Sunday, 22 February 2015

The George Seagull Interview.

“Good afternoon Mr Seagull.” I call, “I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions for me?”

“What about?” The seagull called back. He was flying in circles above my head.

“I am interested in the life of seagulls,” I called back, and deciding that perhaps a bit of flattery might persuade him added, “ I just think seagulls are so interesting and you are such handsome birds.”

He floated down to the ground, landed beside me and turned his head to one side, eyeing me warily.

“I shall answer your questions on one condition,” he said.

“Name it.” I said.

“Stop calling me a seagull.”

“Yes of course,” I said, “but why?”

“Because I ain’t a... Suddenly he jumped forward, jabbed his beak into the mud and pulled a worm out, “I ain’t a bleedin’ seagull that’s why.”

“But you are, you are a black headed gull.”

“Yes mate, a gull. Not a SEA gull. Look around mate, where are we? In a field right? You might as well call me a fieldgull. And what’s with the blackheaded bit? Have a look mate, what colour is my head?”


“Exactly mate, white. And in the summer when I look me best it is brown. It ain’t never black mate. I do have a cousin who has a black head but he lives in the Mediterranean not here.”

“In my bird identification book,” I tell him, “you are called a black headed gull.”

“Well obviously whoever wrote your book didn’t do his research. I ain’t a seagull and I ain’t got a black head. End of mate, end of. I prefer to be called George. Now if you would like to get on with your questions I ain’t got all day. There is a tractor coming and it looks like it’s about to do some ploughing. I don’t want to miss out.”

“There are so many gulls following that plough, do each of you get enough to eat?”

“No mate we don’t. It’s a struggle. Too many scrabbling for too little reward. I blame the immigrants mate.”

“What do you mean immigrants?”

He looks at me pityingly. “Foreigners mate, bloody immigrants! Look at that lot there. More than half of those gulls are east Europeans mate. They come to Britain, eat all the worms and stuff. There ain’t enough to go round mate. We are only a small island. They come over here. Eat all our stuff. It ain’t right!”

“Let’s not get political.” I say.

“Yeah you’re right mate. Sorry about that. Don’t mean to sound racist. One of my best friends is a starling from Poland.”

“Changing the subject, what’s it like bobbing about on the ocean?”

He looks at me angrily. “Bobbing about? Bobbing a bleedin’ bout” he splutters. “Do I look like a bleedin’ rubber duck? I don’t bob about. Takes me all my time finding enough to eat mate. I ain’t got time to bob about!”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to upset you.” I say. “Can I ask what it’s like scavenging on rubbish dumps?

This question riles him even more. “Right that’s it mate. Interview over. I'm spitting feathers here mate. You are a bleedin’ joke mate. You got no idea how difficult life is for a gull mate. No bleedin’ idea at all! A joke mate! A joke!

With that, he flies up and circles around screeching loudly.

“SORRY!” I shout up to him, “REALLY SORRY!”

Suddenly he swoops real close and a great glob of shit hits me full in the face.
“Have some of THAT!” He calls and flies off to join the other gulls following the tractor.

Friday, 20 February 2015

A Lighter Kind Of Story.

I couldn't find the lighter to light my fire. Looked everywhere. This is a very small place it has to be here somewhere. I always put it back in the same place. Where the hell is it? Drives me mad, losing things in here. I give up and go and get the box of matches from my camper van.

I light the fire but it doesn't seem to be taking, so I get right close and blow into it to get it going. Yes, I manage to blow some life into it. There is a flame. And that's when the explosion occurred! I have found the lighter, but lost an eyebrow. Good job it didn't have much gas left in it that's all I can say! I shall buy another one next time I'm in the shop.

“Can I have a cigarette lighter please?”

“Thought you’d given up smoking John?”

“I have.”

“Why do you want a cigarette lighter then?”

Me sighing: “To light my fire with and the gas stove.”

“Really you just want a lighter then?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You said cigarette lighter.”

Me sighing: “Can I have a lighter please.”

“What colour?”

“Er... Blue please.”

“We don’t have blue.”


“You can have yellow or green.”

“Green please.”

“Disposable or refillable?”


“We only have disposable in yellow.”

Me sighing: “In that case can I have a yellow, disposable lighter please?”

“You’re in luck, this is the last one.”

“Check that it works okay please. The last one I bought didn’t.”

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. “Good job you said that. This one isn’t working either. I could check out the back for you. We might have some out there. Might even be a blue one. Or you could have a refillable one in green?”

Me sighing: “Just give me a box of matches please.”

You couldn’t make this stuff up.


Monday, 16 February 2015

Valentines Day

Mia the German Shepherd shows how much she loves me on Valentines Day.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

A Note From The King.

Granny, that’s Tricia’s mum, had another fall last week. She is in the hospital and was doing OK considering. She was due to move to a convalescent home today but she was sick last night and there was blood so she has to remain in hospital for tests. Hopefully things will be OK.

Tricia’s late father was a Freemason and the convalescent home is run by them. Tricia is happy in her mind that they will care for Granny well. The convalescent home is quite nearby here which is good. Tricia has been doing a 100 mile round trip every day since Granny’s fall.

Granny will not go home again. She is too frail now and confused a lot of the time.
After a few weeks in the convalescent home Granny is going to live in an old people’s home run by the Royal Air Force Association. This home is even nearer to us. During the second world war she was married to an RAF pilot who was sadly, like so many other brave young men, killed in action over Germany.

At 95 years old Granny must surely be one of very few remaining war widows. The anguish and sorrow she has endured is hard to think about.

PS The title I have given this post reflects my feelings about the note from the King. Not even her name or her husband's name on it. I do realise that His Majesty was busy at this time.

Monday, 9 February 2015

Open Mic Night

Last night after a frantic search of the floor I managed to locate a pair of jeans that after a liberal spraying with Febreze would probably be okay for just one more wear. This was good because I was going to Open Mic with Sedge and Jon and didn’t really relish the thought of appearing on stage in just a T-shirt, boxer shorts and my last pair of odd socks!
I’m just going out the door and I say goodbye to Mia the German Shepherd, “Goodbye Mia,” I says, I won’t be long. Be a good girl.” Mia looks at me sadly when I say that, so I say, “Oh for crying out loud Mia, come on then!” And Mia gets all excited and starts jumping all over me and me jeans get covered in dog hairs. Now this is going to sound a bit weird but I do actually possess a clothes brush. After another frantic search I find it but it is full of dog hairs from last week when I brushed the dog with it when I couldn’t find the dog brush so instead I wrap Sellotape around me hand and manage to get most of the hair off with it. (See my pamphlet: How to remove dog hairs with Sellotape).
Thank you Steve Flynn for this photo.
Eventually I manage to find my way to the Open Mic venue. It is packed out with people, mostly women, who had heard I was going to be appearing. I have to fight my way through them and take refuge in the gents’ toilets, where I wipe all the lipstick off me face and neck. This is also a handy place to be because I need to pee. I’m standing there pointing Percy at the porcelain and waiting. I am waiting, because I am at that time in a man’s life when it takes a while to build up enough pressure, when this bloke comes in and stands at the urinal next to me “Hallo,” he says, “Are you having a good night?”
Now I don’t know about you, but garrulous as I am I have never considered the gents’ toilet a good place to engage in conversation. So not wanting to appear rude I give a non committal grunt, abandon my attempt to pee and go and wash my hands. It’s out of habit, this hand washing business. I shouldn’t have to do it really, I mean, it’s less than an hour ago I had a shower and there hasn’t been enough time for anything to need washing again!
I try to dry my hands but the hand dryer doesn’t work. It is as I dry my hands on my shirt that I notice a machine on the wall by the door It has a sign on it. The sign says Hand Dryer. I had been trying to dry my hands on the soap dispenser! Modern stuff baffles me. I couldn’t get the hand dryer to work anyway. As I left the room I heard it blast into life. Mr Conversation was obviously more technically minded than me.
I go back into the pub and they are all waiting for me. It is my turn on stage. “Here he is.” I hear someone shout, “He’s been to the toilet!”
Hearing this I get all self conscious. Suppose people think I was having a poo? How embarrassing! I don’t want them thinking that so I shout out, “I WASN’T HAVING A POO!”  And everyone goes quiet. “I didn’t even have a pee,” I say, “but I did wash my hands!”
After that the evening went a bit downhill for me. I tripped over the mic stand. I had forgot to bring me guitar strap so I had to sit down to play. I’m better standing up. I forgot the words to the first song and the chords and the tune if I’m being honest.
Halfway through the second song I heard a phone ringing. I was just about to have a go at the audience about it, when I realised it was my phone ringing. I stopped singing and answered it. It was my extremely handsome son George calling. People in the audience were shouting hallo to him. It might take him a while to get over the embarrassment!
Apart from all that it was a nice night out!

Saturday, 7 February 2015

VINCENT Van Gogh And Me.

When I am dead a lot of people are going to regret not buying my paintings because they are going to increase in value because that's what happens with paintings even crap ones with the signature BAIN on them.

I'm just saying that's all. Just giving you the heads up. It's down to you of course but just remember I'm bloody starving here okay?

VINCENT Van Gogh went mental in the end because he couldn't sell his work and he was a fantastic painter. I am already mental so don't have a problem with that side of things, not that I put myself up there with the great man.

The paint is frozen in the tubes so I'm not painting at the moment. Couldn't hold a paintbrush anyway what with me hands being so cold.

Maybe I should start painting abstract art. That way if anyone calls my work crap I can just say, "No mate, you just don't understand where I'm coming from." And then if they ask for an explanation I can spout a load of nonsense at them, pretend I know what I'm talking about.

Or surrealism? I could start acting weird, wax my moustache into points and paint strange events that occur in my head. Yes I could do that easily enough. Well, the acting weird part at least. No problem there.

I am going to share a little secret with you: When I sat here today I was intending to write an article about harvest mice. How weird is that? I 'm not sure why it turned into talking about painting. Maybe it was the ache in my shrivelled stomach that took my mind off it?

If I survive until Spring I am going to paint a masterpiece depicting the discovery of my emaciated body surrounded by all the paintings nobody wanted to buy.

Maybe when I am dead someone will arrange an exhibition of my work? More likely they will just have a big bonfire. Perhaps I should have the bonfire right now? That would warm me up!

I shall wait a while before setting it alight. Give people one more chance to buy something. I can't stand the thought of people having regrets.

Thursday, 5 February 2015

A Fur Point To Make.

Oh yeah, and I’ll tell you another fing an all. Human beans ain’t only stupid now they started off bleedin’ stupid. No. No. No listen before you get on your ‘igh ‘orse about it listen to this right? Okay?

Us human beans right we started off having fur right? Yeah and then we evolved right? Yeah? And we got rid of the fur right? Yeah?
So what happens then? We starts getting bleedin’ cold right? Yeah? On our bare skin. Right?

So we starts wearing animal skins right? Yeah we starts killing animals just for their fur so we could stay warm. It’s bleedin’ mental! Up until then we never killed animals, We didn’t need to. We was bleedin' warm enough. We ate nuts and fruit and berry’s and roots. Yeah? Anyway, that’s why I thinks human beans is stupid yeah? Right?

Course the fing is to kill animals you 'ave to 'ave weapons to kill the poor fings wiv. Yeah weapons right? Not tools.Tools is all right. Weapons! I don't fink I need to go into what happens when you invent weapons do I? Cor blimey you would 'ave thought we might 'ave learned 'ow wrong weapons is in the early days but did we? No, cos us human beans never learn. We is s'posed to be intelligent but we never learn. I mean, 'ere we are millions of bleedin' years later. Not only are we still killing animals but we are still killing each other! Anyway I am drifting off the point I'm trying to make. Where was I? Oh yeah.

And then yeah? Some human bean dipstick right? Finks to ‘itself, “I wonder wot that dead animal tastes like?” Yeah an that’s when it all kicked off and no poor bleedin’ animal was safe after that.

Yeah if human beans had kept their fur the world would be a much better place. Yeah? Right? You know wot I mean yeah?

Monday, 2 February 2015

When It's Spring Again I'll Sing Again

Come on John not long now and it will be Spring. Your toothpaste will unfreeze and your tubes of oil paint will thaw out. Just think John you will be able to play your guitar without the strings cutting off the tops of your fingers. And just imagine this John, water will start flowing from your kitchen tap again. You will be able to stop wearing that ridiculous woolly hat that makes you look like Compo from Last Of The Summer Wine. The sight of pretty girls in their summer frocks will lift your heart. And last but definitely not least you hopefully will stop talking to yourself and acting like a raving mad man. So come on John, it will soon be Spring!