Giant Toilet Roll Blues

I was away at the weekend, camping down in Sussex whilst we attended The Festival Of Speed at Goodwood. If you’re a petrol head this is an excellent event to go to, Supercars, Touring cars, Rally cars, Vintage cars, Le Mans Cars, F1 cars, you name it. Unlike at Grands Prix you can get up close and personal around the machinery on display, and also the personnel. Sez Jez came away with Alain Prost and Rene Arnoux’s autographs, and also a kiss from M. Arnoux, lucky bugger. We were six inches from the old siver fox himself, Damon Hill, swoon. Seb Vettel was everywhere where Sez Jez wasn’t, everybody else saw him. Our old mate Bruce is now best muckers with Jensen Button, Murray Walker is still a motormouth and Sir Jackie Stewart is still the perfect ambassador for the sport.

The weather wasn’t too bad, warm and sunny at times, just one or two heavy showers and a howling gale. The tent stayed up alright, in fact far better than some on the campsite, so we were able to sit around in the canopy, snug, warm and dry, drinking vast quantities of ice cold bottled beer, ice from Lidl, 89p per bag! who’d have thought it. We did decide if we actually wanted to put ice in our drinks, Pimms anyone?, we would have to lash out an extra 11p and get the ice from Sainsbury’s, there being no Waitrose nearby.

But then the downside. Copious beer equals copious widdles. So off we kept trooping to the loos.
And spending so much time in there I came to contemplate the utter uselessness of the giant toilet roll.

Giant toilet rolls first made a debut way back in the 80s. They were heralded as god’s gift to public toilets. Last longer, need changing less often, less likely to run out, cheaper in the long run, more hygenic as they came in an enclosed dispenser, and able to find a cure for the common cold to boot if my memory serves me, or so it seemed at the time.

Its thirty years now and the bastard things are still there.

But if something ever turned out not to be a great idea, then this has to be it.

Because the roll is so big and heavy it doesn’t actually unroll very well, so you have to stick your hand up inside the casing and manually rotate the roll until the end eventually flops down. Very hygenic. Then you start pulling and one of two things happen:-

a) you pull hard and unravel at least four feet of the stuff, economical see?

or

b) you pull hard and the paper snaps off leaving you with 3 inches and the need to stick your hand inside the cover once again.

Then there are the times when the roll has run out. Because these rolls are so valuable the dispensers have locks on, so spare rolls can’t be left out cos nobody except staff can fit them anyway. They also can’t be left out cos they’re quite heavy and if some poor unsuspecting punter tried to lift one they’d probably give themselves a hernia. Elf and Safety hazzard innit?

And of course, you can’t actually see if there is any paper left on the roll when you enter the cubicle, so you can sit down, commune with nature, stick your hand up the dispenser, twiddle away for a bit and then discover its grope through your pockets to see if you have a tissue, resort to the bare hand wipe or ,hoping there is nobody else about, gather up ones trousers and shuffle to the next empty cubicle time.

There’s only one conclusion I can come up with about these abominations and that is, as us gilies use a lot more of the stuff than the boys, IT MUST HAVE BEEN INVENTED BY A MAN.

Is It really That Easy?

Journalist, Carol Midgley, has written a book for children entitled,”My Family and other Freaks”.

The book is the anguished musings of a pre-teen child who suffers abject mortification anytime any of her family breathe by the sound of things.

In the children’s section of the paper today Mrs Midgely writes a light hearted guide for children to present to their parents to help said parents avoid being soooo embarrassing, outling potential embarrassments and the effect on the child.

These include not using hip language; not dancing, ever, never mind at weddings; not dressing inappropriately for ones age.

The one that caught my eye was “… and never say to your eldest, ‘How’s my big boy/girl today?’ This could a) make them vomit and b) make them want to leave home.”

Really Carol? Is that all I have to do to ensure BBC is asking to borrow a suitcase?

Hmmm, if you’ll excuse me I just have to go and find out how my big boy is today….

Just When You Thought It Was SafeTo Get Out The Deckchairs……

Having endured one of the wettest Aprils and most of Mays since the last really wet April and May, our brief foray into summer has brought a new threat to mankind, or little-old-lady-kind to be more precise.

For the second time in the space of two weeks a little-old-lady enjoying the warm weather has been trapped inside the frame of her deckchair when the fabric ripped and the deckchairs swallowed them whole.

In the first instance, in Sweden, the 84 year old l-o-l was trapped for two days before neighbours rescued her from her balcony where she had been sunbathing, before her usually placid and trusted deckchair turned on her, ripping its fabric and entangling its owner in its wooden frame.

In the latest incident, worryingly much closer to home in Scarborough, an 83 year old l-o-l was trapped for six hours in an identical attack by her deckchair before being rescued by the fire service.

The government has issued a statement asking everybody to be wary around deckchairs, especially those of more mature years, be that the deckchair or the member of the public.

An official stated, ” Obviously this is a very worrying trend, although you can sympathise with the deckchairs, they do get bored with all that time on their hands as they loll about in sheds and storecupboards during the winter months and extended periods of bad weather. Hopefully if the public are vigilant such attacks can be avoided, but anyone noticing a deckchair behaving in a suspicious manner should contact the police who will ensure that the offending deckchair is humanely destroyed.”

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Good King Lud

Just When You Thought It Was SafeTo Get Out The Deckchairs……

Having endured one of the wettest Aprils and most of Mays since the last really wet April and May, our brief foray into summer has brought a new threat to mankind, or little-old-lady-kind to be more precise.

For the second time in the space of two weeks a little-old-lady enjoying the warm weather has been trapped inside the frame of her deckchair when the fabric ripped and the deckchairs swallowed them whole.

In the first instance, in Sweden, the 84 year old l-o-l was trapped for two days before neighbours rescued her from her balcony where she had been sunbathing, before her usually placid and trusted deckchair turned on her, ripping its fabric and entangling its owner in its wooden frame.

In the latest incident, worryingly much closer to home in Scarborough, an 83 year old l-o-l was trapped for six hours in an identical attack by her deckchair before being rescued by the fire service.

The government has issued a statement asking everybody to be wary around deckchairs, especially those of more mature years, be that the deckchair or the member of the public.

An official stated, ” Obviously this is a very worrying trend, although you can sympathise with the deckchairs, they do get bored with all that time on their hands as they loll about in sheds and storecupboards during the winter months and extended periods of bad weather. Hopefully if the public are vigilant such attacks can be avoided, but anyone noticing a deckchair behaving in a suspicious manner should contact the police who will ensure that the offending deckchair is humanely destroyed.”

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Attack Of The Killer Trousers
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People who want to live longer must let scientists turn them into mice
Good King Lud

The Hand Of God?

Pastor Maldonado came of age on Sunday, emerging from his chrysalis of being a backmarker who seems to get in the way a lot, to being a front runner, topping the timesheets in all qualifying sessions and driving a measured race to take his first win. Not bad for a man of god…. oh hang on, that’s his name not a title, sorry.

Fernando Alonso once again demonstarted what an excellent driver he is, when not suffering the sulks and huffs that entertained us so much a couple of seasons ago.

Kimi Raikonnen continues to show Michael Schumacher just what a successful comeback is actually like, once again on the podium and surely not long till he’s on the top step.

Schumi on the other hand continued to demonstrate that he is probably past it, not even the tactic of not completeing a lap in final qualifying in order to save tyres giving him any advantage in the race as he hung around the middle of the field until giving us a classic Schumacher moment when faced with a car he was struggling to pass, “misjudging” his speed, the distance to Bruno Senna’s Williams and its speed and therefore ending up in the Wiliams’s rear end and whilst giving the following Seb Vettel a visor full of carbon fibre.

Hamilton drove a stormin’ race, gambling on only two tyre stops to try and get some points after being demoted from pole to the very back of the grid. Last year he asked, facetiously, “Is it cos I is black?” a la Ali G, well they do seem to be a bit heavy handed with the punishments you have to admit.

All very exciting again, but it isn’t half buggering up my afternooon naps, I used to rely on F1 to have my eyes closing within half an hour.

And Monaco next, where Felippe Massa has it all to prove, otherwise he’ll be joining the dole queue. Can’t wait!

RyanAir or Mastercard?

Mybe it’s because I’m flying out to Dublin for a few days on Sunday, but when I saw H&M advertizing bikini by featuring a lithesome young gel in a skimpy two piece with “bikini top £3.99” to the side of her left breast, it didn’t make me want to go out and buy one, it made me wonder just how much the unpriced bikini bottom was… a bit like those RyanAir ads that say “Fly to Spain for just £1!!!” and then when you take up their offer you discover it costs £897.99 to fly home again.

Either that or it was a Mastercard ad

Bikini top £3.99

Bikini bottom priceless

for everything else there’s Mastercard

The Wrong Cover, Grommit

Hubby bought a book the other week, this has happened probably on two previous occasions in our marriage, which is now in its 25th year.

The book is called Blue Monday: A Day For Murder and is by one of those conglomerate authors, or should that be two of those? styling themselves Nicci French.

Now the cover of the book has a picture of The Thames (I presume although it could be the River Fleet because there is a map on the inside of the Fleet). There is a double span of bridge visible, the tide is out and a red sandle lies in the mud in the foreground.

So this is a book about a murder that takes place on a Monday and the body is found in the river, right?

Wrong, the book starts off with a flashback to a little girl’s abduction 22 years earlier.

It then takes in a psychoanalyst and a new patient, whom she comes to suspect of abducting a five year old boy, on a Friday, when he tells her he dreams of having a son, shows her a picture of himself as a child and then she discovers that the five year old is the spitting image of that picture.

The patient then tells the doc that he’s felt like this before when he had dreams about having a daughter.

And how long ago was that, oh 22 years….

So now the psychoanalyst gets involved in the police investigation, her patient has a cast iron alibi for when the little boy was taken, so they carry on meeting and she starts doing a bit of investigating of her own.

Now I did enjoy the story, even if you could see the way the plot was twisting and turning, but I have to tell you this, only one person gets murdered and they are a tangent to the story.

So have I got the wrong cover on the book or the wrong book in the cover?

Or is it just some fuckwits who can’t be arsed to do their job properly, like read the frigging book they’re supposed to be promoting themselves, Grommit

Move Over Jesus!

It appears the great deluded, or maybe it’s just the over imaginative, have moved on from finding the face of Jesus on a pancake, in the soap suds, in the dust under the bed and even in a soiled surgical dressing, eeeuw.

Rekekah Speights of Nebraska took his/her children to Maccy D’s for a 99cent McNugget Tuesday, presumably where you gets lots and lots of McNuggets for your 99 cents, more than the average American child can eat anyway because there were some left over.

Being a good citizen Speights was clearing the debris when he/she noted that one particular nugget bore a likeness to ….. George Washington!

And also being an all American citzen Speights took the nugget home, froze it and advertised it on e-bay for $300.

That’ll fund an awful lot more 99 cent McNugget Tuesdays and probably turn up a whole load of McNugget lookalikes to keep the funds rolling in.

They’ll maybe even find one with the face of Jesus on it.

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No "Rough Music" In Wetwang

Went to the seaside on Sunday, well for a walk along the cliff tops at Flamborough Head, then back to the cafe for superb fish and chips – but as we had left BBC in charge of knocking up Sunday dinner to be ready upon our return we only had, my dear old Mum would be proud of me, one portion and two plates.

Lovely drive there, along the A166, through lots of quaint little villages, one place even boasted a genuine Open All Hours Arkwrightesque hardware and grocer’s shop.

And nearly every village we meandered through greeted us with a sign displaying the white rose of Yorkshire, the name of the village and the information that Wetwang fr’instance, “welcomed careful drivers”.

But they didn’t.

We drove through each village carefully and in not one did we receive any sort of welcome at all, although I daresay Arkwright would have been happy to charge me for a ch-ch-ch-cheery hhhhhhhhello.

There wasn’t any bunting, nobody lining the roadside waving flags, neither cheering nor clapping, no little street urchins happily trying to keep pace with our carefully driven Audi TT, no words of encouragement daubed in white paint on the tarmac. Not a sausage. Zilch. Nada.

I was a bit disappointed because I had been looking forward to the opposite greeting that a careless driver might receive.

Jeers and abuse, rotten egg throwing, heckling, pitch forks being waved and perhaps even a dentally challenged old farmer aiming his trusty twelve bore at the careless mescreants.

Perhaps we would even see some rough music, as the feckless sped through the village, mounting kerbs, knocking over dustbins, causing old ladies to hurry out of the way, gangs of villagers would pursue them down the road, banging away on old pans with sturdy kitchen utensils.

That’d show them, they’d think twice about driving carelessly through Wetwang the next time.

If Only…..