When the Beatles wrote ‘The best things in life are free’, they obviously weren’t thinking of South West Trains. Or perhaps they were.

Okay, seeing as no one has got anywhere near, I’ll do you an easy one. Who wrote this?

When the chocolate has melted, remove the bowl from the pan and, using a metal whisk, beat the chocolate until the texture starts to change. Use the whisk to add air until the result appears to froth.
Serve this into clean and clear glass dishes.
Take the whipped cream and, using a metal spoon, fold it into the chocolate. Do this gently so as to give a ‘marbled’ effect.
Chill the glasses, along with the reserved chocolate, for at least two hours.
Before serving, shave the remaining chocolate as a garnish.

Meanwhile, HOT news on the diarrhoea-mobile; it’s gone.

In its place is a Smart car.

There are a few things that could have happened. Spontaneous combustion or a trip to the auction. Perhaps someone who was a bit mental might have coughed the £29.95 asking-price.

Personally I think that someone sly went in and made a bonkers offer - maybe 300 quids or so.

The garage man, thinking of his bare festive table, the little expectant faces on the kids, the little sprig of holly drawingpinned to the front door. Wee Tiny Tim and all that, must have taken the cash.

Even Father Christmas wouldn’t have bought it.

I can’t think of anything else to write about seeing as I have just been shivering in bed with two duvets on, listening to the radio and reading by the light of a 1 watt bulb.

Happy New Year!

Who wrote this?

“Looking up at the ducks, I thought of Thomas. The commotion. The tears were bitter, yet in the churchyard brought a great peace.”

Anyway, today I felt mostly ill so I stayed in bed nearly all day to try and recover. I’ve got to see Doc Holiday tomorrow morning and I can’t turn up ill. It only takes 3 minutes to get to Worst Byfleet so I hope I don’t get done. The bloody ticket machine isn’t working again.

If I get away with it and have to get a single back I’d like to pay that stupid bastard in pennies. I must google how much you can get away with in small change.

After the stunning success of my advent calendar I thought I should invent a new game.

QUOTATIONS

Now I’m not very good at HTPPGTIPS so don’t blame me if these italics all go wrong.

Who said Whoever believes a single word that comes out of the mouth of a woman is either in love, or insane?

This is much easier than doing pictures. I might do them more often.

If there is one thing I cannnot stand, it is noise.

If there is one thing the Creeeper loves it IS noise.

Yeah, I really love that throbbing bass sound.

I wonder if he’d like my boot rammed up his snooter?

If that twat doesn’t shut up I shall pay a visit next-door. Two skinheads and an American Bulldog should shut his crimbo face

I would like to wish all my readers a Happy Christmas.

About 30 years ago I got given a pair of Scroogey, blasted gloves. They had no fingers. They were like something out of Steptoe and Son.

Now I was only 18 or so and wasn’t very grateful that someone had taken the time to knit a pair of gloves for me.

Her name was Miss Elsie and she must be dead by now; she was nearly dead by then.

Sieving compost wasn’t much fun but I could dig a trench much quicker than anyone. I could double-dig until the day I tried to lift a sink with herbs growing in it. It was an old-syle sink. I felt my back go.

A butler’s sink, I think they called it.

We had some fun. Gerald (he’s dead now) had a farm next-door and he wanted some leafmould. What a shame I got there first and took away a few barrowloads. He went Radio-Rental but I didn’t know anything about it.

See (and I was talking to my brother about this, just the other day) is that money doesn’t fall out of trees.

Rip people off and that’s very clever. That is, until they catch you, and then you will wish that you had never been born.

Happy Christmas.

When I was loafing about, most arduously, the other day I noticed a couple of things that brought back memories and made me think.

I loved this next sign. Having moved a bit of the ivy out of the way, I took a picture.

Industrial archaeology fascinates me although I will never, ever, try a degree or some qualification in it. I’m not well enough, for a start, and really all I like to do is look at things in fields and under hedges. I look at things that men made, long ago, with a sense of wonder. There are things that I have dug up or magged up and some I have kept.

Bits of clay pipe and oh, loads of rubbish. But these things keep me happy. Old bottles and bits and bobs - you know.

I poked about and found this sign

and it reminded me of a story that might bring you cheer.

In the olden days, when I was a white van man I used to work with this bloke. He was a bit of a villain and he used to have to drive a van which had two windows in the rear doors. Nowadays the doors are just panelled but his had these two windows in a Transit sort of style thing.

He used to really get the knock with getting hooted and flashed when he was trying to get his work done.

So he made a sign.

Using cardboard, string and the ever wonderful gaffer tape he constructed a mechanism.

The sign was ‘hinged’ to the bottom of one of the windows with tape. Then he made some runners, or whatever you might call them, with more more gaffer tape. Then he ran string through from the top of the sign, up to the top of the doorway, through the runners that he had made that ran along the top of the roof.

The end of the string ended near the driving seat. When he pulled the string the sign would rise up and be visible through one of the back windows of the van.

If he got hooted or flashed he would pull the string so that the message was revealed to the driver behind.

Now, I wonder if you can guess what the message said?

I could NOT sleep.
The last thing I remember was the 08:30 news, and then my Mun phoned up at about 11:30.

As per usual (this is odd, I just put on Joni Mitchell and she was singing ‘Carey’ from the album ‘Blue’. ‘Last night’, she sang,’ I couldn’t sleep’) I had to go and sort out the bins and the recycling. Wait until next week when the religious people won’t be round to collect the recycling on Thursday or the empty the bins on Friday.

Three hours sleep isn’t really enough but I still felt wired.

Something horrible happened which I won’t go into. Just the other night. Maybe that would explain the lack of sleep.

My newly shaven face seems to be improving. It’s a good job that I am such a fantastic doctor. Yes, I doctored my face into a black hole in outer space to such an extent that it dare not try me again.

And now for some slumber. Please, some sleep.

Tomorrow I have calls to make and maybe a walk to shift this gut.

Sleep well (me).

There are people I know who will not paint.

What’s this? A blog about painting with NO pictures? But that is the very point. I’m always whinging to people about them not painting. They always say, ‘I can’t’.

Neither can I. I can’t write a book. There’s LOADS of things that I can’t do. The list is practically endless. I can’t play a single musical instrument and that’s a shame.

Maybe if I had gone to Arty School or piano lessons then I would be better at feeling better about myself.

Go on. Paint a picture of a house that you used to live in. Paint a picture of a duck or the Grandpa you used to know.

Painting, and this is the great thing about it, is that while banging on a piano might make a bit of a din, slapping paint about makes no din.

Here’s a thing; I want to paint a picture of a smoker. How the hell do you paint smoke? I know how I’m going to paint it - rather badly.

Had I gone to Arty School they might be able to tell me how to paint smoke. Not easy. But do I want to paint smoke like someone else tells me how to?

Nope. I shall paint as I want because I have no one to please. There are paintings done and they have long gone but that will never stop me.

I paint because I want to.

Try to name me a painter who ever thought, ‘Well, I’m fed up with being a whatever, so I’ll be a painter instead’. It just doesn’t happen.

Write a poem. Write a story. Make, and this is a good one, a Go-Cart.

Make, or do, something that you don’t have to learn for years to do.

Feel good about yourself. Painting’s a bit of a cop-out but you can DO.

Before anyone pinches my idea, here it is:

Monkeynana is a board game, bit like snakes and ladders. You start with different coloured (non-racist) monkeys at the bottom but, oh no, there are some spiders about.

There are twelve plastic banannannananas and twelve plastic spidereses. You would need one of them twenty-something dice from a weirdo game.

Anyway, You throw the die to see which square to put the bannanananas on, and again to see which way to put them spiderses on. You would have to throw the die quite few times which makes it good for kids.

Then you use a different dice, on that only went up to 4 or something.

The aim of the game is to get to the last square with loads of bananannananas without them getting et by spiderses.

If you land on a spider square you lose a bananaanana.

If you land on spider square and throw a one then the spider is squashed and out of the game, PLUS you get another go.

If you get to the top of the tree with at least one bananananana then you are the winner!

Copyright, J.D. Windsor, 2008

I hate the word ‘portfolio’ and, before you start, it’s not because I’m jealous.

The word is smug. That’s all, just smug.

In my portfolio I have got some stamps and a few Tesco vouchers which I shall shred when they go out of date.

Whenever I have to go to Worst Byfleet station it is plastered with adverts for portfolio this and portfolio that. ‘Portfolio’, to me, seems to me a symbol for stealing money from your grandchildren.

Well, call me a communist, but I can’t stick the thought of people being proud of screwing money from usury. You know where you can stick your portfolio of negative equity and it isn’t in a post box.

Here’s a picture to cheer you up:

‘Store’, most certainly.
‘Delight’, not the sensation that I experienced.

As Trouty and I have officially split, I shaved myself. Oh dear, was that impetigo that I had?

Doc Holiday prescribed some Hibiscrub and I know full well what that is. It means ‘wash your face, you dirty bastard’ because that is the stuff that nurses are supposed to use before handling filthy patients. Such as myself.

However, the pharmacy didn’t have any and I had a train to catch so I’ll leave it until next time.

So, that was £2.40 wasted on unchecked tickets (I always leave them on the ticket machine to save putting them in the bin - I like to recycle) and half my script not filled.

My compluter just blew up so the rest of this blog is lost forever. Maybe it’s for the best.

Today, the 17th of December, 1983 was the day of the Harrod’s bombing.

I was walking past St Thomas’ hospital when I heard all the sirens. Somehow I KNEW that my friend, Jane Arbuthnot, was dead. She was 22.

We were attested as constables on the same day and sometimes we would go out together. We met each other’s families. We laughed together.

Here are some of my photographs that I took of her. You can see how beautiful she was.

Sleep well, Jane.

I will never, ever, forget you.

The garage is the nearest place for me to buy my ESSENTIAL supplies.

I am quite a regular customer, almost daily in fact, and have got to know the staff and all that.

The other day, as I approached the door, I noticed two scummers and realised that they were ‘at it’. They were inside but I could see them through the glass and I could see straight through them too.

With about five jumpers and my puffa jacket on and having put on a bit of weight I am about doorway-size. So, I opened the door and stood there, looked at the man behind the counter, and just stood there. There is a lot of communication that you can do with just your eyes.

The scummers suffered what we medical men call ‘loss of bottle’, turned and squeezed past me. They had been trying to steal sweets and things from the shelves - so what? you might say, but on the other hand they might have jumped the counter and done the till over. You never can tell these days. Being the size of a mattress and having a beard (authority symbol) saved the day. And some stock. And the incident upped my customer rating.

The case of non-theft was much more difficult to solve. Where was my camera?

It’s worth 150 quids so I was a bit concerned. I (nearly) always keep it in the same pocket of my backpack. I knew I had last had it on Saturday because the battery symbol had come up. So I found the charger. But could I find the camera?

I made four phone calls. I ransacked my slum. The camera is not insured and I really need it for my nuisance activities.

I said some rude words that began not only with ‘F’, but also with ‘C’.

My camera MUST have been stolen. I just couldn’t work out how it could have been. The battery was dying so I hadn’t used it but it always stays in the same pocket UNLESS IT’S RAINING.

Then I realised that my stupid phone needed charging up. Why can’t they make a phone that you don’t need Barbie-sized fingers to press the stupid buttons? I want one with a dial on it. If I want to take pictures I would use a camera and if I wanted to annoy everyone on a bus I would set up a massive stereo doo-dah.

When I bent down to switch on my phone charger (no, I don’t leave it on) I saw my camera. I’d hidden it from burglars so cunningly (behind a bottle of white spirit) that not even I could find it.

Bloody Alzheimer’s.

It’s all very well not being able to get your socks and shoes on because of osteo-arthritis but when you start forgetting where you have hidden things it might be time to take some rope out and see if you can remember how to tie a noose and a clove-hitch.

It all began on a rainy night. The rain had been blowing hard and the rain pouring throughout the day. Boatmen suffer the weather, and dress accordingly, until their feast-time comes.

A traditional shanty was sung: ‘This fucking weather is shit and it’s been pissing down all day’ and all joined in gladly.

After the feasting (except on MY plate which was much smaller than all the others and had no parsnips on it) a most strange happening ocurred. A certain lady had a bag and in that very bag she discovered some cutlery. Various sachets of condiments and pots of salt and pepper also. And a teapot.

I’m certain that even my good friend, Mr Holmes, would be unable to divine how that very same teapot had found its way into her good daughter’s ‘teddy bag’ later in the evening.

Oh yes, Trouty was the winner of a raffle prize - an Italian meal for two. Luckily she had room in her bag for the tin of spaghetti because it wasn’t full of teapots. The bag, not the tin.

If you want to buy a boat then now is a good time to buy one because no one has any money. But the National Trust has put up the mooring rates well above inflation. Tell you what, ‘Trust’ (ha ha). why not just charge everyone a million pounds? You’ll be even richer and everyone will be happy.

[The last three paragraphs got snipped on my own advice. Yes, they were funny, but the Trust are so short of money that I didn’t want them to waste any of of their dough trying to sue me into a black hole in outer space. Even though they would lose]

And as for the teapot…

It was nothing to do with me.

Once a winter I turn the central heating on, for about half an hour.

I do this just to make sure it works a bit and I like to think I can keep things going.

Once, I moaned to the landlord that the water pump had packed up. I’d tried all the usual things like whacking it with a big spanner but it was bust. Next thing, a scummer who looked like a cross between a bouncer and a Mitchell brother turned up, got on his mobile to the landlord and said he’d have to put in a new boiler and all that and that it would cost 3 grand.

Lucky for the landlord that I was there (although the scummer treated me like something stuck to his shoe) and as soon as he had left my home, MY HOME, I phoned the landlord. I told him that all I needed was a new pump which would cost a lot less than 3k.

Now I’ve never been to technical college but neither am I a moron. I dismantled the control system and realised that it was (technical term) buggered. It didn’t take too long to work out what was wrong and that I could enmendify it a bit. So I did.

It’s been like that ever since except when I was in hospital and a prat came round, fiddled about, tried to rebuild the control sytem with wood screws instead of the proper bolts that I had left handy. Now the bolt holes need re-tapping.

As it was so freezing today I decided to fire up the central squeaking, bleed the rads, make sure I wasn’t going to freeze to death etc.

I got my gas bill today. Well, happy Crimbo to you too, British Gas.

It took a bit of doing, a squirt or two of bicycle oil and a few tools. But it works. And it works because I made it work. I can mend boats, lighting (thank God for duct tape) and central heating systems.

I’ve saved my landlord a small fortune, readjusted the mess that idiot boy had caused and I’m not too unhappy.

The thing with me and my landlord is that I leave him alone and he leaves me alone.

HENRY’S WINTER TIP:
Wear more clothes.

I like my doctor, I like him a lot. I see him every week.

Once, I made a photo of a painting, you know the one. A woman changing backstage with a suitcase in her hand. I put it in a frame from Woolworth’s and gave it to him for a present.

The next week it was propped on his big desk, against the wall.

The following week I gave him a picture hook so that he could hang it up properly.

Next time, it seemed a bit low down but there you go.

Today, I said to him, “It always makes me happy to see my painting there."‘

He said, “When I have to examine childrens’ eyes I ask them to look at it.”

I should have asked him what they said or what… or what. But I didn’t. I didn’t even think about it until afterwards.

The original is with my sister; I gave it to her for her birthday as she does some actressy stuff.

How’s that for weird?

Sometimes I wish I had a motorbike again.

A British motorbike that thumped and roared and I could ride it with no helmet on, take corners flying. My Triumph again.

Well, that’s not going to happen. Nope. Not ever again.

I was not a bad motorcyclist; I never came off. I’m a good driver too, only got nicked for speeding once, and that was by an an unmarked car.

Bob and I did the most remarkable chase in the history of - and I remember doing Coldharbour Lane with Steve at the wheel. Under the bridge on two wheels and I was never scared.

But this Saturday I’m not looking forward to.

If it wasn’t already paid for I wouldn’t go.

As everyone knows, I am one of the best boatmen on the nav. Well, after a few years I bloody well should be. Taking a boat out three weekends a year doesn’t really cut it with me.

Saturday is a party night. Me with no boat. Me with Trouty. It won’t be easy.

Give me a Triumph on a wet road. Pull on the the throttle.

Here’s the kind of mess I make:

Here’s my favourite picture of the moment. It’s signed, rather splodgily, so that must mean it’s finished. I like the colours in the sky and for some reason I’m a bit obsessed with sky at the moment. Can one be a BIT obsessed? I wonder.

But that picture has confirmed something for me, something that I have suspected for a while. That I actually have a style.

I never have to copy anything; I just paint what I want and if I don’t want to then I don’t. I never have to draw anything, I just do what I want.

Here’s a picture of one of my walls. Most of the stuff on there is mine except for the Bernini St Teresa and the Waterhouse St Eulalia. Oh, and there might be a bit of a Van Gogh in there too - I can’t remember.

And when I look around the slum that is Thirst Hall it is with a sense of wonder. Where did it all come from? Where does a STYLE come from? I try really hard NOT to look at art, yeah, like I could do it, just like I don’t want to read too much in case I get infected.

There is no point in copying. I always try to remember the epitaph of Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. which was, “Don’t try".

It took me fucking ages to work that one out.

As anyone who knows me knows, I have a temper like a scrapyard dog.

Last Sunday a git who lives downstairs decided that a Sunday morning was a good time to smash some paving stones into golfball-sized bits with a 4lb club hammer. After this had gone on for an hour or so I went down to ‘have a word’ in his ear. I reminded him that this was the Sabbath Day and he asked me what religion I was. Religionist twat.

You might as well know. Trouty and I have split up. She left early and left me a rude note. Well, after five years and me being so awful to her all the time, who can blame her?

I decided to ruin a painting (above) and listen to Judee Sill.

So, I’m sorry for having a temper, I’m sorry for standing up for myself, I’m sorry for being ill for two fucking decades - yeah, I’m sorry for every fucking thing that I’ve ever done.

But the scrapyard dog is still in me and will not leave.

Not a good day today and hospital tomorrow. Just WAIT until they try to tell me something that I don’t know already.

If you have to go anywhere near a scrapyard dog take my advice; don’t wind it up.

Tell you what, it’s so cold in here that I don’t need to use the oven any more.

BECAUSE I CAN COOK THINGS IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE!

“And what do you want for Christmas? A Gas Bill you say?”

I see that Boy George has been found guilty although he has yet to be sentenced.

He may get heavily penalised.

(a big boy wrote that and ran away)

What could be more Christmassy than this happy scene?

The man from the gas board came to read the meter this morning. I look forward to the bill arriving shortly before Christmas. When it does I expect I’ll closely resemble the kid in the picture.

Today it’s a BOGOF or, more accurately, a GOGOF. You get one piccie and you get one free.

Today I had a bit of a shitty day. I tried to help someone to use the stupid ticket machine at the station which, of course, was not manned. Can you buy a ticket to Waterloo? Of course not. Eventually we discovered that you have to type in ‘London Terminus’ (how stupid of us) and then I ran for the train, slipped on the icy steps, nearly got a Colles fracture, hurt myself a lot and missed my train by about 30 seconds. Serves me right for trying to help people I suppose.

I had to wander about for half an hour and what did I see?

Nothing could be more Christmassy than a brand new bicycle. “Thank you, parental figure, I shall go and ride my new bike!”

Now, if this isn’t nicked I’d like to know what is…

If I was the ‘owner’ of said bike I’d have put the ‘D’ lock through the front wheel as well as the frame. Saves the trouble of trying to unicycle home.

Ah, but what’s this I see?

Don’t ever buy one of these cable locks if you are going to leave your bike for more than about 30 seconds. To bust them off all you need is a stout piece of metal pipe (like a quick-release saddle stem from the bike nearby) and then you wind it and wind it in the cable until it gives. This one looks like it might have been done with bolt-croppers though.

I was still in time to make my appointment with Doc Holiday. Back to the psychiatrist, I’m afraid.

While I was waiting at Worst Byfleet for the train home I asked a man to take a picture of me. It came out not bad and is a bit funny. Maybe I’ll post it tomorrow.

Season’s Greetings!

The advent collander got a bit forgot this year, so I thought I might have a go.

Here we see some holly with a few berries on. How charming.

You can send me pictures if you like and, if I’m feeling clever, I might put them on but don’t bank on it.

As everybody knows, I hate Crimbo, but the pictures I DO like.

So here’s the first and we’ll see how it goes.

So I got up this morning and assembled ingredients in the slow-cooker.

The slow-cooker has been moved into the main room to keep me warm instead of the bloody kitchen.

Then I went back to bed to keep warm.

Much later on I got up, expecting to find a room filled with lovely warmth and food pong.

If I had made sure that as well as switching the fucking thing on as well as plugging it in my dreams may have been realised.

Then Vodka Mick came round, drank a whole bottle of my swig and then, when he had gone, I noticed that he had had all the baccy out of my dog-ends.

Still, he’s working on the cards now - or so he says.

AND it’s bloody freezing but I refuse to turn the central-heating on. The price of utilities? They must be mental. I’d like to see how the country copes with half the pop. in gaol.

But at least I had a good idea for a painting. Can I do it? I can at least try - it’s for a friend.

I sometimes make an idiot of myself on a certain site.

There was a tiff, nothing more. I got paid some compliments (someone suggested that I should have my own radio show on account of me having a lovely voice and being eloquent) but then this utter tit butted in.

The comments have mysteriously disappeared and I think I can guess why.

But sod all that. I am my own man and I will always do what I feel is right. This includes making apologies where I feel they are required and I will put my hands up when I feel I have done a wrong. But. But. When I feel that I am in the right I never, and will never, give up.

I look around the room where I spend a lot of my time and I am happy. If I had a fluorescent jacket and a clipboard and a peaked cap with ‘VERY IMPORTANT’ written on it I might be happier still but until that happy day I prefer the background, just to melt away like the leaves that have fallen from the trees just now.

Yes, I DID put another comment on that site this morning. The venom in it was subtle. To finish it off I quoted a bit of Auden, a bit that I first read on a wall in Farnham.

Here goes:

The sky is darkening like a stain
Something is going to fall like rain
And it won’t be flowers.

I’ll be on my own for a while and I might do some painting. I have some varnishing to do and a few things to finish off. Perhaps I might finish myself off but I doubt it.

There are too many cheeky monkeys for me to sort out, too many things for me to go and look at, too many bloody paintings, too many jokes to invent.

Yes, I am a bit on the ill side (fourteen tablets and three injections a day) but will I ever shut up?

Never.