The shower never did turn up last Tuesday. Instead, nearly a week later, we got the mother and father of all storms. As you know, I’m a man of limited vocabulary (amongst other limitations), so I won’t attempt to describe the rather biblical downpour we received. As reported, on GMTV, we had hailstones as big as tennis balls (6.7cm diameter), other reports said they were the size of golf balls (4.2cm diameter). Why do they only ever use those two as points of reference? I would expect that the correct size is somewhere in between, say perhaps snooker ball sized (5.2cm diameter). Anyway whatever size they were they came down like stair rods, except they were more or less coming down horizontally (so not like stair rods at all). I knew I shouldn’t have tried to describe it. However they came down, whatever size they were, they did some serious damage – especially to Wendy’s car (and several thousand other cars). Her windscreen was shattered, a wing mirror was totally removed and she has got large dents in almost every panel (I was going to say something about her bodywork looking a bit rough but it might be misconstrued). In fact the insurers are probably going to write it off (the car), but it could be several days until she finds out. She’s fairly miffed, apart from anything else she had lovingly cleaned the car inside and out less than 24 hours before the precipitous attack. I knew my policy of not cleaning my car would eventually be vindicated. It’s not like the lack of visibility through my dust laden windscreen is in anyway going to be detrimental to my already shoddy driving ability.
Back to the storm. At home, we got away with a couple of damp patches in the laundry room (and no they weren’t as a result of my reaction to the thunder and lightning that was raging outside) and the destruction of the cafe blinds in the back yard. The plastic blinds are full of snooker ball shaped holes. One tip for you, if you are ever in a storm with hailstones the size of _________ (insert ball of your choice here) don’t give in to the temptation to look up to see where they are coming from (just accept that they are coming from above). One lady ignored this advice and ended up with a rather large gash just above her eyebrow – no, it wasn’t me. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be dim enough to do such a thing but luckily I was stuck in a crowded train, inside a flooded tunnel, at the time so I didn’t get the opportunity.
The weather is back to normal now, although for the last two nights the sky has been lit up by electrical storm activity.
Before the apocalyptic weather events of this week had destroyed her car Wendy had decided to have a roof rack fitted (to the car, not herself). This was proposed in order to be able to transport a surf board that she is intending to purchase. Wendy and George went for a surf lesson on Sunday morning (first I’d heard about it). Interestingly, Wendy normally has something of an aversion to going into the sea but she appears to have conquered the fear. It’s amazing what the lure of muscle-bound, sun-kissed aussie men can do. They both seem to have enjoyed ‘surf school’ and are keen to continue – although they may have to put it on hold until next spring, seeing as we are now at the back end of summer.
Before I go I would like to say a big ‘thank you’ to everyone for acting on my rallying call to save 6 music. I didn’t realise I had 8000 people following the blog but it doesn’t really surprise me. Also, thanks to Amanda for sending me the story which detailed the campaign’s success so far.
Okay, who told Alistair Darling that I'm coming over to the UK in July? Why else would he put the Duty on cider up by 10% above inflation. You've got 'til Sunday to stock up ready for my visit. What next, is he going to tax Lions' confectionary products as well? Oi Darling, NO!
Anyway, got to go now to measure some more balls. Hopefully, if I can avoid any more Xtreme weather I’ll catch up with you again soon.
H
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Six Pact
I hope I find you in good health and full of the joys. You are looking fairly muscular these days are you still going to the gym, really, even this far into the New Year. I thought I could make out a bit of a six pack... its Stella isn’t it?
Anyway, I think I’ve probably buttered you up enough (just an aside, where does the phrase ‘to butter someone up’ come from? Please let me know, if you know...and yes I will be able to tell if you’ve googled it). Where was I, oh yes, I’d just finished buttering. Right, to the chase – I need you to do me a favour, and only you can help me. As you may be aware, some fool accountant at the BBC has decided that they can save a few quid by axing ‘the mighty’ 6 music. It is, of course, scandalous – no doubt some journalists (the lazy ones) are already calling it 6 MusicGate (it can’t be a scandal if it hasn’t got gate on the end). For those of you who are not familiar with its work – 6 music is a digital radio station whose target audience is 6 feet 2, 42 year old men called Harry. I am a regular listener via the world wide web thingy, and apart from the odd rebuffering issue and the fact that I have to have to wait until 8 in the evening to have lunch whilst listening to the lunchtime show it is very enjoyable. So where do you come in? Well, it’s really rather simple, despite the fact that I am an exact match for the target demographic the bean counters at the Beeb aren’t going to pay any attention to my entreaties to save ‘Radio Davo’. As a non-license payer who lives 10,000 miles away I don’t think that my lobbying of the Director General is going to carry much weight. So here’s my plan. I want you, my devoted fan club, to send letters, texts, mails, tweets, telegrams (if they still exist, Please let me know whether they do or not...and yes I will be able to tell if you’ve googled it) of protest to the big-wigs at Broadcasting House. I’m sure that once they have been inundated with your protests, both of them, they will do an immediate u-turn and this particular treasure will be saved for the nation. If, at this point, you are feeling flushed with benevolence and want to save the Asian network as well then feel free to do so – but I never listen to it so I really don’t care whether you do or don’t.
If you can do this little thing for me I would really appreciate it and if it should ever become necessary for me to lobby the money men at the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) in order to save ABC Jazz on your behalf, then rest assured I’ll be right there in the vanguard of the protests.
Clearly though, the BBC needs to channel all of its resources so that it can continue to make yet more reality TV programmes about minor, minor celebrities who single-handedly save the brass banding World. As a reformed brass-bander myself (it’s 18 years, 227 days and 42 minutes since I last played a Sousa march. You can never really say that you are totally cured of brass banding – you just have to take it one day at a time). I used to play the cornet (please insert your own ice cream jokes here, and rest assured I’ve never heard any of them before). For those of you that were unfortunate enough never to hear me play, I can say that I was a pretty accomplished player. For those of you unfortunate enough to have heard me play, can I ask you to hold your own counsel; I think I might have managed to sell it to them here. Like most things, I was mediocre at best – but I tried hard, especially at the social drinking that took place before, during and after the concerts we played.
I was quite interested in the fly-on-the-wall documentary of Dinnington band because they were our local rivals and arch enemies. The docu-soap has caused something of a furore amongst the brass banding fraternity. The question being asked by most aficionados is how the BBC could be advertising the fact that they would follow Ms Perkins as she took the band to the National finals a full week before they qualified for the aforementioned finals? DinnoGate anyone?
If you have received the latest set of pics, you will have read that Wendy is trying to make me photo-monitor as well as blogmaster. I’m not saying I can’t do both (I will also be juggling machetes and reciting the poetry of Shelley, Colleridge and Hegley whilst doing so) but I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for me to upload the photos – there appears to be more than two steps to the process, therefore the scope for things to go wrong is huge. I thinks it’s fair to say that if I do take charge of loading the photos the vetting system may alter somewhat. The likelihood of seeing pics like the one of me on top of a lighthouse looking like Methuselah’s older brother will be greatly diminished in future .
And finally, there is a chance of a shower next Tuesday (the first in about 4 months). That’s the weather, by the way, not me... I’m not due one for one for another week-and-a-half yet.
Anyway, I think I’ve probably buttered you up enough (just an aside, where does the phrase ‘to butter someone up’ come from? Please let me know, if you know...and yes I will be able to tell if you’ve googled it). Where was I, oh yes, I’d just finished buttering. Right, to the chase – I need you to do me a favour, and only you can help me. As you may be aware, some fool accountant at the BBC has decided that they can save a few quid by axing ‘the mighty’ 6 music. It is, of course, scandalous – no doubt some journalists (the lazy ones) are already calling it 6 MusicGate (it can’t be a scandal if it hasn’t got gate on the end). For those of you who are not familiar with its work – 6 music is a digital radio station whose target audience is 6 feet 2, 42 year old men called Harry. I am a regular listener via the world wide web thingy, and apart from the odd rebuffering issue and the fact that I have to have to wait until 8 in the evening to have lunch whilst listening to the lunchtime show it is very enjoyable. So where do you come in? Well, it’s really rather simple, despite the fact that I am an exact match for the target demographic the bean counters at the Beeb aren’t going to pay any attention to my entreaties to save ‘Radio Davo’. As a non-license payer who lives 10,000 miles away I don’t think that my lobbying of the Director General is going to carry much weight. So here’s my plan. I want you, my devoted fan club, to send letters, texts, mails, tweets, telegrams (if they still exist, Please let me know whether they do or not...and yes I will be able to tell if you’ve googled it) of protest to the big-wigs at Broadcasting House. I’m sure that once they have been inundated with your protests, both of them, they will do an immediate u-turn and this particular treasure will be saved for the nation. If, at this point, you are feeling flushed with benevolence and want to save the Asian network as well then feel free to do so – but I never listen to it so I really don’t care whether you do or don’t.
If you can do this little thing for me I would really appreciate it and if it should ever become necessary for me to lobby the money men at the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) in order to save ABC Jazz on your behalf, then rest assured I’ll be right there in the vanguard of the protests.
Clearly though, the BBC needs to channel all of its resources so that it can continue to make yet more reality TV programmes about minor, minor celebrities who single-handedly save the brass banding World. As a reformed brass-bander myself (it’s 18 years, 227 days and 42 minutes since I last played a Sousa march. You can never really say that you are totally cured of brass banding – you just have to take it one day at a time). I used to play the cornet (please insert your own ice cream jokes here, and rest assured I’ve never heard any of them before). For those of you that were unfortunate enough never to hear me play, I can say that I was a pretty accomplished player. For those of you unfortunate enough to have heard me play, can I ask you to hold your own counsel; I think I might have managed to sell it to them here. Like most things, I was mediocre at best – but I tried hard, especially at the social drinking that took place before, during and after the concerts we played.
I was quite interested in the fly-on-the-wall documentary of Dinnington band because they were our local rivals and arch enemies. The docu-soap has caused something of a furore amongst the brass banding fraternity. The question being asked by most aficionados is how the BBC could be advertising the fact that they would follow Ms Perkins as she took the band to the National finals a full week before they qualified for the aforementioned finals? DinnoGate anyone?
If you have received the latest set of pics, you will have read that Wendy is trying to make me photo-monitor as well as blogmaster. I’m not saying I can’t do both (I will also be juggling machetes and reciting the poetry of Shelley, Colleridge and Hegley whilst doing so) but I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for me to upload the photos – there appears to be more than two steps to the process, therefore the scope for things to go wrong is huge. I thinks it’s fair to say that if I do take charge of loading the photos the vetting system may alter somewhat. The likelihood of seeing pics like the one of me on top of a lighthouse looking like Methuselah’s older brother will be greatly diminished in future .
And finally, there is a chance of a shower next Tuesday (the first in about 4 months). That’s the weather, by the way, not me... I’m not due one for one for another week-and-a-half yet.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
let's make some plans... 'cos they can go wrong
I realise I probably over did it with the modern music references in the last blog. This may have alienated some of our avid readers, so this time I will be leaving it well alone. Therefore there will be absolutely no mention of Cliff and the Shadows and their particular brand of new fangled popular music.
In fact my last blog effort got me into a bit of strife (primarily with the trouble and strife). Actually, it was the rather feeble ‘Curtin (it is pronounced Curtain, by the way) University gag that landed me in hot water. The last course Wendy did was at Curtin Uni, the course that she is about to do is at Murdoch (you crazy fool) University. This was all information that had apparently been related to me (probably more than once) in the English language, but possibly in words of more than one syllable. To be fair, in order to be able to remember such trivial things as these I would have to make room in my already cluttered brain by removing other information. I would probably have to jettison such vital facts as the 1978 FA Cup winners, the name of the lead singer of the Primitives, and the winner of the 1993 Grand National (the race that never was). Come to think of it I could get away with forgetting all that stuff and then if I need it again I can simply phone my brother and ask him – he knows even more pointless trivia, than I do anyway.
George had an enjoyable birthday despite an inauspicious start to the weekend. I should point out that some of George’s recent birthdays haven’t exactly gone according to plan - there have been tears and tantrums (and George got pretty upset as well). Amongst other incidents there was the episode involving BA Baracus and a plate of tapas (not that it’s important, but the tapas in question was chorizo in red wine... see, why do I need to remember that – which part of the brain is responsible for storing that little gem?). Needless to say BA came off second best (I ain’t getting on no plane). And then last year there was the curious case of the gift voucher that you aren’t allowed to use until you’ve counted to 46,896 (it would take far too long to explain here).
With these mishaps fresh in his memory George decided to combat the possibility of further catastrophes by meticulously planning his birthday down to the most miniscule detail. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, George woke up on Friday morning with a cold – which must be due to the fact that the average daily temperature over the last four months has been 30 degrees. Actually, it might have been brought on by George having had swimming lessons in the sea (with school) everyday for the previous two weeks. I’m not certain, but I think that could also be where he got his jellyfish stings from (obviously he never got them from his guitar lessons... they don’t start ‘til next week). Then, the skate park where he had intended to spend most of Saturday afternoon was closed to the general public so it could be used for some sort of tournament. From what I could work out the tournament was being held to find who had the most unkempt hair, and the most ridiculous trousers (I was placed very highly in both categories). But, thankfully, that was where the misfortune ended. Miraculously, using only the power of retail therapy-fresh orange juice-and half a bottle of Benilyn, by Sunday George’s cold had gone. His birthday meal, in the Korean BBQ restaurant, was a complete success (please note: no dogs were knowingly eaten, and no A Team characters were harmed during this event). All in all, he’s looking forward to his next birthday, we aren’t though... he’ll be 13 (Cue dramatic music).
Hattie has already started working on her birthday celebrations. During an extensive search of her bedroom, in an attempt to locate her ipod, I came across four birthday goodie bags (complete with names) lurking under Hattie’s bed. I’m clinging forlornly to the hope that there aren’t another dozen bags secreted somewhere in the darker recesses of her boudoir. FYI The ipod was eventually found sandwiched between two fairy books.
Wendy told me the other day that she is making enquiries about joining a Smurf school. When she mentioned it again today, I said what do you do there then wear a silly hat and turn blue? And she said no you don’t turn blue because they provide you with a wet suit (??). It’s no use, next time I’m just going to have to listen to what she is saying to me.
I was definitely paying attention last Friday when she told me that her business trip to the UK would be in six days time. It turned out to be a false alarm, and she is likely to be going to South Africa and the UK end of April beginning of May (sounds like it’s going to coincide with the World snooker Championships).
As for my trip. There was some very prompt action after my last blog (and not all of it legal action directed against me for libel), as a result of which I am just about fully booked up. I now only have a small half hour window available on the second Tuesday... we could do lunch. Kebab anyone?
In fact my last blog effort got me into a bit of strife (primarily with the trouble and strife). Actually, it was the rather feeble ‘Curtin (it is pronounced Curtain, by the way) University gag that landed me in hot water. The last course Wendy did was at Curtin Uni, the course that she is about to do is at Murdoch (you crazy fool) University. This was all information that had apparently been related to me (probably more than once) in the English language, but possibly in words of more than one syllable. To be fair, in order to be able to remember such trivial things as these I would have to make room in my already cluttered brain by removing other information. I would probably have to jettison such vital facts as the 1978 FA Cup winners, the name of the lead singer of the Primitives, and the winner of the 1993 Grand National (the race that never was). Come to think of it I could get away with forgetting all that stuff and then if I need it again I can simply phone my brother and ask him – he knows even more pointless trivia, than I do anyway.
George had an enjoyable birthday despite an inauspicious start to the weekend. I should point out that some of George’s recent birthdays haven’t exactly gone according to plan - there have been tears and tantrums (and George got pretty upset as well). Amongst other incidents there was the episode involving BA Baracus and a plate of tapas (not that it’s important, but the tapas in question was chorizo in red wine... see, why do I need to remember that – which part of the brain is responsible for storing that little gem?). Needless to say BA came off second best (I ain’t getting on no plane). And then last year there was the curious case of the gift voucher that you aren’t allowed to use until you’ve counted to 46,896 (it would take far too long to explain here).
With these mishaps fresh in his memory George decided to combat the possibility of further catastrophes by meticulously planning his birthday down to the most miniscule detail. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, George woke up on Friday morning with a cold – which must be due to the fact that the average daily temperature over the last four months has been 30 degrees. Actually, it might have been brought on by George having had swimming lessons in the sea (with school) everyday for the previous two weeks. I’m not certain, but I think that could also be where he got his jellyfish stings from (obviously he never got them from his guitar lessons... they don’t start ‘til next week). Then, the skate park where he had intended to spend most of Saturday afternoon was closed to the general public so it could be used for some sort of tournament. From what I could work out the tournament was being held to find who had the most unkempt hair, and the most ridiculous trousers (I was placed very highly in both categories). But, thankfully, that was where the misfortune ended. Miraculously, using only the power of retail therapy-fresh orange juice-and half a bottle of Benilyn, by Sunday George’s cold had gone. His birthday meal, in the Korean BBQ restaurant, was a complete success (please note: no dogs were knowingly eaten, and no A Team characters were harmed during this event). All in all, he’s looking forward to his next birthday, we aren’t though... he’ll be 13 (Cue dramatic music).
Hattie has already started working on her birthday celebrations. During an extensive search of her bedroom, in an attempt to locate her ipod, I came across four birthday goodie bags (complete with names) lurking under Hattie’s bed. I’m clinging forlornly to the hope that there aren’t another dozen bags secreted somewhere in the darker recesses of her boudoir. FYI The ipod was eventually found sandwiched between two fairy books.
Wendy told me the other day that she is making enquiries about joining a Smurf school. When she mentioned it again today, I said what do you do there then wear a silly hat and turn blue? And she said no you don’t turn blue because they provide you with a wet suit (??). It’s no use, next time I’m just going to have to listen to what she is saying to me.
I was definitely paying attention last Friday when she told me that her business trip to the UK would be in six days time. It turned out to be a false alarm, and she is likely to be going to South Africa and the UK end of April beginning of May (sounds like it’s going to coincide with the World snooker Championships).
As for my trip. There was some very prompt action after my last blog (and not all of it legal action directed against me for libel), as a result of which I am just about fully booked up. I now only have a small half hour window available on the second Tuesday... we could do lunch. Kebab anyone?
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