That’s specific Ghosts, not general ones BTW. 
Yes indeed Spitty, it makes sense to seek out your own special type of spectre, everyday (or should that be everynight) ghosts are ten a penny these days, even appearing to the dogs in the street, they’ll do anything for attention, and as for those stupid TV haunting shows, they are a complete insult to any self respecting ghost. 
My dear old granny used to tell the brother and me as kids to never be afraid of a ghost, I remember her reassuring smile as she said:
“Remember lads, ghosts are just old lost souls who had a broken journey to the promised place, and when you don’t see them anymore they have arrived there” .
Well all my ghosts must have arrived safely, haven’t seen one in decades now, I wish you luck in your quest.
Just looking into my profile thing and I see I now have 14 badges!, gee wiz that’s more badges than general Patten had after the last war, makes me feel nervous, I’m afraid to fart now in case I get another badge for that. 
I’m up early today because the wife and me are taking our last holiday break this year, not sure for how long this time, depends on the weather really, we’re catching the train at 10.30, so farewell for the present.
Spitty you can hum this tune as your ride along searching for ghosts of interest. Make sure you sit on a dry saddle otherwise you’ll really be humming.
Forty badges is the ultimate. 
Well the weather broke and the heavens opened up so we returned home today after a lovely few days in the country.
“The good die young”, I heard the daughter say that today about a fella she worked with who died of corvid recently aged 38, poor chap he didn’t stand much of a chance when he got it, I believe he only had one lung, rest his soul.
I think it’s just offered by well meaning ordinary folks as a comfort to the bereaved, but to my mind it’s a long standing lie dreamed up by some ancient Roman military commander as consolation to the relatives of all the young men killed in the Roman empire expansion campaign, it’s still a very useful tool in wartime to this day.
The real truth of it is the good die young that so that the bad politicians who start all the wars can die old.
As old Simon up in the local once said to me many moons ago “Jem me lad, the day a politician tells you the truth it will be a disaster for the pork trade” “Why’s that Simon?” asks I. “Because all the pigs will just up and fly away”.
“Cap’n, there’s unrest amongst the crew…dangerous mutterings… mouldy biscuits…tempers flaring…blame casting…threat utterings…methinks there’s trouble afoot”
Yes I was watching the Charles Laughton version of “Mutiny on the Bounty” on youtube this evening, I enjoyed it.
When I was younger I thought that if I ever opened a jewellery shop I’d call it “The Ring Leader”, ring making being my speciality, but that doesn’t exactly instil confidence in ones honesty does it, sounds like it’s run by a shower of gangsters, so I settled for “Jem’s Jewels”, unfortunately it never happened, ironically the ‘silent’ partner turned out to be a gangster and crept silently away with all the samples and the lolly, it took a long time for me to recover from that, it’s a long story, but never again would I consider a business partner. 
A forum friend in New Zealand is a sheep farmer, he sent me this photo of himself with a baldy sheep, I said it was a lovely photo of him and his baldy sheep, and thanks for shearing it.
Well that’s what your supposed to say on forums isn’t it?
He then posted back that I must have taken him up wrong, and that he loved that particular sheep and had no intention of sharing it, he was keeping it for himself.
All most confusing to me, I was just trying to be nice, but I should have guessed by the jealous look in his eyes and the way he was holding on to it, love is a very powerful thing you know.
Jem, just thanks for the interjection.
You are welcome my good man. 
Welcome home Jem. I hope you had an enjoyable and relaxing time away in the real world.
I am impressed with your workshop. You have a lot crammed into a small space. By the look at your curved block of wood, it has seen many jobs pass across it, and you still have the talent to work them sir.
Neither my shaky hands or poor eyesight will let me do fine, fiddly stuff, so deep respect to you. Give me a big hammer and an anvil, or a few planks of wood and I am away in my element though.
Always nice to hear from you Fruity, and thanks for your kind words. 
Apple have a big concern down in county Cork and I knew a fella who worked there.
He’s got legs the same shape as co director Tor Myhren and stands exactly the same way when he’s explaining something technical to you, he’’l stand back from the bar with his arms in action making various shapes, the typical Apple operative stand of fixing their legs in the shape of an “A” for Apple.
Is It as I’ve always suspected about folks who stay too long doing the same thing or in the same profession, do they begin to resemble parts of what they do for a living all their lives?
For example it’s very easy to tell ex military by the way they hold their heads high and keep a straight back as they semi-march along the street.
Deep sea fishermen always have a crusty weather beaten face and a slight whiff of fish off them.
The old grave diggers had huge rough hands.
Some male hairdressers in ladies salons are slightly effeminate gentle creatures with dainty hands, and are terrific gossipers just like the women who’s hair they treat.
The old coalmen could never really get all the coal dust out of their skin.
There’s a chap who drinks in our local and works for the council as some sort of pest controller or rodent exterminator, and to look at him you’d swear you were looking at a huge two legged standing rat, a pair of beady dark eyes, buck teeth, long narrow jaws and sparse whiskers, skinny arms and legs, this chap was born for the job, if I was ever looking for a rat catcher this fella would be my first choice, he knows everything about rats and would talk about them all day if you let him.
There’s a distant relation of the wife who plays the cello in the RTE orchestra, she’s been playing the instrument all her adult life, and now she herself has a body shaped like a cello.(God bless the mark, as me granny used to say)
Banjo players all seem to develop round happy faces like sunflowers, indeed I’ve known some round faced people to be called (with affection of course) “Banjo face”
Folks who ride horses a lot become bow legged.
Here’s Apple’s Tor Myhren and his capital A legs, notice how he stands in a position on stage so as the line in the background forms the cross stroke in the “A”, all precision subtle advertising.
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Since RJ went, I don’t care no more, all we have is a Plimsoll Line.
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I too have a Plimsoll line. It is where my waistline used to be. 
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I didn’t sleep too well last night, the heavy rain was lashing off the windows all night so I got up at 6 o’clock to have a cup of coffee and a smoke, never knew there were two 6 o’clocks in the same day before.
The rain has now stopped so I’m off to bed again finish me sleep.
Yes indeed Spitty, RJ is sadly missed, he was a great character and a true gentleman, not to mention his great wit, a pleasure to have known him, in all the years he was posting here I never once ‘heard’ him complain about his bad health, sadly I fear the worst as he can’t be contacted and he wasn’t the type to just bugger off without a word of farewell.
I had a pair of plimsolls I used to wear on beach trips, they kept slipping off me feet so I chucked them out and got a pair of sandals instead.
Still I suppose it’s better to have a plimsol line than no line at all, otherwise how would we know how deep we were in all kinds of stuff. 
But just like the Travelling Wild berries and the Rocking Berries (there was a good crop of groups that year) we’re all coming to the end of the line.
Yes Jem, its getting late in the day, may have to start thinking about writing that obligatory (and retirement cash cow) “Children’s Book”.
It will be Bike based of course.
Naturally, wouldn’t expect less from a seasoned peddler.
How about “Young Spitfire goes biking in Dorset” for a title.
Oh sweet mystery of life I never found you.
Kids today are a lot smarter than we were at their age, I think an eight year old today knows as much as a fourteen year old did when I was young, well my grandson is eight and he’s a walking encyclopedia, reads anything he can get his hands on, loves learning things.
Maybe we’re not really living longer these days, we could be just born smarter and think we’re living longer, for who can tell with time, time is only a man made thing anyway and doesn’t even count in the big picture.
The thing is if the mystery and big secret of existence was revealed to us we would probably all drop dead with shock, it’ll probably be something simple like we were only an experiment that didn’t work out so goodbye humans. we’ll try something else out instead.
I mean when you think of it we are all made from dust and we’ll all return to dust as sure as eggs is eggs, it makes it all seem like a waste of energy, why did the great one bother populating the planet with billions of individual large bits of dust in the first place?
I for one am glad that I haven’t a clue about the whole shebang, all that heavy thinking gives me a headache, but there are some great weird theories out there about creation and life on earth.
Anyway it’s Friday night, fish supper night and I’ve got much smaller fish to fry, that’s because a new fella took over the fish shop and his portions are a lot smaller that the old chaps, he’s a Cavan man, that would explain it, sort of like an Irish Yorkshire man, only meaner, fair play to the Yorkshire man who does it for Yorkshire (according to the tea ad), but the Cavan man does it strictly for himself, tight as a Camel’s arse in a sand storm, as they used to say.
Here’s one for the oldies, Jo Stafford with a boatload of shrimps, my dear mother loved this song and used to know all the words of it, even though she probably.y never seen a shrimp in her life. 
A bit north of Brisbane is the town of Maryborough. A nice little town on the Mary River near the sea. We were, as usual, looking for a job and it had the added attraction of being near the sea which usually provides a beach to sleep on. The usual procedure was we would throw our sleeping bags on the sand and check for the usual collection of Australian bitey insects , light a fire, and after a brew of half tea leaves and half water or beer if we were a bit flush, we’d fall asleep. If it was raining I’d sleep across the front seat, Ian would sleep in the back and Tony would sleep underneath the Landrover. He learned after a while not to bang his head on the diff or gearbox, they weren’t very forgiving. The canopy of the vehicle seemed to keep most of the rain out and anyway it was always pretty warm at night.
The first night in Maryborough , we arrived a bit late so we pulled up near a park and kipped down in the car. We were pretty knackered and didn’t look around much and were soon asleep. About midnight we were awoken by stentorian voice saying the Australian vernacular for “ ‘Ello, ‘Ello, ‘Ello! What’s a goin’ on ‘ere then”.
Yes, it was the constabulary.
“What ya doin’ here?” he inquired.
“Well we got here a bit late and just thought we’d kip here and find our way around in the morning”, I said.
“Well you can’t sleep here in a public place ya know” The tone of voice dropped dramatically, “but there’s a really comfortable band rotunda in the park!”
“Is it ok to sleep there?” inquired Ian.
“What I can’t see, I don’t know about.” he said tapping the side of his nose.
“Ok. Thanks. We’ll move on then”
“Good lads” said the copper and climbed back in his car. As he drove off we legged it through the park to the large band rotunda he had indicated, carrying just our sleeping bags. It was indeed a comfortable edifice. It even had sort of vinyl cushions on the seating for the band and a draught proof surround that concealed us from prying eyes. That cop knew his stuff!
Next morning we checked in for our weekly payment of 27/6 traveller relief and to see if there was any work going, but it wasn’t too optimistic. A fellow at the pub suggested we try inland a bit around Biloela, so we took off in that direction. As we drove along we saw on the opposite bank of the Mary river a field of pineapples. We’d bought the odd pineapple as we travelled along, they were dirt cheap and were usually the small or funny shaped ones that didn’t suit the cannery where most of the crop went.
We looked at each other and wondered how we could get over the river to assess the quality of the crop. The Mary river meandered a bit and had little beaches here and there and we spotted a little rowboat beached on the sand. I jumped on the brakes and we looked around. There didn’t seem to be a soul in sight- not even a house. The boat was quickly pushed out into the river and the couple of oars were all that we needed to get going, after all we weren’t pinching it , just borrowing it. We’d be back in half an hour. As soon as Tony started the Oxford crew bit, we realised that something was wrong! The bloody boat was sinking! It wasn’t pouring in anywhere in particular. It was pouring in everywhere! There was nothing to bail it out with and we would never have kept up even with a fire pump such was the inflow. The pineapples were the last thing on our minds as we paddled frantically for our recently left sandy bit as the Mary took us slowly but surely down stream. We watched as the parked Landrover went slowly past and aimed for the next oxbow in the river and the next bit of sand. When the boat had about 2 inches of freeboard we abandoned ship and swam, dutifully towing the submerged hulk by it’s painter rope. As we gasped and struggled onto the sand and the three of us tipped the boat on it’s side to empty the water out, a figure appeared nonchalantly smoking a cigar on the bank.
“See any crocs out there?” he said pointing vaguely out in the river.
CROCS! We’d never swum with anything more menacing than a trout!
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I enjoyed that story Ciderman, I felt like I was in that boat with yiz.
Great to hear from you again oh great maker of fine wines.
“Blessed are the winemakers, for the joy they give in this world shall be returned to them in the next”
So de holy bible say.
That’s not a bad deal is it? free booze for eternity in paradise, what more could one ask for.
Yes indeed a noble profession is winemaking, up there with the master brewers and distillers, you all have my utmost admiration and deepest gratitude, long may it continue.
I see a thread entitled “Jared O’Mara on seven charges of fraud”
It reminded me of a family I knew years ago.
The O’Maras I knew were always well jarred, the father and the five sons all worked on the docks and they practically lived in the “Pig and Whistle” in Wellington street, they say that when the old fella died they had to pour him into the coffin.
The family were held in high esteem by the pub owner, and why wouldn’t they when they spent every penny they earned in his premises, the father’s life wasn’t insured and I believe the landlord paid for the funeral, not so uncommon back then with respected customers.
The O’Maras wouldn’t be got dead sober, they were forever jarred, a publicans delight. Alas they were the glorious days for Irish publicans, they are now gone forever, you can’t sell a pub now, and those that are sold are turned into supermarkets or bingo halls, the end of an era. 
I don’t know much about army rank or who comes after a sergeant, is it a captain? I just don’t know.
Then there’s the other rank that the Americans call a “Loo-tenant” and the British call a “Left-tenant”, I see this in films all the time, who is right here?
I was curious today so I asked an old ex army fella up in the pub what was the difference and this is what he said:
“It’s very simple really Jem, a Loo-tenant is a fella who lives in a toilet, and a left-tenant is a fella who has just moved out of a toilet.”
“Oh I see” says I, “Typical Dublin logic”.
I enjoyed that story C-man. It was very descriptive.
I have never made wine but I have a small batch of cider on the go that I made this year from the sweet red “mushrooms” that appear over night on the grass under our apple tree in late summer.
As for military rankage, I have no idea why lieutenant is pronounced leftenant in the UK army. I believe it is pronounced le-tenant in the UK navy. I shall be seeing a friend on Wednesday who was in the Fleet Air Arm at one point, so I will ask him to confirm or otherwise.
Some ranks are sub-divided so you can have a major general or a lieutenant colonel. (Why is the latter pronounced kernel?)
That’s just the commissioned ossifers. Non-commissioned officers have ranks within ranks as well such as colour sergeant or sergeant major. In the RAF there are chief technicians who are sergeants, and there are grades within grades of them as well.
Then there are warrant officers who have a warrant from her Maj to do stuff.
An RAF chief tech once told me it would be a very brave commissioned officer who went against the wishes of a non-commissioned warrant officer.
As far as I am aware, the order of rankage in the army after sergeant is lieutenant, captain, then major. Beyond that I haven’t a clue. My dad was in the army after WW2 and got promoted to lance-corporal (one stripe) then corporal (two stripes) before being offered a commission, but he had had enough and wanted out.
Other branches of the armed forces have variations of these ranks, but never having served in them I don’t know much about them.
I don’t think I would have fared very well in the armed forces. I hate hierarchy. I resent being told what to do, even when I am being paid to do it. I know that’s unreasonable, but I don’t much like telling others what to do either, which in my mind balances it out a bit.
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I suppose the giving and taking of orders has always been around, when you think about it it’s fundamental to the existence of the civilised human race and there would be complete chaos without orders and submission to same. So we’re stuck with them and have to like it or lump it lads.
Hopefully the day will come in the distant future when everyone will have had their fill of greed and political corruption and we will all take our orders from an all knowing incorruptible computer programmed with all there is to know including the bad mistakes of the past so as never to be repeated again, a fair and just program laid out for all to follow, then and only then can peace and contentment reign on this beautiful blue planet. Amen.
And there ended todays lesson, go your way in peace dear brethren.
Yes the pecking order still prevails. I have managed to never put meself into a position where I had to give orders.
Any apprentices I had were asked to do their tasks, as for my children, they were asked too and if they refused then their mother would take over and do the ordering, she’s great at the ordering game, never lost the knack, she’s 76 now and still dishing out the orders.
With me it all depends on who’s giving the orders, I don’t mind in the least taking them from someone who knows what they are doing, or from those administering fair law.
it’s orders from ambitious clueless gobshites that get me all rebellious, you get a lot of that in the army I’m told, but you’ll know that before you sign up and you’ve only yourself to blame, if you join the military with your eyes wide open having seen the rules you forfeit the right to complain.
No the army was never a consideration for me.
I did once consider taking holy orders, my brother studied for the priesthood for three years in Huntingdonshire, a Spanish order there, he then decided he hadn’t got the vocation after all and left rather suddenly to join the Irish guards, he served six years in his bearskin, he said he liked it but refused to sign up for another six years as he didn’t want to become a ‘lifer’ in the army.
The orders I hate most are ‘last orders please’