Well... there's a thing

Here I am sitting in a hotel room in Victoria - half drunk, very elated, anticipating one serious bout of being, how shall I put it, "Duntish"...
I have spent the evening bouncing between CNN on the TV, the BBC live feed on my laptop and a very excited son on my cell phone - and it's only 8.45 pm - I expected to be up until at least 2 am.
I admit to feeling a kind of displaced euphoria - different from the collapse of "Thatcherism" (even if it was repacked in Tony Bliar) - but a euphoria non the less.
It may be a cliche, but I feel the torch has been passed. I only hope they don't fuck it up...
Time to put on my shoes, plug in the iPod and go for a walk... maybe a pint... maybe a bite to eat... this may be a defining day for my children and my grandchild who I long to see...
I admit to feeling very, very, happy.
I love you all.

Death by Tent

Soon we'll be hitting the open road, trucking on down the West Coast and generally having ourselves a (hopefully) good time. Or not.
I mentioned in our woefully neglected Family Pages, and let's face it, if you're reading this missive, you know where that is, that we are now the proud owners of a Trailer Tent or Tent Trailer, or, more realistically, a sodding big bank debt (but let's not dwell on negatives chums). This is to be our mobile home for our North American (and I do mean the continental land mass) adventures over the next few years.

Now this tent looks quite jolly at first glance, adequately equipped for the outdoor life, yet affording us all the comforts of "home". It apparently sleeps eight - I think you'd all have to be fairly close to try that - but six is possibly closer to reality. We can cook (inside and out), we have a wee fridge (that's small, not urine storage) and like all middle class tourists, we can plug the bugger into the mains at camp sites (that's known as a hook up in the trade - which should not be confused with the North American term for a convenient shag). We even have an add-on room for those mosquito driven, close to nature experiences. All in all, quite splendid.

The van has been modified so we can "comfortably" tow the brute, electrics, hitch, groovy plug in for the iPod, blah, blah - I've even installed non bogus map software for the necessary laptop. So basically all is done...
So all we had to do was stick the fork 'n knives, pots 'n pans, plates 'n bowls in the drawers 'n cupboards and we were done. Good eh?
So - on to the title of this posting...

The tent can't be kept on the drive. Too awkward for the cars, getting the Yam in and out etc, so we've stuck it in the garage to keep it clean and dry. And it pretty well fills the garage up - just enough room to park the Yam by the side, kids bikes, bags of ever-present crap, scarcely used golf clubs (hem hem) empty bottles - everyone knows the score.
So, on this particular day, fired with enthusiasm following a nice walk, trip to try out a gym and the promise of good weather, I decide to whip out the trailer to give it a good stocking up!
I move the van and the bug off the drive (sensibly parked down the street) and with a little sweating and grunting, start to manoeuvre said trailer onto the drive... and the bastard starts to roll. Then a little faster.
The thought enters my head, "Just steady it by the jockey wheel", then "Oh!" then "Fuckin' Hell!!"
I don't remember much else until I'm standing opposite the house in a neighbours front garden - said jockey wheel buried well into their flower bed. The plucky little tent had chased me (backwards) down the drive, across the road (my sandals were later found slap bang centre of the road, splayed like Donald Duck's feet (do ducks have feet?)) and was now blocking the road quite effectively. What to do?

I try to lift the wheel out in a vain attempt to avoid the probable embarrassment of seeking assistance, only managing to pull both forearms in the process. Complete failure. I ring the neighbours doorbell, announcing in my most nonchalant voice that they have a tent on their property, and could I please have a hand to stop them having a tent on their property - there are times when all you can do is be extremely British about such things. I cross the road, almost whistling and call out to Jan for some assistance please...

I get the anticipated reaction...

"What the fuck have you done? You daft bastard! You could have been killed!"

Up until this point the thought hadn't actually occurred to me that I could have been squished against our tent park owners son's car (which had only moved shortly before this debacle happened). If it had been there, the hitch would have probably gone clean through the back doors, pinning me to the side.

Death by tent.

Almost worthy of an honorary Darwin Award.

So we grunted the beast back onto the drive, chocked it, opened it and did the biz - only to be confused over the process of closing it up, but that's another story, and not particularly worth revisiting.

Now we wait for the 10.30 ferry out of Victoria.

More to come.

So do you fart bubbles?

So we got into this thing this morning, did Hollie and me.

All because I had the audacity to refuse to buy a packet of gum as a means of providing change for the take away option at school.

I hate all things bubble gum, chewing gum, Beech Nut, Wrigleys, Bazooka Joe, Anglo Ace fuckin' gum, you name it, I'll have a piece of vitriol to suit.

It (probably) goes back to youthful experiences at school where I would find either my knees or more likely my arse fused to a piece of furniture because some josher (twat) decided it would be fun to secrete their excretions where it could do the most adhesive harm - bastards!! Or other funsters (twats) who thought it would be a jolly jape to stick it in your hair as they walk past. No wonder I'm fuckin' bald...

The only way to remove this stuff is to freeze it with liquid Nitrogen then smash it with a hammer - done that, have proof (freezers work too). Of course, you'd have to be a frank buffoon to use this method with the sticky hair problem, but I'm sure you'd have worked that out by yourselves.

I can't remember exactly when the last clothing nightmare occured (apart from any existing fashion sense, that is) but I still can't abide listening to people who chew gum and insist on speaking at the same time: "Chew, smeck, drool, mumble, mumble." My normally polite (hem, hem) demeanor tends to slip after a nanosecond when this happens, but this pales into insignificance when I'm confronted by the individual who has the annoying habit of stretching the bloody stuff across their gobs and making it go "Clack", "Bang" or some other variant of "Pop" as part of their punctuation. I actually shudder! Personally, I blame the parents - and as I don't chew the damn stuff, you can work that out for yourselves...

Of course, I'm not suggesting I've always had this distaste for the inert chewing of the cud. When I was about Holl's age, I won a wristwatch (still have it, but it needs fixing) from the Anglo Ace Bubbly Gum Company: Spot the Difference, suggest a Slogan!!! "Fruity, chewy and good value for money" if I recall correctly (That's Anglo Ace in the picture by the way).

But after years of attempting to complete assessments or generally communicate with some chuddy-limited galloots, I can see why teachers always made you spit the stuff into the nearest bin!

My mam always told me to spit it out (wrap it up first!!!) and never swallow it. That could be dangerous as it doesn't digest very well (true folks) and it could wrap around your intestines or cause a blockage - Ooooerrr... Which has always made me consider the cartoon image of farting bubbles as a consequence.

And don't even get me started on the state of pavements...

Then again, Hollie will have to give up this little schlock of horrors because she gets her braces fitted in a couple of weeks. Just got to work on her mother now.

Rant over - guilt triggered - I'll make a deal with the girly when she returns home tonight. Help me with the shopping and she can have a packet - but only a make that isn't individually wrapped pieces.

Honour will be satisfied.

Errmmm... is this thing switched on?

I suppose this is the next logical step for me.
For years I've been (occasionally) writing stuff, sticking it up on the family web page when I either remember, or more likely, get a metaphorical stick up the arse about being a lazy bastard.

Whatever, the excuse, I do know that it's a bit of a chore to open up the pages, alter the content, and hope the damn thing saves and publishes. It's not all that immediate either - often I get the idea for a swift missive and have to either wait until I get home (by which time I've usually had enough of sitting at a keyboard) or slowly develop the idea by drip-feeding it into a word file somewhere on a flash drive. I've lost count of the number of files with the name "Shed" somewhere in the file name.

So I've decided to have a go at what the kids call "blogging" (as opposed to "blagging" at which I've been fairly successful over the years)

Let's just see how it goes...