Salty Sea Dogs

Move over, Captain Ahab, here comes UberGrumpy.

Unless you count the Isle of Wight ferry, Mrs G and I are not experienced sailors.  So a recent holiday with good friends on board a sailboat was quite literally a voyage of discovery. We learnt loads.  Naturally, I feel the need to share some top tips with you.

We had a captain, who did the hard stuff like making the boat move, and not crashing into other boats.  We concentrated on the basics, like standing up, not spilling your mojito, and not standing in the wrong place.  The captain was a big help here, building bonhomie with quips like “Move! You want to be decapitated by a block?”  Oh how we laughed, enjoying the banter, while quietly learning that boats are made of blocks, apparently, and sometimes they come loose.

Familiar things become strange and new. On a boat, sheets are actually ropes, and vice versa, probably. This is one of the reasons people don’t usually sleep on boats.  We did, and were surprisingly comfortable, although Mrs G still has a couple of unusual burn marks.

Similarly, heads are actually toilets. After a heavy session, the phrase ‘I was completely off my head last night’ takes on a whole new and quite unpleasant meaning.  So my advice to you, shipmates, is drink moderately, not least because the room rolls around unpleasantly even before you start.  While sipping carefully, suck on a salty snack like dried seaweed, or a Twiglet, to keep the dreaded seasickness at bay.

After a hard day’s sipping, sucking, lolling and greenly focussing on the horizon, you may think a romantic tryst in your little cabin would be just the ticket. You would be wrong, unless you are lucky enough to have rubber bones, and suckers like an octopus. Even a peck on the cheek can be downright dangerous (I could show you the toothmarks) so anything more would be suicidal.  We did have a go, I will admit. It was like Twister in an earthquake.  Lord Nelson took Lady Hamilton with him on voyage, and ended up minus an arm, and an eye. Enough said.

Perilous, yes, but such fun, and all too soon our voyage was over, and we were back on terra firma, swaying gently (mostly from the shock of the bar bill).  Sadly we watched from the quay as our nautical home disappeared, until the very tip of the mast was gone.  I guess someone pulled the plug out.  It wasn’t me. 

Avocado With Everything

In which UberGrumpy is unimpressed by innovative cuisine.

London. Rain. Work. Three reasons for a bad mood. To cheer up, I hit my favourite breakfast place. Their cosmic Eggs Benedict is worth travelling for. Or at least it was.  I look at the menu. It’s gone.  We now have Avocado Benedict.  And Avocado Florentine, and Avocado BLT, or for those on a diet, Avocado on Toast.

So what’s Avocado Benedict?  Apparently the eggs and Hollandaise are still there, but they’ve innovated by adding avocado.  Innovated.  I don’t want innovation, I want Eggs Benedict. But the teenage hipster smugbag waiter insists: It’s excellent, sir.  Our clients love it.  I order it.  It comes. It’s revolting. The offending mush is hidden, lurking under the eggs. I forget it’s there, and cop a big mouthful.  Yuck.  It’s as bad as when I discovered that Anusol is not toothpaste, the hard way.  (I had a similar surprise discovering Colgate Superminty Gel wasn’t the soothing ointment I expected, but let’s save that, for a post not about food).

How did avocados get so ubiquitous?  Cash in your life savings and buy one, cut it open; it’s an inedible green rock with a harder rock in the centre.  Leave it to ripen. Finally, it’s good for fifteen minutes, when it’s the colour and texture of mid-flu bogey, and then it instantly turns to black mush infested with little black flies.  What’s wrong with a nice apple? Eh?

Back when ‘avocado’ mostly meant the colour of your bathroom suite, Mrs G and I used to serve them as exotic starters at our sophisticated London soirees.  We would cut them in half, remove the stone, and serve them with Worcester Sauce in the resultant hole.  It sure got the conversation going amongst the Crouch End glitterati.  What were these strange fruits? Would they ever catch on?  Where’s the toilet?  Etc etc.

And now they’re everywhere.   Virgin Trains recently had problems with their Railcard system, so they started accepting avocados as railcards.  Seriously.  What next?  Gin and avocado?  Avocado massage oil?  See what I mean?

Anyway, back to my Avocado Benedict.  Eggs Benedict should have a muffin under it.  This has a brioche bun.  WTF?  Did I ask for a brioche bun?  No! Take it away! And do I want one with my burger? No!  If I want brioche, I’ll move to France and put up with the taxes and armpit hair.  I’m in Blighty and I want a sesame bun. All right?

And I want it off a plate, not a shovel or a hubcap or a plank.  And do I want my chips congealing in a cutesy wire basket?  Do I want a cup of shaving foam instead of a coffee?  Did I ask you to take my gluten out?  Why’s my sugar all brown?  Where’s that prawn cocktail when you want it?

Time to fight back. Nouveau cuisine, chez moi, sans avocado. A quick cupboard check reveals Twiglets, bourbon biscuits, baked beans, lard, glace cherries¹, and a can of Vimto. I reckon I could knock up a sort of savoury Black Forest Gateau. Innovation?  I’ll give ‘em innovation. Who's in?

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1 - Sell-by date: October 1986. They might be mildly alcoholic

How To Do Sex

In which UberGrumpy, against his better judgement, reveals the intimate details of his love life.

Mrs G and I have been together for umpty-nine years now, and we are often asked what our secret is. Well, I cannot tell a lie¹; it begins and ends in the bedroom department. Over the years we have picked up a vast range of techniques and tips, and it only seems fair to share them. Herewith then: my top super-sexy six.

1. Make time for each other

We all have busy lives, so it’s crucial to make time for romance. A regular date night is just the ticket. After long deliberation, Mrs G and I have settled on April 12th. It’s warm out by then, so the electric blanket is off, and the cricket season hasn’t started, so no distractions; perfect. I can hardly wait, and judging by the twinkle in her eye, neither can she.

2. Respect your partner

A healthy sex life is all about give and take; learn to recognise the signs. If Mrs G has her curlers in, or her Kindle out, it’s no-no Nanette. Likewise, if England are playing Australia in a nail-biting five-day test match, or I have reached level nine of Temple Run on the iPad without getting killed, it’s best not to interrupt my concentration. Otherwise, anything goes!

3. The TV is your friend

Don’t underestimate the erotic power of the silver screen. There is a vast array of exciting and exotic entertainment out there. Once again, it’s vital to take your partner’s wishes into account; for Mrs G, it’s anything with Denis Quaid, even the old stuff where he wears flares. For me, Test Match Special has a tantric, mysterious and long-lasting effect. Just go with it.

4. Variety is the spice of life

There are many ways to be intimate, and life reveals more as you go on. With Mrs G and me, oral has become a big thing; it’s excellent. You can indulge whilst going for a walk, or sharing a packet of Twiglets, or waiting for a train, or doing the washing up, or mowing the lawn, although it can be a bit distracting in Sainsburys, even if you do go sotto voce.   Occasionally we will have a go while I am upstairs in my office, and Mrs G is in the garden, although the dangers here are a sore throat, and vexed neighbours, particularly if you get carried away.

5. You’re never too old for toys

Mix it up! There is an amazing range of toys available for sophisticated couples. Our particular favourites are Ker-plunk!, although you have to be a bit careful with the needles, and Travel Scrabble, as there are useful pegs to stop the tiles falling out.

6. Location, location, location

Don’t be afraid to get down to business in exotic places. I don’t want to confess too much; I’ll just say living room; garden shed; loft². (Not the back passage though, as that’s where I keep the wheelbarrow.) Also, here’s a top tip from personal experience; avoid the airing cupboard. At least while the immersion heater is on. Phew!

There you go! Surprising eh? There’s heaps more, obviously, but I had better let discretion be the better part of valour. And all this writing has got me feeling quite frisky. Roll on, April 12th! Roll on!

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1 – That’s a whopper, for a start. Expect some more
2 – Be careful; the insulation is quite itchy

Why I Don’t Own A Dog

In which UberGrumpy gets a lodger. Or does he?

So Mrs G and I have a new lodger, Colin.  Colin is a boisterous young feller and a great pleasure to have around the house; always friendly and cheerful, never a harsh word for anyone, easy-going and amenable, always up for a bit of exercise.  But we’re conflicted about Colin. Why, you might ask?

Well, there is the odd drawback.  Colin pays no rent.  In fact, we had to pay to get him to come.  We also pay for his food, drink, medicines, shampoo, toys (he likes toys), transportation, bedding and redecoration (he is surprisingly messy).  He’s very willing to eat leftovers, including bones, which helps, but he is apparently eternally hungry.  Youngsters eh?  We were told he’d sleep anywhere, even in the kitchen, but in fact Colin is only really happy when he’s in our bed with us.  Which is a novelty.

His conversation turns out to be very limited; we talk to him endlessly but replies are at best monosyllabic, and we’re beginning to think Colin doesn’t understand as much as his eager expression would indicate.  He does fetch stuff, like shoes, and sticks, but it’s all a bit random to be honest. He also drools copiously on fetched things, so opening the post has become a bit of an ordeal.

Colin is also, alas, a stranger to plumbing.  He never takes a shower, and is quite smelly.  You get used to this, we’re told, but boy, does he hum.¹ We left him a toothbrush but he hasn’t used it; hasn’t even opened the box, although he has chewed it. Worst of all, he can’t use the loo.  To be fair, he mostly waits to go outside for a poo.  Mostly.² But once Colin’s out, he’s pretty brazen about where he goes.  He seems to positively enjoy it.  As for toilet paper? Forget it. He doesn’t even attempt to wipe.

Watching TV in the evening has become an embarrassing affair; Colin enjoys an hour or so of Netflix but then he gets distracted, and to our dismay, has taken to pleasuring himself on the rug, regardless of who’s in the house.  I’ve never seen my poor old Mum blush so profoundly.   In his defence, he is quite extraordinarily flexible.  I am quite envious.  Blowing your own trumpet takes on a whole new meaning.

So all in all, life with Colin has got a bit problematic.  But we are undaunted, and will stick with him.  After all, Colin is for life.  Not just for Christmas.

(And for the avoidance of doubt, Colin is a complete fabrication. But you get the point. Right?)

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1 - This is possibly made worse by his habit of rolling on other lodgers’ poo; that is, when he isn’t trying to hump other lodgers when we are out for a walk.
2 – Unless we fail to open the front door by 5:30 a.m., in which case it’s poomageddon all over the kitchen

Swearing For England

In which UberGrumpy's kids impress him mightily with their vast arsenal of juicy cussin' words.


A pub in Greenwich; a pleasant dinner with the kids. It’s a traditional family meal, i.e., I am paying.

The wine and conversation flow freely. We get around to TV. I have been watching Charlie Brooker's jolly good "Black Mirror" series recently. What does everyone think? We all share a positive opinion, which is a relief, as strong opinions abound in this family, and sparks can fly. For now, familial harmony reigns.

 Until, that is, I casually mention that I think the overwhelmingly sweary dialogue often gets in the way of the plot.

Warning: from now on this post, necessarily, turns a bit blue. To save your blushes, I substitute the words “Farage” and “Corbyn” for you-know-what.

“For Farage’s sake,” pipes up no.1 daughter. “Your generation. Honestly. We don’t even notice the odd Farage. Brooker may be a bit of a Corbyn, but he writes a Faraging good story, so who cares if the language gets a bit colourful? I think I’ll have the Chateaubriand¹.”

No.2 son chimes in. “Too Faraging right. You guys are Faragewits in this department. Get into the 21st century, and catch up with the rest of the Faraging world, I say. Let’s have some more wine.” (It’s a snip at £32 a bottle).

And now, the plot thickens; we introduce euphemisms "sherbet" and "Crunchie" for their scatological four-letter cousins.

“Don’t be a sherbethead,” retorts no. 1 son to no. 2 son. “That’s a load of Faraging Crunchie. It’s not your generation, it’s just those two.” He gives us some advice. “You should stop reading the Faraging Daily Mail for a start. It’s written by Corbyns, and is a pile of Crunchie and full of bullsherbet. Try the foie gras, it’s Faraging splendid.”

“Neither of us have ever read the Daily Mail, and watch your language,” points out Mrs G, sensitive to the wide-eyed old ladies at the next table, but her voice is lost in the din of battle.

Say hello to "Twiglet", standing in for a word which begins like, well, Twiglet, and rhymes with flat.

No. 2 son defends himself, and us, after a fashion. “Sherbethead yourself, Twigletfeatures. Everyone over the age of twenty-seven has their head up their arsenic². It’s not their fault, it’s just how they were brought up, the poor Twiglets. Thatcher’s³ children.”

They’re right of course. We are hopelessly out of date. The bill comes, and it seems quite dear. We’re in a pub. Should I add a tip?

No. 1 daughter heartily slaps me on the back. “Of course you should,” she advises. “Get with it, Dad. This isn’t Faraging 1983.”

Quite.

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1 - OK, this is not true. She’s a vegetarian.
2 - Take a wild guess.
3 - This is not a cussword, this is someone’s name.