Testicles. A Perfectly Legitimate Title For This Article.

My extremely handsome son George and I. Or should that be 'and me'? I have never worked that out. I'm the same with apostrophes. Never quite sure where they should go. Indeed, should the word apostrophes have an apostrophe? Have I just made two grammatical errors? Or should that be punctuation errors? I don't know. Doesn't really bother me that much. To be honest with you I don't even know why I mentioned it. Although if I did give it some thought, perhaps I could come up with a reason. Why do I get sidetracked like this? It drives me nuts. Have you ever wondered why abbreviation is such a long word? Or why dyslexia is such a hard word to spell? No, of course you haven't. Anyway, I digress. Now where was I?

Yes, I was about to say. Before my own brain cell interrupted me, that my extremely handsome son George and me. Or I, have been out looking for wild flowers again. Or more specifically orchids. We found some too. In fact we found a bit of old fashioned meadow, full of wild flowers. Lots of orchids too.

Because of George's interest in wild plants -I think the apostrophe is correct in his name. Not entirely sure though- I bought him a book yesterday. A pocket guide to British wild flowers. It was also a present to say well done on gaining three distinctions in his exams. Just thought I would mention that. You know, the proud dad thing. Mind you I am not even sure what gaining a distinction means, let alone three of them. But it does sound pretty impressive. Don't you think? Anyway he has his BTEC in sport, and he worked really hard.

One thing that upset me a bit was that they spelt his middle name wrong on the certificate. Instead of George Victor, they have put George Victer. Someone needs spelling lessons. It might seem petty to be upset by this, but he is named after my late brother Victor, and I feel that as this is an important certificate that will be with him forever, it should be done properly. I intend to see that this mistake is put right very soon. Think I'll ask Tricia to deal with it.

Back to the orchids. Did you know that orchid actually means testicle? It's true! Apparently the orchid roots resemble the male testicles, and that is how it got its name. Orchid means testes. The orchid plant does not appear every year either. The testicle shaped roots can lie dormant for many years without anything happening, and then suddenly spring into life. Hey, I know that feeling!

A Short Lived Hard Won Freedom

A prisoner escaped from Pentonville prison in London yesterday. A classic escape too apparently. Featuring the traditional knotted bedsheets.

Pentonville prison.

In my misspent youth I had the misfortune to spend a few months incarcerated in that very place. It is not an easy place to escape from. Believe me I checked out possible escape routes during my time there. It would have been well nigh impossible, and I was a very fit, if somewhat callow youth.

The guy who escaped yesterday is 64 years old. He did well to get out of that place. Had to scale a thirty foot high, barbed wire topped wall. In broad daylight!

I think congratulations are in order here. 64 years old! Well done!

But he had to go and spoil things by getting captured after less than 24 hours. For heaven's sake mate. If you are going to go to all that trouble to escape, make an effort to stay free. I feel badly let down now. But hey! 64 years old. Not bad at all. 

Having said that however, the bloke is a callous cold blooded murderer. So let's be thankful he is back inside where he belongs.

I'm 64 years old too.

I reckon I would be able to get out of there easily nowadays. Now that I am older, cleverer, and wiser.

Maybe wise enough now, not to get myself in there in the first place! I'd like to think so.

I hope you all have a good weekend. Try and stay out of trouble. Some of you wouldn't manage to climb over that prison wall!

A Nice Quiet Evening.

Extremely handsome son George up a tree.

It was so nice and peaceful at the old homestead this evening. Utterly calm, not a breathe of wind to spoil the peace. Not raining either. I had cut the grass earlier and was raking up the cuttings. Sadie the German Shepherd, Bonnie the cat, Sunny Jim the cockerel and some of his wives were all enjoying the evening too.

My extremely handsome son George was thinning some branches from the old sycamore tree. He had spent all day working in the woods too. I'm pleased he likes the outdoor life.

I thought I would share these few photos of the evening, and a quick video of George at work on the tree.

Bonnie the cat is sitting on the chair under the Ash tree.

As I was saying. Such a nice peaceful evening. Guess what just happened? Actually scrub that. You will never guess. No George didn't fall out of the tree. I never cut my foot off with the grass cutter.

A Horse and cart have crashed into Tricia's car. Quite some damage caused. Kind of a side swipe. They just drove off! Neighbours saw the whole thing. Didn't even stop to see if the horse was OK! We all know who it was. The police will be giving them a visit soon.

As I was saying. A nice quiet evening at the old homestead.

It's Curtains For Me.

Things are looking up on the showman's wagon front I am pleased to say. I have finally managed to effect the roof repairs. I do hope they are successful. I won't know for certain until we get a good amount of precipitation.

"Do you mean rain John?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you say rain?"

"This is my blog, I'll use what words I like."

"You are so bloody pretentious."

"Do you mean I'm a show off?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you say show off?"

I think I shall stop talking to myself now. Sorry about that. Got carried away again. I don't want it to rain. We have had more than enough of that for the moment.

Tovey.

I have got new curtains now too. It's looking proper posh in here. I am really pleased with them. My lovely friend Tovey has made them. She thinks I should have a pelmet on them. So she is making that too.  

Needs a pelmet for the finishing touch.

George.

I have to go now, my extremely handsome son George and I are clearing a bit of ground. He has been working in the forest all day, and now he is home he still wants to do more. I remember when I was young. Must dash, I don't want to leave him alone with the chainsaw.

Sadie The German Shepherd And Love Struck John Take A Walk.

John likes to talk. When I take him out for a walk, he will keep stopping suddenly, and tugging on his lead, just to say hello to someone. Doesn't matter who it is either. Could be a complete stranger. Most people smile at him benignly and continue on past, although there are some who will stop and chat.

He really loves it when people make a fuss of him. Doesn't matter how much I pull on his lead, he won't come until he is ready. But it's a different matter if I stop to have a sniff at something, it's, "Leave it Sadie. Dirty dog!" If I stop for a wee, he gets so impatient with me, " Sadie! Do you have to pee every few steps?" Yet when he stops to water a tree, I'm expected to wait patiently and keep a watch out just in case the Vicar's wife comes by.

Oh that was hilarious, when that happened one time. I've never forgotten it. He got such a shock when she suddenly appeared. In his haste to do himself up, he got his willie stuck in his zip, and he had to stand there, with a fixed grin, in absolute agony, while she reminded him about the Church fete!

It was even more fun, watching him trying to free himself too. I could tell it hurt, because he had wet eyes, and was saying bad words! His eyes weren't the only wet area either. I won't mention the state of his trousers, "Dirty boy!"

You may have noticed I referred to it as a willie. Well if you could see it, you would probably call it that too. It is far too small to be called a penis!

At the moment he is handing out party invitations to everyone we meet. So progress on the walk is particularly slow. If they all turn up it will be like Woodstock in the paddock! He is so worried that nobody will turn up at the party, that he is practically begging people to come. There is a big risk that the whole thing will turn into a pensioners convention! If it rains on the day, there is likely to be mobility scooters stuck everywhere!

A picture of me.

When we eventually reached the village today, he got a bit love struck. What happened was that he saw a woman he hadn't seen before, walking towards the shop. About his age too. Very attractive. He was definitely interested. I could tell that, because when she drew near he didn't smile and say good morning. In fact he was struck dumb. He gets like that when he really fancies someone. Tongue tied. It's a dead giveaway, and although he tried not to make it obvious, he couldn't take his eyes off her. He really is pathetic at times.

We had to wait outside the shop until she came out. Then he gave her a shy smile, as he pretended to adjust my collar. Naturally, she came up and gave me a stroke. Do you know what he said to her, as she petted me? He said, "Careful, she's a smelly old thing!" The nerve of it! John, saying I'm smelly! Pot, kettle and black come to mind.

Anyway she went off. His new love interest. He tried to look as though he was reading a notice in the shop window, but he was actually waiting to see which way she went. As I said, pathetic.

Tomorrow morning, as sure as eggs is eggs, he will want to go for a walk at exactly the same time in the hope of seeing her again. The only difference being that he will have tidied his beard up and be wearing his best clothes. He is so predictable. He won't say anything to her though. He will just stand there, feigning disinterest, like a love struck kid. Pathetic!

Eventually he will of course discover that she is a happily married lady. He will feel sorry for himself for a while. Will I ever find love again? Am I that ugly? What is it about me? That sort of thing. Then he'll do the whole, I'm happy as I am routine. Until the next time a likely looking female passes by.

I still love him though. The silly old fool!

The only good thing about the situation is, that tomorrow morning, he will have such a sense of purpose that he will forget to stop and talk to everyone we meet on the walk.

                      Lots of love from Sadie xx

PS. John has had an article published at Nature Center Magazine today. www.nc-mag.com I thought you might like to read it.

Just A Thought.

Do you think Prince William ever wakes up in the morning and thinks, "Flipping heck! I'm Prince William?"

You Don't Need To Travel To Go On A Journey.

Marvellous things aren't they cars? You just get in, switch on the engine, and off you go. Freedom. If you wanted to you could travel all over the world. You could take a tent and then there would be no accommodation charges to worry about. Just think of all the interesting places you could visit. All the interesting people you would meet. Marvellous!

Oh my word, learning to drive and having my own transport was going to transform my life. I would just get into my car and drive away. Away from all the things and people that irked me. Good bye you lot. I'm out of here.

I passed my test. Naturally I passed it first time. I knew I would. It stood to reason. I was after all the world's best driver.

I was given a car. Yes, given it. As a gift. From my friends Don and Jenny. Don and Jenny. Lovely genuine caring people. Didn't know me from Adam. Took me in when I was rock bottom one time. Just out of prison. They weren't too concerned about my past. They wanted me to have a future. You need to meet people like that. A wonderful couple. They have gone now. I miss them. I need to tell you about Don and Jenny sometime.

My car, the car they gave me, was a Triumph Vitesse. Soft top I seem to recall. Not too sure suddenly, that may have been a later one I owned. Anyway it was a nice little motor. Sporty. Light blue. I loved it. I remember the steering wheel was offset.

Can you remember the feeling, when you passed your driving test? Wasn't it marvellous? Look out life! I'm coming to live ya!

Then the reality sets in. Road tax. Insurance. Maintenance. Petrol. New battery. Breakdowns. Paying some bloke to walk in front of me with a red flag.

I never did get to travel very far in my first car. Couldn't afford to.

Funny how some things never change. I still can't afford to. But in themselves, they really are marvellous things, cars. They do tend to give you a sense of freedom. Just a sense mind you. Marvellous!

Don and Jenny gave me my first car. Along with a sense of responsibility. I travelled a long way on the right road, after I met them. You know what? I think that might have been what they intended.

In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning.

Have you ever wondered what I get up to in the wee small hours of the morning? You haven't? Oh! That is disappointing. I thought perhaps you might have done. Oh well, never mind. You are about to find out anyway.

Hey come back, it's not what you think. It is a completely innocent pastime I indulge in! I never look at those kind of sites. Except in the cause of research. Just to remind myself. Well all right sometimes I do, just for pleasure. Some people might think I'm a bit weird, but I can't help it. I just love tractors! The wee small hours of this morning were filled with the delightful sound of a vintage Fordson Major engine running as sweet as a nut.

After I had managed, through sheer will power, to drag myself away from tractors, and still not entirely sleepy, I recorded a song for you. Yes for you! See! I'm always thinking about you. Apart from when I'm thinking of tractors that is.

So I recorded this song, which didn't go entirely to plan, so it sounds a bit ropey sometimes. But I thought, What the heck! I'll let you hear it anyway. After all you don't have to listen. If you do listen though, please bear in mind, that I did it in one take.

Just to make matters worse I decided to add a penny whistle accompaniment. So what this is, is a film of me playing guitar and singing, and then a film of me filming myself playing the guitar and singing, whilst at the same time playing the penny whistle! Have you got that?

I didn't know the penny whistle notes, so I had to guess them. Sadly a lot of my guesses were wrong! This too was done in one take.

If I were you, I wouldn't bother listening! But if you don't listen, you might spend the rest of your life regretting that you didn't.

And that my dear friends, is what I get up to in the wee small hours of the morning. It is such an innocent pastime. Well what else is a bloke to do?

Thanks for listening. If you didn't listen, thanks for dropping by anyway. I appreciate it. It's good to know you are there.

Rest In Peace Wurzel

How would you react if your next door neighbours small dog strayed into your garden? If you like dogs, and this one appeared friendly, you might give it a stroke, maybe offer it a biscuit, before seeing it safely home.

If you are not a dog lover, perhaps you would shout at it, and shoo it out of your garden. Maybe, if the neighbours dog had done a crap on your lawn, you would go around next door and complain. Even if you like dogs, it is not nice to have a strange one fouling your grass.

Of course these reactions are perfectly acceptable, and are the kind of things you would expect in the circumstances.

What you would not do, is, you would not pick up a heavy broom handle, and beat the little dog senseless. Beat the little dog so savagely that you smash its little skull into pieces and bash it's brains in. You wouldn't do that would you? Even if you absolutely loathed dogs that is not the sort of thing any reasonable person would do is it?

Wurzel

But incredibly, three years ago, that is exactly what one of my neighbours did to my extremely handsome son's little dog Wurzel, when she went into his garden. He picked up a broom handle and savagely battered her.

Wurzel was one of the friendliest little dogs ever. A terrier cross. Extremely handsome son George chose her from the litter, and gave her the name Wurzel. We all loved her. She was a terrier though, and she had terrier instincts. She would, if the opportunity arose chase anything. That is the reason she went into the neighbours garden. She had seen the hens he had recently acquired. Not that they were in any danger from her. They were in a secure hen run. She couldn't hurt them. But she was apparently barking at them. For that, she paid with her life.

When he had beaten her unconscious, the neighbour, picked her up and threw her back over the fence, where she landed on the concrete path.

My extremely handsome son George and I were not at home when all this happened. But arrived in the immediate aftermath. We went into the house. We were happy because we'd had a good result at the football. How quickly our happiness turned to tears when we found Tricia, sitting, white faced, and shocked, on the sofa, cuddling Wurzel. The little dog was fitting, and making small high pitched whimpers. My first thought on seeing her was that she would recover, but Tricia knew that she was brain dead. She just knew.

Of course there is more to this whole incident than first meets the eye. Tricia had been involved in a right of way dispute with this neighbour, which had been simmering for some time. What I wasn't aware of was that he had previously threatened to make her life hell. He had actually on more than one occasion, I later found out, burst into the house, shouting and swearing. Tricia had kept these incidents from me. Not wanting me to get involved. Hoping things would eventually settle down. I firmly believe that when he murdered Wurzel, he did it because he knew how much it would hurt Tricia.

I went next door to see him. Perhaps I should have counted to ten first. But I wasn't in a counting mood! The strange thing is that Tricia said later, I appeared very calm. She watched me remove my glasses, and place them on the table before I went out. She thought there might be trouble! She was right.

The neighbour went off to hospital in an ambulance. Nothing too serious, just some bruising and a few broken ribs! At least I didn't bash his brains in! I was arrested, taken to the police station and locked up.

I just couldn't help myself you see. The pain and anguish I felt at seeing Wurzel like that. The feeling I had that I had let my family down. The rage I felt that he thought he could do what he had done without consequence. What must he have thought? Did he think I wouldn't react? I think that is what he thought. How wrong he was!

I had been doing so well too. Hadn't been in trouble with the law for many years. I know it's wrong to take the law into your own hands, but I wasn't thinking straight. I was in shock. Even so I'm not sorry. He got what he deserved!

He has moved away now, thank God. I wish I could name him on this blog, but I am not allowed to cause him harassment. Not for at least five years, or they will lock me up again!

There is a lot more to this story. It made national news. TV even. I will come back to it sometimes.

RIP little Wurzel.

Masturbation Will Not Make You Blind. But It Might Steam Up Your Glasses!

It is bedtime in the children's home. All of us boys are in the dormitory. We are wearing our pajamas, and we kneel beside our beds waiting for Auntie May, the housemother to say the bedtime prayer.

There is a bit of a delay tonight, and my skinny little knees are hurting on the hard linoleum floor. The cause of the delay is because Auntie May is having a problem with Ronny's boxing gloves. Ronny has been caught playing with himself again, and he must wear the boxing gloves at night until he is cured. He has been cured several times already, but the problem keeps on rearing it's ugly head. Please forgive the unintended pun.

Eventually Auntie May is satisfied that the boxing gloves are on securely, and she says a short prayer asking God to forgive us wicked boys for our sins. As she leaves the room, she gives us all a stern warning that self abuse is a sin, and that there are plenty more pairs of boxing gloves available if she finds anyone else indulging in the filthy practice.

Poor old Ronny. He has a real problem with it. He was even caught doing it at school once. In the classroom! During a lesson! He got the cane for that. He has even had his trouser pockets sewn up, because of his constant fiddling with himself. All to no avail. Nothing, it seems, is going to stop him indulging in his favourite pastime.

We have all been given a lecture and a stern warning about the dire consequences of masturbation. We know only too well that we risk becoming physically weak and feeble minded, and could, in all probability go blind. However, it seems that most of us boys are willing to take the risk. Although in my case, I am a bit worried about going blind, and determine that I will only continue doing it, until I need glasses!

In view of Ronny's uncontrollable little habit, it is very unfortunate I feel, that his surname is Handcock. What a cruel irony!

The Success And Failure Of Being A Dad!

Father's Day.

My extremely handsome son George took me out for a meal at lunchtime. We went to a American style diner. The waiting staff are dressed as cowboys and cowgirls, and the whole place is adorned with western style decor. It is amazingly popular, despite very high prices.

I didn't want him to spend his hard earned money on me, but he insisted. He knows the joy to be had in giving. Later on I learned from Tricia that he had planned on taking me to a really expensive place nearby here, but wasn't able to book a table.

It was great being with him, just the two of us. He is such good company. A genuinely nice young lad. How that has happened with a Dad like me I can't fathom. He must get it from his Mum's side.

After my treat, he felt a bit guilty I think, because he had arranged a camping trip with his mates, and thought that he ought to be with me on Father's day. Of course I put his mind at rest about that. I am just pleased that he has good friends to share things with.

Anyway tonight I watched the football on TV on my own. Tricia was there but she is not that into football. Unless it is her beloved Everton FC.

Before he went off camping extremely handsome son George presented me with a big bottle of coke and a six pack of my favourite popcorn. Very thoughtful. He knows my football watching habits.

The miniature bottle of Jack Daniels was a Father's Day gift from the restaurant.

When the match had finished so had all the popcorn and most of the coke. I felt sick. I am such a glutton. Don't think I'm ever going to learn.

He phoned me after the match to say good night, and to tell me I'm the best Dad in the world, and that he loves me.

Now I'm sitting here thinking about what it is to be a Dad. I have done my best, but I am hurting inside a bit. I am thinking of my daughter. I seem to have ruined that relationship. We were so close when she was a child. Almost inseparable. Went everywhere together, shared adventures.

I don't know what went wrong. Maybe she thinks I should have stayed with her Mum. She doesn't get on with Tricia. Although they were once friends. Anyway I'm not going to dwell on it. What's the point? I'm here if she needs me. She knows that because I told her so. She also knows that I love her. I told her that too. A million times.

Thinking about my extremely handsome son George, do you know, I have never, in all his 18 years, told him off, or even raised my voice to him. Now I'm not sure if I should feel proud about that or not. Perhaps that's just the way good Dads are. But I don't know. Because I never knew my own Dad. He pissed of when I was a baby.

I did go through a phase of wanting to get in touch with my Dad, but I never did. Because I realised in time, that I only wanted to meet him, so that I could punch him several times really hard.

So glad I never bothered. He wasn't worth wasting any emotion on. My sister and brother did once try to make contact. Actually found him and knocked on his door! He sent them packing. Told them, in no uncertain terms apparently, not to bother him again.

It is difficult for me to understand how a heartless bastard like that could be my Dad! What hurts though sometimes, is that he started another family. Had more children. So, out there in the big world, I have half siblings I have never met. I wonder how he was with them?

I read a very heartfelt tribute to a Dad today at pasttimeamainebackyardandbeyond.blogspot.co.uk which caused me to come over all emotional. I have no such poignant memories. But hopefully my children, both of them, will think kindly of me when I have gone.

It is wonderful being a Father. Sometimes heartbreaking I know. But I can't understand why any man wouldn't want to have the love and joy of it, in their life.

According To My Calculations I Am A Love Machine!

Fifteen months I have been blogging. What a lot I have shared with you. My life has become in that time, an open book. Not a finished book, you will be pleased to hear. There are still a good few pages yet to come. After all I am nearly 65 years old, and I have crammed a lot into those years.  Oh my word! In a few short weeks I shall be an OAP. OK I'll spell it out. An old age pensioner!

Sixty five years! According to my calculations, that is 780 months. Or I have also worked it out at 590 months. Hold on a minute while I sort this out. Right. Let me see now. 12 months equals 1 year. So 65 years multiplied by 12 months equals erm... OK so 65 x 12. No. Divided by 12. Maybe multiplied is right! Hang on. Let me try another way.

                                                       65
                                                       12 x
                                                       ___
                                                      130
                                                       ___
                                                       65
                                                       ___
                                                       780

No I'm still not sure about that. What if I count 65, 12 times? Ahha! I've got it. 65 x 3 = 195 yeah, and times that by 4. That comes to 590.

Oh blast! I'm back where I started. Oh well, anyway, as I say it's either 780 months or 590 months. Please take your pick. It doesn't seem very long does it? I've only lived for 780 months at the highest figure! That can't be right!

My maths teacher was right after all when he said: "There will come a day, young Bain, when you will wish you had applied yourself more to your lessons."

There are a few photos of me, in and around this blog. Go and take a look at them. Amazing isn't it? I simply don't look a day over 35 in any of them.

I think the fact that I look so young, combined with the fact that I am actually quite old, is the main reason why I have women begging me to have a relationship with them. They yearn for my incredibly fit body, and at the same time are acutely aware of the wealth of sexual pleasure, honed over many years, I am able to bring to the bedroom!

The years have taken their toll in one way though. My short term memory is up the creek. I am now at the stage where I can't recall what I've told you already. For instance. Today I was going to tell you about my Mum's cat and the budgerigar. I suddenly thought that I may have already told you that tale. I have been through this blogs archives, and can't find it. Mind you I didn't look through them all. I got a bit bored after searching the first few months.

I might tell it next time. If I remember that is.

By the way, if I do repeat anything, I apologise. But I am nearly 65 years old! How many weeks are there in 65 years? Let me work that out. Just kidding!

Coming Out Of My Shell.

I am talking to Tricia. This is when we first met. It must be 25 years ago. How time does fly past.

She has just moved to this area from London. She is very attractive. I fancy her a lot. I try, in as casual a way as I can, to find out more about her. She is pleasant and easy to talk to.

It turns out that she and I have something in common. We have both spent some of our childhood in the same London district, Tulse Hill.

I tell her I went to the comprehensive school there.

She tells me she lived in one of the houses that back onto the school playground.

What a coincidence we say.

I tell her about the time a little girl, of about nine or ten, who lived in one of those houses, came into my school to collect a tortoise which I had found wandering in the playground.

Tricia is amazed by this fact. She was the little girl!

She tells me she remembers her mum telling her to go to the school and ask if anyone had found a tortoise.

Tricia and I laugh about this even more remarkable coincidence. Well you know what they say. If a man can make a woman laugh.....

We become an item, her and I. Truth to tell she never stood a chance.

The rest, as they say, is history, and 34 years after I first met that pretty little girl in my school, our extremely handsome son George was born.


I am tempted here to make a silly joke like: My goodness, what a long gestation time. But I won't. It would be far too corny and obvious.

Naturally I messed up eventually. I always screw up relationships with women. I never believe a woman can really love me. But we spent happy years together, and as you may recall me mentioning before, we remain the best of friends.


What about the tortoise I hear you ask? Sadly he never woke up one summer after his hibernation. But I remember him with great fondness. I owe that tortoise, big time.

He really brought me out of my shell!




PS. I was going to insert a picture of a tortoise, then I thought, you probably already know what a tortoise looks like anyway.

A Comprehensively Testing Time.

This is London 1958. To me, an 11 year old, the big school is an intimidating place. A glass, and concrete fronted monstrosity eight stories high. It was I believe the first, purpose built comprehensive school in London, maybe England even. My first day is a nightmare. I don't know a soul.

The teachers wear black gowns and mortar boards. I find them very scary. The headmaster is a fearsome looking man. He speaks, shouts mostly, in a booming Welsh accent, that seems to shake the very foundations of this hideous edifice, and causes tremors across the floor and up through my nervous body, to rattle my confused brain.

There are official school bullies too. Well they are actually called prefects, and supposed to keep order, but in my experience most of them were bullies. They had a sash type thing to distinguish them from the other boys. But they used to hide them so you couldn't see them coming. I hated prefects.

Coming as I have, from a tiny junior school, in the grounds of the residential children's home, where I had lived my life so far, and where everybody knew each other, this sudden change in my circumstances, and the chattering noise of two thousand boys is almost overwhelming. In these difficult conditions I resolve to keep my head down, and just get on with things as best I can.

This is not a good time for me. As well as starting secondary school, I have at the same time, without, as far as I recall, any notice, been placed with foster parents.

I am far away from any of my wretched life's familiar things. I am a stranger here in this locality, and my former comfort zones, although somewhat frugal, have been left, without ceremony, many miles away.

I am dispirited, sad, lonely, and unhappy. I want my Mother to be here. I want her to take me back with her to wherever she lives. I want her to stand in my corner, and tell me everything is going to be all right. Mind you, this is something I yearn for most days. But perhaps a little more fervently this time.

But that won't happen. It would be a miracle if it did. I haven't heard from her for years. What will happen is that I will get used to the way things are here, I will somehow fit myself into the system, whilst not actually conforming to it, and I will survive the turmoil in my life, and in my head. Because that is the way I am. A frightened but resilient little fighter.

This is just one more testing time in my life. I'll deal with it. What else is there to do?

The Parachute Training School.

Well that was a nice little break. I would have liked just a little bit longer, but I have been getting pleading emails for me to come back, and, well, you know me by now, I hate to think of any of you suffering. Also there may just have been in the back of my paranoid mind, a tiny element of wanting to know how much you love me, about the whole thing. I am not prepared though to admit that outright.

But all that aside, my short blogging break was not spent idly. Oh no. I have been busy indeed, and having a very exciting time.


This is my new shirt. Can you see what the badge is? Yes that's right the Parachute Training School. The Number One Parachute Training School. Brize Norton is where the Parachute Regiment do their training. Very elite. About a hundred miles from where I live. Not too far for me to travel.

I am so pleased I went ahead with my breast enlargement operation. The results speak for themselves. 

These shirts are not given away lightly. They have to be earned. The winged parachute is a proud badge, and I will wear it proudly.

What you have to do is ten, yes ten, parachute jumps, over the course of five days. Not only that but four of these jumps are free fall. If you open the 'chute too soon, that is a fail, and no badge. Also you have to try and stay on your feet as you land. Really difficult, and scary stuff. But of course the instructors are experts at what they do, and soon weed out those not cut out for it.

I really need to work on losing my fat gut too.

That is why dear friends I shall feel so proud to wear the shirt in public. People shall look at me wearing it, and think: "Wow, what an action man!"

Apart from getting this great shirt, what else have I been up to? Well my roof repairs are in hand, thank goodness. Although the rain, the flipping incessant rain, the bloody rain, the wet rain, keeps stopping me from completing that job. But I am quietly confident that my repairs will finally solve the leak problems.

I have still got a bit of work to do inside the wagon as well, but I am getting there slowly. The leaking roof does hinder a bit in this respect.

My extremely handsome son George and I, with Sadie the German Shepherd, have been on a few nature walks, when the weather has permitted. I love to spend time with my boy. We found an Orchid on one of our walks. Such a sense of achievement.

Oh yes, and I went to a car boot sale. I love car boot sales. Some good bargains to be had. I was looking for some material to make curtains, but no luck in that respect.

However it was not a complete waste of time, because that is where I got the shirt from. The shirt with the Parachute Training School badge. A wonderful find!

What? Oh come on now! I never implied any such thing! You didn't really think I'd been hurling myself out of aircraft, did you? At my age!

It's good to be back!

Now Is The Time To Say Goodbye.

Firty faasand fevvers on a frushes froat, translated from the Cockney into proper English, means, thirty thousand feathers on a thrushes throat.

When I first moved from London to a small Scottish village many years ago at about 12 years old. I had a thick Cockney accent. My classmates were always asking me to say the firty faasand fevvers thing. It gave them a good laugh. Mind you, to give them their due, they did teach me the correct way to say it. Which probably accounts in large part how I eventually lost my London twang.

Nowadays I don't know what I sound like. Some people say I sound posh. One woman I had an argument with about inconsiderate car parking some time ago, called me a ' "fucking posh bastard" '. Which considering my background, and on reflection, was quite funny. If she only knew!

Thirty thousand is also the number of page views this humble blog has reached. I feel like having a break from it for a while.

Mind you, blogging can be quite addictive, I don't know if I can stay away, but I am going to try.

Come come now. None of that. There is really no need for sadness. I shall still be here. I shall just be quiet for a while. Charge my batteries, and come back again, raring to go.

How long for? A few days. Maybe more. I am going to miss you, you know that!

I have not claimed copyright on this photo, because I know some of you might want to download it!

Lots of love. God bless.

Two Eggs In A Hankie!

Today I am going to be writing in a more serious vein. It seems to me that I have been losing the plot recently in some of my posts. Time I think to regain some of my former gravitas. I would hate you to desert me for not taking things seriously.

As I was limping along today, Sadie the German Shepherd at my side, my thoughts turned to Paul's blog glossaryking.blogspot.com. I was limping because of the pain in my big toe, right foot. Have I mentioned my toe before? Oh the pain! You would not believe! I'm a martyr to it. An absolute martyr.

Anyway, Paul's blog. He was talking today about running. A subject that was once close to my heart. I used to run everywhere once upon a time. Absolutely loved it. There is such a freedom in it. Even my magnificent writing skills are not equal to the job of describing how it feels. Suffice to say, that as I ran, I would transcend all cares, and my fit strong legs carried me forward to a higher plain. I would attempt as I ran, to minimise the amount of contact my feet had with the ground. I was in effect trying to fly. It sounds weird I know, but sometimes I am sure I attained a state of weightlessness. I certainly went into a trance like state. Almost hallucinatory I suppose.

Although that could have been due to the herbal substances I always used to smoke before I set off on a run! I'm joking! I know it is very dangerous to smoke and run. If you happen to fall whilst smoking a pipe, you could so easily damage your teeth! I disapprove of smoking, but to be honest I cannot think of any other way of enjoying a spliff! I'm joking! Obviously you could use a pipe. Or a bong! Or one of those strange hubba bubba pipes, or whatever it's called. Not whilst running though. Please don't try that!

Oh dear, I did so want this to be a serious article about running. I don't know why I keep going off on a tandem. Sorry, not tandem I mean tangent! Obviously if you go off on a tandem, that is a whole different sport. Although you would have the benefit of the person at the back being able to hold your smoking paraphenalia. Or better still fit a basket on the front. With a basket of course you would be able to smoke your hubba bubba pipe, or whatever it's called, at the same time.

Now then, were was I? Oh yes, running. Of course in those days I was small and slightly built. Not all over, I hasten too add. My wife never married me for my money! In fact when I married at age 29 I weighed just about nine and a half stone. Married life soon caused me to increase to about ten and a half stone but I could still run. I never obtained my current grossly obese state of eleven and a half stone until I reached about 50. I still have dreams of getting fit again, but biscuits and cakes always get in the way of this ambition.

I tried walking really fast as a way too get my fitness back. You know that funny walking that Olympic athletes do. What you do is, you kind of wriggle your clenched buttocks, and take long straight legged strides. You need to wear very short shorts too. This is so that the event judges can see if you cheat by bending at the knees.

Anyway as I say I did try this sport for a few months. I got quite fit too. Eventually though I gave it up. To be perfectly frank with you, I got sick and tired of all the so called jokes people shouted at me as I walked. Things like: "Oi mate. Nice arse!" Also I was attracting attention from the wrong type of people. Men actually. Wolf whistles! Some of them even had the audacity to run alongside me, asking for my phone number! So disheartening. But to be expected I suppose. Especially for someone with my looks, and I have to say, I am blessed with beautifully tight buttocks! Always have been. I remember one ardent female admirer describing my bottom as looking like 'two eggs in a hankie'. Which was nice of her to say. All right a confession here. It wasn't an ardent female admirer who said that. It was my Mother. But she did have a very good eye for such things!

Yes, I used to really enjoy running. But those days are gone. It's my toe you know. Big toe, right foot. So painful. I'm a martyr to it. An absolute martyr! Did I mention that?

That's it for today then. So glad I managed to keep it together for a change. I knew I would though. I can be serious, and running is a serious matter!

The World's Rudest Words And Their Correct Application In Common English Usage.

I have nothing to write about. My mind is a blank canvas. Can't think of a thing to say. Lets see what unfolds.

Raining again. My roof is still leaking despite my repair efforts, and it is threatening to spoil my newly painted ceilings. I think I shall have to do some major alterations to cure the problem. I do think at last I have solved why it is happening, and I have a plan in my head as to how I shall mend things. But it has to stop raining for long enough for me to get the work done. One day of dry weather should be long enough, but I also need the roof space to have time to dry out. So a run of nice days would be appreciated.

Of course nice days during half term holidays also means I ought to be out doing portraits and earning money, not messing about on the roof with a design plan that may or may not work.

I went to the DIY store today to work out the cost of materials. As usual I baulked at the prices. I live in the past with regard to how much things cost. Besides which I am generally a make do and mend type of man. But that isn't going to work this time. I have already tried that route.

My boots have suddenly got a split in them, right across both soles. Only discovered this when I set off across the fields with Sadie the German Shepherd today. We turned back. My feet were sodden. I put her in the car and we went to the park instead. She quite likes the park, plenty of doggy smells to enjoy. I enjoy it too. No not the doggy smells! I enjoy the park. I do pick up after her. Using one of the plastic carrier bags I stole from the local shop. To be honest that is all they are fit for. They are no flipping use for carrying shopping. It was while I was carrying these rather large dog droppings around with me, pretending, in case anyone I knew saw me, that I had just been shopping, that I began to wonder why the nations dog turds could not be put to some good use. I never came up with anything, but it does seem a shame to just throw this plentiful natural resource away. Perhaps you dear reader would like to spend a few minutes of your time thinking of some good uses. It doesn't just have to stop at dog turds either, There is of course human.... I'm going to leave the subject there. I'm feeling a bit queasy. Hope you are OK. Oh yes, you are. I can tell with this new widget I'm trialling. Of which more later! I shall have to buy new boots. More money to earn!

Oi Blogger listen to me. The word 'trialling' has two 'l's'. Yes it does. In England it does, and we invented the English language. So there. So you can remove that red squiggly line. Thanks. And all the other words you accuse me of misspelling. Although I am willing to concede that doggy has a 'y' at the end and not 'ie'.

I have been given a golf buggy. I saw it in my friends garage and cadged it off him. It will, with just a little bit of alteration make it easy to take my easel and stools about the place.When I say stools I'm talking about those things to sit on. Thought it best to make that clear. I do not carry my stools around in a stolen plastic carrier bag! Unless I'm on the way to hospital for tests. Even so the hospital didn't approve of the carrier bag I used. Apparently you are supposed to use the little tube supplied, but I found it far too small! It's not a buggy, what am I saying? It's a golf cart that you pull along. A golf buggy is a little electric car, not the same thing at all!

Are you bored with this yet? Please feel free to stop reading. No need to be polite. Just bear in mind though, that I will know who you are if you do stop reading this. I have fitted a newly developed widget that lets me know exactly what you are doing at any given moment. It is in the early stages of development and I have been chosen to trial it. It really is amazing. STOP THAT RIGHT NOW! That's better. Really I'm shocked! But don't worry, your secret is safe with me.

I am still blowing the penny whistle. In fact next week I am appearing at The Royal Festival Hall in London, to give a recital and penny whistle masterclass to some of the worlds finest musicians. Sorry, all tickets have sold out. Apparently I have amazed the world, through the good auspices of youtube, with my remarkable abilities. Funny old world isn't it. One just never knows what is around the corner, does one? One? Why have I suddenly started talking like the Queen? One doesn't normally, does one? One must have been watching too much Diamond Jubilee stuff.

Well I have to admit my mind is still a complete blank. Still can't think of anything to talk about. Oh hold on! There was something. Oh yes that's it. How on earth could I forget that? Blast! It's gone. Never mind there is always tomorrow.

I do apologise for the title of this post. An attention grabbing headline though, I'm sure you will agree. One has to resort to this kind of subterfuge when one cannot think of a thing to say to ones readers.

The True Value Of A Rusty Bucket!

That was exhausting! The Jubilee celebrations I mean. I was only watching on TV. Goodness only knows how Madge feels. I mean, blimey, she is 86 years old! She is a tough old bird, no doubt about that.

Poor old thing, she had to do a lot of it without Phil by her side too. He has got a bladder infection. He probably got it having to keep his legs crossed on that royal barge sail past. Most barges only have a rusty bucket as a toilet, and I can't imagine the royals using that. Well actually I can imagine it, but prefer not to. Peeing over the side like a proper sailor wasn't an option either, what with all those people watching. Anyway I do hope Phil gets better soon.

This is not, as far as I know, the actual bucket from the royal barge. I have merely added it as an aid to imagination. I always assume old rusty buckets to be a bit more battered and bent.

He missed out on the Jubilee concert too. At least that spared him the sight of Grace Jones, with that ridiculous hula hoop act. I have no idea what she was singing. I was too interested in whether she'd pass out through lack of breath or drop the hoop! Who is she anyway?

Robbie Williams was there too. Shouting, sorry singing, about how he wanted to let us be entertained by him. Take it easy Robbie for God's sake. I thought you were going to have a heart attack!

Will.I.Am was there with Jessie J. All I know about those two is they are, or were, judges on the X factor, or was it Britains got talent. One of those talent contests. They were judges!! How? Neither of them appeared to have any singing talent.

Annie Lennox, who at one time was one of my favourite singers, was a disaster. Just because you are singing a song about angels doesn't mean you have to wear a giant pair of wings! I can't believe that was your idea Annie. You looked like a broken shuttlecock!

Sir Cliff Richard. How old is he now? Must be about the same age as the queen surely. I'm afraid he is well past his best. Don't they ever retire these ageing rockers? Oh well, who am I to talk. But seriously Cliff old chap. Surely you are a wee bit too old for prancing around in a pink suit. You looked more like Dame Cliff. Must be about time to admit the truth.

What has got one hundred legs and no teeth? The front row at a Cliff Richard show!

Sir Paul McCartney has had so many facelifts it sounds like his testicles are stuck in his larynx! He uses the same hair dye as Cliff, and lots of it by the look of things.

Talking of facelifts, Tom Jones was there too. He was fantastic! I forgive him his facelifts. At least he can still sing.

I am not going to mention Elton John. No I'm Not. This concert was for a real Queen!

Stevie Wonder: Unfortunately I missed his performance, as I was being sick into a rusty bucket, after watching Elton John. But I just know Stevie was brilliant!

A young singer guitarist, Ed Sheeran: Excellent!

The bands, the choirs: Great!

Yes some of it was wonderful, but a lot of it wasn't.

Oh all right then. I suppose I have to admit it: Elton John was fantastic! A great performance. Best of the night. If you saw it, you'll know I'd be lying to say otherwise. AAARRGGHH!

Of course the Queen has, just like me, heard and seen some world class acts over the years, but it seems that most of those she and I have known over the last 60 years have gone now. Will the great days of real showbusiness ever come back? I very much doubt it.

By the way I asked Tricia what she thought of the performances. She was not too complimentary about most of them. I asked who she would have liked to have seen there instead. Elvis Presley, The Everly Brothers, and surprisingly, Nick Drake, were her main choices.

Anyway as I was saying I'm exhausted just watching it all unfold. I tell you what. I'm not going to bother watching the next diamond jubilee. Not unless Tom Jones is the headline act!

Get well soon Prince Philip. Next time it might be a good idea to put aside your pride, and use that rusty bucket!

All opinions expressed in this article are mine, and mine alone. Except for those that are not. Thank you. God save the Queen.

Botox Injections. Do They Make A Difference? Yea Or Nay?

It's a bit of an odd one this, but the thing is, myself, Sadie the German Shepherd, and Bonnie the Ginger Cat, have all had botox injections, and we were wondering if you all would be kind enough to let us know what you think of the results. I have included before and after photos for you to judge the results with.

Personally, in my own photos I struggle to see any difference. I think I look terrific in them both. Sadie the German Shepherd does show a definite improvement and Bonnie the Ginger Cat wouldn't keep still for long enough for me to get a decent shot, er sorry, bad choice of word there. I mean photograph.

Please click on photos to enlarge them. Well worth it on my after photo.

Before

After

Before

After

Before

After

"Where are you going Sadie?"
"Quickly Bonnie, let's get out of here. John's having one of his funny turns."

I'm also considering having a tummy tuck. Your thoughts and comments on both these matters would be greatly appreciated.

Now I must go and lie down. Got a bit of a headache. Of course that might just be the tightening effect of the botox injections.