted by Cameron and his cronies will be recouped in a week when we get rid of that awful shower - legacy of Grocer Heath.

Tuesday, 3 May 2016

Trumpet recall...

When the film 'Genevieve' came out in the 1950s, there were lots of discussions on whether Kay Kendall actually played the trumpet solo in the night club scene.

My dad always told anyone who would listen, that she did in fact play the trumpet, and he would fight anyone who would disagree!

I've always believed that she could - and did play, but a little research while waiting for tincture time has shown that in fact she was miming to a Kenny Baker track!

Another myth dispelled!

But wasn't it all a fabulous film! I can watch it over again, and still come back to life with a big grin!

Monday, 25 April 2016

The Five Pennies...

When the film came out in 1959, the family all trooped down to Hastings to see it, as Danny Kaye was the sort of chap we all liked to see and hear back then!

I was eleven or twelve, and although I knew the basic tune of The Battle Hymn of The Republic, I remember to this day, that when Danny Kaye took his cornet out and started the swing version of the music, he immediately did a 'twiddle', which I didn't understand...

Of course, it was jazz as grown-ups knew it, but not Scrobs at his tender age!

I've only just found this clip, and the bit I still whistle from all those years ago, even having heard it only once, is when he's walking across to Louis Armstrong (presumably sober by now...)!

Wednesday, 20 April 2016


As we live in Kent, we're usually in the firing line for all sorts of dodgy practices to make illegal immigration not much more than a casual pastime, and the old M20 gets lorries and vans full of the unwanted, charging along it's tarmac every day.

I happen to be paying for the police presence here, and realise that while most of these illegals get up north to some hell-hole, or maybe West London for all I know, whenever I want to see something positive done by the police  and the KCC for residents round here, the resources have all dried up, as some place in Dover is being searched and temporary accommodation is a matter of urgency. Hospitals and schools just cannot be expected to take in all these people, and I definitely can't afford to keep them here.

It ain't good enough, and the sooner that we leave the blasted Brussels charade the better.

If failed politicians like Kinnock, Mandelson, Osborne and Cameron want us to stay attached to that Godawful establishment, then it is time to kick the whole bloody lot of them into touch!

No! Out! Exit! Brexit! Piss Off the lot of you, I want my county and my country back.

Monday, 18 April 2016

Dog crap...

Who the hell really gives a f***...


Saturday, 16 April 2016

Floor-length mirror...

About forty-three years ago (that's too accurate - Ed), Mrs O'Blene and Scrobs were safely wedded and living in a small flat in Hastings. Scrobs used to work in Brighton back then, catching several trains at unearthly hours and not really enjoying the job either, but that's what life's all about when you're starting out, isn't it!

One of the kindest men you could wish to meet shared an office with me at the time, and he was an inveterate hoarder of all sorts of objects, as he used to get down to the Saturday market at crack of dawn, and purchase bargains galore. He also knew where to pick up other bargains all over the place, and would get these items back home in his old Morris Traveller.

One thing we didn't have in the flat, was a full length mirror, and we'd just hope that any wardrobe malfunction wouldn't be displayed before we got to work. (Mrs O'Blene was teaching in the town back then).

My chum learned of this non-ability to reflect ourselves, and offered me a solution, which, after discussing with Mrs O'Blene we decided to follow up. He had learned that The Grand Hotel in Brighton was being refurbished, and rushed down there to see what he could find. The wardrobes were being ripped out, so Chris toddled off home with one of the gigantic wardrobe mirrors, which were going for a song. And his wife got very annoyed at all this stuff appearing all over their house too, I suspect...

So,  money changed hands, and Chris helped me to rope up some sort of handle for this enormous, heavy monstrosity which I could only just lift, and dropped me off at London Road station. Scrobs then had an hour holding the thing steady on those awful old rattlers they had back then, and also a half-mile uphill drag to get home from the station. It wasn't easy...

That Sunday, we were still moving the thing around as it was now getting in our way, and in desperation, I had leant the blasted thing up against the front door just to get rid of it.

The dead tree press has a lot to answer for, from then on.  We used to have the Sunday papers delivered (must have been super-rich), and after the usual lie-in, a trawl through the news and several fags and coffee was the norm.

The paperboy then provided a new way to make the earth move, as he found he couldn't get the two Sunday rags through the letter box, so he gave them a gigantic shove, which pushed the blasted mirror back, and immediately afterwards - down...


So that was the end of that little escapade; bummer really as it was a superb piece of work, and I'm sure we would have still had it to this day...

Saturday, 9 April 2016

Sanders of the Thames...

Scrobs Senior spent several years with The Royal Engineers in Nigeria after the war, presumably to create a place where they could build bridges, and get ready for independence.

Here's the old boy in his canoe, and the caption which goes with the second pic says 'CSM Nana Columbus, the best African I ever met'!

Just because I well remember him wanting to settle in front of the television to watch 'Sanders of the river', here is Paul Robeson singing the canoe song, which was apparently filmed at Shepperton, hence the lack of crocodiles and big snakes...

Canoe song.

More pics as requested by The Venerable Thud...