Posts filed under 'Ian'
It’s been a while since the last time. When was the last time I sneered? I might do it all the time and not realise. When you don’t have a mirror in your face all the time you forget to do some of the classic facial expressions and tics that make being a human being so worthwhile: the wink, the horsey clicking noise with your tongue, the Jim-Robinson-from-Neighbours-look-of-surprise-which-causes-your-forehead-to-ruffle-like-jagged-crisps. All of them necessary of course.
Sneering has almost dropped off the radar. Our country as a whole sneers at a lot of things that are too numerous to mention here. I can bet that anyone caught reading this will be able to come up with two or three, possibly a handful at a push. It expresses a disbelief or a dislike of something, a clear and straightforward view that couldn’t be taken any other way. Interestingly enough an absence of sneering during World War II and post-way Britain led to a deficiency of Vitamin B in both men and women. Children however remained unaffected due to bad television and the realisation that the PSP and Pokemon wouldn’t be invented for another fifty years.
Too little sneering and you’re one of “those” people, you know the type. The ones who think everything is great and that life is worth living and that you should every day as though it was your last. Who would want to wake up thinking they’re going to be killed in less than twenty-four hours? It’s hardly a way to live. Too much sneering and you’re labelled a miserable tw*t. It’s very difficult to find a balance which is why most people opt for the former. The over 60’s unfortunately have been sneering for so long that they cannot stop and they will continue to blurt out classic phrases such as:
1) “It wasn’t like that in maa dey!”
2) “A war would teech you a fing a two, Sonny Jim!”
3) “F*cking ‘ell! The metric system strikes again!”
(the preceeding phrases were taken mainly from various parts of Yorkshire which is why they mainly appear illegible. Please see your local codjer for regional variations.)
The more disheartened we are, the more things go wrong, the more times we fail will all eventually push us towards further sneering. Having not done it and not missed it for so long I will, for the moment, enjoy and relish a good sneer and I openly encourage everyone else to do so. For only five minutes or less. You wouldn’t want to linger on that four minute and fifty-nine second mark, believe me…
December 30th, 2009
So it’s almost over yes, I admit that, but what I won’t admit is defeat when we all stand on the jaws of success. The jaws of triumph. The jaws of not defeat. We have only two more days left of 2009 which has been the worst 2009 I have ever come across. If I ever do come across another 2009 I will be sure to boot it up the backside before it has a chance to turn around and gaze into my wonderful face.
So… what should 2010 start with? Unfortunately it would appear as though the mascot has re-surfaced as the way of grabbing attention from the general public. Compare the Market managed it with a meerkat in a dressing gown. Churchill continues to have a nodding dog that sounds like Vic Reeves. Awful, awful advert for Go Compare has an awful, awful opera singer and a terrible pun at the end. So what do we do? We jump on the bandwagon of course!
We will have to sit down and think about this for a while. Luckily I did a lot of that over the Christmas period so the majority of it is almost done. What I was thinking when it comes to a mascot for da Beans it would have to be something that you would instantly link us to. So I’ve narrowed it down to two possibles:
1) A Badger with a limp
2) The Knitted Beaver
I think we would have more chance with the beaver given the rich and wondrous history he has given to us all. We could have a stupid tagline like, “Beev-er? Done that? Then try Pouring Beans Dot Com!” What does the focus group think?
December 29th, 2009
In one of the biggest, “duh!” moments thus so far seen within the British Isles due to the overwhelming icy winter this year, the recession and the high interest in fish and chips over the summer the UK is shortly running out of salt. Mines are empty. Shakers are shaking nothing.
“We all saw this coming,” advised Chief of Staff at Salt, located in Hampshire, the leading supplier and manufacturer of salt in this country. “We told them that eventually the demand would reach such high limits that our machines wouldn’t be able to cope. Even at full pelt we’re turning over less than half of what we are being asked for.”
In fact in the last few days most of the salt factories have seen a number of thefts and bizarre instances that can only be described as intrusions. One woman was caught on camera trying to season her sea bass by dipping it in one of the rock salt vats to cater for a dinner party for eight, including herself, at her home eighty miles away. Three men each armed with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass climbed the fences to do slammers for eight hours before the security guard heard songs coming from underneath the bins. “It’s just madness,” said Cat Deely.
In light of this Local Councils in certain areas have joined together with the police force to help combat one of the problems from this harsh December. Kingston Upon Hull have enlisted the assistance of all the drunks picked up on the evening rounds to help remove dangerous patches of ice on the roads and pathways. “It’s a particularly controversial scheme I admit but if it means saving people’s lives then I’m all for it,” revealed PC Bobby McFee, “all they have to do it drop their trousers and walk forwards. How hard is that?”
A lot of the drunkards are keen to help. A few can barely stand up. Some can’t even open their eyes to check if they can drop their trousers. It is both a touching and disgusting scene when witnessed. Trevor Winnings, picked up Wednesday night, had this to add: “Ah did it an’… an’ I did it with a sens… a sensss a somethin’ an’ then ah went home and wet the bed.”
Whether or not this will pick up in other, slightly more trendier and more sensible parts of the country is only speculative at this moment in time.
December 27th, 2009
Audrey: Don’t let the beg bugs bite!
Reuben: That’s alright, I know kung fu.
Ian: Why don’t you give your grandad a hug as a present?
Reuben: That’s not a present!
Reuben: I saw broccoli in the pan but there’s none on my plate…?
Siobhan: That’s not fair! I was winning!
Reuben: Do you enjoy losing mum?
Reuben: Wow! A Wii! Now I have two!
Ian: Erm I think you’ll find the one at mine is Audrey’s.
Reuben: Yeah but it’s a little bit mine.
Reuben: SANTA IN YOUR EYE!
December 26th, 2009
Our second trip to India was by far the most interesting and eye-opening of all of Winthrop’s adventures. We had initially hoped to only be there for a few months but as it happened the expedition lasted a good two years. In that time we managed to survey and map practically all of the country’s locations we had wanted to visit including the final rest ground of Bab Nool Yony, his two villages, his summer house on the borders of China and even the curious umbrella shop who’s ultimate purpose was never revealed to anybody…
After the first couple of weeks I must admit I did yearn to return home to the luscious green fields of England and I kept this to myself but Winthrop could see this written all over my face. With the absence of a mirror I couldn’t see that he’d actually written it all over my face using some lipstick he’d stolen from Lady Gannymede at the last ‘Fine Wines and Limes’ evening in Printstock Hall. He never explained why he did it and for some reason I didn’t ask. Instead we would talk about many things that for legal and personal reasons cannot be noted here.
I recall one particular evening in the wildernesses of Bengal where too much brandy had given way to red faces and wet trousers. The next morning we were due to meet with a respected local who held much sway over the surrounding areas. Unfortunately because of the state we had gotten into during the night neither of us was in any state for diplomacy. When we arrived in the village Winthrop announced to the nearby population that he was “gagging for a wizz-wizz-woodle”, urinated in the only water supply, made ambiguous s*xual gestures towards any female who came within his path of rapidly deteriorating eyesight and then passed out under a tree hugging a scimitar. I removed the sword and apologised for his behaviour claiming dissentry and a diseased colon for the display they had just witnessed.
Secretly though I enjoyed every moment.
December 23rd, 2009
Today I was reminded of something that hadn’t come up in a while. A friend at work had said that it was “the right time” to do something. Generally people are obsessed with the wrong time, like the wrong time of the year to be jumping into rivers dressed like Bonnie Langford or the wrong place and the wrong time because you chose that Sunday when your nan was visiting to announce that you enjoyed sticking cellotape to your armpit and ripping it off like He Man. I don’t remember the last time when I thought something was happening at the right time but it almost happens every day.
My alarm goes off at the right time (because I set it for the right time). I go for lunch at the right time (because I chose one o’clock so the day didn’t drag on it’s a*se). I take a shower between eating and shooting zombies for fun (because I had a small window of twenty minutes). All these things take place at the right time. They all also had my subconscious hand in setting them off. I could easily shower in the morning however that is the time I’ve set aside for complaining about having to go to work and continually flipping the pillow over for the cold side because it feels better on my face. I could theoretically have my lunch at the awkward time of 3pm but if I did not only would I f*ck up everyone else’s plans but also I would have to wait six hours from the start of the working day to get anything to eat, as well as this what kind of d*ckhead lets someone go for lunch in the middle of the afternoon?
I’m actually writing this at the right time. It’s half seven, I’m sat in the pub waiting for the quiz to start and nobody else is here yet although the way the two Scottish lads in the corner are staring at me like I’m a t*rd in their pint is making me think that this is the wrong time…
(originally written Tuesday)
December 20th, 2009
As I write this there is a reindeer trying to steal my biscuits, Ian is playing a tune on a mushroom and Sarah is sulking because she doesn’t have the mushroom.
BTW Reuben isn’t going to get the magic skateboard he wanted for chirstmas.
Sarah still wants the mushroom.
December 18th, 2009
Gerry used to have a great job.
“It was my life, and I loved everything about it. That job was me and I still am that job. If it was that easy to let go I would have done a long time ago. I really would.”
Gerry is a giant. Between 1987 and 1999 his legs were the tunnel just before the turn off for High Wycombe on the M40 in the South of England. Not many people are aware that the Government employed giants in this capacity to cover large sections of roads.
“Originally it was to save money with construction costs. They told us that it took twenty years to build a tunnel and we believed them. It was only later that we found out the figures were wrong, that they’d lied to us. The workers who were going to be employed to make the tunnels would throw rubbish at us as they drove past shouting, “Job stealers!” and “Faddy Long Legs!” but it’s hard to hear anything when they’re shooting past you at 90mph. I thought they were gloating about their facial hair.”
Gerry still looks back on those twelve years with a lot of fondness and warmth. A lot of his friends were also employed in the same scheme.
“Samantha was the overpass on the M5 near Bristol. Danny would double as the tunnel near Birmingham city centre and that one as you come out of Manchester depending on what day it was. My best friend Liam was only a few miles down the road from me and we’d spend most of the afternoon talking about sheep. Liam loved sheep.”
When the budget cuts were announced in the summer of 1999 a lot of what the government considered to be unnecessary services were abandoned including penguin traffic cones, squirrel dusters in the House of Commons and the Giant bridges. Gerry was the last to go having done it the longest. He remembers vividly the last day.
“I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had lasted all that time and this was the only day I didn’t want to do it. I kept picking up cars and using them to pick my nose. A few people were shocked, they had never realised it was a giant and not a tunnel. They ran screaming from their vehicles. The army were almost called in until Jimmy Saville, running his thirtieth marathon that year, stepped in and sorted out the situation. I still owe him a pint.”
Since leaving Gerry has had a varied and ultimately unsatisfying series of jobs that never quite capture the imagination and thrills he experienced from being a tunnel. It is something that practically none of us will ever fully know about.
December 17th, 2009
Episode 23 – If I Were You, I Wouldn’t Want To Know You
During a fatal ice skating accident in which three dwarves, presumably looking for Santa, are maimed by a falling electrical pylon, Sir Chester Lester manages to frame Vixen Hawk for the aggrevious error and sends her into hiding. Whilst hiding Vixen must face several home truths including the concern she has about the mysterious door in her mum’s cellar that leads to suspicious surroundings. Then there’s also all those picked body parts clogging up the freezer. Then there’s also the man from the Council who claims he’s Vixen’s estranged father and that he would have been back sooner were it not for the amount of paperwork after the 1979 boating gala confusion and general filing over the last ten years.
Meanwhile Sir Chester Lester, with nobody to hold him back, goes on a rampage across the many eateries within a three mile radius, stopping only to take in a show between mouthfuls of chaos! Vixen is stuck at a crossroads. Literally. The traffic is so bad on the M17 that she can’t even reach the top of OD Cliff for a dramatic “what should I do” cliffhanger pout of multi-national proportions. But she doesn’t have to for by the time she gets to the scene it’s all over! Another mysterious character draped in tea towels and sporting a ridiculous Australian accent has single-handidly put Sir Chester Lester behind bars and vanquished his cronies to the far nether regions.
The man moves forward to shake Vixen’s hand, but can he be trusted?
December 14th, 2009
Sometimes I wonder if the way I look really influences how people are around me. I am quite a self-conscious person at the best of times but as a father there are certain expectations about me i.e. to have a large repetoire of shitty jokes, to dance in a wild and unexplained fashion at parties and to generally embarass myself at every available opportunity. Hmmm; apart from the first one pretty accurate so far.
On the way into town today I realised that all of the dads were funny-looking. One, clutching a can of Pepsi and discussing Jean Reno films with his son, had a large, dark beard and Ali G sunglasses. Another was clad in a faded denim jacket, awful cod-Australian hat (sans corks) and a ponytail. All of a sudden I felt immediately relieved about my impossibly short haircut that I had gone through with just a few days before, even if it doesn’t suit me and will take at least six weeks to get it back to an acceptable length. Those dads stand out for the wrong reasons. I stand out because I don’t look or act like what has come to be referred to as a “normal” dad. It made me proud to be able to stand so proudly at the expense of others for a change. Then I remembered I can’t drive and I don’t have a pension.
For those reasons the weird ones, all the weird ones including Ali G and ponytail, towered over me with their big shoes, laughing like raspberries. They can keep it though if it means a terrible taste in fashion and listening to the Eagles.
December 12th, 2009
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