Category: Me me me (page 1 of 5)

Ah ha!

There’s been a lot of good stuff on the telly over the years.

Of course, there’s also been a hell of a lot of dross.

And sometimes, the good stuff can get lost in the dross.

And sometimes, even when I’ve heard good reviews of programmes, I find that I just don’t get round to watching them.

It was like that with The Office: heard so much about it, but somehow just never bothered.

Until I was working up in Glasgow for several months and found myself desperately searching for box sets to watch in my free time. A friend lent me a DVD of Gervais’ mockumentary series and I was hooked.

Likewise, I was searching through Netflix the other day, trying to find some half-hour comedy programmes to watch, when I found the section entitled “Critically Acclaimed Witty British and European Comedies”.  Or something like that. And there, nestled in amongst the likes of Black Adder and Fawlty Towers was “I’m Alan Partridge”.

Made eleven years ago, how had I missed this particular gem? It’s just brilliant! And Steve Coogan is a bloody genius.

I know there’s plenty of other stuff out there that I’ve missed, so if either of you have any suggestions…

A perfect weekend

Yesterday morning found me back at Bletchley Park.

This time – having looked around the Cyber Security exhibit first and finding myself feeling pretty non-plussed about it all – I wandered over to Hut 12, which housed a James Bond exhibition.

Being a big Bond fan, I had high hopes for this, but they were ultimately dashed once I stepped inside. The exhibition was  – in the main – a load of paintings hung on the walls, each with a Bond connection. For some, that connection was vague, to say the least.

Far more interesting (to me, at least) was a couple of glass cases, that housed original letters typed and signed by Ian Fleming to the high-ups at Bletchley Park.

As Personal Assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence, Fleming had a high security clearance, giving him access to many high level reports in his role to find ways of intercepting enemy coding materials.

He even contrived a scheme to get hold of Enigma paperwork, by disguising a British aircrew as Germans and then crashing them into the Atlantic in a captured German bomber, to lure a German rescue ship. The crew would then overpower and kill their rescuers and capture the papers and/or an Enigma machine.

Operation Ruthless – as it came to be called – never happened, due to a lack of suitable targets, but with that sort of cunning and imagination, it’s easy to see where the James Bond stories came from.

After all that, I headed to Oxford, where I met up with some friends from work and we saw the sights did a pub crawl.

I got back to my hotel in the early hours and slept like a log – well, I probably would have, if I didn’t have the bladder of a small child and the need to get up several times in the night!   My head was thumping this morning, but a hearty breakfast and several mugs of tea later and I am as right as rain.

Which is exactly what it’s been doing all day, so that means I can’t cut the grass, as planned.

Shame. 🙂

Dvorak

Occasionally, as I have mentioned here before, I will get a tune stuck in my head.  An earworm, as some people call it.

This has happened again.

For a whole week – and even as I type – I have had Antonin Dvorak’s 9th Symphony stuck between my ears.

Not ALL of it, of course, because it’s a bit lengthy, but bits of it.

Bits out of ALL 4 movements.

Now, I’m not averse to a bit of Dvorak and I’m sure that many would agree that his ninth symphony is well worth listening to.

But, it’s been a week now, so it is starting to grate a little.

And it doesn’t help that when my brain decides that it wants to listen to the 2nd movement, it also puts on a strong Yorkshire accent and adds the words “Eee, he were a great baker, our Grandad”.

Je suis revenu

Not that you’d know I’d been away.

But I have.

I’ve been down to the South of France to spend a week with the family. They are all still down there and won’t be home till the weekend.

But I am now back at home… scratching my mosquito bites.

How was your holiday, I hear you ask?

Well, it was OK. A bit too hot, maybe, but I kept out of the sun as much as I could.

To be honest, I was getting a bit bored after a while.

I always do.

Fortunately, we had a hire car, so we went out a few times. The picture above was taken on my phone, as we walked back to the car, after a hard day’s Geocaching.

My flights on SleazyJet were uneventful, save for the delays. But I was pleased to see that we had a pilot with a sense of humour on the flight home last night:

“For those of you on the left-hand side of the plane: if you look out of your windows you will see a lovely cloudless view of London. You won’t get a better view than that. And for those of you on the right-hand side of the plane… if you look to your left, you’ll see the heads of the people on the left-hand side of the plane, enjoying a wonderful view of London. I’m afraid you won’t get a better view than that.”

I had a window seat on the left-hand side and it was indeed a fantastic view. Being nighttime though, I didn’t recognise any of it.

Upon landing, I was disappointed to find that the free shuttle-bus to the train station, now costs £2.30.

I was annoyed even further when, having purchased my train ticket, I found that the gates were open at either end and I could have ridden for free.

And the final twenty-minute walk home from the station stretched to nearly double that, because my carry-on bag weighed more than twice as much as it had when I originally packed it – carrying most of Mrs M’s clothes as well, due to her needing to make space in her suitcase for all the extra stuff she’d bought out there.

But anyway, I’m back now and the dog is pleased to see me and the temperature is more comfortable and the bed… well, there’s nothing like your own bed, is there?

Now, where did I put that bite cream…?

Solo

Mrs Masher has taken the kids off to the South of France for a holiday.

I’m home alone.

As a consequence, I now have an aching wrist and blisters on my palm.

Y’see, we have this bush in the back garden. It’s horrible. And each year it gets bigger.
I’ve never liked it and have threatened to remove it on several occasions.
Mrs M, however, is quite attached to it.  “Don’t you dare touch my bush!” she says, each time I talk of maybe pruning it back a bit.

But, she is away on holiday and when she returns, she’ll find that her bush is gone. I’ll not mention it till then.
Meantime, I’ll have to get some better secateurs, that are easier to squeeze.

Mrs M rang me last night… just to check on the dog. “She’s fine”, I said. And she is… albeit, suffering in this heat, as we all are.

She rang just as I was preparing my dinner. “So, what are you having?” she asked.

“Well, as it’s Sunday, I’ve decided to have a roast chicken dinner. I’ve got chicken, roast potatoes , peas, carrots, Yorkshire pudding and stuffing.””

“You? You’re cooking a roast?  I don’t believe you.”

“Nope, I am. I’m just preparing it all right now”, I said.

Pop!  Pop! Popopop!

“Hold on…is that the sound of a film lid being pierced?”

“It might be.”

I love being home alone.

Jean Genie

As both of you know, I’ve long been a trendsetter when it comes to fashion.

Back in the eighties, my “Frankie’s Gone To Cricklewood” t-shirt was the talk of the canteen at work and my reputation for only wearing underwear from Bloomingdale’s has become the stuff of folklore.

And when plum-coloured, velvet frock-coats with four-inch lapels and 15-denier Harris tweed cuffs come back into fashion…

However, one fashion that I have never followed is that of denim jeans.

I wear denim jeans – of course – but I’m really not bothered about what make they are.

In fact, the pair of jeans that I normally grab out of the wardrobe, are Sainsbury’s own brand, that I bought in an emergency in Torquay, for six quid a few years ago.  I have worn them many times and not had one single person comment that they look cheap or crap.

Levi Jeans are the premium brand, of course, and lots of youngsters throw their hard-earned cash that way. At eighty-five quid a pair though, I’m sure they can’t afford to buy too many pairs.

The ones that astound me though, are the Levis with buttons on the fly rather than a zip. What’s that backward step all about? Because, from what I’ve seen, to have a wee, you have to undo your belt and waist button first, in order to undo the fly buttons. I’ve stood next to many a chap at the urinal, who has had to stand legs akimbo whilst taking a pee, in order to stop his trousers from falling to the floor. Indeed, only a couple of hours ago, whilst visiting the toilet at the cinema (took the kids to see Incredibles 2), I turned round to see a chap standing at the urinal, with his Levi jeans around his ankles. Then, as I washed my hands, I watched in fascination as he pulled his trousers up and went through all the rigmarole of doing up the fiddly buttons. Then – having got his trousers done up again – he wiggled them down, such that three to four-inches of his underpants were showing.

He walked out with a confident swagger… although, with his crotch around his knees, it looked more like a waddle and it left me thinking that fashion was so much more sensible back in the day, wasn’t it?

Now, where did I put that RELAX tee-shirt…

 

One Ronnie

These are my glasses.

Or “spectacles” if you prefer.

I used to have really good eyesight and then… I hit 40.

Suddenly, I found I needed glasses for reading.

But as my eyes worsened, I then needed stronger ones for reading and close-up work and weaker ones for mid-range. My far-sightedness was fine, but even that weakened after a while. I found  I was carrying around several pairs of glasses with me.

And, it reached a point where I was balancing two pairs of glasses on my nose, whenever I needed to read really fine print or do very close-up work.

And so I made a decision to change and last year (might have been the one before), I opted (no pun intended) for Varifocals.

And what a boon they have been.

I should have done it sooner.

Jammy bastard

When I am at work. I will have porage as a mid morning snack – as I have mentioned here before.

But at home – as I am today – I’m quite keen on tea and toast.

With jam.

And – as everyone knows – the best jam to have on toast, is apricot.

You are all probably also aware that the best apricot jam in the world, is made by my sister-in-law.

Unfortunately, she has run out, but this pot of French apricot conserve, is actually a pretty good substitute.

Walkies!

These are my walking boots.

They really were made for walking.

And I walk in them everyday, when I take the dog out.

They’re a bit heavy, but so VERY comfortable – now that I’ve broken them in.

But, I’m not the only one who loves my boots (or beewwts as they are known elsewhere).

Saber adores them because, when she sees me pick them up, she knows it’s THAT time.

Alicia

These are my car keys.

Well, that black, oval fob thing on the left is.

Y’see, my car is one of those key-less ones. So long as the fob is somewhere within the car, I can press a button that says START/STOP on the dashboard and the engine will start.

I also have to press it to turn off the ignition at the end of the jouney.

All sounds quick and easy.

But, it’s a pain. It really is.

I’ve lost count of how many times I have got out of the car, only to realise the keys are still in there somewhere and as such, I can’t lock the doors.

When they are hanging conveniently from the steering column, it really is easy, because you turn the key anti-clockwise and pull it out of the lock. The key is then conveniently already in your hand.

But no, I have to pull up in my parking spot; press the START/STOP button to turn off the engine; get out of the car; try to lock the door without the keyfob; harumph to myself, crawl back in to the car; search through the various cubbyholes to see which one I might have put it in; run my hand along the back of the passenger seat in case it has got wedged in there; eventually find them on the floor, where they’d fallen when I’d had to brake sharply on the M40 thanks to that twat in the BMW; harumph again; back myself out of the car and then lock the door.

And this – apparently – is progress.

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