King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

Monday, February 28

Some questions have been raised.

Whilst watching Channel 4's "100 Greatest Cartoons" yesterday evening, a good few questions and statements were raised that I thought I should share with you. Some of them worried me, so much so in fact that I had to write them down and see if anyone else agrees with me. Please leave your invaluable additions.

1. In Wacky Races, Penelope Pitstop had a lever on her dashboard with make-up, lipstick, and vibrator(!)
2. In the public information films "Charley Says", Charley was voiced by Kenny Everett.
3. The little middle aged blonde woman famous for being the voice of Bart in the Simpsons was also the voice of Chuckie in Rugrats.
4. Was the Pink Panther gay?
5. Is Fred in Coronation Street really Foghorn Leghorn?
Fred Elliot is Foghorn Leghorn?
6. Does anybody else think Captain Caveman looked like a large hairy testicle?
7. What was the point of Ivor the Engine?
8. Was the Dungeon Master in "Dungeons & Dragons" based on Paul Daniels?
Was Dungeon Master based on Paul Daniels?

Can you add to my list of questions or interesting points?

Friday, February 25

*Serious Face*

For many years I have complained about the local council, and the corruption that is apparent for all to see. Well the past few weeks another example of how little they are prepared to help their residents has been highlighted. Before I go any further, I ought to point out some previous mistakes they have made to force me to come to this decision.

Brecknockshire Borough Council is based in Brecon, and it is a third of the larger picture that is Powys County Council. The council has proved time and again that they are happy to take money, but not to spend it where it isn’t deemed necessary. Such luxuries like housing benefit, transportation, and fire services. They make a large amount of money by denying most people wishing to build in the area on the basis "It’s a national park," but grease the right palms, and an extension to a porch can become a new 4 bedroom house. They are not proud of the fact that they would be the most expensive council tax in the UK, so they actually change the banding of the properties. My old house was a very small 2 bedroom bungalow, probably worthy of a band B or maybe C (source: Valuation Office Agency) classification. But in their infinite wisdom I was categorised as Band G meaning my annual bill for living in the county was £1400+.

Sorry, we're closed.Two Years ago, they moved the goal posts again. They decided they didn’t want to utilise the main fire station for the valley unless they could help it. They’d take the money, but just not use it. How did they do this? They closed the nearest fire stations at night, meaning that the nearest open fire station was in another county. Who foots the bill? Our neighbours.

Well what’s upset me this time? The truth of the matter is it seems unimportant. About 8 weeks ago they made a big thing about the fact that tax payer’s money was being put to good use, and they were going to resurface the main road past our local town. This road is notorious for big trucks carrying coal and other heavy industries up and down it, so the road was in a very poor state of disrepair. The speed limit is only a maximum of 50, with a lot of places being restricted to 40. So 6 weeks ago in come the heavy plant (where’s a triffid when you want one?) and tear up the road surface. The signs showed that the work would be carried out for about a week, so the inconvenience wasn’t too bad. They stripped about 4 miles of main road back to the hard core surface, and then started to lay nice smooth tarmac across the top. Somewhere down the line, some bright spark has pointed out that this isn’t in their favourite place (Brecon) and so they withdraw ALL of the contractors. What is left is a nice new stretch of road for about 3 miles, and an additional mile of rough surface with loose stones, bricks, holes and skeletons of dead councillors. The fact of the matter is that if someone has an accident and sues the council, it will just stay like it for longer. If they’d decided they didn’t want to resurface it we would have understood. At least the old potholed road was drivable.

This wouldn’t happen in the tourist haven that is Brecon.

Friday, February 18

The definition of pain

A few years ago I was unfortunate enough to find myself having a problem when I was laying a cable. Much grimacing and straining and I would raise myself to find the toilet bowl caked in… blood. This went on for many months, in varying levels of haematology, and warranted a visit to the docs.

Now at the time I had a typically racist Northern Doctor in a small modern practice on the outskirts of Manchester, and he took great pleasure in having a chance to highlight this "southern poof’s" powers of no pain threshold. He’s got a wry smile on his face as his stretches on the marigolds, and asks me to lean on my side. It was at this point I actually heard myself say "Please God, don’t let this hurt."

It did.

A lot.

In fact it was like having a recently broken bottle rammed up inside me, twisted, and pulled out again. The doctor queried as to how long I had been like this, and I nonchalantly replied "oooh for about 18 months."

"Does it hurt to poo?" he asked.

"Is the pope catholic?" I replied.

"How do you cope?" he then asked.

"I eat a lot of bad curries and hope for diarrhoea," was the slightly sarcastic if not truthful reply.

The diagnosis was as painful as it sounds. I had a growth, probably formed by straining to hard after eating too much muesli the day before. The growth had to be removed in a "Simple procedure, done under general anaesthetic." I had a note in my hand and a date for meeting my new found friend, the proctologist, at the local pain centre that was Tameside Hospital. Hat’s off to the guy, he was a lot more understanding then the GP, He didn’t go any further then he had to, to see the damage that was making me walk like I’d filled my kecks. In the meantime, I told my father all about the impending operation.

"Oh," he said, "I had that when I was about your age as well"

Bloody typical; I come from a family of tight arses.

Anyway, 2 weeks later at 7:30am, I check in for a day of poking around inside my lower bowel. The actual lead up wasn’t that eventful. There were about 6 people in the ward, all waiting to go into presumably similar operations. I was one of the last, actually going ‘under’ about midday. Just before being wheeled into theatre, I realised I needed a poo. Not to worry though, because surely they’d empty me out before they started to operate. I awoke from the general anaesthetic not feeling much at all. I laid there for 10 minutes staring at the ceiling, before realising I was actually in considerable pain. The pain was definitely coming from inside me, and it was getting worse. And to compound matters, I think I still needed a poo only it was rather more urgent now. The doctor came round to see all his victims, and enlightened me to the fact they had removed a large growth the size of 2 golf balls from my nether region, and I could now dump like a horse and not even touch the sides. They had also (rather unnecessarily in my books) removed the muscle that allows you to stop pooing once you start; the sphincter. I’d had a sphincterotomy, something that still has people chuckling today.

As I lay there, I could feel the urgent need to poo was getting worse. It was now painful beyond painful. I realised one thing; the longer I laid there not sending a brown package out to sea, the worse it would get. I had no choice, so with the aid of a nurse I made my way to the disabled toilet at the entrance to the ward. Carefully I positioned myself on the toilet seat and put one hand on each of the hand rails mounted conveniently on the walls near me, and pushed.

It went dark. Now call me a wimp, call me a poof, but I passed out in the wave of pain that followed. The nurses found me still sat on the loo. I’m not sure, but I reckon they’d have had to reinsert my lower internal organs back in before moving me. I came to on the hospital bed, and felt better then I had for a long time.

The fact that I’d walked to the hospital with the belief I’d also be walking home shows just how wrong a man can be. I got a taxi.

With soft seats.

Tuesday, February 15

Early morning, or late night?

I can't sleep. You know the feeling...

New friends, old feelings.

Anni's back yard last week...Anni, new local blogger, and new friend has had the pleasure of me visiting all weekend. She lives in the biggest *new* housing estate I have ever seen. It was like Barretts on Acid... Each and every corner seemed to lead to more new houses. To cap it all I could only seem to find 2 main roads, and the local residents of Cardiff were no use whatsoever when it came to asking if they knew her road. In the end I admitted defeat and phoned her. Within 30 seconds I was there. In a word: Gutted.

Books??? Pah!Anyway. What a cool person she is. I suffer with terrible nervousness (is that a word?) when I meet people from the interweb-thingy, and shake awfully badly, but she put me at ease fairly quickly. Johnaitch seemed to like her as well, so I knew we were going to have a relaxing weekend. I was going down with the sole purpose of doing some DIY and so when i turned up with a car boot full of screws, rawl plugs, drills, nails, screwdriver bits, tape measures and wood glue, she was looking more and more worried as one crate was hauled in after another into her new hallway. 3 bottles of red wine later, and the hangover the next morning was particularly bad (can you blame it???). So much so, I didn't actually want to move at all. We had to do some measuring of windows etc, and then go and get bits so there I am being dragged around one DIY shop after another. She won't even let me go and look at the tools.

It is nice to have a conversation with someone who has meaning behind what they say. Ann is deep, and it is apparent that she is happy on the outside but maybe a little sad on the inside. Maybe a lot sad on the inside. She's very good at hiding her true feelings, but this is part of her charm. I hope we stay good friends.

Thursday, February 10

In the news...

LONDON (Reuters) - A Welsh rugby fan cut off his own testicles to celebrate Wales beating England at rugby, the Daily Mirror reported Tuesday.

Geoff Huish, 26, was so convinced England would win Saturday's match he told fellow drinkers at a social club, "If Wales win I'll cut my balls off," the paper said. Friends at the club in Caerphilly, south Wales, thought he was joking. But after the game Huish went home, severed his testicles with a knife, and walked 200 yards back to the bar with the testicles to show the shocked drinkers what he had done. Huish was taken to hospital where he remained in serious condition, the paper said.

I say, "Ouch."

What do you say to a man with a horse?

8th of April, eh?

Does anybody else think Camilla Parker Bowles Windsor sounds like a Berkshire newspaper headline about a cricketer?

If she had some dealings in the House of Commons and House of Lords, would she ban the use of the word "nay" because she finds it offensive?

If she goes to the bar at the wedding, would the barman ask, "Why the long face?"

(Ok, enough, I know)

Tuesday, February 8

Shrove Tuesday

As you may (if you have kids) or may not (if you don't and live in a glass bubble) know, today is Shrove Tuesday. The Americanism kicks in and it is now also called Pancake Day, and not forgetting the blatant commercialism that is Jif Lemon Day. For the next 40 days we have to give up a 'luxury' and cleanse ourselves ready for the rebirth at Easter. In the old days people used to give up eggs, and for this reason they used to take the contents of the larder to make pancakes.

We in the meantime, have to go to the supermarket to buy the ingredients for the pancakes. Kinda ruins the purpose doesn't it?

Let us not forget of course that Jif Lemons contain artificial lemons, and household cleaners contain real lemons. I know what I'll be having on my pancakes this year.

Wednesday, February 2

Look out...

It's a silly moment.

I bought myself some cat trainers.

Some cat trainers.

Imagine my horror when I opened up the box and this happened.


Ever had one of those days where everything seems only about 90% right?

Today is one. It started innocently enough. I didn’t sleep particularly well, waking up at 1am, then 2am, then about 6. I went to the loo (like you do) and had the most throbbingness in my head, even making me feel incredibly dizzy when I was draining the snake. I went back to bed, and I was having really strange dreams when my son snorted at me like a pig. Apparently I was snorting like a pig as well.

The school run is normally a stressful moment of avoiding one bad parent driver after another as I pass 4 schools taking my son to his day haven. This morning was different, in that the roads were deserted. Not just slightly less traffic, but none at all. I passed 4 cars in the entire excursion of 8 miles, and got home checking the clocks to make sure I wasn’t an hour early or on a Saturday.

Now I want to go back to bed, but I have too much to do. And here I am, writing my blog with the whole day ahead of me. This is going to be interesting.