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

My Life...Clothes maketh the man !

My year is already off to a sorrowful start, with yet another of my - ever decreasing - men's clothing outlet stores, having ceased trading this month. It is now, no longer a simple case of paranoia, my life as a fashion conscious consumer, really IS being made redundant.
 I can't help but feel, that I am slowly and systematically, facing imminent exile from those glitzy, modern studio style stores, with their trendy, urban ranges at competitive prices, adorning my much beloved high streets. Soon, my only refuge will be the small, independent, old school, men's tailoring establishments, with their collection of ageless - see: haven't changed in the last 30 years - tweed suits and heavy corduroy trousers at exorbitant prices, that haunt the narrow back passages of male couture.
  I'm not sure who - exactly -is to blame for this sad state of wears, is it simply the calculated machinations of clothing manufactures/fashion houses to "weed out" the slightly less frequent male buyer from their stores. Or, is it the rise of the dreaded European sizes, which transforms a normal, everyday, medium type fellow, into a gargantuan, misshapen lost soul, that walks amongst us, as a regenerated XXL statistic -to para-phrase, "One small step for a medium, one giant leap for euro-conversions." Either way, I have now, finally. reached the end of my tether, not to mention size options.
 I have a secret fear, that one day, I will trigger off some sort of special security alarm, as I actually ENTER one of these modern man's temple of fashion. Upon which, a store detective will approach me, taking my arm, he discreetly asks that most embarrassing of questions, " Excuse me sir, but can you provide any form of identity, to prove that you are not over thirty years old. Also, I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of a waistline exceeding 34 inches ?" With this, he escorts us both - myself and the Marks & Spencer's man I'm destined to become - out of the building.

  " LOOK HERE MALE CLOTHING MANUFACTURERS ! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !" I am drawing a line in the sand, I am drawing in my waistline. It's about time that you took the real measure of a man, along with his hopes and desires to be regarded as a sharp dresses individual, regardless of age and stature. Just, see what is left in all of your sales, NOT the XXL sizes, NO it is the XXS - what sort of ridiculous size is that anyway, exactly ? So, maybe you should re-evaluate who your customers are and more importantly, what are their actual body shapes/sizes ? A size 40 inch chest is NOT - until now - an XXL, if it is, then I fear for the future of, not only the more discerning, mature male consumer, but for the way the fashion industry as a whole, sees the shape of things to come in men's clothing..

My Life...New Year. resolutions and all !

2014: A New Old Start ?

Well, Christmas is over for another year, it's been safely wrapped and boxed up once more, and along with the old faithful, family Christmas tree -100% recycled, semi-realistic-semi-Nordic looking, fully drooping, specimen - has been successfully replanted in the loft, for the next twelve months. Which of course, means it's time to participate in another, equally age old seasonal custom/hangover...the New Year resolution !
 Those lofty declarations of updating your social life-style, deleting personal habits or downloading the latest media hyped health regime. All of which, have about as much life expectancy as your average New Year Gym Membership !

As the poet, Robbie Burns, may have said:
" With the last chimes of Auld Lang Syne, goodly intentions are sworn,
But they soon come ta nought, come first light of  New Year morn !"

Perhaps, we should just be more honest, or set ourselves more manageable/attainable goals...a sort of resolution~revolution, if you like. So here are just a few possible alternatives:

1): If you're single and looking for love, instead of trawling through all those endless, loveless dating sites or exposing your self to the pressures of "speed dating" -whatever next, micro-romance, love in under five minutes - why not...just change your your Facebook status to " in a relationship."  No waiting, no messing, job done.

2) Wanting to stop an impossibly addictive, long term personal habit. Then just create a newer, less irritating
one towards the end of December and choose this particular anti-social trait to be the one that you cease- rather like the shops do in their January "sales."

3) Thinking of changing your job...try just socializing with different work colleagues and sitting somewhere
else for lunch...work will be the same, but it might make it feel like your in a different company.

4) Wanting to improve your mind...for a start don't buy anymore of those darned "Fifty shades of Grey" novels - or anything else by the same "author", for that matter.

5) Finally, that most popular, relentless, mother of all New Year desires and all encompassing life changing
expectation...LOSING WEIGHT ! I simply advise, "Go forth to yonder wardrobe, seeketh out any such articles of colour, shape, design or length, that makes you look fatter..and discard these items instead." After all this, kick your shoes off, sit back with the largest glass of wine- or any other alcoholic relaxant - you can find...and enjoy yourself. After all, you have a whole year before you have to put yourself through this again !

My Life...A Christmas Wassailing

Apparently, we are buying/sending fewer Christmas cards this year than ever before.
This is partly due to the rise of electronic cards and twitterer's sending just a festive text instead !
Charity shops raise a sizeable amount of monies, from the sale of their respective Christmas cards,
and as a result they are looking at quite a loss of revenue, for the coming year ahead.

So, here is my wassail, on behalf of the less fortunate.


Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, fat.
Please to put a Euro in the old person's hat.

Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, fat
Please to put a Euro in the old person's hat, haaaaat.

If you haven't got an old person a homeless man will do.
A homeless man will do,  a homeless man will dooooo.
If you haven't got an homeless man, a big issue vendor will do.
If you haven't got an homeless man, a big issue vendor will dooooo.

But, an old person is better, an old person is better, three or four is better.

Christmas is coming, the charities are getting poorer, poorer
So please be a bloomin' Christmas card buyer !

God bless us everyone !

Merry Christmas 
& A Joyous New Year to you all !

My Life...at the Olde Burley village

As a special birthday - age not included - surprise to me fair lady, I whisked her away for a weekend in the country. I chose the village of Burley - due to it's old Manor house - well it did have a lovely photograph of the exterior and surrounding grounds in the brochure, I'm all about the research, me.
The Manor certainly lived up to it's landscape image, and it soon became apparent why there were no  photographs of the interior included in the magazine. It was like a reversed Tardis - really impressive on the outside, but severely disappointing on the inside. Never mind, a good level of charming, hotel service would soon re-address my concerns. Unfortunately, the staff all seemed to be employed by the Ray Cooney school of farcical hospitality, with an added dash of Fawlty Towers.  The place seemed to be 'manned; by just two members of staff, who were constantly changing their appearance from be-leagued barman and reluctant receptionist to a waste of waiters, rushing out one door only to re-appear - after a considerable amount of time - back in though a different door, in another disguise !
 Anyway, we put all that behind us the following day and left the Manor behind to set off to investigate the quaint old village of Burley. What a surprise it was to discover that this area was rich in mysticism and dark arts. In fact, it wasn't long before we found ourselves involved in an actual witches coven ! Well, o.k. 'Witches Coven' was just the name of the oldie worlde gift/souvenir shoppe. Which sold all manor of witch based merchandise - mainly figurines of cutesy witches displaying a somewhat considerable amount of leg -  and other occult paraphernalia. Apparently, Burley has a long history with the mistresses of darkness, well as far back as the Forties, anyway. Not so much as Salem as 'Sale Them'. Their benefactor was one Hilda Green - artistic licence applied here - high priestess of the occult, writer, presenter of tv and radio renown, astrologer, medium, breeder of boa constrictors, white witch extraordinaire and...mother ! The little village of Burley, was at this time unknown to the general populace, with no visible means of support, import or export. So, instead of following the age old practice of witch taunting, self prophesying trials or encouraging them to follow a career in alternative medicines, the good people of this little hamlet decided to capitalize on their supernatural commodity. Hence, the preponderance of sheds, dangerously constructed conservatories and other outdoor structures, that look as if they wouldn't pass a reasonable building inspection, dedicated to the pursuit of profit from the sale of family friendly otherworldly materials !
 Oh, there was also a preponderance of Lycra bound cyclists free wheeling their way through the area too - I swear they seem to follow us around every where we go....what is the collective noun for a pack of bicyclists anyway ? is it a ..." nuisance of cyclists"

My Life...Halloween 2 - The Repeat

Halloween is a tap tap tapping at my door, so you just might not hear me snore !   

Below, is a TRUE story, of several accounts of accidental arson, darkness and despair. Just another
All Hallows Eve at Burford Heights !! 

Don't try this at home, and try not to have nightmares...whooooahhhh, haaha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha! whooooah ! ...
...gasp, wheeze !

A Cautionary Halloweeen Tale

Haloween is here again
We're waiting for to greet
The children with their fancy masks
To claim their trick or treat

We're waiting in our entrance hall
With all assorted sweets
No sound of children anywhere
And no-one in the streets

So Debs & I just have to think
Of things that we could do
Lots of things that have been done before
But, we want something new

They're doing things in China
Not rockets on a ramp
They're making things to fly quite high
It's called a flying lamp

It's made of tissue paper
And put all around a frame
A square of cardboard put inside
To this you put a flame

Once it's lit you let it go
At this the thing should fly
We've seen it done so many times
They seem to go quite high

So in the garden we both went
Excitement was INTENSE
The lighted lamp it went up
Against our garden fence

To us it was aMAZING
At least it was skybound
But then a trick of fate took hand
And it came back to the ground

We both were so disappointed
The thing that we then saw
The wind had blown our blazing lamp
To the the house next door

They did have a lovely parasol
With table and a chair
We hoped it wouldn't ALL burn down
With our flying flare

So, Debbie sent me packing
And charged me to the house
To get the pale and water
For the fire to douse

So rushing through the patio
For brownie points to score
I crashed into the window
That's in the sliding door

Then the next door lady came outside
To see what had been done
"Oh yes it's Halloween,"she said
"And I've missed all the FUN !"

E.W Burford

My Life, living with the Welsh

Personal Diary:
Day One

 After arriving safely at our luxury holiday cottage - home for the next week - situated in the 'village' of Bosherston, down in deepest West Wales, we immediately commenced a rudimentary unpacking - pants in drawer and wash-bag perched precariously on the side of the bath. as a result of usual space constraints with girlfriends toiletries, which have a tendency to expand on contact with bathroom surfaces - before setting out to explore our new surroundings, the local amenities and the indigenous flora and fauna, whilst there was still some remaining daylight...pub located, job done !
 To be fair, we saw all that Bosherston had to offer any passing, uninformed, unsuspecting or just plain LOST traveller, whilst on our way to the local watering-hole. There was the smattering of domesciles, a small chapel, a rustic - sorry that's rusty - public payphone and the essential bus shelter, which ran a regular service ( twice a day,except on Saturdays, "Well, Gareth has to play for the local footie ball team, you see !" insert Welsh accent here ).

Day Two

Bosherston has one other 'treasure' to be experienced...Aunty Scarlett's cream tea room, the home - and as it happens, also hers - of locally imported, semi-fresh cream scones and tannine infused teas. Our Scarlett has been serving her brand of comestibles for over half a century. Photographs adorn the walls, of what is essential her front room, of her days in the war - the second one I think, though there again, it could easily have been the first one. Doing her bit for the war effort, flying secret sorties, dropping her creamed buns to
our brave lads beyond enemy lines. But, it was for her serving of Prince William, and his school chums, one fateful day when their chauffeur driven coach had broken down, that Aunty Scarlett finally received recognition and subsequently an MBE
 Unfortunately, due to a successful, disintegrating slipper removal operation, she was not able to see anybody
on the day that we went. So all we managed to see of her were the over socked feet, twitching, spasmodically on her pouffe, every time her living room door was swung open.

Day Three

With expectations running high - we are eternal optimists - we look forward to visiting the much mentioned ' Walled gardens of Stackpoole.' What can I say about this agricultural tourist trap, well, if you are a fan of
grass surrounded by rather high walls, then boy, are you in for a treat ! If ever there was a place named after exactly what it is - and nothing else -then this place surely, wins first prize.

Now, I can't help but wonder....just what there really was, at the ' Hanging gardens of Babylon ?'

Day Four

Rain stopped excursions....... end of play !

In conclusion, Wales is only about 4 hours away by car, and yet it might as well be another country. Very similar and yet....it's just not quite right...not quite like home.