While I’m doing pictures, what is that thing that thinks it’s a duck?
It’s got white sides and a sort of blue beak thing. There, right in the middle of the picture.
I’m hopeless on things that move. I’m not too bad on plants and fungi because they stand still and can’t get away but as soon as something starts flapping I can’t see what it is.

Rather than shoot it, I thought I’d ask on here. What is this blue-beaked pretend duck?

Here’s a picture that you have seen before, sort of. When I went round Mum’s on Mums Day I snuck upstairs and took another snap of it in daylight. Now I think it kind of looks like a bomb’s hit it and the beech tree doesn’t look too great but that’s the finished version so there you go…

Anyway. After the bicycle ride of disaster which cost me a broken wrist and an inguinal hernia I thought it was about time I had another go. Although it was nice to have a lovely lady prodding my down-belows without having to pay I also had to have blokes fiddling about which was not so enjoyable.

Before I went to bed I thought I should check my bike in preparation for a proper practice run.

Because I ‘lost’ a bike in a burglary in 1994 I keep my bike well-secured. So I had to unsecure it.

Great! Just three locks and a 30kg block of cement to get past.

One!

Two!

Arse!

Bloody Chinese padlock and the key snapped right off as I turned it.

Ahah! But never mind. All I would need was my needle-nose pliers but they, like everything else I ever owned, had been stolen in Brighton.

Hmmmmm….

First, I stripped the cover off and then I set to work. ‘Hardened’, you say? Well not as hard as me because I have got baby hacksaws from the good old boating days. OK, so I fished them out with a magnet but they had to do. It took me all bloody night when I could have done it in two seconds with a decent set of bolt-croppers (which I didn’t have).

I managed the job without sawing the bicycle in half, OILED the two locks that I have left, and swore never to buy another padlock that has a key made out of chocolate Christmas money.

Now it’s half seven in the morning and I’ve had loads of exercise without even having to get on the bloody thing.

Still, I like a challenge.

You know, I miss that boat. When something goes wrong it’s nearly always in the middle of nowhere and you have to make do. So I didn’t have any bolt-croppers but I did have my ingenuity and a great deal of resolve. I’m crap at little things, just like I can’t see birds or butterflies, but I’m a good man to have around in a crisis.

The more crises the better, as far as I’m concerned, because the little stuff isn’t even worth waking up for.

Oh, and while I’m on, Vodka Mick (who is a blacksmith) reckons that a drab looking mooring pin that I magged up and kept could be 18th century becuse he could tell how it was made. I might take it up the museum. On my bicycle. If I wake up in time.

Nighty night.

I’m rather fed up with anonymous comments. There is ‘no reasonable excuse’ for them.

If you want to say something, then say it, and be proud of what you have said.
Me paractis©ing what I preach will probabably have resulted in me being banned from Digital Spy but I stick my autograph on what I write.

Unfortunately no one fell into the anon-trap this time and that’s always a hoot.

I had a hard time over censorship recently because I don’t believe in it. Say what you want to say and sign it. I simply will not have poison pen comments on here or anywhere.

Same when I phone up the poor old radio station. I never make out that I am Pete from Sutton or anything daft. This often results in my excellent comments being denied but I don’t care. If they want to censor me then that’s up to them.

Freedom of speech (cue boring blah but I blah your right to say it etc.) is important BUT you have to have the brass nuts to say who you are.

Because…

Otherwise you are nothing.

My brother told me an interesting story.

At a nearby shop to his shop some fellow won the lottery.

If he had got just one more number he would have won 5 million quids! Hoorah! Except he didn’t.

No, all he got was a miserly, cheese-paring, 170,000 quids.

And, apparently, he was well sniffed about it. Just another number and his life would have been been one of non-stop lux. But oh no, he just had to put up with a measly 170k which isn’t even enough to buy three Aston Martins or two flats or a brand new narrowboat and disappear into the waterways for years.

Bloody lottery. What they should do is give you a billion quids for getting one number right.

What a con. You weigh out a hefty £1.50 on the Euromillions and all you get is 170,000 quids. No wonder he was cheesed, I would be too. I mean, what good is that?

Camelot want to get their act together. If you BUY a ticket you should get a monkey at least.

I’m not surprised he was depressed. If I only got enough money to keep me going until I’m dead then I would feel I’d been knocked too.

Poor sod.

In fact I’m only joking about the sad little [deleted] and I’d like to play him a video of KLF burning a million pounds, which they did, over and over and over and over again.

If he had won a tenner then he would have been happy but that sweet, sweet 170k wasn’t quite good enough.

[deleted].

That’s right, I did break radio silence rather quickly.

Today I had to show my papers to officials. I had to collect my new spectacles and I can see again.

On the way home I walked down the mooring line and noticed, on a boat which I shall not name, a FOR SALE sign. I notice a lot of things and I knew, as soon as I saw it, that I might just as well have been looking at the Flag of Death.

I had known John for years. When I first met him he was vibrant and free-spirited.

But then cancer took hold of him and would not let him go.

He fought for years but…

A telephone call confirmed what I already knew because the boat would never have been sold were he still alive. I’m sorry to say that John died last weekend.

I know there is at least one person who reads this blog who knew him just as well as I did. That is to say, not much, but enough to respect him and his strength, his fortitude.

We all knew it was coming but it’s still a shock. We tried to be cheerful for him but I, for one, never said goodbye.

I like to think that it was for the best.

Goodnight and sleep well.

A bit of peace, at last, eh?

Cheers, mate.

You may have heard that BoobToob are knocking music off because of copyright blah blah and poor little Bonios out of U2 not being able to afford sunglasses.

Well, I put my stuff out on the world-wide-wait and I’m always grateful to see when someone has downloaded and copied it. I have the originals on my wall or under my bed or I’ve given them away. What these Pop-Tarts should do is play live gigs. You can’t email the experience of a live gig to a mate or share it or whatever.

Obviously, the reason that they don’t play live gigs is because THEY CAN’T.

However, a music video that has not been deleted has been brought to my attention. Those who attended the Simongfest at the Pelican in Addlestone may remember my friend Bob. Yes, it was me and him in that burning car during the riots but look what he’s doing now.

Unfortunately I can’t tell you what this is all about. It’s too personal.

There are traitors and I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Anyway, be happy to know, you scum, that you have caused me a great deal of heartache.

You know who you are, you know what you did and I hope that you are pleased with yourselves.

But, ah (and here’s the good bit), I know who you are and I am more stubborn than a mule. I will never forget or forgive you for what you did.

There. I think I made myself clear.

Forgive me if I’m terribly out of date but I just discovered Stewart Lee.

Maybe everbody knew but me but I don’t have a telly. When I got sent a link for the BBC iplayer (no, you don’t need a licence) I’ve watched a few things and especially enjoyed a four-parter on Victorian art by Germy Poxperson which was great.

Today I discovered this gem. If you haven’t tried it before then please do (and if it keeps stopping and started just keep it on pause for a couple of minutes).

Please give it up for Mr. Stewart Lee.

When it was a bit snowy and cold I felt sorry for the birds.

Yes, very funny Omally, but this was the feathered type.

I went up the shopCo and got loads of birdly type food. Half a coconut full of fat and a ball of fat and nut stuff and a bag of seedy gear. What boids eat, or so I thought.

Not one single peck.

Now I’m very cross with the boids and I hope they all die.

Just like my idea to start a residents’ association which has yet to attract one single prrrrring of interest, my bird feeders have been ignored.

Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.

All I get is a letter from the council asking me to walk for four miles and show them two identification papers like they are something out of the Stasi. What they seem to have forgotten is the two times I have been raided and everything photographed in the past.

Come Monday morning, my phone will be red-hot. There’s the council, the water and, of course, the fucking railway who seem to have forgotten that they imprisoned and abducted me.

Stupid birds. that’s the last time I waste a tenner on them.

Come 09:00 Monday, my phone will be glowing with hate.

I was so excited when my delivery of SmartWater arrived this morning.

Flipping through the blurb I noticed that…

Instead of the verbally promised, and thus binding, 10mls of gunge, what I got was a 10ml container with only 6mls in it.

I distinctly remember this because before I parted with my £42+ I pointed out that 10 mls is just two teaspoonsful. So, I was 40% short. A bit like going into a pub and ordering a pint and getting a glass that was just over a half.

You get some stickers. Stickers that can only be used on the inside of a window. I was expecting a sticker that could be placed on the OUTSIDE of a wooden door might be a better idea. I mean, who on earth has a front door with plain glass in it? Not me.

An illiterate burglar would have trouble reading one of them through, the usual, obscured glass. I want a great big sticker that you can stick on the outside of a solid wooden door. They might be boffins but they haven’t thought of that one. So I phoned them up and moaned.

You get four window stickers, that’s true, but smashing your way through a double-glazed unit attracts attention.

You get a load of little stickers but I was told that they shouldn’t be used outside. You are supposed to stick them on your compluter and toaster and things like that.

But my bicycle? Don’t use the stickers and don’t use the gunge on moving parts. You tell me which parts of a bicycle don’t go outside and don’t move?

All the parts of my bicycle moved, especially when I fell off it and did my wrist, hurt my hand and got an inguinal hernia.

They haven’t called me back yet but I will be happy to discuss the matter with the Marketing Director if they ever do. They have got my money (and quite a lot of it) but I feel quite let down.

But I’m not downhearted. I think this stuff is important but only if Inspector Knacker goes out looking for it. Surrey Police has been fairly useless in this concern. All I was doing was trying to find out what their policy was on this stuff and I actually (I think I’ve mentioned this before) spoke to a woman who suggested that I bolt the door when I went out. I suppose it might be possible with a massive magnet because, cunningly, my bolt is on the inside of the door.

You see, the IDEA is brilliant but only, and I mean ONLY, if it is looked for.

I want to see coppers going all over carboot sales and stopping people in the street and shining a UV light over them. I want stolen property impossible to sell on to fences. I want to see people nicked and sent to prison.

Used properly, this stuff could cut the burglary rate to virtually nothing and that’s got to be worth doing.

Robberies would decrease because you can put it on your mobile, your lappy, your Iplod and jewellery and everything that’s got a crinkle in it.

So, wake up Chief Constable. Because if you don’t, I’ll keep on and on and on and on and on and on until you do.

The police can organise packs of this stuff to be available for 15 of your Earth quids instead of the 42 that I paid. Black lights cost very little. It’s SO easy but convincing the powers that be (Oh, but that’s so expensive and we haven’t got the blah, blah, blah) to get a grip seem nearly impossible.

Anyway, I must get on with my miserly 6mls.

Cheerio.

All I tried to do was to try and start a residents’ association. I leafleted the immediate community.

No one has contacted me at all.

Bollocks to them then. If they can’t be arsed to get to know their neighbours and they want to get burgled then good luck to them.

I had a busy day and now I’m worn out. I’m fed up. Why can’t even one of these people ring my bell and introduce themselves?

Yes, yes, yes , I know that I can’t spell Cabaret but that just means that I don’t spell it the way that YOU spell it. I prefer to spell it the proper way and if you don’t like it, you can get stuffed.

Anyway, here’s something I was thinking about today.

You know in Amerikaland they have that great big sign that used to say ‘Hollywoodland’ except the last four letters fell off? You know that sign, that HOLLYWOOD sign?

What I was thinking was that if I was a sweaty, a sweaty sock, a jock, a Scotchman I’d put up a bloody great big sign saying HOLYROOD.

Yes, I would, and I would make each letter 3 inches bigger than the Amerikan one.

I wonder what they would do?

Well, pick the sweetcorn out of that.

It’s not just Elvis that bangs on about this.

The other day I saw a woman pouring money into one of those cash changing machines in ShopCo. A bucket of money. A bucket of money with Red Nose stickers on it.

I walked past and then a little bit later I started to wonder.

Now, if I had collected a bucket of cash for, ostensibly, a charity, would I whip down the supermarket and convert it into whatever at a loss of 8%?

A while back I saw this obvious scummer dressed up as a clown, with a bucket, collecting money ‘for the children’. To me he looked well snide. Clown make-up so he couldn’t be recognised. Had I been the guv I would have told him to fuck off but I am suspicious.

This very morning….

Driiiiiiing

On the bell. Must be the postman or something so I opened the door to see a uniformed police officer. Good job I didn’t have anything to hide so I invited him in. Bloody 09:00 and there’s a copper at the door. He was most excellent and we talked about crime prevention. I had phoned because I wanted to know about the Surrey attitude to SmartWater and then, Bingo, he appeared.

He loved my bike anchor and couldn’t (or pretended he couldn’t) lift it up. The anchor weighs 30kgs and you would have trouble with that, let alone having a bike attached to it. With three locks.

Airport baggage handlers aren’t allowed to lift anything over 22kgs.

Then I spent the rest of the day at the hospital having my goolies prodded and getting told off by the staff of the diabetic clinic. Then I had to wait an hour for the bus home.

When I eventually got home I dealt with some emails and the time ticked away. I needed to get a pack of fags so out I went. On the stairs I met a uniformed (not a Happy Shopper Copper) constable and she was looking for a certain flat. There had been a burglary. I showed her where the flat was.

I know the bloke who had had his flat screwed. Two lappies and a 32″ flat screen telly thing.

We worked out how these bastards had got in (sorry, can’t tell) but I got straight on the blower to the landlord about getting a mortice lock fitted. Until it’s done I’m not going out at all. The special water thing that I fancy buying costs over 40 quids PER YEAR but I’ll be ordering some tomorrow.

When I was in the job there was nothing I enjoyed more than nicking burglars. Rape is awful but being burgled is pretty close. Someone in your home choosing which things to steal. Nicking a burglar is very satisfying, except for them, and the temptation to stick them is very hard to resist.

Maybe I might devote the rest of my life to crime prevention. I might get an Irish Terrier. But, take notice burglars, when I catch you, you will wish that you had never been born.

So, be suspicious. Watch for your neighbours. The crime rate is, and will, go through the roof.

Don’t have nightmares.

Caberet is an important film.

As everyone knows, especially the licencing authorities (30 quids and counting), I do not possess a million inch or even a one inch telly. Wouldn’t have one in the house but I DO watch a lot of DVDVDVDs on my million year old compluter.

Caberet is important because, thanks to Christopher Isherwood, it makes your mind tick. Liza turned out the role of her life and there is a twist that is so out of nowhere that it smacks you in the face.

And it doesn’t end like you want it to, either.

Life is a Caberet, old chum.

Life is a Caberet.

This is one of the pictures that I considered submitting to Stu’s photo challenge (Youngblood, you REALLY should go in for this - email me me and I’ll send you the link), but I managed to take one that I considered better so the ivy went into the bin.

Today I was in THE shop (the only bloody shop around here) and a man crept up to me. Now. I don’t know what it is about the way I look, maybe a bit trampish, grubby and down on my luck. I’ll tell you what happened and I’ll call him H and myself M for the sake of etc.

I was wandering about because I had bought the Scumday Bellylaugh for the sole reason of getting free DVDVDVDs of ‘Caberet’ and ‘The Fourth Protocol’.

‘Caberet’ is an interesting film for me because I used to live in Berlin and there is a scene shot near, I think, Bleibtraustrasse, where I used to hang about when I was in town rather than making a nuisance of myself in Spandau which is where I used to live. The scene is near the S-Bahn and hadn’t changed much the last time I saw the film. Seeing as I will never go there again it might bring back some memories.

Anyway, I was in THE shop and this little fellow who looked like he could have been in Beaver Hateman’s gang in the ‘Uncle’ books snuck up to me…

H: “Hot spicy sausage, 43p”
M: “Really?”

I expected George Cole to come round doing the Flash Harry and the trombone (or whatever it is) music to start playing.

H: “Yeah, ‘e don’t speak English and ‘e don’t know what ‘e’s doin’”
M: “And where is this?”
H: “Wiv the hot chickens and that”

I didn’t really want a sausage, hot or cold, spicy or palid.

But along I went and was assured in perfect English that these wretched dogfood items were, indeed, half-price. So I collected one and then I went and paid for it. Obviously I should have hidden it behind the Jaffa Cakes but, oh no, I PAID for it.

About half way home my suspicious mind started ticking.

43p for one sausage is quite a lot of money be it hot, raw or whatever. I gave up eating sausages a while ago and I could feel the donkey ears growing out of my head as I trudged home.

Maybe THE shopCO employ spies to shift stuff that would otherwise go in the bin.

Do I really look like a man in need of sausagular sustenance? Obviously I do.

Never mind; at least I know what it must be like to work for MI5.

Sometimes luck smiles upon us. I don’t know why but sometimes it does.
Having seen what I had seen, a lovely cement mixer, I made my approach. I wanted my bit of manky metal that I had found the other day set in some concrete or whatever it’s called.
That’s my bucket, the red one.

Then my neighbour turned up. He had bought the bucket of ballast. In a series of fair exchanges I got what I needed. I propped the hook up with an old anchor pin as the mix went off. Just goes to show, it’s always worth keeping things. The coathanger I had, rather stupidly, thought might do the trick snapped almost immediately.

How I got the thing up the stairs I’m not sure. It took a long time. It got left outside to go off on some newspaper as the industrial bucket (I got my red one back) had a crack in the bottom. I’m not sure how much it weighs but it must be around the 50 kilo mark. My arm nearly fell off.

Eventually all was done.

My bike has three locks on it and attached to one of the heaviest things in the world. Most of it would be easy to chop through with a set of boltcroppers but it looks intimidating and I don’t have anything else worth stealing.

So, an interesting experiment and I look forward to having a go on my bike when my wrist is healed.