Treasure Chest

I always wanted a pirates chest (You know, anchor tattoo, hair like coconuts mixed with parrot droppings etc) and as luck would have it couple of months ago I saw this little beaut at a car boot from a house clearance bloke who was making some wild claims that nothing from his stall was more than 50p. So 50p later I was the proud owner of this delightful little black box, which once had been owned by Mr B Binfield of Malta. I knew this because it had been sprayed on the top along with some additional bespoke yellow artwork.

I was convinced that all I needed to do to make my dream come true would be to strip everything off of it, then sand down to the original pine, taking in of course, many years worth of dubious Maltese paint and a car sumps worth of oil from the floor of the box to make it into the finest pirates treasure chest ever,

                                                             So here it is in all its finery!

The REAL Miracle of Christmas

Tim

Firstly, a couple of weeks ago my cousin Tim, in a knee jerk reaction to my review of his hit channel 5 show Culvert Clearance from June, where I likened him to WW2 moustachioed dictator wrote to complain and explain the word culvert; an enclosed watercourse conduit usually at least 10 times longer in length than its diameter, hence not a bridge Which was both lovely and fascinating. He also suggested that I write the script for Culvert Clearance 2 where he will do all his own stunts, and not have to wear inflatable braces, or water wings .


Then, whilst preparing a live CD for my good blogging friend Phil Gardner of one of his favourite crooners I decided to hold out the sharpened end of the olive branch in an email to my old band mates, who technically own ¼ rights to our back catalogue. In the true spirit of Xmas I was immediately called by Peter ‘Sticks’ Kill who enthused about the project but then asked for an advance on the royalties.

Jon and Pete

That evening Trent 'Brent' Baker forwarded this missive to us all;-

Brent and Marina

Dear Bear,

Superb news. I look forward to that. Blimey. There was some rare and truly brilliant material from that Show.
Lovely Moon. Rainbow. A version of Sarah featuring sticks Kill on Megaphone Marina on armchair and newspaper.Truly mental.

All yours in HUGE anticipation.

Brent

Then, finally bringing up the rear, after stalling in the traps for some time, Mr Michael J Kitson suggesting a reunion gig / download / Last Waltz push for the band

Mick

Dear Bent and Trere and Pete
Yes superb news indeed. I remeber that show well. I was ver ver drunk.
I suggest a reunion now that we are all nearly 50 and before our prostates get too big.
Love you guys

Mick

On the back of all this goodwill I have since visited Trent and Jane just prior to Christmas and wished them season greetings. Had an very funny email discussing the downfall of Joe Walsh (No, not the one from the Eagles) from the boy Kitson AND have been promised unlimited roadie and sound engineer support should the next Cary Grant tour include Brighton by the multitasking Phil Gardner.

Phil

Now that (Ladies and Gentlemen) is the true miracle of Christmas!

Peace and Love

Jon / Bear / Trere

Golden Years

I have fell out of favour with blogging just recently due to an overwhelming number of extraneous projects and the deep dark depression that tends to gather all around me like an ill fitting three armed Christmas jumper at this time of year, along with the associated cost hangover that will be a banging headache felt well into 2012. Yes technically, I am the Grinch throughout all the festive season, only taking time off during the brief few days between boxing day and New Year’s Eve when I am then hit by an all time low, facing up to the realisation that whilst my life is not too bad, the previous year has in many ways just replicated the one before!


Having said all that, more than one of the extraneous projects have now come to fruition and I can reveal one of the fruits of my labour for Pete’s 50th birthday treat;-

As I am sure that many people who have a downstairs loo will confirm that apart from a Glade ‘Touch – n-fresh air freshener, a gold album is their number two’s all time favourite wall hanging. Although I don’t believe that this has actually been hung yet in his new mock Georgian three toilet house, I am fairly confident that this gold disc will bring its owner and many house visitors some light relief in difficult times to come.

That's too big to be anything I really recognise?

Who says there is no such thing as a free lunch? Kirsty and her flatmate Amie came home on Thursday evening saying that they had had a series of texts from their Derby Uni friend Georgia on their way back to MK, telling how she had  answered the door to a tall dark stranger, who presented her with a large (no... a very large) bag of meat. Whilst she swooned at this lovely gesture, the secret meat millionaire slipped back into the Derby darkness without explanation, leaving Georgia to ponder how wonderful this spontaneous gestures of ‘love’ for her flatmate really was. Unfortunately when her flatmate returned (as I am sure you have already guessed) she knew nothing of the beau, nor any offer of free meat!

The really intriguing thing is that NO-ONE could actually identify the meat, but felt sure that a small piece of chicken skin had been placed on top as a distraction!

The case continues.        

When the boat comes in, Rubbish!

Whoever said that there are plenty more fish in the sea, was both delusional and stupid. After getting up at 5 o clock on a Saturday morning we started out on the 2 ½ hour trek down to Bournemouth. A good run by anyone’s reckoning but still with about one and a half hours too much “Are we there yet” by the bloke who was driving. Although the BBC’ s old seaweed weather predictor had us down for a blowy day with a possible short shower it was generally very nice, and by early afternoon even the sun had got his hat on.
The captain had obtained detailed information off the interweb and held up a small picture of a bloke on a boat with a back drop of sea and stated that this is where we shall go to “It’s a fish magnet.” I personally didn’t recognise that bit of the sea from the picture but he assured us that we couldn’t fail to catch. After a long time and a couple of cups of tea there was one fish caught by our salty old seadog capt’n, which was some sort Bream who we called Jim, but due to the fact it was so small and possibly in danger of being eaten by the bait we had to throw it back before we could obtain a microscope. After these early successes we moved to nearer the boatyard which was (apparently) another hot bed of specimen fish. By this point It had become quite clear to me that the Commons Fishery Policy isn’t working and it is highly likely that those swarthy Spaniards creep into Bournemouth harbour under the cover of darkness and catch the flounder and Bass and then replace them with miniature OCD crabs the size of pesetas. I say this because one of our crew whose name I will not divulge due to his campest of casts, (the likes we had not seen since ‘Priscilla the musical’ had a girl’s night out with Craig Revel Horwood) actually managed to catch about half a dozen of these miniature crabs

Unfortunately, other than the one micro Bream and a turn up full of dwarf crabs that was about it, but in the great tradition of all good fishing trips we still had enough ‘the one that got away’ stories to fill about 10 minutes for the two and a half hour drive back.

When Chickens Attack!

There is a limit to how far I can be pushed, and I believe I may have been very close to it this morning when I was abused by speciality chickens. Yes, whilst on yet another errand of mercy to save people money the world over, by meter / tariff switching I was shown into a garden in the east of the city which could be best described as somewhere between a salvage yard and a mud wrestling pit. Having eventually found the cleanest place to put my tool box I proceeded with a number of electrical checks only to notice the owner’s son slipping and sliding across the garden to a small wooden structure like a reluctant Glastonbury festival toilet cleaner. The next thing I know is the door is flung open and 6 speciality hens shoot out like circus acrobats landing only occasionally feet first. The boy then gets trailed to the shed where He finally emerges with some feed. All hell breaks loose and the lad retires to a safe distance whilst the mosh pit bubbles with feathers and mud. I of course fear nothing except maybe Snakes on a Plane 2, but find myself clocking the large black one as he starts scratching around the garden ever closer. At one stage I found it necessary to go inside to the fuse board and when I got back he was perched on my tool box, with a guilty look on his beak.


Quite simply I do not get paid enough to reduce debt, fight climate change and wrangle chickens in a swamp, and definitely won’t be going back.

Fascianation

I have been off this week doing a number of undercover and over cover projects. The undercover (by the very nature of the title) will have to remain secretive at present, but may (lets say) fall loosely into the category of Art and Design and shall be mentioned at appropriate times in the future. The over cover project has been to replace the fascia to my Mum and Dad’s bungalow, that has been ravaged by time (a little bit) but mostly to stop the’ knock, knock, point’ of passing fascia and barge board salesmen that hang around Leighton Buzzard dealing their over cladding services OR predicting a doom laden future for people too stupid to take up their highly discounted easy payment schemes. So the plan was to circumnavigated these scammers and avoided the national DIY (stack em high, sell em expensive) outlets and purchase the products from a local, open to the public, trade supplier which worked out very reasonably indeed. In fact it all went swimmingly well until rain stopped play on Tuesday afternoon and then again on Wednesday, before I got the guttering back up.

Of course I do these things because I love my parents dearly, but really it’s due to the little pearls of wisdom that would be lost to overpaid contractors if I didn’t. Here is one such fact that was imparted over a cup of tea and a cheese Bap. When my mum was growing up the man next door used to wash both his feet and socks at the same time in a bucket in front of the fire. I’m sure I do not need point out that this was many years ago in more austere and less privileged times and to drip dry your socks in front of an open fire was all the rage, and the idea of putting your socks in the microwave to dry like we do these days would have been regarded as witchcraft. The other thing about visiting my parents is, as practising Herbivorous (they like to call themselves the more socially acceptable Vegetarian Freaks) that their total reliance on cheese and cheese based products is virtually like religious fanaticism. On Monday I had a cheese roll and then on Tuesday it was cheese with a little bit of onion. Wednesday, however they started playing some mind games and mixing it up by serving up one small cheese roll with Branston and the other without. I am absolutely sure that somewhere in a previous life they must have been Mr & Mrs Smorgasbord who started the cheese Moonies.

I, Sweary Pat and others donned two toned shoes to skip the light fandango on Friday night to bowl again at the Enormo dome. The trouble all started when the barren status of the Guinness pump first hit Pat and the realisation that the bowling bar staff’s resolution to this calamity was to advise us to walk some 100 yards or so to the First Base bar and then return to the bowling with his favourite tipple. Pat would be best described as quite Irish, and little bit sweary! Don’t get me wrong he knows when NOT to swear, I’m guessing he would do really well when He’s sleeping or under anaesthetic, dead, etc. Anyhow, after much discussion and due to our stout inconvenience, he has now received a number of free bowling tickets. Unfortunately for City Limits or to give it its correct title; Spirit Pub Company I am reasonably sure that this is not the last that they have heard of this.

Ironic Irrigation

I have flame proof trousers. These are trousers that can contain both internal and external explosions of a fiery kind. Some claim, I am sure you will agree. I also have a similar equipped jacket with some Hi Viz panelling on the back, and also a Dale Farm full face visor that is terribly P.C. but a little dented!


Anyway, whilst wearing this stuff yesterday (except the visor for religious reasons) at a local cash point at Tinkers Bridge I was approached by two women and an inquisitive husky who smelt me up and down. Not the women, just the Husky.

The woman with the dog lead then said “You can leave the gas man alone” to which I retorted “I’m Electric”

She winked and then said “I’m sure you are honey”

Was she being ironic?

Bucket Lisp

Just recently I have fallen into the ways of a single man, due to Steph having taken a job of care in the community. This generally means that she starts early and finishes late and sometimes even has weekends during the week. Add to this mix, my on-calls which run from the time I finish in the afternoon until 8 o clock the following morning and you have a recipe for some irregular mealtimes, bedtimes and bowel movements! In the words of Bill Nelson and Be Bop Deluxe we are currently like ships in the night, crossing paths for a brief moment and really wondering about the nutritional value of pot noodles *


Unexpectantly this has also had a small upshot to some additional ME time, where I have done a little bit of recording on my all new( 80’s) portastudio and also given some thought to a potential bucket list.

My initial thoughts for the bucket list are

Record a selection of self penned tunes under the title of the ‘The night the wheel came off’ **

Spend more time in Florence (the Italian city, not the large footed but strangely attractive magic roundabout character)

See the pyramids

Finish Sea Sick Steve! (I know how wrong that sounds but here is a picture of the canvas last year) It hasn’t moved on much.

The bit to the left (bicycle spoke) is not mine, but the Seasick bit is! 

Dissclaimer
*I dont think Bill Nelson ever mentioned the value of a pot noodle meal!
** One of the original album titles for the second Cary Grant album by band member, Peter Maurice Kill

Must try to add to my bucket list!

CMK, big shops & headaches

I only ever go to Central Milton Keynes twice a year. Once just before Xmas to buy trinkets and things for loved ones and associates, and then again just after to take stuff back... Oh, and of course should Cliff ever do any more speciality roller skating classes then I would be up there quicker than a robber’s dog! Unfortunately though, I was recently honoured with the CMK shopping centre meter reading job which is about as enticing as lowering your genitalia into an active food mixer or actually being the self opinionated air head that is Alesha Dixon! The real problem with this job is that when you state to any member of sales staff and most managers that you need to see the electric meter you may as well be asking about astrophysics in Swahili due to their pained expression and comments like “I don’t even know where that is” Many enjoyable hours were lost to this pointless and frustrating game this week that will never to be returned to me. Add to this the rather annoying habit that the company has of often only putting the unit number or the name of the holding company in the address to be found and it sometimes feels like trying to find a needle in a very large 1980’s haystack with pay and display car parking. Having spent in excess of 20 minutes in the Disney store with the promo of the all new Lion King I really do now know about the Circle of life. Likewise in the Anne Summers store whilst on another fruitless meter hunt we only managed to find a confused freelance bra fitter from Luton (well that’s what he told us) and what I think must have been some comedy outtakes DVD from Casualty, called Doctor and Nurses in Bonkers 69. Krispy Kreme, well don’t even go there! The only one that was quite uplifting was Bravissimo where we received support in finding the meter by a CMK Security guard in two of the large loading bays.

Ok I am making light of it now in a tribute to Carry On sort of way, but when I really had the stuff to sort out it wasn’t too much fun!

In the name of Art

I have been working intensely in my laboratory this week on a speciality art piece to celebrate Lisa & Phil Gardner’s first wedding anniversary. As discussed before on this very blog, Phil rose to international fame for flogging pictures of his pet cat in the shower to scurrilous newsrooms and paper moguls the world over. Still living high on the hog with a constant stream of royalty cheques amassing in his Swiss bank account and operating from a penthouse apartment close to one of Brighton’s trendiest stockbroker belts and braces charity shops he claims the cat grooming and abuse is all behind him, but.......

Early on knew this would be a difficult build and shoot realising quite soon after getting into MK’s Bowl boot sale last Sunday that a relaxed muscle action man was more difficult to find than rocking horse doo doo (and that had been a right stinker a couple of weeks ago) As luck would have it I did find a fully poseable Retinal Screener Ken action figure and decided to go with that and a very large dose of poetic licence. Once home I was able to remove Screener Kens head with a sympathetic hack saw / chisel and appoint all my time on the finer facial details adding at one point 3 eyes due to an over enthusiastic super glue moment but finally plumping for the more traditional 2 eye and permanent marker eyebrow combination. Due to pressing time constraints and a world shortage of miniature Persian cats I was forced to move into the unchartered territory of Photoshop. Luckily I was able to call on one of the finest Derby & Milton Keynes based exponents of photoshopeee Kirsty Cheshire Photography .Within hours she confirmed that she had enough Photoshop to do the job and soon produced this.

Whilst this art business is mainly about swanning around in smocks with a glass of wine in your hand, there still is some sweat, passion and even disappointment like when the greeting card police came in and confiscated some of the early test shots (like this one) for being too risqué.

If it’s good enough for Botticelli then it’s good enough for me

Estate of the nation

I believe I am quite a grounded individual possibly due to the fact that I have hung out with royalty, eaten their ridiculously small cucumber sandwiches AND received hate mail from Fergal Sharkey! So when I rock up to ‘private property’ like Gayhurst House, and towards the end of this week the Corteenhall Estate in Northants the opulent splendour of the grounds and general attitude of people that wander around their estate in hats made from dead birds doesn’t faze me despite having a number of chance meetings in the past with like minded land owners who, should they have had another sherry and any more bad news from their brokers would have shot me dead for trespass!

Corteenhall Estate this week was fine though and as I drove through the beautiful sunny autumnal afternoon splendour of a bygone age there was no sign of any chinless wonders, only the occasional farm labourer chasing a chicken or laying man traps close to fuel storage tanks for members of dale farm to enjoy later. On the subject of the travelling community camping illegally on your land I was offered this little pearl of wisdom by the farm manager as the best possible action to be taken. When it last happened to the neighbouring farmer he took his big tractor to the illegal encampment and after a polite suggestion that ‘they might like to move on’ picked up one of the mobile homes on the fork type attachments and proceeded to head for the gate. When one of the pikeys protested and stated the obvious that it wouldn’t go through the gap sideways he reassured them that there was no need to worry as he would just tip it over the hedge! Apparently at that point they all decided to move on.

During some very rare ‘ME’ time yesterday I drove over to Stockgrove park which has some lovely woodlands and a lake with a view to enjoy in the late afternoon sun. I always find this very relaxing and good for the soul only to have my anticipated peace and tranquillity shattered by the fact that the fascist owners have now installed barriers and a £2 fee for parking. Because I had already invested over 10 minutes of travelling time and possibly £5 pounds of petrol into the trip I reluctantly paid and displayed and trekked deep into the forests of Bedfordshire gnashing my teeth. It was an absolutely glorious day and the flora and fauna soon made up for it, but then I came across this;-

Yes, Dangerous tree and Wasps nest along with crime scene tape! No sign of either so I can only imagine that wasps had moved on after getting stung (like me) for the two quid parking and the dangerous tree was being cautioned by the special branch.

Thank God it's Sunday

I know someone who is scared of the sea, which from a land locked, land lubbers perspective does initially seem a little strange however put yourself on an old tub of a boat on some excitable waves with a force 5 Hooley whipping up and then I am prepared to (and did earlier this year) possibly give your Thalassophobian the benefit of the doubt. Yesterday though, whilst we looked after Steph’s cousin’s two boys and during an intensely busy duck, swan and other assortments of aquatic fowl, bread feeding session we had a brief but hard shower at which point one of the boys started screaming and crying and it transpired that he has a fear of the rain. Even once in the car the hysteria persisted until we could think and explain ALL the good things that water provides us with; i.e. bath night & wine, a majority stake of about 96% in the manufacture of beer, mediation between sand and cement and giving real purpose to pond pumps the world over. After this and the rain stopping he seemed as right as .... Well I think you get the gist.


Having got over that little dilemma successfully, in the afternoon I made the trek to Asda to purchase their finest handmade pizza so that we could just chill out until X Factor is on, and then argue about the actual definition of talent! Unfortunately Asda in Bletchley who strangely likes to be called George is situated between two unruly neighbours, Mr Ikea a slightly eccentric Swede who loves to build things made of MDF and the football mad M.K. Dons. Often on a Saturday Mr Dons has people round for a kick about and Georges parking is so full up that you have to drive round and round until eventually you run out of petrol. Yesterday just prior to this happening I chanced upon a vacating car and got parked up. As I walked the half mile to the shop I busied myself by sticking pins in an effigy of Pete Winkleman, and then once in and having joined the queue that was snaking its way around virtually all the way to the fresh fish I had plenty of time to write some hate mail as well. Having purchased Saturday’s tea I duly made my way out into the car park for the car only to find that I couldn’t find it. As I systematically walked up and down each of the rows I spotted others in a similar predicament endlessly walking up and down the aisle then stopping to try and get their bearings whilst the mother of all storm clouds positioned itself above us. Of course I did finally find it after wasting another half an hour and slipped in just before the rain really started.

Much later that same evening I was rudely awaken from my power nap with an overriding feeling of sickness and as I made my way (urgently) into the kitchen I was faced with the entire contents of the cats water bowl over the floor and a decidedly manic feline chasing the smallest brown mouse in the world. As I am being ill these two animals are crashing about all over the kitchen until the mouse gets itself behind the welsh dresser (I’ve no idea what he was doing there) So around midnight we were mopping the floor so that we could fight off the cat, and crawl on our hands and knees behind the furniture to attempt to capture the smallest mouse in the world.

If I was to say that I have had better Saturdays than this it wouldn’t be an understatement, but just to top it off when we eventually got to the mouse it had died. So after a brief but moving ceremony in the wee small hours I managed to get to bed, hoping that nothing else would happen

Deal or no Deal

Needless to say as the economic situation worsens and many Brits start to go Greek by defaulting on their debts I am starting to receive an increasing number of calls from revenue protection to investigate the possibility of electricity theft. This takes me to some of the less salubrious districts in the city to look at new and inventive electrical meter bypass surgery that ‘in all probability’ will reduce the customer’s bills..... and life expectancy!


After one on Monday, where the client actually answered the door and then stated never being at the property since ‘his brother’ had tampered with the supply, but then showed it to me’ I have to conclude that AC/DC bipolar and electrical denial is no longer static but now current in the home counties!

Following on from this, I got a call a couple of days ago to one of the worst areas in MK, to replace a meter showing signs of tampering, or ‘live terminal spontaneous combustion’ as many drug dealers & cannabis entrepreneurs like to argue. Due to the notoriety of the postcode I asked one of my colleagues to ride shot gun which seemed immediately completely justified as we stepped out of the vans onto a couple of very large Oiks patrolling their manor with a shark dentured dog the size of a small horse. Unfortunately things didn’t get any better when we located the actual flat and the guy opposite came out of his door with all the concerns and subtleties of Jack Nicholson in ‘the shining’ until we told him weren’t interested in his meter.

Obviously I am still here to tell the tale, but as the above relates, the lawlessness and contempt for everything in certain areas of the country in the current climate doesn’t bode well for the future

Brick Match

Whilst trawling the internet the other day I found a smashing site called brickmatch.com where you can send a picture of your favourite brick and the company will match it (romantically or just for fun) with like minded bricks and even send you a sample in the post just to ensure suitability. I imagine if I had followed my dream and had become a hod carrier then I could spend a little too much time on this kind of site. Then, while on a roll I employed the wonderful blogger facility that is ‘next blog’ which is located at the top left of this page (just above the haybales) which took me to a plethora of fine sites (on the day) that seemed to have a Christian patchwork quilting type themes. All written by first person ‘Moms’ with 2.4 smiley kids and offering ’10 of my favourite things to do with butternut squash’ type recipes. Mmmmmmm nice!


Things then took a turn for the worst and something went horribly wrong and I stumbled across a very angry blog by a bloke who had limited access to his kids and a family guitar. In fact it was the YouTube type video of a beardy bloke on a stool at a music shop who was playing some classical piece at breakneck speed with lots of distortion but with no feeling that made me look a little harder. The moany bloke whose blog it was, then went into a tirade of verbal abuse about the guitarist complete lack of any passion and clinical uninterested delivery. Unfortunately, I have to say that I agreed 100% with this analogy and got me thinking of all the times that I have seen folks who seem to think learning an instrument / singing parrot fashion and bringing nothing to the table constitutes a love of music. (At this point all my friends are now pushing a large soapbox under my feet and nodding in unison with a slightly furrowed brow) I mean what’s the point? You also find that on things like the X Factor when you often hear ‘I think you made that song your own’ or ‘I felt every word’ because a nail technician from Huddersfield had managed to master a couple of lines of an Adele songs and forgotten to bring her asthmatic inhaler. Oh my God don’t get me started, but I want to hear Ben Folds Five rape and pillage Raindrops keep falling on my head at Burt Bacharach’s birthday party, or Elvis Costello spitting venom whilst singing Tramp the dirt Down not some sort of karaoke Lighthouse Family!

Now look whats happened, they have had to put me in my special 'button at the back jacket' again

Phil Gardner

Phil Gardner near the extensive locks at Bow

Phil Gardner, one of the country’s top bloggers, retinal screamers and cat pimps has recently slurred my good name by hacking into my NHS computer records and threatening to disclose ‘in the name of public interest’ that I have a broke back mounting. In simple terms, for folk of a non medical persuasion this means; a wibbly wobbly disc or unfettered coccyx. His poisonous diatribe email then goes on to state that he thinks that I am permanently on the sick, and not safe to be around tethered animals*


This like many of Mr Gardner’s other stories are pure works of fiction. For example a few years back he claimed that 8 out of 10 cats who expressed a preference would rather shower than take a bath, and then more recently he stated that fish had eaten his feet and made outlandish claims to have written the internationally acclaimed Piglet Song.

I, for one am not standing for this (but not on medical grounds) and will be instructing my no win no fee lawyer within the next while

*poetic licence used, to enhance my point

Coulrophobia; The fear of clowns

We live in MK’s very first NO COLD CALLING zone and so now accept that we will never have people knocking on the door between October and about March or any other public holidays. I mention this because my wife earlier this year decided to prop up the local economy by employing a milkman after hearing his hard luck story of how he lives with a woman in a shoe, who has so many children that she doesn’t know what to do. I suppose it seems feasible enough, but since that time it has only ever been me, that is in when he calls for his money on Thursday afternoon.  At Tesco’s you can of course pay for milk on a credit/ debit card until the cows come home but this guy wants hard currency and used notes and often seems a little miffed if it isn’t available or you want things like change, etc. If this wasn’t enough another deal was struck with a couple of old soaks who are starting again on the bottom rung of the window cleaning business who come and clean the upstairs windows about twice a month. I have no idea what kind of sob story they were peddling, but it was probably something like they ran away from the circus to become window cleaners because they turn up with two long ladders and soapy buckets balanced on some pram wheels every time and often have difficulty in climbing, due to their unfeasibly large boots or because they have their red noses stuck in cans of lager! Of course I have seen nothing of any diploma, insurance documents or referral letters from their previous employ or DNA to validate their claims that they are in fact direct descendants of George Formby, and so are just a little bit suspicious that there might be an alternative motive to their first floor window washing. It has crossed my mind that they might be working undercover for Paul Simons gaining important information about soft furnishings and window furniture so that they can later fleece us blind, like venetians.

JC in Wonderland

My doctor has prescribed two Co-codamol tablets four times a day for the pain in my back. I took the first batch mid afternoon yesterday which after about an hour, certainly did dull the pain. Unfortunately shortly after that I was wrestled to the sofa by a fatigue so huge and overwhelming that I never even heard Jeremy Kyle mention the words “best friend” and “Uncomplicated sex” and drifted off into a deep and meaningful psychosis siesta.


The afternoon nap isn’t something that I have generally embraced yet, and feel that this kind of down time is pretty much wasted & inexcusable, unless you have just stepped off a return flight from New Zealand or have been involved in the recent 3 day riots and dirty protests against the existence of Jedward!

Anyway, during this drug induced sleep I realised that I had invented the wheel, but then affirmed that the world is in fact flat, so then cancelled the patent and put my money into shares of Esperanto! Which now makes me wonder if I will ever make another commercially astute decision again?

Truthfully though, I really have felt a little odd ever since I started these tablets but will have to carry on until an un- medicated exceptable back pain allows for ’normal service and driving to be resumed’

O.M.G.

Facts are generally simple, whilst a fax- machine is a bit heavier and more cumbersome. I found this out today when I attempted to lift the works fax machine to make way for the companies HHU (Hand Held Unit) for the start tomorrow of a 4 day stint at meter reading (again)


So just to recount the actual details, I was about to pick up the fax machine from work top height, when even prior to even getting hands on, a shooting pain starting from the bottom of my back went off like a Fenny Popper . The upshot of this was a very nasty case of tourettes and a rather pronounced ‘follow through’ walking stance. As (awkwardly) as it now stands, I think the chances of any meter reading getting done tomorrow is about as likely as me getting jiggy with the Pope.

Needless to say I have had to forgo the banger racing extravagances for a more sedate hot tea and ibuprofen cocktail.

Chocolate face painting and all that jazz

Last Sunday we erected our extensive (patented) bucket footed gazebo to the delight of an expectant crowd of chocolate lovers and fudge fanatics. We had a prime location outside Fenny’s derelict post office, which we had cunningly chosen in the hope that absent minded OAPs would flock there with their pensions completely forgetting it has been shut for the last couple of years. To our left was a French face painter who for a couple of quid would slap a layer of undercoat on you and then call you Marcel. I am kidding of course, SHE was French, and her talent seemed to be in producing something between the drummer from Kiss and the Cadburys cream egg Goo adverts. On our right were a bag lady and her bag daughter selling ....er.. Bags, and behind (from the derelict post office) many dozen feral kids with high foreheads and too many meddling fingers seemed to magically appear with annoying consistency from nowhere, like the shop keeper in Mr Benn. After a very short time the phrase ‘kid in a sweet shop’ AND ‘charity begins at home, NOT just outside your squat, you little b*stards’ found its way to my lips’ The day was also peppered with musical wonders from the cream of Beds, Herts & Bucks singer songwriter & karaoke giants which caused an ebb and flow of potential Simon Cowells to pass our treat tent where we would entice them in like the Witch from Hansel and Gretel. All in all the day was a great success, selling a good amount of confectionery and getting the CCC name out there.   

I love caravans.... like this!

This is how we intend to spend Bank Holiday Monday at Northampton Stadium... Wooohooo!!!!

Salad n chilli sauce?

Quite frankly my life/blog these days is nothing but a rollercoaster of celebrity name droppings. Hot on the heels of George Solt OAP Mountain man, today in Brackley I met a guy called Mr Doner who runs a kebab van. So I was just perusing the interweb and wondering if his business had a website only to find his life story in the Northampton Chronicle. For anyone who can’t be arsed to read the article it clearly states that his father (who was a kebab wrangler man and boy) lived until he was 110, which just goes to prove that the Governments latest scare tactics of stating that by 2050, 90% of children will be so fat that they will have to wash themselves with a rag on the end of a stick is pure piffle and poppycock    

Gaddafi in BB House!

I believe that ousted Libyan leader Colonel Gaddafi and the speakers wife Mrs Sally Bercow are in fact one and the same!

Can I have the million pounds now please?

Its only a big hill. Whats all the fuss?

Whilst discussing the matter of hair loss with a local hippy the other night, a chap that we went to school with came up in the conversation and this concise and succinct evaluation of his life thus far was compressed into the following single line “Completely bald at 17. Became a scientist, then his wife left him”

Local hippy puts foot in mouth

After only catching part of a radio interview with a MP yesterday I wasn’t really sure if the subject was University or Prison places when the minister said ‘that there weren’t enough places for young people and students, and due to the potential tripling in what they need to pay back there was a chance many would be devastated.’ Imagine all those rioters not being able to go to the prison of their choice!

The minister in question was David Willetts who then went on to say that students as from 2012 would pay less back, despite being charged three times as much to go through Uni. Surely someone should report him to the FSA for miss selling. I really don’t understand how a £20K debt can work out less than a £60K debt?

Anyway, earlier this week I went to Olney (home to one of the finest pancake races known to man) to visit the electrical meter of a gentleman by the name of George Solt. If like me, you are unaware of Mr Solt’s claim to fame then I can tell you that he is the oldest man to climb Kilimanjaro and holder of a Guiness World Record certificate to prove it. Unfortunately for me the said certificate was hung on the wall directly under his meter which made it possible for him manoeuvre the fascinating subject of Meters I have seen and loved around to a rather long winded story of a walk up a hill. Here it is IF anyone is interested

Fenny Poppers

Concrete Cow Confectionery has a pitch at the Fenny Poppers Festival this Sunday and during this busy week of preparations I was put in charge of designing an effective means of holding a Gazebo down to the tarmac pavement. Of course I rose to the challenge and after some early misses

I produced my patented gazebo leg; Heavy Bucket Foot which basically attaches the bottom of the gazebo to a not inconsequential weight. This is cleverly disguised by an attractive up turned bucket which stops small children picking up the bricks inside and then using them to raid and loot local charity shops.

Here is the final plan which only took the whole weekend to design, source and produce.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

I am sure like me; you often ask what actually matures in caves. Well, the obvious three are Bears, Bats and small cuddly toys, but following a recent vacation to Cheddar Gorge and in gratitude for keeping James and Kirsty’s cats fed and watered and on the moral straight and narrow we were given some cave matured cheese. At just shy of £23 a kilo I reckon that it is better than Gold and should be one of the stock markets preferred commodities offering a good return and very tasty supper when taken with port. This stuff is so good that I am actually thinking of changing my name by deed poll from Cheshire to Cheddar rather than my original ideas of either Gordon Zola or Simon Cheesestring, which in the cold light of day would be really stupid for a man of my maturity.

J J J Jive Talkin

On Saturday as I made my way through the now war torn Fenny Stratford I kindly stopped to let out a couple of cars from the local registry office. The second of the vehicles that pulled out was a top of the range black Mercedes with tinted windows and a personalised plate B3 GEE. Unfortunately even in the stop start traffic it wasn’t possible to make out who was driving which was a tragedy!


This week, due to a recent unforeseen emergency (“you will be able to laugh about this all the way to the job centre”) early retirement of a member of the data recovery staff, I and others have been asked to cover some meter reading duties. With my all terrain feet and my almost sixth sense to smell out an electricity meter in hiding I was allocated the last two week. Whilst it is an healthier option to my usual position of fitter, remover and general meter roustabout and ALMOST comes close to the fairytale life of a postman (but without the luxury of wearing shorts all year)it does have its downside, which is namely the weather. One day last week it was the hottest this year, closely followed by an entire day of torrential rain. Still, it is always worth any amount of sunstroke or trench foot when you get little stories like the woman that turned the immersion heater on in January and forgot about it until they got a bill for about two grand a few months later.

World gone Crazy!

I remember the rioting under Thatcher when people were mostly angry about her huge candy floss hair (oh and maybe a little bit about the poll tax too) but back then it was clearly much more responsible rioting and dignified social unrest.


I believe, as incredible as it seems in 2011 Britain, that the problem is that there are STILL people who don’t have a massive HD screen TV, and want Jeremy Kyle as prime minister. They also wonder if they can ever believe what they are being told, now that the free press and Rupert Murdoch has been dismantled and the News of the World no longer available.

It’s clearly a world gone crazy.

Amazingly as I blog this, from war torn Bletchley I can see the police helicopters  circling and a previous work colleague has just called, stating that IKEA (up the road) is on fire. Obviously I cannot substantiate this, but would suggest that you hang on to your flat pack furniture as it could be an investment for the future!

Concrete Cow Sunday



 "And whats this?

On Sunday Concrete Cow Confectionery dusted down its new green stripy gazebo and headed over to The Bowl-Boot to see if any Eastern bloc immigrants would part with real cash for the finer things in life like Concrete Cow sweeties. Unfortunately the general answer seemed to be “nie.” However all was not lost (well, at least not in my eyes) when after a comfort break in the actual portaloos Reggie Yates trained on before his epic voyage into the bowels of Kibera, I was returning to the Concrete Cow tent of confectionery delights and spied a woman in full African dress and Don King electric hair seated in my chair behind the big chocolate table. As I got closer and started to think how nice it was that Steph makes friends so easily and that I might suggest that she could possibly take up work as a cultural attaché, the woman upped and left. Steph said ‘thank god you are back’ and proceeded to tell me that the woman just appeared around the side of the car and put her shopping down and plonked herself in my chair. Then in a scene very reminiscent of Borat at the cheese counter enquired what everything was, but at each revelation pulled a face to suggest that it must be poisonous! This possibly should have been the highlight of the day had it not been for the emergency job I did in Brackley where a hugely grateful woman blessed me and the company for offering such a quick and efficient service on a Sunday. She went on to tell me through gritted teeth that their new house, where I performed the miracle of light and power would have been getting locks fitted and shelves put up that very afternoon had her in-laws not hidden their drill that she wanted to use before going on holiday.


I will give that relationship only a few weeks, unless there is a mystery tool box murder of his parents

Bear on the Bass?





Me won't be fooled again 

 Over a number of years in the crazy rock n roll circus business; names are given to artistes that they start to believe, such as The Boss, Grandmaster Flash and Flea. During my time with Cary Grant / Terry Love, The Senators and a variety of fore runners to Kajagoogoo I was christened ‘The Bear’ due to the fact (I like to think) that I was always been able to pick up heavy objects and often shit in the woods. Sometimes though as you get older, you shouldn’t believe your own hype and earlier this week I found out why. On Wednesday I had a small window of opportunity to take a couple of hours out to spring clean my works vehicle. This involved taking stock of the stock, and moving more than a couple of meters, no more than a couple of metres out of my van. Unfortunately, still believing that I am The Bear I ‘made, then heard’ a snap decision as I lifted the entire box of old meters and time switches out of my van and relocated them, along with some important lower back muscles to a painful place.  The upshot of that all is that tonight, after a long hard week I decided to have a long hot bath, but before I could explain this to Steph the phone rang and her sister called, so thinking on my feet I invented the NEW international call sign to someone talking on the phone when you are going to take a bath of a mix-n-match; charades mime breast stroke, along with a big goldfish gulp which loosely mouths “bath.” With a quizzical look on her face I made my way up the stairs for a relaxing soak.  I normally wouldn’t include any products in a bath such as oils or gel however my good friend Peter had recently given me some Seavite, revitalizing organic seaweed bath and shower gel, which claims to be the ultimate seaweed bathing experience from the west coast of Ireland. Some claim indeed! After adding the sea weedy mix, my bath almost instantly turned into excitable real ale with an incredibly frothy head and the slipperiness of a professional banana skin salesman’s banter!  Obviously after jarring my back again just trying to get out of the bath I can now see the errors of my ways in believing anything that anyone tells me!

I told you so!

Obviously over the last few weeks I’ve been more annoying with my “I told you so” than the woman who rung the BBC in 1987 to tell Michael Fish that a hoolie of a storm was brewing. Mine relates to having spent the last twenty + years of my life preaching to anyone who would listen, my concerns of one man having total control of all the media, dictating the dynamics, politics and ‘voice of the people’ through virtually all aspects of world news and then claiming that it is an unbiased and free press! So finally, some people have now got it, and seem to be lining up to take pot shots at the Murdoch empire but many will STILL be subscribing to his newspapers and watching his companies ‘pay to view’ the day after!

It doesn’t really need to be said that a successive number of governments (Thatcher, Blair and Cameron) have relied on the Murdoch press for their ultimate success and so have been complicit in a self professing prophecy. How any of them have the nerve to now denounce him and his companies when they have all been part of the whole despicable mess, I really don’t know.

I told you so

Haircutting, it's a bit like Live Aid to save their bacon

A pig yesterday

The Treasury this week suggested that we all take a haircut to ensure that Greece doesn’t go into meltdown. Not really sure what the treasury knows about hair care or any associated products but that George Osborn chap always seems reasonably turned out in the barnet department and has done a smashing job steering us through this recession. I mean it’s not as if millions of people have been made redundant and the entire nation has been hit with massive price hikes on everything we buy, is it?


Apparently if this haircut goes well the government may suggest a regular bout of haircutting to save PIIGS in Portugal, Ireland, Italy, Greece and Spain. The word is though, if we have to save the PIIGS then it will mean a full Brazilian and it's really gonna hurt!

Trick Cyclist

While we were away last week, being disrespected by psycho waitresses and Devon Council’s car parking fees we found ourselves at Watermouth Castle and was greeted by this! I wasn’t really sure that it would be my cup of tea until the non- stop selection of Shakin Stevens hits started and I was sold, so before I had time to say “Oh Wo Julie” I had been whisked back to a simpler time when it was acceptable for woman to turn the milk sour with their hugely disproportional hands and highly developed right shoulders!

Then we had the onslaught of Victorian one arm bandits, penny shoves and ‘what the butler saw’ machines which left me actually penniless and realising just how tedious Upstairs Downstairs really was. However, in amongst these little beauties I found a machine so clever that all you needed to do was to set one controls to your gender and another to the month of your birth and after a little bit of grinding and a clunk it was able to summarise your entire physical and mental state.

Here is mine....

Al La Curt

Sometimes after 24 years of marriage on the 11th July all you want is a nice relaxing restaurant like the Sandy Cove Hotel, Coombe Martin, Devon.............. Now read on:-


While we stood at the impressive and informative ‘Wait here to be seated’ sign I scanned the restaurant clientele without success for someone who was young enough not to be sporting a pringle jumper / turkey neck combination. The air was heavy with tales of golfing triumphs and the smell of aquatic things. We watched a slim hipped waiter who bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Jacque Cousteau smiling and flouncing between tables pandering to their every fishy whim, until finally a stern faced waitress came over and asked our room number to which I announced that we were not residence, after a second time she changed her tack and demanded our names. A little flustered I eventually gave up the information but still stressed that she might not find us on her list because we still weren’t residence. A rather icy wind blew tumbleweed over a distant landscape whilst we all waited in silence to see if we were on her list. Finally, as she confirmed that we were non residence Jacque intervened and broke the deadlock and suggested that we move to the bar area to view the two menus (Sea decks & Al la carte) which I can confirm were nicely bound and contained many impressive words. After a while we selected our fare and purchased some drinks and relaxed in their low slung leather sofas until Jacque remembered us and took the order. Quite soon the Nazi waitress appeared again and placed out starters on the low coffee table in front of us, but before she could goose step off and leave us with the dilemma of inventing a new yoga position for dining off of a foot high table and fashioning eating utensils out of old beer mats I blurted out “Are we eating here” Jacque, who I imagine may have been delivering a tasty Dover Sole to a woman who’s age and golfing handicap couldn’t be less than 104 immediately sensed trouble brewing and made his excuses and flounced over to reluctantly show us to one of the many empty tables in the dining room. Finally our unreasonable demands were met and we sat down to a table and chair of normal proportions with real knives and forks and got to ponder these strange Devonshire ways. The starters were very good however when the main meals arrived I foolishly asked a second Neo-Nazi waitress for some more drinks which she was immediately able to advise me in a no nonsense sort of way, was in fact the job of Brian the barman and should she see him in the near future she would advise him that we might want serving.

By this point I really wish someone had confirmed the rules of engagement, and explained that despite going out of their way to state that the Sandy Cove restaurant is open to non residents should you be one of those unfortunates then basically; Service, furniture and utensils are ALL extra at cost BUT ONLY IF we can really be arsed!

Our mains arrived but as we started to tuck in Steph noticed that the chef had unfortunately plated up amongst the salad, a small 6” piece of tarmac from the edge of the car park instead of the beef lasagne that had been ordered. Jacque was summoned, who immediately rolled his eyes as we spoke of our high expectations of edible food and countered with ‘there is no sauce within the dish’ so (presumably) it should be dry and hard enough to park a car on? Steph decided to go down the safe option of the steak and have the same as me which we then ate in shifts. Me early, her late!

When the SS waitress asked if we would like to look at the dessert menu we thought it best to cut our losses and we said “thanks but we had seen one before” so we got the bill which (to be fair) contained neither Steph’s car park Lasgne or the steak.

All in all, not quite the evening we had expected.

Face Off

mole removed from just below this picture

In various parts of Europe I believe you can sell your kidney for the price of a small Welsh village or in China you may get an Ipad 2 and some magic beans. To date though, even in the excess organs and facial furniture section on Ebay nobody seems to be vaguely interested in buying the mole (cheek, upper, left) that I had removed today. I have just read on a scurrilous website that U N Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon had a pet mole which was the reason he had to leave Albert Square, but even while I am typing this it doesn’t really sound right!

If I am being really trueful, now the localised injection is wearing off I am feel just a little bit weird and currently having a slight out of body experience, but nothing like as bad as John Travolta in Face Off. You know that things are not really right when the microwave keeps telling you to kill and the mice on the mouse organ are singing We will wash it. Hang on, I may have just sat on the TV remote and double clicked onto Bagpuss. This has been very similar to the time I drank hair conditioner thinking it to be home made wine (don’t ask)

Anyway it seems that the Doctor thought that it all was a wonderful success, however I now have a largish sticking plaster on my cheek for 3 days and there after I need to wait for the developing scab to fall off. NICE!

Chelmscote Manor

I am going to guess that Chelmscote Manor’s meagre 7 bedrooms and on-suites would barely offer enough room for a gentleman to swing a catamaran or organise an archery contest! Anyway, as you can see the celebrations were for Gill and Sandie’s big 50th bash, although technically neither of them had actually reached the half century for another few weeks and both solely reliant on Gods goodwill not to strike them down with pestilence or a number 49 bus so they don’t have to return all the presents.

Due to some oversight by my secretary we didn’t actually arrive at the stately pile until late after most of the Pimms had been drunk and social correctness had a hissy fit and been locked in the downstairs loo, and etiquette ‘mooned’ openly from the battlements, so our evening started with a lovely self penned poem from Sandie about friendship, hopes and dreams and responded to by Gill with a limerick which made some reference to Sandie “dropping her drawers” It was an very emotional moment for everyone.

After that, the music was cranked up and I seem to recall Kenny’s, Do the bump being played however by that point I was busy mingling on the crochet lawn which I am hoping, in the cold light of day the gardener and time can repair. During the evening I chatted with a number of old friends from the early Cary Grant tours about how clothes seem much tighter these days, French surrender monkeys and IF Mick Kitson actually still had any fully functional teeth? Crazy times indeed. As the evening progressed the evils of the hooch took over and I was forced into a Britain’s Got Talented blues guitarists style play off with the parties host Lord Clayton Chelmscote, which quickly managed to disperse a number of hangers on to the east wing and the safety of very thick stone walls.

All in all it was a great evening only slightly marred by an overzealous party goer passing out in a locked toilet and another overzealous crossed legged party animal putting his hand through the grade two mullioned toilet glassed window to wake him up.

Live and let die

Last weekend I travelled to Watchet for some sea fishing. During the weekend, and after a particularly heavy ‘tongue loosening’ drinking spree one of my colleagues stated that he had seen a job for a ‘Spy’ advertised in the back of one of the London papers. Intrigued, I soon realised that this wasn’t really for me when he confirmed that there was no mention of an ejector seat company car nor naked silhouetted dancing girls prior to being sent on any jobs! Just to underline the mind numbingly ordinariness of the work one of the other guys chipped in that someone they knew had their offices used by the spooks a couple of years ago as an observation point. Undercover spy guys dressed as BT Engineers had delivered a special video camera disguised as a photocopier which sat next to the window opposite some drug dealing flats. As far as I was concerned that was the final straw because I really know nothing about telecommunications, or look good in a hard hat.


All that said though, this week I had a rather ambiguous job sheet directing me to a public toilet in Newport Pagnell, which was so suitably vague that it instructed me to make contact with a lady from the council prior to travel. It turned out that this little inconvenience was necessary because it was now shut down due to the lack of passing trade! The lady from the council met me next to the cemetery and just beyond the allotments in Tickford Street, which was once home to the legendary Aston Martin, where this unfortunate prime toileting stop off point for visiting dignities now lay unloved and covered in ivy, graffiti and the telephone numbers of girls of easy virtue!

Despite my Council contact having the key and the perseverance of a nail breaking, Battling tops "it's in the wrist action" ladyboy, the lock remained intact until brute force and ignorance ruled the day and I gained access. I instructed the Council official to return to her car some way up the road for the 30 minutes it would take me to de-energise the supply and make safe which she did whilst I got my steps from the van. As I leaned the steps up against the internal wall under the meter the still very efficient spring loaded door returned to its resting place SHUT! As incredibly as it seems, no amount of swearing would open the BASTARD door and I had to plot some kind of other escape. Whilst I love and admire the good people of the United Kingdom for their charity, inventiveness and general goodwill, I will never know why anyone would want to break in to a defunct public toilet and give the council the reason to seal up all the windows?

Luckily, someone had already confounded me and prised open a small one foot square window at the side, which meant that should I have the dexterity of a Russian gymnast or immediate anorexia I would be able to escape. Somewhere between the two I managed to slip through, and over the lovely ragged rugged windowsill leaving only the best bits of my back in place for all to see.