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.

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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