Politics or social

They, (never quite sure who the ephemeral ‘they’ are) but ‘they’ do say never discuss religion, politics and, er, can’t remember but whatever, it’s the politics that’s bugging me for the moment but give me long enough I’ll probably get round to moaning about religion too.
So anyway, the question is…should Facebook be used for posting political statements and if so is it okay to ridicule the beliefs of the politico for being the most tedious over-worthy munk* going? Personally I think if you’re going to ruin everyone else’s day by posting boring crap about stuff that none of us can affect no matter if we spend a lifetime voting then you deserve mocking for being a chocolate banana. (work it out)
I don’t know why I assume Fbuk is for chatty chat but I believe that is why it was set up and it’s certainly all I use it for. I do have opinions on most things but I don’t think that’s the forum to discuss them. Not sure where is to be honest, probably here…am I not addressing this issue? keep up!

I find myself occasionally becoming enraged enough to write to my local paper lately (an age thing I reckon) but seriously, the level of debate and the pathetic editing make it almost impossible to have a proper adult discussion on anything. If you’re going to edit stuff it’s probably best to get someone who can actually edit well rather than remove all the bits that might offend an eighty year old Christian, the world is larger than that and sometimes needs a wider perspective than local news can offer. The thing with politics is it’s so nuanced, so skewed and misreported that we’ll never understand the real facts.
I’m so old that I don’t really believe ‘they’ know what ‘they’re’ up to anyway, and really; who cares?
These political people are the prefects; the book-monitors; the teachers pets and the creepy little debating-society nerds: why would I want to discuss anything they’re interested in?
Seriously, times those choccy nanas by 1,000 and you might begin to get towards the sort of “it’s-my-birthright” mantra of wankiness that the current crop of toffee-nosed tossers currently fwafwafwa’ing in the commons believe they’re entitled to.
These people have no concept of our (the plebs) lives and I have no concept, or interest, in theirs and never the twain shall meet!
(I feel I should apologise for that last statement, extremely pretentious, not sure where it came from or even fully sure what it means but it sort of fits the concept….sorry)

Probably best not to get involved with the politics thing, I have no idea, thought I did once but it’s far too easy to simply take the opposing view just because you’re a Nigel and no one really likes you. In my mind there really is no such thing as a truly free society but then we are lucky here; we get a choice of dictator from quite a wide range of wealthy families who we know have all had a good education because they all come from the same crop of Nigel’s and Cameron’s and bollingers what ho? so at least we can be sure that although they are most definitely swindling us and putting their fingers into everyone’s pies at least they are leaving a few crumbs so we don’t cause too much fuss. Corruption isn’t quite so bad if it’s hidden under the table reasonably well, the only problem is that as humans get older and wiser the inequalities become so obvious but don’t go there, that’s how we came to this in the first place. The problem is when us peasants think we might have a grip on the situation and actually think other plebs might wish to discuss it. We’re not like them, we didn’t join the debating society, we don’t know the rules, we don’t have the country estate or uncle Rodgers breeding and his steadying hand on our shoulder to help us through.
And as for starting a revolution! Revolution?
When the proletariat are so over-fed that they can barely waddle to their next date with a lump of flesh in a bun and suck up a bucket of sugar through a straw I don’t think ‘they’ have too much to worry about. Either starve the proles or fatten them up so they can’t fight; whichever, it all achieves the same level of conformity in the end doesn’t it. (Almost sounded like I knew what I’m on about there for a bit didn’t it?)

Anyway, I think the social media and all that hot air guff are about as compatible as marathons and….( wait for it…big finish on a poignant note) Marathons. Oh shit what twat changed the name to Snickers?

As compatible as a cat-scan on a chihuahua! Er: lol?

THE ‘GOOD OLD DAYS?’

Posted on March 24, 2014
So the Isle of Wight police are asking for advisors to help them provide a better service, and?
Well, here we go with the same old pathetic, tired argument that — ‘in the good old days’ — short hair for boys/long for girls, — jumpers for goalposts, — bobbies on the beat, yes whatever!
Short memories endear boring cliches.
What the jumpers for goalposts generation (er; that’s me then) forget is there were totally different levels of personal responsibility and general expectations of behaviour in those wondrous crime-free years of…er; when was it exactly?
The 60′s? Kray twins, Great train robbery, Myra Hindley…
Okay, it must have been the 70′s then? I.R.A. London riots, football hooligans…
80′s? Broadwater farm riots, Yorkshire ripper…
Hmm, okay, I give in.

You get the society you wish for when everyone fights for it and sometimes that does mean you have to…fight for it, or be prepared to put yourself in the way of danger for your principles.
I have in the last few years taken drunks to task.
Stopped gobby kids annoying everyone else in the library.
Done the same with an elderly gent who appeared to believe his age gave him greater rights than others.
I have also dealt with drunks on a number of occasions because no-one else had the guts to, a simple phone call is enough.
Since when did we become a society of such wimps? Just because someone once got beaten to death in London for confronting a gang member doesn’t mean that every time you ask a kid in the supermarket to “please stop shouting the F-word at full volume in front of my child” you will be stabbed. This is the island, I don’t think we grow those type of kids, yet.

For example; I was sat, sadly I know, in a certain fast food restaurant recently and found myself astonished that the same swear words I use regularly under my breath and most definitely NEVER in earshot of ladees or the elderly are now bellowed across said restaurant with no regard for whoever else might be hearing them. Now, I am 51 but I don’t look like your average dad; in fact I look like the sort of person who perhaps has smoked rather too much waccy baccy in their dark past but even so, when I caught the eye of one particularly loud lad shouting the F-word to his friends he suddenly became very sheepish and toned it down. If my grandchildren had been present he would have been told to shut it, or else!
It is down to us to back up the good work done by the majority of parents. Kids know right from wrong, they often just need reminding and okay the odd one will get lippy but I can take a punch if it comes to it, it’s not the end of the world.

Of course the police can’t do everything. If you think they can keep you safe from every little incident forget it, sometimes you have to stand your ground and stand up for others.
We all know idiots who text whilst driving, or smoke spliff and drive, or drink and drive, or sell knock-off stuff in the pub. It’s up to you, moan, or do something. I prefer the proactive.
Tonight I had the misfortune to listen to a particularly vile drunk abusing his partner outside my flat so I had a look and my raised voice was enough to shut him up and move them on. If not I go down and do whatever else is needed but there is no option to just leave him to abuse her in public.
Remember that could be your daughter one day, better hope there are more like me than the type of people who sit at home complaining about the ‘good old days’ whilst bemoaning the fact that there aren’t enough ‘bobbies on the beat.’ What a load of rubbish.
I think the police, in general, do a decent job. Have a go if you think you could do better. How do they keep their tempers under control?!?

I grew up in the countryside, never saw the police, or only VERY rarely. I don’t remember any crime-waves.
CCTV, personal responsibility, not expecting someone else to solve all your problems and a bit of gumption go a long way.
I always think of that lone woman who stood up to those huge guys robbing a jewellers in wherever it was.
What’s right is right, what’s wrong…isn’t.
The ‘good old days’ are now for our kids and grandchildren, best you do something to make sure they know the difference.

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WEIRD BEARDS

Posted on March 23, 2014
Facial hair…to be…or not to look like a rapist?
Really, does this even need to be considered in a civilised society? And there is the truth of our understanding of a society in the early 21st century. If were honest and I don’t know why we should suddenly start now but bear with me, actually bare with me if you have any manners, class, dignity.
Too fast too soon?
That’s what I’m talking about. In a modern, civilised society I think we all know that beards and especially the long unkempt variety, tend to lean towards the eugh, ‘have you washed this year.. Or EVER’ end of the weirdie spectrum.
It’s the likes of fatty, ugly Guy Garvey of Elbow fame, the indie fuckwits, the metal kid grown-a-chin-beard-so-long-it-can-be-plaited fuckwits, the revolting can’t-be-assed-to-keep-on-top-of-it fuckscuk that somehow seem to have become acceptable but how? How did this happen? Who said it’s okay because it plainly isn’t!
Why aren’t women demanding these people do something about this unsightly abhorrence? Fucks sake I thought we were over this revolting practise but lately there’s been another outbreak like men are reverting back to some codified way of asserting their masculinity because society has somehow belittled the little luvvies; pa..a..th..e…t…t…tic.
Saying that, now that there seems to be a trend for American small time models to get male tattoos across their chests I suppose men might be starting to feel vaguely threatened, even I feel threatened by that; well, more grossed out but what do I know, maybe it’s cool? Doubt it but maybe?

It’s probably just me gone and got the wrong end of the stick as usual but I assumed that as a society became more civilised, less backwoods, less reverential towards those ancient visions of our ancestors who obviously didn’t have the facilities to maintain a polite visage, that the facial hair of old would disappear along with the revolting pubis of 1970′s hippy women, underarm hair of the French ladeees, the top lip Armageddon of some, ahem, darker-skinned ladeees, the religious-freak beard, the disgusting Freddie moustache, in fact any allusion to some ridiculous affectation towards manliness that facial hair used to be a signifier of in the bad old days. Bloody ridiculous, men no more need facial hair to assert their manhood than ladeees need miniskirts or heels, or both, to assert their femininity.
This is not the 1970′s, sorry everyone but we’ve moved on, or should have.
I say, women, ASSERT your right to fungus free men. Don’t put up with it, don’t allow men to scare your children with their revolting, repulsive laziness. You have to pluck, primp and shave so make the lardass do the same. Okay I accept that a lot of the pretend teddy bears out there who have this hideous mess hanging off their chins have probably never been closer than a bus seat width to a real, live, breathing, ladee due to their hygiene and halitosis problems but the weak and gullible ones that have somehow ended up with these freaks need to stand up for themselves and everyone else’s rights. If you have a member of your family who insists on bearding up; have a word, and fuck polite: TELL them!
“You’re ugly; you smell; you look stupid; you repulse women; your Freddie moustache only attracts men, if that’s what you wanted, fine, but if not you know what to do.”
Finally, once and for all let’s bin this disgusting old-world hideousness where it belongs, in the history books, and look forward to a shining society where the occasional five o’clock shadow is a punching offence and we can employ our police as an anti-Taliban enforcement task-force who remove and forcibly shave the lazy single pig-men who let the rest of us down.

I do believe a tolerance for ‘comedy’ teenage mistakes can be allowed but if someone doesn’t get rid of MOvember there will be bloodshed.
Don’t they get that it’s named that because a gayboy invented it, HO-mo-vember? Fucking idiots. Gays? yep, fine but if you’re not gay why are you copying one for a month you fuckwit?
Get a personality and think for yourself.
If you want to give to charity do so but don’t walk round upsetting the rest of England looking like an ass for fucks sake!!

So, rant over, you know what you have to do.
Go forth; spread the word.
Women; assert your right to a beard-free world.
Fat men; you are NOT a teddy bear. You WILL NOT become more attractive with a beard. Lose weight, shave, wear deodorant EVERY day you ass.
Gay men; actually, if you want a Freddie I suppose you have every right but you will look a complete dick.

Thank you for your patience.

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TWEDIOUS TWEETER

Posted on March 22, 2014
I may be way behind the game here but was twatter not invented so people could post what they just ate, pictures of their feet, car, whatever?
Since when did it become a site for tedious mungbeans to advertise their services incessantly, I mean like every twenty minutes? What sort of ass can be bothered with that and even of there’s some smart as way to repeat twatt I don’t care.
I want to know the other stuff.
Who did you hate today, what did your dog do, your cat say, the lamppost tell you etc. I like to put random shhhh on there, nothing serious, life’s too serious as it is without wasting your time with work, networking, sell sell, sell, me me me, tedious boring bored borers sticky tediumski.

I saw a guy in the council offices with a suit and tie, briefcase, bald, apart from the side bits but as he passed me I realised this guy had grown the back and tied it into a tiny messy little excuse of a ponytail that simply marked him out as a man you would not want to meet in a lavatory, or sit next to on a bus, or a few seats along from in a darkened cinema.
I imagined he might be the sort of man who plays air-guitar to Queen records or probably Dire Straits is more like it.
Now mentioning that on twatter is well worth it.
Saying you saw someone slip on a doggy doodoo bag…brilliant! There are all manner of things that require sharing.

Lily Allen has got it down but then didn’t she invent it?

Anyway, just thought I’d share. If I think of anything else I’ll post it on twatter, not here.
Love you

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NANANAPS

Posted on March 20, 2014
Not sure exactly when it happened but this wave of exhaustion hit me one day and I had no choice but to pull the car over. I leant my head against my arm and woke up ten/fifteen minutes later, dribbling, disorientated and with a head full of cotton wool. Since that day I’ve become more no more reliant on my nananaps, especially after food.
Now I’ve got it down, eat, wrap up warm so I’m in that snuggly cocoon of heat that entices the nananap forth and within seconds I’m off. Quite often I don’t strictly need one but if I’m in the middle of writing it’s nice to luxuriate in that magical place on the edge of sleep where the imagination can fly for as long as I can manage to put off the inevitable as the heat builds and the mixture of a full belly and concentration work their magic until, eventually…zzzzzz: beautiful. The best of all sleeps.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy a night-time sleep but I’m certain something’s going on to disturb me (pee pee?) cause I rarely feel refreshed unless I go for the twelve/thirteen hour monster but then that can go either way. The great thing is that if the sleep-proper doesn’t work the nananap can pretty much guarantee whatever is lost at night can be made up enough for me to make it through my day.

Sedentary…a word no-one except English scholars had heard of until recently and now one of the phrases most overused by pocketbook philosophers everywhere.
“Oh, it must be down to your sedentary lifestyle.”
“Oh it’s probably due to your sedentary occupation.”
What word did these asses use before the sudden climb up the popularity tree of sedentary? I don’t know if there is an equivalent but it’s not as though civil servants; checkout girls; business people; bankers etc, have ever had anything other than sedentary jobs.
Maybe it’s because suddenly everyone’s trying to explain the obesity thing.
Yes, well; eat too much and you put on weight fatty, simple.
Saying that, at the time my nananap addiction became noticeable I had recently finished a three month stint of long-distance driving (airport runs) now that IS sedentary.
Combine sedentary, concentration, high speed and night time driving and you have? One of the most dangerous occupations for a fat old lazy ass you could ever wish to find, although at the time I was doing it I was a skinny little donk. Explain that!

Anyway, now I’m a great fan.
I seriously don’t believe I’d be capable of doing a ‘normal’ job again unless there was a written obligation to allow me my nananaps throughout the day and if they happen to impinge on my ability to do the job, well: tough. Better that than a job badly done or not done at all because stroppy tired boy got a moody on and told the manager to ‘shove your job up your doodleoodleoo.’

I watched an old boy nodding off in TK Maxx yesterday and saw a frightening vision of myself in a few years. He was sat upright, leaning on his stick and nodding out; well, unless he was drunk but guys of that age usually can’t drink any more due to all the heart medication, anusol, high cholesterol etc etc so it’s bound to be the nananap catching up with him.
Imagine that? You can’t even make it round the shops without feeling the need for a little rest and a few minutes sleep and screw anyone who’s watching…brilliant. Frankly I can’t wait.

Sorry if your name’s not Frankly

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DEMONOCRACY

Posted on March 19, 2014
I’m not the best educated soul on the planet.
I’m not a great political ANALyst either, (too childish) but I think that if the population of an, admittedly disputed, territory calls an election and a huge majority makes it’s views known, even if they are contradictory to what some might wish but nonetheless the wishes of the majority are reflected, then that is without any doubt a democratic process, yes?

So, okay, I get that the Kiev thing was reported by the western press as a great democratic vote but…there actually wasn’t a vote was there?
I get that the people wanted change, I get that if they had been given the chance to vote they may well have voted for the change of government that they brought about by force but there was no legitimate vote…so…does it not make some sense that Russia does not recognise the wishes of the people of Ukraine without the democratic vote that they gave to the people of Crimea, however disputed? I don’t doubt there is a lot more to it all than my weak mind can work out but if you look at it from the Russian viewpoint I can see that to their way of thinking there has been a slight bending of rules.
I can see that there is no way they are going to allow their naval base to be overrun by a ‘rogue-nation’ without a ‘legitimate’ leader.
Perhaps I’m simplifying things but isn’t that what the western media did by jumping into Kiev on the first flight to report the ‘struggle for democracy’ so fervently when as we all know democracy involves ballots, not battles.
The longer all this goes on and the hysteria spreads the more I’m taking in the apparent sense of Moscow’s argument and doubting parliament and especially the sometimes over-wrought bias of the media.

The Arab spring was a lot of shit anyway, women being gang-raped by backward-thinking pig-men with no concept of decency, no honour, no acceptance of the basic tenets of democracy, i.e. Everyone, EVERYONE, is entitled to an opinion, women are given the same freedom of autonomy as men, genital mutilation (a massive problem in Egypt) is outlawed, sexual freedom is encouraged, racial and religious divisiveness is discouraged, and on and on.
These people have a long way to go before they can be treated with any level of respect. When they show the respect they demand, maybe they can ask for the same from others and from their God.

The western media appears to have tried to equate Kiev with the madness of Egypt and Syria when it is nothing of the sort and besides, if we are indeed encouraging democracy…the power of the ballot box…the power of the people to decide their future by voting for it, shouldn’t we respect the choice of the Crimean people?
97% is a massive vote, some of those must have been Tartars too, it’s not enough to claim ethnic diversification has claimed the vote. If 20% of the country is Tartar it still means a significant proportion voted for Russian, not Ukrainian ethnicity.

I don’t trust our media at the best of times and I watched the battles in Kiev and listened to the pro-democracy bias but I think Ukraine is free to keep its sovereignty now, it just appears the Russians understandably want to keep their port in the Crimean which may or may not have been part of Russia up until the Second World War anyway.
Weren’t parts of Ukraine once part of Poland until Hitler invaded?
There’s a whole load of history needs explaining and a whole lot of western propaganda needing unpicking before a dumbo like me can make an informed decision but I know one thing, democracy doesn’t seem quite so democratic lately.
Jeeesuss, we all voted, no-one wanted the Tories OR the Liberals but we ended up with both of the incompetent mummies boy ‘elite’ from the old boys club. Where’s the fairness in that, old boy?

Democracy…my ass!
How many millionaires on the front benches?
How many ex public schoolboys?
How many lords and ladies amongst them?
How many of these ‘leaders of men’ these ‘paragons of society’ manage to buy their own pants?
I will never trust a man who requires a woman to shop for his underwear, freaks!
Doesn’t seem like cricket to me.

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BLOG, OR BBBLLLOOOGGG?

Posted on March 18, 2014
I’m wondering if there’s a certain optimum length (ohh) for a blog, like is it so many times the girth (hmm) of a tweet, or times by pie(31.4?)the length of the average Facebook post, minus the swearing?
Actually while I’m on one, what is the Facebook swearing thing all about?
I like a swear as much as anyone, in fact I think I may well have invented a few terms of my own, (the fucktard, for instance.) (Dogfelcher, another classic,) although one of my newest favourites is mother-toucher; subtle; obvious what it’s a substitute for thereby retaining the bite of the original American without the commonness or the yuckiness of English accents.
Now I’m not claiming I’m the best swearer, that would probably go to someone with a more gritty accent than me but regardless.
I’m losing my way.
The Facebook swear; why?
Okay, I am getting old but I’m not a completely useless old C-word yet and yes it is okay to use that word so long as you NEVER use it in connotation with the lady-parts it allegedly alludes to.
( I checked recently with a friends daughter, she’s a mere 21!)
I NEVER use it to describe the lady-flower…NEVER!
Anyway, I don’t get it. F-words; yep, like them, like them quite a lot but not really in the written context. Dropped into conversation at the correct moment, yup, but again, very few can achieve the correct level of gravity required for the F-word to achieve full effect these days. In fact, I’m coming to the conclusion that our swear words are best dropped amongst the sort of random mashing of vowels and tenses that fall from attractive Eastern European ladies mouths. I often find the French/Spanish version of the F-word works well for me too, or: my favourite, the posh, English convent-educated lady. Obviously that is all tied up (mi lady!) in some weird boyhood trauma of mine but you get the idea?
Anyway, have I gone over the blog quota yet? I do feel as though I’m coming to the end of this one although I believe that’s probably more to do with the size of the page allocated rather than the fact that I could actually waffle on for ages regardless of actual factual interest.
Perhaps, like the novel, there is a natural order to these things, an accepted norm which I’ve yet to adhere to? I’m thinking that the sort of size Caitlin Moran uses in her Times pieces might be appropriate or is that merely, again, because of size stipulations (vicar!) rather than actual literary restrictions? I wish I knew then I might have ended this drivel before it had become quite so tedious.
Perhaps it’s time to have a small debate on the subject, set a few ground rules, parameters, that sort of stuff. It’s always nice to have a little chat with like-minds eh?
Anyway, don’t want to overstep the boundaries, spoil ones welcome what? So I’ll just eff like a C-word to the eff off and try to keep it a little shorter next time. (Ooof: nurse!)

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ROOM 101

Posted on March 16, 2014
Hi-viz clothing on motorcyclists!
Now I swore I wouldn’t get into moaning but what the …. is wrong with that shhhh? I’ve been riding bikes for years and okay, I get the idea, leathers are good for low-speed slides, they can save your skin, yep; I get it.
Crash helmets, yep; sure, if you slide and don’t smash your head against a post; kerb; vehicle; brick wall, etc etc at speed you should be lucky and survive. The same goes for boots, gloves, etc. At normal town-speeds, (20-30m.p.h) assuming you don’t mash yourself into anything too solid you will, in general, be okay.
I’ve had two low-speed, non-fault, (the polices words, not mine) accidents. One with a cyclist who rode straight out in front of me. No time to react, 25m.p.h, jeans, lid, gloves, leather. Knocked unconscious, fractured right collar-bone, various scuffs and bruises.
Second one was a car pulled out, no time to react, 7-10m.p.h, over bonnet, landed on head, flipped onto back, dislocated thumb and I’m coming to realise a year on that I also smashed a chunk out of my right elbow which makes leaning on it painful.
Now how hi-viz clothing would have made any difference whatsoever to the outcome of either of those ‘minor’ (no-one died) collisions I have no idea but I do know one thing.
I didn’t shame myself by walking around like a beacon of nafl.
I didn’t shame the world of men by noncing about like the lollipop man.
I didn’t embarrass myself, my family, my school, my colleagues, anyone whose ever known me or even seen me in passing, by indicating that a preference for orange or luminous yellow might actually have the slightest effect other than to illuminate to others that I am indeed a fully paid up member of the Advanced Sadass Section (A.S.S.) of the driving community.

Motorbikes are not safe. They can be made a lot safer by the interventionist, defensive, cautionary riding of an advanced and skilful rider but they can never be made safe and that’s why I like them.
I like that I might die.
I like that there’s a risk.
I like that they scare car drivers and the live-forever-even-if-it-means-sucking-soup-through-a-straw-for-the-last-five-years-while-I-piss-my-nappy-in-front-of-the-t.v-in-the-nursing-home brigade. In fact; I love that.
I love that the risk is lessened by the way I decide to ride and that so many of the lesser, weaker, members of society view my ability to take the risk as something slightly frightening or even stupid:’good; it is.
I fervently believe that anyone in hi-viz should be seen as a potential target. These are, after all, the sort of people who wear matching cardigans.
The sort of people who have a quick-release kagul handy at all times.
The sort of men who were In the cubs while their wives were guides and now prise their unsightly buttocks into inadvisably tight leather one-piece touring outfits. Why bother? Just buy the caravan you would be so much happier in, go to the south of France in that with your other dentist/accountant/civil servant friends and have done with it.
I know I’m about as rebellious as the maths teacher at the local high school but at least I’m attempting to keep the image up and there’s the rub.
Once upon a time there was an element of cool to riding bikes, the sort of people who did were mavericks; rebels, people with something about them; a story to tell.
Now we have Mr and Mrs Jones attempting to join the party and by doing so, ruining it for everyone, even those self-same car drivers who bemoan the yobby element of the motorcycle crowd but I honestly believe even they feel a little sense of shame and embarrassment when a fully-laden gold wing turns up with Mr and Mrs normal blaring Cliff Richard as they turn into the cross channel ferry port in matching hi-viz waistbands around their paunches! Unsightly, ugly, embarrassing and frankly: lamentable.

Have some dignity, buy a Volvo and leave us.

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CYCLING IN THE 21ST CENTURY.

Posted on March 12, 2014
Sunny day; enough cash to get out of town and purchase the obligatory coffee reward for being so energetic…
The cycle track past the quay and over the school playing fields, narrowly avoiding the doggy-doodoo that litters the path ready for innocent shoes to smear it over mothers freshly hoovered carpets, eueuw!
With the heart raised ever so slightly and a tiny effort of breathing the minor rises out towards Wootton are eased by the pod playing soothing tunes. (School of seven Bells as you ask)
There’s something really special about that first foray into the wilderness after months of cold and wet. Apart from a few rides around Newport and the odd venture to Cowes along the cycle-path the bike’s been neglected for months. Any warmer and I might have got a sweat on although realistically it’s highly unlikely as I’m more likely to get off and walk for a while rather than soil my clothes when there’s cheesy chips and coffee to be savoured at the cafe and it’s not just any old cafe, I’m talking Briddlesford farm cafe where the aroma of cow shit clears the nostrils the moment you ease onto the Briddlesford straight from Wootton.

If you’ve never had your arm licked by a calf you are seriously missing out. All those people with bucket-lists seem to miss this one off, same as walking in an English wood when the bluebells are in season.
Stuff your powerboat and your bungie: get a calf to lick your hand…proper.

The answer to life is never, or very rarely about expense. For me it’s the simple things like a cycle into the country, a calfs scratchy tongue on my wrist, the crunch of brown sugar eaten with a spoon from the top of a latte, that crispy edge to a triple-fried chip dipped in Mayo and tommy sauce with a slight smattering of cheese…and then there’s the ensuing journey home, again with a slightly raised heartbeat, a slight effort to the breathing, to counteract the calorie intake from the treats. I’m not a great one for exercise but there’s rubbish exercise, then there’s cycling on the Isle of Wight.
Spring is gorgeous, cycling wonderful but little baby calves, oh Lordy they are so cute.

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TO MATHS OR NOT?

Posted on March 10, 2014
Today we’ve been learning how to find the volume of cylinders by using radius and pie to calculate. I think I may have begun to understand the process by which it’s done but as with every other part of my course I am prone to forgetting astonishingly quickly some REALLY important processes, like how to understand standard form for instance.
This stuff is V important as without it I don’t have a hope of getting to uni to study English!
Maths to study English?! I hear you ask…
Why not learn computer-science to study dance?
How about English literature to help translate Russian to Serbian?
What about mechanical engineering to help on your horticulture course?
I may be being lazy but I do genuinely believe I may suffer from discalculus which doesn’t mean I won’t eventually get enough inside me to pass the exam but the level of work and stress involved just to jump through a hoop only to forget everything within the time it takes me to close my maths book and walk from my last lesson does appear to me to be a huge waste of my time and the resources of my teacher and the college.
I’m 51, I know what I want to do, know my strengths and weaknesses and I’m hardly likely to retain information about numbers after all these years when I have a poop-chute from the back of my brain that drops open as soon as the lesson is over and deposits all the information down my back while I’m walking/cycling/whatever. Tiny little parts of the processes get stuck to parts of my brain but unfortunately when I try and piece those bits together they invariably form in the wrong order. Saying that, I can do all the regular stuff that ‘normal’ people do, add, subtract, rough percentages, etc but the extras, algebra, graphs, calculus, are pointless unless I one day write a novel about a mathematician. I might do just for the hell of it but there are other far more interesting subjects to be covered first, love, death, murder, vampires..no, not poxy vampires, or stoopid werewolves or anything to do with dopey ghosts or the supernatural cock that seems to be the latest bore-me-to-sleep fad.
Quality writing doesn’t require fads or sex to sell it, a few nice metaphors, some wicked vocabularyisation, that’s the way and if not then maybe I’ll try doing the math(S)
Dumb Yankees, there’s an S in it, pronounce it or F to the C to the K orfff

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SPRING? IS IT

Posted on March 10, 2014
I went out in a pair of just-below-the-knee jeans today, I apologise for the flesh on display but I think once a gent reaches a certain age it’s unbecoming to wear the short short in public but I’m afraid I cannot adhere to the three quarter ‘wanker-pant’ either so, when I returned I made a small adjustment by removing a sixth, possibly more, of the offending material. (I’m studying maths, yes with an S, pedantry being my perogative)
What I hadn’t realised before the cut was the astonishing knee-cuddling quality of a tiny piece of cloth and the subsequent; well, not what you could legitimately call a chill but there was a most definite change in the comfort level. Still, I believe in the splendour of a mans knee, not other men’s knees no: specifically; my splendid knees.
Not sure when I’ll get the opportunity to expose the half-length jeans to the general public though. I’ve got school tomorrow and I don’t feel confident enough to expose myself there, possibly not a great idea, so it’ll have to wait until a more opportune environment avails itself. I’m thinking beach-type exposure preferably but that means a dodgy motorcycle journey without adequate protection, not great! I’ve only just got my bike gear up together again after a lay-off and the consequences of ‘flabbing-up’ over Christmas. Two months of constant dieting has brought the belly into some form of order but I’m not down to thong, sandals and socks on the beach buff…yet, beware.
Anyway, it’s great to see a bit of sun. The summer haircut is in effect, the tan will start soon and if world war three starts all because the Europeans underestimated the Russian tendency to be ever-so-slightly-possessive, who gives a shit so long as it’s on a sunny day?
Me, I’ll be straight In the ice-cream shop for a last lick of heaven before the blast-wave melts my sprinkles

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The ‘good old days?’
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ution? When the proletariat are so over fed that they can barely waddle to their next date with a lump of flesh in a bun and a bucket of sugar I don’t think ‘they’ have too much to worry about. Either starve the proles or fatten them up so they can’t fight, whichever it all achieves the same level of conformity in the end doesn’t it. (Almost sounded like I knew what I’m on about there for a bit didn’t it?)

Anyway, I think the social media and all that hot air guff are about as compatible as marathons and….( wait for it…big finish on a poignant note) Marathons. Oh shit what twat changed the name to Snickers?

As compatible as a cat-scan on a chihuahua!

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