Not being much of a political animal I steer clear of the circus that is British politics. However, a comment by the current PM, Boris Johnson, comparing Jeremy Corbyn with Stalin made me pause for thought.
Labour propose to introduce a 4 day working week in the next ten years. All good and well but are they imitatating one of the Soviet Dictator’s doctrines.
In 1929 Stalin had a calendar moment and eradicated Saturdays and Sundays from a normal week. And then there were five, as it were. Workers worked four days a week on different rotas and got one day off. That’s one way to boost productivity.
Labour aren’t saying but does this mean, in the near future we must proclaim…
Saturdays no more.
Sundays no more.
Don’t ya just love those old superstitions. A favourite of mine was my gran used to tell me to eat the crust of bread. This would make my hair curly…
Come on, who amongst us would not want curly locks? Like a big girl I twirl my locks from time to time. Even though, sad to say, those locks aren’t as colourful as they used to be.
Well, not the Chariot precisely, but the conveyance used by our Boadicea to travel from place to place. We’ve put our ICE-powered companion out to grass- she was getting a little frail and battered around the edges – and purchased a bright-eyed, lecky-driven, millennium replacement.
Well, not quite, but the warrants have been signed, the executioner booked and the changeover set for the end of the month. Our extended test drive convinced us both that the future is already here, even for a pair of seniors like us.
Once we have our new chariot we’ll bore you with the details of our experiences, no doubt. 😎
EV = Electric Vehicle.
ICE = Internal Combustion Engine (petrol/gas or diesel)
Spectacular is the adjective commonly used for pyrotechnic displays. Bugbear number 3 for me. Fawkes sake, one light show is the same as the other.
Happy New Year. Let there be light.
Lost a fiver today.
It’s alright, don’t feel sorry for me. It was my own fault. Fell out my pocket. Not got a Clouseau where it went. Like Cato the Younger I took this hit with a resigned Hardy look at the fourth wall and remembered the famous Roman quote by Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis “What’s for you will never go by you.” Though I’m sure it was originally in Latin,
Quid Leatherus testamus numquam Cheerioyou.
I was heel-clicked incarnate. Honestly, the cliché police, if they existed, would have thrown the book at me or locked me up and thrown away the key. Nothing could stop me in this mood. I was on top of the world, soaring like a cold blister and full of beans that could make a new forest. As I walked down the street I was the shiniest on show by a city mile (not in the country and anyway, a mile’s a mile for all that). I couldn’t resist singing my favourite Scorpions song “Here I am, Rock you like a Harry Kane.”
Then Destiny called. “Hello, you,” she said.
A driver had lost control of his Ford F650 pick up truck and had driven it onto the pavement. Careering at speed it was almost upon a young boy who was walking in front of me. I had a split second to make a decision. Continue reading “You need hands”
From the reviews.
“This is like an immortal dog. It is unputdownable.” (London Review of Books)
“You’ll See Us outjoyces Joyce, checkmates Chekov, Guy Fawkesy du Maupassant and shakes the Speare.” (Times Literary supplement)
“To read this you can’t be in your right mind. For wrong-minded readers only.” (Glaswegian Gallus Gazette)
Occasionally, they let me out. Having been a good boy and jested less than usual the asylum gave me a free day pass, yet told me I could only stay out for one. Doesn’t add up. Continue reading “You’ll See Us”
Missed. Missed. Missed.
It was a catalogue of misses. No wonder Scotland are tripe at football when youngsters are messing about with a football throwing it at a basketball net. Missed. And from an easy distance, no one would shoot from downtown. Missed again. Just don’t get American sports at all. Too many “Hail Mary’s” in them for my liking.
The problem, as I could see it, was that the boys were not statuesque or Sipuesque. They were too short to be stormhoopers. They needed to be the size of the mountainous, non-basketball playing, ex-FBI chief, James Comey. I wanted to shout “Chief, just jump up, and put it in the basket.”
American politics aren’t my bag of tricks either. Nonetheless, the repercussions from the firing of the FBI boss by Donald Trump is still reverberating around DC so I bought the Comey book (half price at WH…a bargain) and found it an easy read. The big guy has been promoting it stateside. I watched his performance on the BBC’s America This Week last week. Refreshingly, he answered a lot of questions the way I answer them. “I don’t know” cropped up frequently.
There is one funny incident in the early part of his biography where he describes spilling gallons of milk while working in a grocery. Apart from this Fools and Horses moment the book is rather drab. The details of the Clinton E-mail investigation and Trump Russia connections are sketchy and unfulfilling. His one on one joust with the President of the USA is an ongoing game. Which one will, ultimately, put it in the basket?
A blank page. White. Snow? Snow in May? Hay, hay, hay..
I trudge through the emptiness, the whiteness, the ice. Ice! Ha ha! The only water or concentrated fruit juice is in the title.
Trudge. Snow. Ice. Not a Frost-Giant’s daughter in sight. Just my luck. Or is it? I’m not a Cimmerian. Good chance I’d be Frost-Giant steak.
Then I see it. A block. Not a writer’s block or a mitre block, just a block. Like me..
In this Godforsaken world, there’s just the two of us.