My Only Friend

Is a seagull who stands on my window-ledge all day looking into the flat. Sometimes she squeaks or cries, and she enjoys pecking at the window panes.

My only friend, and she would have to be a loony. Ah well.

Silly Old Bugger

We won the war
In 1964!

We won the war
In 1964!

And the next year..?

We won the hive
In 1965!

No, it doesn't work and the parade of chanting children at my primary school turned to mass-laughing ha-ha-he-ha-ha at a hapless contemporary who had shat his shorts in the playground.

And later one played Best Man Dead or sang Buffalo Billy and the girls knew complicated skipping songs (curses chiz chiz) and now a half-century later one has suddenly forgotten the other rhyme which inspired this post in the first place.

Also there was John with the dark eye-sockets who ate dog-poo for popularity. And

Astounding Fact

The kangaroo? Two vaginas?

Not much in the way of conversation, though, I'd imagine.









Blogista's note: if you doubt this Astounding Fact, try Googling around the issue (up and down the country) (around the tipping point) and see what you turn up.

Blogista's note 2: really, I am 50 and have seen a lot of life but I was taken aback. Startled, even.

Readers: You weren't expecting that, were you?

Blogista: I would have thought that female marsupials would have a lot to talk about, not least how many pots of thrush cream they get through in a year.

Readers: We wouldn't call that "conversation".

Blogista: Well, it passes the time and allows one to empathise.

Love

Now
If you want to take some pictures
Of the fascinating witches
Who put the scintillating stitches
In the britches
Of the boys who put the powder on the noses of the faces of the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus...
You're too late!
Too late???
Because they've just passed by.

How did Rolf Harris ever get the best tunes? Bob Dylan eat your hat. 'N'harmonica.

'N'dog and piece'o'cardboard'n'marker pen.

Cathy

I learned as we approached a pedestrian crossing - if there were any pedestrians crossing - to slap her round the back of the head.

She would bring the ancient VW to a stop only a foot or two after the stripey bits, giving the pedestrians plenty of time to leap out of the way.

In those days, we could tell an inquiring police officer, "Officer, we have had but one carafe of wine between us and she the driver has drank only a glass of it" and be waved on our way.

None of that "the Leith police dismisseth us", just knowing the word "carafe" was the shibboleth of the Sheventies.

Ah those first footloose and fancy free driving lessons on the local motorway, trying to coax a rusty Nazi sardine can up to 120 mph (here's the science: momentum + 2 btl Blue Nun + 3 btl Bull's Blood + some Nepalese resin), knowing that the non-self-sealing petrol tank (the Nazis never really got the hang of petrol tanks) was only a paper-thin sheet of oxidised iron away from and directly in front of the driver, viz myself.

Better in an emergency to steer left and try to shear off the off and passenger side, rather than risk immolation.

Officer: Are you sure you said "giraffe", Sir?

Self: Panache. Calabash. Caran d'Ache. My girlfriend who as you see is not driving has drank most of it.

Officer: Close enough, Sir, and time to be making your way home.

I last saw Cathy a quarter of a century ago, in Soho, where she was evidently making as bad a fist of prostitution as she had of primary-school teaching.

Bit Less Depressing

This gif animation made me laugh, which is something I haven't done for a while now.

No, I don't know how to insert an animation directly into the blog, and I'm feeling too lazy to work it out, so the still will have to serve as a trailer.