Radio Ga Ga

/ masher / 8 Comments

I spent several hours last night, camped out in my car atop Dunstable Downs… the highest point in Bedfordshire.

An Amateur Radio contest happens at the beginning of each month and I am taking part.  As we are operating at VHF frequencies, the higher we can get the aerial, the better.

So, armed with my radio and homemade aerial (constructed from some plastic piping and an old clothes horse that I cut up) and a flask of coffee, I made my way to what I hoped would be my regular parking spot, just outside the car park barriers.

There are several car parks up there and at night they drop the barriers across the entrances. However, there is generally room to squeeze a few vehicles in.

To my dismay, every spot was taken: there were loads of cars up there.  It seemed to be some sort of gathering.  It was too late for me to search for another spot, so I parked up on the grass verge and set my aerial up behind the car.  It was a bit dodgy, because it was very close to the unlit road and it was quite scary with these idiot drivers haring round the corner towards me.  Throughout the entire event, I kept my lights on so I could be seen.

I could also be seen by the occupants of all the cars squeezed in front of the barriers.  They watched me, as I sat in the car speaking into a microphone and as I got out several times to repoint the aerial.  They looked at me curiously and chatted amongst themselves through their open car windows.  I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was probably along the lines of “Look at this fucking idiot. What’s he up to?”

Despite being in my car – with the doors locked – I didn’t feel comfortable. I didn’t feel safe.

I’m going to have to find a backup location for next month.

Or take a bodyguard with me.

I Can See Clearly Now…

/ masher / 6 Comments

… Lorraine has gone.

About twenty years or so ago, I started wearing spectacles… for reading.

Over the years, though, my eyes got worse and about ten years ago I became a full-time Speccy-Four-Eyes .

I bought my first pair of glasses from a well known high street opticians – who I won’t name here, but it ryhmes with Pec Shavers – and I have been going there ever since.

The last couple of times though, I didn’t feel I got the level of service that I should be getting.  And I always felt like I was on a conveyor, being passed from assistant to assistant to optician to assistant with lots of waiting on hard plastic chairs in between, but always, ultimately, with a rush to get me sorted and out of the store as quickly as possible..

I mentioned this to a mate of mine and he said he’d had the same experience and so had changed to a small independent optician. He highly recommended them, so I thought I would give them a go.

A couple of weeks ago, I phoned and made an appointment. The lady at the other end was super polite and helpful and she gave me instructions on where best to park.

On the day, I parked up in the supermarket car park as instructed, with plenty of time before my appointment and started the six-minute walk that Google Maps was displaying on my phone. After a couple of minutes, I realised the map on the phone wasn’t changing – it did this once before, I think the GPS has gone faulty – so I gave up with it and put it away. I wandered up and down the high street but – try as I might – I couldn’t find the opticians.

The irony of that wasn’t lost on me.

I asked several people for directions, but no-one could help.  My appointment was now overdue and so I phoned the opticians and the super nice lady gave me directions.  A few minutes later, I arrived to find them smiling and waving to me out of the window. A very friendly bunch.

Once inside, a few  details were taken then the optician took me through to a room at the back.

She checked my eyes with the usual “Is it better with this… or this?  This… or this?”. She photographed my retina and checked my peripheral vision and all the time we chatted about this and that. All very pleasant and relaxed.

Afterwards, I sat down with the owner and we discussed several different options for my glasses. Again, we chatted and laughed as we tried different frames and at no point was there any sense of a rush  – they seemed to have all the time in the world for me.

Yes, it was more expensive – but only slightly – and it was such a different (better) experience to what I’d had before, that I think it was well worth paying that little extra.

In fact, I’m actually looking forward to my next visit.

Chilly Willy

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The motorcycle club that I belong to have some real die-hard bikers: guys that will ride any distance in any weather.

I’m not one of them.

I used to be, back in the day. I used to ride in all weathers: dry, warm and sunny to windy, cold and wet. I even used to ride in the snow – mainly because back then, my motorcycle was my only form of transportation… apart from my pushbike.

But, once I’d got a car, the bike very quickly became a warm weather vehicle. Notice I said ‘warm’, not ‘hot’.  When the degrees are up in the high twenties, I’d much rather be in an air-conditioned car than sweltering in leathers at a set of traffic lights.  In fact, I’ve become a very temperate rider: I don’t like it too hot and I don’t like it too cold.  Baby Bear’s porridge is just the right temperature for me.  Call me Goldilocks if you wish.

Guys at the club rib me and say I am a wuss for not riding all year round, as they do.

Each January, they do a ride called the Chilly Willy, which raises money for a local hospice or something.  I determined that this would be the year I would brave the weather and join them.

I didn’t.

The fact is, that nowadays I ride for fun. I ride for the sheer joy that motorcycling gives me.  And I get absolutely no joy whatsoever, riding when it’s freezing bloody cold and/or wet!

So, the die-hards can make fun and call me whatever – me and my steed won’t be joining them until the roads are nice and dry and the mercury in my thermometer gets within decent reach of 18° C.

Prisoner

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Whilst doing some research on my family tree, just before Christmas, I came across some information that showed that my maternal grandfather had been captured during the war (WWII) and was held in Stalag VIII-B in Poland.

To be fair, this was information that I had already uncovered, so it wasn’t new to me.

What was new, however, was the discovery that documents regarding his captivity were now held in the National Archives. When the Germans surrendered, all the records held in the camp, detailing English POWs, were boxed up and taken to the UK.

So, a couple of weeks ago – having made arrangments to visit – I took a drive down to Richmond.  Having never been to the NA before, I found it a fascinating place to visit.

There were lots of people there, sitting at computers and sifting through documents, but I was told that due to the sensitivity of wartime documents, I had to view mine in the Invigilators Room – a room where I could be monitored and with no egress for me until I pressed the bell and then someone would come and let me out.  I was also not allowed to wear my coat, as that would make it easy should I wish to surrepticiously steal the documents.

In the room, I was handed a plastic box with a single white envelope in it, with my grandfathers name written in pencil.

I’ll admit to being somewhat nervous as I opened it, indeed, I noticed my hands shaking slightly as I did so.

I tipped the contents out onto the desk and emotion immediately got the better of me as an A5 sized, buff-coloured card plopped onto the desk, alongside several smaller pink cards.  There, in the bottom left-hand corner of the large card was a small black & white photo of a young man (only 25 at the time), standing against a wall like a convict, holding a small piece of blackboard in front of him, on which was chalked his POW number and the name of the camp, his inky thumbprint beside him only adding to the palpability of his incarceration.

It was undoubtably my grandfather. I felt a small tear well up as I looked at him – a photo that I – nor anyone else in the family – had ever seen before.  His face looked relaxed, but his eyes conveyed concern: I daresay, having only just been recently captured, he and his comrades had little idea of what fate had in store for them.

I took photos of everything, put the cards back in the envelope and then back in to the plastic box and I rang the bell for my release… something my grandfather couldn’t do.

He saw out the rest of the war as a prisoner and, in later life, it was something he rarely talked about… unless we managed to get enough Long Life Pale Ale into him.

I’d always known it was a difficult time for him, and now, after seeing that photo. I feel that I have a better understanding as to why.

Feb The Wunth

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I was awoken at 4am this morning, by the current Mrs M climbing back into the marital bed.

I asked where she had been and she explained that she couldn’t sleep and so had been downstairs catching up on the last several episodes of Silent Witness.

“Sorry that I woke you”, she said.

“Wo’evverrr”, I muttered, sleepily.

“But, as you’re awake… Pinch Punch, First Of The Month!” she said, gleefully jabbing me in the arm.

“Not fair! I exclaimed. “I’m not properly awake yet.”

Pinchy Punchy is something we have done for years and it has become quite competitive between the two of us and has reached the point we we even employ dirty tricks like pretending to be asleep – you can’t be pinchy punched when you’re comatose… it’s one of the rules.

We haven’t kept count, but there’s no doubt that Mrs Masher is well ahead.

Sneaky cow.

Anyway, as I have been reminded twice now, it is indeed the first day of February, which can mean only one thing: the entire internet goes into meltdown, as two of us  – I am assuming (nay, hoping) the other one will be joining in – tackle this year’s Masher’s Blog-A-Thon.

Drivel, nonsense, twaddle, gibberish and tripe will be spoon-fed to you both on a daily basis, all washed down with a big glass of poppycock (yes, I’ve been at the thesaurus again).

Brace yourselves.

Jimmy

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Last night, the current Mrs Masher and I went to see Jimmy Carr.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see us, as we were just two faces amongst a couple of thousand, seated there in the theatre.

He was, of course, very funny and, as usual, many of his near-the-knuckle quips elicited wincing groans as well as laughs from the audience.

It was also interspersed with a couple of serious comments on societal norms, which garnered rounds of uncertain applause, because, when you are being hit with rapid joke after joke punchlines – all of which pretty much hit the mark – when you then hear a punchline that isn’t funny, it takes a moment to register that it was a serious comment and not just a gag that didn’t quite work.

Towards the end of his set, he told some risque jokes that “… could get me cancelled”, and sure enough, they were the sort of jokes that would likely send the woke, snowflake community into a frenzy, but we – the audience – lapped it up.

I think, if you go to a Jimmy Carr show, you know what to expect. We expected a barrage of witty, risque, smutty and sarcastic jokes.  We expected him to touch on taboo subjects and make us squirm with embarrassed laughter.

He didn’t let us down.

Ah ah ahhhhh.

… It Is Now

/ masher / 4 Comments

Well, it got to 11:30 and I was ready for bed, but Mrs M had other ideas and wanted to watch the fireworks on telly, so I poured myself a scotch and we sat down and watched hundreds of thousands of pounds go up in smoke.
Literally.

It was pretty spectacular though.

We then wished each other a Happy New Year, shook hands and hit the sack.  Despite the cacophony of whizzes and bangs that were going on outside, I think I was fast asleep within 2 minutes.

Reading the news this morning, I was somewhat miffed to see that once again I have been overlooked in the New Year Honours List.   Oh well, maybe next year.

OK, 2025, let’s see what you’ve got.

They Think It’s All Over…

/ masher / 5 Comments

Nearly there!

Christmas has been a quiet one for the Masher household this year: revolving mainly around food, drink and flopping in front of the telly for hours on end.

I have eaten my own body weight in sausage rolls, mince pies and Quality Street and our previously well stocked beer fridge now just has small balls of tumbleweed rolling around inside it.

The garage is piled high with polystyrene and cardboard and sacks of wrapping paper, just waiting for me to pluck up the will to take it all to the local Tidy Tip. That’s not gonna happen this week, I can tell you!

But some semblance of normality has resumed, in that the Christmas tree has been taken down and stashed back up in the loft and all the Christmas cards (we seem to get fewer every year) have been taken down and put in the recycle bin.  Now that the tree is gone, furniture has been placed back into its usual place and the living room now looks as it did… should.  Annoyingly, the Blu-Tak that we used to stick up the cards, has marked the wall and our chimney breast now looks like it has the measles. I’ll have to repaint it.

There may – or may not – be more festivities tonight.

But personally, I’ll be most upset if I’m not tucked up in bed by 11:30

Last One

/ masher / 2 Comments

As mentioned in the previous post, I went to the last of this year’s Xmas parties on Friday.

It was a good do – free bar and free food, etc. I really quite enjoyed it.

Thing is, there weren’t that many people who I knew. The company has such a high turnover of staff that, of the sixty or so people there, I probably only knew about a dozen of them – just the old stalwarts.

But it was great to catch up with those that I did know and haven’t seen since I retired.

There was Football Freddy; Doroffee; The Big Boss and The Other Big Boss; The Legend that is… ; Moany Eric; AC/DC and Steve… amongst others. And let’s not forget Scrubs Up Well Julie, who always looks fantastic at parties, in her low cut, little black dress with the split up the side (Phew!)

The DJ was a bit rubbish, I thought, playing some modern shite that no-one had heard of, apart from half a dozen young girls with impossibly short skirts covering their ridiculously small bottoms, dancing away in one corner of the room by themselves.

Eventually, he put some decent stuff on and I was able to strut my stuff. It was like John Travolta had just stepped onto the dancefloor.

Probably.

But – under strict orders from the current Mrs Masher, not to return home like I did last week – I refrained from drinking too much of the free booze and I left in time to make sure I caught the train so that I would get home at a reasonable hour  (2am wasn’t too bad, methinks).

So, that’s it now: no more festivities until the big day, when we celebrate the birth of Santa.

My liver will appreciate the break, I’m sure.

Xmas Dinner

/ masher / 4 Comments

Tomorrow (Friday the 13th – what could go wrong?) I am having a Christmas do, down that London.

This is with the people I was working with, only earlier this year.  As per usual, it’s a free bar and free food. It’d be rude not to go.  I hasten to add, that this soirée isn’t being held – or paid for – by the impecunious and somewhat, beleagured water board that I used to work for. No, this is being thrown – as it is every year – by their more affluent contract partner.

If it’s anything like last year (or the year before that, or the year before that) I shall likely get a little sozzled.

And, this isn’t my first Christmas party/lunch/get-together this year. This will be the fourth.

I’ve already had a get together with some old work colleagues, in Reading, this week.

Last Saturday, I attended the Xmas bash of the motorcycle club I belong to: forty of us turned up and pretty much took over the pub where it was being held, which was great fun.

And the day before that, I was with my old BT pals in ‘spoons in town.  Even though the food wasn’t brilliant, fourteen quid for Xmas lunch and a pint? Can’t knock that.
It seems though, that I had rather too much to drink.  One minute I was seated at the table, chatting away with the guys, next thing, I wake up the following morning, naked in bed, next to the wife.   Between those two events, I have nothing but a vague recollection of being bundled into a car.

I’ve not been that far gone in the last forty-five years!

I’m wondering whether someone spiked my six pints of Leffe?

Super Mashero

/ masher / 4 Comments

There was a strange noise coming from upstairs: a hum that sounded like the shower pump, except that it kept going on and off.

Mrs M and I looked at each other, quizzically. I paused the film we were watching on telly and headed up the stairs. Just as I got to the top, Son walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Shower’s broken”, he said nonchalently, as he went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him

I went into the bathroom and pressed the shower button. It whirred into life with a loud hum but was silenced after just a few seconds as the pump shut down due to no water coming out.

I checked the pump – located in the airing cupboard. It looked OK: no signs of leaks or anything, so I rebooted it (I turned the power off and back on again).  It was still the same.  I did a diagnostic check on it, using the app on my phone, but it said that the shower was in full working order.

Then I turned on the taps. Water flowed from the cold, but nothing came out of the hot.  This had me puzzled and I spent ages checking around the hot water cylinder, but again, everything looked OK.

Flummoxed, I turned the taps on again and watched as the cold water flowed out, but then started to slow and quickly stop.

“Aha!”

I got the stepladder out, climbed into the loft and looked in the water tank.

It was empty, save for a puddle of lime scaled water at the bottom.  The red ball float hung forlornly in the air, when it should have been floating atop two cubic metres of water.  I wiggled it it up and down, but nothing happened. I checked the header tank and that was fine, so the ball valve in the main water tank was obviously knackered.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. I’ve probably replaced that float valve three times in the past five years.

“Can you fix it?”, Mrs M shouted up, a slight note of panic in her voice. “I’ve got that big meeting in the office tomorrow, so I’ll need to shower and wash my hair.”

“I’ll see what I can do”, I said reassuringly.

I looked at the ball valve carefully.  The plunger felt stiff and pretty much immovable. I was unable to get at the innards as the cap was sealed tight with limescale and wouldn’t budge, even using my biggest pipe wrench.

It was 9pm on a Sunday night, what was I going to do?   And why do these things always go wrong at the most awkward times?

And then I had a moment of inspiration (or was it desperation?)

I hit it.  I got my biggest spanner and I hit the valve. Hard.

Water started to dribble from the outlet. I hit it again and the water flowed out quicker and before long, the tank was full again.

I went to the Plumbing Merchants this morning and bought a new valve.

I should have bought a spare.

 

Art Sale

/ masher / 2 Comments

Dear Art World.

I have sellotaped five blueberries to a piece of card.

I call this piece “Man’s Existential Struggle With The Human Condition”.

I am asking for just £4.5m   (£5.5m if you’d like it in a frame).

Thank you.