The Last Jedi? That’s A Relief

In which Mrs G Unexpectedly Goes Off Star Wars.

Mrs G likes a trip to the talkies, and I am a sucker for celluloid aliens. So we have a regular date. Every time a Star Wars film comes out, I book a couple of tickets. Hang the expense!  Bugger the waistline! I say, and round off the treat with some Maltesers and Twiglets, plus, if we’re feeling saucy, a bucket of Fanta, with two straws. I know how to show a girl a good time.

(Actually, I don’t get the cinema. Why pay a fortune to sit surrounded by a roomful of numpties with loud mobile phones, even more loud mobile children, sweets (rustle rustle), coughs, large hats, short attention spans, and flatulence?  I generally wait for ye olde DVD, and watch at home. Need a wee? Simply hit “pause”. Better than enduring the walk of shame from row G, and missing the best bit, right? At about a fifth of the price.)

But Mrs G likes an outing, and nightclubs are soooo 2016¹. So: the flicks for us. The show begins at 4:15. We take our seats at 4:15. Suckers! A full half hour of insipid advertising, and my God it’s dull. Whatever happened to good ads? You know, Happiness is a Cigar Called Hamlet? Flake? Lynx? No such luck. By the time they’re done, Mrs G’s head is drooping, and the Twiglets are gone, apart from the one I dropped².

At last the film starts. Blue writing fills the screen: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...” and then DIDDLY-DAH! DA DUM DEE DUM DAD DUM DEE DAAAAH, and yellow writing scrolling up, and ooh, the adrenaline kicks in, and all the Tenalady and Hyundai adverts are fading into the past. This is going to be good.

I have a strategy for watching Star Wars. Suspend your disbelief, and your critical faculties; ignore the plot, characters, denouement, struggle between good and evil, etc etc, as they are basically the same for every episode. Just sit back, and soak up the Dolby whizzbangs, gargantuan spaceships, swordfights and wacky aliens; pass a couple of dopey hours in a Malteser-fuelled haze. All too soon it’s over. Out we go. I’m happy. I haven’t noticed it wasn’t very good.

“What did you think?” I ask innocently. Big mistake.

“Well,” she says. “Well. Not too keen, actually.”

“Why?” Second big mistake.

(I should point out there are big SPOILERS from here on in, but why bother? The entire planet has already seen it twice, and besides, how can you spoil something this predictable?)

She launches in. “When did Luke Skywalker become such a wimp? Why did they spend hours on that stupid island? What was with the interminable space pursuit? They couldn’t catch up? Seriously? Why is the goodies’ ship commanded by a load of old ladies? What were those stupid ice dogs? Where did Snoke come from anyway? Didn’t they kill off the Evil Emperor? Why is Kylo Ren such a big-nosed poutylips? And why do the guns just get bigger and bigger?”

And so on. “You hated it all, then?” I ask.

“No. I quite liked the naughty pilot.”

“Come on,” I insist. “Skywalker turns up at the end and saves the rebels with a Force projection across light-years? Subterfuge, tension, drama, and a tender reunion? Eh? Eh?”

“Ah,” she says. “I was asleep for that bit.”

Uh-huh. Next time, we’re buying the DVD.

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1 - 1983, actually, if we’re quibbling.
2 - I did try and find it, but there are a lot of Twiglets on the floor, and I’m not sure which one is mine. Quite tempted by the popcorn though.

Oh no! It’s Christmas

In which Ubergrumpy goes Christmas shopping. And gets it wrong. Again.

Don’t get me wrong; I like the Festive Season. I like the goodwill-to-all-men stuff¹, and the excuse to put your diet on hold, and ample free booze from the neighbours, and limitless Twiglets, and mistletoe (mmwah! WaHAAY!), and the shiny lights, etc etc.

It’s the shopping I hate.

The problem, you see, is Mrs G. She has three traits which are highly desirable in one’s spouse for most of the year. One: She’s a contented sort of person, and doesn’t want much. Two: She already has at least one of everything anyway. Three: She’s a tasteful person, and prefers things like, oh, underwear, and earrings, to be just so.

Which throws me into a flat spin come the day when I can’t put it off any more, and must start shopping.²

I start in the Debenhams lingerie department, naturally, to take the Annual Walk of Shame. Emboldened by the herd of sheepish-looking blokes in there with me, I ought to be a bit more brazen (“What size Sir? Well, about yours, actually”) but I become mesmerized by all the loopy bits and lacy doodads, and lose the ability to speak. I eventually stumble out of the shop about an hour later, clutching a nice new wallet, for me.

(Actually, here’s a top tip. I am quite tempted to take last year’s pink-and-purple Elastane-and-Lycra four-part lingerie set out of Mrs G’s top secret drawer, and wrap it up again. I don’t think she’d notice. It’s never been worn. She hasn’t even read the manual.)

Several more shops prove equally hopeless. Body Shop? I dunno, but I think Aloe Vera and Ginger may chafe the skin, so I pass. Whittards? She already has eighteen teapots. White Stuff? Rubbish! She likes colourful things. And so on.

Eventually, in desperation, I hit the Winchester Christmas market. If you haven’t been, imagine ninety posh wooden sheds stuck behind a big church, then add half the population of Hartlepool. There’s very tempting stuff on sale, but I can’t get near any of it. Even the queue for the mulled wine is halfway back to Debenhams.

Home again then, and on to the Interwebnet. Hmmm. How about a new wacky corkscrew? “As seen on TV”, it says. Eh? I see my MP on TV most days but I’m not about to wrap him up and put him under the tree, am I? I pass.

But a couple of hours later, I’ve ordered some stuff. Job done? No. Because now, you have to wait for the deliveries. I swear delivery guys hover outside your front door, listening for a flushing sound before whipping out their bloody ‘We tried to deliver but you were out’ cards. So: I emerge from the loo to find three such cards on the doormat. I was only taking a pee. I didn’t even stop to wash my hands, dammit.

I give up. It’s about time we rejected all this distasteful commercial pressure, and returned to the true spirit of Christmas. Mrs G, this year, I give the gift of love, and this post. And a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

After all, it’s the thought that counts.

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1 - Why just men? Ah ha! I quite like the fact that Christmas is a bit sexist too.
2 - Often known as ‘Christmas Eve’.

Slightly sinful in Singapore

In which Ubergrumpy breaks the rules, and ends up in hot water

You probably know that sellng chewing gum is illegal in Singapore (fine: S$100,000). You may not know other things are forbidden; Feeding Pigeons (S$500), Walking Around Naked (S$2,000), Singing Obscene Songs (3 months in sing-sing), Annoying People With A Musical Instrument (S$1,000), and so on. The Walking Around Naked rule actually includes your own house. I didn't check on Walking On Cracks In The Pavement, or Wearing A Loud Shirt In A Built-up Area, but I bet they're frowned on too.

 Which has left me feeling a tad rebellious. Not that I'm proposing a nude banjo-backed rendition of Anarchy in the UK while feeding Juicy Fruit to pigeons in the Botanic Gardens; but it's so delicious to break the rules. Just a bit.

 Be careful though. Caught littering three times? Pick up trash weekly, wearing a bib saying "I am a litterer." (You'll struggle, mind, because there isn't any to pick up.) Graffiti? Caning. Drugs? Death. Blimey. I took all my Imodium on the plane in, just in case. Bonus: the Failing To Flush A Public Toilet rule (S$150) is unlikely to affect me.

 I miss an early opportunity for rebellion. We are staying with Mrs G's little sis and hubby, who treat us to a sumptuous dinner in a swanky rooftop place. No Twiglets here. Dress code: long trousers. I obey. But there are three guys there brazenly and blatantly flouting the rules in shorts. Buccaneers or what! But the meal, view, and company are top-notch, so I mellow out. My turn will come.

 And then little sis takes us on a walking tour of notable Singapore neighbourhoods. It's not all high-rise and superpowered here; there are elegant streets from a bygone era, now protected by the government, and very desirable, so colossally expensive. Little sis knows a byzantine route that takes in the best of them; but she likes to move quickly, and she is French, so crosses the road where she will. Whoosh! Ooh la la!

 In other words, little sis is a world-class jaywalker (S$2,000). This is cool. Vive la revolution!

I quickly learn an unwritten Singapore rule; the more your vehicle is worth, the worse you drive. Since even a Toyota Hybrid Roller-skate costs as much as a small house in Basingstoke, the average standard is, well, bracing. And on our walk the vehicles are premium. In the first hour I am almost run over by a Rolls-Royce, a Ferrari, and a Maserati. What a way to go!

 It's a mighty workout, but we eventually find ourselves back at little sis's, in perfect time for lunch (did I mention that she's French?). First, a well-earned shower. Off with the sweaty kit, but I close the curtains first. Wouldn't want to offend the neighbours.

The Worst Hotel in the World

In which we learn that Vietnamese scooters are nippier than they look.

At the outset I should mention that the Vietnamese currency is called the Dong. In the hands of some, this may be an excuse for a stream of puerile jokes, but I shall rise above all that. Any double entendre is all in your mind, you pervert.

So: Mrs G and I are on Con Dao island, arranged at short notice. We scrambled to book a couple of different hotels. Hotel One was a delight. We've died and gone to heaven. Two blissed-out days, food, service, comfort, for about half the cost of the Eastleigh Econolodge.

And then we check into Hotel Two. 

They put our back up early, by insisting on being paid in cash. This puts a severe strain on my Dong right away. But, determined to enjoy my hols, I swallow my pride and follow the chain-smoking attendant to our deluxe beach view room. He throws my bag at the door, and after hovering briefly in the vain hope of some Dong, naffs off.

We use the plumbing, as one does. The plastic piping is all joined with electrical tape, so we're happy to know we won't be electrocuted by the taps. It's spectacularly leaky though; with that and the yellow water, personal hygiene might be a bit of a challenge for a day or two. Luckily Mrs G stole all the wet wipes from the plane on the way in. (If you've never cleaned your teeth with a wet wipe, you haven't lived.)

To be fair, there are some plus points to the room. The ashtray is empty, if not entirely clean; the mysterious brown stains on the sheet are at the foot end; there are sufficient lizards to handle the cockroaches; the wardrobe charmingly evokes an earlier era, when Formica was new; the fridge motor drowns out the pneumatic drills and the barking from the beach (of which more, anon). I plug in the thoughtfully-provided bedside lamp and blow the electrics. Kapow! Never a dull moment.

Ever cheerful, Mrs G pulls out my Dong and helps herself. "I'm off to the beach for lunch," she says, "coming?" We triple lock everything, clasp our valuables to our bosom, pack up the Twiglets, and head out. It's a short stroll to the beach. Intriguingly, where the neighbouring hotel has loungers, our beachfront has dog cages. The dogs look friendly enough so they are probably just mistreated pets, as opposed to, say, lunch.

We find a patch of sand free of rubble and plastic bottles, and pausing only to blow away loose cigarette ends and cotton buds, plonk ourselves down. Crikey, it's hot. I check my Dong for any signs of spontaneous combustion. We consider a swim but given the suspicious-looking pipes heading into the sea, think better of it.

Time for a getaway. We rent a motorbike. The rental lady scorns my proffered Dong; hard currency only. Twelve dollars and thirty seconds of perfunctory training in Vietnamese, and I am in the saddle! Oh yeah. I rev her up, run straight into a flowerbed, and fall off. Luckily I am carrying my wallet, and my Dong absorbs much of the impact. Thank goodness for my helmet. The hotel staff gather to pick me up, and oh, how we laugh.

Once the double vision subsides, and the blood is dry, we take to the road. The island's a hilly 'un, but with Mrs on pillion, and Dong by the million, what could go wrong?

How not to travel, Vietnam style

In which Mrs G loses her credit card, and UberGrumpy loses his cool

The week's scheduled visit to lovely Hoi An is off. Disaster struck, not once, but twice; a record-breaking cyclone removed the beach, and most of our hotel's roof; and worse still, Donald Trump is due to visit.

Luckily, politicos we ain't, and Mrs G and I love a good U-turn. Mrs G quickly researches Plan B; would a trip to lovely Con Dao island suit? Oh yeah! Book it! It'll squeeze the budget, but you only live once, right?

Hotel first; Con Dao is easily sorted, but we need one more night here in Ho Chi Minh city. We enquire; the place is mobbed because Donald Trump is in town. Only their Silver Suite is left. We book it. They add more hidden extras than you'd get on a busload of ladyboys. More budget squeeze, but no worries; who needs, say, booze when you're high on the atmosphere?

On to book flights. Mrs G finds the airline site a bit odd, with its adverts for casinos, fake watches and opium dens, and lurid offers to upgrade to massage class, all in dubious English. It can't be a scam, though, decides Mrs G, it's on a computer, and there are pictures of aeroplanes. She submits personal and payment details with gay abandon.

Of course it's a bloody scam. The tickets fail to arrive. Their phone goes unanswered. At about this time the credit card company helpfully shitcans our card. Oh how we laugh. It's cash, cash, cash from now on, with a 5% hit every time we use an ATM. That'll hit the budget; but no worries, as I have a good supply of Twiglets and Mentos, and we weren't planning on eating out.

But we are not easily daunted. Setting off for the airport ludicrously early, we find our booked ticket is indeed non-existent. Time to buy another one then. The helpful ticket lady suggests an earlier flight at 9:30. It's 8:37. A bit tight? No, she laughs, and starts typing. Same-day travel being a bit costly, the budget takes another mighty hit, but hey! Mrs G has some nice clothes we can probably sell.

Ten minutes and a lot of cash later, we queue at check-in. 8:54, and we head to security. There is a line about a mile long. Mrs G goes into action and hustles us to the front in true Colonial style. But the nice policeman spots that instead of "Grumpy, Uber", my boarding pass says "Grumpy, British". They've typed my name in wrong. Back you go, English pigs. 9:01.

Five minutes later we are back at check-in. They correct the boarding pass and a chastened airline lady helps us past the security line and back to the nice policeman. Luckily the full strip-down body search is pretty efficient and we are through! 9:18. Ignoring our sore bottoms, we run to the gate and yes! We've made it. 9:27.

Con Dao, here we come! I hope they like buskers. We're going to need some cash.

Dubai 7, Britain 0

I am a simple chap who likes a simple life. You know, pipe, slippers, Twiglets, that sort of thing. Mrs G, by contrast, is a restless soul, and has dragged me off to foreign parts again. “Stuff The Isle of Wight,” she said, “take me somewhere exotic. And I don’t mean bloody France either.” This from a Frenchwoman; so I knew she meant business. Either I maxed the plastic, or the monthly conjugals would be withheld indefinitely.

 Off we went then. Asia beckoned. Who to go with? Given that the World’s Favourite Airline now only offers comfortable legroom to infants, midgets, contortionists and amputees, we looked elsewhere. And found: Emirates! Being eco-warriors, we offset our vast carbon footprint by not mowing the lawn for a month, and we booked ‘em. Courtesy of colossal oil subsidies (oh the irony), their planes are fat and new and roomy, and they still offer life’s little luxuries, like flushing toilets, mostly sober aircrew, and fresh sick bags every flight, used or not.

 One drawback though. They all stop in Dubai. Mrs G and I stopped here on a previous re-colonisation of the Antipodes, and thought a three-day layover a good wheeze. Well it wasn’t. Unless you like shopping, a class system that puts Victorian England to shame, shopping, heat, shopping, sand, Chavs on rollercoasters, shopping, hotels you can’t afford, shopping, conferences for people richer than you, and shopping, it’s a vacuous, empty, soulless place. Think strip mall America, plus Disneyland, stuck in the middle of the Sahara. On the bright side, though, shopping is quite good. 

However, credit where it’s due. They sure can build stuff. Forty years ago Dubai was a creek, without a paddle; you couldn’t buy a coffee, let alone today’s haute couture and hauter cuisine at hautest prices. Wind forward to today. Dubai now boasts the world’s tallest pointless building, the only ski-slope in a shopping mall (how's that for carbon footprint?), artificial Islands shaped like palm trees, and a seven-star hotel shaped like a mighty sail. Crikey.

 We did visit the tallest building, the Burj Khalifa. We are lowly folk, so only paid one fortune to get to the 125th floor at midday. (You can upgrade to higher floors and/or sunset with more goodies for more cash, a la Dubai). But 125 is quite high enough, thank you. You’d be just as dead if you fell off. 

As for that palm-shaped island, don’t even think about visiting unless you have booked an overpriced restaurant, theme park, shopping experience, or hotel; otherwise, like us, you will pay for the train to take you out there (several classes of carriage available), disembark, then wander confusedly around a car park before taking the next train back. Oh how we laughed.

And then there’s the airport, where we are now. While Britain’s spineless politicos have argued about a new runway for Heathrow or Gatwick, Dubai has built seven. SEVEN. The international airport is so vast that the maps include the curvature of the earth. Probably. There is a lot of shopping. There is a whole separate business class airport, above the aspiring common folk, but constantly in their face, obviously. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

 I could go on, but we have to hustle. Our flight leaves in two hours; we are at gate A3, and have to make our way to gate H308, or something. We will try to resist the tempting shopping. And like Hansel and Gretel, we will leave a trail of torn-up receipts and duty-free samples, in case we need to retrace our steps. Wish us luck.

Lemsip and Netflix

T'Pol! Bless you.

Manflu struck the grumpy household last week. It was pretty nasty, as you can imagine. But no problem! We have a well established routine when this happens.

Mrs G is immune, being a) indestructible and b) not a man, so she simply fills her diary with extra yoga, pottery, cello, and days out with her Fancy Man, so she can avoid my whining and sniffling. She does look after me though; before she disappears for a week, she leaves a cheery note, a new Sinex, and six tins of Heinz chicken soup by the marital bed.

My routine? I simply fall off my perch, and confine myself to said bed, dosing up with lozenges, linctus, and Lucozade. I then stare at the ceiling for days, or when I’m feeling better, watch daytime TV. You know, stuff like ‘Pebble Mill at One’¹.

Except this time is different. This time, we have Netflix.

When healthy I don’t watch much telly, so am behind with viewing. I borrowed a box set of ‘Breaking Bad’ a year ago and haven’t started it yet. But when feeling ropey, what better distraction than to load up old episodes of something?

So - what to watch? Nothing too taxing for my snottified brain. Hmmm. I always liked ‘Star Trek’ with its cool sixties vibe, Captain Kirk holding his belly in, Scotty’s preposterous accent (‘She cannae take it cap’n!), and seductive alien ladies in weeny dresses. But above all, I liked Mr Spock with his excellent ears and unflappable emotionless logic, which failed him every other episode, to great dramatic effect.

But I’ve seen all of them. Perhaps something similar?

Enter ‘Enterprise’. A prequel, with more or less the same plots, but better special effects. Give it a try, I thought. And it’s a winner! They still have quirky characters and bonkers aliens, with a doctor who is a quirky character AND a bonkers alien, but this time, they also have a secret weapon. They have t’Pol.

T’Pol, like Mr Spock, is a Vulcan². But t’Pol is a Vulcan lady. Not only does she have pointy ears, but she also has a very well-developed pair of personality. And Vulcans being super-efficient, she has determined that wasteful cloth is superfluous, so it’s only logical to wear a skintight costume with no underwear. Moreover, whenever the crew visit a planet, they have to decontaminate afterwards by rubbing each other down with E45 cream in a hi-tech sauna. Splendid! It takes me fifteen episodes to decide I like it.

All too soon manflu wears off, and I’m better. No more ‘Enterprise’ for UberGrumpy. Except now and again, when I'm feeling nostalgic, I might sneak one. Eighty-five episodes to go...

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1 - If you don't remember Pebble Mill At One, then you are too young to be reading this blog. Off you go.
2 – All Vulcans these days have names with apostrophes, although they’re not Irish, it’s an alien thing; they don’t tend to be called e.g. O’Malley.

Livin' It Large On The Isle Of Wight

Ahoy!
The authentic IOW experience begins the moment we step onto the Red Funnel ferry. In holiday mood we climb to the sun deck, only to hit a solid wall of fug from the chain-smoking Netto lorry drivers who, taking advantage of the Island’s relaxed drink-driving policy, are downing pints and vodka chasers with gusto, and singing songs about Old Poland. It’s 9:15.

Retreating below, we relish the atmosphere, thick with chipfat and salad cream from yesteryear’s crossings. This is the life! Nostalgia or what? Enthused, Mrs G scores us a coffee. “Two flat whites, please,” she asks politely. “Fiw-uh or la-ay,”¹ drones the scowling inbred tattooed vacant sickly halfwit behind the bar. One colossal, cash-only payment later, and we take our “coffee” and Twiglets back to the formica and leatherette “lounge” to while away the crossing.

“Island roads are different!”, warned the poster on the ferry, and it’s true! Ten minutes from the terminal we are stuck behind a mobility scooter with an ‘I saw Hendrix in ‘73’ bumper sticker. He is refusing to go round the smouldering remains of a Netto lorry. We wait for the jolly bobbies to run up and arrest everyone, then follow a combine harvester to our holiday home.

An hour or two later we step out into the delightful countryside. We don’t see much for the first mile or so, as we have to concentrate to avoid the dogpats², and youths on stolen mopeds, but soon we are walking, following our noses³, free and easy on Britain’s Sunshine Island.

I have invented an IOW game which you can play if you get bored hiking here. It’s called Spot The Islander. Greet everyone you see with a friendly wave, then observe. Fellow tourists will wave back, perhaps sharing a word or two. Recent Island émigrés will mumble or look away. But native Islanders will scowl or swear, or both, and set their dog on you. Never fails.

We have a whole week of such delights. People say that to visit the IOW is to return to the Seventies but this is doing it an injustice. In fact it has moved with the times, keeping a little of each decade; we have Sixties architecture, Seventies service, Eighties decor, Nineties music, and a Noughties economy, all blended with bang-up-to-date eye-watering prices. It’s a unique and heady mix, and it’s over all too soon.

On the return ferry we ponder: will we return next year? I fear not. We may only be able to afford Mallorca, or Jamaica. But we’ll be back. It’s in the blood. We’ll be back.

---

1 - Meaning "Filter or latte". The letter 't' has made many valiant, but unsuccessful, attempts to cross the Solent
2 - Dogpats are like cowpats; just as big, dropped from a great height by a vast canine. They're like poo landmines.
3 - And holding them. Those dogpats pack a punch

The Big G Diet

Bottled exercise.

I lost a fair bit of weight over the summer. I went from ‘attractively cuddly’ to ‘svelte if you squint’, practically overnight, so I am quite pleased with myself. I have been repeatedly asked for my secret. “UberGrumpy,” they say, “you look thin. Are you ill?”

Pretty good eh? And the best thing is, dieting is easy! Just follow these simple steps:

1. Eat less. The best way to do this is by skipping breakfast, which is easiest if you sleep in until about 11:30. Keep emergency Twiglets by the bed if you’re peckish. They contain no calories and may be consumed without guilt, although, alas, Mrs G won’t kiss me in the mornings these days.

2. When you forget things, forget them upstairs. I lose my iPad, phone, glasses and wife about fifteen times a day. Now, I simply lose them in the bedroom, so I have to pop upstairs to recover them. Burn those calories!

3. Never, ever, go to a ‘gym’. This is a big sweaty room filled with medieval torture instruments operated by people who look better than you ever will. Any visit inevitably leads to an immediate trip to Costa, where you will eat chocolate cake to dispel the despondency. Trust me on this one.

4. Keep your beer on the floor. The benefit is threefold here: You have to lift it a long way to get it to your lips, using up energy; you occasionally forget where it is and go upstairs to find it (see 2.); and you often knock it over, thus reducing your consumption.¹

5. When you eat out, choose a MONSTER HOT curry. That way, you won’t be able to finish it, and what you do manage will whip through your digestive tract like the Eurostar through the Channel Tunnel, liquefying body fat along the way. Effortless! Avoid the rice. And the naan. Cobra is OK (see 4.)

6. Exercise whilst cleaning your teeth. I do the yoga-tastic tree pose (upper mandible = left leg, lower mandible = right leg).² Be careful not to fall over though, as the ole’ toothbrush may get rammed painfully into your tonsils.

7. Do some other exercise. You know, running and stuff.

That’s all there is to it! Inspired? Do you want to know more? Buy my forthcoming book ‘Lose Weight The Grumpy Way’. In all good bookshops³ by Christmas. Probably.

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1 - Put a large piece of lino around your favourite TV chair to avoid carpet spills.
2 - Don't know how? Easy; just try and get one of your heels between your buttocks.
3 - And some rubbish ones

Grumpy Meets His Waterloo. And his Clapham Junction

Train travel used to be so glamorous.

I may come over like an idle bugger, but now and then work rears its ugly head¹. Hence today: I head to the heart of the sprawling metropolis, and being a public-spirited citizen, I take the train. The service is run by South Western Railway. Never heard of them? Why, they are none other than SouthWest Trains who have rebranded at humongous expense, which is why my ticket costs as much as a small car.

I take the 9:19 (no you can't use your discount Railcard, sucker, off-peak hours are between 2 and 3:15 p.m. every other Friday²). I sit in the Quiet Zone, which means everyone is yelling into their mobile phone, so they can hear over the heavy metal being pumped into their shell-like ears via their high-output iPod or whatever.

At Winchester, home of the famous cathedral, and rifle, some bloke sits in front of me. He has overwhelming BO and sniffs loudly every five seconds. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff... The malodorous booger-fest continues all the way to Waterloo, where we arrive ten minutes late, as usual. Grrr.

Instead of taking the tube, I walk, to calm down. Good call, and good meeting; lots of coffee, startlingly fattening biscuits, and a great deal of splendid talking. You know the sort of thing.

Home again, home again, lickety split, and we finish early so I get to Waterloo for a train about 4:30 p.m. It's mobbed. I wander to the front of the train, which is so long I feel I should get a discount for walking part of the way home, and find one of the last few seats, at a table, with the seat facing mine empty! Bliss!

Ten seconds before we leave, and someone runs through the door and flops into the empty seat. It's the SAME BLOKE who sat in front of me on the way up. Yes, Mr SniffSmell. What a coincidence! Oh how I laughed. And he turns out to be MR. SniffSmellHalitosis. Luckily I am sitting near the toilet, so the fumes from that overpower his awful breath, and armpits.

I think about a refreshing pick-me-up on the train but, quelle surprise, there is no trolley service due to staff shortages. Strangely enough someone still turns up to check tickets though. No early G and T for you UberGrumpy. So, I get home³ at last, thirsty, and exhausted from trying to hold my breath for over an hour, but am I downhearted? No! I find myself not so much irritated, as amazed. Some people do this every day. Every single day. How do they do it?

So this post is for you, commuters of England. I salute you. I salute your fortitude, your tolerance, your patience, your willingness to spend your hard-earned wealth on third-rate public transport, your capacious bladder⁴, your diminished sense of smell, your high-quality noise-suppressing headphones⁵, but above all, I salute your stoic sense of humour. Well, you have to laugh, right?

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1 - Every bloody day actually. Sigh
2 - If there's an R in the month
3 - Ten minutes late
4 - Obviously. Have you tried using a train loo? Yuck
5 - Probably

Damp in Dingle (with dolphins)

Runners! Accessorise with THESE!

The Grump team are pretty pumped at the prospect of schlepping over from Dublin to Dingle for a beer-soaked birthday bash. Ireland! Practically neighbours! First visit! Why have we never been?

Because it's at the end of the freaking universe, is why. Having taken forever to rent a tiny car at astronomical cost (we're just washing it for you, sorr) we then drove for about a week until we hit the fearsome Conor Pass into Dingle. Think Mordor in a rented Renault, with sheep.

Descending at last, out of clouds into torrential rain, we found the place full of an army of sodden runners limping along the seafront. Hundreds of them. WTF?

Urgent research was needed. Pausing only to check into Craggy Island (more of this anon) we hit one of the thousands of pubs. The briefest of inquiries revealed the answer: we had arrived at the tail-end of the Dingle marathon.

Now, in UberGrumpy's book, the only good time to turn up for a marathon is after it's just finished. But the whole place smelt of sweat, and trainers. We had to hold our nose to appreciate Guinness Pint #1¹; pretty good though. By Guinness Pint #4, with a band turning up, we stopped minding the malodorous fitness fanatics hogging the bar. Pint #7, and we were positively hugging them. Ew.

But all good things come to an end, and so did the band (ahem). Bidding a fond farewell to our new pungent pals, we lurched off to our AirBnB. The Father Ted house itself. You've seen Father Ted, right? OK, maybe not THE house, but oh so close. The rank runners had raced into all the best spots, leaving us Craggy Island. It had a woodburner ('do not use for your safety') and an open fire, with an aloe vera plant in it to prevent it being used. Luckily we had real glass windows, and fascinating religious paraphernalia to distract you from the frostbite. Even the blankets were holey (geddit?)²

August in Ireland eh? Brrrr. Snuggle up Mrs G.

Day 2, and the ole' spirits were a little down, what with the hangover, the hypothermia, the hurricane, and the lingering scent of athlete. So lured by the promise of dolphins, we ventured onto the water. This being a windy day on the merciless Atlantic, we obviously chose a flat-bottomed boat with a reckless captain, for extra fun on the way.

Choppy? I'll say. Oh how we laughed. But on the bright side, it turns out that fish love fresh Guinness-flavoured puke, and dolphins chase fish! Yes! We saw vast shoals of them³, and a minke whale, so by the time we turned for home, we felt pretty good, until the skipper generously handed out bags of cheese and onion crisps.

Back in Dingle at last, the Lycra-clad lunatic fringe had mostly headed off for the next Iron Man, or Himalayan pentathlon, or whatever, so the pubs were a bit less crowded. We celebrated with Guinness, for the next three days. Then Dublin, and home!

What a mad, mad place. Will we be back? Oh yeah. But next year I sign up for the marathon. Sometimes you have to experience the whole thing.

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1 - Contrary to urban myth, Guinness in Ireland tastes exactly like it does anywhere else, e.g. on Waterloo station.
2 – Sorry. I'm a bit out of practice here
3 – All right, seven

UberGrumpy Rides Again

Oops! Ink on the sheets?

Whooooooffffff...

What was that? Why, the sound of dust being blown off the ole’ blog! Seven whole years since my last post. Seven years. And here’s the good news; the whole point of the thing was to keep my most excellent brother, BalancedPaul, amused while he kept the NHS busy. He has been in remission for all that time, and long may that continue, my bro.

Anyway. This time is all for me. Why? Here’s why:

1. I like writing. Love it actually. I’ve written two novels, top-notch bestsellers, I expect, if someone would publish them (ahem), and a book of poetry, which I published myself (and, shameless plug, you can buy it on Amazon).
2. I hate Faecebook. I keep writing witty gems¹, and then another seven billion people post a shit picture of their lunch, and it all scrolls off to oblivion. Stuff that.
3. I’m lazy. I’ll be buggered if I write another novel that nobody reads except my long-suffering family. It’s so much better to write brief posts that hardly anyone reads, not confined by the strictures of bloody Faecebook, where you can only write about cats, cupcakes, Corbyn, and the Caribbean (or wherever else you’re taking pictures of yourself in a bikini).
4. I get paid pretty serious money.²

One point of clarification. Do I continue with the pictures of scantily clad ladies? Oh yeah. Why:

1. One of my good friends accused me of being a misogynistic sexist pig the last time round. I liked that.
2. The research is fun.
3. It keeps the politically correct at bay. Off you go then.
4. I don’t put up any picture that wouldn’t make it into Good Housekeeping. And we all love Good Housekeeping, right?

So. Onwards. Unlike my hero Douglas Adams, I will post something else before another seven years goes by. Promise.

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1 – Well I think they're witty.
2 – This is actually a lie.