WISHING YOU ALL A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

I’ve now been at this blogging lark for five years and have just about run out of steam.

I’ve flogged the nostalgia to death .. I’ve ridiculed the bloody ‘royals’ whenever possible .. I’ve despaired at our dodgy government .. I’ve criticised the media, the arts and just about everything else .. I’ve ranted over religion .. I’ve tried to raise a few smiles .. and I’ve probably bored the pants off many of you.

I’ve enjoyed blogging on a regular basis and have derived a lot of pleasure from making contact with friendly people all over the world, but now I’m going to give it a rest for awhile. 

General MacArthur famously promised .. “I shall return” and old Arnie always says .. “I’ll be back” .. and so probably will I .. but for now  … 

Gordon’s ‘Gestapo’.

Isn’t it nice to see the European ‘human rights’ legislation working as it should for a change, with judges at Strasbourg ruling that the police in this country are breaching the human rights of innocent people by storing their DNA on a database.

It would seem that hundreds of thousands of people who have no criminal convictions are on this database, and it appears that the UK is the only one of the 47 members of the Council of Europe to permit the “systematic and indefinite” retention of DNA samples and profiles from people who have been acquitted. Bugger me ! .. That means that we are more of a ‘Stasi’ state than all those members of the Council who were once part of the  ’Soviet Block’.

After last week’s arrest of an opposition MP who’s only crime appeared to be exposing the failures of our dodgy government, can anyone doubt, as they look up at those ever present CCTV cameras and answer to more and more ‘accredited’ jobsworths, some of whom are using anti-terror laws to spy on any citizen suspected of the most minor infringements, that we are slowly having every aspect of our lives recorded: .. and for what purpose ?  I understand that in the next census we will even be asked if we are .. ’gay’ .. ’straight’ .. or .. ‘other’ ? (don’t ask !)

Now databased identity cards are ‘just around the corner’ (as if we don’t all have enough already), and as usual people say .. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear”.. and it’s all to do with the ‘war on terror’.

Well,  having my ‘life’s history’ on record and available for half the bloody civil service to read (and Gawd knows who else ?) is not something I relish, and the lack of a plastic card ain’t going to stop some suicide bomber, so I think that I’ll opt out of that one.

Unfortunately I can’t completely escape our ’surveillance society’, but whenever possible I shall tell these ’state snoopers’ to … “Piss off !” … and …

…    “Mind their own bloody business” ! 

It ain’t just the young.

A recent survey has found that people in this country are getting more rude because of increasingly hectic lifestyles.

Well around here, in ‘bungalowland’, most of the miserable old sods lead anything but a ‘hectic lifestyle’, but are probably some of the rudest and inconsiderate buggers you could ever never wish to meet.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve held a door open for some old couple, only to be ignored as they brushed past me, or moved my trolley (cart) aside in the supermarket to let some old dear along the aisle, and never received a nod of acknowledgment. In fact you are more likely to receive a grunt or a moaning mumble than a smile and a “thank you”.

I know that the words .. “Please” and “Thank you” .. are fast disappearing from the vocabulary of the young, but it surprises me that so many of the older generation seem to have lost their ‘manners’. Blimey ! I came from a time when you raised your hat to a lady, stood up if one entered the room, and always gave up your seat to her on the bus. Now they have to put notices on buses requesting people to let the elderly and disabled have their seats, and there’s as much chance of that happening as some oblivious old geezer removing his baseball cap for a passing funeral.

I can’t remember the last time I heard someone say .. “Excuse me, please” .. or .. “I beg your pardon”. Now you are more likely to get a push in the back, or even an elbow in the ribs from some ‘Hell’s granny’ who thinks that you don’t need to queue once you have been given a free bus pass; and don’t expect any ‘pensionista’ to be polite in the post office on their very own ’special day’ of the week.

‘Manners’ ? .. It’s about respect for others, which you would expect older people to understand, but a number seem to have joined the ‘me’ generation, and have sadly forgotten the words of William of Wykeham who said that …

…  “Manners maketh man”.

“Fings is bad and times is ‘ard”.

The other day I visited a giant ‘Staples’ superstore, and apart from the three or four staff chatting at the checkouts I was the only person to be seen within it’s walls. It was the same story when I later called in at ‘PC World’, and yesterday when I made one of my rare visits to a large shopping mall I found many of the shops to be empty of customers.

The newspapers are full of ads ’shouting’ .. 50%  Off ! .. No VAT ! .. Half Price Sale ! .. and in the case of ‘MFI’, 80% Off – Closing Down Sale ! .. Even the mighty Marks and Spencer’s has been forced to have a 25% Off sale.

Poor old ‘Woolies’ has gone ‘tits up’, and despite the ridiculous 2½% cut in the rate of VAT handed out by our gormless Chancellor I’m sure that many more leading retailers will soon ‘bite the dust’ accumulating on their well stocked shelves.

Still, “It’s an ill wind as they say”, and if you have the cash, now is certainly the time to do a bit of shopping. The only problem is that my old brain is getting a bit confused with all the special offers around at the moment. There are just so many. There are ’sale prices’ .. further discounts off ’sale prices’ .. ‘buy any three for two’ (or is it two for three ?) .. ‘Nothing to pay for a year’ .. ‘Extra discounts on marked items !’ .. etc. etc., but I couldn’t believe the deal I got when I bought a couple of items at ‘Boots The Chemist’ yesterday, and was told by the lad at the checkout to go back in the store and select another item, for if I purchased three things instead of two I would get the cheapest of those three items .. “for free” ! … What a nice lad !

…   I just hope that he keeps his job.

The first time I saw Paris.

Usually at this time of year I take a trip across The Channel to do a bit of pre-Christmas shopping in France, but this year I have decided to give it a miss due to the problems after the fire in the channel tunnel, the strikes and other industrial action at both British and French ports and the fact that we will soon be getting one euro to the bloody pound.

I’ve lost count of how many times I have visited France over the years and how many towns and regions I have explored, but I can still recall my very first visit way back in 1951 when I was just twelve years old …

I can remember crossing the channel on a steamship ferry and travelling on a train, in a carriage fitted with wooden seats, all the way to Paris  (Yes, a very long way in those days) with a group of other boys and teachers from my school. In the city we stayed in a school which I assumed was closed for the summer holidays. The only thing that I remember about that school were the toilets, which were situated in the playground and, apart from a roof, were completely open to the elements. In other words anyone passing could see you sitting on the loo, or rather squatting over a hole. Still I suppose that this was quite normal for a country where men urinated in the street and you could still see signs requesting that you not piss against the wall of someone’s house.

My introduction to French food was a bit of a shock and far removed from what I so enjoy today. Breakfast was a large bowl of coffee and a lump of bread. Apparently you were supposed to ‘dunk’ the bread in the coffee. Our first dinner consisted of a green vegetable that looked a bit like a cactus and which none of us had a clue how to eat, and a plate of large sausages covered in stewed plums. There was some hard bread and something which looked a bit like melting ice cream, but was in fact some sort of ’sour’ cheese. All very strange to a kid used to his mum’s steak and kidney pie and ’spotted dick’ and custard.

At that time London, where I lived, was still showing it’s scars from the war, with ruins everywhere, but Paris seemed untouched. Rationing was still in force back home, and it probably was in France, but as I recall we boys stuffed ourselves with chocolate and bought things like packs of sugar to take home to our mothers. I bought a bottle of red wine for my dad, who only liked Guinness, so I doubt if he ever drank it, and a very, very, very small bottle of perfume from a very posh shop for my mum, which I know she made last for a very, very, very long time.

One of my great pleasures when in France is to sit at a table in a pavement (sidewalk) café and ‘watch the world go by’, and at the age of twelve I did this for the first time when, with one of my mates, I seated myself at a table outside a boulevard café and watched the strange sight of a policeman wearing a kepi directing the noisy traffic by waving a white truncheon in the air.

A waiter approached and asked us what we wanted. Well, for all I know he could have been telling us to “bugger off !” for my ’schoolboy French’ was limited to say the least at that time.

I had no idea what to order and so pointed to a large advertisement painted on the wall outside the bar .. “Deux … s’il vous plaît” .. I ventured. The waiter nodded and went inside the café, returning a couple of minutes later with two ‘fancy’ glasses and a bottle on his tray. He placed the glasses on our table and poured two generous measures from the bottle. It was ‘Martini’, it was sweet, and I liked it !

Thank goodness I hadn’t pointed at …

… the poster on the right !

“A licence to …?”

It won’t be long before I reach my “three score years and ten”, so I don’t ponder too much on sitting in ‘God’s waiting room’, but this week I was reminded by the DVLA, of all people, that “time marches on”.

Yes, a form has been sent to me to renew my driving licence, as the one I have held for the past thirty years expires runs out on my 70th birthday. My existing licence is one of those green fold-up paper ones, and the one I held for twenty years before that was a little red book.

Now I am to be issued with a ‘photocard licence’: so I stuck my picture on the little sticky square provided, ticked the box to agree that some poor sod could have my organs if they are still any good after years of abuse, and wondered why people of my age didn’t have to take some form of driving test ?

It seems ridiculous to me that a person could pass a driving test nearly fifty years ago, and all they have to do to renew their permit to drive it is to confirm that they can see OK and don’t suffer from any of the serious medical conditions listed on the application form.

Although I spent most of my working life ‘on the road’ and consider myself to be an experienced and safe driver I will admit that my reactions are not as quick as they used to be, but compared to most of the old farts who drive around here I’m bleed’n Lewis Hamilton.

Now my driving experience doesn’t go back quite as far as having a man with a red flag walking in front of my car, but I do remember being saluted by an ‘AA’ patrolman, and being able to park almost anywhere for free, but then I’m a youngster compared with some of the ’Model T’ drivers in this ‘neck of the woods’.

I wonder how many of the local oldies who take part in the daily geriatric grand-prix to the seniors club and the health centre ever venture onto a motorway or into the heart of a major town or city ? From what I have observed most of them have a problem parking less than three feet from a kerb or overtaking a bicycle on a hill. Recently I saw one old lady drive her vehicle into three parked cars while looking for the exit to a car park, and then drive over a flowerbed to get out. To be fair, it was raining at the time, but I don’t think that this old dear knew that her vehicle was fitted with windscreen wipers.

Boy racers, ’school-run’ mums, learner drivers and ‘white van men’ all make me nervous, but what really scares the shit out of me is when I am approaching traffic lights and I look in the rear view mirror only to see a mop of white hair above a pair of thick lenses which are barely peeking over the rim of the steering wheel of the vehicle driving ‘up my arse’ just …

…    as the lights turn red ! 

Sycophants ‘R’ Us.

I’m a bit pissed off at the moment as I never got an invitation to Charlie’s birthday bash, especially as, like so many other old pricks pensioners, I spent part of my gas bill money on sending him a little present and greetings card. 

Still I’ve cheered up a bit now that I’ve seen his birthday portrait. Bugger me ! .. he must have a bloody big   ‘dressing up’ box, and how about all those medals, orders and other decorations given to him by his mum ? … Blimey ! .. you wouldn’t need a Christmas tree with him around.

His mum gave him his first medal when he was three and he attended her coronation, and she has been hanging them all over him ever since: but what puzzles me is how he got hold of New Zealand and Canadian ‘gongs’, including a long service clasp on The Canadian Forces Decoration. I know that he was pissing about pretending to be a sailor for a time, but I don’t remember him serving with any of those ‘colonial type’ chappies.

I see that, as usual, his mum read a little speech in praise of her eldest offspring earlier in the week, and the PR parasites at the palace worked overtime to re-invent the silly old sod as Britain’s answer to Mother Teresa, with all those references to his “hard work” for charity etc. Unfortunately the word ‘work’ and ‘prince’ don’t sit comfortably together.

Perhaps it might help his image if he added …

…  a nun’s habit to his dressing up kit. 

Lanky leeks are legal !

I can remember many years ago shopping in markets in Spain and having a problem in identifying certain fruits and vegetables. Great big knobbly yellow, pink and green fruit turned out to be tomatoes and small bent rough green gourds were in fact cucumbers, but what I had no trouble with was the taste. They were all delicious.

Even in the UK, fruit and vegetables came in all shapes and sizes: and then along came the EU who said that everything had to be ‘uniform’, which also meant tasteless in most cases.

As with all EU laws and directives the British government immediately sprang into action threatening to ‘hang, draw and quarter’ anyone who sold a crooked cucumber or wonky carrot, whereas our cousins across The Channel, as usual, mainly ignored Brussels and continued to sell assorted size sprouts (Oops! Sorry), golf ball size spring onions and grotesque garlic.

Now it seems that The European Commission has re-peeled controversial laws that prevent oddly-sized or misshapen fruit and vegetables being sold in Europe, but with typical EU bureaucratic thinking, our European masters say that it only applies to twentysix varieties … apricots, artichokes, asparagus, aubergines, avocadoes, beans, Brussels sprouts, carrots, cauliflowers, cherries, courgettes, cucumbers, cultivated mushrooms, garlic, hazelnuts in shell, headed cabbage, leeks, melons, onions, peas, plums, ribbed celery, spinach, walnuts, water melons and chicory.

The rules will remain unchanged for another ten types of produce, which account for 75% of EU fruit and vegetable trade, so you won’t be able to buy ugly … apples, citrus fruit, kiwi fruit, lettuces, peaches, nectarines, pears, strawberries, sweet peppers, grapes and tomatoes.

Oh, Yes you will ! …  Provided they are labelled appropriately. So an apple which does not meet the standard could still be sold, as long as it were labelled “product intended for processing” or some equivalent wording: but will it be sold by the pound or by the kilo ?

Bleed’n hell ! … Where do they find these nutty commissioners ?

I always knew that …

…    they were bloody ’bananas’ !