Cabmen Notices Dec 2015

(in homage to J.B.Morten of the express for his column Beachcomber that inspired this column) 

The most worshipful Antiluvian Order of Huntingdonshire Cabmen hereby announces the annual Christmas awards to the order as follows:

For work in the Community - In association with Bogcare co ltd - Inter continental incontinence care.
1st Prize of £300 of sanitary products and the Crapper Gold Cup goes to:
Lady Catherine Constance-Falsetto KCB for her work with autistic spaniels.

2nd Prize of £100 of sanitary products and a weekend in Falmouth
Mrs Prunela Pemberton-Cheeseboard for her work with the Radio for the deaf association UK.

3rd Prize of two weeks in Falmouth
Master Sidney Bridge. For his work with Agricultural Implements and Mole Husbandry.

Special Announcements:
RIP:
Sadly at home on Tuesday last while heating the bath water with a toaster Cabman Hubert Crumbles suddenly went over and passed on. Service next Tuesday week at St Grunts, Mounds by the Sea Herts. Flowers only please.. No confetti.

Births:
Susan Amply-Rampant and Master Cabman Quinton Amply-Rampant announce the birth of their son Mandible 4 lbs and 6 ounces. At St Grunts NHS Truss. Confirmation was performed by Matron.

Marriages:
Master Cabman Henderson Himmler-Spandau Ballet and Winglet Himmler Spandau Ballet are proud to announce the engagement of their Daughter Splatula to Master Pewter Strangulated Hernia. Bands to be read at St George and the Badger, Hampstead-Pogues. Essex. Money only, any denomination welcome.

Prime Cabman Phillip Huge VC and Bar and wife Clamydia are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Grace to Master Disney Pratt at Wimbledon dogs track Tuesday next, a pie and mash reception afterwards at Sid's Cafe the High Street. Bring your own plate and eating irons.

Late news:
The Brotherhood is sad to announce the recent death of Cabman Humphrey Cart following an altercation with his wife Burt. The Police announced that his remains can be viewed (tide permitting) twice daily off the pier at Southend-on sea. Mrs Cart is helping the authorities with their inquiries. Donations to the Royal National Lifeboat Institute to assist in the bodies recovery please.

Diet Madness

As you are probably aware with half the globe starving to death the latest craze in the well to do west is to starve yourself and avoid censure by the fat police, for fat is the new smoking it would seem. To be slim is the new Holy Grail and has naturally spawned a plethora of fancy diets and contraptions to aid the reduction of your arse, gut, chins or whatever plagues you. It is now a Billion Pound Industry and up there with the top ten fatuous items most wanted by a pampered over paid generation is to be thin.  You can join as many gyms as you like, as long as you never want to end the direct debit you take out to pay for the annual subscription. Or, get a personal trainer to beat you up, go to a hundred things to do vigorously in a swimming pool or jive your tits off with a lot of out of breath sweating people in the local village hall. OR, you can join a fat club.

Yes the Fat Club that delight of those who love a bit of public adulation or ridicule dependent on whether or not they stayed within their digitally predicted weekly points target. We all know that the real diet freak is a holier than thou masochist above all else and there is no bigger diet masochist than those who attend Fat Clubs. One has to be a devout masochist  to put up with the almost religious devotion to the rigors laid down in the rules. Indeed it really is no big jump for those of a religious bent to supplicate themselves upon the weekly alter scales of mercy, adhere and memorize the ten commandments of the diet sheet and bask in the glory of the holy of holy;s "extra points" given to those who abstain from the sin of carbs. Those of a religious nature, or the easily led can do well at fat club and this week I was most fortunate to meet one who in years to come may end up the first Saint of Slimmers World. There is not a week goes by where this individual does not bless the rest of us with her Wednesday sermon on how much she has lost this week. With humble almost supplicant posture she will tell us of her "bubble" apparently a place in which her weight must dwell and joy is unconfined when she has hit her target weight. I swear she may reach orgasm if she actually dies of a slimming condition or complications from mall nourishment before the year is out.

However, today was by anyones standards a trip into la la land, when I saw Saint Twiggy all dressed up to the nines and asked her from twix she had come or twas going? To this she replied she had been and I urge you to brace yourself here......to....."the annual slimming world Christmas food tasting party". I.... kid you not......"the annual Slimming World Food Tasting Christmas Party"..........Ill be brief here as I still have to try hard to not piss myself laughing.............. erm.......

So having digested (no pun intended) this mind shattering information I pondered a while and concluded that so well have the people that run these frauds become at fleecing their pilgrims they are now actually having Christmas parties at which you can only taste the food and I mean like lick a prawn or sniff a pig in its festive blanket. Nice one.... I should buy shares with these boys..... the bastards.....I mean that really is cutting down on the over heads right. 30 people sniffing the same prawn...talk about maximise your profits.. . I thought wine parties where you spat out the wine were pushing it, but this is beyond anything even a completely certifiable idiot would endure.. Only a dieter/religious fanatic would fall for it. Imagine, 30 people in party frocks in a hall decorated with Christmas decorations all licking a cream cracker and having.....Fun?

What next, no contact consensual sex, Basket ball for the blind? Pole vaulting for ducks. I mean the list is endless. You just have to be a moron really and BELIEVE above all Believe. I guess the point is, it helps to have faith and it helps to be easily led. It helps.. Yeah it helps get you fleeced.  Food tasting.. PLEASE!!!


!

Happy Christmas dear Readers

I went to my local shooting club lunch today a very simple affair of roast chicken and vienetta for afters. The chicken had been roasted by the lads and so obviously that took six of them to achieve and I had to take a massive meat pie in case of a shortfall. Our two local lasses made the veg in their aga and mighty nice it was too. My cocker and a young yellow lab circled the table to ensure all crumbs were suitably taken care of. On the way back I listened to radio four Christmas service and took the long way home to enjoy the carols. Over the top of the wolds Bob the dog and I went and found a nice stream for him to have his annual bath in. He found a water rat, which are unfortunately getting rather rare and chased it around until it ran into its hole in the river bank. Bob then drenched me and the car. He sits on the floor as I type steaming gently and twitching as he dreams of chasing some poor bird across the fens.

Old Bob is pretty much all I have left now. I have no blood family and I am the last of the line, so just me and Bob will spend our days in our wee cottage by the sea. Its not a bad life with little fuss and I have the time to stand and stare and muse upon a life of equal loss and love, much fun and some drama. I wonder sometimes what we are to be measured by; our deeds, or our failures. In my case I think I have had both in equal measure, but my heart was generally in the right place despite my decisions being often suspect and if asked to do the same again for love?  I probably would do the same again. I also reflect on the irony that I truly believed the world would become a safer, more egalitarian place, but it has become far more dangerous and fractured. Perhaps the passing of the cold war and the possibility of mutually assured destruction was a bad thing and emboldened the idiots among us to carry on irregular war knowing that nuclear destruction would not be their fate.

Whatever the reason I mused as I drove back over the wolds I thanked God for a most beautiful world and prayed for his help in maintaining it that way. I then stopped and watched the sun go down and thought of those words we used to say at this time of year "peace on earth and goodwill to all men". A sardonic smile graced my craggy old face and I thought "no how about:
"Dear Lord help us to live in peace and harmony with each other and in balance with mother nature while there is still time". And that is what I pass on to you. Regardless of what Prophet or God you believe in, may next year see less people die because of it, less people flee from it, starve, thirst or hunger because of it and may those who wish to martyr themselves upon the alter of their prophet be allowed to do so and leave the rest of us alone in peace to worship ours.

Good health and keep safe and God (regardless of whom that may be) bless you all and all Gods creatures.

British Airways

Once upon a time air travel was exciting and only for the rich. Now it is just another form of transport and a bit like being packaged fruit. That said, I still look back not so long ago, to when air travel had just a little of its golden age left. British Airways in the early 1990's was a friendly world airline of choice for me. I was designing and putting together a world wide recruitment company and had to hit every continent running. I spent an awful long time on long haul jets in the three years I worked for this company, but British Airlines just about made it worthwhile. I had many times stopped in BA route stop hotels when the RAF planes I once flew in landed in foreign shores and our crews mixed with the BA ones easily enough. One super 4th of July was spent in Barbados at which we put up the flag pole a pair of BA knickers thus upsetting - quiet rightly - the resident Americans. Also, in Cyprus my wife and I adopted a BA Stewardess who would pop over and see us when she was on the Cairo, Karachi and back run of those days.

However, I think my most memorable BA flight was from  Heathrow, Manchester to Islamabad. We took off with a few from Heathrow and picked up a plane full at Manchester. Once airborne the entire cabin of mainly Asian men took off their shoes and by the time we were over the Alps I was nearly on oxygen. I had a young lad next to me who threw up over my brand new blazer and silk tie and it was all going a bit tits up, when the Mother of the cabin crew took one very experienced look at the situation and simply whisked me away.  She put me in the crew sleeping compartment and took away my now disgusting clothes and gave me a T shirt to put on. She then washed out my clothes and cleaned up my blazer while I sat downstairs in a t shirt with the other girls resting their poor aching feet. It was a long long flight and we nattered about this and than. I learnt the cabin crew called the passengers "talking Baggage" and a few other stories I will not relate here. Lets just say, by the time I got to Islamabad I was rested and clean.

I said good bye to BA for a month or more as I roamed around India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and ended up in Bangladesh. I had experienced Afghan Air and their very novel pre flight safety brief which was given in the form of a prayer on the public address system. I had flow with the Taliban and some goats back to Peshawar from Kabul and by the look on one or two of them would have been thrown out the plane if they could have worked out how to open the door. Id had a wonderful curry with local tribesman and been driven around the foot hills to the Himalayas in a very tired Morris Minor by a dear old Indian Army Corporal who still wore his army shirt. I had played cricket with the Khyber Rifles and met the Foreign Minster of Pakistan who tried to sell me carpets. In short, I had learnt much on that trip around the sub continent and mighty tired I was when I ended up in Dhaka airport waiting for a BA 747 to take me home and the arms of the gal I loved.

I remember walking up the steps and seeing Mum (the eldest Stewardess) look me over as I walked in the door. She just took a step forward and said "go in there honey" and pushed me into first class. I sank into the lovely blue leather seats and as I did so a large Gin and tonic was stuck into my hand. " Soon be home drink that - night night sweatie" was all she said. You know your safe when Mums got you!  I love BA and I love you Mum!! xxx

The end of the Land Rover Defender

Many moons ago, I learnt to drive on a little short wheelie Land Rover at a British Army driving school and then spent the next 18 odd years living out of the back of a long wheeley with my home and every comfort in the trailer towed behind it. So, good were these vehicles that we never questioned that they would get us there and back no matter what. These wonderful vehicles became as much a part of my life as my head. In the most inhospitable of places, at night in the pouring rain following a forest track without lights, we got so good that we could crawl along on the hand throttle making hardly any noise. Through soft sand of the desert over knife edge sand dunes or through secondary jungle in the Amazon my little friend would always chug us through. We were the Gypsy's of the RAF with our home under us, we traveled from one job to anther. By ferry or air our Land Rover went with us. I could strap a Land Rover into A Hercules transport aircraft in 15 minutes and land on a strange airfield at night and be off the plane in far less all in total darkness. My Land Rover was an extension of me.

It saved my life on many occasions. You have no idea how cold it can get in Norway, north of Bergen. But in our Land Rover trundling through snow so thick one could hardly see the road we would crawl along. Indeed we had to stop in a white out one time and the next morning dig ourselves out. But we got there and more importantly back. So, used to the noise of those town and country tyres did we become that my wife could hear them on a quiet night and thus knew I was coming home and be at the door when I pulled up. The noise of those tyres are part of the sound track of my life. As is the smell of Kerosene jet fuel and heaters.

And then after the RAF I spent the next decade with the UN around the globe in a white Landy. My favorite was Daisy-Do. A white Land Rover County I had in Bosnia. Daisy got me into and out of trouble on more than one occasion. This time without a gun on my hip and just a crate of Whisky I traveled around the former Yugoslavia on this or that journey with always the best vehicle England ever made under me. A Land Rover never let me down ever. It was the only car I ever needed. Simple and robust. I once fixed one with just an adjustable spanner while the lads made bacon and egg sandwiches in a farm barn in Germany and another time replaced the cylinder head gasket in 30 minutes. Simple and built like the forth bridge.

The Landrover 88 90 110 series 2 and 3 were the best of the breed and the diesel defenders came a honorable second in my top ten vehicles of all times.

In Serbia I was stuck up a mountain with a Serbian Interpreter called Dragana. She was a very brave girl - as were all he Interpreters -and a typical plucky can do girl. I received information that my partner back in UK had, had a very unfortunate injury and I should go home. Much more easily said than done. Dragana said she would come as she needed to go home to Belgrade. I knew she didnt need to go, but was most thankful she came. It took five days to get out of those mountains and we would never have made it in any other vehicle. How many times we dug those wheels out Ill never know and how many times Dragana made coffee on a small multi fuel stove I dont know, it was amazing to watch. From "you want coffee steeve" to getting it in you hand seemed like seconds!  We stayed with folk along the road or slept hugged up in the back of the Rover when we couldnt keep awake any longer. I grew to like that girl a lot as we bashed our way out of those lovely awful moutains. At night we could hear the wolves howling and would howl back sometimes. It was quiet a trip. When Finally we got to Belgrade airport I gave the keys to Dragana, gave her and the Daisy do a kiss and said "see you when I get back" and I did. They were there when i came out the airport.

Dragana if you ever read this, Thanks. XXX And the same to you guys who built the best car I ever had. Really Thank you.

The Archers and Woman's Hour

I cannot tell you just how much I hate two programs on my beloved BBC Radio four. The first is the Archers. This story of everyday life in the countryside according to a focus group mainly made up of Observer readers from around Hampstead Common who have absolutely no bloody idea of country life daily or otherwise.Probably the nearest they will ever get to a cow is a flat pack one from Ikea.  

Here is a typical daily dollop:

In the Archers today Kathy will have an artificially induced fit following a full body contact same sex monopoly game with her aunt Fred that goes terribly wrong. While in the cow shed blue tongue is discovered in the herd by Tom and will at last allow them all to interconnect their mobile phones in lower loxley.

Meanwhile in the Dog and Gusset Old Brian Bog will be worzelling incoherently about his new John Deer 4x4 drive mega-thrasher to no one in particular. While his mother in law Peggy is sobbing uncontrollably in the corner due to recently being de-housed due to a forced land clearance sale imposed by the new chief bad ass Micheal Turd the new owner of Bottom Farm. Her husband Eddy will be trying to sell a new cure for Ebola that he discovered while drinking his way through the late Lords Forskins wine cellar, that he broke into while trying to avoid working on the top field...Presumably located adjacent to bottom field.

Over on Milldew Acres Maphanwe Humpbacked Wale is stirring the shit over her cousin Bilbo Humbacked Wale who has been black balled by the Ladies fox hunting and choral all year round pond hopping society winter ball commune and floral group. This may or may not have something to do with Madrigal Spencer-Preambles recent hysterical outburst at the sunday fete concerning her husband coming out of the closet and running off with Maphanwe's niece Cuthbert a post op transexually challenged artificial insemination technician on the lamb from the Min of Ag and Fish.

Lucinda Prior-Fortitude and her Mother Principle are meanwhile coming back over High Fell when they encounter turbulence caused by a dodgy welk and ale pie in Bridlington. The car is blown off the road onto its roof accompanied by their screams as the bloody awful theme tune plays denoting thankfully an end to todays bi-daily torture.






The second and probably the more dire program comes on at ten of the morning and like the Archers is repeated of a weekend just in case you needed a top of of gloom, it is of course Woman's Hour.

Presented by these to lovelies this hour of constant moaning is driven by a intense dislike of men and promotes everything from litigation to outright physical harm towards the male gender for anything from double parking to your actual birth. Further fun can be had on such diverse topics as:

How to Sue your father for late development of cancer of the womb.
How to promote greater gender awareness through role play..or, How to wear trousers in bed.
How to practice for that all important midlife crisis.
Early onset bingo wings.
How to feel dreadful about putting your Mother in a home.
HRT the way ahead.
Botox as a life choice
What to do with the surplus chins after a stomach band operation.
A thousand things you should know about and hold against the average male.
Chlamydia for beginners
Kate Aide as a role model.
Choosing a safety word for that all important first S&M lesbian encounter.
Dogging for beginners.
Nipple rash for the over 80s and how to avoid bed sores.
How to kill any outbreak of fun at your family Christmas dinner and make everyone feel obliged to you for getting up a four in the morning to stuff the goose.
How to stuff a goose.
Why the traffic regulations in force are blatantly balanced against female drivers.
How to look at milk and make it go stale.
Covering up flatulence at bridge parties.

All these and more are the daily fair of these two laugh a minute paragons of female charm. I try to flip over to Ken Bruce but every now and then forget and they drip into my brain with their monotone voices. Its usually about 10 minutes before the onset of actual shrinking of my testicles takes place and a lowering of my happiness level indicates to me that all is not well. If left unchecked, by say another ten minutes exposure, permanent damage can be done and at the very least I may start thinking about waxing my top lip or entering bake off.

Gentlemen you have been warned.

Makes yer eyes water trust me!

Yesterday I had to attend the local hospital for a major intrusion into my rear entrance and short arm. I would like to report that this was done with some dignity and tact by the medical staff and all protocols were adhered to. However, that would be a lie as at times it degenerated into high comedy. I arrived in time and was shown after some delay into a changing room where I was given a pair of shorts with one hole and as I was having both of mine investigated it was hard to really decided which way to put the garment on? Hole to the front, or hole to the rear??? I decided to forgo said apparel and instead put on the nightie with the rear exposed and then another nightie on the with the front exposed thus I reasoned both approaches were covered. I questioned the Nurse on the subject and she said "fine". Thus, re-assured I awaited my  appointment with the bum and tum team. The unit was impressive with four operating rooms on the go at once and a fair turnover of idiots dressed like me limping around with their arses in tatters. I have to say it reminded me a bit of a geriatric slumber party and I particularly liked all the festive socks on show.. One pair had snow flakes on them I recall and one brave sole had odd socks.

Ill not go into too much detail concerning the awful implements and their use on show in my dungeon. Lets just say I really didnt wish to see my inner workings on the 41 inch plasma curved screen above my head. Nor did I much like the gale they blew up my bum in order to get a clearer view of what they could view in High def. At one point I swear I felt like I had the entire operating team up my arse and was inflating faster than a life jacket. The only bright light (besides the one up my arse) in all this was Christine the lovely cheeky blonde who kept me company and made me giggle despite the pain. She obviously had heard every bum joke on the market and then some. At one point the Doc up my rear said "stop laughing this is the tricky bit" and I was only too happy to oblige as he burnt off some obstruction or other the smell of which wafted out of my bottom and will forever be indelibly etched on my memory. It reminded me of the smell one gets if you set fire to rubber.  I have to confess by this time I had taken so much antiknox  that I was in a very happy place and couldnt have stopped giggling even if they had all climbed in and sung carols up my arse. Indeed, for all I know Carol may well have been up my arse. Everyone else had been.

Thankfully after much more grunting, gurgling, squeaking farts and snips here and there over I went onto my back for more frontal action up my poor unfortunate John Thomas. This I can best describe as like having an umbrellas stuck up your knob, opened and then dragged out with your internals still attached. I sweated a lot, gritted my teeth and at this point and even Christine winced. I can honestly say that root canal work at the dentist is more fun than having  yer cock tubes flushed and blow dried.

I was then wheeled into a recovery ward, with this wonderful advice from Blondie, "you can deflate in here, ill be back in half an hour". Now try to imagine being in a ward with at least 8 other people all slowly farting themselves back to whatever passes as a normal size in this strange place. Indeed, group farting was the order of the day and I kid you not that is exactly what happened. We all kind of had a community sing song with our arses. Squeaks of operatic perfect pitch were accompanied with large vibrato blasts of a prolonged bass. I managed both a perfect C and a wobbly F at one point and finally ended with a sharp E flat just as I blondie came back with a cuppa and a box of biscuits. Most alarming noises seemed to be the natural background to Christines life and I commented that in my view she should be paid double her salary and receive danger money for working there.

Thinking I was now fine and dandy after a brew and a bickie or six I stood up to get changed and promptly fell flat on my face I then stayed in bed until Christine had taken my blood pressure and heart rate and considered I could stand unaided. After some pain killers and the superb advice of " may bleed a bit, but dont worry. However, if it pours out ring for an ambulance. Do you have someone staying with you tonight" I lied naturally, was given some celebratory pictures of my innards and hobbled out of there intent on only one thing. Food and bed. I had had none of either for two days and I was knackered, sore, empty and my knob was throbbing like someone had stuck something sharp up it.. Which, funnily enough they had. My arse was so frayed by now that it just kind of sobbed a fart and was really plaintive in pitch. But the cold night air never tasted better of smelt so fresh.

To all of you out there who may have to have this done to them, all I can say is. Good luck, dont wear the underwear and it takes at least 6 hours to stop farting. Ohh and my arse and cock are still sore. Have fun.

Sodding Yanks have screwed up my Nutti Bar.

Ohh What is this disgusting taste in my mouth!!!! ????? Woe is me dear reader. Tis nearly Christmas and me fruit and nut has been trashed by a bunch of bloody yanks who promised not to touch a thing when they took over my beloved Cadburys' chocolate company of Bournville England. Swines  and scum bags said they would not change a thing in our once superb and world renown chocie bar company of delight. Now every Cadbury's chocolate bar tastes nothing like it should or did. The chocolate is over sweet and yucky and the fruit and nut aint like what it should be like.. What is going on?  How dear they allow this degradation of a once strategic resource. Is there nothing sacred. Blody Yanks just cant stop messing with things that just do not need messing with. .Never trust a Yank dear reader. Especially when it comes to you fav choci bar. But I spose its all part of Tory Britain. Lets privatise and sell off the family silver.. Look at us. We do not own a thing. The Chinese and French owning me power, Germans owning my water and buggering up my car and Yanks owning me nutty bar... Its all total pants.. Toblerone I suppose is still Toblerone. Why mess with a good thing? God bless the Swiss. Never thought I would say that!

Syria and the Middle East Problem explained?

A briefing document on Syria…...

President Assad (who is bad) is a nasty guy who got so nasty his people rebelled and the Rebels (who are good) started winning.

But then some of the rebels turned a bit nasty and are now called Islamic State (who are definitely bad) and some continued to support democracy (who are still good). 

So the Americans (who are good) started bombing Islamic State (who are bad) and giving arms to the Syrian Rebels (who are good) so they could fight Assad (who is still bad) which was good. 

By the way, there is a breakaway state in the north run by the Kurds who want to fight IS (which is a good thing) but the Turkish authorities think they are bad, so we have to say they are bad whilst secretly thinking they're good and giving them guns to fight IS (which is good) but that is another matter.

Getting back to Syria. President Putin (bad, as he invaded Crimea and the Ukraine and killed lots of folks including that nice Russian man in London with polonium) has decided to back Assad (who is still bad) by attacking IS (who are also bad) which is sort of a good thing?

But Putin (still bad) thinks the Syrian Rebels (who are good) are also bad, and so he bombs them too, much to the annoyance of the Americans (who are good) who are busy backing and arming the rebels (who are also good). 

Now Iran (who used to be bad, but now they have agreed not to build any nuclear weapons and bomb Israel are now good) are going to provide ground troops to support Assad (still bad) as are the Russians (bad) who now have ground troops and aircraft in Syria.

So a Coalition of Assad (still bad) Putin (extra bad) and the Iranians (good, but in a bad sort of way) are going to attack IS (who are bad) which is a good thing, but also the Syrian Rebels (who are good) which is bad. 

Now the British (obviously good, except Corbyn who is probably bad) and the Americans (also good) cannot attack Assad (still bad) for fear of upsetting Putin (bad) and Iran (good / bad) and now they have to accept that Assad might not be that bad after all compared to IS (who are super bad).

So Assad (bad) is now probably good, being better than IS (no real choice there) and since Putin and Iran are also fighting IS that may now make them good. America (still good) will find it hard to arm a group of rebels being attacked by the Russians for fear of upsetting Mr Putin (now good) and that mad ayatollah in Iran (also good) and so they may be forced to say that the Rebels are now bad, or at the very least abandon them to their fate. This will lead most of them to flee to Turkey and on to Europe or join IS (still the only constantly bad group).

To Sunni Muslims, an attack by Shia Muslims (Assad and Iran) backed by Russians will be seen as something of a Holy War, and the ranks of IS will now be seen by the Sunnis as the only Jihadis fighting in the Holy War and hence many Muslims will now see IS as good (doh!).

Sunni Muslims will also see the lack of action by Britain and America in support of their Sunni rebel brothers as something of a betrayal (might have a point) and hence we will be seen as bad.

So now we have America (now bad) and Britain (also bad) providing limited support to Sunni Rebels (bad) many of whom are looking to IS (good / bad) for support against Assad (now good) who, along with Iran (also good) and Putin (also, now, unbelievably, good ) are attempting to retake the country Assad used to run before all this started?

I hope that this clears it all up for you? Naturally the problems in Libya have been excluded from this briefing for clarity. Basically GhadaffiDuck and Blair decided it would be a good idea if they had a spring clean and it all went a bit Pete Tongue. Now everything in Libya is deemed for planning purposes as BAD. 

Dear oh Deary me!!

Today dear readers I had to evacuate my internal plumbing completely for the forthcoming investigations shortly therein to take place at my local hospital. To assist them in clearer vision I was ordered, by those of a medical persuasion, to consume two packets of laxative of considerable size. After mixing with a liter of water and then drinking said mix I was to contemplate my navel until called to act in the usual manner. To avoid complications the packets were and still are indeed, marked A and B.  Well, packet A and B when mixed tasted frankly rank and was similar in consistency to wall paper adhesive/paste, but without presumably the retentive properties of wall paper paste, indeed,  one expects quiet the opposite!  But, being of good stock I drank it and the 500 mils of water it was recommended to consume after the mixture and then sloshed about the house thinking up things to do that kept me within projectile evacuation range of the great white trombone in the loo. I noted the time of consumption as being promptly 7 of the pm and then interacted with my pewter and sorted a few sundry Christmas Cards to friends abroad.  Meanwhile all down south was as they say in rocket terminology "A OK"

At 8 of the pm nothing had happened and all was well and I had completed mail for Europe and was doing the states. And so firmly shut was my brown star that I had forgotten all about it. Control was as the say totally in tact.

At 9 of the pm I noticed a slight squeaking noise could be discerned if I turned down the radio and coming from around my lower bowel area. But nothing seemed to be in the offing as I completed the states and was about to package up the annual Christmas toffee and chocolate to friends in Germany. All in the sate of prostate seemed normal.

Then dear reader at 9-45 and 56 seconds of the pm there was a sudden cramping of by lower arse valve, a bit of a flush and a fetching cold sweat erupted on my brow. Not a second tooo soon I reached the object of my bottoms desire, planted it firmly while taking hold of the seat with both hands in the classic airline pose known as the crash position. Where upon I suffered what can only be described as a complete lower arse flap failure.

To say the evacuation was prompt would be to cheat oneself of a good anal ogy for the shear force experienced twas similar to a 5 G turn in a modern supersonic fighter, or a train hitting your car on a level crossing. My face contorted to the point of collapse as my tummy said "Get out" and proceeded to take the glaze off the china below. The noise was similar to......Victoria Falls... with a noise like a steel bridge flexing in a strong wind... There then followed a series of farts so loud and alarming that the dog took off at speed to pastures new and has not been seen since. But, what truly sums up this now quarter hourly experience is the strange side effect of cramped toes. In an attempt to anchor myself to the floor and avoid becoming airborne I seem to be trying to dig my toes into the floor. All very strange.

But by far the most dreadful thing is yet to come. It seems the perverts who prowl our health service bum department require that I arise at 6 of the bloody am and repeat the performance. Dear oh Deary me.

Lincolnshire

I moved to Lincholnshire from Oxfordshire a couple of years ago and can honestly say that in many ways I am very glad I did. One of the reasons I am beginning to love this county is the people. Today is a case in point. I went over to a small gun shop in Wragby with a chum and the lad in the shop could not be more accomodating or kind. We then went for a some lunch to the town center and found a lovely cafe where we had home cooked beef stew and bread and butter pudding with custard for £7 and a cup of coffee thrown in. The girls in the cafe could not be kinder and the food was piping hot.

I went into the Post Office to get some money out and sat on the floor was a women and the Post Mistress re-wrapping a ladies parcels for Australia. Why? to get them smaller and thus cost less in postage. The Post Mistress supplied the bubble wrap and the lady re-cut the boxes and stuck them up again with tape. I ended up cutting the tape to size. We saved her £13. Its just that kind of place and no one minded or thought it strange. Its very unusual for anyone not to say "how do" and anyone will just stop and have a natter and the kids are great too.

In my local coop shop is a young lass of about 19 and her hair is always a different color. This week I wondered in for my milk and bread and noted this week her hair was a metalic red and said "I had a Fiesta that color" and straight off the bat she said "Yeah Ferenza Red, me Dad said same" and gave me a lovely cheeky grin.

I think the reason its so nice here is because it is so rural and the folks just beat to a different tempo of life. The wolds are a secret place that no one goes to and the coast is deserted in the winter. It has a soul I have not found elsewhere, for example my neighbor will bring my washing in off the line if it rains and I am not in. If  I have anything spare in the fridge that needs using  Ill pop around next door and share it, or if I go to Grimsby for fish Ill get a bit for my neighbors tea. Its common to see spare vegetables left in the church doorway and you help yourself. Its all part of an England I remember as a kid and is now sadly dying out. I really like it a lot. We help each other.

If your looking or a nice county that is still very much an English gem then you could do much worse than Lincolnshire. Nice people with good hearts and a ready smile.

Quantum Physics - deep thought

"Im so sorry and congratulations to member 67483 you are of course correct in that if you discard the paraflex hyperbolic signal tangent within the meat pie and divide the two resultant cognitive bilateral divergent waves, huh silly me. You of course then have to reject your Granny as being none frangilatory and thus 10 to the power of prunes becomes a bag of peanuts. Well done sir I take my hat off to you."

I read this on a quantum physics web site this morning and its been bugging me all day. "No" I thought if the paraflexible convibulator is divided by the flex to flux convertive bisentinial curve and thus reaches transendictive vortex coagulant minus 3 or 5 throngalhertz, which would be in tolerance as laid down in the Asdictivational gigatrump hypothasized by Prof Hinderblast-Fleshwound's 1936 paper on time travel vortex generation using only hand held fruit, you would end up with a bunch of carnations..... er... surely. 

All of which goes to prove that life really could be just a bowl of cherries. or could it??? 

All these question and more like, why do I squint when trying not to look a a womens arse? and what makes walkers crisps so addictive? could be answered by quantum physics. Have you ever seen a Professor of quantum physics? me neither but I bet they like dogs and can speak fluent Dutch and even worse Danish. You may scoff, but these things worry me! Could Danish be Dutch backwards or a backward Dutchman Speaking Danish? or just a throat infection.. Really I want to know?

I often muse on such matters while microwaving my chinese battered sweet and sour chicken with peas (£2 from Iceland) or over a custard cream with that great thinker Bob the dog, whose paper on "are sausages really an aid to time travel" won the Nooobel prize for lateral lunch last year. 

I leave you with this thought"------------------------------------------------------------" Yeah deep hey!