People

Foxy

/ masher / 5 Comments

The current Mrs Masher had I had a night out in Aylesbury yesterday evening… because I know how to show a girl a good time.

Firstly, we went to a steakhouse restaurant, where I had the most sublime 8oz fillet steak. Cooked to perfection, it was, without doubt,  the best piece of steak I’d had all day.

Full of red meat, we then went to the local theatre to see a talk being given by Jason Fox – he of SAS Who Dares Wins fame.

It was most interesting to hear his story, as he has led a far more exciting life than many of us.

In truth, I’d hoped we would hear more of his time in the military and tales of daring-do from his special forces days, but he was obviously restricted with what he could say in that area.

Likewise, I was looking forward to some stories and gossip from behind the scenes of SAS WDW, but he only briefly touched on that.

But, he regaled us with tales of his adventures around the world and he was brutally honest about how his mental heath suffered when he left the forces on a medical discharge.

He told us about diving for pirate treasure and kayaking for thousands of kilometers up the Yukon River. He told of how he and his mates set a new world record for rowing unsupported across the Atlantic and how they capsized and nearly died, more than once.

I’d say it wasn’t the most riveting of lectures – he’s no raconteur – but he spoke with an honesty and humour that endeared him to us the audience.  Standing on that stage, he wasn’t the gnarly, rugged persona we see on the telly – he was just a man… a soldier who’d fought not just the Taliban, but his own fears and inner demons as well and had then gone on to make himself very successful in the world of media.

As we drove home, I found myself thinking that in later years, when he’s much older amd spending more time on the sofa watching telly and less time buzzing around the world in a helicopter, he’ll be able to look back and be satisfied with what he has done and what he has achieved.

I’m not sure many of us would be able to do the same.

Blinded By The Light

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Whenever I take Saber (that’s her, to the left) out on a walk these dark evenings, I put one of those LED collars on her.  Her colouring – black & tan – means that she easily blends into the shadows and it is very easy to lose sight of her.

So, when we reach the woods – or the fields, depending on where we are going – I take her lead off and slip her LED collar over her head.  It then doesn’t matter how far she disappears into the bushes, I can still see the brightly flashing pink collar, floating ghost-like as it chases some poor frightened Muntjack through the trees.

Being able to see where your dog is at all times is both helpful and comforting and so these collars have become very popular with dog owners.

However, there are many dog owners out there that never let their dog off the lead and yet, they still give it a bright LED collar to wear when they go out.

Can they not see it? It’s three feet in front of them… on a lead.

I don’t get it.

But also, many dog owners don’t want to be left out, it seems – I see many of them wearing those strap-on head-torches as they walk along.  And some of them are just SO bright! It’s like a car headlight coming toward you in the darkness.

There’s a chap who walks his spaniel off the lead, over the same field that we sometimes go to. Miserable Fuck, I call him, because despite saying hello several times, I’ve never even received an acknowledgement from him, so I’ve given up trying and we now pass each other silently.

His dog wears a bright orange-glowing collar around his neck at this time of year and MF wears a super-bright, one billion candlepower torch on his head, which blinds me as we pass each other.  I’m sure he does it on purpose. I’ve taken to closing one eye as our paths cross, just so that when I get past, I still have some level of night vision and I’m not completely blind for five minutes.

Maybe, one day, I’ll make a point of ‘accidentally’ bumping into him.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you”.

Porch Pirates

/ masher / 7 Comments

On the way back from our morning walk, each day, Saber and I pass some houses in a small close.

One of the houses has a storm porch that covers the front door and the window to one side of it.

Under the window and on the step of the storm porch are a couple of large plant pots – not that I have ever seen anything growing out of them.

But, taped to the inside of the window glass is an A4 sized piece of paper and printed on that paper in a large font – large enough that I can read it easily from the footpath as we walk past – are the words “Delivery Drivers: Please Hide Parcels Behind Plant Pots”.

If I were a passing porch thief, I’d be tempted to take a look behind those pots each day to see if my luck was in.

Now, I don’t know if they have ever had anything stolen from their porch, but maybe a smaller, more discreet piece of paper – that can’t be read from twenty-five feet away – would be a better bet.

Either that, or take a leaf from Mark Rober’s book (I just love the stuff this guy does!)

Hi honey… I’m home!

/ masher / 10 Comments

Not that you’d know that I’ve been away… but I have.

We have.

The current Mrs. Masher and I.

Just returned from a very relaxing, all-inclusive, adults only holiday in Cape Verde.

‘Relaxing’ was the word: we planned to do bugger all and we did bugger all.

Apart from. going out on a catamaran for the day and also on some dune buggies.

Oh, and there was the 4×4 excursion.

And the longwalks in the blazing sun, to bag a couple of Geocaches. Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that!

But, apart from that, our time was mainly spent lazing in and around the pool, drinking beer and knocking back the ol’ cuba libras.

I did plenty of reading: various radio, electronics, computer and motorcycling magazines that I had taken with me, and also some books on my Kindle. I finally got round to reading (and finishing) Animal Farm – any time I mentioned that to any of the many casual acquaintances that we made around the pool, the conversation would always go thusly:

“What’s that you’re reading there?”

“Animal Farm”

“Oh, not the original one, I hope”, they would say with a loud snigger and a wink.  It would seem that for many, the ‘original’ Animal Farm is a porn film about beastiality that was made in the 1980s, and not the George Orwell classic from 1945… which is, of course, what I was reading.

I also whiled away some of the time by listening to music and comedy shows that I had pre-loaded onto my mp3 player.

One day, as I lay giggling on my sunbed, under the shade of a palm tree, the young waiter who was collecting the empty glasses, asked what I was laughing at. “Steptoe & Son”, I said.

“I have not heard of this”, he said.

“It’s sixty years old, so I’m not really surprised”, I replied.

“What is it about?” he continued, his rictus-like smile never dropping.

“It’s about a father and son who work together in London as rag and bone men and…”. His uncomprehending eyes told me there was very little point in explaining any further. “Don’t worry about it”, I said. “Can I have two more beers, please?

Norway, José

/ masher / 6 Comments

The current Mrs Masher and I have just returned from a week’s cruising along Norway’s fjords, looking at Slartibartfast’s crinkly bits.

What a picturesque country. Absolutely gorgeous.

In some places.

A couple of the ports we pulled into, were lacking in picturesque gorgeousness, but generally it was lovely.

And expensive!

On one of our trips out, taking a walk through the town of Haugesund, I realised that the sun and come out and I was sweating profusely.  We nipped into a shop to buy some anti-perspirant and I went for a roll-on, for two reasons: 1. it’s small enough to fit in my pocket and 2. it’s cheaper than a can: £1:50 in Sainsbury’s.

189 Krona, it cost.  I didn’t question it and just paid up, as I hadn’t yet got the hang of the conversion rate, but when we got outside the shop, I worked it out.

14 quid! Yes, fourteen!

Crikey,  and I thought Switzerland was expensive.

Exorbitancy was confirmed later in the week, when I paid eleven quid for a box of Nurofen.

Beautiful place, but I don’t think I could ever afford to live there.

Having gone from Southampton, I was surprised at just how many Japanese, Italian and Spanish people were on board.

And I know we always joke about how fat Americans are, but from what I could see, we’re not that much better. Boy, there were some fatties on that boat!

On the return journey, they put the new Top Gun film on the big outdoor screen. I thought it somewhat aposite, watching Tom Cruise… on a cruise.

Twat

/ masher / 2 Comments

Sitting at the traffic lights in Dunstable today, I noticed that the car in front of me had put some – what he/she considered to be very amusing, I’m sure – bumper stickers on their car.

I’ve never found these things to be particularly amusing, but maybe that’s just me.

And I always wince at the thought of anyone sticking something to the paintwork on their car.  Last week I saw an L-plate sellotaped to the bodywork of an otherwise mint-condition Jaguar. What is wrong with these people!

Anyway.

The first bumper sticker made me smile.

A bit.

It was kinda funny.

But, the second one didn’t make me laugh or smile in any way whatsoever.

On the contrary, I actually felt aggrieved by it.

Now, I’m not some some lefty-liberal-do-gooder and I have no problem with swearing… when it’s appropriate.

But, to me, this wasn’t appropriate in any way.

What if I’d had my ten-year old son or daughter in the car, asking me to explain to them what that bumper sticker meant?

You’d think common decency would stop most people from displaying such a thing in public.

Diddly Squat

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At the weekend just gone, the current Mrs Masher and I took drive westwards to visit some friends.

Our route west, took us through Chipping Norton and within spitting distance of Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm, Diddly Squat. But rather than spit at it, we decided we’d pop in for a visit.

Mrs M thought it would be great to nip into the farm shop and get some BeeJuice (honey) to take home.

Judging by the number of vehicles in the car park, though, I guessed this was going to be either a very long stop for us or a very quick one.  It was the latter.

The queue for the farm shop was horrendous! I stood and watched it whilst the missus availed herself of the lavatories and in that time I estimated it would likely take at least 90 minutes to just get into the shop. Bugger that!

So, we wandered round to the café at the back. I saw a couple of people carrying burgers and chips to one of the outside wooden tables. The burgers looked fantastic, but once again, the queue was horrendous, so we didn’t bother.

So, in the end, we were only there for about fifteen minutes. Oh well, maybe we’ll try again another day, when all the fuss has died down.

What’s in a name?

/ masher / 4 Comments

My son is doing an appreticeship as a vehicle mechanic (my dreams of him joining the RAF didn’t pan out, unfortunately). Friday evening, he was regaling us with a tale of something that had happened that day at work: “… and so my mentor was under the truck and he said to me ‘ Oi, Wankstain, pass me a 32mm socket willya’, and so I went over to his toolbox and…”

“Hold on”, said Mrs Masher, “What’s that he said?”

“Pass him a 32mm socket”

“No, before that. What did he call you?”

“Wankstain”

“Mrs. M wrinkled her nose up and gave that indignant look that tells us all that she isn’t happy about something. “Well, that’s not very nice!” she said.

“It’s just a nickname”, said Son. “Everybody there has nicknames and, being the lowest of the low – an apprentice – I get all the horrible ones.  Last week I was ‘Shit-for-brains’ most of the week. It’s just banter. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s very nice. Do you want me to come down there and say something?”, said Mrs. M, not really grasping the social dynamics that reside within an all-male workforce.

“Errr… I’d rather you didn’t”,  he said..

But this got me thinking.  Most every place I’ve worked, people have had nicknames… especially when I was in the GPO / BT.  I got away quite lightly with it: my nickname being a bastardisation of my own name… as it was for many others. We had an Abbo, a Clippy, a Pedro, a Bazzer, a Smithy, etc. Others got handed names like Spud and Biffo and Walrus, for various reasons.  And yes, the lower ranking guys – the trainees and apprentices – were often saddled with more derogatory names. I can’t remember them all, but I do remember we had a Slug-guts and a Shit-legs.

Although some of these names weren’t particularly nice, there was never any malice attached. Well, rarely.  It was – as Son pointed out – just male banter.  I’m sure that if he had joined the RAF, he would also have been given a nickname of sorts.

But, I’m pleased to see that the woke brigade haven’t yet managed to infiltrate every British institution – the humble car mechanic’s garage may well be the last bastion for men to be able to talk like men.

Which makes me think (Again! That’s twice today!).  When I was much (much) younger, I worked for a short while in a factory, where most of the workforce were women. I don’t remember any of them having nicknames. Do women give each other nicknames at work or is that a male thing?

 

 

The King Of Comedy

/ masher / 10 Comments

I’ve always been a fan of comedy.

Sounds a stupid thing to say doesn’t it? I mean, who isn’t? Everyone likes a laugh, don’t they?

But, there’s comedy and there’s ‘comedy’.

There’s After Life and there’s Mrs Brown’s Boys.

There’s Detectorists and there’s Two Pints Of Lager…

Very different shows, catering for what I suspect are very different audiences.

I’ve not yet met anyone who likes both the former and the latter.  For me – and in the two examples above – it’s the former. Every time.

But, I’ve always had a penchant for the absurd and the wacky.

I grew up with Python and The Goodies, Not The Nine O’clock News and The Young Ones, all of them anarchic and unconventional.

And I can trace this love of silly humour all the way back to 1977, when I read Spike Milligan’s war memoir “Rommel? Gunner Who?”

I don’t know how or why that book came to be in my possession; whether I just happened across it or whether it was recommended to me, I just don’t know. But I do remember reading it in the back of my dad’s Cortina on our way down to Minehead during the holidays, and I was just crying with laughter.

In later years I discovered Spike’s radio triumph The Goon Show and spent a fortune acquiring as many shows as I could on cassette tape from HMV.

I joined the Goon Show fan club and would motorcycle into London, for meet ups with them, once a month. A friendly and enthusiastic bunch who were sometimes a little too, er… enthusiastic. Occasionally, Spike himself or Michael Bentine would venture down and buy the drinks and a brilliant night of storytelling would ensue.

Through the club, I made a penpal. Of course, these were pre-internet days and so yes, an actual pen was used and we would write ridiculous letters back and forth to each other. She even put me up (or put up with me) for a month in her home in California.

Which was nice.

As a quite active member of the club, I sort of became part of the inner circle and was very excited once, when Spike invited a small group of us to his house for dinner. Unfortunately, I couldn’t go that day, as I had a family function to attend.

“Oh well, maybe next time.”

There wasn’t a next time.

Many comedy historians cite Milligan as the man who changed the face of British television and radio comedy, and I think that’s true. His influence can certainly be seen in some of the comedy  programmes that I mentioned earlier.

But, for me, he’s just the man who brought hours of laughter and joy into my life, both directly and indirectly, and for that, I thank him dearly.

He died 21 years ago, today.

Carry On Doctor

/ masher / 4 Comments

I had a phone call in the week, from my doctors’ surgery.  It was to invite me to a ‘Health Check’… something they offer to those of us of a certain  age maturity.

So yesterday morning, I popped along and was promptly seen by a young, student nurse.

She made me stand on a set of scales and then told me I was overweight.

She took my blood pressure and then told me it was too high.

She asked about my lifestyle and then told me I needed to take more exercise.

I was starting to not like this girl.

She asked me how many units of alcohol I drink in a week, and at that point,  I decided it would be best if I just lied.

She was quite pleased with my answer and then asked about how much fruit and veg I eat.

I lied about that as well.

By now, we were getting on swimmingly.

At the end of the consultation, she advised me to get a bit more exercise and try to lose a little weight, to which I readily agreed.

Let’s face it,  it could have been so much worse.

Network

/ masher / 6 Comments

“There’s nothing on the telly.”

We’ve all said it.

Of course, that’s not true: we have a veritable smorgasbord of shows to choose from.

We have about 200 channels to pick from nowadays and, on top of that, a whole collective noun of streaming services to play with.

But, as we all know, the vast majority of what is available, is total tripe.

Cookery shows! There are so many cookery shows! Why? Probably because they are cheap to make.

People moving house! Why do we want to watch people looking for a new house in the country – or in another country?   So what?  They’re moving house.  Good luck to them.  But do we really want to watch them do it?  I certainly don’t.

Young, fit, good-looking people, living together on a boat / island / mansion house.  Programmes claiming to be about relationships and social dynamics, when really it’s just about catching them on camera having sex together or fighting with each other.

Gogglebox. What the fuck is that about?  I know it’s been a huge success, but do people really sit and watch other people watching telly?  They do realise that these people are playing up to the camera, don’t they?  When we watch telly in my house, no-one talks, otherwise we miss bits of the dialogue… which is bloody annoying.

But, of course, there is some good stuff on there too.

I’m currently enjoying Shameless and Motherland on Netflix.  I watched all eleven series of Shameless, last year and I am now watching the US version, which I’m enjoying just as much, if not more.  Motherland is a little gem that passed me by when it was on C4. I never paid it much attention, to be honest. But, when I found out it was co-written by Sharon Horgan and Graham Linehan, I just had to give it a go. So glad I did.

On C4 I am watching SAS Who Dares Wins, the show which puts contestants through the rigours of Special Forces selection training. I love it when these contestants give their little VTs to camera: “I’m pretty tough-minded and I’m not the sort who gives in easily”, and then you see them at the end of episode two, slumped against a rock and sobbing whilst handing their armband back.

And on Disney+ I am currently rather taken with Agent Carter, the Marvel spin-off from the Captain America films, along with War Of The Worlds, which was recommended to me by Mrs. Jones. I’m only a couple of episodes in, but so far I’m quite enjoying this different take on H. G. Wells’ classic.

So, what about you… watching anything good?

The Graduate/Mrs Robinson

/ masher / 8 Comments

“Report of a burglar alarm at Hollybush House”

“I know where that is”, said Rob, “it’s only about five minutes from here. Tell ’em we’ll take it”.

I picked up the microphone that was hooked to the dash. “Sixteen-ninety. Show myself and four-seven-five en-route.”

Right on the very edge of town, Hollybush House was part of Dykes’ Farm and as such, the whole area was devoid of any streetlighting. Rob took us down some narrow lanes and I had no idea of where we were, but sure enough, a few minutes later we were pulling up outside the house.

It was a big old property from the Victorian era and it looked out of place just sitting on it’s own in the middle of nowhere.

We got out of the car and walked down the path to the front door. The house was in darkness, with only the light from the moon highlighting it against the blackness beyond. It was one o’clock in the morning and I’m sure an eerie silence would have hung over us… if it wasn’t for the clanging of the burglar alarm and the barking of a dog somewhere in the distance.

Rob knocked on the door. There was no answer. “Let’s check round the back. You go that way”, he said pointing to the right.

I walked round and we met up by the rear gate. It was unlocked and so we went in and peered through the windows. “I think I can see a light”, I said, trying to squint through a gap in the curtains. Rob tried the back door, but it was locked.

We walked back round to the front and Rob banged on the door again… this time with some force. He shouted through the letterbox , “ANYBODY HOME?” and banged again.

I was trying to peer in through one of the front windows, when he called me over. “I think someone’s coming”.   There was some noise the other side of the door and suddenly a dim yellow light spilled out through the patterned glass in the top half of the door, sillouhetting whoever was behind it.  The door opened slowly and there stood a woman in a dressing gown.  I guessed she was somewhere around fifty. Messy, shoulder length blond hair framed a hard-looking face.  Not that I was really looking at her face, because, the dressing gown she was wearing was completely undone.  Her breasts were half covered by the robe, but her nether regions were completely exposed and both Rob and I could see that she sported a voluptuous black muff.  The blond hair on her head was obviously out of a bottle.

From the way she was swaying, she looked to be very drunk. She looked at us through half-closed eyelids. “Oh, it’s you lot”, she said, her voice slurred by intoxication. “What can I do for you?” She either didn’t know about her indecent exposure  or she didn’t care.

“Well, you can turn that bloody alarm off, for a start” Rob said in a loud voice, so he could be heard.  She turned to a panel on the wall and stabbed a finger at it several times. Thankfully, the alarm bell stopped. Without a word, the woman turned and walked down the hallway and so we followed her, shutting the door behind us.

The living room – if you could call it that – looked a mess.  There were empty bottles and glasses strewn about the place. Several ashtrays, filled to the brim with fag ash and dog-ends, littered a large coffee table in the middle of the room, along with scrunched up empty fag packets. A large fruit bowl – empty, save for half a dozen peanuts lying in the bottom – also sat on the coffee table.  It looked like the aftermath of a party.  “What’s been going on here?” asked Rob.

“We had a party”, she slurred. She was seated on an old brown leather sofa that had seen better days and her dressing gown was still open.

“Cover yourself up, luv”, said Rob.  She looked down at herself and expressed feign surprise.

“Oh dear, how did that happen?” She giggled and drew the gown around her.

It was difficult getting straight answers out of her, but, it seemed that there had been a party and the guests had gone on elsewhere whilst she had had too much to drink and had passed out. Her ex-husband/partner/boyfriend (she didn’t seem able to decide which)  must have gone with them. She couldn’t explain why she was in her dressing gown or why the burglar alarm had been armed, while she was in the house. All the while she was telling us this, she kept looking at me and smiling suggestively.

“This is obviously just a false alarm”, said Rob, “I’d better go and call it in”. He nodded toward the woman, who was now laying back on the sofa, looking a little worse for wear. “She looks like she could do with a cup of coffee. Go put the kettle on”. I rolled my eyes, stood up and went in search of the kitchen. “I’ll have two sugars in mine”, Rob shouted, as he went out the front door.

The kitchen was large and spacious and I was relieved to find that the kettle was electric. I’d half expected that I was going to have to boil one on an Aga, or something.  There were a pile of cups in the sink, so I rinsed three of them out and started rummaging through the cupboards for some coffee.  “Tea and coffee are in jars by the kettle”. The voice startled me and I looked over to see the lady of the house standing in the doorway. Again, her gown was open at the front, revealing almost everything. “You’re a nice young man”, she said. She seemed a little more sober all of a sudden and I wasn’t sure whether she was coming on to me or just trying to embarrass me. Either way, I didn’t like it. As a heterosexual man in his twenties, I certainly wasn’t averse to seeing a bit of tit and fanny whenever the chance arose, but not right now; this wasn’t right.

“Can you cover yourself up please, madam”, I said.

She looked down at herself. “Oh… dearie me, how has that come undone?”, she said, with a smile.  She drew the robe around herself, turned and walked back down the hallway toward the living room, giving an exagerrated wiggle of her arse as she did so.  “Black, no sugar”, she said.

Rob came back in, just as I was carrying the cups into the living room.  We sat and chatted for ten minutes whilst we drank our coffee and then, satisfied that the lady was sober enough to not fall asleep and drown in her own vomit, we bade farewell and headed out the door.  She followed. “Thank you for coming, boys. I really do appreciate it. You can drop in for coffee anytime you are round this way”, she said, her voice still slightly slurred. And then she looked straight at me. “Especially you”, she said.

We walked down the path toward the car. “Bloody hell! You’re in there”, said Rob.

“Fuck off”, I replied.

“Do you want to stay here and I’ll come get you in an hour?” he said, with a big grin.

“Again, fuck off!”

As we got in the car, the radio suddenly blared into life. “Report of a major disturbance outside Stardust nightclub. Multiple offenders“.

“Ahh, a fight! That’s more like it” said Rob, excitedly, “Let’s see if we can get there before it finishes”.  He started the engine, rammed it into gear and put his foot down.

“This is sixteen-ninety. Show myself and four-seven-five en-route, please”.