Category Archives: food

A Fish Without a Bike

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I have a pair of blackbirds in my garden. One’s black with a bright orange beak (the male, remember that) and the other is a sort of brown, speckly colour (the female, very important). This weekend I spent many hours in the spring sunshine pottering in my garden being watched by the black one. He’s very inquisitive and stands on any one of several high vantage points watching me turn over the soil, paint a fence, down a beer etc etc. It’s nice, in a rather odd sort of way to have a relationship with him, and I’m not really sure whose garden he thinks I’m tending, mine or his. Maybe I like it cos, thus far, he’s the only bird I know who doesn’t moan at me (or maybe I just don’t understand Blackbirdese yet)
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In the past I’ve been in the habit of greeting him with ” Good morning Mr Blackbird, how are you today”. Dunno why I do that. Something in the back of my mind tells me it’s good luck, or something. It follows that when I see his GLW hove into view I follow with similar: “Morning Mrs B, how are the kids? ”
Whatever the reason for this idle persiflage, I’m glad I don’t live in Brussels. Yes, you’ve guessed it: The European Parliament has banned the terms ‘Miss’ and ‘Mrs’ in case they offend female MEPs. It’s all part of their “Gender-Neutral” campaign, according to The Telegraph. Now there are many things I say which offend women (see above, and below), often as part of my loveable-rogue persona. But I really do think anyone who gets offended by being called “Mrs” shouldn’t have got married in the first place. And “Miss” is used purely as an act of politeness. I suppose we could use “Madam”, or “Woman” or “Old Bag” but surely “Miss” is merely trying to be polite, and recognises that ancient practise by women of pretending to be younger than you really are? So don’t blame us, we’re not trying to pigeon-hole you, honest.
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Gender Neutral:
Don’t let it happen to you

For what it’s worth (and these really are beyond me) officials have also ordered that ‘sportsmen’ be called ‘athletes’, ‘statesmen’ be referred to as ‘political leaders’ and even that ‘synthetic’ or ‘artificial’ be used instead of ‘man-made’. Just pass me a bottle of scotch and a Service-issue revolver, I know what to do. (I blame Harriet Harperson)

In other news, the French really are having it bad: sales are down at the “Big Eropolis” in Paris, apparently the biggest erotic fair in Europe. The turnover is down 30% on last year, according to Reuters. If the French aren’t sticking it hard to their mate’s wife (sorry, significant-and-equal-other) cos of the economic crisis, you know we really ARE in trouble. It’s practically compulsory over there. Presumably the rubber-clad mistresses (or Whip-wielding-more-confident-and-sexually-demanding-females, as they’re now known) are feeling the pinch. I suggest some extra talcum-powder.

Back in Blighty, if you did catch your partner looking through the rubber section of the Littlewoods catalogue, or he returned from his weekend ‘business trip’ in Paris covered in crème fraîche and whip-marks, you could have attended Britain’s first Divorce Fair, at a hotel in Brighton.
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Coping with divorce can be upsetting

Now I enjoy a good divorce as much as the next man, but under the pretence of ‘helping people start over’ a whole collection of services were available to those who are finding a recent separation tough.

The list of help available, according to The Times tells you all you need to know about this con-fest: “There were lawyers and psychic healers, financial consultants and shoe retailers, chocolate makers and probate solicitors.” as well as four”colour psychologists” to advise you on changing the decor at home. Hmmmm….. NOW do you wanna join my gang????

Mr and Mrs (there, I said it!) Blackbird have no need for such a gathering. They’re too busy watching me dig up worms in my vegetable patch. She looks older than him. And fatter.
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Phwoooaaarrrr!!!!!!!

Unfunny for Money

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A woman tried to sell me a fireplace this morning. No she didn’t: she tried to give me a free fireplace. All I had to do was to have a new central heating system installed in my house. You’ve probably met her. She stands just a little way along from the 2 MENCAP chuggers, just before you get to the “Fitness First” leaflet girl and the Childline herberts. The streets are full of weird-looking people asking for your money.

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Would you give money to this man?

Remember when the walk to work was just a matter of negotiating the occasional RNLI flag-seller or the Salvation Army? No? Well you’re younger than me, then. The Sally Army started it all, and I guess they did have a kind of dignity about them. Back in the days of black-and-white an old girl from the Sally Army used to come into my grandad’s pub selling copies of The Warcry.
Brian would put down his darts and agree to buy one, on the condition she stood on a chair and sang a song, which she always did without argument (presumably Onward Christian Soldiers, or Bringing in the Sheaves).

She was then helped down off the chair, and left the pub bereft of one copy of her newspaper, but up to the tune of a couple of farthings. Certainly a better deal than she’d get nowadays. If she walked into my pub shouting “Warcry” she’d be greeted with a drunk chorus of “Geronimo !!!”. No sheaves would be brought, and certainly no rejoicing would have been had doing it.

So as I sit here in my bathtub full of Taka Dahl, resplendent in my Madonna T-shirt and Red Nose (yes, it’s that sodding time again) I want to make it clear to you all that I’m in no-way adverse to a bit of charity work. I give to the causes I like, when and how I like. Not in mid-pint, mid-pee or mid-grouch on the way to work, just cos some spotty git waves a clipboard at me on London Bridge. WHY AREN’T YOU AT SCHOOL ANYWAY ????

Talking of charity cases, is there any hope for the England Rugby XV this year? Probably not. Martin Johnson is looking more and more like the deckchair attendant on the Titanic, as his charges dive cauliflower-ears first over the side and into the icy waters of the sin-bin. Refs are handing out cards like Japenese reps at a sales conference?
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An England fan displays both
his displeasure and his goolies.

To take our mind off the inevitable victory of a French XV over an England XI, let’s all join hands and pray for an Italian win. That’d make up for everything—even the cricket.
Oh well, that’s my weekend plan anyway: In front of the rugby on the telly with a crate of beer, on a warm sofa and the fire at full blast (cos, you see, I already own one.)