I feel like Benjamin Button. Not only do I wear shorts and sandals but I have started adding fractions to my age.
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All posts in category: Life
Now you can only go into the bank wearing a mask
Why...
Has common sense been swept away by Covid-19? There was a time if the police stopped your car while out on a date and they found rubber gloves, a mask, duct tape and a chemical suit in the trunk they would suspect you of being right out of CSI. Now you are just a responsible citizen. I stood in line at our fabulous farmer’s market today watching a woman in a mask and gloves take both off to sniff and squeeze at least a dozen melons. Then she replaced her protective gear, happy that she was safe, but all the melons were now toxic. Every store now has a hand pump ready to spit out who knows what on your hands. After a day, my paws look like red swollen baseball mitts. Let alone the fire hazard. This stuff not only is highly inflammable but has no flame. Light up a fag and you may not realise your fist is on fire until your fingers start to go crispy! And shoe shops are utterly mad. You have to try on shoes with half your leg wrapped in an overgrown condom! You can’t see what the shoe looks like and I just don’t see how this avoids anyone catching the dreaded lurgie.
Today’s blog was too good ... You can’t read it
Why...
Am I getting brain fade? I have written these little ditties for over four years now, on over 200 topics ranging from my dog’s television viewing habits to me never being around when moving house. It is getting increasingly challenging to find things to scribble about. Last week whilst driving in the shoal of Malta’s kamikaze drivers I was struck by a subject so ripe that I actually started laughing. For a moment I wondered whether I should stop and write it down or record it into my phone. Nope! No need. It was too funny. How on earth could I forget? Try as I might, I cannot remember it. I even drove down the same road listening to the same songs in the hope the Muse of blogs would reach out and jog my memory. Nothing.
Going going gone...(money and common sense)
Why...
Do my brains turn to mush at auctions? No matter how hard I try, if my wife and I go to an auction, I manage to find something that I cannot possibly live without. The fact I never knew there were such things as Chinese fire alarm sticks, Japanese tangerine bowls, 1850 suppository machines, or opium smokers headrests is irrelevant. Once discovered, life is not worth living without them. Once I have made that leap, I am free-falling into the money pit that is bidding. Now not only is my life incomplete without Winston Churchill's dentures or silver sugar tongs in the shape of a wishbone, but no one else can have it! Even if I promise my wife a limit at auction, seeing someone else outbidding me is as provocative as a Bernie Saunders supporter at a Trump rally. So I end up triumphant paying too much for something that in the cold light of day is as useful as a chocolate teapot (let me know if any readers have one for sale).
Are you a lockdown fashionista
Why...
Has Covid-19 superseded Vogue as the trendsetter of fashion? I suspect less than 0.1% of men have worn a tie over the past ten weeks with bras going the same way. Stilettos, false eyelashes, leather shoes with laces and evening attire have also been banished to the cupboard whereas fashion no-no’s such as the onesie, head band and tracksuit have made a comeback even Sinatra would have been proud of. The most shocking aspect of lockdown is the sudden appearance of facial hair; mostly, though not exclusively, on men. As someone who has sported a well trimmed beard and moustache for a decade, I am amazed at the birds nests many friends have now got stuck on their faces. Even my beloved father-in-law, decorated pilot, Diplomat and US Government Advisor suddenly looks like Uncle Sam with his natty goatee beard! The first question is why?
- Is it an act of defiance to the old rules? No more office, suit, tie and hair as slick as a second hand car salesman’s patter? “I am the master of my destiny and phooey to convention like shaving.”
- Is it to show the ‘outdoorsman’ in face of lockdown. “Hey Covid-19 I’m Grizzly Adams. I cut down trees with my teeth and drive in masonry nails with my bare hands. Don’t screw with me.”
- Or is it simply:
My body is a temple, but to my wife it’s an amusement arcade
Why...
When you read the above did you think of sex? Well in fact that may indeed be the subject of andanotherthingXrated.com but I was referring to something else. My wife likes nothing better than to squeeze blackheads on my back, pull hairs out of my nose and rebuke me about the length of my toenails! I am thankful that I don’t have a hairy back as I suspect the hot wax would be out in an instant. There are times when I feel like one of those monkeys who sit quietly as their partner grooms them. It’s a contradiction to me that I remind myself to compliment my beautiful wife when she has her hair done or buys a new piece of clothing, yet I must remain quiet during these imposed moments of my improvement. The idea I might apply her make-up or pluck her eyebrows would be to invite thermonuclear retaliation! I found it very revealing that during a recent dinner party someone else mentioned how much she enjoyed this semi painful preening process of (in her phrase) ‘doing the pointwork’ on her husband. It was like he was a Grade 2 listed building. Soon others at the table agreed. It seems there is some inbuilt instinct for the female gender to balance out our Alfa male persona by having us submit to this routine ceremony of buffing and fluffing
Please stop interrupting during video lessons and eat more
Why...
Is a dear friend and teacher more frustrated than a brain surgeon with hiccups? In this new world, teachers are struggling during on-line lessons because of continuous interruption and comments from parents. It seems that when little Johnny is having a problem with algebra or the date of the Battle of Hastings, know-it-all parents cannot wait to chip in with their answer... which in the case of algebra is nearly always wrong. It’s bad enough having to deal with delusional parents during PTA meetings who believe their offspring is the love child of Einstein and Madonna - see earlier post HERE. But to have parents digitally hanging over the teacher’s shoulder is enough to have anyone mainline Clorox. In addition, in some households there is a queue to use the one decent size computer. Dad for porn, Mum for gambling, elder kids for on-line dating, games or movies. Everyone wants the youngest off the machine as quickly as possible. So instead of the rest of the household being on-line themselves, they are constantly operating the only other thing outside of the Internet they continually use; their teeth. Lockdown has turned everyone into elephants in more than one sense. We have grown huge and munch constantly. Many of the locked down are so fed up with long distance relationships, they are moving the fridge to their bedroom.
Pay attention ticket touts
Why...
Do I worry about ticket touts? As we emerge blinking from COVID-19 hibernation, there is much speculation that, like Saul on the road to Damascus, we will be inspired with life changing values. Don’t bet on it! What will we want that touts will worm their way into and supply? Clearly concerts, theatre and sporting events are still some way away. So how can all those touts out there manage to make ends meet, poor lambs. For sure there will be a rush for certain things. Vanity trumps everything. Hair Salons will be inundated. The same goes for Brazilian wax, eyebrow plucking, Botox, manicures, and pedicures. So, touts should be booking appointments and offering to sell them for a premium. Other ‘bookings’ in high demand. Restaurants with plenty of space between tables, or mass raves (for people with plenty of space between their ears). Expect secret underground ticket sales from touts for these parties. I suspect certain men will be desperate for their regular ‘Thai Massage’ complete with happy ending whilst others will simply be desperate for an argument about their sports team with a total stranger. In fact I am amazed that no one has started a website www.iarguewithyou.com. Log on and have a row. You cannot do that if you are manacled to people at home as you have nowhere to slink off to be grumpy on your own or time to cool off.
Three weeks in lockdown and I just got plastered
Why...
Are my best efforts to behave thwarted? After weeks of lockdown and too many visits to the fridge, my wife mentioned if I were to go for a swim in the sea I would be in danger of being harpooned by a Japanese whaling ship. “Your trouser top button is social distancing from the the button hole. Get in the gym.” If you are in lockdown with one person, the most important thing is to avoid friction or it will end like Lizzie Borden giving each other whacks with an axe. I duly pulled on some shorts (with an elastic waistband that was stretched tighter than a banjo string) jumped on my cross trainer, lost my balance and promptly fell off. Instead of burning calories I bust my wrist. If there is a God, she has a pretty rough sense of humour. Luckily it’s my left hand. “Don’t think that means you can’t use the treadmill,” my wife warned after driving me back from hospital. So boring. “I’m not a bloody hamster on a wheel,” I replied. Instead I created snaxercise. Open the fridge, bend down, take out ice cream, stand up, take a scoop, bend down, put back ice cream, close the door, stand up. Repeat thirty times.
Duck it; shot happens
Why...
Is Spellcheck watched over by some electronic Mary Poppins? If I search in Google for any number of potentially innocent things such as water sports; adult I am offered an eye-popping smorgasbord of entertainment, many of which have nothing to do with surfboarding, scuba diving or water skiing and are very rude indeed! Yet I am prevented from typing some decent Anglo Saxon swear words in a document without them getting changed or redlined. I can almost hear my iPhone nanny tutting at the vulgarity. The only alternative is to sit with Roger’s Profanisaurus (dictionary of swear words and slang) and insert (ho-ho) every rude word I can think of into to my personal dictionary so I continue to be abusive to my friends…in a language at least they understand!
If I come to a meeting with clean fingernails and polished shoes, don’t kid yourself, it’s not for you. I have writer’s block
Why...
Is writing for me sometimes a pleasure and at others a chore? Today I needed to get on with the follow up to my debut thriller Fall Out, called The Bastion. But as is often the case, I am stuck. Of course it’s not directly my fault. My Muse must have deserted me for someone more worthy, or the moon is aligned in such a way that my creative juices are drier than a cinnamon stick. Whatever the cause, anything is better than staring at a blank keyboard. I have just polished all my shoes. Nothing. So polished my belts as well. Still just white noise in my head rather than a new character or plot twist. Cut my nails, tweaked out nose hair, squeezed a few back heads. Zero. I even slung an angry riposte to some fool on Facebook. Still zip. The fool on Facebook made me laugh though. After a fatuous and totally incorrect comment about deer culling that I refuted with an article from the left leaning The Guardian entitled, We must kill Bambi. Why deer culling is a no brainer the response was: “Who asked you for your opinion anyway. Fuck off.” The irony of not understanding when you put your own opinion out into a public forum, by definition invites a response, says a lot about the lack of debate in our social media age. Most bloggers just want their voice heard, not challenged. It’s me me me on a platform that is marketed as us us us! If I actually understood the origami that is ironing, I might even see if I could attack the pile of shirts that need attention. Tonight we are due out to dinner and I will be as well manicured as a teenager trying to take out the preacher man’s daughter. My host will take it as a compliment. But for me it will be as if Samuel Taylor Coleridge himself had hung the albatross around my neck.
The joys of becoming an accidental medical tourist
Why...
Do I react like a spoiled brat when forced to visit a doctor overseas? I recently returned from a trip to Asia that had me visit four different hospitals within three weeks. With more trepidation than an actress knocking on Harvey Weinstein’s hotel door, I expected to be met in Emergency by a wild eyed shaman, a witch doctor ready to behead a chicken, or a surgeon who looked like Boris Karloff. Instead I was treated to some of the best medical service and equipment I have ever seen! One hospital in Chiang Mai was like walking onto the set of 2001 space Odyssey. In fact I half expected HAL’s voice to greet me. As for the actual medication, no ‘eye of newt, toe of frog’ but drugs even I recognised. Though of course there is always a risk of a Chinese knock off, but I guessed odds were remote at the palaces of medicine I visited. What did catch me off guard was dosage. Nothing had any effect until I rang my own Dr. Frankenstein in London. “That is what you’d give a 12 year old,” which is probably the build of most males in the country. I am a beached whale by comparison. Triple the dose and all was dandy! Now I was lucky. I have insurance and was in Thailand where private hospitals put many in certain countries in Europe to shame. Even the food was so good I put on weight. I now understand why Thailand is not only the paedophiles and perverts destination of choice but now over 2m a year for those in search of medical treatment. You never know... the nurse might be a Ladyboy. I now have got my head around this relatively new phenomenon of medical tourism. With equipment this good and prices between 80% and 50% less than in the West, it starts to make sense. In fact you can save so much money that once treatment is finished you can recuperate in a five star hotel and still be in the money. Furthermore your insurance company is going to send you a thank you letter!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
Why...
I saw this the other day and wanted to share it. Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low-stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasion and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all. I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2020, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make the West great. Not to imply that any Western country is necessarily greater than any other country. And without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishee. By accepting these greetings you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for herself or himself or others, and is void where prohibited by law and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
My Eyebrows are Silky Soft and my Hair Smells of Listerine
Why...
Hotel room designers must have one thing in common (apart from calling their children Nathanial or Poppy); vision so perfect they could see a flea get a hard on. Even with all the lights on, hotel rooms at night are as dim as a village idiot. It has some very disturbing results. Instead of the bell hop pointing out the bloody obvious like opening a small door and expecting me to be hugely impressed when he says 'fridge' instead of 'hotel cash machine' why can he not explain how the inevitable mishmash of light switches all relate to each other? I am forever getting into bed and hitting some knob that instead of turning the lights out, turns on a hairdryer or activates the TV. Even once I’ve mastered how the actual switches work, the lighting is so bad that my wife insists I bring a flashlight to help with her make-up.
Welcome aboard…. is enough
Why...
"Welcome aboard flight UR OXN flying from Heathrow to Sydney. My name is Sandra and I will be assisted by Dee in First class, Ben and Jerry in business and some trainees I look down on in economy. We understand you have a choice of other airlines and appreciate your custom ........We will be cruising today at 35, 000 feet at approximately 900 kilometres, or 560 miles or 490 knots per hour. First I need you all to pay attention to the safety demonstration, even those amongst you who have flown before…..” And so it begins. Flight attendants have become nannies in the sky, ready to instruct and scold. They know best. So listen up….and just to make you are awake the speakers screech with feedback. Most of us just want to recover from a cavity search after foolishly packing a pair of nail clippers in our hand luggage and watch a movie. The only thing we may ask the cabin staff (whose name is on their badge) is to turn the heating down.
Are there no ghosts from the Stone Age?
Why...
If you believe in things that go bump in the night (excluding booting the dog off the bed) has anyone been haunted by a club wielding Neanderthal dragging his wife along by her hair (just her head of course)? Or how about being spooked by a crazed sixties groupie, complete with kaftan and red sunglasses (but minus her teeth following a lifetime of heroin abuse)? No. How is it mankind has existed for several millennia, yet ghosts did not seem to really get their act together till circa 1500 and lost interest around 400 years later? Clearly an enterprising soul from the other side set up a decent post life ‘how to spook academy’ around 1500. Admissions for this phantom University seem to have reached a peak from the “Burn them! Burn them!” Witch Frenzy of 1560 till the end of the Victorian era at the turn of the 20th Century. That was the real prime time for ghost and ghoulies. After that, it all seemed to quieten down. Maybe spirits found something better to screw with? It is mildly worrying small electrical equipment with its inherent gremlins came into our world about then…but that’s the subject of a different blog……
Sorry. Your toddler ain’t Einstein
Why...
I understand no parent is going to say to their friends that “My child is as thick as a whale omelette”………… But when pointing to their offspring gurgling “car” while pointing at the family pet, why do parents always say “Isn’t he lovely? But did you know little Tommy is very advanced for his age…….” Just because your nipper can insert a spoon of apple puree into his mouth instead of an ear, does not necessarily mark him out as a future brain surgeon. There is a long way to go from sitting in your own pooh to sitting in your own Porsche.
Not only do most men not understand ‘female plumbing’ but we underestimate the vital importance of the ‘manny peddy’ at our peril.
Why...
Does nail upkeep score so high on life’s necessities for women and are just a short chore to men? During one of those lulls in a dinner party conversation after I had chatted for twenty minutes on politics, shopping, Love Island and varicose veins with the woman on my left and now waiting for a chance to break into conversation with the woman on my right, I heard the most extraordinary exchange between two women sitting opposite each other. “… Yes. Ruined it. Can you imagine?” “Oh my God. Disaster. What did you do?” “Well. I had to have a drink just to keep me from screaming and losing it. No choice. That night I had to wear closed toed shoes and came back first thing next morning before anyone could see. I mean. It was horrific.” The cause of this tale of woe was not frostbite, a malignant verruca or even an in-growing toenail. The nail varnish that had been so lovingly applied to this lady’s big toe had not dried properly before she left the salon and when she got home found her shoe had smudged the scarlet varnish and left a wave effect on her nail. With this severe handicap, open toed shoes that night were clearly not even a remote possibility. The fact the other lady expressed equal shock, drove home to me the importance to women of the upkeep of their hooves. Something men cannot comprehend. Every so often my wife remarks I could play the banjo with my toenails and I take three seconds per toe with clippers to prune them. That’s it.
To serve you better it just means do it yourself
Why...
Has the concept of service become a lost art and rarer than a redneck with all his teeth? It is an anomaly that we live in an age with every company, from car insurance to incontinence pads, to mobile phone providers, shouting about service, yet not really giving any. Customer Service is on life support. You can experience its death throws in shop assistants who don’t look up when you approach them, people who leave you on hold for a couple of millennia, to being rebuked for misplacing a dry-cleaning ticket etc. Top of the list of people I would like to recommend a visit to the vivisectionist are restauranteurs who present you with sliding scale charges. These starting at (clearly in their opinion a mean and piffly) 15% via 20% to clearly a justifiable 25%. Add VAT at 20% and before you have so much as nibbled a grissini stick nearly half your bill has been swallowed by tax and services. I appreciate waiters are underpaid but for the life of me I cannot understand why this extra is simply not built into the bill. It’s not as if you can order a meal without a waiter. Seems as basic a requirement in a restaurant as food and a chef. If I have received spectacular service, I leave an amount at my discretion. It’s never a percentage that I have been nudged into paying because it’s printed out and therefore looks official. It’s usually a few pound notes rounded up or down as I see fit.
Assume the position...
Why...
On some occasions do I happily perform physical feats that I know are pointless or make me look like a gormless half-wit? Another day, another business flight... another useless safety demonstration. My favourite part is when instructed, I must… “Assume the brace position” (i.e. bend forward, head on lap, hands locked under knees). The only position I am assuming, is that in a moment or two I will be zipping through the Pearly Gates of St. Peter at 600MPH. Whether seconds before this I perform a handstand or a fiendishly complicated yoga position, will make no difference to the outcome.