Pants the whole pants, and nothing butt the pants

Being of sound mind and body - granted this is negotiable - at least for the purpose of this exercise, That I find myself confessing, to having reached a period of my life, where I seem to have collected a series of social scenarios, that are guaranteed to get my gander up, a number of pet peeves, a short list of annoyances, - to which I refer to as my " gripes of war."

Religious intolerance, censorship, animal cruelty, car insurance evaders, political correctness, solicitors, ageism and then on lesser charges....bad customer service, car rage, white van drivers, the french ( more a national pastime ) and young offenders.
For the nature of this discourse, it is to this last category - which has the most significant amount of entries on my "gripe" sheet - that I feel compelled to bring to "justice", or at the very least make them accountable for their actions, in the form of ridiculing without prejudice - on this occasion.
.In particular, the male of the species, these serial perpetrators who consistently carry out GROSS miscarriages of social etiquette. They semi-walk, well more of a degenerating swagger, along - their crotch, seemingly relocated somewhere around their knee area - with their gravity defying jeans, that suspend disbelief and practicality---and then to add insult to personal injury, they insist on exposing their bloomin' kaks !
As if this act of social defiance, gives them some sort of street cred, instead of seeing the colour of their money, we're left with just seeing the colour of their laundry. To make matters even worse, there appears to be a different levels of "coolness" attached to these fashion victims of public, posterior display. It started out as just whities as the preferred colour of undies -probably inspired by the Beckham effect - but has since collapsed into a free for all between blue versus grey, I suspect though, their choices are more simply based on whatever pair their mother has recently washed for them. I have also noted -un-voluntarily - that there is a movement towards reducing the space - even more - between hipbone and kneebone, or more succinct if you will, more pants less cover.
A friend of mine had recently informed me that this action owes much of it's origins to the penal system. Where prisoners would convey their sexual availability to other inmates, by exposing their underwear to new depths, to show if they were in or out. This got me to thinking that perhaps our teenagers had a secret level code, for the difference in backside prominence, say:
Level One, Will be available for basic hand-holding with incorporated embarrassed blush
Level Two: Would be open for general - awkward - kissing duties and level one playing.
Level Three:  Multi-player, fully inter-active role games and rapid downloading access - this is romantic parlance for the noughties generation.

In any event I charge the plainstiffs - these progenitors of the rear-guard action -guilty, GUILTY, GUILTY...of this heinie-ous crime !
in every sense - especially the common one - of the word. If no-one stands up to them now, where will it end ? It's a slippery slope my friends, that nobody really wants to see.

Would these young offenders be as understanding or as acceptable of this fashion grime, if their fathers or granddads walked around town displaying themselves in such a manner, I think not...I think not.

Let us live by the maxim - in this case - less is more !

Notre-Dame - A Joke retold as Short Fiction

The seasoned, Notre-Dame tour guide, stepped to one side, to allow the rest of his "party" to join him up in the bell-tower area, and give them a chance to regain their composure, along with their breath. "Ah so ! we are all 'ere in one piece, bien ! Now, as you will see, zer are four bells 'ere, in zis North Tower. But, zer is one more, much larger bell, ze great boudon bell , Emmanuel, located in der South Tower, which is ---" at this point, the guide was rudely interrupted, mid-verbatim, by the sudden arrival of a colourfully attired gentleman, hailing from the United States. " Hey, buddy ! Where's da Hunchback fella, Quasi-pseudo ?" he enquired, as loudly as the print on his shirt.
" Ah monsiuer, zis gentleman was, how you say, a fiction of your imagination, zer is not and 'as never bin a Hunchback 'ere, nes pas !" the guide tried valiantly to explain the lack of a vertically challenged campanologist, but to no avail. "Listen, bub, I paid forty - god dam - bucks for this tour, just to see the the guy in the movie ! I demand that I git satisfaction, or I want my money back, comprehendez vous ?" pressed the agitated American.
" But, monsieur, the bells 'ere are only rung by electric motors now ! It's true, that sometimes when we 'ave no power, Anton, the cathedral's maintenance man, can ring them manually," surrendered up the defeated guide
" Great ! well don't just stand there, git this Anton, fella out here, now !" 
 " Anton, are you up 'ere ? Anton, please come out , if you can 'ear me, show yourself, s'il vous plait !" 
 There appeared, slowly, from out of the bells shadow, a shambling figure, which moved it's way towards the now, tightly packed, slightly apprehensive group. As he drew near to them, his facial deformities became apparent. From the the nose down, the lower jaw was exceptionally swollen, distorting the natural order of his features, this abnormality physically forcing his tongue out of the side of it's mouth, resulting in a shotgun delivery of saliva every-time he endeavored to converse.
 " Qui !" he answered.
" Ah Voila ! this gentleman," the guide gesticulated towards the overly prominent American, " has requested to make your acquaintance." 
" To hell with meeting the guy, I jus' wanna see him ringing these babies ! I paid good American dollars and climbed enough stairs to reach the top of Mount Everest, so let's see these bells in holy action !" 
 With this, Anton stepped towards the smallest of the bells, and drawing it up to his chest he 
sent it swaying across to the other-side of the tower. On reaching the zenith of momentum, it slowed and for just a second looked like it had actually froze in time, before making the return trip across the dark belfry. As the bell hastened upon it's sender, Anton skipped towards it, and welcomed it's arrival with a short, sharp, head-butt of the face !  Creating a unique musical collaboration - known as Gothic fusion - a blend of flesh, bone and heavy metal, resulting in an heavenly chime that passed through the little band of on-lookers, before leaving the tower and sweeping on over the surrounding Ile de la Cité . 
 The crowd were in complete awe and appreciation of Anton's display and rewarded him with high praise and wild applause !  Which in turn drove the highly impressionable, trans-Atlantic visitor, to such a state of elevated excitement, that he wanted to share in the ultimate Notre Dame experience himself. So, he grabbed the nearest bell to hand, and lifting it way up over his head, he proclaimed,  " That's nothing ! Stand back Frenchie, This one will make the angels themselves, cry ! "  
With this, he summoned every once of strength - and considerable weight - which he had at his disposal, and launched the bell along a similar trajectory. Unfortunately, the power behind this action, didn't permit as smooth a motion as before. The bell almost breaking free of it's fixtures and fittings as it jolted to an abrupt stop, on reaching "the other side", then without pause or loss of speed....it began re-entry. 
 This time, at the crucial moment of contact, the Yank made a fateful error of judgement. Miss-judging
time and space, he leaped up towards the on-coming holy vessel, all too late, the lip of the bell catching him squarely under the chin ! 
  What occurred next, was purely answerable to the laws of physics, in-particular those laid down by a Mr I. Newton - firstly the law: That which is in motion will prevail.
Evidence: The way the body was propelled through the air, pass the remaining group and over the low, belfry wall.
Thereafter, followed by another - very popular - law of Issac's.....gravity.
Evidence: Sudden loss of height.
Anton, was stupefied in witnessing this horrible chain of events, but he still managed to set off
immediately, down the steep stone staircase of "  Our lady of Paris" tower, in pursuit of his fellow "Ringer." But, even taking the stairs three at a time, it was still quite a feat, to descend to the ground
in time to aid any possible assistance or last minute rites.

A passing Gendarme had arrived at the scene, and was conducting his investigation into the macabre situation that lay before him. Using simple methods of deductive reasoning. he had come to the conclusion that the cadaver belonged to a male caucasian of middle age, no distinguishable marks - except those sustained by colliding unexpectedly with the earth - or any visible means of identification.
With no other lines of inquiry left open, the lawman resigned himself to asking for eye-witnesses, among the growing crowd. now assembling around him and his nameless companion,
" Is there anybody here who knows how this happened? Has anyone seen this gentleman, before ? PLEASE, DOES ANYBODY KNOW THIS MAN;S NAME ?" he pleaded. Just as he finished, Anton, finally appeared, bursting through the into the inner circle of observers. One hand clutching his chest - to prevent his heart from exploding out of it's comfort zone - and the other hand held high in the air to gain attention, without pausing or thinking, he responded, " I don't know his name, but ------HIS FACE RINGS A BELL !"

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My Life....A Question of Sport

Geneticists have recently isolated the chromosome, that determines the inclination/interest/semi-obsession towards sports. This breakthrough has enormous social implications, as well raising a number of ethical, philosophical, gambling and sponsorship issues .The chromosome responsible for this conditioning of "mankind" has been designated as SS1 - more commonly known as Sky Sports 1 +. The genome, which is found largely in the male of the species, as well as some other lower primates, controls the area of the brain that stimulates competitiveness, tribalism and verbal intercourse, which mostly,manifests itself during awkward social occasions, or when exposing oneself - conversationally speaking, that is - to strangers who share the same affliction of hormones...
  This compulsion, drives grown men to relentlessly chide one another about which "team" he may or may not be "supporting" and throw humorous - friendly fire- aspersions over their general decision making process, based on this one, life consuming, conclusion !
  I wonder, if civilization had never invented the simple ball, then perhaps MAN-kind might have evolved along a different socially conditioned pass-time, say perhaps... the weather. Picture the scene, a man standing at the bar of his local watering hole, when he recognizes one of his mates enter the saloon. He waives him over, shouting his name over the noise of the room, and the large flat screen tv - situated centrally and yet inconveniently, to it's passing patrons - which is currently broadcasting the national and regional weather statistics. After the obligatory, back slapping and token exchanges into one another's Status Quo, it's proceeded by the argument of who will get the drinks in first, followed invariably by a temporary lull in their sparring. Suddenly, the man-gene kicks-in like an auto-reflex, " Hey ! what about Stoke city, last night ? Localized floods, thunder & lightning followed by hailstones the size of golf-balls, what a show !" The now, despondent friend, shook his head, " Aye, their well ahead of the annual rainfall this season, they're going to be tough to beat on the precipitation league table this year." His accomplice, contemplating the consequences of his fellow weather watcher's words, and feeling as flat as his beer looked, then claimed, " For sure, not even Michael Fish* can save us now !"
  If only science could develop some sort of placebo sport, something that satiates the spirit of competitiveness, whilst at the same time, without all that testosterone posturing and mass hysteria.... oh wait, there already is one...it's called cricket !

* See worst forecasting - 1987 - since weather records began !       -

to be continued