The Timps Chea Party

It was a small gathering, but it was enough to garner interest from the highest rungs of society’s ladder. That was always the case for the Timps Chea (pronounced “Chi”) Party.

Bolderville sniffed at the contents of his cup and scoffed; a little noise emanating from the back of his throat, “Is this what counts as an acceptable blend these days?” Emmental peered up from the book she was sifting through, mid-sip of her own drink, and shot a daring, lacklustre look in his direction. This was not the first time Bolderville had interrupted her book, her story, her line of thought. His opinions could be heard from the other side of the room, even through the most heated of debates. Once something upset his tastebuds, or his stomach, he was first to announce it and always at the top of his voice.

“If you don’t want it you are more than welcome to try to find something more to your tastes in the back of Nanny’s cupboard. I think she still has some Oakenfold Harbinger from her trips to the Ivory Coast. It goes remarkably well with civilised company,” she quipped, hoping to dismount his verbal attack before he even had a chance to regroup his efforts. Bolderville didn’t even bother to acknowledge her remark; he was too preoccupied with the flavour rolling around his mouth. Usually he had ripped the drink to pieces by now.

Could it be that he had changed his mind and the chea was growing on him?

“I’ve tasted better down the crack of even the most slimiest, more repugnant shops in the sweatiest districts of Backgammon. In fact, the last time I threw up I’m almost entirely sure it had the texture of this!” That was more like him. Those were the words of a blunderbuss, a person botherer, an unpleasant, parsnip-twitching, egotistical hammock of a man.

Emmental sighed. Her own chea, a blend she had cultivated herself after long afternoons in the portland stiles, was as light and bewitching as the eyes of the black kitten Nanny had given her just the other day for her twilight birthday. Between the two of them they had enchanted just about every member of the Tripod Dynasty, even burned out Haggard McPondPoodle. The chea reflected her personality. It gave good lips and a savage grace. There was no point wasting any on Bolderville though; he would not understand the subtle nuances, and fake a gagging noise to attract attention from the clot of Susan beasts in the courtyard.

No, today was her book and her chea. Let him with his he and his ho waddle in the puddle of his own discontent. Let him dampen the air with foul language and disharmony. Crash away, my good man, Emmental thought, for you have no business here.

Only one problem but remained; nobody knew what a Timp was.

Chris’ New Favourite Song – ‘Broiler’

In ancient Latin a ‘broiler’ is a broken boiler. So many people have been brought to their knees because of a lack of hot water.

In accordance with Beans law, so it was requested that a song be written to accompany Christopher’s anguish at no longer being a Big Man (TM) and having to resume his role originally handed to him in a sock over a year ago.

I was the person handed that task and I am the one who has furiously sculpted the song that lays before you. There is no joy to be had in this post. If you are looking for sunshine and pickles then I would suggest you look elsewhere. Only doom and gloom permeate this blackened tune.

If only the National Whinge Line was still up and running. Keep your next of kin on speed dial.

Broiler

It was a Tuesday night,
I wasn’t feeling alright.
I knew I’d felt better,
As I clung to my sweater.
Inclement weather in May,
Added to my disarray.
Kettles wearing a frown,
My boilers broken down.

I think it’s the flue,
Problems, I’ve got a few.
The warranty’s out of date,
Got there two days too late.
Now that the meters teasing,
Everything’s slowly freezing.
Oh, there is just no pleasing,
Shunt’ be this cold this season.

(Instrumental break)

Glow worm, Valliant, Worcester Bosch

So, I am left this way,
In this cool month of May.
Engineer can’t come by
‘Til 3pm next Fri.
Over a week like this?
Fiddlesticks, ladles and whisks!
Combi’s left me so blue,
Tell me, what can I do?

Diddle diddle dee dum de dum de babaaaa badum

I hope this is sufficient for everyone’s purposes. Whilst this tale may not be true, it easily could have been.

Modern Life is Confusing

So… there’s nothing quite like the English language. It can manipulated and distorted in so many ways that what it resembles now is completely different to how it was a hundred, fifty, even twenty years ago.

That said, sometimes innovation does not happen overnight. You have to allow it to simmer for a while. It will bubble to the surface to get your attention when it is ready to do so. Don’t rush it, for the love of Buster Keaton! I was recently scouring the internet to look for a birthday present for my godson and instead stumbled over this.

Ladies and gentleman, let me present you with a link to the Animal Pig:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B013PX3XYI

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Animal Pig you should know two important things:

This pig is an animal
This animal is a pig

Note how the two facts are very similar but also very different at the same time. I had gone looking for a present and alternatively received an education in how to refer to modern animals.

Now when I am on my way to a farm I can look forward to seeing the Animal Cows, the Animal Chickens and the Animal Goats. If I’m heading to a zoo I can feast my eyes upon the Animal Elephants, the Animal Giraffes and possibly, if they’re not too busy, the Animal Tigers.

I’m already working on a FUN leaflet for my nieces to explain that we’ve been doing nature all wrong and that we have to shift with the times otherwise we’ll just look simple.

In one sense, why did no-one tell me this sooner?! In another, awww, pigs.

Remembering is Fun – ‘Kevin’s Favourite Song’

Due to a distinct absence of Kevin and Kevin-based products it now falls upon Chris and myself to fill in the blanks. I’m not very good at grooming poodles or doing up houses so this will be a lengthy and painful process.

I’m also really rank at doing IT. I did an IT once and the whole office didn’t recover for six weeks. I don’t get to do an IT anymore.

Instead let’s hark back to a time before all of this guff. A more simple time when I would spend most weekends levelling up my characters on ‘Secret of Mana’ on the SNES and crying about girls, or a lack thereof. Kevin, meanwhile, was off living it up big style. Not only had he managed to do his face in on a holiday to Greece with Tom Cruise lookalike and badger enthusiast Mr T Matthews, but he also was holding down a sweet job in Monkey Maze and beating up crims as his crime fighting alter ego, The Malevolent Pen.

With all of this going on you’d think he wouldn’t had had time to keep up with the latest fashions, the hottest beats, the sweetest sounds. Well you’d be wrong. Many a time did I go round to his house to find him pulling shapes to THE song of 2002:

He played it constantly. This was his jam and nobody else’s, and if they tried to make it their jam he threw them into a canal. I saw him do it; it was brutal.

There was a time where each time I would call him he’d be sat in a car outside DJ Luck and MC Neat’s recording studio in the hope of catching them and getting them to sign his test vinyl pressing of the song.

I know there will be a large pool of people who won’t believe this because after his endless posts about Status Quo it’s hard to imagine him not wearing a pair of jeans and a ponytail and being chased around by a shit Simon Pegg double. Yet, with my hand on my heart and my leg in the furnace, I can tell no lie.

I wonder if he still plays it now, in the dark, quietly, as his child sleeps. One day Tiny Mountain might wake up as the sun gently caresses his face and he’ll turn to Kevin and his first word will be, “Irie!”

I hope so, guys, I really hope so.

A Big THANK you

There are a lot of heroes that never receive the recognition they deserve. They wander on, still doing their best, still going above and beyond the expectations of their peers and yet their trophy cabinet remains empty. It’s not as if they do what they do for the silverware though; they do it because nobody else can.

I would like to offer a warm slightly moist hug to those people and things. I open up my arms and welcome them into the happiness of my bosom, sometimes with a sympathetic tap to the head and a quiet word in their ear.

For there are many who don’t realise that without them the world would be a much darker place. I hope you all will join hands and put down your slush puppies, in that order, to slap a high five in the general direction of…

ELBOWS!

Flaming Horses

You are applying for a job.

There are several other people in line for the position but so far, without realising, you have been the strongest candidate. When the interviewer looks away you quickly wipe the sweat from your brow. Someone has left the heating on; you think it’s a deliberate ploy to put you under pressure.

It all comes down to the last question, which is separated into two parts:

A) You are passing through a popular field. All of a sudden you notice a horse, on fire, charging towards you. You do not have enough time to run away. The flaming horse is going to collide with you unless you do something immediately. You do not have any weapons or tools at your disposal. What do you do?

B) You are passing through an unpopular field. It’s all dirty and marshy. All of a sudden you notice a horse, on fire, charging towards a small group of zombie children, who are also on fire. They are going to collide unless you do something immediately. You do not have any weapons or tools at your disposal. You cannot leave the situation as it is and walk away. What do you do?

Your answers will determine whether or not you get the job.

Think carefully.

Chang’d Up / Chang’d Down

It is with a heavy heart and a great overwhelming sense of sadness that I must report that Kevin and his endless stream of DIY must unfortunately come to an end.

Having spoken with Britain’s ‘newest dad’ (TM) this weekend, he confirmed to me in an exclusive interview that he is done with doing up his diggs.

“Once I’ve finished painting the ceiling in the living room, that’s it, I’m done, no more!” he remarked without a hint of reluctance. At first I thought he was joking but the look on his face said it all, and woe betide me if he appeared almost relieved at the prospect of having a rest from scanting his chandeliers and blowing down his parquet beam shoddery.

What this means for the future is uncertain. The property will remain open to tourists for the next four months but will close prior to the summer period, usually when demand is highest. The rumoured eighth wing will no longer be in development and any hope of that elephant rack in the Southern district is completely off the cards.

All in all it means a net loss for the world and for England’s seventeenth biggest attraction.

Pouring
Beans

Author: Ian “Toasty” McIver