A dog is for life, not just to cover up my short comings.

We have a new family member.

Now before you go getting all excited, thinking that Mrs B has been on the receiving end of some of my intimate advances, and as a result, the great stork has delivered a bundle of screaming, vomiting pooping joy, you'd be wrong.

Nope. We've decided to go for a bundle of barking, chewing, pooping joy instead.

Or Bailey, as we've decided to call him.

Yep. Not content with having just one member of the house that sheds fur, eats, sleeps, craps on the rug and sniffs crotches, or Dad as I'm better known, and not content with having just one dog, we've gone and got another one.

Now, this animal is cute. I mean real cute. If I had his looks, I'd have more women falling at my feet through love and admiration, rather than vomiting all over my feet through my 'unique' looks and smell, than I'd know what to do with.

This however, is where his list of endearing qualities end.

Because he is without doubt, the dumbest, smelliest, dumbest, badly behaved, dumbest, leaky and dumbest living creature known to man.

Yes. Even more so than me. Honestly!

When most people, or animals fart, there is a general waving of the arms, and passing of the comments such as "what crawled inside you and died", and opening of windows. When Bailey farts, clothes have to be burnt, buildings have to be demolished, exclusion zones set up and a natural disasters appeal has to be launched on all broadcasting media. He doesn't so much clear a room, as an entire continent.

On the plus side, it's very good for clearing unwanted house guests, such as neighbours, door to door salesmen and in-laws.

He will absolutely not do as he is told. We have attempted the basic commands, such as "sit", "leave", "lie down" and "no". I can only assume some of the meaning of these words has been lost in translation. For example:-

"Bailey, Sit" - Bailey then proceeds to tug at your laces until bored, which is after about 3 seconds, then licks his "pink lipstick". (Come on people, don't make me take a photo!)

"Bailey, leave" - Bailey attacks what he is supposed to be leaving with renewed vigour, then humps the settee.

"Bailey, lie down" - Bailey chews the nearest and most expensive piece of furniture, then sniffs the mother in laws crotch.

"Bailey, no" - Bailey farts and sniffs his butt to see if it really was him that farted.

Then dumps on the rug.

But by far and away the worst thing about this animal, is his brainpower. Or lack of it.

The fluff in my belly button has more intelligence than he does. We own pillow cases that can work things out quicker than him.

In 5 months, he hasn't been able to work out that the kitchen floor is more slippery than the other floors in the house. He comes running in from outside at full tilt, and uses a combination of the freezer and his face for brakes.

Or, if I get in the way, then a combination of his face and my groin. Honestly, I can't recommend highly enough the feeling of at least 20kg of Labrador connecting with your "gentleman jewels" at warp speed. The little sod finds them every time.

On his very rare calm moments, when he is sat still long enough to be stroked, he leans on your hand so much, that when you suddenly stop stroking him, he falls over. This is a great source of entertainment training opportunity for me. He hasn't learnt yet.

Absolutely everything is considered food. Shoes, socks remote controls, mobile phones and live electrical cables. Absolutely nothing is too precious/expensive/downright bloody dangerous to eat.

Talking of eating, this animal can clear nearly half a kilo of food faster than a Dyson. If I could convince him that house dust and animal fur were food, I would lift his back legs up, and use him as an upright vacuum cleaner. We would have the cleanest house in the whole neighbourhood.

But by far and away the dumbest thing this animal has done, is lost a testicle. Or not grown one at all. We aren't quite sure which scenario we are working with here. Repeated trips to the vets have resulted in much scratching of heads and prodding, poking and fondling. Had I have known this was a sure fire way to get felt up, I'd have happily "misplaced" one of mine. Apparently, one of Baileys balls hasn't dropped yet. Or it could be in his leg. Or his stomach. Or nowhere at all. If I'm prepared to sell my house and kids, and take the nice vet the proceeds of said transactions, he is quite happy to play " Hunt the gonad" with my dog. I am currently considering cheaper options. Squeezing the little him hard until it pops into place is currently the most recommended option. I am however, open to suggestions.

Now it may be that I have painted Bailey in a slightly less than positive light here. That you may have the impression that I see all his faults as negatives, and I regret taking on the little "golden git" at all

Nothing couldbe further from the truth. Apart from the fact that at present, I am not the dumbest member of the household, I now have someone that I can blame almost all of my "little mishaps" on.

The odd trouser cough I may inadvertently let slip. "Bailey!"

The damp patch in my groin region. "Bailey!"

The large turd on the rug that is very obviously waaaaaaaay too big to come out of such a cute and cuddly little creature, not to mention the fact that he hasn't eaten sweetcorn, as far as we know anyway.........well, you get the idea.

The fact is, I have a cover for all my faults. And if he is not willing, then certainly a none the wiser cover. And in my life, with all my faults, believe me, that is no bad thing.

Bailey, I hope you never change. if you do, I am screwed.

Pass Me The Cheesegrater, It's Nearly Time To Get Ready..........

A little while ago, back in April to be precise, I did a bit of a silly thing. Now when I say 'a bit of a silly thing', I mean a bloody stupidly ridiculous thing. We're talking about something that is gonna bite me so hard on the arse come April 15th 2012, I'm gonna be lucky to have any arse left.

And considering I am made up almost entirely of arse, that's a meal that has the potential to feed a stadium full of arse hungry punters. (Apologies for the gratuitous use of the word 'Arse'. I would say I won't use it again, but we both know that's pretty unlikely).

Let me put this 'silly thing' in perspective. Deciding to row across the English Channel in a brown paper bag, with nothing but a lolly stick for an oar would be considered perfectly feasible. Attempting to reach outer space on a rocket powered by nothing but ant farts would be a distinct possibility. England winning the next football world cup.......yeah OK, too much to expect I know. But you are beginning to appreciate the size of my dumb arse decision.


I have decided to run a marathon.


A BLOODY MARATHON!!!!!


26.2 SODDING MILES!!!!!

Oh, it seemed like SUCH a marvelous idea at the time. Well Kinda. I let THIS GUY talk me into it. Go on. Go read his stuff. You'll really get an idea of the type of guy we're talking about here. Anyone who writes that kinda crap has gotta be AT LEAST 3 sandwiches short of a picnic. However, anyone who listens to his suggestion of "Let's both run a marathon next year, it'll be a laugh" has got some issues that will have any shrink canceling the rest of his appointments until retirement.

What the bloody hell was I thinking? I actually watched the same race this year. It was hot. It was hilly. It hurt just watching! Yet I got home, searched the interweb....do dah, found the website, and went and bloody entered it.


I EVEN PAID FOR THE BLOODY PRIVILEGE!!!!!

Now I knew the day would come when I would begin to realise the error of my own stupidity. And to be honest, it didn't take long for the little voice in my head to start. Quietly at first. But it's gradually got louder:-


You idiot!

You're going to regret this!!

There is no way you'll EVER do this!!!

Of all the dumb arse things you've done!!!!

I CAN'T WAIT TO GET HOME, SMOTHER MYSELF IN HONEY, AND LET SOME GOATS LICK ME CLEAN!!!!!

No, I don't know where that last one came from either. But when you've got as many voices in your head as I have, you tend to only listen to the loudest one. Of course, experience has told me NEVER to act on what the voices in my head say. Besides, I'm allergic to goats. And last time Mrs B found pubic hair in the honey, it took rather a lot of explaining. 

So, in order to prepare this sack of crap for the forthcoming event, I have started to look up some training schedules. Now I'm not a complete novice at running. I'm not particularly good at it either. A one legged, arthritic grasshopper, off it's face on anesthetic and carrying a sumo wrestler on it's back could outrun me. But I have run a few races, including one half marathon, the furthest I have ever run. 

It is widely recognised in the running fraternity that Sunday is long slow run day. At the height of training, these can be up to 20 miles. 20 miles? In 1 day? They're having a laugh, surely! On top of this, we're looking at another couple of runs at 8-10 miles each, some interval work, where I run as fast as you can for half a mile stop, cough up a lung and repeat until I puke. And then there are the short hard runs, where I run for 5 miles, stop, cough up a lung and puke.

On the upside, I get Tuesdays off. Just enough time to clean the puke from my running shoes I expect.

Now subconsciously, I have been keeping a bit quiet about this. I have done this to give me an 'out'. After all, if nobody knows I have entered, nobody will know if I change my mind. I can quietly back out, not lose any face, and nobody need be any the wiser.

This however, is where having a split personality can best be described as a bit of a bummer. Because while the yellow bellied, southern softy, cowardly cowardly custard chicken sh!t sensible side of me is quietly preparing to bow out graciously, the complete git that is my insane, self hating, 'grow a pair' side turns round and says "Oh no you don't. I'm telling the whole freaking world you're doing this. By the time I'm finished, there will be yet to be discovered creatures at the bottom of the ocean that are gonna know about this! 

It goes without saying that it is this side of me who's work you're reading now. 

There is a good chance that at some point in the future, as a result of me going public, I am going to want to kick myself very hard in  very private and sensitive place. And we're not talking about Area 51 either. There are 2 problems with this:-


1) I'd have to join the back of a very long queue of people who are keen to do the same to me.


2) Despite the fact that I have very wide feet, I'd probably miss them both.



Yep, beer and crap food are going to have to be given up whilst I do this. The very thought makes me go cold. You see, I am a miserable git. A joyless (are)sole. There are few things in the world that put a smile on my face. Now if I don't say the first one is Mrs B at this point, then I ain't gonna need to worry about kicking myself in the place that used to be where my testicles nestled. But apart from the much beloved, a good ale and junk food are just about the only things in life that have the corners of my mouth heading North for a while. And if I'm to stand any chance at all of doing this, I'm gonna need to run this thing with a lot less of me.

So, over the next few weeks, the training will kick off in earnest. My body will be subject to such great joys as blisters, hard skin, chaffing and joggers nipple. And if you haven't experienced joggers nipple, try rubbing them with the rough bit of a cheese grater, hold a blow torch to them for 2 minutes and slamming them repeatedly in a door, and you'll get close to the type of pain I'm talking about.

I am going to be such a joy to be with! 








   

  

Half Arsed. Not All It's Cracked Up To Be. Get It.........?

Well, after 4 years, a deep cut to my right index finger, 3 splinters and a whooooole lot of swearing, the shed is finally up.

I know. Swearing! You'd never have thought it of me,would you! The thing is, this is one of those metal jobs. Less shed, more tin can. It doesn't have keys, it has a tin opener. And like everything in my life, has been built in a 'half arsed' fashion. One fart gentle breeze in the wrong direction, and this bugger is gonna be in a different postcode. Or several. At the same time.

Half arsed. It seems to be my middle name at the moment. So as it happens, is 'half mast'. And in case you were wondering, yes it IS to do with only getting things half up. Or half down, depending on the time between those little tablets that help to 'improve the circulation' in parts that need helping. You could say a kinda glass half empty, half full situation I guess.

Anyway enough of my physical 'limitations'. Half arsed. It seems the older I get, the less I wanna do stuff. And when I was younger I didn't wanna do much! Now it seems, my 'get up and go' hasn't so much got up and gone, as gone to bed, left a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and set the alarm for 2025.

The year, not the time.

Now, if you are my boss reading this, you are probably gonna be phoning me pretty damn early in the morning, with some encouraging motivational speech about removing digits from my rectum, and to 'Show a bit of willing'. However, with my hearing as shot as it is, the chances are, I will misunderstand you, put the phone down, and wonder why you've asked me to expose myself, having mistaken the word 'willing' for 'willy'.

I mean, my sales figures are crap at the moment, but I fail to see what showing customers my 'chap' would hope to achieve. Short of hysterical laughter, pointing and reaching for a magnifying glass green eyed envy, admiration from the ladies and being asked to stop doing tripod impressions on their premises.

But rest assured boss, the mere thought of your size 12's making contact with my hairy, spotty arse is motivation enough for me to give it my all at work. No half arsed behavior there, I can assure you!

Ironically, talking of my arse, that's another place that the half arsed thing has managed to bypass. It seems middle age spread as descended on my derriere like the proverbial flies around the brown, turd shaped objects that falls out of my dog with frightening regularity.

Yet again, I digress. See? Even my blog writing is half arsed! Or no arsed, if you look when I last did one of these. But that sums it all up really. I have enjoyed writing my blogs, almost as much as you haven't enjoy reading them, but you read them anyway out of shear wide eyed wonder at what was gonna spill from my brain next. And pity. (Jeez, FINALLY you say. He's gonna quit filling our lives with this crap! Well sorry, you ain't that lucky).

So, all this half arsedness (yes it is a bloody word. It's my blog, and what I say goes OK?) stuff that's going on in my life has left me wondering. Is it the next stage of my mid life crisis? I have had a week off from the running thing. My legs were hurting, and just got to the point where they had put in a transfer request. Apparently, one of the dining chairs had made them an offer. So I decided to give them a break. This has lead to a calorie surplus being created about my person. Which has set up home around my belly. And my arse.

I've even had to stop wearing a belt. Every time I put one on, I look like the number eight!

I was chatting to someone tonight, about how much I felt I had 'bloated out' this last week, from not running. He suggested that I was full of energy, and ready to hit the road once more. Well, I've got news for you pal. I am full of a lot of things. Crap, wind and all the other fun stuff. But I'm not sure that energy is one of them.

Anyway, I believe I have traumatised you more than enough for one day. And mentioned the word 'arse' about as many times as I feel is satisfactory.

As for the half mast thing I mention earlier........it's probably best we keep that between ourselves OK?

P.T.F.O.

Eating, Drinking And Ironing:- All In A Days' Blog.

What do you mean 'Where the hell have you been!' What's it to you anyway!

Yeah, I know it's been a while. I could lie, and say that I've been really busy what with work and the family and all.

And that's exactly what I'm gonna do. Lie. What! You don't think any of this crap I write is true, do you?

Anyway, I've had a few days off work. So, it's given me the opportunity to catch up on all the little jobs around the house that I keep meaning to get done, and never get the time.

The fact that I have taken that opportunity, and done everything. That is everything EXCEPT the outstanding chores, is a sore subject. And the reason why once again, I find myself sleeping on the couch at the moment.

Anyway, the highlight of my time off, was to be today. The kids are at school. Mrs B is at work.

I have to house to myself!

I was planning to lie in until about 4pm, get up, NOT shower, NOT get dressed and just sit on the sofa, watching crap television, drinking beer, eating crap food, and generally be a bit of a couch potato.

In other words, no different to any other day. Only today, I don't traumatize the wife and kids doing it.

So, to say that I was a little surprised when the alarm went off at the normal weekday time this morning would be like calling a tornado 'a bit of a stiff breeze'.

"Never mind" I thought to myself,  "I'll just go back off to sleep again".

Yeah. Right.

Mrs B and the kids then proceeded to make more noise than Guy Fawkes wanted to make when he had the idea to make things a little more 'exciting' at the Houses of Parliament.


And as if that wasn't bad enough, Mrs B's parting shot as she left for work this morning put an end to my planned day of sloth. A subtle hint.


"There's a BIIIIIIIIIIG pile of ironing in the cupboard".

Oh CRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPP!!!!!!!


That's all she said. No threats of what will happen if I don't do it. The truth is, she doesn't need to threaten me. I know the consequences of not doing the ironing. She'll do it herself. Tonight. Right in front of the tele. When I'm watching the football.

And she won't do it quietly either.

Every item of clothing will be ripped from the basket and wrenched into shape on the ironing board. She will grab the iron, slam it onto the board, and proceed to iron, huff, puff and tut at every pass of the iron. There will be steam going in all directions.

None of it from the iron.

I made the mistake of letting it happen once. Just once.

And like a bloody idiot, I had to go and ask the question, didn't I. Guys, you know the question. The one you've ALL asked you're wife. Once.

"Is there something wrong honey?"

Do you know what it's like to be branded on the butt by a Tefal 2000 Super Steamer on max setting?

My butt looked like it belonged in a pork scratchings packet for months afterward.

So, after I finish this you know what I'll be doing. Yep, 'fixing' the iron.

Anyway, just lately, there seems to have been just about every excuse you can think of to have some sort of complete and utter lash up involving way too much easting, drinking and merriment,falling drunkenly into the corner of the kitchen, and wake up the following morning covered in every type of condiment in the house formal social gathering to enjoy the company of good friends and sip fine wine and have intelligent, witty conversation about current affairs.

The trouble is, that all this good living is starting to take it's toll on the fine figure of a man that I've made myself into over recent years.

*Waits patiently for the stupid sniggering to stop*

You've got to love auto corrections on this thing. A red, squiggly line appeared under the word 'sniggering'. The four options it gave me for the word this damn thing thought I meant to type were 'staggering', 'leering', 'sneering' or 'fingering'.

I'll let you decide which one may apply to you. If you're doing more than one of them at the same time, Bravo. And if you're doing all 4, congratulations. I'd like you to apply to star in my next internet porn movie. I'm gonna call it 'Four Reasons Why Laptop Keyboards Should Be Splash Proof'.

Anyway, I digress. As I was saying, I've managed to put on a few pounds in recent weeks, and I've decided to take steps to prevent this 'slight expansion' around the waist line becoming a full blown ballooning on a scale that even the Goodyear Blimp would struggle to keep up with.

One of those steps was to buy myself a home brewing kit.

Yep, I figured that by having 40 pints of Norfolk's finest ale on tap to chug at anytime of my choosing, I would be down to my fighting weight in about 2 to 3 months.

That is, if my choice of combat was Sumo Wrestling.

I've also decided to cut down on the running. Before, I was running 4 - 5 times a week, averaging 30 - 35 miles in a week. Now it's 3 times a week. Average weekly mileage. 15 - 20. And yet despite these dramatic lifestyle changes, my waistline continues to grow to the point that I now need the combined efforts of the much loved Mrs B and a shoehorn to get myself into my jeans.

I knew things were getting out of hand when I took the car in to have a new tyre fitted the other day. The tyre fitter pointed at my gut, told me it was over inflated, and my tread was below the legal limit.

The git.

And Mrs B has started to notice. Like when she goes 'on top'.

"I'll have to duck to keep my head from hitting the ceiling".

"I'm gonna need an oxygen mask if I have to climb much higher".

"Not tonight dear, I've still got altitude sickness from last time".

I thought she was complementing me at first. You know. On how big my 'Joy Division' is. She kindly and delicately pointed out that this was not the case.

"No dear". She said. "I'm not saying these things because your gnats todger belongs between the legs of a stallion". "I'm saying them because you're becoming a fat git".

Bless her. Never backwards in coming forwards is Mrs B.

But, she is right. Not about the gnats todger of course. I mean, of course I'm hung like a horse...........fly.

So, I'm gonna cut down on the beer, the food and general good living, increase the exercise, and generally become a boring git for a while.

That is, right after I finish the beer. There are about 25 pints left I guess.

If I start now, I reckon I'll have it all done by the time Mrs B and the kids get home.

The ironing, that is. You don't seriously think I'm THAT freaking nuts, do you?

P.T.F.O.

More Self Confidence? I'm not So Sure...........

Would you like to increase your self-confidence?

These are the words on a leaflet that greeted your bleary eyed blogger this morning as I grabbed the post from the floor. It was in under the letter from my bank informing me that I went overdrawn last month, and they wanted £65.00 for the privilege. £65.00!!!!!!

The robbing gits!

I know the banks are in need of a bailout at the moment, poor sods, but I wasn't aware of the fact that I was gonna be the only one bailing them out! Well, that wipes out the slight tax reduction I got from my new tax code in the same postal delivery.

Ahh well, easy come, easy go.

But I was intrigued by the leaflet. Would I like to increase my self-confidence? Those that knew me in the past would probably agree that, back then I needed a good kick in the groin and told to man the heck up a little encouragement to coax me out of my shell. Nowadays, it's a different story.

However, you can't have too much of a good thing, so I thought "Why not".

On opening the leaflet, I was slightly perturbed by the 200 questions they ask you to complete before you send the whole thing off. It's multiple choice. The answers are Yes, No or Maybe. The trouble is, I spotted a fatal flaw in their system.

Surely, if you answer yes or no, whatever the question, you don't need more self confidence! You are giving a confident, positive answer. Only 'maybe' answers suggest you possibly need a good kick in the groin and told to man the heck up the help and guidance from..................Oh no! You don't seriously think I'm gonna mention the name of the people, or organization who sent this thing do you?

There's already enough fuel from my past evil deeds to have me roasting on the open fires of hell for many a year. Naming and shaming one particular religious organization, and they're gonna need to get a rotisserie and spit roast me on gas mark 4 million for eternity!

Anyway, back to the questions. I decided that just answering, yes, no or maybe wasn't enough. So, I started to put proper, full written answers down. So they could REALLY get to know me.  Now, some of these questions beggar belief. What they hope to learn from some of them is anyone's guess.

Here are a random selection of the questions and my answers:-

Q - Do you browse through railway timetables, directories or dictionaries just for pleasure?
A - WHAT? Of course not! I browse through, Mayfair, Razzle and Leather Clad Babes Monthly to get my kicks. Weirdo.

Q - Are your actions considered unpredictable by other people?
A - I was once lent a car to go pick someone up from the airport, and I wrapped it around a lamp post. I don't THINK they predicted it, so I guess the answer is yes.

Q - Do you speak slowly?
A - Only to the very old, or the very young. And foreigners that don't speak English.

Q - Does an unexpected action cause your muscles to twitch?
A - I would consider myself dead if they didn't!

Q - Do your past failures worry you?
A - Not at all. I'm pleased as punch that I've failed to pick the winning lottery numbers every week for the last 8 years, and live on a hole in the ground with no money, rather than a million pound mansion and more money than Saudi Arabia.

Q - Is it normally hard for you to own up and take the blame?
A - I never have that problem. If Mrs B asks what the smell is, I blame the dog!

Q - Could you agree to `strict discipline'?
A - At one time, I would have said no, but since an encounter with Miss Whiplash, a leather clad brunette with high heels and a tazar gun, I've kinda come around to the idea.

Q - Do you find it easy to express your emotions?
A - I find it difficult NOT too when next doors dog craps on my lawn! Or spurs lose at home to Arsenal.

Q - Do you 'circulate around' at social gatherings?
A - Like a flippin' humming bird until the beer kicks in. Then I fall asleep.

Q - Do you take reasonable precaution to prevent accidents?
A - Yep! I believe they call it celibacy. You'll probably approve of that one!

Q - Do you tend to be careless?
A - So, the plastic cutlery and the fact there are no sharp objects in the house ARE a giveaway huh?

Q - Do you enjoy activities of your own choosing?
A - Only ones that involve tissues.

Q - Are you easily pleased?
A - If by 'easily pleased' you mean in less than 10 seconds, then yes.

Q - Do you get over enthusiastic about 'some simple little thing'?
A - See previous answer.

Q - Do you ever get disturbed by the noise of the wind, or a 'house settling down'?
A - Well, I was once trapped in a car when a bloke farted, and the windows didn't work, and what you call 'house settling down', we call 'subsidence' around here, so yes.

They then ask 2 open answer questions:-

Q - How can you increase your minds potential?
A - This is probably not the answer you want, but I'm gonna say beer.

Q - What is the cause of irrational behaviour?
A - Normally in my case, the kids.

Now all I need to do, is mail it in, and they will call me and set up an appointment for my confidential test analysis.

Actually, it's not very far away. I'll take it in person. They can analyze me there and then.

How much more self-confidence do I need to show them than that?

P.T.F.O.

A Word From One Of The More Intelligent Members Of The Household.

Hello.

I have been asked me to write this blog. It seems that Baldy there is too busy. I'm not sure what's going on but there seems to be a lot of excitement around the house at the moment.

But first let me introduce myself. In fact, I'll show you who I am.........

Cute ain't I? I'm Freddie. And Baldy there is part of my herd.

You see, he thinks he owns me. Not a chance. Sure he paid money for me. And he puts a lead on me and walks me around like he owns me.

But who is the one that feeds me. Who is the one who goes out to work to buy my food? Who is the one that clears up after me when I take a du.........erm...........have a bowel movement.

And what DOES he do with that stuff anyway? I'm just glad to be rid of it, but he collects it like it's a precious material or something! What's THAT all about! I've tried to help the poor bugger out by producing more. One day, I must've pooped about 10 times. And EVERY time, he just scooped straight it up. I had to give up in the end. There's only so often I can go without going cross eyed. And loosing vital organs.

Anyway, that's the gross part of this blog outta the way. A bit about me.

I'm a 5 year old border collie. I am part of a breed of dog that is widely regarded as the more intelligent variety. Between you and me though, I'm only just intelligent enough to be completely freakin' nuts. Well, so would you be if you'd had done to you what he's had done to me!

When I was about 6 months old, I was taken to see what I thought was I nice lady. She stroked me and talked to me nicely. I liked her.

Until she stuck a sodding great needle in my bum. Boy did I yelp! After a short while though, I began to feel a little tired. Then VERY tired. Not unlike baldy when he's had a few of those special bottles of that drink he likes.

I certainly went down as quick as he does after a few. I was out for the count. I wasn't asleep for very long. Maybe an hour or so. But when I woke up. Oh crap was I in pain!

When Baldy wakes up from his sleeps after drinking his beer and complains of a headache. And sometimes makes funny noises down the white porcelain thing in the 'smelly' room. The big wuss. He should have woken up with the pain I was in that day. And not only that, the 'bit's' that were hurting were no longer there! My entire 'boydog doggy bag area' was gone. GONE! What the hell was that all about! I was only licking it a couple of hours earlier! Of all the body parts they could have taken, they had to take them! They were my favourite bits. I know we don't live in a particularly good area, but blimey! They'll nick ANYTHING around here!

I heard Baldy explain to someone later that he had it done to calm me down. CALM ME DOWN? You try being calm when your knackers are in a seperate room to you! I was too frightened to sleep for weeks after that, wondering if I would wake up and find other parts of me missing.

I'm trying to convince Mrs B to have the same thing done to old Baldy there. Not that she needs any convincing at all. She agrees that it needs doing. The signs are there that it needs doing. Although I think in baldy's case, it's probably a case of 'you can't remove what ain't there'.

I have lived here with Baldy and Mrs B since I was 8 weeks old. It's actually not so bad. Sure, there are times when voices are raised. 'Get down' or 'Your dirty boy' or 'Stop sniffing the cat's butt'. All aimed at Baldy. I gave all that stuff up a while back. He just seemed better at it than me.

Now, I've heard people say that dogs look like there owners. Well, let me assure you that is definitely NOT the case here. As you can see, I am cute, fluffy and cuddly. He on the other hand, is a cows arse.

One of the big advantages I have over humans is my excellent sense of smell. But around here, living with him, that is a DISadvantage. Although he is a particularly ugly example of the human race, I can at least look away. There's nothing I can do to escape the smell though. It's everywhere.

And he craves attention. All the time. Always coming up to me for a stroke and a bit of rough and tumble. I spend half my life pretending to be asleep just to avoid being that close to him.

Anyway, that's enough for now. It's taken me ages to type this. Qwerty keyboards are not what you might call dog friendly you know. But hey, when you've got looks, who needs typing skills!

And he's getting those bags out again. He's looking to add to his collection. He's gonna be disappointed. I went out with Mrs B earlier and gave it to her instead.

Favoritism? Too right!

My Valentines Day Massacre.

February 14th.

The day that you're supposed to tell the one you love how much you love them. The day you're supposed to buy them chocolates, flowers & cards. The day you're supposed to take them out for a meal, and maybe a trip to the theatre, or cinema, and generally pamper your nearest & dearest.

It's not that the much beloved and long suffering Mrs B doesn't warrant or deserve such pampering. Because she truly does. I am what you might call a high maintenance husband. Of the two children we have, I am the third, most needy. And the one who is definitely a special needs case. And the following story will probably demonstrate this fact beautifully.

One previous Valentines day, whilst on my way home from work, I suddenly remember the date. Realizing that going home empty handed was not really a serious option, I stopped off at the only shop I could find.

A petrol filling station.

I was in the middle of nowhere, and I was desperate. The shop was very small. And pretty poorly stocked. First off, I went to the greetings cards.

All they had were three Christmas and one Get Well Soon card. Not good. Not good at all. There were no flowers at all.

At this point, I needed the loo and as I sat down, I contemplated my predicament. Yet again, I was in trouble. Owing to my lack of planning, I was in danger of going home to a pretty upset Mrs B.

I needed a plan. And some inspiration. I noticed the air freshener aerosol on the floor. I picked it up and gave it a spray.

"Well, it smells of flowers" I said to myself. I put the can in my jacket pocket, and returned to the shop.

"OK, they're bound to have some chocolates". They did. Smarties. In mild desperation, I grabbed a couple of tubes.

I then spotted a DVD selection. I made a beeline for it. It wasn't what you might call vast. The best they had was The Tweenies. And some very dodgy 'Oscar' contender, that had pictures of nearly naked women on the cover. And eels. I decide against the DVD.

"I know, I'll make her dinner".

 My idea of a romantic dinner for two however, was somewhat thwarted by the lack of selection of food on offer. A pasty. And a tin of peaches. In syrup.

I gather my bounty, throw it into a basket, and make my way to the counter.

I am by now a desperate man. Which may explain my next 'brainwave'. The very sad thing is I honestly believe it's a stroke of genius. And my thinking behind it just beggars belief.

"What hardworking woman, mother and wife doesn't want something that is going to make her life a little bit easier?" I remember thinking.

What I had in mind went way beyond that. This will actually REMOVE one job from her endless list of chores entirely!

As I put my pathetic desperate bounty tokens of love and admiration for my darling wife on the counter, the attendant scans it.

"Anything else?"

A wide grin appears across my face.

"A deluxe car wash please".

WOW!

Pure bloody inspired genius.

What could possibly spell romance, 'I love you, and I want to make life a bit easier for you' more than a pre wash, hot foam, wheel scrub, triple wax and blow dry car wash! With under body chassis wash too.

UNDER BODY CHASSIS WASH!!!!!!!

I pay and run to the car. As I pull away, I realise I have forgotten something. Candles. But it's OK. I remember that we have some birthday candles at home.

I arrive home to an empty house. Perfect. I can have everything ready for when Mrs B gets in.

But First, a little forward planning. I rush upstairs, dig out my bestest pulling pants, and put them on.

A male thong is not the most comfortable thing to wear, but hey, Mrs B is worth it. And when she sees the efforts that I've gone too, to woe her, the old bed springs will be putting in some overtime for sure!

I rush back downstairs, and into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

I pour some of the Smarties into a saucer, and scatter the rest around the table for artistic effect. I open the tin of peaches, and pour them into 2 pudding bowls. I remember that we have a tin of evaporated milk in the cupboard. I open this and pour some over the peaches.

With some effort, I eventually find the birthday cake candles. I struggle to get them  to stand up on their own. I have another brainwave. I grab a couple of slices of bread, and put the in the middle of the table, one on top of the other. I poke the candles into the bread in the shape of a heart.

I remove the packaging from the pasty and put it into the microwave, ready to start when Mrs B gets home. At that moment, I hear the keys in the door.

"Don't come in the kitchen honey, I have a little surprise for you". I say.

"Oooookaaaaaay" she calls back, with more than a hint of caution in her voice.

Not to be put off by her well placed and well practiced caution, I hit the nuke button on the microwave. I light the candles.

I then remember the half can of air freshener that I 'borrowed' in my jacket. I grab this and give the whole room a good spray.

This is when I discover that the warning on the side of all aerosol cans to 'keep away from naked flames' is there for a reason.

I am now holding in my hands a Glade flame thrower. And a pretty damn good one at that!

I quickly release the button on the can.

Not quite quick enough.

Border Collies are not bred for speed. But you try telling that to mine when his tail is on fire. He charges around the kitchen with an impressive turn of speed.**

I somehow manage to corner him, pick him up and douse his tail under the tap. I inspect the damage. Fortunately, apart from some singed fur, we've got away with it. No skin damage to speak of. But by now, the kitchen smells less of the potpourri, and more of burnt collie fur than was originally intended.

And on hearing the commotion, Mrs B's suspicions are aroused.

"Is everything OK in there?"

"Fine babe, absolutely fine". "I'm just putting the finishing touches to your suprise".

I go through a mental check list in my head.

Peaches. Smarties. Pasty. Candles. Wine.

Sod it! I forgot the wine!

I rummage around in the fridge. All I find is one can of lager. I get the champagne flutes out, crack open the lager, and am about to pour, and stop. I put down the champagne flute and lager, and grab the tea towel that's draped over the cooker, drying off. I carefully fold it, and drape it over my left forearm.

I pick up the lager and champagne flute, and stand poised, ready to pour.

"OK honey, come and see your surprise"

As she walks into the kitchen smiling, I begin to pour the lager into the champagne flute.

Mrs B surveys the scene. The birthday candles poked into the bread. The pudding bowls filled with peaches and evaporated milk. The Smarties scattered all over the table and in the saucer.

Then she looks at me. Her idiot husband. Is he really pouring lager into a champagne flute? With a used tea towel draped over his arm? And a big stupid grin on his face?

And my god! What is that awful smell? PLEASE don't say that's dinner!

The smile on Mrs B's face fades away. And is replaced by a look of utter bewilderment.

At that moment the microwave pings.

I put down the Champagne flute and lager, open the microwave door, and grab the pasty. Which is like grabbing a piece of hot coal. I throw it onto a plate and blow my fingers to cool them off. I grab a knife from the drawer and cut the pasty into two. I seperate the two halves, and stand back to admire my efforts.

"Mmmm, something not quite right".

A further flash of inspiration. I grab two candles from the bread, and pokw one into each pasty, spilling melted wax onto one half.

"Don't worry, I'll have that one" I say cheerily.

Mrs B just stands there, open mouthed, staring at the 'romantic' scene before her. She slowly walks forwards feeling for a chair with her hand, and on finding it she sits down.

"I've made us a nice romantic dinner so you don't have to cook tonight".

"I thought we could have this, and have an early night".

Mrs B continues to sit in stunned silence. Obviously so impressed with my 'efforts' that she's lost for words.

The sex I'm gonna get tonight after this, is gonna be mind blowing!

"Oh, and there's more", I say, pointing a finger in the air.

"Mmmmmmmore?" she stammers. Her head turns to look at me questioningly.

I fumble around in my pocket.

"I've also got you a car wash token, so you won't have to wash the car this weekend".

I place the token in front of her on the table.

"The deluxe wash" I announce. "With under body chassis wash".

Her gaze shifts to the token and then back to me. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

I start to realise that she may not be quite as appreciative as I first hoped.

I begin to babble.

"I'm sorry honey, but by the time I remembered what day it was, it was too late". "I tried everywhere to get you something special, but everything was sold out". "I just grabbed what I could, and did the best I could with it".

Still silence.

"I'm really sorry babe". Just give me a big hug and let's eat shall we?" "I'm starving".

I stretch my arms out towards her.

Mrs B gets up and turns towards me.

I don't see her pick up the car wash token.

But I feel it.

I feel it when she attempts to insert it in a place that just doesn't accept car wash tokens. She didn't even try to move the thong string aside when she did it.

As I run around the kitchen, being chased by a snarling, screaming Mrs B, closely followed by a vengeful looking border collie, I wonder at how Mrs B managed to shove the car wash token so far up.

Or indeed, how I'm going to perform an under body chassis wash!

**Please note - No border collies were actually harmed during the writing, or indeed the living of this scene.

And yes, my butt is almost completely healed now. Thanks for asking.

P.T.F.O.

A Short Wedding Message To The Happy Couple.

Sooooo, the big day is finally here. As I write this, 2 people I know are washing, scrubbing, making up, and generally preening themselves to within an inch of their lives. And I am sure that they will both look absolutely stunning when they present themselves to the world later on today.

However, also about now, one part of them, a part that is all too often ignored, will be playing a key role in today's events. And on big occasions, it takes great pleasure in letting you know that when all is said and done, it really does have the upper hand.

There is no real delicate way to put this, so I appologise if any of you are eating. Or thinking about eating. Or have eaten in the last 24 hours.

It is, of course the good old sphincter. The brown button. The 'Exit Only'. (Subject to status).

Ok then, the ARS****E!!!!!! (Censored by the much beloved Mrs B, bless her!). But seeing as by now, the alarm bells are probably ringing and you're thinking "Where's he going with this" (Heck, do ya honestly think I know?) We'll call it 'The Voldemort'. Why? 'Cos I don't know any one by the name of Voldemort.

I do, however, know plenty of 'Voldemorts'.

You see, whilst on these big occasions, everyone will be looking at the dress, the make up, the hair, the nails (enough about the groom already!) the old 'Voldemort' will be twitching away like an epileptic caterpillar.

Last nights' pizza, and indeed this mornings' corned flakes (No adverts here!) will be the non stop express service to the white porcelain bowl. And there will barely be time to take a seat, never mind get a ticket!

Honestly, on my big day, I didn't have the trots. Oh no. I had the full blown 'Get out of the bloody way, or things are gonna get pretty messy around here' gallops.

It was at this point that I realised how appropriate walking into the registry office to Johnny Cash's Ring Of Fire truly was.

By the time I'd got to the registry office, a good stone lighter than when I first got up that day, my stomach was more empty than my wallet the day after payday.

Apart from the gas.

I had therms of the stuff! They could have connected me up to the mains, and I would have solved the energy shortage crisis for weeks!

I know when we got married, it was the hottest day of the year, but I don't think the fans were there just for cooling. Of course, I did the manly thing. And blamed Mrs B.

Anyway, I started this intending to talk about the happy couple. And somehow, managed to turn into being all about me. I did say earlier that I didn't know where this was going!

So. To C and C. I know you guys will have a wonderful day. I wish you all the best for the future. May your lives together be filled with as much happiness and fulfillment as Mrs B's and mine. You'll make a great couple together. And yes. You will also be a Mrs B too. Without the 'long suffering' bit. Just think how bad it could have been!

And even though it's February, you'll now understand why I will be wafting a fan around in the church.

And trying to open all the stained glass windows.

Enjoy your day.

P.T.F.O.

How to Gaurantee a Table for One at a Wedding Dinner!

Well, it's been a long time, but this weekend I am attending a wedding. Not just the reception. The whole shebang. (Wow! shebang really is a word. No red line appeared underneath it!). Being invited to the whole wedding kinda raises my status in my opinion. It kinda says I'm thought of a bit more than someone who only makes it to the reception. Practically family to be honest. Either that, or they were desperate to fill the places. And when Auntie Thelma's poodle couldn't make it because it's having it's toe nails clipped, I was in!

It probably also means that I should get them a better present than the hardly used bottle of washing up liquid and 2 for 1 haircut voucher for the salon that closed 3 years ago but hey, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?

And that brings me nicely on to gift list. Who on earth invented THAT? It's kinda like saying 'look, we can't trust you to go and buy us a decent present, (spot on in my case!) so here is a helpful list of things you might like to consider'. Nobody ever says, 'just bring yourselves, that'll be gift enough for us'.

At least these guys haven't got a gift list. Oh no. They've decided they just want cash. Cold hard cash. Bloody good call. I wish I'd have flipping thought of that at our wedding. I actually think it's a bloody clever way to get us to pay for the wedding. In fact, I am gonna adopt the same philosophy at my daughters wedding. I'll work out the total cost and divide it by the number of guests. As well as sending an invite, I'll send a bill. That's a bloody brilliant idea! I'd even take card payments!

Now, if said couple to be knew of my 'previous' at weddings, they would almost certainly uninvite me. Mmmm, (Yep, red line under THAT!) I wonder how that would work? I guess I'm gonna find out soon enough!



You see, it's only at times like these that the much beloved Mrs B really gets to remember what a true catch I am.

Which is precisely why she has requested to be seated at another table.

I fail to see her problem. I almost never heckle anymore. And the football kicks off well after the wedding bouquet has been thrown at me with a little TOO much force to be friendly. Although the rugby may well be on around the same time. Thanks goodness for headphones! (Note to self, shouting 'get in there my son' and 'tackle him you 'effing moron' in the house of god is probably not conducive to a happy afterlife).

And I now know that proper protocol is a short peck on the cheek when standing in line to congratulate the happy couple. NOT a full on snog. Well, not for the groom apparently. Who knew?

The bride by now is probably having kittens. Well, I'm the LEAST of her worries. I've seen the tie that S.H. is wearing (initials NOT changed to expose the guilty) and believe me, even if he does make it into the church wearing it, he'll be a smoldering ember by the 'I now pronounce you' bit.

But my biggest issues are at the dinner. I don't get out much, especially when it comes to eating in public. You see, cutlery confuses the life out of me. It's bad enough with just a knife, fork and spoon. Which is why I do virtually all of my eating with just a spoon when I'm at home.

But when faced with a myriad of Sheffield's finest, I'm totally beat. And at these big occasions, there's normally acres of the flipping stuff. Apparently, you are supposed to start from the outside and work your way in. That's fine, but I was at a dinner once where the seating arrangements were a little cozy. Well, we were all squashed together like my 'gentleman goodies' when my underwear was inadvertently tumble dried on gas mark 8 for 3 hours. And I ended up 'borrowing' the knife from the person sitting 4 places to my right.

Does anyone have a least favourite piece of cutlery? I do. The damn soup spoon. Bloody things. How DO you use one? I've tried the 'sip from the edge of it' approach. Except it's less of a sip, and more of a 'last bit of bathwater draining from the bath' sort of noise. And have you tried to put the whole thing in your mouth? Honestly, it would be more comfortable putting a wire brush connected to the mains in there. (Kids, please don't try this at home!)

And then there's the plates. Normally piled so flipping high, you have to look round them to talk to the person sitting opposite. Or hide behind them with embarrassment in poor Mrs B's case. One for each course? one for each food item more like!

Then there's the wine glasses. In this it seems, I am not alone. Which one is yours? Left, or right? I'm sure that gallons of wine is wasted at these gatherings because no bugger knows which wine glass is theirs. So rather than commit the ultimate social fop-ah and get it wrong, none of it gets drunk. And that's despite everyone looking at everyone else to see who drinks from what first.

But I have another issue when it comes to eating in the close proximity of others.

My elbows. The buggers stick out when I'm eating. How do people manage to tuck them in when sitting so close together? I have the wingspan of a flipping jumbo jet when I'm eating. Air traffic control have to arrange a no fly zone around me. I've got home from these social gatherings in the past to find wigs, spectacles and even false teeth hanging off my elbows!

And I know that despite my best efforts, I will spill something down me. Or the person sitting next to me. And the looks you get when you try to be helpful and wipe red wine from the pretty young lady's blouse. I probably should have used a napkin rather than my..............ahem, never mind!

Still, at least in the custody suite, nobody cares how you eat.


P.T.F.O.

See? It's Not ALWAYS About Me! Oh, Hang On, It Is Actually!

Tonight, I have the rage.

All round, it's not been a good day.

It's a rare thing to get any good news in the post these days. It could be argued that it's a rare thing indeed to get ANY post. Needless to say that the post that DOES get delivered to my house, is generally bad news.

But today, it was really bad.

I got 3 letters. The first are from   1 - My gas supplier.
                                                2 - My electricity supplier.

I knew straight away it was bad news. The buggers know that there's a financial squeeze on everyone at the moment. So, being the caring, customer focused, environmentally friendly, and generally all round great bunch of guys that they are, they've decided to put the price of my gas and electric up.

BLOODY FANTASTIC!!!!!!

They go on to explain that, they've tried to hold their prices for as long as possible, but were unable to continue to do so, blah blah blah, blah blah blah. 

Yeah, right! Why can't they just be honest.

The shareholders want to upgrade to a 23 bedroom mansion, and, you know, running 15 Ferrari 455's isn't as cheap as you might think. And the company are thinking of making us shareholders pay for our own electric in future unless we turn in a profit of £50,000,000,000 in the next financial year.

I would honestly have more respect for them if they told the truth!

So, despite the fact that they have tried to keep their costs to an absolute minimum, they have no alternative but to put up my energy prices.

Well, I have one suggestion for them to get their costs down.

SEND ME ONE BLOODY LETTER INSTEAD OF 2!!!!!!!!!

You see, my gas supplier, and my electricity supplier are the same company. But they saw fit to send me 2 letters on the same day, in 2 envelopes worded identically, except one said gas, the other said electric. 

They were even thoughtful enough to suggest that if I was not happy with these 'changes' I could switch to another supplier.

Well, I might just do that, thank you very much.

Except what's the point!

Oh, I'm sure at first the new supplier will be all charming, very attentive and caring. I'll ring them on their 'new customer priority line'. They'll answer on the first ring. I won't have to go round the houses to speak to someone. And 5 minutes later, it'll all be over and done with.

However, once I'm 'on board', it'll be totally different. They won't answer my calls, I'll be given the runaround. The person I need to speak to will be busy. Or not in. Or not interested. They'll say they'll do it, and won't. And in the end, I'll feel very frustrated, and give up.

Sound familiar ladies? I can see Mrs B reading this and nodding her head vigorously through those last couple of paragraphs.

So, that was the first 2 letters. As you can imagine, by now, I'm not feeling very chuckly.

Then, I open the third.

It's from a company who have just been awarded the contract to look after the street lighting in my neighbourhood.

And they're 'delighted' to tell me that they will be replacing all the street lighting in the next 6 weeks.

DE- BLOODY-LIGHTED!!!!!

IT ONLY GOT REPLACED 6 MONTHS AGO! IT'S FINE. IN FACT, I'D GO SO FAR AS TOO SAY IT'S BLOODY MARVELOUS! WE DON'T HAVE MUCH TO SHOUT FOR JOY ABOUT AROUND HERE, BUT THE STREET LIGHTING IS ONE OF THEM. IT'S GREAT.

Sorry, give me a moment to calm myself. Deeeeeeep breaths.

They are even thoughtful enough to send a 10 page leaflet, explaining 'The benefits of Your New Street Lighting'. And answering some 'Frequently Asked Questions'.

It goes on to say that some lighting is more than 40 years old, is orange, and shines light in all directions.

Well, I don't know who's street lighting they're looking at, but it's certainly not ours!

They also mention that new, improved lighting will help reduce crime in the area. Well, I live in a part of the world that frequently gets set alight by the local 'darling children'. And the light that the fires give off doesn't exactly put the little buggers off being antisocial. Quite the opposite in fact.

Besides, I would prefer to see extra police on patrol in the area if they want to reduce crime. Not a sodding lamp post.

And then the FAQ's.

Will the project help save money? Will there be holes in the pavement or road? Will the bins still be collected?

Sorry? WILL THE BINS STILL BE COLLECTED? WHAT THE..........?!?!?!?!?!?

Surely, they made THAT one up!

Unless what they're trying to say is 'Good news, we're replacing your street lighting'.

'Bad news, we will no longer be emptying your bins, so lets hope they find a cure for bubonic plague soon!'

Oh, and in case you were wondering, don't worry, because the old lights will be recycled or reused.


We are not talking about trees here you know! We don't need to replace my one, then plant the old one elsewhere!


Actually, that's given me an idea. I'm gonna get the neighbours together, and we will form a chain around all the lamp posts on the 'day of reckoning'.


One neighbour per post should do it. I'd even supply the waterproof trousers and boots.


There are a lot of dogs around here you know!


And the final insult to the day. My bloody neighbour.


Whilst I'm out tonight, he texts my wife. Apparently, he's had a bad day, and he's run out of beer. Could he ponce a couple from me.


HE'S HAD A BAD DAY!


But that's not the final insult.


He works for my soon to be previous energy supplier.


THE GIT!




P.T.F.O.



 

Twice In Two Days? I Didn't Know I Had It In Me!

How on earth could mother nature get it so wrong? Where I want it, I ain't got it. And where I've got it, I don't want or need it. I'm of course talking about hair.

Let's start from the top and work down shall we? After all, that's where most of my blogs head anyway!

My head. I have just counted the hairs on my head. 27. 14 ear, 19 nasal, and the rest where they should be on my scalp. Except not. They've kinda slipped towards each ear. Honestly, it's like a fight broke out up there, and the hair decided to take sides, with some going one way, the rest going the other. And they have asked my ears to pick sides. So, in the middle, is just like an expansive wasteland. The only thing that's missing is the rusty shopping trolleys, and the stained mattress.

And my ears. Why the heck have my ears started to sprout hair? My hearing is bad enough as it is, without the extra filtration of hair! It gets so damn long in there, that I could get a part in panto as Rapunzel, and when asked to let down my hair, offer great locks of the stuff coming out of my ears.

The problem with ear hair, is that I can't see it. And unless anyone tells me its there, I don't always know until it's too damn late. And Mrs B takes great delight in getting the garden shears out to hack them off. After she's platted them first.

And nasal hair. I TRY to keep it in check, but the bloody stuff grows faster than I can keep it in check. Most of the time, I walk around like I've got a bloody scrubbing brush shoved up each nostril.

And keeping it in check is bloody painful!

Guys, you'll sympathize with me on this one. But if you use your clippers on nasal hair, and the get caught, you end up accidentally plucking. And doesn't THAT bring tears to your eyes!

And then there's the eyebrows.

Now those buggers REALLY have a life of their own! NO hair clippers, scissors or garden shears in the world are man enough for them. So out comes the machete. I have to tie rope around Mrs B's waist, and send her in. She then hacks away as best she can to try to bring the whole thing under control. At this point she becomes less hairdresser, and more horticulturalist.

Right. That takes care of the head. Moving down......

My upper body and arms are so hairy, I am now officially on the endangered species list. And the fact that I also drag my knuckles on the ground certainly doesn't help matters. I am on constant poacher alert.

We have had to ban flannelet sheets in our bed, because once I get in, I can't get out without a lot of help. I stick to it like bloody Velcro.  The only way I can get out, is for Mrs B to get a crowbar, wedge it underneath me, and lever me out. And if I don't stay rigid whilst she does it, I end up sticking to the bed again, and we have to start all over. Everyone in our street would know when I got up, because of the tearing Velcro sound coming from our house.


The only bit we try to keep under control, is the back of my neck. But get that wrong, or wear a T shirt that's a bit lower cut than the rest, and I look like I'm smuggling tarantulas back there.

Now at this point, I am going to issue a warning. It seems my last blog, for some strange reason, put one or two of you off your food. The fact that by now, regular readers should know that it is not wise to eat and read this stuff at the same time seemed a bit lost on one person in particular. Bless her. So, you might wanna put that bacon sandwich down for a second.

And maybe grab a bucket.

I'm gonna go to the 'Gentleman's Area'. Bet your glad I suggested the bucket now eh?

It just happens to be the most follicle intense area of my entire body. Now that in itself, is not a major problem. But lets just say that the longest thing down there should not be hair. Every time I go to the bathroom, it involves a hell of a lot of 'fishing' around amongst the undergrowth, until I eventually find the little chap.

And when foreplay consists of playing 'Where's Willie', it kinda gets a bit boring after a while.

So, last time we did find it, I tagged it with string and a label. And provided the label I find doesn't say 'Wash at 40 degrees', I know we're on the right track. I'm thinking if we could harvest whatever it is that makes the hair grow at the rate it does 'down there', we could solve the worlds deforestation problems overnight.

At this point, you're probably thinking 'don't go round the back'. Don't worry. I am not about to talk about my hairy butt on here. Even I have standards you know!

Now my leg hair doesn't really cause any real problems, thank goodness. I have enough to deal with as it is. Leg hair is a bigger problem for women than men. Except when you don't shave for a few days, and we rub up against it. I have suffered less skin damage falling off my bike, than accidentally rubbing against the stubble of an unshaven female leg.

But just try to mention it to your nearest and dearest. I don't shave for a few days, I pretty soon know all about it. But show me a chap that was stupid enough to mention  his loved one that she may need to 'Veet up', and I'll show you a chap who is spending a lot of time sleeping in his car, with a black eye, and contemplating the error of his ways.


Right. That's more than enough grossing out of everyone for one day. Let's just hope Mrs B let's me back in the house to post this thing.

And maybe give me a steak for this black eye.


P.T.F.O.

Turn Me Into Soup Honey, But Not Minestrone.....

Soooooo. Yes, I know it's been a while. The truth is, I've just recovered from the operation to have my running tights removed. I wrote my last blog whilst still wearing them, and I was wondering why I was thinking so clearly that night.

It turns out that these bloody tights were gripping the lower half of my body so damn tightly, it was forcing all the blood into the upper half of my body, including my brain. By the time I'd finished writing it, the lower half of my body had the look and feel of a well squeezed tube of toothpaste.

But, what's concerned me enough to post my next blog is this. Occasionally, I like to check out who has been reading this drivel. I mean, these people must be off their freaking heads. Or Russian, as it turns out. For some strange reason, I have quite a following over there. Well, when I say quite a following, 3 to be exact. The television reception must be truly awful over there.

Anyway, whilst checking out how people were getting to my site, I tracked a link back to Google. Someone had typed into Google, and I'm not kidding here, 'Rate my blow up doll'.

Now hang on a minute. Rate my blow up doll? What the heck is THAT all about? I'm trying to imagine the scenario here.

Some lonely guy is looking for some action. He's fed up with DIY, and has also run out of hand cream.  His personal hygiene, and chronic acne mean he's got more chance of hooking up with a rolled up copy of a daily newspaper than a proper living girl. Hang on! Sy, is that you?

"I know, I'll buy a blow up doll" he thinks. But, having never been in the market for such a thing, he has to research it first.

Now I suspect, and I'm only guessing here, that 'Which' magazine does not review this type of thing, so the guy decides to turn to the internet. After all, when buying a blow up doll, what sort of things do you look for. And what questions do you ask?

And do you go new, or second hand? I'm guessing puncture resistance has to be a fairly high priority. The last thing you want is for the damn thing to go down on you whilst 'in use'. Besides, that option would only be available on the deluxe model I'm guessing.

And once you get the thing home, how do you start the courtship? Well obviously, inflation is probably a pretty early step I'm guessing. Do you go through the whole fantasy? Sit her down, talk to her. Offer to buy her a dress.  Or Take That tickets maybe?

Or, maybe I have got this whole scenario all wrong. Maybe this person has already bought said blow up doll, and has already given it a 'test run', and now wants to post his comments for other potential buyers.

"Having got the doll out of the box, and upon checking, I realised that the inflation valve was too big".

Perhaps it's his job. Hey, someone has to test these things I suppose. And how do you get THAT sort of job? It's not exactly the type of thing you see at the local job centre.

I guess it serves me right for putting the term 'blow up doll' into one of my blog titles. I did it thinking I would get some hits in this way, but didn't really think it would actually work. It's certainly got me thinking about future blog titles. I did, for example, consider writing this one about, and calling it '100 things to do with warmed, hollowed fruit'. However, after writing about the first thing to do with hollowed, warmed fruit, it kinda put me off the other 99.

Something else that caught my attention this week. Apparently, they are looking at more efficient, and environmentally friendly ways of disposing with us, once we shuffle off this mortal coil. Whilst it's widely acknowledged that burial is no longer practical, cremation uses up a lot of carbon dioxides, whatever that means.

So, they've come up with a new idea. It involves putting the body in water, adding some chemicals, and boiling the whole lot up to 120 degrees for several hours. This turns everything into a kind of soup, which they simply pour down the drain.

Well, sign me up baby.

Being a bit claustrophobic, I don't like the idea of being placed in a box for all of time, to slowly rot away and be eaten by worms.

And cremation would be extremely dangerous. Being full of gas as I am, I would be less burn, more bang. And whilst taking out half the congregation would be a great way to go, it wouldn't be very responsible now, would it?

So, I'm all for this 'turn me into soup' thing. It means all my family and friends could stand around this giant cauldron, and watch me disappear before their eyes. Maybe they could all take turns to have a stir. Make a wish perhaps.

"I wish this bugger would hurry up and liquidize. I'm parked on a double yellow".

And at the end of it all? I couldn't think of a better, and more appropriate way for me to go, than be flushed down the sewer with the rest of the turds.

P.T.F.O.