On the big move

The tales of moving are just too much to type in one day, so I thought I'd summarize them and then fill you in over the next few weeks.

• Irish Ferries are so much better than Stenaline ferries. 
• Having no clothes is a serious pain.
• I had too much stuff to get rid of.
• Shallot (the cat) doesn't like moving. He also doesn't like litter trays, and he doesn't like cat boxes.
• TDT and her mate Suzie are angels in disguise.
• Irish roads (now with added potholes) and fuck off big trailers do not mix
• Netgear DG834G routers still don't work with Irish broadband.
• Scooters don't like being moved on the back of trailers.
• John is being missed by the local kids.
• I keep thinking of something I've left behind at least once an hour.
• 3 pints of Vodka and coke when you're that tired is not a good idea.

Plz to be picking the tale of woe you want first from the list above.

Out and about

So, there I was, making another trip to the dump. As I descended into the valley below, I came upon the main roundabout for the area. Known locally as the Aubrey Roundabout (after the pub that used to be next to it), There was the usual train of traffic waiting to pull onto it. At the front was a poor learner, obviously into his first or second lesson. Behind him was a middle aged gentleman, with a Jaguar, and behind him was a copper in his shiny new Volvo. And then I was behind all of them. The traffic coming from the right was particularly heavy, being lunchtime, and the poor learner driver was unfortunate enough to go to pull away and stall. 3 times. After the third time, the middle aged gentleman with the Jag got out and started to walk towards the learner, presumably to give some sound advice about how to pull away smoothly. Then a tannoy thingy kicked into place from the copper's car.
"We were all learners once sir, please return to your car."
The man turns around, and rather sheepishly does as he's told. Just then, a break in the traffic appears and the poor learner tries to pull away, stalling for a fourth time. Then, without warning, I'm guessing the copper had forgotten to turn off the tannoy because everyone could hear as clear as day,
"Fucking Hell! The twat's only gone and fucking stalled it again."

Might be a delay or two next week in posting, but I'll see you all on the flipside. (Ireland, here we come!)

On unusual sayings

Now, don't get me wrong, I do say some funny things. Until recently I'd confuse "then" and "than," and it was only my father pointing it out that it was wrong making me fix it. I have a few pet gripes when it comes to things people say. You all know it's a router (pronounced rooter, not rowter), but the other two that get on my man boobs are "Pacifically" instead of "specifically." Unless, of course you are being specific about the largest ocean, it's not right. The other one is "Ginormous," which is a really childish and bad mixture of Gigantic and Enormous. It's also not a real word.
But, sayings are even more fun. When I moved to Manchester 15 years ago from Essex, a Twat was a couple of things. First of all, a piece of leisure equipment, and secondly, someone silly. So, imagine my surprise when one of the staff was offering to take his colleague out for a "right twatting." Lucky bugger, I thought. I was wrong.
TDT has some gems from my soon to be new home. I've found myself "giving out." This is again, not something akin to the Essex saying of "Putting out." Although I have known some people to "Give out after putting out." It's basically arguing, or having a go at.
The other stoically traditional (it would seem) Irish saying is when you hang up. Most people would end the conversation as follows.
"Ok, speak soon. Bye."
That's not normal in Ireland. It has to end like this...
"Ok, bye, love you, bye, bye, love you, bye." the whole time getting quieter and moving the mouthpiece away from your mouth. If you're standing up, you also need to bend over following the phone as you move it away as well.
The final Irish saying that I haven't worked out is "I'm just popping to the pub for a quiet quick drink." This sentence is full of oxymorons. The Irish do not pop anywhere. They also do not have a quiet drink. Or a quick one. If an Irishman offers to take you to the pub for a quick pint, book tomorrow off. You're going to need it with the 16 pints of Guinness and the 5 am finish.

On being unconventionally funny...

My father keeps sending me emails with the subject "Tommy Cooper Quotes." As a fan of Tim Vine, I know they're mostly his, not the big Welsh magician's. When I tried to show my father Tim Vine's DVD a few years ago, he was convinced he wouldn't like it, so he didn't pay attention. The reality is he's won many awards since the Perrier Award at Edinburgh, most recently best one liner at the Edinburgh Fringe this year with "I've just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. I'll tell you what, never again."
He's clean and he's very very quick. Sometimes too quick, and no matter who you are, you find yourself trying to remember all the jokes, and not one sinks in.
Let me show you what I mean...

I love the groaning, mixed so well with the laughter. The jokes are simple, quick and clean, and so so refreshing.
He was on the new yesterday, on the BBC News Channel. What he does next is not only funny, it's inspired!

Meanwhile, another comedian was outraged. Outraged I tell you...
Enjoy.

On exams results

My son, the genius, has done really well in his GCSEs. The results are as follows.
There are two types of exams. Standard GCSEs are graded A* to G, and U for unclassified. A* is the best. Entry level exams are graded 1 to 3, 1 is below average, 2 is average and 3 is above average.

English Entry Level: Expected grade 1, achieved grade 1.
Maths GCSE: Expected grade U, achieved grade F (Yay!)
Science Entry Level: Expected grade 1, achieved grade 3. (More yay!)
Science GCSE: Expected grade U, achieved grade F (Woo!)
Information and Communication Technology (ICT): Expected Grade D/E, achieved grade C (Much wooness and yayness!)
Hospitality and Catering: Expected Grade C, achieved grade E (Boo, hiss!)

All in all, most exceptional results. Plz to be sending congrats to him...

More on old photos

A conversation with BLS on Saturday night reveals that she's got pictures of me. The mention of blackmail was dismissed, and when I found out that they were from a family holiday to Devon in about 1975/76 I was relieved. I thought I'd share them with you.

I have no idea where this is. We frequented many beaches in the area, and I even doubt this would be on the same holiday. Maybe BLS or my Dad might remember (although I wouldn't count on it with my father, he can't remember last week). Yes. Check out the flares. Didn't you love the 70s.

This was just outside the village where we stayed. I remember this so vividly, being bundled out of the car to get a photo taken. I think I'd just woken up, and really wasn't interested in what I was supposed to do (see: grin like I'm enjoying myself).

Now this I remember, the front door of our bungalow that we'd spend two weeks in. Yes, I know, call the fashion police. Socks and Sandals. We were young and didn't know any better.

This was obviously a winter's evening at my Grandmother's house. The remarkable thing is returning there a few years ago, and we couldn't even get to the end of the path now, the bottom end of the garden is so overgrown. Note the stranglehold masquerading as a hug from BLS.

Don't you love old photos, especially embarrassing ones?

On drunken debauchery

And so, a couple of weekends ago, I had the pleasure of the last visit of TDT before my move westwards. We had planned a leaving do, but the general lurginess meant that I wasn't happy to have people turn up, only to get unwell and have to leave early, so it was cancelled. This meant our plans for Saturday night were open, and of course by the Saturday I felt ok again (see: Sod's Law). So, I suggested TDT came with me to see where I used to DJ with my best mate Sharon. I knew he had a gig, and I hadn't been back to the hotel for at least 5 years, so I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for him. It was, and I think TDT saw a side to me that surprised her. Admittedly, the wedding he was DJing for was terrible, all kids running around and blokes blowing chunks in hedges. But, still, it was nice to spend some time with him before we left.
The end of the night and everyone had gone except a handful of stragglers and some of the staff. This meant that they came in to join us, and one of them asked nicely if he could do a song. Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, the best song evah, was chosen. We've all seen how, if you are going to sing along, this is how you should do it.


Or this version...

What happened next is something I never want to see again. 3 blokes, singing, very very very badly. Oh, and Sharon is the one on the left of the three, who keeps disappearing in and out of shot. Watch out for Sharon's air guitar, and TDT moshing, which when you've got hair as long as hers, is like a fight in a wig factory.
Enjoy!

On when to spit, and when to swallow

The country boy had done good, and had moved up to the thriving metropolis. It was the mid 60s, and as a young man in a fairly high profile job within one of the country's national banks, he worked hard and played hard. One evening he found himself in much imbibement of the foamy brown liquid better known as "beer" and was making new friends in the local pub with his tales of his youth in a small city in the wilds of Wales. Such tales involving many dates and his moggy 1000. As the "beer" took control of his faculties, he bragged more and more about things he could and couldn't do. This was, by enlarge, fun and no one took him seriously. Except for the man who'd been sat listening to this young whipper snapper and his tales of mirth, who wasn't the centre of attention and felt the green eyed monster appearing from inside. Suddenly he stood up.
"Y-y-y-you're so g-g-g-great, with y-y-y-your boasting. I b-b-b-bet you can't d-d-d-drink what I g-g-g-give you," he stammered.
"How much?" the 'whipper snapper' asked. "How much do you bet?"
"Wha? Oh, OOooh, h-h-h-how about £100?" he offered.
Not an inconsiderable amount in the 1960s, actually equalling about £1,500 in today's money.
"You're on," he said, expecting some kind of lethal cocktail from the bar.
"That," said the challenger, pointing across the bar.
Everyone, following the line of his finger, set eyes upon something you no longer find in pubs. There, at the end of the bar in the corner was the spittoon.
"But tha's not fair! I was expecting a bad pint or something."
"£100, and if you don't do it, you owe me."
The spittoon, frothing and bubbling with all kinds of unpleasant things, including chewing tobacco and the by-product of a man with a cold, was poured into a pint pot.
Slowly, nervously, he took the unsavoury mixture to his lips, and gulped. At which point it all seemed to gel together, and all slid down in one go. In his words, "once you started, it was difficult to stop."
"*boilk*" he said, and was seen leaving at a rate of knots for the gents, where presumably he passed a new record for heaving consecutively.
He cleaned himself up, and returned to the bar, now rather more sober than when he'd left and his fresh pint. Oh, and his winnings.

Today, he's 66. Penblwydd hapus Dad. I'll leave a drink at the bar...

The tale of the missing passport. (May contain gratuitous swearing)

Last weekend saw the final return of TDT (on asides, do you think I should change that? I was thinking TFW, the future wife) before we head over to Ireland on a more permanent basis. This time, she brought her Mum with her, so she could see what TDT had been visiting so regularly since we met over a year ago. The weekend was very nearly non existent, with me being so ill on the Wednesday, so I was more than relieved when the medikashun worked and all was normal by Thursday morning. This meant all went ahead.
A pleasant weekend was spent seeing shops, scenery and pubs for meals, including for the first time, our return to the pub TDT and I first had a meal in. A small bit of food was still stuck to the wall. We sampled the delights of FForestfach on the outskirts of Swansea, where TDT's mum got a most excellent quilt and I got a new camera bag. The weather was decidely close and quite often our plans were put on hold because of hazy views and exceptional humidity. Also, getting up each day near to midday meant we didn't get to do half as much as we planned.
Anyway, by the Monday, it was planned to leave by lunchtime, head up to McArthur Glen (a local retail outlet), have a pleasant lunch in the harvester next door, and pootle up to Bristol Airport with loads of time to spare. All TDT and her mum had to do was pack, I'd print out the boarding passes, and Robert's your father's brother. All ready to go, TDT thought she'd check she had everything. Purse, check. Fags, check. Passport, where's my passport? She checked her bag, twice. I checked it, twice. We checked her mum's bag, twice. We checked the bedroom, bathroom, lounge and my office. Nada, nothing, zip. John checked the car, twice. The fact was, her passport was AWOL. After an hour and a half of looking, we realised this was the case. So, being born in the U.S., she'd have to see the U.S. Embassy to get a replacement to get home. I sat at the PC, and got their exceptionally helpful phone number. The automated system filled us in.
"If you've lost your passport, then you need to report the passport as stolen to the Police at your nearest station. Then you need to file a report and get a crime number. Then, and only then, will we book an appointment with you at our London embassy, which can take up to 15 days(!). You will have to turn up with any other identification to prove who you are, and we will require to take measurements of your inside leg and your DNA to verify who you are*"

*may contain traces of lie.
TDT started to cry. Quite frankly, I couldn't blame her. Apart from it meant she'd have to stay with me a couple of weeks, every cloud and all that. I checked around t'internet and found a phone number for U.S. office in Cardiff, and spoke to them. It was lunchtime there, but they said if I could report it lost to the Police, and phone back at 2, all would be ok.
I had half an hour to wait, so before I panicked and rang the filth, I thought let's do some of my own detective work. Let's work backwards from her journey, phoning whoever I needed to to find it.
The car didn't have it.
Bristol Airport's lost property didn't have it. (This was the most likely place.)
Aer Lingus's Lost property didn't have it. (TDT was sure she'd put it in the pocket on the plane).
Shannon Airport. (I'd lost all hope at this point. How could she have got through passport control and onto the plane without her passport.) They had it. "Ah yes, it's here in a brown envelope, waiting to be collected."
"It is? Great!" TDT starts doing a funny little dance. "So, how does she get on the plane over here if the passport is there?"
"I don't feckin' know. How did she get on the plane over there in the first place? I'll have to go and see the agents at the Aer Lingus check in desk, and let them know that their colleagues in Bristol would call them to verify they have the passport. You'll have to go and see the guys at Aer Lingus in Bristol and explain it to them, then they can phone to verify. Even better in fact would be if you can phone them on the desk before you leave for the airport, that way everything's in place for TDT's arrival." It was just after 1:30. It takes maximum 2 hours to get to Bristol airport, and the gate shut at 4:55. I had over an hour to phone them
"Welcome to Bristol Airport. For Arrivals, press 1. For departures, press 2. To leave the menu system, press star."
"*"
*click*
"wank."
I try again.
"Welcome to Bristol Airport. For Arrivals, press 1. For departures, press 2. To leave the menu system, press star."
"2"
"Please enter the numerical part of your flight number"
"3630"
"Aer Lingus Flight to Shannon is not delayed, scheduled to leave at 1720. Thank you for calling Bristol Airport."
*click*
"Double wank."
I phone Aer Lingus, who tell me I have to phone Bristol. I phone the lost property desk, who tell me I have to phone the main number. I phone any number I can find on the Bristol Airport website, all of which tell me to phone the main number.
"Shitty bollocks pooey wank wank"
It's now gone 3. I have an hour and 55 minutes, so we leave. I was now starving, and feeling unwell, so we had to stop for something to eat. I suggested a Burger King, not quite the last meal I'd planned, but what the hey. We actually left the Burger King in Swansea at 3:20. I had an an hour and a half to do 90 miles. It was going to be close. I said to TDT "If I get done, I don't care. By the time the ticket arrives, I'll be living in Ireland." And so, 110mph it was. The rain was coming down, the road was awash with spray, and 70mph in the conditions wasn't advisable. So, 110 really wasn't a good idea, but what choice did I have?
We arrived in Bristol Airport an hour later. 4:36 to be exact, and I dropped them at the door whilst I went to park. When I returned, knowing they'd get on the plane, I laid into the poor pleb on the desk. I know it wasn't his fault, but he got them checked in etc and frenzied goodbyes were made at the security gate. John and I, now coming down from adrenaline, went back downstairs to find the customer service desk.
The poor guy didn't know what hit him. He was all "erm" and "er" when I told him my problem. I made it clear that his phone system was about as much use as Richard Hammond's helmet on a York airfield. His colleague then appeared, and tried the phone system himself. After 60 seconds, he said something.
"Ah yes, this is the customer services desk downstairs. I was just checking. Thank you."
"You got through? You GOT THROUGH? How the f...?"
"It's ok sir. If you wait 30 seconds after option 2, you'll get options 3 and 4. 4 takes you through to the switchboard."
"And what fucking good is that? 30-fucking-seconds after? How am I supposed to know that? Are you deliberately taking the piss?"
"Why yes, of course sir. We're the CAA."

Nuff said.

On Boxing

When TDT and I agreed it was probably a good idea I move over with her, we set a date. John gets his results on the 26th of August, and the following weekend is a bank holiday, which is perfect as a moving day. I know this, because I moved 6 years ago to the day to this house. So, with the decision made that the 28th would be D-Day (or should that be M-Day?), I sent out some emails.

"Dear sirs. I am looking to move to Ireland at the end of August, and I notice you do removals. I will be mostly using boxes, but also wish to transport two bikes, a fridge and a freezer. I will do all my own packing, and I just need the transporting. Is this something you can help me with?"

Removals men all over the UK started to rub their hands with glee. Then I started getting the calls with the quotes. The first was, I thought, a tad unreasonable.
"We'll move you and your stuff for the princely sum of £2,300"
*thud*
I politely declined the offer ("How fucking much? You're having a laugh!") and thought surely someone would come back with a more realistic figure. No is the short answer. Prices ranging from £2,000 up to £4,800 (using an aircraft!) came in. I then realised a new plan of attack is needed.
I regularly see a trucking firm, based out of Ireland, trekking up and down the M4 near here.

Nolan Transport are based near the port of Rosslare, gateway to the Republic of Ireland. A scan of their website showed they have offices in Shannon and Swansea, so they're perfect. The problem is they really only do heavy haulage from yards with forklifts. I'd have to manhandle all my belongings into the back of their truck, and to be honest, the quoted price of £300 upwards has made me a little nervous.
Meanwhile, I needed boxes. Another of the removals companies asked me if I wanted any boxes. I replied to the affirmative, and they offered me one hell of a good deal. The delightful Vanessa (such a shame she has a brummie accent, but hey ho) took my order on Wednesday for 15 large boxes, measuring half a meter on all edges (about 1.5 feet per edge, Dad), and they are made of really hardy two layer cardboard. All for £32.50.
I now have another plan. I'm sure TDT's getting fed up with all the changes, but I just want it done quickly and easily, with as few breakages, and as little cost and labour as possible. So, today I'm looking for a large trailer, and a tow bar. I'm also looking to price a ticket on the ferry for the same trailer. I can sell the trailer once I get to Ireland, so cost isn't too much of an issue, and I will have everything there as soon as I arrive. I just hope I can swing this in my favour. Unless you have any other suggestions?

On mobile phones

Back in the dark ages (1998), I finally got my first mobile phone. On a day trip to Swansea (it used to take a day to get there and back on the bus), I popped into a shop called "the Word" and was surprised to find that I passed their credit check for a phone. I got me a posh new Siemens S6.

The S6 was state of the art. Everyone I knew with a mobile (namely my ex boss and Sharon) had a Nokia. They sang the praises of the thing, but would then be cursing when they lost signal, something that seemed to happen all too often. I'd gone from the recommended Orange to Vodafone, and all seemed to be good. The phone had caller display, something I'd never had before. It also had cell info, and would tell me the postcode where I was. It had absolutely no use to me whatsoever, but I was impressed. So impressed in fact, that the following year I didn't upgrade, I just got them to send me a handsfree kit gratis. Unfortunately, later that same year, the pin inside the power connector snapped and I found I could no longer charge it. This was not only unfortunate, with a maximum standby of 30 hours, it was cata-bloody-strophic. The phone ended up disused in a drawer.
I moved on in the world, and eventually went over to the orange side. Sharon was working for a mobile phone company at the time, and offered me a less than legitimate T68i.

In case you're wondering, the funny little piece on a string is a camera. Yes, this was one of the first phones with a digital camera. Admittedly, it was shite on a whole new scale of shite. No flash, slow exposure, low res (I seem to remember the images being 320x240), and when it was plugged in you would wonder where your battery life went. But, it was a phone with a camera, and it meant I would walk around with that little camera always in my pocket. It also had a colour screen, and would allow me to WAP the internet. The most excellent speed of 9600bps on the modem meant I could check my emails normally in about a month.
It was time to move on, and so after an item on the Gadget show about Symbian (not sybian, although it's only a matter of time...) phones, I popped into my local Carphone Whorehouse, and walked out with a Nokia 6680 and a contract for £50 a month (!). The T68i was consigned to a drawer.

Now this was a phone! It had a 2.1Mp camera on the back and a 640x480 camera on the front, meaning you could make video calls. It had a fully featured web browser, memory card slot, lovely colour screen with ability to watch videos and listen to music, it was, in short, the doggie's danglies. It was also the size of a small cruise-liner, and required the same power to power it. One of the main features that I liked about this was that I could download software for it. One of the first things I got was Tomtom for symbian, and I had to buy a small bluetooth GPS receiver so that Tomtom knew where it was. I could also download Google maps, and this meant with the aid of the GPS I could actually see an aerial view of where I was. This would give me many hours of entertainment as I drove along. The battery life was pathetic, so I moved on. The phone, meanwhile, ended up in a drawer.

At last, I got myself the holy grail of phones. The Nokia N95 is 5 years old now. It still widdles on most phones available today, and my God do I miss mine. What this phone didn't do, wasn't worth doing. In-built sat nav, full high speed internet, video streaming, tv output, it really was unsurpassed. About the same time those chaps at some fruit based company in Silicon Valley brought out the iPhone. Typical of Apple however, it was overpriced, overhyped, and over here. It was the N95's main competitor, and the poor thing didn't stand a chance. Reviews between the two made the iPhone appear to be nothing more than a £1000 slab of stone, whilst the N95 could power a mission to Mars. I had, and still do have, immense respect for the N95. It isn't really available any more, but second hand ones are still over £200 on eBay. One day I was moving a cupboard, and I had the phone in my pocket. Pulling the corner of the cupboard into my screen really did it no good whatsoever, and it borked. I replaced the screen easily enough, with a replacement from the net, and that worked for 4 days before not only did the screen break again, this time it took the display controller as well. The phone was deaded. It's now in a drawer.
As a quick replacement I went out and brought a Sony Ericsson w350i.

Ok, so how can I explain this? Using this phone is like going from flying the latest Eurofighter, fully laden with missiles and technology, to jumping and flapping. Ok, so it has a camera. Just. It has a lovely interface for listening to music. I have a car stereo. It has a flappy down front panel. I broke that. It has internet. Sometimes. Basically, it's not very good (you get that impression don't you?). It has, however, lasted me over a year, but something had to be done. Meanwhile, the w350i is now in a drawer.
Whilst packing to move (16 days, kiddies), I found my old Nokia n73, the predecessor to the N95. The screen was borked as well, so I replaced it with a genuine Nokia one. I transferred everything over, and now I have a phone with an IQ in double figures again. All I have to now do is get it ready for an Irish sim.
Oh boy.

Motorway madness

I was going to do a fun post today, but last night I saw a documentary on something that was first shown on TV 2 years ago on the BBC's "Motorway Cops." What they couldn't say then was this was the tip of the iceberg, and last night they filled in the rest of the story.
People with mental illness are a terrible shame, because they aren't acknowledged immediately and can end up doing significant harm to themselves. And this show highlighted something else that is exceptionally rare, with an even worse mental condition called Induced Delusional Disorder. The two Swedish girls, Ursula and Sabine, are identical twins. Ursula has a severe mental health issue, namely paranoid schizophrenia, and is the first girl to run out into the path of the truck. Sabine, more remarkably, is purely influenced by her thoughts, and copies her, running out in front of a Polo. Ursula is badly injured, with many compound fractures of both her legs, but Sabine it would appear, isn't. She gets up, has a fight with a woman copper, then gets into the opposing lane where she tries to repeat her suicidal dash for another car. This time, she fails, but the Police are forced to restrain her and she screams like a banshee whilst they move her back to the other side of the road. Both are convinced they're there to take away their organs (!) and both are asking them to call the Police. Ursula spends 5 days in hospital, Sabine is realised 2 hours later where she is arrested for trespass on the motorway and assaulting a Police officer.
What happens the next day is even stranger however. She's wandering around Stoke on Trent aimlessly, when two blokes offer to help her. She says she's looking for a B&B to stay in, because her sister's in the hospital nearby. The two men take up the roles of good Samaritans, and one of them takes her home so she can get cleaned up etc. Whilst cooking her something to eat, she stabs him, killing him within minutes. She's later found by a member of the public with a large lump hammer, and is seen beating herself over the head with it and bleeding profusely. He manages to subdue her and again she is arrested. The link with the stabbing is made, and she is interviewed, but "no comments" the entire interview. She's later convicted of murder on grounds of diminished responsibility and is sentenced to 5 years in a secure mental health unit.
The most staggering thing about the entire case however is that as she's disconnected from her sister, she shows more and more normality. She now isn't even listed as a mental health patient, and was purely taking on the role that her genuinely ill sibling was portraying. She'll be out soon enough, and presumably will hook up with her sister again, where it could happen again.
I would say enjoy, but this is one of those times I can't.

The milking machine (lazy blogging)

A farmer ordered a high-tech milking machine.

Since the equipment arrived when his wife was out of town, he decided to test it on himself first, naturally.

So, he inserted his 'manhood' into the equipment, turned on the switch and everything else was automatic.

Soon, he realized that the equipment provided him with much more pleasure than his wife ever did. When the fun was over, he quickly realized that he couldn't remove the instrument from his now spent 'member'.

He read the manual but didn't find any useful information on how to disengage himself. He tried every button on the instrument, but still without success.

Finally, he decided to call the supplier's Customer Service Hot Line with his mobile phone (Thank God for mobile phones!).

"Hello, I just bought a milking machine from your company. It works fantastically, but how do I remove it from the cow's udder?"

"Don't worry," replied the customer service rep, "The machine will release automatically once it's collected two gallons."

"Have a nice day."

The great tale of the North Wales Woe.

And so, northward we headed again. I have to say, I hate the drive to North Wales. At most, to the very top left of the country into Holyhead, it is only 200 miles. And yet, I find myself always taking over 4 hours, and normally about 5 hours to drive it. More staggeringly, I can almost do twice the distance on motorways within the same time. We left just after midday, and stopped mid afternoon just outside Llangollen where we'd found a nice humble butty van on the side of the road that was still open. The Eastern European woman did a most excellent cup of tea and we enjoyed a gentle chat whilst stretching our weary and travelled stained legs.

We arrived at the most hospitable Bryn and Di's where John promptly disappeared into their son's bedroom, not to be seen again all evening, and we then settled down for some of Bryn's homebrew. Yes, that is as dangerous as it sounds, but I thoroughly enjoyed the first pint. I don't remember the second. Or the third. Apparently the singing by the fourth wasn't a good sign either.
We left early on Thursday to go to the site and set up. I counted whilst setting up, the lengths of mains cable that I use for speaker wire. 2000 metres, or about 1.25 miles in old money, of cable that had to be unwound, separated, untangled, checked, double checked, laid out, hidden, and then plugged into each speaker around the site. I kind of wish I had a pedometer, because the mileage would have been truly awesome. I'd tried a few new experiments with the speakers, and much to my joy, we had sound pretty well all over the site by about 4 o'clock. We also had the usual "Would you mind turning it down?" about 32,000 times in the short 5 minute sound test with large volume.
The boatshow itself was superb this year. The weather was positively Welsh on the Friday, and a complete wash out, but being Friday it's always the lesser of the three days. The Saturday and Sunday were both well received, and on the Sunday our arrival actually saw a queue of cars arriving to enter, something I'd never seen before. The head honcho, Ben, had expanded the whole site so it was now twice the width, taking up most of last year's car parking space. This meant that a new field was used as the car park, and this degraded into a quagmire due the the slippery nature of mud on the Friday.
The highlight of the show was the arrival of Sunseeker, a large boat makers from Dorset.

This baby would only set you back a cool £2.1million, but haggle as I might, they wouldn't take my £4.12p that I had available.
Again, Swansea Watersports, a company that specialises in Watersports from Swansea, took care of getting kids on the water. We sat with them for the communal meal in the pub on the Friday night, and had such fun that by Saturday they'd promised us free goes on anything. Also knowing that they could get away with more, they gave John the ride of his life and me the photo of the week.

Unfortunately, whilst there, I started to feel unnecessarily dizzy again. I thought I'd been overdoing it, and the drive home that evening saw me unable to follow the car in front for 30 seconds as I nearly passed out.
The Monday saw us helping to pack everything away. My job of the day was to sort out 100 panels of wire fencing, including concrete blocks that they stood in. We arrived just after 9, and left at 2 to head over to Llanberis for lunch. On the way back to Holyhead I even had to stop for a kip, because both John and I were dying. Again, I spent the evening fighting dizzy spells, and by Tuesday morning I was unable to stand. I sent John out with Bryn to get me Buccastem, a medication I know controls the dizziness. 3 tablets later (you're only supposed to take two a day), and I was well enough to drive. We headed back south, but again found our entire journey taking 8 hours.
I'm all better now, on medication to control the slightly wobbly feeling, but all seems to be tickety boo. And no, before you ask, it wasn't Bryn's homebrew. Or maybe it was...

Tales of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

Yes, I'm still alive. Only just however.

Ok, so first of all, I went to North Wales. I'll regale you with the tale of that tomorrow, but whilst I was there, an old adversary of mine appeared. On Sunday morning, I had a bad dizzy spell, and try as I might I could just shake it off. On the way home later that afternoon, I had another. This time, I was driving, and it was more than slightly disconcerting.
Monday afternoon saw a couple and then the whole evening was spent fighting them, and so by Tuesday morning I was feeling thoroughly fed up and unwell. The problem was I was due the 5 hour drive home on Tuesday as well, so I sent John to the local witchdoctor to get me some Buccastem, a pill I know calms it down. I took 3 just to get me home, and finally rolled in at 8 on Tuesday night.
Yesterday morning saw me wake up feeling exceptionally unwell. I couldn't stand up, and was *that* close to blowing chunks. I didn't want to go to the hospital, because all they'd do is 'observe' me, so I called the doc's. He called back later that afternoon and prescribed me some stronger Prochlorperazine (the active ingredient in Buccastem) and I'm now fighting back. I did have my leaving party planned for Saturday, but I won't be able to drink and I won't be able to stand around for long, so I didn't want to push my luck and have had to cancel it.
So, apologies for lack of postage, but to make up for it, here's what I'd planned for the video of the week yesterday. John, on a zap cat, having fun. Watch his face when it comes to a halt.

Missing In Action

BLS here,

Rik and I grew up with two family mottos: 1. If it won't go, force it; 2. No news is good news. Therefore, in the lack of any Rik posts over the past few days, I thought I'd share this with you. Remember, no news is good news, and the best news is that the recipe below hurt nothing living. Plus, I suspect Broski will be back in BlogLand really quickly once I post this!! Happy grilling!

Presenting THE Turtle Bacon Burger

Just in time for the BBQ season. Mmmmmmm bacon...............this is a heart attack waiting to happen.Handmade ground beef patties, topped with sharp cheddar cheese, wrapped in a bacon weave. Then the next step, add hotdogs as the heads, legs and tail. Next step?

Place on an oven rack, covered loosely with foil and baked for 20-30 minutes at 400 degrees. A little crispy, not too crunchy...just how a turtle should be, no?

Broski, please can you make the images look better (I can cook, but I'm not good with the jpeg-ing!)