Mini's Big Surprise

A lick of paint, a trip to Ikea and we'll be sorted

UberGrumpy is on vacation. Wales again. The house, and the blog, are under the care of MiniGrump for a week or so. Thanks Min.

Dear Papa UG,

First of all, I hope you are having a lovely holiday with Mama UG and MicroGrump. I am missing you a lot. You said you'd check the blog often, so I thought this was a great way to tell you my wonderful news - I met somebody!

We met online. Isn't Facebook wonderful? He is very lovely and I can't wait for you to meet. His name is Utbah. He's a little older than me but is very handsome.

He flew over straight away, just to meet me. Well I thought that since he came all this way, the least I could do would be to let him buy me a coffee! Although we have only known each other for a week, he has swept me off my feet. Don't be cross but - we are getting married! He proposed (over that coffee - amazing huh?) and of course, I just had to said yes, which was lucky, since he had nowhere to stay.

I wasn't sure at first, but he said we shouldn't wait, so we will be man and wife by the time you are home- isn't that fantastic? I won't be his first wife - he's a bit coy but apparently has several already. So he's well able to look after me, since he has plenty of experience.

But don't worry. We won't be a burden on you, he has a house in Saudi Arabia where we will be moving to soon. He wants to be closer to his children- he has 12, isn't that nice? You'll have 12 instant grandchildren who you can visit any time you like. If you can get a visa.

I have quit college already, you don't have to worry about that! Utbah has said he will provide for me, he also told me that he never went to school so I don't need to either. And apparently women don't need qualifications where he lives. I thought that was a very fair point, so I dropped out yesterday.

I can't wait for you to meet him. However, the flight we booked to Saudi Arabia is the day before you get back from your holiday, he thought it would be easier for me to leave without any tearful goodbyes (I know how you get) -so I probably won't get time to see you until the Summer. Or Ramadan.


So, I love you Papa UG, and goodbye- see you in a couple of months. You never know, the baby may be showing by then.

Lots of love, The MiniGrump Xx


P.S. None of the above is true, but I had a party and someone spilt IrnBru on the new beige carpet upstairs. Sorry.

Ikea Rocks

Cool, maybe, but is it comfortable?

So. Vegetable Assassin threw down the gauntlet. Ikea rocks, she said; nothing you can say will change my mind.

I love a challenge.

Well, Vege, I know Ikea rocks. I've tried beer mats, rolled up wads of paper, my foot, wedges, beer cans, dead cats, but it's no good. In fact everything I ever bought from them rocked, apart from the OOMSKORTEN rocking chair for £19.99, which just wobbles. But that's not the point.

The key thing is the brain-numbing Ikea shopping experience.

They opened a new store in Southampton recently. It's been a while, but naturally we head down with the hordes. It's huge! We park up and shuffle in, wide-eyed. It takes a while to get our bearings. Everything is strange, and foreign. We squint at the labels.

Who names this stuff? Is that sofa really called EKTORP? Surely that's a medical condition. There's a shelf called BODO. Wasn't he a hobbit? Do I want a light called RUTBO¹? A bookcase called BILLY²? DO I want to sit on a POANG? Are they messing with us?

Plus what's with the food? We try a hot dog. It's actual dog, on stale bread. We try Ikea coke which tastes like brake fluid. The french fries have apparently been cooked in France. Sometime last year. I don't even want to think about the provenance of the meatballs.

But perhaps there's an exotic ingredient in the hot dog, because we're being won over. They've got whole houses in there! 20m² living rooms! Supercool eco-kitchens! Dining rooms bristling with awesome fold-away cleverness! Everything's in primary colours and metric measurements. It's cool, it's chic, it's tomorrow³.

We get carried away. We grab our little Ikea pencil and Ikea list and start to write down part numbers. It's easy! Just pick 'em up on the way out. First though, you must descend through the labyrinthine martketplace, having traded your little yellow bag for a shopping trolley the size of a small car. My advice? Keep your head down and grit your teeth. Do we need a set of eight RAMBO cheese graters? No. Or 100 TWIGLET candles. Or a clever SPILPOO toilet paper dispenser. Or ELEKTROKUT plastic bedside lamps.

At last, time to pick up the big stuff. And now the day falls apart. If you want to buy a Billy bookcase, it's on aisle 34, section 7. Apart from the shelves which are on aisle 92, section 16. The feet? Aisle 4, section 22. Hang on; these are black. We wanted oak. Start again. It's out of stock. Black then? If we must.

It takes hours.

And you're almost guaranteed to get it wrong.

Don't bother asking for help. If you do, you encounter the mysterious dichotomy between Ikea the company (efficient, clever, fresh and bright) and Ikea the employee (officious, stupid, stale and dull). The answer to every question is 'If it ain't on the shelf, we ain't got none', which is a bit strange when you're asking where the toilets are.

What's more, it's not that cheap. Look around the checkouts when you finally get to them; everyone is staring wide-eyed at their receipts. Surely the KLAPTORP wasn't that much? No it wasn't, but those GOTCHA cushions mount up. Sly bastards. And then they charge you extra for using a credit card. And parking. And bags.

The final insult; you get home and it's in pieces! I thought the boxes were a bit small. Hours of screwing later (ooh-err missus) and you have half a sofa-bed and a three-legged bookcase. In blue. And boy, does it rock.

---

1 - Yes. We buy four
2 - And a whole wallful of these
2 - This isn't a footnote, it means 'square meters'. Come on, shape up.
3 - It's chipboard, but nobody's looking too closely.

And the answer to the crossword clue in the last post was 'spent a penny'. Bumper pack of Twiglets to anyone who can tell me why.

Tagged! Phew

Tea and boob cake. My favourite

Thank you to the incomparable JenJen for tagging me, and relieving me of writer's block. 'Tagging' is a new American thing, which means you answer terrifically intimate questions about yourself, then tag some other poor sods.

I beefed up the list a bit.

1. What is your current obsession?
15 across: 'Nasty, nasty authors cut through weed' (5,1,5)¹

2. What are you wearing today?
Carpet slippers and a floppy hat and nothing else. Well, it's Sunday. Or at least it was last time I looked

3. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
JenJen! Toppest of the top bananas.

4. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Is the furniture from Ikea? If so, no thanks.

5. What's your favorite quote?
", closely followed by '

6. Who do you want to meet right now?
Nobody. Neither would you if you were wearing carpet slippers and a floppy hat

7. What's your favorite magazine?
The Economist, but I tuck in a copy of 'Jugs 3D' on long train journeys. You can't tell

8. What do your friends call you most commonly?
Friends?

9. Would you prefer coffee or tea?
Oh! Tea please. I think I'd like one of those lesbian jobs, like ginseng and jojoba, or aloe vera and euphonium. No sugar.

10. What makes you go wild?
Tea

11. Who's your favourite deep sea diver?
Jacques Cousteau

12. Is that a twiglet in your pocket or are you glad to see me?
It's a twiglet

14. Are you superstitious?
Certainly not


Today I'm tagging M's. That's MiMi, Mme DeFarge, Marla, Magda, mo, and Moooooooooog. Fill your boots, team

---

1 - Come on, work it out... answer next post

Welcome Home, BalancedPaul

Oh no. Not another blanket bath

Big day today.

Observant readers will have noticed BalancedPaul is a frequent witty commenter. He also hosted the '55-word fiction' contest here over Christmas. Paul is my little brother. 'Little' as in younger; he's about three inches taller than me and could give me a sound thrashing if the mood took him, but luckily he is a genial chap.

Last summer Paul unluckily copped leukemia, at about the same time his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. He has had what the Queen, bless her, would call an 'anus horribilis'¹, which means 'arsehole of a year'.

Since then Paul has endured NHS pyjamas, peeing in a cardboard bottle, vomiting in a cardboard hat, frequent visits from obscure mates, NHS food, drips, London parking, hair loss, snow, NHS television, bedsores, tubes into his arm, tubes into his heart, Bargain Hunt, Countdown, crutches, teenage doctors examining his nethers, polystyrene cups, about a million pairs of rubber gloves, his bloody iPhone, me calling him on his bloody iPhone during nap time, you name it.

Oh, and four months of 'Not-dead-yet? Have-some-more-then' chemotherapy.

He's been in hospital for 103 nights on ond off since September. Not that he's counting or anything. Until around Christmas, his wife had much of the same. And they're not even allowed grapes. Or twiglets. So it's lucky all he can stomach is dry crackers, fruit gums, and Heinz Tomato Soup².

Well guess what? All primed with brand new bone marrow from Heroic Little Sis, Paul is now out on parole, although he's not quite home, as his brand-new antiseptic en-suite bathroom is currently a lot of bricks, pipes, and dust. Cue big brother, who is putting him up in his swanky London flat. Niiiice.

So Paul and Mrs BP are well on the way, but not quite out of the woods yet. Infection is the risk, and neither will be at work much before next Autumn. They face testing, prodding, poking, assessing, questioning, needling, general harrassment and irritation for months yet. And that's just from their kids.

It hasn't all been bad. Paul refers to this time as the Big C Diet, although he is still heavier than me, hehehe. He has honed his crossword skills; the Times Cryptic takes no time at all³. And although we may diss the NHS, no-one's ever asked him for a penny. Even for the pyjamas.

What about this blog? It was kicked off mainly as a gift to him. Unsurprisingly, you may see Paul commenting a bit less over the next few weeks; he has some catching up to do. (Ooh-er missus). And I may post a bit less for a week or two; not least of all because I'm a bit out of ideas myself. Sigh. But Paul and I will be back, as we've got the bug. (Don't mention bugs.)

If you are the praying type, please send one the way of Paul and his family. They deserve it. And/or leave him a message here; he reads 'em.

Paul, here's to you. If I could face what you have faced with half your courage, determination, optimism, dignity, humour, and sheer grit, I'd be proud. You should be too.

Enjoy your homecoming, little bro.

---

1 - Actually she said 'annus horribilis' but she's a bit old-fashioned. We know what you meant, your maj.
2 - And it has to be Heinz. He's a fussy bugger.
3 - Beacuse he still can't do it.

England 2, USA 0

Yes, very nice, but what's with the gloves?

Aeons ago, when we moved to the Yoo-Nahted States, we were urged mightily to go to The Game. So we did. What a great night out. Fill your face with hot dogs! Get slightly sozzled! Seventh innings stretch! Do the politically incorrect Tomahawk Chop! Watch the lovely ladies during amazingly frequent commercial breaks! Laugh at the hilarious man dressed as a furry animal! Puzzle over the stats on vast screens! Marvel at the blimp! Drive home with all the doors locked!¹

On my third or fourth visit I realised some men in stripy pyjamas tucked into their socks were playing a game too. And although the game was rounders, with big cheaty gloves and large salaries, from that point on I was hooked. I learnt the rules, and the subtleties of the game. I even went as far as learning what RBI stood for, although I forget now. (Raking Billions In? Run! Balls Itchy? Reuben's Bagel Imporium? Nope, it's gone)

So we were fans. But when we returned to England we naturally turned to cricket instead. And it's much better! Why?

a) It lasts longer. Test matches last five days. Five days.

b) It's a closer contest. Most five-day test matches end in a draw. Or a tie, which is different.²

c) It's sartorially superior, with jolly nice white trousers, sensible jerseys, plastic codpieces and schoolboy-type caps. All very super, in a Village People sort of way.

d) There are no commercial breaks, but it's so slow you can have a beer/pee/nap/twiglet break whenever you feel like it.

e) Like all the best sports, cricket is more or less incomprehensible. Players take up positions with names like Silly Mid Off, Long Fine Leg and Third Slip. Batsmen can be out in any of a dozen ways, including hitting your own wicket. Which is less painful than it sounds.

On the downside, there are no scantily-clad cheerleaders. But the dinner ladies at the Hampshire Rosebowl are simply gorgeous.³

So cricket wins (unlike England 90% of the time).

Which brings me to football.

I have to tell you I went to about twenty American so-called Football games in Washington and Atlanta, and no-one kicked the ball. Not even once. They just threw it around like a bunch of gurlies. And the huge geezers running around the field looking tough? Once they get all that Kevlar padding off, I bet they turn out to be 120-pound metrosexual weenies with personal trainers, Rolexes and stockbrokers. Probably.

Game over.

---

1 - It's a tradition in America to build stadia in the roughest part of town, so the players can buy their cocaine on the way in
2 - Unless it rains, in which case it just stops
3 - After six pints of lager

In Praise Of Wives

Mrs G is a keen gardener.
This isn't her, obviously

I am doubly fortunate. First, I have a wife who is half-French, half-English, which makes for an interesting life. Second, I am lucky in that her top half is English and her bottom half is French. As we all know, the English are sensible but reticent, and the French are sexy but incomprehensible. If it had been the other way round, I wouldn't understand anything she said, and we would have no children.

Modesty forbids me from revealing how long we've been hitched, but here's a clue; at our wedding, we danced to songs by that popular funky heterosexual, George Michael. And Elton John was married. And Frankie had only just arrived in Hollywood, and was picking out nice curtains.

You may get cross with the French for not turning up at all the exciting wars, but I like 'em; and vast benefits accrue from a multi-national marriage. Exotic holidays abound. We have vacationed all over France, horribly abusing family generosity. And my kids have multiple nationality, very handy in terrorist situations, or when England fail to kick gallic butt at rugby. MiniGrump in particular is French, English and American all in one, which is why she is cynical, smart-arse and sassy all at the same time.

We can choose the best of both worlds. For example, I haven't shaved my armpits since the day we met. And whenever we get a new car, Mrs G promptly crashes it to show solidarity with her Parisian kin, saving a fortune on unnecessary insurance.

When you've been together as long as we have, the question inevitably arises; doesn't one's romatic life get a bit repetitive? A bit dull? Aren't you tempted to play away from home?

In a word, no. Like Paul Newman said; why go out for burgers when you can have rump steak at home? (Or was that sirloin?)

It's true that frequency tails off a bit. There's no marital sauciness every second Wednesday, as I have to mow the lawn, and I haven't got the stamina I once had. But I have no complaints. Don't believe me, singles? Let me explain with an analogy from the exotic world of breakfast cereals.

When you're footloose and fancy-free, l'amour is like Kelloggs Variety; lots of different flavours, but not quite enough, somehow. But for the long-wed, it's more like bulk cornflakes. But wait. Cornflakes don't have to be dull. You can liven them up with strawberries, or blueberries. Or bananas. But my experienced counsel is to avoid the blueberries. You'll never get the stains out of the sheets.

Twitter: If You Can't Beat Them, Join Them

Desperate measures

I notice many savvy bloggers using Twiglet Twitter to build up following. Right, I’m up for it. How do you do that? Aren’t you limited to 140 charac

Move Over Curly-Wurly; Here Comes Cheez Whizz

You can expect Cornettos to get a lot smaller

So Kraft Foods has snapped up Cadbury for eleven billion squiddlies and change. Lots of change. Eleven billion nicker is a vast wedge of wonga in anyone's language, but specifically, it's about $19 billion. Blimey.

Kraft, famous for the most disgusting cheese in the history of mankind, a poison-spewing factory in Woburn, Mass., and a persistent refusal to publish trans-fat content, is now in debt up to its cholesterol-encrusted eyeballs and will need to make some changes.

I can't see the modest Cadbury Curly-Wurly lasting long. Curly-Wurlies may be a delicious symphony of chocolate and caramel, with their majestic swirls reminscent of the marvellous helical complexity of DNA, but they aren't very efficient. They're full of holes, and they're a bit crumbly. And they're short on preservatives, xanthan gum, carcinogenic E-numbers, and so on.

Let's face it. Their days are numbered.

In 1993 Kraft bought Terry's, a smaller confectioner with a 250-year history. Kraft closed the factory in York and moved production to Poland. Will curly-wurlies become curlski-wurlskies? I for one will not be eating them. This is because of my high social principles, and is nothing to do with them already being a bit sickly. God knows what they'll be like after the sugar wizards of Warsaw and Gdansk get hold of them.

On previous form, then, we can expect Kraft to wait for the press to focus on something else, then close down the Cadbury factories, along with their expensive outdated Quaker social policies. They'll save a mint, and no-one will notice, will they? Apart from the sacked employees, obviously, but they won't be able to afford chocolate anymore in any case.

So, with a heavy heart, this right-on socially-aware blog waves goodbye to the humble curly-wurly. From today we switch snack.

Behold: the day of the Twiglet.

Tax Return Blues

My accountant

Here's a song from the archives. 'The Tax Return Blues', by Long Willy Roachcock and the Daydreamin' Mofos, was released on the 'Home Truths' EP in 1965, along with the then-seminal but now-forgotten 'I Bought Me A Poor-Performin' Index Tracker' and 'Ain't No Use Bein' Thrifty When There's Sales Tax On beer'.

Here's me performing it, but before you listen, an international apology:

1. Sorry for sounding American. You have to put on a phoney southern drawl to sing the blues or it don't work. Er, doesn't.
2. Sorry for sounding Japanese. I recorded it on a Roland Micro BR, the size of a cigarette packet¹, with a teensy microphone guaranteed to give your voice that Yoko Ono 'je ne sais quoi'. Note also the electronic balsa wood drum kit.
3. Sorry for sounding French. Everyone knows French people can't play guitar. Well, neither can I.

Here's the lyrics so you can sing along:


Done my tax return this mornin'
Got me on my knees
Done my tax return this mornin'
Got me on my knees
Missed my filin' deadline
Gotta pay some penalties

Goodbye savin' days of clover
All that money down the drain
Goodbye savin' days of clover
All that money down the drain
Had to pay my last dime over
Forgot my goddam cap'tal gain

Oh I shoulda seen it comin'
But I'm as blind as I can be
Oh I shoulda seen it comin'
But I'm as blind as I can be
But like a fool I closed my eyes and
Ignored my P11D²

Well don't you make my mistake
With The Man don't you be messin'
Well don't you make my mistake
With The Man don't you be messin'
Get yourself a 'lectric 'puter
And do some online self-assessin'

(face-meltin' gee-tar solo)

Gonna pack my bags and head out
Gonna slide on like Ry Cooder
Gonna pack my bags and head out
Gonna slide on like Ry Cooder
Gonna fetch up somewhere warm
Ain't no taxes in Bermuda

---

Errata

It's been pointed out to me that there are, in fact, taxes in Bermuda. So here's a new last verse:

Gonna pack my bags and head out
Gonna flow on like The Mersey
Gonna pack my bags and head out
Gonna flow on like The Mersey
Gonna fetch up somewhere chilly
There's a fairly friendly and red-tape-light tax regime in Jersey

And for the avoidance of doubt, we're talking about Jersey in the English Channel, not the hilariously-named 'Garden State'.

---

1 - But you don't have to be a smoker to use it
2 - It's a form. Kiss the planet goodbye, one sheet of paper at a time

(Inspired by Hunter's recent rap at The Time Crook.)

Cheer Up Miserable Blog Gits

All right, no need to overdo it

Crikey, everyone's got the hump. I thought I was the grumpy one. January is apparently the saddest month but you know what? I like it.

Evenings are drawing out, and it's almost light at three p.m. Gordon Brown will only be rogering us painfully for another few months¹. There's a brand new Doctor Who. And so on. See? Simply heaps of good stuff.

So here are my reasons to be cheerful:

1. I already fulfilled a new year's resolution; to lose twenty pounds. It was 'Fancy Pants' running in the 2:15 at Sandown. Surefire tip, supposedly, thank you, bloody BBC Radio 4, but she came in last, having thrown the jockey after the first furlong.

2. I bought new clothes in the sales. I can now leave them hanging up 'for best' and Mrs G won't be able to nag me about being a scruffbag.

3. I built an igloo with the kids, a lifetime's ambition. It's looking a bit wonky now, but with a bit of luck it will collapse on the cat and save us a fortune in vet's bills and cat food.

4. I figured out my new AX3000G Guitar Workstation. I pluck one note and it promptly plays the whole solo on 'Hotel California'. Now all I need is a decent vocal effects unit and I won't even need to turn up at gigs.

5. At long last I finished Stieg Larsson's third book, the strangely compelling but bloody long 'The Girl Who Liked Swedish Rumpy-Pumpy When Not Beating Up Hell's Angels And The Swedish Secret Service', featuring the least likely heroine in the mercifully short history of Swedish popular literature. I'm now moving on to something snappier, like War And Peace, or the phone book.

6. It's still snowing so I have an excuse not to jog, or even walk for that matter.

7. Curly-wurlies are on special at Tesco; £1.00 for 5. Run in and grab yourself a happy bargain.

There you go. My reasons for feeling as happy as the proverbial pig. What are yours?

---

1 - I dread to think who's next though

UberGrumble And Filch

Accessorising that perfect top

A good tale from my neighbour. Let's call him Ken¹. Ken is a good-hearted man; he bought his lovely daughter a top from AberCrombie and Fitch which was the wrong size. No problem; planning a trip to London anyway, he offered to change it for her.

We live and learn.

Upon arrival he is surprised to find a queue snaking out of the shop and round the corner. A queue for a shop? Is the queen visiting? Or David Beckham? Apparently not. There's always a queue at A&F. Ken joins the line to find himself surrounded by eager teenies. And when Ken sensibly takes the opportunity to eat his cheese and pickle sandwiches with curly-wurly and diet Fanta, they all noisily disrespect him.

So Ken feels a little out of place by the time he reaches the door. But upon entry he is concerned to discover they have a power cut, or a fire. How come they're still letting people in? It's completely dark, and sirens are going off.

But as his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realises this is how it is all the time. And the sirens are in fact loud and trendy music. Has he accidentally lined up for a nightclub? How embarrassing.

But no; he puts his hands in front of him and advances gingerly until he bumps into what feels like a clothes rail. It is the shop.

Now call me old-fashioned but I quite like to see clothes when I'm buying them. Ken's in the same camp. Wishing he'd brought his head-torch, he manfully squints at tops for a while. No help is available; the A&F employees are busy dancing, half-naked, on a dimly-lit balcony far above. Ken shakes his fist at them, but they mistake it for a dance move of yesteryear, and kindly shake their fists back.

Ken is now quite cross, but he's come this far and he is made of steel. He finds the right top and gropes his way to the tills.

There's another queue. This one takes half an hour. Ken is beset by suspicious glances from more teenies who obviously assume he is a pervert come to spy on their shopping. But at last he is at the front, by now grinding his teeth. The assistant, very fetching in a bikini and buffed up with what looks like margarine, asks did he want the pink top? The old one's orange.

No he didn't. He just couldn't see the difference. So she stands him to one side and fetches the orange one for him. But then it turns out the one Ken chose was indeed orange; it was just labelled wrong. It takes a manager in a thong and a bowtie with a shaven chest and more margarine to sort out the mess.

By the time Ken gets out, two hours have passed.

What sort of evil genius can conceive of a shop like this? Buy a job lot of clothes from a sweat shop in Cambodia, put BIG LABELS on them, and then hang them in the dark. And hey presto! The kids are converging from miles around. No matter what you charge, because they all have vast cash reserves.

Ken, here's to you mate; you're a better man than I. Next time I buy pants and socks from M&S I'm going to keep my eyes closed the whole time in solidarity. Maybe I'll end up with a nice shade of pink. Or orange.

---

1 - Because that's his name

Sports Illustrated - The Swimsuit Edition

Just do it!

After my recent jogblog, Dan and BalancedPaul challenged me to publish a picture of myself in running togs. Vodka Logic also told me off for never showing pictures of hunky blokes.

Happy to oblige on both counts.

Thanks to Mrs G for taking this action shot of me overtaking some weeny cyclists. Although it's a bit cold here, luckily we had a nice sunny day. I thought she captured my 'determined runner' look very well. Can you spot the snack curly wurly concealed about my person?

I hope you appreciate my matching running gear and hat. I always run in a hat, for the sake of modesty.

The School Trip

Would you like carbon with that sir?

My favourite school trip¹, ever, was a day out at Heathrow Airport, followed by a tour of Southampton Container Port.

Aeroplanes! Back then they had propellers, two sets of wings and frequent prangs with airships. And bombs.

Then containers! Thousands of them! As far as the eye could see! Full of exotic stuff like trousers, transistor radios and illegal immigrants. How could you not like containers?

All this for three quid, with a pork pie, a curly-wurly and a bottle of Corona for lunch. Magic.

How times have changed. No. 2 Daughter, AKA the garrulous MiniGrump, has just booked herself on her school's latest trip. They're spending ten days or so in sunny Thailand. Yes, Thailand. We have remortgaged Grumpy Towers and sold off a few superfluous organs to pay for it, so she's off!

Why Thailand? She's studying Buddhism. Therefore it makes absolute sense to head to the heart of Buddhism, right? Let's tease that logic out. She's studying French. Are they planning a sensible day jaunt to Calais, where they can also stock up on cheap booze and unpasteurised cheese? No. She's studying art. Are they popping up to the National Gallery to look at Great Art, or Tate Modern to look at blank walls and building materials posing as Great Art? No.

So what's behind the tour of places exotic? After attending the parent's talk I got to the bottom of it. It turns out the kiddies on the trip must be accompanied by teachers at a ratio of five to one. And are those teachers paying? What do you think? They told us they'll be working the whole time. I suppose someone has to keep them away from the drugs and the ladyboys. Nice work if you can get it, eh?

But economics aside it looks pretty fabulous. She gets to ride on an elephant! Learn Thai dancing! Ride the uniquely polluted rivers of Bangkok! Be bitten by strange and ferocious insects! She can't help gloating at us but I remind her that she's never had a whole morning out at Heathrow. At least not without actually taking a flight. Ha.

But the kicker is this. One of the teachers stood up at the end and said, in the spirit of Copenhagen, they want to offset their carbon emissions for the trip. They're going to invest in a marijuana farm in the Gambia or something, which will absorb simply heaps of CO2. To that end, could we all cough up an extra thirty pounds?

Hold on. Reduce emissions like this: visit the perfectly nice Buddhist temple in Morecambe Bay. They can stay there for a week. That way they avoid the enormous aeroplane and the luxury layover in Dubai. I suggested it and got a frosty 'no'. No explanation given, but I suspect it's because there aren't many elephants there, and it's not very sunny in Morecambe Bay in February.

So Thailand it is. But they can take their thirty pounds and shove it where the sun don't shine. And I don't mean the fridge.

---

1 - And it was my only ever school trip, so by definition it was my favourite.

Jogging Tips For Lazy Bastards

Always choose sensible footwear
when exercising

About this time of year Mrs G throws out the mince pies, empties the Blue Peter Sweety Castle, then castigates me for being a fat git. And if I'm honest the 6-pack is looking a bit insulated, although I'm sure it's still in there somewhere.

We must go jogging, says Mrs G. If God had meant us to jog, He'd have given us feet, I retort. You've got feet, she replies, quick as a wink, you just can't see them any more. Get your trainers on. I'll do the laces for you.

When she gets these ideas into her head, there's no use fighting it. I get out my running gear (Nike! Just do it!) from the attic with a heavy heart. But I have learned some useful techniques from previous years' abortive fitness projects, so I'd like to share them with you.

First, and most important, always run in kilometres. These handy measures are a lot shorter than miles, cutting your journey times enormously. Kilometres were invented by the French in the 15th century so they could get to battles before the English and have their cannons all set up, plus have time for a plate of moules marinieres and a nice chablis before all that messy fighting. Then we outfoxed them by inventing the longbow, which still fired arrows in miles, but that's another story.

Second, a good warm-up and warm-down are critical. The best way to do this is by strolling the first and last kilometre, or 'K', as we joggers would have it. That way if you're planning a 5K, you only have to run 3! Neat eh?

Third, a good mid-run snack is important to keep your energy up. I usually drop a fun-size curly-wurly down my shorts, and although it's a bit melty by the time I retrieve it, it tastes as good as ever. Plus Mrs G generally declines my generous offer of a bite, so I get the whole thing myself.

Finally, pay your neighbour to secretly let his dog loose on your planned route. Mrs G hates dogs, especially those that jump up at her to let her know they've just deposited their breakfast on her path. Two or three more outings like this, and she's rethinking the whole jogging thing.

We're almost safe for another year. It just remains for me to suggest a conscience-salving game of tennis on the Wii. Unless the batteries are flat, in which case we'll just stop taking sugar in our tea, shall we? For now, anyway.

---

P.S. Check out my awesome award from JennyMac! She has an astounding 834 followers. 834! I've been limited to soixante-neuf for ages. Which is not something you get to say often.

New Year, New Passports

Not a valid photo. Glasses!

This is about the time of year when we've had enough of drizzle, VAT, Tesco adverts featuring cheerful B-list celebs, the M4, and Gordon Bloody Brown, and we think wistfully of foreign climes. Unfortunately all the Family Grump passports expire in January so it's renewal time. Ha. For ample evidence that the government has well and truly lost the plot, and is making a thorough nuisance of itself every moment of your CCTV-recorded life, I recommend you try renewing yours.

Starting point is the photo. Easy, you may think. But you may think wrong. (I tried digging out left-over snaps from my previous passport application, but I look like a Mexican bandito with poor taste in shirts.) The rules for passport photos have got a lot stricter. Bloody government.

You can't smile, but on the other hand you mustn't snarl like a terrorist, unless you want a finger up the bottom every time you go to Calais for a booze cruise. Both ears must be on prominent display. You must wear neither your natty al-Qaeda headband, nor your sexy Che Guevara neckscarf. Your Vladimir Putin shades are right out.

So, new photo then. Bloody government.

Photo-Me machines used to be fun little booths you could squeeze into on the way home from the pub, to take some truly hilarious pics with you and your equally legless buddies, provided an earlier, more drunken reveller hadn't mistaken the booth for a public toilet.

Alas, technology has caught up, and so has the bloody government. The booths are now like little Whitehall departments in miniature. They know all about passports. Put your money in and they actually talk to you, to make sure everything is just right. Don't smile. Adjust your height. Lose the specs. Get your hair out of your eyes. Are you chewing gum? Are you sober? Did you brush your teeth this morning? I said, don't smile. Lean forward a bit. FLASH! You blinked. That'll be another four pounds please. Join the back of the queue, citizen.

After three or four attempts you're done. Now simply get the photo countersigned by a magistrate, bishop and/or or pop star, and you can progress to the application form. This hasn't got any easier either. You must fill in each little box exactly right or the weasel at the Post Office, which is 30 miles from your house because the bloody government has closed most of them, will give your form back and tell you to start again. Join the back of the queue, citizen.

The bloody government is obsessed with data, so obviously we've gone all biometric. Every detail gathered about you since records began is stuffed onto a little chip on the back page. So don't be surprised if border guards start asking you if you're a communist. Oh how you regret mistaking that copy of 'Socialist Worker' for 'TV Guide'.

The first foreign trip I ever took was to Germany (I was young and foolish). To allow me to travel I got a British Visitor's Passport. It cost about as much as two Curly-Wurlies, lasted a year, and the nice lady at the village Post Office and General Stores did it for me on the spot. Fast-forward to today. The price for the new family passports? Over three hundred quid. Three hundred quid! Is foreign travel worth the effort at all? Of course it is. We need a break from the bloody government.

Blue Wales

A real Welsh beauty

Not blue as in 'sad', blue as in 'cold'. We're not sad, far from it; we're having a Welsh Whale of a time. Christmas in Wales is a blast. The cold isn't a problem either; we have plenty of firewood and when that runs out, furniture. Then cats.

Blogging, however, is a bit of a technical challenge. Luckily today just happens to be a day when we get both electricity and network access; very rare up in the Powys hills. So I'm taking the opportunity to announce the results of BalancedPaul's festive quiz (see previous post).

This isn't quite as simple as it should have been; e-mail has been a bit erratic, as by law all mails must be translated into Welsh, then taken by carrier pigeon to the local post office. However two successful entries managed to struggle through, and the winners are:

• the incomparable Jen-Jen!


• the amazing Vodka Logic!

Congratulations to them. The correct answers were 'Pride and Prejudice' and 'A Christmas Carol.'

If anyone else thought they'd answered correctly and I didn't get in touch, apologies. I have to admit to some confusion. Some of the pigeons are on strike, and others may have frozen on the way through. Please let me know and I'll sort on our return to civilization England.

I have one small confession to make. I bought the prize curly-wurlies and an extra one for me. Then I ate it. Crikey they're sweet. And quite sticky. Goodbye fillings, hello love handles. You have been warned.

Anyway, next post in the New Year. Party time! Cheers

BalancedPaul's 55-Word Mystery Giveaway

Dressed for winter conditions

Special treat today; a guest post from BalancedPaul, and an epic curly-wurly giveaway.

BP is in fact my brother, and if I'm Sherlock Holmes (I wish) then he's Mycroft, i.e. cleverer, more enigmatic, and too lazy to run his own blog.

BP was much taken with G-man's 55-word fiction thing (tell a story in exactly 55 words) which normally takes place on a Friday, but this Friday we will be in the middle of our Welsh Christmas, so will spend all morning in church singing 'Land of our Fathers' and 'Bread of heaven', then all afternoon shearing leeks. It's tough up here.

So your 55-word challenge is early. He's fiendishly condensed two classic stories without referring to major characters at all. What are they?

Competition open to all followers of this blog. To enter, just e-mail the names to mw@tucasi.com. First three correct will win a year's supply of delicious and nutritious curly-wurlies¹.

Good luck. Here's the stories:


Bodice-ripper, with class

Lady with five daughters to marry off. Unlucky, eh? Eldest finds
catch. Vivacious second, his supercilious friend.

Youngest brings disgrace. Trollop. Friend dissuades catch but offers
own hand despite lowering himself. What! Rejected!

Complications ensue. Youngest marries. Phew. Honour saved.

Friend and catch finally learn value of virtue over background. All
marry. Everyone happy. Nearly.


WTD?

It's cold but no coal can be put on the fire. Miserable sod.

Christmas is costly. People wanting time off. Bah.

The ghosts show the error of this outlook; deceased ex-partner always forgotten.

A change of heart! And the goose is purchased for Tiny Tim (mind you, I wish someone would strangle him)

Merry Christmas!

---

1 - Which means five of them. I wouldn't want you getting lardy

Christmas Card Ethics

Always use a ballpoint pen when
writing cards

We are racing through pointless Chrimbo cards to deliver to our neighbours, who we see every few days anyway. Poor Mrs G does the bulk of the work; I can't write, courtesy of being left-handed, and typing a lot, thereby losing the habit.

So we have developed a good system. Mrs G writes the cards, then I scrawl my name, stick on an address label and lick the envelopes. I like this bit. I feel with every lick I can taste a bit of old China, or Malaysia, and sometimes Hong Kong. (We don't spend much on our cards.) So I just enjoy the ghost of Peking Duck or Singapore Noodles, complete with green tea, and food poisoning.

Anyway all that's easy. Harder is tackling the Moral Maze of Christmas cards. There are several thorny issues. Here's some guidance for you.

One. Do I send them at all? Each year we get more and more e-cards, and a high-horse message telling us the money saved will be donated to charity. Yeah, right. Sure you do. Prove it and send me the accounts. Verdict: If you don't want to send a card, don't send anything. e-cards suck like a new Dyson.

Two. Do I send a card to Great Aunt Agatha again this year? I haven't seend her in thirty years and if one is honest with oneself, one is just hoping for a modest legacy when she pops off some time fairly soon. Is that the spirit of Christmas? I think not. Verdict: Yup, send it. She actually shuffled off this mortal coil in 2003 and her grasping kids got the mansion. At least I can annoy them with the card.

Three. Do I enclose a form letter with interesting highlights of my year? Verdict: Absolutely not. Ask yourself this: do you like receiving them? We received one this year detailing the contents of a child's blazer pockets. I don't give a stuff about your favourite films or your top ten recipes either. Save your breath and the planet. A simple hand-written 'hope to see you in 2010' will suffice.

Four. Do I give a card to the postman with a fiver in it, in response to his cheery card dropped in earlier in the week? Verdict: No. If he can't be bothered to say hello during the week, he doesn't deserve it, and he's on strike most of the time anyway. His card was a cynical attempt to gain a tip and should be used to light the christmas fire. If you have to give him something, a curly-wurly and/or a mince pie is ample.

Five: Do I send a card to my curmudgeonly neighbour who never gave my strimmer back and whose dogs leave wet little presents in the swing set? Verdict: Yes. It's a good opportunity to send a little reminder. Write a cheery message like 'Seasons greetings to you and your canine chums. Have you tried dried dog food? Where's my bloody strimmer?'

So there it is. I hope that eases some of those nagging seasonal stresses for you. And by the way, Merry Christmas. We won't be sending out cards this year, but will instead be buying a bigger turkey and a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape to go with it. The '95. Cheers.

The Knight Before Christmas

A typical 'relaxing at home' outfit

Right, feeling better now. Thank you for your hangover cures.

I rewrote this 'orrible schmaltzy poem a couple of weeks ago, and felt very pleased at how witty and original I was until I saw lots of others had done the same thing, sooner and better. Particularly Bob and Eva. Oh well.

Anyway, for your reading pleasure; a sobering tale of a less-than-sober Christmas reunion. It's serious stuff.


'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the flat
Not a creature was stirring, (we'd sold off the cat).
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Along with some other top-notch underwear.

The children were nestled all snug at their Dad's,
who was out, naughty chap, in the pub with the lads.
And mamma stayed in with some tonic and gin,
And some Pringles with dip, for a long evening in.

When out on the street there arose such a racket,
She fell off the sofa and tore her new jacket.
Away to the window she flew with a curse,
I daren't repeat it, although you've heard worse.

The moon on the breast of the statue outside
Made its bosoms look big and its hips far too wide.
When, what to her booze-fuddled eyes should appear,
But the guys from the pub, overflowing with beer.

There was one on the phone, trying vainly to text,
she knew in a moment it must be her ex.
Like damp chipolatas his fingers they went,
It would surely be morn 'fore that message was sent!

"Now Jason! now, Tony! now, Martin and Steve!
Look, David! You've got some kebab on your sleeve
Try to look sober, grown-up and clean-breasted,
Or the cops will turn up and we'll all be arrested.

Mindful of this, the lads soon dissipated,
Apart from her hubby who stood with breath bated,
Looking uncertainly up at the flat,
Where his missus of fond memory was now at.

And then, in a twinkling, he weaved to the door
And dinged on the bell with a trembling paw.
No answer there came, but with booze-inspired pluck,
Down the chimney he went, though he nearly got stuck.

His dress was smart casual, from his head to his foot,
But his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
He didn't look clever or famous or rich,
Apart from his shirt, Abercrombie and Fitch.

His eyes-they were bloodshot! His lips, like blueberry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
But he grinned like a fool and tried to look sober,
Which he hadn't been since the last week of October.

But he didn't look too bad, all things considered
Though he looked a bit dozy and quite heavy-lidded
Nevertheless his bearing was burly
Curly his hair, his moustache nicely whirly

Come in to the kitchen she said with a sigh,
You'd better have coffee, I've got a supply
It's not that you're welcome, she said with a shrug,
It's just that the soot is destroying my rug.

He opened his mouth to deliver a carol
She hit him quite hard with an old biscuit barrel
Ouch, he exclaimed, was it something I did?
Yes, she replied, you're neglecting the kids

I am not, he declaimed, with great indignation
I left them at home with a distant relation
Who? She demanded, her eyes full of pain
"If you must know, it's Auntie Deauxma from Ukraine".

She softened a bit, and she offered her cheek
Which was more than he'd hoped for, for many a week
He asked if she'd let him remain for the night,
No, she replied, but when sober, you might.

He spoke not a word, but delivered his gift,
A small potted plant that he'd nicked from a lift.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He wiped off a teardrop, which from him arose.

He sprang to his feet, like a kid with a toy
And blew her a kiss as he left, full of joy.
And she heard him exclaim, as he fell down a drain,
"Happy Chrishmash, and sorry I've been such a pain."

Wretched Excess

Has anyone seen my glass?

No post this morning. Hung over.

Good cure anyone? I tried raw egg and curly-wurly already.

Lingering In The Lingerie

Always check the fire-retardant
certificate when buying lingerie

It's that time of year. Mrs G likes something frilly in the ole' Christmas stocking so I pluck up my courage and head for the lingerie department. Actually, if truth be known, I think Mrs G would be quite happy with a gift box of curly-wurlies and a Harry Potter DVD, but a good marriage is built on solid foundations (snigger) and moreover there's a festive tradition to be upheld here. Where would we be without festive traditions?^1,2,3

So. Up to the second floor of Debenhams (nothing but the best for Mrs G). There are literally acres of mysterious lacey elastic-y underwired overpriced lurid lurex suspending padded inflatable translucent fripperies on display, and I am immediately all at sea.

Luckily I am not alone. The undies are all on little rails, just above waist height. Every ten feet or so there is a man wandering up and down, trying to look nonchalant, and studiously avoiding eye contact with everybody else. There are a couple of assistants too, hovering and trying not to laugh. We are like giraffes in the African veldt, poking our heads above the trees, taking care to evade the lionesses. Where's David Attenborough when you need him?⁴

In early years I would suffer hours of this, then grab anything and throw it at the till person, only to get it home and realise it's too big, too tarty, too itchy, too thongy, too purple, and, one memorable year, too edible. I have learned from my mistakes, and I now have a strategy. I boldly head⁵ for the chief lioness and ask her for her advice. What would she wear?

She wants to know Mrs G's size. No problem. I'm wise to this too. I used to say 'about two inches taller than you' and then wonder why they looked annoyed. Now I have all the relevant measurements to hand; cup size, inside leg, outside leg, surface area, fuel capacity, starting temperature, viscosity, voltage, range, 0-60 times, trade-in value, etc. I simply hand over the spreadsheet.

Looking suitably impressed, she makes some suggestions. Apparently crotchless earflaps are all the rage this year. They're pretty expensive, certainly if measured by the square foot, but who am I to argue? I pick out a pair in a tasteful shade of Manchester United red⁶. Subtle. She'll love this. Come Christmas morning, that'll get pride of place in the big drawer, on top of last year's. And the year's before that. And so on.

---

1 - Happier
2 - Richer
3 - Vacationing abroad
4 - Shopping for better quality lingerie in Harrods
5 - Yes I know it's a split infinitive. If Capt Kirk can do it then so can I
6 - I am a Chelsea fan but blue is sooooo last season, dahling

Christmas Number Two

Merry what, daaahling? Can't hear you

How I loathe festive music. Every year in the UK, there is a tawdry traditional scramble to be top of the increasingly meaningless music chart, by releasing the most schmaltzy, gooey, sugar-coated, banal, insipid slop that the latest Simon Cowell-inspired, two-dimensional, d-list, brainless, egocentric, half-baked flat-voiced media monkey can croon. (Mind you, I quite like Alexandara Burke.)

These treacle-laden ditties exist for a reason, and it's nothing to do with invoking the spirit of St. Nick. They make a huge wedge of wonga for the author, and continue to deliver the dollops of cash year after year. Because I am quite poor, and mercenary, I have therefore swallowed my scruples, and penned a potential festive hit. Unfortunately it's too rude to publish on this family blog. Leave a comment or mail if you want the lyrics but I warn you, it's not pretty.

Last year Mrs G and I were in town, taking coffee 'n' curly-wurly to refuel between sessions of frenzied grasping for over-priced nine-day-wonder tat for the kids. Picture the scene. We sit in what we take to be a quiet corner. We're adding up the credit card bill, to get some worrying in ahead of January, when on comes Maria Carey ("All I want for Christmas, is yooooo"). This song induces a murderous Pavlovian reaction in me whenever I hear it, so to avoid the ghastly bloodbath which may ensue, I ask the waitress to turn it down, or preferably off.

Flat refusal. The customers like it.

This customer doesn't, so he unplugs the speaker. Blessed silence and happy coffee, and pleasingly baffled waitress.

So I encourage you to do the same; keep some nail scissors in your pocket or bag, unless you're going on an aeroplane. Then when you hear the first chords of "When A Child Is Born", snip! And it's gone. Merry Christmas.

---

P.S. The very lovely Vodka Logic has posted my 'New Santa's Hit' (watch that punctuation) at her sumptuous blog. Complete with tasteful illustrations!

Micro-Fiction Friday! Or Sunday

So many books, so little time

There’s a top-banana craze sweeping the blogosphere; micro-fiction Friday. Or something. Go see Galen or Susan At Stony River for a better definition. Anyway, you have to write a story in exactly 55 words, and then fabulous prizes await. Well, I’m slow to catch on, but quick to catch up. Here’s my effort. I’m not creative enough to write my own story, but to make up for it, I’ve nicked not one, but four! Enjoy.


Celebrated Fantasy Trilogy

Bilbo, 111! Gandalf persuades: “It’s up to you Frodo. Take the ring. And Sam.”
The fellowship sets off. Legolas etc. fight well. Look out Boromir! Gandalf, dead!

Many battles ensue. Yawn. Gandalf’s back. Surprise!

Soon, hobbits and Gollum reach Mordor. It’s really dirty.
Chuck the ring in! No! Yes! No! Ow, my finger!

The end.


Shakespearean Epic

Montague and Capulet, always at it. But Romeo meets Juliet, now also at it, but in a nice way.

“Wherefore art thou? It’s dark down there”.
“Here! Marriage?”
“Yes!”

Angry Tybalt slayeth Mercutio. Romeo slayeth Tybalt back. Juliet feigneth death! Romeo, fooled, toppeth himself! Juliet awakens and joins him, silly girl. Chastened families apologize.

Tragic.


Popular But Tedious Thriller

French curator murdered! Langdon investigates, with sexy Sophie. Enigmatic code; scratch head; solved!

Clever old da Vinci hides clues. Hidden for millennia! Langdon uncovers all in about two days! Crikey, he’s clever. Or lucky.

Despite nasty self-harming monk, bishop, pope, church, etc., Langdon uncovers amazing secret! Jesus had kids. Big deal. Why all the secrecy?


Sci-Fi Classic

Vader captures Leia! Kiss the revolution goodbye. But Luke, trained by Obi-Wan, fights back! Take that, Death Star! Boom!

Many aliens and ludicrous teddy bears later, Yoda fulfils Luke’s Jedi training. Nice moves.

Sod that, says Darth, I’ll build another Death Star. But Luke is too powerful! Boom again!

Luke, I am your father! *croak*

Baaaaa Humbug

Raquel, curiously, is not Welsh

The Family Grumpy are excited to be off to Wales for Christmas. Wales is a special and exotic place, and the Welsh are a noble and proud people, rather like Hobbits. It's just a few hours from London, but it could be the other side of the world, say New Zealand. Like New Zealand, there are more sheep than people, which goes some way to explaining how most of the Welsh Assembly got elected. Welsh sheep also come in many varieties; the dingleberry, the curly-wurly, the tikka masala, the temptress, the baabaablack, to name but a few.

Besides being the Prince of Wales' vegetable garden, Wales is famous for many things. It's produced celebrities like Tom Jones, Catherine Zeta Jones, Davy Jones, Aled Jones, and Indiana Jones. Globally renowned sports like rugby, bog snorkelling, Man vs Horse racing, and Extreme Ironing flourish there. Welsh rarebit, famous everywhere else as cheese on toast, is a local delicacy. And so on.

Wales has its own language, which like, er, whales, is (are?) endangered. This is not a surprise as it is one of the most bizarre languages ever invented. For example, to wish a Welshman "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" then simply say "Nadolig llawen a blwyddyn newydd dda". If you pronounce that right then it sounds like you choked on your Christmas pud, coughed it up and sneezed.

Left to its own devices this quaint language might fade away, but it's kept alive via generous dollops of my EU cash. All documents, road signs, web-sites, TV and radio programs in Wales must be translated. For example, go to the web-site of the Prince of Wales and click on the 'cymraeg' ('Welsh'¹) button. Bang! Goodbye vowels. It all adds to the mystical charm of the place.

We can't wait. We will be staying with Eldest Sister, a Physician of Repute specialising in sheep-related diseases, in her leek farm in the hills. We will be bringing modern presents from England, like tinned food, VHS tapes, and cutlery. Eldest sis doesn't have central heating, but she does have plenty of cats, so you can warm yourself by dropping one down your pyjamas of an evening.

They also don't have electricity, but we can watch TV as my brother-in-law is a handy soul. Someone simply pedals the power-generating exercise bike while everyone else watches the trusty 14" VHS combo, but we rarely do, as all they can receive is Welsh-language soap-operas, and Dr Who.

So blogging might be a challenge, particularly as 'broadband' in Wales is simply another variety of sheep, and I am obliged to translate all posts. But I'll do my best. Yacky da.²

---

1 - At least, I think it means 'Welsh'. It might also mean 'Sod Off English Pigs'
2 - Either 'good health' or 'your ewe is standing on my toe' depending on your dictionary.

P.S. Thank you Christie, for the lovely award posted on the right! Before I can pass it on I have to think of, and state, several original and interesting things about me. Don't hold your breath

Vous Voulez Ketchup Avec Ca?

Nigella displays her bountiful cherries

It might not be common knowledge abroad, but we Brits are now a nation of gastronomes. This is a mighty blow to the French whose national pastime is to knock our grub (Mon dieu! Zis is cheese? It tastes like soap), but I suspect we now eat better than they do. If you don't believe me, have a mouth-watering rib-eye at our local pub¹, then jump on the Eurostar², wander down the Champs Elysees, and order steack frites³. You'll be picking the gristle out of your teeth for days.

How has this miracle come to pass? You can thank the celebrity chefs. Morning, day and night our TV is full of high-profile foul-mouthed macho chefs, ranging from Jamie Oliver (cor, strike a light, this pate en croute is f***ing sublime) to Huge Fartley-Whittlingstool (Keeping pigs is rewarding and ecologically fulfilling. Now watch while I kill one) to Gordon Ramsay (Who's f***ing moved my f***ing hat. I can't f***ing cook without my f***ing hat on, can I?)

Ah ha! We Brits rule the world in this field! Even you mighty Yanks have hamstrung yourself, by insisting that your celebrity chefs were already famous for something else. All you can offer is Paul Newman's (admittedly tasty) dressings. There's a lady called Martha Stewart who has an interesting take on prison food. And no, I don't want to buy a grill from George Foreman. Is that it?

There are a couple of frenchies in the offing, but they all live in London, so they're really Brits too. Game over!

This is also a recent UK history in microcosm. When I was a kid, '70s Britain was an austere place. The chef of choice was one Fanny Craddock, a truly nasty old lady who would frequently whack her husband with a rolling pin whenever his fingers ventured into her puff pastry.

On to the deliciously excessive '80s, and stagger forward Keith Floyd, bon viveur and utter drunk, who'd slur and sway his way through a recipe, and polish off an entire St Emilion Grand Cru in 25 minutes. No-one can remember anything he cooked, but he was meshmerishing mishermeshing hypnotic.

Then in the '90s, decade of consumption and choice, we went nuts. Delia Smith! Gary Rhodes! Ainsley Harriott! Rick Stein! Lloyd Grossman! Anthony Worral Thompson! All household names, and every single one of them released a book at Christmas, and/or a range of barbecue tongs, kitchen appliances, coffee machines, pasta sauces, flavoured condoms, you name it.

Which brings us to the sassy no-holds-barred noughties, and the current lot. Little wonder we're all fat.

Well, now it's my turn. I am a bit of a foodie. I eat most days, sometimes more than once, and I take my gastronomy seriously. I'm working on a modest book, "Chew On This", which might not be ready for Christmas but should be available for barbecue season, which in England is the afternoon of July 17th⁴.

You'd like a little taster? My modest contribution to our culinary cornucopia includes Battered Curly-wurly in Creme Fraiche. Delicious. Watching the cholesterol? Then may I recommend you my Cheerio Sushi Surprise? You may not like Cheerios, or sushi, but I guarantee you'll be surprised.

---

1 - Assuming you've got a spare forty quid
2 - Assuming you've got a spare two hundred quid
3 - Assuming you've got a spare three euros fifty, and can put up with the rudest waiter you've ever met
4 - Unless it's raining

Christmas Gig Report

One of our roadies,
pre-warming the guitars

I'm posting at 3 a.m. because Hot Rabbit, Hampshire's Hardest-Working Band¹, just finished our Christmas gig and I can't sleep. We work our nadgers off when we play; we started at 9 and finished at 11:45, played more than forty songs, and only stopped for 30 seconds so the bass player could have a pee. (Bass players have notoriously weak bladders.) You'd think we'd be knackered at the end of it but I'm wired and am struck down with terminal munchies, so I have to sit up half the night watching Fu Manchu movies and eating cheese and crackers. And blogging.

We had an OK crowd; there were about 80 people in a small pub, and two huge dogs, so it felt full enough. Sometimes the ole' mojo kicks in and tonight it did. Oh how they danced. I reached the top notes in 'Livin' On A Prayer' and 'Mr. Brightside'. Fighting off pre-instrumental tension, I stepped up to 'Play That Funky Music White Boy'. I aced the tricky glockenspiel solo on 'The Curly-Wurly Of Love'. And the other lads were on similar top-notch form.

I sweated a bucket. We all did. We ended up The Four Hoarse Men Of The A-Puckered Lips. I've worn my index fingernail down to the quick, even though I use a plectrum, and my throat is as dry as Osama Bin Laden's wine cellar. Big noise, big fun.

But we're talking to the landlord as we pack up and he's shaking his head; it's tough to get people out on a Saturday. Why? Because TV is packed with shows like X Factor and Pop Idle and I Used To Be A Celebrity, Put Me Out Of my Misery. The British public sit in mindless droves soaking this stuff up, week after week. He's right. He's absolutely right.

I've tried to like these programs, I really have, because it would be a connection with the kids. But they kick me out of the room after five minutes of watching because my teeth are grinding so loudly.

The truth is I can't stand them (I mean the TV shows, not the kids). I loathe Simon Cowell. How can you trust a man with such straight teeth? He can't be a Brit. I despise the spectacle of half-arsed talentless gormless barbie-and-ken egomaniacs queuing up for ritual humiliation because they want to be famous ("it's my dream"; "it's everything to me"; etc. ad nauseam). The lovely Simon sticks a thousand of them on a pedestal for two minutes and then slaps all but one off. What fine entertainment.

Worst of all: the songs they slaughter and sell by the gazillion. Last year Alexandra Burke won Strictly X-rated Pop Factor, or something, and released 'Hallelujah'. She sang it with beautiful clarity and technical precision, and no feeling at all. Nothing. A song with heart, delivered like an advertising jingle. All she felt was lucky.

Ditto Susan Boyle's note-pefect and utterly lifeless 'Wild Horses'. Mind you at least she has novelty value. The last time a voice matched a face so badly was when Leonard Nimoy released his all-time classic 'The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins'. (The live version is even better).

So switch off the Electric Box Of Evil and Sloth, get out to a pub or club, and watch a band. Any band. These are people who get up and give, night after night, for the love of it. They don't stand up and sing half a song, with sly electronics and a full BBC orchestra covering up how duff they are. And they don't run home in tears when they don't win.

Better still, come and see us. We can promise you a warm welcome, a sweaty evening and a big smile on your face. How often do you get an offer like that? We may be forty-something (forty-thirteen in one case) but we rock.

---

1 - Check out our supercool, ultra-modern website, www.hotrabbit.co.uk. I did it myself, you know.

Drinking For England

Phew! It's crowded in here

My mate Raj and I like to go to the pub the hard way. Parking next door is for weenies and liberals. We start out at least five miles away and yomp our way in, to build up an appetite for warm beer, and pork scratchings. That way we can discuss the overthrow of the government out of the reach of CCTV cameras and ultra-sensitive microphones. We never whinge about our better halves though, as that would be ungentlemanly.¹

So today we meet at Cheesefoot Head, which may sound like a fungal infection but is in fact a well-known beauty spot. It's been the wettest November on record, wetter even than Susan Boyle dribbling all over 'Wild, wild Horses'. But we are made of iron, and besides, we have waterproof boots. Fortified with a hip flask and a curly-wurly each, we walk, paddle and sometimes even swim to the Flowerpots Inn in Cheriton, the Best Pub in Hampshire, ready for opening time at 12:00.

Raj is a top-speed paddler. I trot along behind and we arrive early, at 11:30-ish. To our consternation the pub opens late, at 12:30, says the board outside. So it's another hour walking. But first we nip round the back to admire their fine urinals. We surprise the barmaid, who is polishing the Landlord's beer pump.

"Er, is the pub open?", I ask, which is my way of pretending I wasn't sneaking in to exercise the plumbing.

"We can be," she says.

Five minutes later we're warming our hands on the beer (a bit early I know) and having a fine old chat with the landlord. The fire's lit, the ale is tasty, really tasty, and all is well. On the dot of 12:00 half the village walks in, also ignoring the board outside, and the party's on.

Sometimes I yearn for foreign shores. The Family Von Grump plan long trips to sunnier climes, exotic locations, exciting places. We buy maps, mosquito nets, malaria tablets, harpoons and bear traps. We book guides, we buy insurance. You have to be prepared for anything in Normandy.

Then I come to a pub like this and remember why I live in England. It's absolutely bloody knockout. The staff are friendly, so are the locals, the food is wholesome and plentiful, the dog doesn't smell, there are no pinball machines or horse brasses, there's no tooth-grinding Christmas music. Opening and closing time are a fiction. Come when you like. None of this oh-sorry-breakfast-ended-at-eleven-sir. It's just people having a beer and a chat, and enjoying the landlady's plentiful baps.

No kids either; if you want to bring them, there's a jolly tent outside where you can stick them with a Vimto and a bag of cheese and onion crisps between them for an hour or four. It's prefectly safe; if the temperature falls below freezing, the pub will light a patio heater. Besides it's good for them. They need to develop patience, and their immune systems.

The beer is brewed on the premises with interesting variations, so naturally we end up sampling a bit more than we intended to, and staying a bit longer.

Before we set off the landlord has to leave on an errand, so before he goes we chat with him again. Fifty pubs a week are closing in Britain. We commiserate with him and he shakes his head sadly. Business is slow, he says, which is a surprise given how full the place is, but we duly leave a big tip for the food.

Then he's off. As we set out for the long swim back, bellies sloshing, we see him sweeping out of the car park in a fairly new red Porsche 911 Turbo. Crikey. I wonder what he drives in a good year?

---

1 - Plus, at least one of them reads this blog.

(Inspired by the full-on recent rant by Dan at Vacant Mind).

Navel gazing

A typical blogger, revealing all

I think it must come to every fresh-faced blogger, sooner or later, to blog about blogging. Today's ejaculation may be a bit premature, but I'm fascinated, so please forgive the indulgence.

I started blogging to scratch a writing itch. I've written two fabulously unsuccessful novels. My best rejection letter was the hand-written scrawl "I do not read thrillers" in response to my romantic comedy, and as for my post-modern lightly ironic biopic set in the fascinating world of my office, well, I didn't bother sending that out at all. I'm working on an erotic sequel though.

But blogging is a revelation. Instant success! Write any old nonsense, press 'Publish', and it's plastered all over the planet for everyone to read. Mail all of your family and mates, let 'em know it's there, they'll be soaking up your pearls of wisdom on a daily basis.

Except they don't, mostly, because they don't share your obsession. And I have become an utter blog bore. Time and again when I bump into a buddy I blurt out: 'Have you read my blog recently?' I can't help myself. It's like Tourette's syndrome. The response is usually a polite, if stiff: 'Ooh, no, I will soon, thank you so much for reminding me. Again.' The notable exception is one brutally honest friend who shall remain nameless. She point-blank refuses to read it any more. Thanks Dawn.

So the other source of readers is fellow bloggers, and they do come, agonisingly slowly, but they do. And what an amazing bunch of people. Eclectic doesn't begin to describe it. Click on my modest followers collection if you don't believe me; they nearly all blog, and they're all good.

Followers are very precious, as are comments, because they mean someone has taken the trouble to read what you wrote¹. It's like your Mum praising your latest Airfix model. So I agonise about my followers and I'm just delighted out of all proportion when one joins, the same feeling I get upon finding an extra curly-wurly at the bottom of my Christmas stocking.

I don't think I'm alone. A recent post from Dr. Zibbs, who runs a very funny and refreshingly vulgar blog called The Blue Yak, complains long and loud about lack of comments. He'll give up, he claims, unless he gets at least 100. This from a guy who has several hundred followers. Cue lots of comments, effing and blinding, slapping him about and good-naturedly knocking him off his soapbox. Quite right too, Zibbs, count your blessings.

It seems the good doctor has broken one of the unspoken rules of blog etiquette, which is: Don't moan. This is because many, nay most, bloggers are from N America, where people are unrelentingly positive; witness the proliferation of cheerful jogging blogs. In the rest of the world 'cheerful jogging' is an oxymoron.

I like this attitude. Someone once summed up Brits and Americans thus: if an American sees someone driving by in a swanky car (an import, obviously) they give a cheery wave and say "That'll be me someday". In Britain we just mutter "Bastard" and pretend not to notice them.

Well, I may call myself Grumpy, but I'm with you colonials. Look how happy I am. Please feel free to follow me. Go on. Please.

Which brings me to awards. I'm bowled over to have got two today, so I have to recommend two-times-five-is ten other blogs. Only ten? I'm following about ninety and I like all of them. But here goes:

From Sandra, passed on to:

Alice In Wonderland - Pull up a comfy chair, plump up your cushions and let Alice read you a soothing poem
Dan at Vacant Mind - Fellow brit and much grumpier than me, despite the bloody cheerful music. Read his pub rant
Marla at Butts And Ashes - Serious stuff but beautifully written, from one good person
Sarah - The Good Girls. Straight from the heart
plainolebob - Everyone awards him so it'll clutter his shelf but how could you not? He's just a nice bloke with great stories

From Alice, passed on to:

Vegetable Assassin - She makes me blush but she's sure funny. I don't think she's a vegetarian at all
Jen - Cheerful marathon runner, for heaven's sake. She'll do her knees in. Help me talk her out of it
MiMi - Living In France - which she dosn't. V funny.
Tina, at the Clean White Page. Spoooooky; dare you enter?
Lou, at Live Write Dream. Anyone who can use the word 'Meh' to describe a movie gets my vote

Honourable mention: Sandra at Real Life In A Minute. I was going to award her but she's got so many today already the poor lady must be completely bamboozled. Next time, JP

---

1 - Except maybe comments offering to sell you a Ukrainian bride, or man-sized man-parts

The Blood Donor

NHS dress code used to be much more relaxed

Addressing a lifetime's delinquency, I went to give blood today. My wife has done it for years, and in the 'container of blood' club, she has attained small wheelbarrow status. It's a breeze, she tells me. You won't feel a thing, she tells me.

We set off. Hell's bells - what have they done to the village hall? It's ghastly, like a scene from the old Hammer classic "The Mass Production Facility of Count Dracula". Beds everywhere, with people on them bleeding into bottles. My knees wobble, but I've eaten garlic recently, and the missus is with me, so in we go.

They greet her like an old friend ("Back so soon, Mrs Grumpy? Usual bed?"), but I have to undergo first-timers' initiation. It turns out they're quite fussy. Amazingly, it's OK to visit North Africa, but you can't give blood if you've been to North America. They may claim West Nile Virus, but I think they're worried we might start demanding payment. They're a canny bunch across the pond.

Besides wanting to know where you've been, they want to know all about your sex life. Some of the questions would make a trooper blush. Certainly not, I answer to questions 4 through 9, not with my bad back, and even if I wanted to I wouldn't know how. They ask if you've bounced around with anyone in a country where HIV is prevalent. I've been on an exotic holiday with my wife. Does that count? Confusing.

Questions, questions. What is your ethnicity? Have you ever been a member of the Conservative Party? Do you sell wartime memorabilia on eBay? Do you wear pyjamas in bed? I lie, obviously. Their privacy statement ominously says 'Unless we are required to do so by law, we will not disclose any personal information'. In other words, if you admit to having visited Morocco then HM Customs will drop round with dogs and sledgehammers, demanding to inspect your souvenirs. You have been warned.

At last the nosy questionnaire is out of the way. A nice nurse pricks my finger and then squeezes out a gigantic blob of blood, to test me for anaemia, and squeamishness. I pass the test by not passing out, so then it's off to the bed where the real business starts. It's super-efficient. Sweater off. Lie down. Tap, tap on the arm. Squeeze this. That? Yes, this. 'Nice vein'. 'Why, thank you'. Out with the needle; little scratch. Ouch.

Ouch. And more ouch. 'Does that hurt?' she asks. Er, yes. She wiggles the needle. Ouch. 'Does it still hurt?' Ouch. Yes. It seems she's gone in one side of the vein and out the other. I bravely try squeezing a fist for a while but I'm drier than Alabama on a Sunday morning. She's a bit embarrassed, and patches me up. It might bruise, she says. (She's right).

So I skulk in the corner while my wife lines up with the other veterans to receive her golden wheelbarrow. But there's a silver lining. On the way out, they still give me a free drink, and a curly-wurly! Ha! I beat the system! I can go again in 16 weeks. Sign me up.

(With apologies to the late but still great Tony Hancock.)

Haikus Are For Weenies

Limerick, Ireland: Home to humourous
verse and, er, shorts

I summarised last month in haiku. My good mate dozyoldbuga at the time said that 'Haiku are just limericks with a posh education'. Stung, I report the month in limerick form then.

First, a round-up of world news:

At the prospect of President Rompuy
Europeans are getting quite jumpy
A Belgian on top?
Someone else, put a stop!
So I nominate UberGrumpy

The anonymous Lady of Ashton
By the press has been thoroughly bashed on
After far too much fizz
She defends her job, viz:
"I'm the firsht, but I won't be the lasht one"

From the US, the no. 1 charmer
With the slightly odd name of Obama
Went to China but then
Buggered off home again
What a blow for the poor Dalai Lama

And in science news:

And lo! the Large Hadron Collider
Finally has protons inside 'er
She'll soon be the cause
Of new physical laws
Which will silence the folk who deride 'er

London traffic congestion is chronic
But they're planning a car, supersonic!
Why not, instead
Make a driveable bed
Since we all come to work catatonic

Closer to home, the quaint but weird Queen's Speech has triggered the run-in to the UK General Election. Snore. Here are the main contenders:

Gordon Brown, through the speech of the Queen,
can vent his electoral spleen
More taxes by stealth!
Then that dirty word, wealth
Just like Brown, will become a has-been

David Cameron, old boy from Eton
Doesn't think he can ever be beaten
Dave, don't count that chicken!
Or you'll soon be lickin'
The wounds from the voters' unseatin'

Nick Clegg, of the Lib Dem persuasion
Has ambitions to rule the whole nation
But he hasn't a hope
Unless we can cope
With proportional representation

A nasty young young man name of Griffin
Ate far too much BNP tiffin
But it's really all right
'cause the chocolate is white
So he'll just have to tuck his midriff in

Lord Pearson is looking quite surly
The polls make the UKIP¹ look girly
So let's cheer him up
With a great steaming cup
of Earl Grey, and a nice curly-wurly

---

1 - Pronounced you-kip so yes it does scan, thank you very much