I bet that if you could find a rented mule that was more stubborn than me, it would cost you more than ten bob.

This evening it took me half an hour to get dressed; I don’t think I’ll be going to Buffs tomorrow.

The thing with being stubborn is that it never goes away. Stubbornness never leaves you alone - like a party that nobody comes to.

To look at me, you might think that I am am happy and all that. But I am not.

However, I am stubborn so I can do things that other people can’t.

(caution: may contantain nuts)

My brother sharpened his pen and attended forthwith.

Let me explain; a broken arm is a broken arm. Hooray for me because I managed to get get dresssed.

Maybe tomorrow I shall sit in my OCD seat and wait until Doc Holiday sees me.

My other thanks go to Mani who did some laundry and, of course, Omally

yarroo!

this one really hurts i tell you.
my left arm is bust right at the neck. at the shoulder.

thanks to my brother he has kept me supplied. sometimes i feel like crying but that won’t do any good.

back to bed for me.

stay safe.

Seeing as how the Hornby Dublo trainset that exists around here can’t cope with a couple of inches of snow and, seeing as I was supposed to see Doc Holiday, I decided to hoof it.

It was quite a nice day but the black-ice was treacherous. I reached the surgery bang on time, had the chat and then went to the bank. Oh dear - I am a ton in the red.

I bought a little basket of stuff and made for the tills.

At the ‘baskets only’ thing there was a woman in front of me. Well, that’s alright because I’ve got all day anyway. So I stood and waited and then I heard the magic words:

“Oi, you.”

Then I got a prod in the back.

“There is a queue, you know.”

Well, to me, a queue is a line and not a load of morons bumbling about. The man who had prodded me was about my age (although I look much younger) and he was in a right strop. Now I don’t much like being ‘Oi youd’ and I certainly don’t like being prodded. I explained that I wasn’t aware of being a queue jumper and made my apologies and and retired to the rear of the milling crowd.

I started to converse with a nice lady. She said, “Look - till rage", and it was the same bloke going raving bonkers. All I had was an apple and some Aunt Bessie’s spuds (no chance of them thawing out) and then the fight nearly started. There was a woman paying for some stuff and matey started chiming in and then another bloke thought it would be a good idea to have a go. The row really started to kick off.

Scummer number one could have been decked with one good punch but I had decided to behave myself and so me and this lady just shook our heads. We talked about the weather. Then, the alert supermarket team sprang into action and fired-up all tills.

Outside, in the carpark, I nearly got killed by a man in a 4X4 who had decided to drive on the pedestrian walkway. Another woman said, “You just can’t believe it, can you?”

The trains were dead. One broken at Berrylands and so I started talking to a fellow and we had both lived in Berlin. He was ex-services but I never told him what I did there. He probably thinks I did ’secret’ things.

I drank my coffee and walked home.

I’m now friends with a neighbour and, hey, Omally might well be arriving soonish.

Don’t forget to hold hands when you cross the road.

H.

(my regards to, hmmm, Robert Heinlein, unless I am very much mistaken)

Ever seen me sorely vexed? What? Never? Happy-go-lucky old me? No answer required from Trouty but I bet the rest of you can hardly imagine it for a million pounds.

You should have seen me yesterday. It was the first time that I had actually cried for years. Barbie Henry cries real tears.

Half of it has stopped working so then I have to rewire everything to see the other half and so-on and so-forth.

The font on the lappytoppy is so small that even a leprechaun couldn’t read it and my speakers won’t plug into it and, and, and…

I hope that this message in a bottle finds its way into your safe hands.

Don’t take sweets from strangers, especially those who have found themselves in a strange land.

Love and kisses,
H.

Unless you want to drive yourself absolutely nutbags, never, ever get a a new compluter.
In my humble experience you will find that they don’t work the same and will destroy everything that you ever had before.
All I ever wanted was something that worked the same, something that I understood.
Now, everything is different.
I have to revert to the clockwork one just to blah, blah and, indeed, blah.

I’m SO depressed.

How does this new thing work? I dunno. How does the old one work? Search me.

The new router seems to work but I am too old for learning curves.

Why can’t it just be the same? I am very miserable.

There seems to have been a bit of a mix-up in the interwebular world.
For a start my router blew up which is why I havent been about for a while. In order to try to sort this out involved (and I am NOT joking) over two hours on the phone to New Delhi at Gawd knows what cost.

I gave up on my D-Link router (the second one, may I add) and I went and bought a Belkin router for a million pounds. Eventually, after more calls to the sub-continent, I got the thing thing going and, hooray, I was back on line. Or was I?

Everything is different, which I do not like, and I can’t do the things that I need to do. I just want it to be the same - that’s all. At least I am half back on line. I can’t get SimonG’s site to work properly, or mine come to that.

AOSmell say that they do not support Belkin and I suspect there may be some awful battle of the firewalls going on. I can still post but my blog is lost and this wretched thing thinks I should sign up to Blogger but I can’t manage it.

I really am at my wit’s end with it all.

Where’s my blog gone?

When I walk to the garage I prefer to walk on the adverse side. The puddles are fewer and I can see what’s coming. Plus, it’s only right and proper.

Today is NYE and I have wished everyone a HNY and all that cack. Good for me that I keep my eyes open. I saw the fag-end coming out of the car and I nutmegged it.

For those who do not care a whistling fart about foopball this is where the ball goes between the legs of a defender. How I know this I’m not sure but I sure did see the fag-end and, no, it did not hit me. It wouldn’t really have done me any damage, even if it had, but at least it prevented the scummers in the car shouting ‘GOAL’ or something stupid like that.

So today is NYE. I’ve tried to be nice for once and then this happens. I’ve found out some very interesting things which might explain how odd I am. You wait until my brother comes back from Egypt and then there will be some talking to do.

Throwing lit fag-ends at me as I walk along is not so very bloody funny at all. I wish the carful all that they so richly deserve for the coming year.

In the meantime, may I wish my readers a very happy 2010 and send my love and gratitude to each and every one.

Have a good one.

Love,
H.

I have been learning a lot. I spent 11 years at school looking out of the window and I don’t think that I learned a single thing. I am an auto-didact and everything that I now know I have picked up for myself. University? No way. I find it hard to be interested in anything for 3 weeks, let alone 3 years. My mind doesn’t work like that and, with exception of boating (which is life-long) I have always stuck to the same regime; things are interesting until they become uninteresting. I’ll do the Times crozzy for a while and then I won’t buy a newspaper for 3 years.

Then I met the Compaq lappytoppy. Hmmmmm. Not having an 8 year old technical supporter I realised that I would have to do all this myself AND I’m getting there. No one here to help me but I did have the usual boatmanly tools of brute-force and ignorance. Once you have these, there is very little that can get in the way. If all else fails use bloody great nails.

The Compaq will die before I do and it had better realise the fact.

As regards the neighbours…
Upstairs I have the Creeper and his mates. It does kick off but only once in a while (although I must admit that the water coming through my bathroom light was a bit strong).

Next door I have another neighbour. He’s the one with a dog the size of a Shetland pony.
One night the Creeper and his mates were having a noisy party and at about 02:00 the doorbell rang. Outside was dog-bloke and he was actually shimmering with rage. I just shrugged and pointed upstairs to where the Creeper lives. What can you do? Dog-bloke turned on his heel and went.

Next day I felt a bit cross so I rang his bell…
“I’d rather that you didn’t ring my bell at 02:00 and give me the evils”
“Well, I said sorry”
And with that he shut the door in my face.

All well and good BUT no, he did NOT say fucking sorry; he didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t say anything to the Creeper because I would have heard it.

This morning I was loafing about kicking ice off the puddles and attending to my Parishional Nuisencical duties. I started to wonder why Dog-bloke hates me so much. And then I had it. He doesn’t like me because he has to go to work yet I do not.

That must really irk him.

To him, I must look perfectly normal. To him I must look like some workshy benefit scrounger but I’ve seen pools of blood that would make him spew. He might think he’s hard but the shouts that I’ve been on would make him wee his panties.

Now all I have to do is make the Compaq see sense and, maybe, we’ll all be happy.

I’m no longer in the mood for the ‘C’ word. In fact it makes me angry to hear it or even see it written. No, I’m not talking about Christmas, I’m talking about something far, far worse; that’s right! C***luters.

Well, what happened was is that I bent the familial ‘no presents’ treaty and I thought I might try to drag my Mother into the 21st C. by buying her a ‘C’ word. She could e-mail and look at prawnography; that sort of thing. I bought a Compaq lappytoppy and got charged the wrong price for it which saved me a lot of money. I am therefore reluctant to take it back - in fact I won’t.

It’s very nice, shiny, shiny, and so, when she invited me for a post-festivalian lunch I revealed the wretched thing. It works off Windows 7 (whatever that might be) and we got it all plugged in and fired-up. Oh dear, it hasn’t got a mouse (which she has used before at my sister’s) and the loudest I could get it to go was barely audible, to her, as she is a tad Mutt and Jeff. Also, she has no ISP so she couldn’t use it for anything much. She thought that the screen was nice and clear though and started rubbing her fingers on it.

I made the Oliver Hardy face.

Now my electronical, candle-powered, telly typewriter on which I bang out this message in a bottle is about 7 years old, runs on Windows XP and, frankly, belongs in a museum.

Sometimes decisions have to be made, difficult though they may be. I took the sorry ensemble home with me (and the robdog cabby charged me 12 quids for the pleasure - it was only a Saturday).

I spent a great deal of Sunday on the phone to Mumbai - 8 calls, something like that - but whenever I got to a difficult bit like, ‘How do I make this work?’ the line mysteriously disconnected.

So.
I have a c***luter that should be on the Antiques Roadshow but which works. It is connected to the router by a yellow cable. I can unplug the cable and plug it into the lappy but the lappy is not AO Hellified and all I want it to do is BE THE SAME so that I can use it.

Thinking caps on, please.

In the box, and it’s an ammo box, goes a birthday card, some weird minihighlighters (although I’m, not sure about them. because they smell), an eraser and sharpener set, a pen, a crazy kite, sticky notes and a notebook.

This is where the problems arise. Will it get blown up? My printer is blown so I can’t put anything inside but what would be the point in that? There isn’t much point in sticking a sticker on the outside, come to that.

Yes, I did swear that I would not put the heating on.

However, the sub-Arctic nature of the weather made me rethink.

The half-hour of heating of last year was but a test to see if it all still worked. This year, as I sat in my many layers, I did start to wonder a bit. What if a pipe split?

There is a difference between ‘accept’ and ‘inure’.

So, using my skillful skills I set the heating going. As a boatman there are things that have to be done. My fingers got burned but I still got things going. Consequence: No pipes split (as yet), and I feel a tad warmer.

My resolution to turn my back on the Festival has now slipped and I feel bad about that but today is the shortest day of the year.

One day I shall tidy up this slum and get back to painting and writing. But, today, I gave in.

But, just for today, I gave in.

Sometimes I think I must have gone a bit bonkers.

At the just about end of the film, which I saw again the other day (SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!) is a lovely quote.

Replicant Roy knows that he has to die; it is built into him but he doesn’t know when.

Is the Blade Runner, himself, a Replicant? He has fallen in love with a Replicant but none of us knows what is around the corner.

A great film. Don’t miss it.

No, it’s not all that cold here, but I refuse to put the heating on.
Have you seen the size of a gas bill of late?
My cunning plan is to use the layering technique.

I have my jim-jam trousers underneath my jeans and, should it get much colder, I shall find another jumper and build up my top layers from three to four.

My cycle gloves from the boat are a boon and I have a hat, fleeces, and a couple of puffa jackets.

Call me stubborn and you would be right. I have two duvets and a blanket on my bed but I will NOT have the heating on; I would rather freeze to death.

I have been reading about Scott and Shackleton and I would rather that they thought me no weakling. I mean, it’s not exactly minus 40 in my Parish. Yet.

It is a bit chilly but I prefer cold weather to hot and, if push comes to shove, I shall use newspaper, much like a Harold Ramp, to keep the frost off.

It is nearly the shortest day of the year and the weather should start to warm. The hypothermics who used to live downstairs must have moved out and that’s a shame because, as sure as the sparks fly upwards, so did their heat.

Never mind. I am the greenest of Green and my carbon-footprint must be virtually nil.

Layers are the secret plus a bit of swig and to not break any more of my ribs which I did, yet again, the other day.

Go on, wear more jumpers until you look like Bibendum.

Compliments of the season,
Frosty the Snowman.

This morning I got a telephone call from a certain police station.
Apparently my report of an offence had been written off.

‘Nah, leave it, H., it’s not worf it!’

Oh really? Well we shall see about that.
See, I am rather Old School and, as trivial as this offence may seem to some, it actually means something to me. Once the rot sets in it can only get worse.

I reminded the person who had the hard luck to phone me that the government’s intention is that if anyone reports an offence they should be visited and so on.

They can come round anytime they like. Yes, I will give a statement. Yes, I will go to court if I have to. Seeing as how I have already provided all the evidence they need the ripe smell of ‘Can’t be bothered’ came wafting down the line.

He said he would send them (Bone-Idle squad up North) a fax saying that I was not dropping anything and that I suggested that they had better get a move on before the Crimbo holidays started.

A fax? What’s that?

He would have been better off beating something out on his trusty Remington and sending it on the first steam train headed for the Midlands.

Honestly, these days we have COMPLUTERS and they work a bit better. What I suspect is that he was trying to was build the Friday into the holiday and fob me off. But I don’t get fobbed off. What I get is annoyed when people who are paid to do a job don’t just get on with it.

Anyway, that’s for another day.

In a recent blog, Rick informed that the Roman God of Farting was one Crepitus.
I shook my head because I knew that I was right. I just knew it. And guess what? We both were, in our ways.

Thank you for the card, Trouty. I wish you all the best and hope you have a good one and that there isn’t too much snow around you. I hear that Kent took quite a hammering.

Happy whatever you believe in,
H.

My pursuit of Mr Shit has to continue.
I have done just about all that I can think of but I won’t give up.
It really is quite amazing what you can find on the interweb and, having read the whole thing over, twice, I’m getting a bit better at it.

The trouble for Mr Shit is that he is nailed. A lot of information is there, in the open, so I now have sat. photos of where he is, I know who his ISP is, I know his first name and I know that he has been busted from other sites for sending offensive messages.

Now then, I am old and grey and I probably know some ruder words than he seems to.
I swear a lot on my blog but that’s only about Tony Bliar.

I have done my best but keep bumping into the Data Protection Act. However, never mind about that because it is now in the hands of the police. What they do with the information that I have passed on is up to them but I wasn’t a copper for nothing.

The more information that you can provide then the tighter the net closes.

Happy holidays to all and, especially, those in The Job. May it be a quiet one.

Love,
H.

As everybody well knows, I am allergic to Christmas.
But today I did a GOOD THING and I’ll tell you what it was.

My pursuit of Mr Shit still continues and I have got so close that I can just about touch him but that is by the by.

Today I was up the garage buying the usual and there was a woman in front of me at the till. Her bill came to over 20 quids but all she had was a score (that’s 20 quids) and she wanted to hand back some choclit and things so that she could pay.

Ahem.

I may be allergic to Christmas but I am also allergic to poverty. I said to till-man, “You take her twenty and I’ll cover the rest".

Of course, I didn’t want to embarrass her but I wished her the compliments of the season and she left.

How did I do this? Well, I had a pony in my pocket thanks to the brotherhood. Last meeting some cards came round and I thought ‘Oh, Nora’ but I opened them and in one was a pony (that’s 25 quids) and the card was simply signed ‘The Lodge’.

What goes round comes around.

Today, as usual, is Doc Holiday day. I went and moaned about depression and my aches and pains. A little while back I had yet another fall, hit some bedroom furniture, and either cracked or broke two of my ribs. It hurt ( and still does) like bloody hell but there’s nothing that can be done about it. I just took to my bed and cried (situation normal) but when I was talking to Doc Holiday about it today I described some symptoms like when I roll over in bed and I can feel and hear the crackling. “Hmm", said he. I said, “I know, its crepitus or crepitation” and he looked at me.

Sometimes I am really glad that I pay attention to things that interest me. I shouldn’t think that he has one patient in a thousand who knows what crepitus is. We talked about Concorde for a bit and agreed to meet on Crimbo Eve.

Later on, while I was waiting for my script to be filled, I went to the bank and then to Expensive-rose. In my basket was oranges and some sushi and an apple. Oh Lawks! who should be coming the other way but Doc Holiday himself. In his basket he had a lot of cakes. I held mine up and said, “Look, health food!”

I like to think that he was pleasantly surprised.

In the meantime, here is the best Crimbo song ever. Poor Kirsty, Gawd bless yer…

“Author : shit (IP: 92.43.64.70 , 92.43.64.70)

E-mail :

URI : http://piss off.com

Whois : http://ws.arin.net/cgi-bin/whois.pl?queryinput=92.43.64.70

Comment:

suck a fat one you fucking prick AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

This charming comment came in today. It was in response to my blog entitled ‘OI BALDY’.

I shall not remove or alter it in any way. Everyone has a right to speak as they wish; even Tadpole Brain. Should anyone who is more compluter literate than I wish to reply to my Christmas messenger I have kept the message and will happily pass on the full details.

Never mind, I’ve got Buffs tonight and quite a lot to do.

It is usual to start a sentence with a capital letter but Happy Christmas to you, Mr Shit, and I hope that the festive season brings you all that you deserve.

Regards,

H.

As we all know Tesco Baiting was outlawed in the 19thC. but I, however, do allow myself the occasional game of chance.

Having spent the day in bed with my old chums Diazepam and Zopiclone (the very NAME of it makes you want to sleep) I realised that there were certain foodstuffs that I required. A lot of it frozen in case I get snowed-in. Plus, I also like to buy some things that don’t make me turn up at the till with a basket of cider like some washed-up alcoholic.

‘Me? No, I’m going to make a punch for all my friends with this cider, a tin of pineapple chunks and some fishfingers!’

Now I, and Trouty will agree with this, am not a bad shopper. Doesn’t matter to me where they put the decimal point, I can still move it IN MY HEAD. Here’s a tip; it’s where I live! Ha ha. No, here’s a tip; buy frozen mushrooms.

So, I was wandering about in the frozen zone when something rather strange struck me. In the glass-fronted compartment was the sweet, sweet cheese pizza that I had had before. It’s not called ‘Edge to edge’ for nothing. Mmmmm deeee-lish.

£2.59

But, stuck on the door, like some mad estate agent’s cardboard sign, was a big deal stating these things were only half price. Well, fetch me my Orgasmatron because I can feel one building.

Having filled my little trolley with the usual rubbish (why do Bags For Life always stay at home?) I went to the till. At the till they should have a mini-bar full of Super Lager and Shrieking Witch so that as you watch your tab go up, you can cool yourself down (drive safely!).

Do you know why they sell cans in packs? Have you seen the new ones on Spesh? It would take you a fortnight with a craft knife and an angle-grinder to get into one. Merry bloody Christmas to you too.

It’s because it makes them more difficult to steal. Unless you have a big pocket and want to steal four.

Where was I? Oh yes, I queueueueueued at the till but I had positioned my pizza most carefully upon the belt. Up it came; ‘£2.59′.

Yesssssssssssss, Goal, Get in!

I paid up and went straight to the Customer Services desk.

“Psst, Hoi, Scuse me but there’s a great big notice on your freezer saying this should be half price".
“I see. may I see your pizza , and your bill?”
“Why, of course”

Golden Rule of Tesco Game is to make sure that you have the correct product and WEIGHT. They’ve caught me before like this.

Eventually he came back with the ripped-down sign. Then got a calculator out. Now even I can work out what half of £2.59 is but I think it was the .5 that stymied him. He took my receipt and wrote £1.25 on it (?) and gave me some money. There was a two-pound coin in it so I didn’t check or argue. I just beat a hasty retreat.

The Tesco Game lives on!