Sunday, 26 August 2018
I am not feeling myself. My back legs have gorn, having contracted the most appalling malady. I have given it the moniker of A.A.A.A.A Syndrome – Age Activated Attention Arrears Ataxia. This is how it manifests itself: I decide to mow the lawn. As I lurch towards the front door, I notice that there are letters that have been just delivered by the postie. I go through the mail before I start to cut the grass. The lawnmower is in the garage. I lay the garage keys down on the hall table, put the junk mail in the waste bin under the table, and notice it is full. So, I decide to put the letters back on the table and take out the rubbish first.
However, then I think, since I’m going to be near the garage when I take out the waste, I may as well get the lawnmower out of the garage in readiness. I take the garage keys off the table, and notice that they are actually my car keys. Seeing the car keys reminds me that it needs taxing. Moreover, the garage key is on a hook in the utility room, so I go upstairs to my study and on my desk, I find an unopened bottle of beer that I was going to drink last night. I’m going to look for my cheque book, because I need to tax my car. But first I need to push the beer bottle aside so that I don’t accidentally knock it over. I see that the beer is warm, and I decide I should put it in the refrigerator to maintain the temperature of the beer, because warm beer is horrible.
As I head toward the kitchen with the beer, a wilting potted plant on the dining room table attracts my attention – it needs to be watered. I plonk the beer down on the kitchen worktop, and I discover my reading glasses that I’ve been searching for all morning. I reckon that I’d better put them back on my desk, but first I’m going to water the arid aspidistra. I set the spectacles back down on the worktop and endevour to fill a jug with water, when I spot the TV remote control nestling by the bread crock.
My daughter Nellie must have left it in the kitchen. I realise that later on, when we go to watch the telly, we will be looking for the remote, but nobody will even consider that it’s in the kitchen, so I decide to put it back in the living room where it belongs, but first I’ll water the plant. I splash some water on the aspidistra, but most of it spills on the mahogany table. So, I set the TV remote back down on the worktop, get some paper towel and wipe up the spill. Then I head off down the front path, trying to remember what I was planning to do.
At the end of the day: the car isn’t taxed, the lawn un-mowed, there is a warm bottle of lager sitting on the dining room table, the Aspidistra’s well dead, I can’t find the TV remote, my reading specs are on the missing list. I cannot recollect what the foxtrot-uniform-charlie-kilo I've done with the car keys. I try to figure out why bugger all has got done today, I’m really baffled because I know I was busy all day long, and I’m really knackered. I realise this is a serious problem, but I must remember to put the wheelie bin out tonight, because it’s Wednesday… or is it Thursday today?
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Thursday, 23 August 2018
she was a young filly. When you notice this, do your utmost not to bellow at her. Many
females are oversensitive and there’s nothing more infuriating than an oversensitive woman. Let me relate how I handled the situation with the missus, (I call her ‘Narnia’, because she has hair like a lion, looks like a witch and is the size of a wardrobe). When I took 'early retirement' last year, it became necessary for Narnia to get a full-time job, primarily for beer tokens.
Within just a year from commencing full time employment, I noticed she was beginning to age rapidly. I usually get home from the golf course about the same time she arrives back from work. Although she is aware of how famished I am, she usually says that she must recuperate for half an hour or so, prior to starting cooking. I will never harangue her. Instead, I tell her to take her time and just wake me up when she finally gets dinner on the table.
I generally have lunch in the restaurant at the club, so eating out is not an option. I’m ready for some home- cooked nosh when I get home. In days of yore, she would stack the dishwasher as soon as we finished eating. But now, it’s not unusual for copious items of crockery and cutlery to sit festering on the kitchenette worktop for several hours after dinner. I do what I can by diplomatically reminding her several times each evening that they won’t clean themselves. I know she appreciates this, as it does seem to motivate her to get them done before she retires to bed. She starts work early (she is a Gritter over the Snake Pass). I really think my experience as an entertainer helps a lot. I consider telling people what they ought to do, in a jocular fashion; it’s one of my main talents. Now that she is akin to a trainee corpse, (she has a face like a pirate’s flag) she does seem to get knackered so much faster than she used to do, back in the day. However, I have begun to accept this.
Our washer and dryer are in the garage. Sometimes she curtly informs me that she is utterly exhausted and is physically unable to undertake yet another foray down those stone flags. I don’t blow the matter out of proportion and exacerbate this unfortunate scenario; as long as she finishes all the laundry the next evening, I’m willing to overlook it. Not only that, but unless I need something ironed to wear to the Monday Masonic Lodge meeting, Wednesday’s or Saturday’s lap-dancing club, or to Tuesday’s bowling, or Thursday's billiard match or summat similar, I will tell her to wait until the next evening to do the ironing. This gives her a little more time to perform a veritable smorgasbord of domestic tasks, that she may have inadvertently neglected, such as 'bottoming' the skirting boards, delousing the dog, getting down on her hands and knees to vigorously scrub the scullery floor tiles, or steam cleaning the oven. (thereby removing built-up grease and other disgusting charred detritus). It’s all a matter of getting her fundamental chores into better perspective.
Another symptom of ageing is perpetual whinging. For example, she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to clean and gut the fish that I caught, while I was out with the boys at the cabin over the weekend. But hey lads! We take them for better or worse, so I just smile and offer encouragement. I tell her to stretch it out over two or even three hours. That way, she won’t have to rush about too much. When she’s taking out the rubbish bins, she remonstrates they are very heavy, so I advise her to make two or three trips. I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then wouldn’t affect her at all (if you get my drift). I genuinely like to think that tact and diplomacy is one of my stronger points.
Cos Monday's the day fer mi health
An' the wife's got me countin' them units,
I've just got to take care o' miself
So I merely have wine wi' mi supper,
An' just the one litre OK?
Then a rather large rum in mi coffee
An' I calls that mi sensible day
I never drink wine on a Tuesday,
Cos Tuesday's mi weightwatchin' club
It's the day when I eat nowt but cabbage,
The day I don't go much fer grub
Now a diet demands plenty fluid,
Summat light an' completely fat-free
So I've chosen that strong German lager
An' I just have five pints wi' mi tea
I never drink lager on Wednesday,
Cos Wednesday's the day fer mi jog
It's tracksuit an' trainers at mid-day
Then I'm off up the road wi' the dog
First stop's at the Globe fer some Guinness,
Three swift ones'll get me to grips
Then I carry on round to The Shepherds
Fer three more an' a burger an' chips
I make sure that I'm suitably rested,
Then I sprint back to our garden wall
In a time of under twelve minutes,
An' it's four 'undred metres an' all
I never drink Guinness on Thursday,
Cos Thursday's mi day to relax
I likes to sit out in t' back garden
In mi brown zip-up cardie an slacks
After lunch I might stroll by the river,
Breeze in at the Fisherman's Drop
Where I lounge on the terrace all lordly,
Sippin' shandy, but beawt any pop
Then cos I've been good through the day like,
She'll allow me to waver a smidge
So mi evenin's spent watchin' the footy
Wi' a few packs o' Boddies from t' fridge
I never drink Boddies on Friday,
Cos Friday's mi night on the razz
An' we meet in The Firkin at seven,
Owd Nodger an' me an' Fat Baz
Oh The Firkin's a beer-drinker's heaven,
Wi' fifteen real ales from the jug
An' we start wi' the ones in the tap-room
An' we works our way round to the snug
By midnight we're all talkin' gubbins
An' we're off fer a curry up town
But there's summat not reyt about curry
Cos I never seem t' keep the stuff down
We 'ave a good laugh wi' the waiters,
An' Baz moons his bum fer a joke
Then I'm home fer a nightful o' passion,
Cos I'm known as a passionate bloke
I never do much on a Sat'day,
Cos Sat'day's mi time fer a think
Cos me an' the wife are not speakin' today,
I'm a drunken, fat pig an' I stink
So I sit near the lavvie pretendin'
That really I'm feelin' just great
But I'm goin' right off that Indian food
If it leaves me in this bloody state
It's later I make the decision,
On my forty-third trip to the bog
There's only one thing cures an upset like this
An' they call it the 'air o' the dog
I ring Nodge an' Baz on mi mobile
An' both of 'ems likewise in pain
So we're back in The Firkin at quarter-past-six
An' we do it all over again
I never say Firkin on Sunday,
Cos Sunday's mi day to repent
I'm ashamed of all o' that boozin' I've done
An' all o that money I've spent
I begs the wife fer forgiveness
An' I promise I'll alter mi ways
An' she gives me a kiss an' a cuddle,
Like she did in our newly-wed days
We watch Songs of Praise on the telly,
Then a nice pot o' tea an' some cakes
An' I swear now I've climbed up the ladders,
I'll never slide down any snakes
But it's borin' on telly on Sunday,
An' I can't say I'm ever impressed
So I 'ave a walk out round the village
An' stop off at the Collier's Rest
Now the beer's a bit crap in The Collier's
So I leave an' pop round to The Swan
Where I flatten a shed-load o' Tetley's
An' I'm bloody well back to square one!
Monday, 20 August 2018
Comedians often strive to find laughter through the tears, and the winner of this year’s funniest joke of the Edinburgh fringe is no exceptionAdam Rowe has taken home the accolade after riffing on the challenges of being sacked. “Working at the jobcentre has to be a tense job,” he pointed out to his audience. “Knowing that if you get fired
From This Blog in August 2013!
From my syndicated column in January 2014!