King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

Wednesday, December 31

New Years Eve, circa 1980 (ish)

As my father will testify to, I can't hold my beer. I can drink a lot, over a long period of time, without any problems at all. But, move me out of the golden area of maybe a pint and a half an hour, and I get very drunk, very silly, and very ill. This is also something that has my father chuckling as he remembers me overdoing it once when I was about 20. I, however, remember vividly the one time he over did it.
At the time, my parents had a favourite watering hole, the Queen's Hotel in Crystal Palace. It was just up the road, and in the summer within walking distance and in the winter within driving distance (before it was politically incorrect to drink and drive). They had a lot of friends who would welcome them with open arms and a pint of Double Diamond or Harp so this was where they'd haunt of an evening. This was also the place where they decided they'd like to welcome in the New Year, presumably the new decade, but as the saying goes, "any excuse." They did both get very very drunk, in fact so much so my mother had to drive my father home (if you'd experienced my mother's driving, you'd understand) where he complained she was going too fast when in fact she was doing about 8mph. When they got home, me, BLS and Cynthia were all still up, watching the Scots make New Years Eve a festival for being Scottish and drunk. My mother, I seem to remember, went into affection overdrive, telling us how much she loved us all. This is known as the "You're my bes' mate *hic*" syndrome, and she had entered this stage in spades. My father, however, was best described as green. Almost unable to stand, he was half leaning, half holding on to the door frame, eyes-a-bulging, making the statutory *boilk* noise. Us kids were sent up to bed, and it was whilst lying there, I heard something I'd never heard before.
My father, now in the bathroom, was talking to God on the big white telephone. One loud "grrrrwwwwwwooooooffffffftttt" noise could be heard after another, as almost the entire evening's refreshment returned in big style, only to be wasted being returned to Thames Water's fine sewage system. I said to BLS at the time, "I'd never get that drunk."

How wrong I was.

Tuesday, December 30

The Blogger's Bloody Big Booze up 2009

As mentioned before, great *edit* delightful antipodean reader Pseudonymph is coming to these shores for a few days next month. It is for this reason I have taken to organising a meeting for those that would like to come along and say hello to her, and meet fellow bloggers/commenters at the same time. I would also like to throw open your suggestions as to time, place, and how you feel about my ideas...
My suggestion is a nice 'quaint' typically English pub, behind the Ritz, off of Piccadilly called the Blue Post. Me and my father would meet there regularly when we'd both want to meet up in London. It's a large pub, with real pub food, a restaurant upstairs and not typical London beer prices. It is in the heart of Mayfair, so congestion charges apply, but there is a large car park almost opposite (the main one for the Ritz) should you have money to burn and want to drive to it. It's also 2 minutes walk from Green Park tube station, so it has access on the Victoria, Piccadilly and Jubilee Lines.

Secondly, when. The "G'day family" will be in available on the Thursday/Friday/Saturday 8th/9th/10th January. I personally would be happy with either the Friday or the Saturday, but I appreciate some people would rather be working (boring!!!) or with their families (more boring!!!) so it might have to go to a vote. I personally will be travelling up with the Johnaitch the day before, and hopefully staying somewhere in the area. If you have space for two on your floor, then I'd be grateful if you could put us up. Comment away underneath, and we (my father and I at least) look forward to seeing you all there. Oh yeah, and if you want to email me with questions or confirm in private, you can here.

Monday, December 29


What is it that says that we have to drink too much?

Is it because I got 4 bottles of Magners, a bottle of Chivas Regal and a bottle of Glenfiddich, that I too felt obliged to drink far too much on Saturday night. I also suffered all day yesterday, vowing never to drink again, something else we all do whilst our livers hurt from processing the poison now running through our system. 2 days later, and I still feel the slightly furry mouth, the slightly dehydrated and dizzy brain and most importantly, the incredible urge to return to bed and sleep forever.

Meanwhile, I have to get some work done, and might be driving to Avonmouth on the edge of Bristol to collect a car for a friend, which has been won in an auction for written off cars.

Oh, and no, I won't be drinking.

Thursday, December 25


On this special day, I can finally introduce you all to the latest addition to the household...

Braveheart, the bike...

Wednesday, December 24

Yuletide Greetings

Wishing all my readers a Nadolig Llawen (Merry Chrimble) from all in the Aitch household. And don't forget this year is a religious transvestite's Christmas.

"Eat, drink, and be Mary"

Walking round in Women's Underwear

and another parody

Tuesday, December 23

Are you taking the piss?

City hit by 'legal to pee' prank

As long as it's after 7:30, we don't mind.

Christmas Quiz

So, you think you know all about Christmas? My father, however, being he of 'Bah Humbug,' shouldn't do very well, but probably will. I didn't.
The really hard Christmas quiz
Let me know how you get on. I got 11 (after many many tries).

Monday, December 22

Origin of the (cockney) species

I was recently introduced to some of the more surprising sayings that are used in everyday language in English, and some of the terms we've all used. But the origin of these words or phrases is even more surprising, and so I thought I'd share them with you.
"Scarper" - We've all seen the dodgy cockney bank robber saying "Let's scarper, it's the rozzers." Well it's rhyming slang, believe it or not. Scarper = scapa flow = go. No, I didn't believe it either, but it now makes sense. Oh, and whilst we're on the subject...
Rozzers or cozzers - From the old hebrew of "Chazer" (pronounced 'hazzer') meaning pig.
Berk - A fairly well used insult, meaning someone daft. I remember my teacher at school calling everyone a 'berk,' so imagine my surprise to find once again it's rhyming slang. And not very nice rhyming slang at all! Berk = Berkshire hunt = c**t. You see what I mean by surprising? And in the same vein, one I use regularly is...
cattled - as in, "no it's no good, the virus has cattled your windows. I'll have to reinstall." Cattle = cattle truck = f**k. I'll have to refrain a bit more with that one.
raspberry - As any child will tell you, a raspberry is where you stick your tongue out and blow, producing a thoroughly satisfying (if slightly unrealistic) farting sound. I thought that this was because you 'rasped' your tongue, but it's again rhyming slang. Raspberry = raspberry tart = fart.
Bread - made famous by the Liverpudlian comedy of the 80s, this is well known to mean money. But how many knew it was from "Bread and Honey?"
Jackanory - From my childhood, this was a story telling 15 minutes on kids TV. If someone said to me that I should be on Jackanory, I'd know they don't believe me. But Jackanory is nothing more then slang for 'story,' and was where the TV programme got it's name.
Flash - Most surprising, this one. We've all known a bit of a 'flash Harry,' meaning someone who's always loud, probably solvent, and certainly well known in large circles. It comes from Flash = flash of light = sight, as in "what a sight."
and finally
Grass - We've all heard of a 'supergrass,' someone who tells all to the police in return for a new life. Well grass = grasshopper = copper. Ok, hands up who knew that?

Friday, December 19

Black Friday

Being black Friday, I have too many call outs. So, for your fun, today I am the stig Santa. Plz to be commenting on what you want for Christmas, and what you don't want/what you'll probably get. I'll start the ball rolling with a young nubile nymphette. We can all dream can't we?

Thursday, December 18

Christmas is a time for families

Yes, I know it's late, but I just wanted to enlighten you all to why.

On the left is the Johnaitch, on the right is the Aledaitch, and in the middle is beer. The pub was our now favourite (we've been twice) Bay Horse, in the village of Bromyard in Herefordshire. It does good food, good drink, and as I'm sure my father will testify to, the marvellous Dawn is as friendly as ever. Although I have to admit, watching my father flirt at his age is not only embarrassing, but unnecessary.
I am now very very pooped, and am returning to bed for an hour.

Wednesday, December 17

Christmas Recipes

No time at all today, it's getting really silly. BLS has asked me to blog asking for people's favourite recipes (no Dad, "Beer" is not a recipe), and so I thought I'd take the opportunity to blog about my all time favourite video clip for recipes, Heston Blumenthal's Perfect Christmas. If you have a favourite recipe, please add it, and we can all swap recipes like American housewives from the 1950s.

(Oh yeah, and be warned, this is the full video. It'll take ages to download)


Tuesday, December 16

Unlawful or illegal?

Following my little *cough* mishap last year, I have been battling with the insurance companies. Believe it or not, the law for insurance companies would appear to differ from the law in every other situation. Let me explain.
As far as the claim was concerned, the girl behind me rolled into the back of my car. She did no damage to my car (apart from scuffing the tow-bar cover), and her car had a small damaged grill where the front foglight should be. At the time there were no other witnesses, and so I knew if she complained to her insurance company, she wouldn't have a leg to stand on.
2 Months later, and a witness mysteriously appears, who saw everything. I argued that surely the witness should have stopped and given details on the day, or they could be any Tom, Dick or Harriet, but apparently as long as she has a witness she's going to win. For this reason, my insurance company are no longer prepared to defend me, and as such I either have to pay costs to go to court myself (about £900) or admit liability.
The thing that bothers me is that once again my faith of insurance companies has been severely dented. Taking legal advice, it would appear that this is a common occurrence. The insurance company can't be bothered to work for their money, meaning the easiest option is to bully the customer into admitting liability, which is what they've done in this case. I meanwhile, do have protected no claims so it won't cost me, but what about the next person? They need to buck up their ideas.
Anyone got any ideas as to what I could do to correct this problem now?

Monday, December 15

The local's guide to Christmas

Here, for your enjoyment, is the English guide to what people say at Christmas, and what they really mean.
  • Hasn't this Christmas just dragged on this year? - I really shouldn't have put my lights up back in October.
  • It's a great gift idea - It'll never sell at any other time.
  • No officer, I've only had the one glass of sherry - Yous me fuggin' bes' mate *hic*
  • Oh, look, a card from the neighbours - Those bastards still have my lawn mower.
  • Yes, of course John will want to play with a radio controlled helicopter - It's me who enjoys all these toys.
  • (one just for Wales) The prospects of a white Christmas are looking good - It's going to rain.
  • What's your bet on the Christmas number one this year? - I don't give a toss. Just bring back Slade.
Got any more?

Friday, December 12

A chip off the old blog?

John's school phoned me yesterday.

"John's hurt his finger. It's a little swollen, and a little bruised, so we're happy for him to be sent home. Can you come and pick him up?"

I get there, and sure enough, he has a small green/blue area around his knuckle, and his index finger is looking like an uncooked sausage. He's also having a bit of difficulty bending it. He is not, however, in any pain whatsoever but he is buzzing from all the attention in school. Thinking it's just probably a sprain of some sort or maybe a bruised bone, I decide to err on the side of caution and pop down to the local accident centre where they can put our mind at rest.

I like the Neath Port Talbot hospital. The main hospital for the area is Morriston Hospital, and normally the casualty department is full of sweaty old men having heart attacks or teenagers who are having their stomachs pumped from drinking too much WKD blue. This means the average waiting time is 4 to 6 weeks to see a doctor. Meanwhile, in Neath Port Talbot hospital, they're pleased to see someone. If you see another patient, you get a prize. The place is deserted. We head in and have a friendly chat with the girl on reception, who then points us straight through to another friendly nurse who examines John's finger.

"Does this hurt?" she says, as she pinches his knuckle.

"John, you can come down from the ceiling now," says I.

She agrees with my diagnosis, saying it's probably just a bad sprain, but we'll get an x-ray anyway. I even get to go in the x-ray room with John, and get to see the xray as it's developed on screen, which is very very cool. Sure enough, a close look and a small chip of bone is visible on his knuckle. I point it out, only to be told that it's a platelet, and not to worry. The doctor again agrees with me however. And so, there it is, another first for John. He's officially broken his first bone, and without all the pain and discomfort that anyone else would suffer. We're back at fracture clinic this morning, but I doubt they will plaster it. John would like to have his fingers plastered in true Winston Churchill style, but again, I can't see that being allowed.

And to say his Christmas has come early is also true. Well, his Christmas holiday anyway. He is a leftie, and it's his left hand he's done it on, so no probably point being in school next week.

*edit* 3:00pm and just returned from the fracture clinic. John doesn't have a plastercast, because where the fracture is it isn't needed. He does have a sling, and gauze and fabric elastoplast so that his finger can be splinted to the other finger alongside. He now also has a nice picture I secretly took on my mobile of the X-ray, so he can show his friends in school.

(clicky to embiggen)

Thursday, December 11

The post of the post

We have a good postal service in this country. Despite previous attempts to rebrand the Royal Mail (consignia? I mean, what was that all about?), we know that we're getting some high standard of postal service that to be honest I think is unsurpassed. Yes, so the US has a pretty decent postal service, but they don't deliver to your door, rather delivering to a small metal box at the end of your drive. Perhaps Pseudonymph can help me out, but I don't know how it works in Australia but I do know that all the posties seem to wear shorts.
The government, realising that they can make some cash in these desperate times, have decided the humble British Postman should hustle a bit on his round, meaning they can fit more in, reduce the number of runs needing to be made and maybe even lay off the slower of the employees.
My postman however can only be described as a miserable fuck. He arrives shortly before twelve, mobile phone attached to his ear (although I don't know if he's talking to someone or listening to music), and gently saunters around the village looking bored and thoroughly fed up.
I hasten to add, this postal route must be a bit of a loser for whichever postie is unfortunate enough to get it. I can hear the conversation now in the local sorting office...
"Bob, you do Wind Road. Bill, you cover Pont Aur. Miserable fuck, you're on Rhiwfawr again."
"Aw please. Not me. I'll do anything. Even the Gurnos without it's street lights and teenage truants milling around looking for someone to mug. Anything except Rhiwfawr."
Yesterday the boss must have given in as a treat. By 10am, I was surprised to see a young fit postie running past, delivering with a smile and a gentle wave. Mind you, he was only delivering a couple of bills again.

Wednesday, December 10

Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson

Not much time to post today, but this is for Pseudonymph and BLS, who are probably both huge fans of this guy...

(Warning, NSFW, and contains lots and lots of swearing including the 'c' word.)

Tuesday, December 9

Chelwood Gate

My primary school had a system of in your final year, you'd go on a trip to somewhere. Previous years were basically one place, I gather a mud fest in a campsite on the outskirts of Dieppe. BLS went there, and from what I remember, hated it. I, however, was privileged and went to a new site in the Sussex countryside, in a custom built (ala Stalag 17) facility. We were promised nature walks, rock climbing and maybe even a trip on the bluebell railway.
The camp itself was simple enough. You had a large facility which was the kitchen/canteen/classrooms and was where we'd spend most of our time indoors. Directly opposite was the five star accommodation dormitories, one for boys, one for girls. And in between these two buildings was the toilet/shower block. Across from the main building was a small pond, and a large sports hall.
The first night found us boys (about 30 of us) locked into our dormitory. The only door in and out directly passed the two male teacher's bedrooms, so no way we could or even would dare to try and leave that way. This also meant that we didn't have direct access to toilet facilities, and ended up with a bucket by the locked and wired shut back door. This was a far from favourable experience enough, until someone had to lay a cable in the dark orange contents of the bucket. The smell drifted down the hut meaning that 10 and 11 year old boys were seen at the windows, gasping for the pure fresh air we so desperately craved. I do remember us being particularly noisy at this point, and one of the teachers appeared at the entrance. Still half asleep, with that 'cow's lick' of a hair style where he'd been sleeping awkwardly, I seemed to remember him asking "what the f**k do you think you're all doing. It's 4 in the morning, and you'll all be up in 2 hours. Now get to sleep." Strangely enough, shocked by the teacher swearing, it worked.
Over the next few days we went for walks in the woods around the camp. We went fish netting in the local lake where nobody got anything more extravagant then a pond skater or a large clump of mosquito eggs. One day we went to Weirwood reservoir where we learned what a duck looked like (!), and a coot, and a goose, and another duck. We even heard a cuckoo (!!). In the afternoon we were taken to a large precipice of sandstone rock, and told in no uncertain terms we were going to climb it. Being the fat kid, I was told to go last 'in case I snapped the ropes." This meant I was also the last to leave, and only the teachers were there to witness my achievement.
On the last night we had to supply entertainment for the quite frankly pissed up teachers. We all sat round an open fire as they knocked back another glass of Liebfraumilch (it was the early 80s), and our small groups of 4 - 6 children would each enact a small 10 minute piece. Some told stories, the swots said how much they enjoyed the trip and got us all to applaud the teachers. Our group came up with the 'magic blanket'
This blanket was able to increase the size of anything thrown over it. We started off with a tennis ball, which was returned in the form of a volleyball. I then threw a teaspoon over, only for a large metal ladle to be returned. Martin, the school clown, butted in and spat over the blanket, only to get drenched on the return journey. The following morning we arose early for the two hour journey home.
I returned there about 5 years ago. The whole site is now a golf course. The dormitories are still there, now decaying and empty. The main centre is now a storeroom and shop, selling second hand golf balls. The lake is now a 'water hazard.' Kids are not allowed.

Monday, December 8

Christmas Songs

Ok, hands up who hates Christmas songs?

*Puts hands up*

Admittedly, the repeated success in the 70s of Slade or Wizzard shows that we did like the general cheesiness of such ditties, but nowadays it's all X-factor or has-beens with really cheaply made manufactured pop that no one enjoys.

The One Show decided to find out what we like about the old songs, and produced a new one. I know it's not my days for videos, but I have to show this. It's certainly catchy, Chris Difford (former writer of Squeeze) has stepped up to the post and produced a most excellent Christmas song. He's taken everything that make it listen worthy, and whilst my father (he of "bah humbug" himself) won't like it, I'm sure everyone else will.

Friday, December 5

Antivirus/spyware 2008/2009/XP/Vista

Yes, it's back. This nasty virus is now ending it's epidemic that seems to be rife in my area, and I wanted to write up and draw some conclusions about it. First of all, and most importantly, how it is obtained. Having seen it some 60 or so times in the past 6 months, I notice a couple of spyware programs that are always in the list of found programs.
Smiley central is the more commercial name for the program, but it's also under the corporate name of "Funweb products." This is a simple smiley addon that makes emails and messenger more 'fun,' which in turn makes it more attractive to teenagers.
Funweb Products normally comes with something else called My Web Search or just My search. As you can see, it is very prevalent, infecting not only Internet Explorer, but also Outlook Express, various IM (AOL IM, WLM Messenger, Yahoo messenger) clients, but also even AOL's email, and incredimail.

Whilst these programs are in themselves harmless, I also notice how often there is a downloading virus called Zlob included in the list of hits. I'm guessing that Zlob is downloaded as part of the above two programs, and it is this that then downloads the nastys like the aforementioned Antispyware/virus variants.

Now the big problem is removing them. AVG detects the Zlob, and thinks it's removed it. Spybot does the same, but you'll notice the pop up reporting back upon restart that you still have infections. It was whilst searching for a cure to this I was introduced to Malwarebyte's Anti-malware program. It is a simple enough program, no frills, but seems to be the only reliable thing on the market to remove this infection. And so, whilst you are mostly clean with Spybot and AVG, this should now be in the auxiliary programs to remove anything unwanted in the future.

Thursday, December 4

A bit of fun

Sorry for lateness. I was watching Brewster's Millions in bed because it was warm and snuggly, and when I got up I wrote this all for you...

Take my quiz

Oh, and comment how you did, so others know.

Wednesday, December 3


This isn't your average American documentary series. Take a story that someone's told you, and prove whether it's what really happened, could have happened, or wouldn't have happened at all. Of course, over the 7 or so years it's been running, more and more myths have been proven wrong where before they weren't doubted at all.
The show itself is simple enough. Take two guys, one obviously very very intelligent (my father thinks he's gay because he wears a beret. Say no more) professor of Russian Literature and possibly one of the most experienced special effects experts in Hollywood, and then take the other guy, who's foolhardy, childish, but really deep down knows his stuff about stuff.
In later series they also added the junior mythbusters, who included eye candy, a robotics expert and a hardened grease monkey who once again is very childish and foolhardy.
They have in the past included myths like mobile phones igniting petrol fumes in a petrol station. Something they proved to be wrong. This clip shows what would happen if you shot a gun inside a plane, which as we all know means a huge hole would appear.

In recent years they've sort of become nerdy heroes. Recently they decided to do some live stuff for Youtube, and one of the clips I found was a machine designed to paint a picture in under a second by using paintballs. Only, once the mythbusters got their hands on it, they thought they'd see what happened if you fired it at a person.

And finally, sometimes the results aren't what you'd expect at all. In my personal favourite of all time, is an elephant (big grey scary thing with poor eyesight and teeth) scared of a mouse (small white squeaky mammal).


Tuesday, December 2


Venice under water...


On getting old

At the weekend I had a haircut. Around here, there isn't a wealth of bad punnage in the form of hair salons like "Hair today, gone tomorrow" or "Curl up and dye." In fact, we have two male hairdressers, RJ's and some old guy with a limp. It is for this reason I got hair clippers, and now do my own hairstyle. Admittedly, style isn't the word, but seeing as my hair's only manageable when short it does me for what I want. And so, on Saturday morning, out came the clippers.
I find the best way to keep the mess down is to fill the hand basin with water, that way as the hair comes off, it's dumped into the sink and being wet doesn't blow away accidentally. It is also the point where my natural colour gets a lot darker, and I realise just how much grey I have. I'm guessing I have exceptional hair colour, because the grey just doesn't show at all normally, but get my hair wet, and I look like I've been cross-mated with a badger. Large clumps of darker hair are interspersed with silvery locks that would have any Grecian 2000 agent rubbing their hands with glee.
Don't get me wrong. My father's sort of gone grey. He's also sort of gone thinner on top as well. This doesn't look so bad, except when he grows a beard and ends up looking like a skunk has taken root to his chin. This tells me one thing however. I must not grow a beard. I'll end up looking like a middle-aged IT expert, and it's all downhill from there. I'll end up wearing shirts with jumpers over the top, or corduroy trousers. I'll have conversations with other 'IT experts' about which version of Linux is best. I'll offer my opinion of the great ATI/NVidia debate.


Yes. I'm getting old.

Monday, December 1

Highs and Lows

I was a healthy child, when it came to irrational fears. I was scared of thunder, but this was because thunder (or more specifically lightning) could really kill you to death. I was scared of anything found in my mate Paul's books called the 'Unexplained,' be it the Loch Ness Monster, Poltergeists or Vampires. I was not, however, scared of heights. In fact quite the opposite. I would sit on the edge of my bedroom window in the height of the summer, and watch out over the street behind my house and the backgarden with no fear of falling. I would climb trees in the local woods, and only once did I come a cropper when the local bully shouted he'd "call the old bill" and I jumped from far to high up the tree, landing on the root of the tree and twisting my ankle quite badly. On one occasion, in a thunderstorm, I was so terrified I realised it was quicker to jump down the stairs rather then run down them, and so I took a true leap of faith, landing following a couple of loud bumps in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. I also went up Snowdon when I was 7, with no fear or worry at all, and walking all the way to the top (when I say walking, what I mean is piggy backed on my father most of the way because I was tired!).
Much later in life, and working in my Saturday job for a local sports shop and armoury (yes, I was a gun runner), I had a few months helping out as a labourer for the owner's son, who was building what was to ultimately become my workshop where I could repair air guns that no longer would aim correctly or had broken washers from being fired without pellets. This labouring involved learning to do roofing, and there I was, contentedly walking around on the newly placed rafters, some 3 storeys up with nothing but Newton's physics and a definite trip southwards should I slip. This did not bother me in the slightest at the time. Even the tale of the boss's son falling through a ladder and getting his leg caught so he hung upside for the best part of 3 hours until his wife returned with his lunch didn't scare me into taking a dislike for the higher plains. I even remember, nearly 10 years later, being able to climb up a ladder to break into my own house when my key didn't work without even the slightest of tremors. And then I took a trip on the train up Snowdon.

Snowdon (for those that don't know) is Wales' highest mountain at 3,560 feet (or about a kilometre in Eurobabble). It was my cousin's (aka 'Squeak') wedding, and on the Friday before I'd been notified by my boss that I had had a nice tax rebate. As a treat I decided I'd take my father up Snowdon on the railway. We all boarded the train mid-morning, on what was to be a glorious warm and sunny day, and set up chuff-chuffing up the mountain. The view was most excellent, and I was doing my best TV camera man impression, fliming the view as it became more and more prominent, looking over the lowlands of Llanberis, down the valley to Caernarfon, and across the Menai Strait over to Anglesey. The hour long journey had progressed well, and about 5 minutes from the summit, the ridge narrowed (see above) and the next thing I knew I was looking down the side of a sheer face to a lake some 3,000 feet below.
"Twang," went something inside my head.
"Oh shit, look at the drop," I went to say, but it just came out as "Neep."
"Pucker" went my arse, as the morning's breakfast threatened to evacuate rather inconveniently.
We got off the train at the top, and for the first time ever, I couldn't move. In abject fear (and to be honest most of which I don't remember at all, I was so terrified), I found myself on the concrete patio just below the actual summit. I held onto John, who whilst only 2 had also taken an immense dislike to the altitude, and we both stood there, eyes closed, shaking. I couldn't hope for the call to come to board the train for the return journey soon enough.
I was borked. I have suffered with a fear of heights ever since. No amount of trying to cure my fear by subjection (climbing the belfry in Brugge really was a stupid idea) , or rationalising would help my plight. I still suffer to this day, something Bryn will testify to when he decided it would be 'nice' to show me Sychnant Pass, just outside Conwy in North Wales back in August.
I now avoid anything to do with heights as far as possible. I look straight ahead only when driving over bridges, I won't go up stepladders, and I certainly won't stand on the edge of a cliff.
As my boss's son said to me all those years ago, height won't kill you. Falling from a great height won't kill you either. It's the hitting the ground that'll kill you. I don't wish to find out.