I don’t know why, but when my feet got cold this afternoon, it became hugely important to find matching socks. This was no easy task but, after 40 odd years of never giving a hoot about socks, the little buggars had to match. How weird is that?
It was so strangely important, I started to attach magical outcomes to the achievement of finding a pair. Continue reading
This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories. All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.
Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool. First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading
The Great Western Rail experience;
“Hello, can I have a cheese and tomato toastie on crusty farmhouse white bread, please?”
“Sorry, but we don’t have any tomatoes.”
“Ah, never mind. Toasted cheese then.”
“Er, we are out of cheese”.
“Oh. Toast then.”
“Yes, but it will have to be brown bread.”
For further great British food tales see Everyday at 8pm.
Vince and Howard from the Mighty Boosh
Ok, here’s the rub. You’ve bought tickets to see a show in London (a costa-del-armandleg jobby). Three rows in front, a young geezer does impressions of the gorilla, Bolo, from the Mighty Boosh in a very loud voice every few minutes*. The person next to him makes a show of saying “Shhhhhhhhh”, but this is more to appease the increasingly irritated people around them, than any expectation that he’ll watch the show quietly.
So, should they leave so that everyone else rest can watch the show in peace?
Or should the audience relax their expectations? Continue reading
As part of our programme of Summer fun*, I went to Oxford with LB to go on the City Bus Tour. The rest is visual. Except, as you will see, it all comes back to pigeons.
LB loves music. One kind at a time. He started with Peter and the Wolf as a pup. Moved briefly to Gary Gilmour’s eyes, the Beatles and then to Keane. Keane were a keeper. We had a good three years with a constant Keane backdrop. It will be many years before I can hear a Keane track without sobbing. Thinking about the opening bars of Walnut Tree brings me out in a cold sweat.
But then it was over for Keane. Dropped overnight and replaced by drum and bass. Constant tinnitus. Relentless, tiny, teeny, tuneless noise. All the time. All.the.fucking.time.
All out of Toto lyrics for now. Boy, that is one repetitive song. Anyway, here is the truck somewhere in Sub-Saharan Africa.
Part 3 of the overland saga and I’ve even grubbed around in the attic for my old sketch pad.
Sleeping. By the time we reached the desert we slept where we lay our sleeping mats. Scattered around the truck in two’s and three’s. Generally as far from the canoodling couples as possible. There were no roads, just space. It was pretty cold at night, so we’d bundle up in sleeping bags and doze off watching the shooting stars party.
The thing with going on an overland trip in a Bedford truck is speed. It doesn’t really go more than about 40 miles an hour and Chalfont St. Peter to Kenya is quite a long way. A routine quickly set in. Up around 6.30am, bit of nosh then drive till lunchtime, bit of nosh, then park and camp and nosh around 6.30pm.
