Thursday, 4 January 2018

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated!

Cannot believe it's been several years since I wrote a bit of the old blog!  What a slacker!  Talk about: 'See me after school, Carol.  And do something with your hair whilst you're about it, girl!"

Where have you been, you lazy old bugger? Well, I became totally enthralled with online Poker, for several years.  I'd win one tournament and then lose 120, win one, lose 90.  I finally came to the conclusion (and it cuts me to the quick to admit it) - I'm a bit rubbish a poker!!

Doesn't mean I don't still love it, mind; but I have to admit it, I'm never going to be Victoria Coren (she is as famous in the poker world as she is well known on telly!).

Just looked at screen and realised that everything is going all very 'middley' - am not sure why but looking at it now, this sort of layout reminds me of when 'someone writes a terrible poem and shows it to you and, because you are english, you can't say: 'this is a load of old cods wallop'.  Or who taught you to write?  The Australopithicine Patience Strong?

You just can't speak your mind - cos you can't, can you?  I mean, they're so serious about it; they took a great deal of time over it; they think it's a masterpiece; it's generally concerning the death of dear family member or a eulogy to some terrible world event e.g.:


When I heard about the Holocaust, I said: 'Oh, no - that can't be true'...about 6 million Jews.  And the more I read, the more I cried about how scare a soul would even help...or try (picture of a heart split in two and crying).

Now, that's about as much as I can remember of the 'poem' that the dear old girl down the road showed me, many years back, when her daughter in law had bought her the box set of the 'World at War' (the one narrated by Lawrence Olivier).  After all, bless her heart, she meant it in all sincerity and there's me (the wicked little bugger) desparately trying to think how to respond.  The best I could do was to sit back in my chair, put a splayed hand against my chest and say something like: 'Edie, oh Edie, I can tell that's come from a very special place (yes, Hallmark's waste paper bin), I feel so pleased that you felt able to show it to me.' Or some other insincere nonsense.

Why am I talking about Edie's Holocaust Poem?  Oh, yes, this weird centred writing thing that appear to be stuck in! Fear not, I will not be getting all Hallmark-y and 'Teddy Bears with hearts' on you!  Because if I did, you'd all know that it soooo wasn't me and yes, I was indeed brown bread

And had been replaced by a kind, sensitive soul instead of my trusty old vinegary self.

Well, as I say, I've left the world of Poker and Pot Noodle 'mostly' behind me and am back to writing (bless me deluded heart) and now, get me, down with the youngsters, vlogging!  Yes, I know - I should be shot!  You're more than welcome to take a look, even if it's just to say 'Christ, she's looking old!'.  I'm very new at it, just a few days now, and one of the videos can only be heard by dogs - and even they're a bit: 'yes, well, I don't know really' !!!

Oh, final bit of Boutros Boutros Gali - my dog, Connie, had a knee replacement about a month ago, bless her - she is definitely on the mend though, blimey dogs are resilient.  Will buzz orf for now, all the best, Carol

Monday, 28 July 2014

Oh, for Crying Out Loud...Shed of the Year, my hairy rear end!

Sorry but I really must register an objection.  I know I'm English but, I'm not that bloody English: no-one's that bloody English!

So, what is all this 'Shed of the Year' nonsense on the telly?  'Shed of the Year'?  No, no, no - the comparative value (that sounds about brainily right) of  sheds is not a subject for a whole set of programmes on the public teevers.

Sheds!  Anyhow, I was flicking through the channels and it said: 'And up next, it's Shed of the Year.'  So I'm like - what?  No, no, surely I misheard.  But nope, it really was a programme about the sheds inc. their aesthetic value, for heaven's sake.

So, I turned it over and just thought some 'harumphhh' type thoughts over the old gin and tonic.  That night I only ruddy well ended up dreaming about bloody sheds: getting locked in a shed, the disgraceful old Josef Fritzel-esque number that my brother in law built etc etc.

Next morning, I tried to stop myself...but I'm only human, so I googled it and voila:

2013 Shed of the Year.

And then it occurred to me: I'd just had a very nasty brush with irony.

Now, of course, I'm totally into Shed of the Year...

Will let you know which dreadful old pile wins, sigh...

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

The State of Britain's Feet...

Have noticed that every other advert on teevers is for foot-related products.  Foul images of hard skin shavings abound!

Every 25 minutes I am confronted by some hideous old plates; what the blinking flip has happened to peoples' feet?  What has gone wrong?  My feet are the same as uzh, except for an extreme hardening of the big toenail:

However, everyone else's feet have become hyper-skanky-old-hard-skin-erised (dunno what it's really called...probably what I just said) a la (sorry to do this to you):

I mean, what do you have to do to get feet like that?  These aren't ordinary old feet; these are disgusting old B-Roads of Britain feet; Ice Cold in Alex feet; 'Ghandi's got better feet than those' feet.  In fact, I don't believe it.  If your disgraceful old Corn and Bunion Sets have got so bad that you have to shave the skin off...well...perhaps you should be in a home for shameless old slatterns.

Oh, and if it's not 'Singing Detective' feet, it's feet with Fungal Nail Infection or Athletes' Feet.  What is Britain doing - never taking its socks orf for a bit of an airing?  Some of the feet I've been forced to look at recently should be put to good use: growing mushrooms for Africa.  I heard that one from Father Piotr.  I'm not sure if I believe him but it is a tad dry out there, I suppose...for mushrooms.

Sorry for the diatribe but it really is a bit much.  So, on a lighter note: was watching X-Men 2 with Man Friday (cannot be arsed to watch anything nuevo at the mo' - it's far too hot to bother with new plots - so am either watching re-runs of tv shows or films I've seen at least twice before.  Therefore, if I nod orf for a few minutes I don't have to keep asking: 'Who's he then?' or 'What's she got in that bucket?'- type things).

So, watching X Men 2.  Wolverine comes into a kitchen and gets a small bottle of fizzy pop from a cupboard.  He opens it and then hands it over to a young man who is sitting at the kitchen table.  The young man smiles and blows lightly across the top of the bottle.  The bottle becomes immediately cold and Wolverine says thank-you.

At this point Man Friday says to me: 'That's Ice-Man, you know.'  And I got all shirty (it is a bit hot) and I replied: 'Oh, I thought it was Blows on Bottle Boy.'

Then Man Friday laughed at me and said: 'Feeling sarcastic are we, Can't Open Child-Proof Bottles Woman?' - which made me laugh.  We then made much merry with devising useless super powers and naming their exponents.

See, that's the trouble with all this hot weather malarkey: it can make arses of the best of us - which, of course, as Esther says: 'Explains all the cantankerousness in those foreign countries.'

Oh, did I tell you - poor Henry (the Ottoman dog) died.  Can't remember if I said or not.  Oh, and George is still clinging on by the skin of his dentures.

Must buzz orf for now.

Friday, 7 February 2014


I’d just like to say that the following is totally true: well, it’s a true rumour i.e. it’s really a rumour that I heard about, not one that I am making up!
It goes like this: Hitler didn’t die in the bunker.  He escaped to Brazil, married a black lady, had 2 children, lived to a ripe old age and then died in the 1970s.  Hmmmm…..
There’s a picture on the internet somewhere that is really blurry and grainy and shows a youngish black lady and some old cracker.  Apparently, no one thought anything about the couple and just thought he was a bit odd and was known as Uncle Fritzy.  Then (this is the good bit), some Latin American researchers came across the photo and thought Uncle Fritzy reminded them of someone.  Then, one of the researcher’s fag ash fell on the photo and landed under Uncle Fritzy’s nose and then: ‘Eureka!’.
However, I have done some experiments of my own and worked that any picture of a black lady next to a white bloke could look like she’d been duped by the Furher by the addition of a moustache onto the white bloke.
For example, say this is a picture of George and Miss Gladiola doing some synchronised swimming:

All seems fine, yes?  However, with the addition of a few strokes of the magic marker….


Arrrrgggghhh!  Adolf Hitler is sneaking up on Miss Gladi !!!!

Honestly, if you stuck a little black moustache on Ghandhi he’d look like Hitler.  I think I might go and draw one on myself and see if I feel a little bit world-conquer!
p.s.  Whilst in the Boys from Brazil mood, I put a moustache on the soppiest dog ever – old Frenchie, one of my foster dogs. Voila!
You vill giff me ein Denti-Stik!

Saturday, 1 February 2014

Moustachios Cause Reality Check

Now that I am in my dotage, I find myself constantly battling the old beard and moustache set.  What used to be the odd, blonde bit of Fu Manchu is now the Brian Blessed.

I said to Man Friday: 'Blimey, I'm seriously considering buying a No No.'

He said: 'I'll go in half with you, then I could borrow it.'

This is Man Friday:

I said to him: 'Forget the No No, you need the "NONE SHALL PASS" mate.'

He said I was a cheeky mare and I told him he had lost touch with reality.   He then said he wasn't going to cook dinner and how did I like that reality.

Friday, 31 January 2014

Boiling Potatoes Burn Roof

Last nacht I had a big bowl of roast pots, squash, parsnips and beets (having decided that a clear out of the lower alimentary was probably in order).  So, all went well except for the pots which retained gallons more heat than the other vegetables and really burned the old roof.

So, I looked up potato propertied on Google and, so far so good, I got pointed in the direction of some science website called Quara(?).  Well, before it would let me enter the site a huge screen popped up and demanded I type in my email address and password for Google, so I thought: 'I should cocoa,' cos I'm not as green as I'm cabbage looking.

So, I closed the screen and dear old Peter Norton (the anti virus software) told me that he had bravely halted a dangerous hack of my system.  But I thought, I think not, Norton; after all I was the one who didn't go any further.  Honestly, when your own software tries to steal your thunder...

But I'm meandering around the tubers: guess what I found out about potatoes?  They use them in cavity wall insulation!

I mentioned this to Man Friday and he said: 'Don't you get any mental ideas, missus.'  He was referring to the fact that we've had terrible condensation this year and have toyed with air bricks and plasticky paint and polystyrene tiles, but finally hit upon the only efficacious and free solution - take the door off the offending closet.  True, everyone can see all our old rubbish, but it is better than mushrooms.

So when I mentioned the insulating properties of potatoes, M.F. thought I was reading up on some crackers idea in re tuberising the closet.

Sorry, don't know what I'm blethering on about in this blog - it all made sense when I started.

Oh, George down the road had a stroke poor old bugger.  He'd been on high blood pressure medicine for a hundred years but as he got older, his blood pressure normalised itself (don't ask me how) and so the medicine was too strong, and that's why he went all potty the other year and started crying over the dropped sausage (see previous blog).  So, he came orf the BP medicine and we all went 'phew' cos everyone thought it was the old dementia.  However, seems like praps he could've done with a bit of the medicine cos he then had a stroke.

He is getting better tho' (if a bit crab-like in the walking department) but gets very miffed if you get him on the subject of blood pressure.