Mey DYAH Jem-you appear to hev forgotten;leathery,knackered,stretch-proof skin is EARNED,not AWARDED! Be PROUD of your flakey,dry lack of elasticity,m’dyah chep…after all,name me ONE accountant or bank cleric who can boast of the same…hmm? NO,sirrah-your well-earned covering of hippo hide has to be EARNED,in the fashion of a TRUE MAN,as you battle elements,DERIDE gamma rays,IGNORE torrential rainfall and LAUGH at windstorms! For is it not said,“He who is without blemish,hath not truly lived”! Hmm? [and if it isn’t-it bloody well should be…or I’ll flounce!]
Hello Pug and the seasons greeting to you and the family.
I like my springy skin old chap, methinks “He who is without blemish” is one who sat at a bench all his life, you wanna see me legs, pure as the driven snow, no hair to speak of, no bumps, or various veins (as me old mate used to call them, his name was Dermot and he knew all about Dermotology, and Testicology too)
Yes my dear Pug, these pins was hidden beneath a wooden bench for more years than I care to remember, it ain’t my blempt if me skin doesn’t resemble that on a Rhino’s arse.
I once had a boss with the name of Iain Hill, a formidable giant of a man with eyes as black as his heart, a thick black beard, arms that hung down to his knees a voice somewhere off the Richter scale and possessed of a vile temper . He had an encyclopaedic vocabulary of swear words, an armoury of put downs & insults & struck terror into the hearts and minds of all those who incurred his displeasure, most people in fact.
I liked him a lot. He was the kind of man who had been everywhere, done everything and if he hadn’t knew someone who had. He arranged for a group of his managers & me to visit a paint factory in Bradford about 1972. The factory was a favourite workplace for newly arrived Asian immigrants. It was impossible to discern the race of all the shopfloor workers due to the air being thick with Titanium Carbide dust, the main ingredient of cheap paint in the woodchip years. The white dust, these days a Health & Safety no no, plastered the faces of the workers. Yeuk…
More tomorrow
My work involves see people who appear on a list with initialised first names, today I have to see P Stain and B Day.
We had a girl in the workshop called Ursula Ryan and I had to hand her her wage packet every Friday night, U. Ryan was written on it.
There was always something gratifying about getting a wage packet at the end of a hard weeks work, the crisp new fivers and pound notes felt good, and each note had it’s value in gold in the bank to back it up, now folks don’t even see their wages anymore and are paid in money that doesn’t exist, progress me arse.
Looking forward to more of that RJ.
…continued from yesterday
[I]
I should mention at this point that Iain Hill is not his real name, but HE was very real. I once had a difference of opinion with a sales manager for Sharpes greeting cards who was trying to get me to give him 4 extra feet of rackspace at the expense of 4 feet less for HALLMARK cards
“Sorry Dennis” I said
He quickly brushed me aside & headed off to Iain Hill’s office “I’m going over your head,Bob”
Iain Hill was just at that moment throwing out another sales manager for not supplying some gonks (all the rage then) in time for a sale period.
“Don’t ever darken my fukcing doorway you siht shovelling , snotty nosed,asre crawling , lying, son of a bicht etc etc” I saw the rep just before he became an endangered species, walking backwards out of the store.
“Next” he fixed his eyes, now looking a lot like blood shot boiled sweets in Mr Sharpes cards direction.
“How can I help you? Got any Gonks? Iain picked up his cup of tea, long since gone cold & from his hip flask livened it up with a shot of brandy
“Join us for lunch”…Iain and Mr Sharpe & his rep Claude Bailey (a good friend of mine, actually) sauntered out the main door to the pub opposite , returning arm in arm, plastered and with a deal to increase the rack from 4 to 12 feet.
Iain could be easily swayed when inebriated.
Tomorrow I’ll tell you about the container of typewriters he bought , more gonks and the scented dolls which were so old the scent had dried up[/I]
Great read RJ, well written too. I love your style.
http://i736.photobucket.com/albums/xx4/jemflux/rolling-pin.jpg
I was strolling through town today all on me own, the wife and me make strange shopping fellows so we avoid shopping together as much as possible. I love the little antique shops in the side streets off the quays and know a lot of the dealers there, they don’t like to see me coming at any time never mind their busiest time, they know they can’t pull a fast one on me, I’ll pare the price down to the bone.(there’s that word ‘Pare’ again, knew it would come in handy sometime).
Some of the older members here may remember that i once bought the wife a new purple kettle for Christmas to match other stuff she got in her kitchen, I haven’t lived down the slagging I got for that from the females yet, so I’m cautious and brave by telling this.
I put me eye on an old porcelain Chinese rolling pin in the willow pattern, a lovely looking thing in my opinion and would look smashing in any kitchen. I was 19th century (to match her age?, sorry only messing, she’s only a year older that me) and his asking price was 150 euros but after 15 minutes enjoyable haggling I managed to pare him down to 70 euros, he even gift wrapped it for me. I’ll be giving it to the wife as an extra present this year and i hope she likes it, she always enjoyed doing a lot of baking but whether she uses it or just hangs it up is up to herself. might bring back happy memories to her of clobbering me for coming home late three sheets in the wind, by God she’s a tough old bird and it’s even tougher to know what she likes.
Did any of you fella’s ever get a belt of a rolling pin?, i have many times in my younger married life, all my own fault I might add and truely deserved. I was lucky that I was in no state to feel pain at the time so I can’t really say what it felt like, all I know is that the next morning me shoulders would be black and blue and aching, but it was off to work with me and nothing said about it, until I got home knackered an only fit for bed. Why is it that they only attack when you are at your lowest ebb? Drained and defenceless I stand like a guilty murderer in the dock “Yes dear, I know dear, I’m sorry dear, you are right as always dear, never again dear, yes I promise…” All the stuff we endure just to have a long and happy marriage.
Of course nowadays if a fella was hit by a rolling pin he’d run off crying to the police and have her arrested, end of relationship, no stamina these young bucks of today. I maintain she doesn’t really love you unless she’s hit you with her rolling pin, it’s a sort of knighthood in the mating game and I’m proud to have been knighted several times, arise Sir Jem and take your place amongst the other battered rolling pin veterans.;-)
We’re all packed and ready for an early train tomorrow, off to Killarney for the holiday.
A very happy Christmas to you all, see you when I get back, cheers.
In and by comparison
my life has been devoid.
No boss’s rants,no uppity salesmen,
just the odd ‘bundle’ when annoyed.
108 countries have known my tread,
of those,just 32 were worth seeing.
Although,truth be told,I could whittle to 6
countries with a sense of well-being.
Then,shiv away more,
to get to the core,
get to the reason for joy;
and when I do,it’s sad but it’s true…
I was in those countries ‘when I wurb’t a boy’.
Coz there’s something that happens
around puberty time,
that clamps a hold on ‘‘cor,it’s nice!’’.
…and instead of just saying
“Wow-I like it here!”
Conversations start with
“What’s the price?”
Now,I haven’t a receptacle to p1ss in.
To say the least,I’m short on ‘ker-ching’.
But I know what I like and I like what I know.
Playing guitar is free-and that’s my ‘thing’.
I’ve played guitar in countries I can’t properly pronounce;
having fun making music,not tears.
With people of all preferences,persuasions and types,
United by music,not fear.
All-in-all,I can say,as evening draws nigh
and life’s sunset looks on,unforgiving;
I forget time in uniform spent facing all odds,
it’s making music that makes my life worth living.
Compare life to life, look up to depress
Look down and see folks who’ve thrived with less
See, success seems to be linked to wealth
Truth is, success is the ability, to live with yourself.
The retention geezer at Sky TV managed to talk me into stopping again, it would have been easier to trigger Article 50, than leave Sky TV.
Count yourself lucky Spitto, my wife rang up SANTANDER to cancel a minor account & ended up cancelling our main NATWEST account & opening 2 new SANTANDER accounts , plus a new 3rd savings account…
Good Grief…
Avast,me hearties…for t’is THE DAY,upon which credit cards tremble in fear,foodstuffs and treats do magical vanishing acts,wrapping paper swaps from being exciting to annoying-and yer akshal Puggy is off to the Thai restraunt for a buffet! YAAAAY…Merry Happies,people!
Amazing the new deals they can come up with at the drop of a hat when one threatens to leave them, makes one wonder exactly how far their war chest will stretch. I say we should all test it to the limit and PARE our payments down to the marrow, force their hand so to speak.
My credit card never trembles Pug me lad, it’s pay as you go therefore shock and tremble proof. I’ve only got one grump with it, the numbers are in raised silver metallic print, very hard to make them out with light shining on the card, a stupid idea in my opinion.
I hope you enjoyed your meal.
We had a great Christmas in Killarney, the dinner was perfect and the wine flowed free, well not exactly free but you know what I mean, plenty of music and song and a jolly good time was had by one and all, but still as the old song goes, it’s good to be back home again.
I met an old lad and his wife down there and we got talking, they were from Sligo, I discovered he had been in the same regiment as my brother in the Irish Guards back in the 60’s, small world ain’t it.
Well here we go again, another new year just around the corner and another nail in your coffin as the cheerful say.
I recalled an incident an old friend told me many years ago when we were both young men, he was a lad in the merchant navy at the time, I was telling the wife about it on the long train journey home yesterday, I had forgotten it until a young sailor sat near us, the tale was long and would put that epic ’The Shooting of Dan McGrew’ to shame, but I’ve managed to fit it into a nutshell so you’ll get the gist of it, nothing as bad as ladies fighting on the street.
An unpleasant memory of a young Sailor.
There was knicker aggro in Nicaragua as two brassers lunged at each other
Flesh everywhere and so much blood that it really made me shudder
I saw it all as I walked past a Managua cat house on that warm Autumn night
There was skin and hair, and tits in the air, and not a copper in sight
I wanted to help stop it but a stern faced bouncer held me at bay
“Leave ‘em to it lad, they’ll stop when the strongest one wins the day”
I felt sad as I walked on to the hotel I was staying at, it was called the Monkey’s Paw
What a joke, they should have named the whole bleedin place the Arsehole of Fractured Jaw.
YOU think THAT’S bad,Jem?!>
Lemme tellyer,sunbeam…in or during intimate moments,such as intimate conversations or a meal for two,please,remember at all times the protocol for merriment is hard-layed and should at all times be observed in favour of any person present at the occasion,who displays a tendency toward x-chromosomic favour. All festive merriment,regardless of it’s pure intent,must first be approved by the holder of the predominant X-chromosomes…and if her 'tash begins to twitch in indignation at any point…consider yourself consigned to a somewhat-less-than-favourable status until such time as she may deem you still unworthy of equal status…but permitted to refill her plate/mug/glass/the coal scuttle,etc etc.
Ahhh,what brought this about,m’dear Pug?,I hear you ask…[nice of yer]
Well,I’ll tell yous. We were ensconced in our positions at the reserved table-for-two. Already,Herself had quaffed a mead or two,the festive spirit was indeed upon her. I relayed plates of freshly-cooked Thai fare to her,with which she was enchanted…her 1st time eating Thai,y’see. Then,having ensured her appetite was catered for,I placed myself a plate of excellent fare upon the table…and brought chopsticks to the fore,ready to eat.
First mistake. Rather than be amused,impressed or merely disinterested,Yes Dear launched a tirade of demeaning epithets toward my [now wilting] chopsticks,explaining in vehement manner that I looked a fool,that nobody ‘eats with two sticks anymore since we invented the fork’ [honestly!] and that it was a good job I hadn’t chosen soup!!!
[strong stuff,that mead]
Ok…I let that tirade slip it’s moorings and float away…the food really is excellent there…and the waitress looking after us was a real treat for the eye. Which is how I sealed my ‘fait accompli’,turning it from an ‘I bet he messes up’ possibility,into a ‘There-see? Tolja-pay up!’ permanence.
Y’see,I was internally humming,with the event,the festives,the meal,the enjoyment-plus the beauty of our waitress…so,when I was offered a kiss by aforementioned waitress,I was delighted to accept. I stood,held the sprig aloft above us…and,proving total prats come in all shapes,sizes and colours,said aloud “Ma’am,allow me to kiss you under the cameltoe”.
Yes. Yes,really. No,I did NOT mean it…I wasn’t even thinking it.
I have NO idea-on my heartbeat I don’t-where that bloody phrase came from,as I was thinking ‘Mistletoe’…but…well…it happened,it was said aloud…everyone chuckled - except Yes Dear.
Ok,sleeping on the sofa isn’t such a bad thing…but we have a wolf. Yes-a genuine Spanish wolf…his name’s ‘Woof’. Rescued from the AA Centre. He takes up a LOT of sofa.
Ok-fukkitall-I decide to sleep on the floor…but…Memsahib gets up to go to the loo in pitch dark,treads on me,screams,falls over,punches air wildly,connects with Woof,who promptly bites me…I drive myself to A&E! I’ve just been bitten by a real wolf,with real wolf fangs,which went through and clamped onto,my hand,ffs. [Yes Dear is caring for poor Woof,as he ‘seems stressed’!!] A&E had two nurses on duty…I wait over an hour,go in,get injected,five stitches…and drive home dreaming all the way about my shotgun. Get home at 6.45am.
WOOF,is on the bed. THE OLD BAT,is NEXT FKN DOOR,drinking punch/mulled wine/domestos with about 25 other people,5 of whom I know,regaling them with the hilarious true tale of my POXY Christmas! And y’know what?
I said Fukdalottovem and shared my bed to sleep off the injections/stitches,with Woof.
Merry Fukkin Christmas,my ARSE!
[no wonder JC moved to Egypt!]
Sorry for laughing Pug, but I couldn’t help it. My deepest commiserations young fella, my God, you have been to hell and back.
Fancy playing Santa in next years over 50’s Christmas panto?…ho ho ho!
I nearly missed your MISSIVES
must my muses be dismissive
Mumbles my missus
FRankly I fear futility
For fortunes fertility
And furtive fecundity
Hail to her hero
You fear that zero
The fiddler was Nero
Don’t you love alliteration
IT’s right up my station
An odd situation
Submit your oblation
For the foreseeable situation
A disgrace to the nation
Words are inadequate
Trust me and have a look
It’s pure gobbledegook
And even pure doggerel
Omitted from the book
Of words