Do NOT read on a full stomach..........

Yes, I know it's been a while. Frankly, I would have thought you'd be quite pleased that "That bald Twat" hadn't posted a link to his "Boring load of old twaddle" interesting, humorous, quality pieces of writing for a while. There are 2 reasons for this:-

1) I can NEVER get on the laptop.
2) I've been a bit busy.
3) I couldn't be arsed.

And I know that's 3 reasons. Truth is, I thought of the third one after I wrote the first 2, and it was too important to miss out.

So, what's been going on with me lately?

Funny you should ask......

I had a job interview recently. It was with a competitor of the company I work for, so a lot of "cloak and daggery" was called for. Hushed phone calls and emails. You know the sort of thing.

So, the big day arrives. I wake early, and head of to the bathroom to prepare myself for the big event.

I am amazed at my body's unique ability to turn on me when I REALLY need it. As I look at the mirror, there, staring back at me is the biggest, whitest and shiniest spot you could imagine. It's like I'm sprouting another me! This thing was HUUUGGGGEEEEE! And nestled right at the point where my nose meets my face, just below the eye.

This bugger was not going to be easy to shift. I reluctantly showed it to Mrs B.

Now my wife, bless her has few pleasures in life. Understandable being married to me I guess. But she loves a spot. Especially on MY face. She gets all excited, and a big, beaming smile spreads across her face. I suspect it's because of the pain she can inflict on me. A bit of payback.

"Turn to the light so I can get a look at it then" She says, wrenching my whole head around.

"OK, but if you are going to do it, just do it". "None of this half hearted poking and prodding which just prolongs the agony".

"Hold still, will you"

"AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH"

"Stop being such a wimp".

After about 3 hours of prodding, poking, and major digging, it's now bigger, whiter and redder than ever. I've stormed off with tears in my eyes. She is in a strop, having been denied "release". (She should be used to that by now!)

So, I shower, shave, and shampoo myself to within an inch of my life. I put on my new suit, my best shirt and tie, and my highly polished shoes. I admire myself in the mirror.

All I can see, is the damn spot. It is now an angry volcano, ready to erupt at ANY moment.

Resigned to the fact that it will only go when it's ready, I head out.

I arrive at the interview location in good time. I have about 15 minutes to kill. I check the mirror again. Yep. It's still there. As big and bold as ever. I also notice something else. Nasal hair.

How I missed THAT first thing this morning, I'll NEVER know. It's like a trifid is trying to escape my nose. Nothing for it. I have no scissors. I'll have to tug it out. I wind it around my fist 3 or 4 times (I did say it was big) brace myself, and yank.

The explosion of pain that I feel almost makes me pass out. Sweat is now free flowing from my face like you wouldn't believe. I breathe deeply, fighting back the tears. I check the mirror. The hair has gone, but at what price? I can't go to an interview looking like this. I'm a bloody mess!

I check the spot out again. Dare I give it one more go? I consider the possible consequences. If it does go now, it'll take out the windscreen for sure. And the thought of me going into the interview looking like I'd been in an accident at a custard factory decides it for me. It'll have to stay.

I head off to the interview a broken man. They'll never employ me looking like this. My eyes look like I've peeled a thousand onions. A spot on my face so red, it's stopping the traffic. I'm sweating so much, it's gathering in my shoes, making a sloshing sound with each step.

I pause at the door, take a deep breathe, and enter.

90 minutes later, I'm out.

I have just given one of my best interviews ever. I have NO idea how. OK, I wasn't nervous. I had WAY too much on my mind for nerves. And my interview preparation was certainly not something you'll ever read in any manuals.

I start the new job on Monday.

P.T.F.O.

For Sale, Second Hand Blow Up Doll........

I bet you were thinking "Hey up, he's gone a bit quiet since all that bike ride malarkey". "He's probably still riding it". Well, not so. Although it still feels like I am. Said bike ride was dually completed in what was for me, a fairly respectable time.

You probably heard the champagne cork popping and the whooping of joy from where you are. No, we didn't crack open the bubbly when I finished.

It was Mrs B donning a miners lamp, and removing the saddle from "you know where" with the barbecue tongs.

A saint that woman.

So, now all that is behind me (in EVERY sense of the word), what's next for this honed athlete? A bit of a rest? Retirement from all things physical? Surely, it's time to act my age?

Well, not exactly.......

I have decided to enter myself into a 10k run. Or 2.

Honestly, as I am writing this, in my drawing room, with the lights dimmed, and classical music gently caressing my ears, at my antique oak writing desk.......stuck in a lay by, pen and paper leaning against the steering wheel, radio blaring, and the traffic zipping past at mach one, rocking the car, which in turn threatens to rock me to sleep...........

Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah!

As I write this, I am seriously questioning my judgment. What is wrong with me? I have mentioned the term "Mid Life Crisis" before. Is this yet more evidence?

And why the heck am I asking you? You're only reading this because you accidentally hit the wrong link, whilst looking for second hand, fully inflatable rubber lady/man escorts.

Hang on a minute! That gives me an idea to boost my audience.

Anyway, back to the M.L.C. as I shall now refer to it. I've suggested to Mrs B that now summer is here, that it might be a nice idea if we look for sporty little car. Perhaps with a fold down roof.

She looks up from her Mills & Boon, and gives me withering look.

"THAT is not going to happen unless you get a proper job that pays proper wages".

She then shakes her head slowly, tuts and returns to her book.

A little perplexed by this, I reply:-

"Well, it's either that, or I just go and find myself a nice, busty 18 year old blond" I said this with just a hint of "how would you like that" in my voice.

This time, she does not even bother to look up from her book.

"That would be a little tricky without your testicles, darling".

mmmmmmmmmmmmm......she has a point there I guess.

So, in order to once again prepare this old carcass for my next challenge,and to keep myself from under Mrs B's feet, and in a pathetic effort to keep myself feeling a bit younger, I have gone back to the running.

Thinking that I was fairly fit from the cycling, and still running occasionally, I made the mistake of agreeing to a gentle 10k run with a buddy of mine.

A little bit about him.

He is a bit younger than me, and runs 10k races for fun. If he is not running a 10k race, he is training to run a 10k race.

Up hill. Into the wind. Dragging a tractor tyre behind him.

He runs 10k quicker than I can pee.

OK, that last statement what not so impressive, considering I am "at that age", but you understand where I am coming from.

Sometimes, when he is bored, and wants a bit of a laugh at my expense, he runs with me.

So, we set of at a gentle canter.

First mile, no problem.

Second mile, a bit harder, but bearable.

Third mile, "Oh Crap"

By mile four, I am pretty beat.

Going into mile five, I am really suffering, much to his delight. I want to stop for a breather, but don't want to suggest it, for fear of ridicule.

So, I do the one thing I know I am good at.

I complain.

Bitterly.

"It's too hot"

"The sweat is stinging my eyes"

"My legs hurt"

"How much further?"

In response to this, he begins to offer comforting words of encouragement and motivation.

"If we go any slower, we are going to get overtaken by the next ice age".

"For goodness sake, stop effing complaining, you sack of sweaty crap"

"You are pathetic, you are"

I find myself wondering how he has got the breathe to speak, when I haven't even got any to breath!

In the end, as we get to the top of the 3,000 foot climb, he relents.

"OK, let's just walk for a bit and let you get your breathe back". And under his breathe, "Before I punch your sweaty, whinging face in".

We walk for about three seconds, before he says "OK, on we go".

Eventually, we arrive home, where I collapse into a big sobbing heap of sweaty, panting jelly on the floor.

Expecting a "Well done", and a hearty slap on the back, I am slightly disappointed to hear him mutter "Tosser", before stepping over me, and going for a "proper" run.

Anyway, as a big thank you, we are going to have a barbecue in the near future. And, as an act of revenge I am going to cook his food using the saddle removing barbecue tongs I mentioned earlier!

P.T.F.O.

Hens aren't the only cluckers.......

Did I Hear You Right?


Earlier in the week, I met with the person who is organizing the team for the bike ride. He has done this ride a number of times in recent years. He was asking about the training. (He obviously did not read my previous blog). I asked about the saddle soreness, and any suggestions he had. He suggested Vaseline. I have heard this helps, so this was not totally unexpected. We then arranged a time and place to meet before the start.

As I left him, I went over what we had a arranged. Meet at 6.30am. By the toilets. Clapham common. With my butt smeared with Vaseline............Hang on a minute...!

There's No Need To Be Like That!

I decided to do one biggish cycle ride before the "Big One". I set myself a target of forty miles. It's about three quarters distance, and a good test of how I am going to cope next week (or not).

I have one of these tracking thingys on my phone. I won't bore you. Well actually, I will, and probably already have. I mean, why are you even bothering to read this? You really need to get a life if this is what it's come too.

And another thing, why after spending whole minutes writing this, do I then try my best to talk people out of reading it? I did it on my last blog. Right at the start as well. I guess that's why I am not some high flyer in advertising. I am however, in sales..... Oh dear!

Anyway, I digress. So off I set on my ride. I have a route in mind which is about the right distance. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. I feel good.

I sometimes publish my times, and maps of rides & runs on Facebook. A sort of "look at me, aren't I fit" type of statement. If I can get a forty mile bike ride on there, I cannot fail to impress.

So I set off on the ride, get to the furthest point, and go to pause the tracker to have a drink and a bite to eat. It's then that I discover that the tracker has not been tracking at all. It's just become a REALLY expensive stopwatch. I am a little disappointed at this. There goes my chance at a bit of bragging. And decide to let it know how disappointed I am with it. The string of profanity that escapes my mouth at this point, as I stabbed my finger at the touchscreen on my phone was long, loud and frankly, an arrestable offence.

The look on the local vicars face as he walked by was a real picture. And his wife. And the three young children walking with them. As he walked passed, shaking his head and tutting, I distinctly heard one of the children asking what a "trucking piece of ship" meant. Oddly enough, that was the exact moment I decided to continue my ride.

Anyway, despite several more prods at my phone, and a few more choice words thrown at it for good measure. The phone went all "wifey" on me. And refused to respond at all. I could almost hear the bloody thing talking to me in the way Mrs B talks to me when I have displeased her. It even had her voice:-

"There was no need to speak to me like that". "Just because I didn't do what what I was supposed to, that's no reason to have a go at me in public in that way". "If you think I'm going to sleep with you now........"

Now, I'm not suggesting for a second that my wife doesn't do as I ask. Or EVER refuse to sleep with me. (As long as it's ONLY sleep). She looks after me in more ways than I could ever dream of. I really don't deserve to have her. And I am so lucky. I don't know where I would be without her. And I am very sorry for suggesting such a thing. Now can you let go of my testicles please darling!

Bloody hell! Why can't they go numb when you really want them to?

So I get home from the bike ride. Remember the one I was talking about earlier? the forty miler? With tracker issues? Come on, keep up!

I set about the task of trying to establish the exact distance I covered. At first, I try to work it out from previous rides. Then I try to map it on one of the online maps. Not getting anywhere with this, I come up with a bit of an idea. I will ask the different parts of my body.

I start with my legs. These have taken on the look, and feel of Mr Tickles arms from the Mr Men. They are absolutely sure I did at least forty miles. They have also said if I EVER put them through that torture again, they will seek a divorce. (Don't tell them about next week for goodness sake!)

Next, I ask my rear end. It flatly refuses to talk to me. That should probably say "fatly". But it's not a word. Well, it is now I have added it to my dictionary. It's not been the same since this bike riding thing started. I think it is a little upset with me.

Finally, I ask my groin. It has absolutely no idea whatsoever. It lost all feeling after the first couple of miles, and never regained it until about half an hour after I got home.

So, in summary, I think I did forty miles today. I would dearly loved to have shared this with some of you on Facebook. But thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can't.

Just a second! Are they screwdriver marks on my phone.......?


Like Waiting For Your First Born To Be......Errrr Born!


The car went off for it's MOT today. We did the usual things to prepare the car. Checked the oil, topped up the screen wash, checked the indicators worked, kicked the tyres. All the usual stuff that guarantees an MOT pass. The car was collected, and the waiting began. You know that feeling once a year. A sort of akin to waiting for the birth of one of your children. I keep myself busy, trying to take my mind off it. But every now and then, I remember. And wonder.

And then I get the phone call.

I recognize the number. I stare at it for a few seconds. A jolt of adrenalin surges through my veins. Has it? Hasn't it? How much? Oh god......

He proceeds to break the bad news to me gently. Explaining all the faults, slowly and methodically. It's all I can do to stop myself screaming:-

"Just tell me how "clucking" much!"

Instead, I take a deep breathe, and ask him if he would mind telling me how much it's going to cost.

Off he goes, tap, tap, tap on the calculator for about three months. Why didn't he have the totals all ready. He knew this was going to be painful for me. I'm a "Give it to me straight" kind of guy. Whatever the bad news is, don't sugar coat it. Don't try to make me feel better about it. But oh no. He had to break it down into exactly what was wrong with each part. What had caused the failures. AND go through other issues with said car that need attention.

By now, I'm sweating, breathing faster, and on my second bottle of vodka. Finally he comes back.

"Mr B?"

"Yes, I am here"

"I have added up all the parts, labour, including the service and MOT test".

"Yes and?"

"I have rung around and got the best price for the parts"

"Yes and?"

"I have given you my best labour rates"

"YES AND?"

"It's not going to be cheap I'm afraid"

"JUST "CLUCKING" TELL ME HOW "CLUCKING" MUCH IT'S GONNA "CLUCKING" COST FOR "CLUCKS" SAKE WILL YOU".

He gives me the figure.

"Oh cluck........."

So now, the bike riding is more out of necessity than pleasure.....

P.T.F.O.

It's Time My Bottom and I Had a Little Chat.

A Word of Warning Before You Read On.....

If you have even bothered to get this far, a big thank you. However, before you read on, the powers that be, have ordered me to issue you with a warning. (OK, Mrs B said to do it or spend a week on the sofa). So here goes.

The following "pile" contains references to animal deposits, bottoms and (deep breathe) gentleman parts. There, I've said it. If you think you may be offended, or do not see me in "that way", please do the following immediately:-

A) Close your internet browser.
B) Shut down your computer.
C) Burn said computer.
D) Seek immediate therapy.

The fact that this page has been displayed on your screen, regardless of whether you have read it or not, means there is no hope for your computer. Destroy it now, and maybe, just maybe, you have a chance to save yourself.

OK, I'm in the clear.....

As I am taking part in the London to Brighton Bike Ride later this month, I thought I should at least attempt to prepare this bag of old bones for the said torture. So, I have taken to sweating, cursing and puffing my way round the countryside on my £150.00 "Halfords Job" excuse of a bike. At 42, I am probably in the best physical condition of my life, which says an awful lot about my life up until now.

That aside, the physical excursions of recent weeks have not caused any problems except for in two areas. It seems my "behind" is not happy to have a bike saddle nestled amongst it's inner sanctum. This despite a gel seat, a gel seat cover, and bubble wrap. All is fine during the first few miles, but after that, the pain is excruciating.

I have tried to sit down and have said conversation with my rear end, but it did not go well. It's voice was muffled for some unknown reason. So, I thought I would treat it to a proper pair of cycling shorts. These are the ones with an inner liner, with padding in the "appropriate" areas. Having tried these on said cycle ride this morning, I can now conclude that they did not make the slightest bit of difference. Honestly, if I'd pulled the pin on a grenade, and placed it on my saddle, then got on, started riding, and waited for the "Bang", it would have been more comfortable, if a little messy.

Now this rear end discomfort is not entirely unexpected, but another symptom has also appeared IS a little more unexpected. It seems that the "Nether Regions" of my body lose all feeling just as the rear end decides to feel all the pain of the moment, and the pain the present Mrs B's felt during two childbirths.

I have done some research on this loss of feeling (asked a bloke down the pub), and am reliably informed that it is a recognized symptom. Indeed, some of the best cyclists in the world suffer from it. N.P.S. I believe is the acronym. The "N" stands for numb, and the "S" stands for syndrome. I'll leave you to work out the rest. Needless to say, I don't think women suffer from it.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I lose feeling in parts of my body, I either shake if it's a shakeable bit of my body, such as a hand, or rub it if it isn't. So, there I am cycling along, trying to get the blood flowing back into my "nethers" by rubbing. (I'm not even going to go into why I can't shake).

Two issues here. Firstly, others out for a Sunday morning stroll, failed to see my predicament. This, I don't understand. Rub your hands together to get the blood flowing, no court case. Rub your "private area" to do the same, and cries of "pervert", "sicko", and "grubby old git" are offered. And laws are quoted. What probably didn't help was that as the feeling returned, I was heard groaning "ooh, that's better".

Secondly, continuing to rub AFTER the blood has returned has "other consequences" I had long since forgotten about.

(Bet you're sorry you didn't heed my warning now eh?)

Can I have more vinegar with these flies please?


Now the warmer weather is here, it's great that I can get more saddle time, what with the impending "Butt Slaughter" only 2 weeks away. Also arriving with the warmer weather, is the explosion of flying insects.

Now, these two things do not mix. Whilst cycling, I breathe a bit faster than normal. Oh alright, I gasp, pant and wheeze like a goldfish out of water. So, my mouth may be open for longer, and wider than normal. What I don't remember doing, is sending out invites to every insect along my route, inviting them to a party inside my mouth!

In they fly, at the rate a blue whale swallows plankton. Some of them buggers are not small either. Three or four of them in your mouth at once, and there's barely room for the air to get in. Now that's bad enough, but when you consider what these sods feed off, it brings a whole new meaning to tastes like Sh*t.

Which brings me rather nicely on to my next point. Horses. I have no problem with these adorable animals. I do, however have issues with what they leave behind. I have, just this morning, cycled along a route shared by amongst others, the horse riding fraternity, and their trusty steeds.

Now I'm not suggesting horse riders clean up after their animals. I can see that carrying bin liners and shovels would be impractical. But surely, they can at least get them to go at the side of the path rather than slap bang in the middle of it. It may bring an element of excitement "Dodging the Doings", but when other users of the path cannot move aside, I am forced to ride through it. And the bike has no mudguards.

So, if you are out and about in the near future, and you happen upon a cyclist pedaling for all he's worth, spitting flies and sweat flying in all directions, covered in horse sh*t, shouting "ooh my goolies" and rubbing his "gentleman area" like a zoo chimpanzee, the chances are, its probably me.

On that pretty picture, I think I will end.....


P.T.F.O.

The Demented Ramblings of A Bald Git.

If you're reading this it means I am 1-0 up on modern technology and have managed to get it up first time. (Truly a world first for me). If you are not however, then at least I am safe in the knowledge that I am the only person reading this boring drivel.

So, about me. I am early forties, male and more than a little bewildered. The rest you already know having read the title of this page. Yes, I am married, very happily of course, (NOT edited in as an afterthought) to a woman who understands me too well for my own good. So, who is the lucky woman? She would probably tell you the one/ones that got away when they realized what a boring old fart I really am. We weren't childhood sweethearts. We've been together nearly 22 years, married for 13 (taking "Try before you buy" to a whole new level).
We have 2 wonderful children. And I DO mean the word wonderful. It's just my meaning of the word may differ slightly to yours. They get on very well indeed. That is, until they are in the same room. Then Armageddon ensues because one of them used the last of the milk or the other one wants to watch something else on the telly. Or one is breathing to loud or the other is brushing their hair. Real vital, compete for attention stuff. Of course, we are model parents and explain to them how we love them both, and there is no need to compete for our love. Or tell them if they don't "Shut the heck up", they will end up being adopted.
We live in the South of England having moved here about 15 years ago. All these time-frames are approximate, due to the fact I did not consult said wife before writing this. We all know that when it comes to these kinds of facts and figures, women can quote to fifteen decimal places. It's all I can do to remember to wear trousers when I go outside. Or which car is mine in the car park.
Deciding we needed more to occupy our lives, we are also owners of a cat and a dog. They get on fine except that the dog is addicted to the cats bum, and every time he goes for a sniff, gets 5 very sharp ones across the nose. He is supposed to be one of the more intelligent breeds of dog, but fear that when God said "Brains", our dog thought he said "Trains", and he missed his. We now agree that the pets were a step too far and we are overwhelmed by all the feeding, cleaning, tidying, walking, clearing up, grooming and health care responsibilities. The pets, however, are no trouble at all.


What, I hear you ask, does he do in order to feed, clothe, keep in Xbox games, craft and fashion magazines, beauty products, flea collars, dog chews and generally maintain in the manner to which they have not so much become accustomed too, more a case of feel obliged to be grateful for even though they know they could do better? I won't tell you directly, other than to say it involves:-

A) A lot of driving, being very organized, on time, professional, earning a great deal of respect and using my expert selling skills and techniques to meet and exceed my sales targets, and going home satisfied in the knowledge that I have done a full days work and truly earned my salary

Or

B) A lot of driving, being stuck in traffic, swearing, being sworn at, grabbing customers by the lower leg, and not letting go until they buy something from me, missing my sales targets by miles and going home wondering why I still do this "poxy" job, knowing I should have done better and feeling like a fraud.


Why start blogging? Simple answer. I have little to say, but a lot of words to say it with. I'm not saying I'm boring. In fact, I find myself managing to stay awake through most of my conversations with myself these days. It's just that I've always had a little dream of writing something that others might read, maybe admire, but in all likelihood, probably just pity. That and the fact that they now use anti graffiti paint in most public conveniences these days, meaning I have to find another outlet for my "thoughts".

I intend to post as and when I can be bothered. Be warned though, I have had intentions before. A few of them good, but very rarely follow any of them through for very long. So don't hold your breathe. It will be on a wide range of topics, including the news, music, personal experiences, other peoples misfortunes, or nothing in particular.

I will leave it there for now. I eagerly await your feedback. Or, I couldn't give 2 hoots what you think. You know it's drivel, I know it's drivel. But at the end of the day, so is 78.43% of what's on the Internet. (Figure quoted from how much battery life is left on my i Phone).

P.T.F.O.