Who knows for sure Spitty, God knows what he got up to in that big van of his, he was one randy devil. I reckon he’d be in his late 90’s if he’s still above ground, hard enough for him to lift a cup of tea I’d say.
Ah it was great LD, I got two goes at it.
With you there,Jem. When I ran away from the last home and got onto a merchant ship at Wallsend,the bosun’s name was Norman,an [to meat the time] elderly gent of quiet disposition and immense sea-skills. He taught me how to slide down rigging without getting burns,how to splice ropes,weave ‘Turks Heads’ & ‘Monkeys Fists’ into a rope’s end,how to rig derricks,box a compass to 64 points and actually understand those points,PLUS he made sure I had a decent ‘sea-knife’ & boots, plus much many more things,of both seamanship and of standing tall and facing whatever is oncoming without flinching. I will eternally owe a LOT more than I can ever repay to Bosun Norman. May he be in fine fettle & happy,wherever he may be.
[is this where I mention that well-known Irish lad,Tubby Shaw?]
atall atall
oh Jem when you say that I always tink ya sayin ‘atoll atoll’ - you know like in “oh look chaps there’s another atoll over there - shall we row over and have a peeky?”
God rest Dave Allan, love his style.
Quote Spitfire.“Once Jem, a Pub was everything, it ain’t now”
Truer words were never said Spitty.
Even the old “Hooleys” are gone now, folks would have a holley, a sort of party, every Saturday night. They would alternate between houses and there was always an excuse to hold one, any excuse.
They knew life was short back then and made the best of their time off work, the week at work was long and hard and they deserved all the craic they could muster up.
I just received this from my Son in Italy, got a laugh out of it.
Sophie just got married, and being a traditional Italian was still a virgin. On her wedding night, staying at her mother’s house, she was nervous. But mother reassured her. “Don’t worry, Sophie. Luca’s a good man. Go upstairs, and he’ll take care of you.” So up she went. When she got upstairs, Luca took off his shirt and exposed his hairy chest. Sophie ran downstairs to her mother and says, “Mama, Mama, Luca’s got a big hairy chest.” “Don’t worry, Sophie”, says the mother, “All good men have hairy chests. Go upstairs. He’ll take good care of you.” So, up she went again. When she got up in the bedroom, Luca took off his pants exposing his hairy legs. Again Sophie ran downstairs to her mother. “Mama, Mama, Luca took off his pants, and he’s got hairy legs!” “Don’t worry. All good men have hairy legs. Luca’s a good man. Go upstairs, and he’ll take good care of you.” So, up she went again. When she got up there, Luca took off his socks, and on his left foot he was missing three toes. When Sophie saw this, she ran downstairs. “Mama, Mama, Luca’s got a foot and a half!” “Stay here and stir the pasta”, says the mother. "This is a job for Mama! 
is he still alive??
Lets hope the first foot did not have athlete’s on it.
very droll tonight spits - footie or soccer?? put ya best foot forwards perhaps ? I told a nurse the other day that I was a five foot nine inches tall - she had to use her mobile to convert it to cms - bring back the old Imperial I say - and mines a guine ness!
You know me Gums, like a confused processer, willing to be able to go round in circles, for eternity, but that won’t happen.
Hello boys. You know I like feet.
wot more than one - that’s a bit greedy ain’t it ?
Noo show me yours.
Do you have ticklish feet?
Good Night Possums. X
i’ve sent me toes to the candybar! baa baa! as spittie would say
That’s fine but, some folks will never accept defeat.
how many defeats can one take in a night ? winning defeats might help - but losing more defeats you’ll be walking on ya pins!
talkin about pins anybody like a few strawberries from OZ?
Gummy!!!
We know about the strawberries!
Get sewing with your own.
Try
If I try and empower my soul like James Brown
With a jive - hallelujah, a will to ‘get down’
Then I find myself prone, on the floorboards alone
And I’m crying like Smokey, the tears of a clown,
It’s the sin and the shame when I’m naming my thoughts,
Like I’m peeling a rotten banana, of sorts
And my life as a metaphor, better for worse
Is a curse, a conviction from heavenly courts,
Was it always this way, did I follow and pray?
Did I shout out Amen like a vibrant hooray?
Was I loved by the Lord then abandoned, ignored
Or did something convince me of faith’s faux counsel?
Let me tell you, enlighten the dark in the heart
That the biased identity rips you apart,
If the strength of consensus offends you inside
Then it’s time to look elsewhere, yourself for a start
And embrace the inadequate self with your arms,
Wrap a bandage around the stigmata in palms,
Dereliction of faith needn’t warrant the grave
As your complex uniqueness weighs more than those psalms.
James Khan