Finds the Maori side step to be a more effective approach.
Loves a bit of bosh.
Friday, July 20, 2012
His brother, however................
Finds the Maori side step to be a more effective approach.
Loves a bit of bosh.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
There's no substitute for raw gas
The boy has it in spades. Fair goes like greased weasel shit. This, it must be said, was not a fair contest.
Having said that, it's proof that he's listening. 'Joshie, if there's a big boy in front of you, back yourself, and take him on'
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
They shoot horses, don't they?
If I was dragged to the vet at the moment, there would be plenty of sympathetic clucking and soothing words.
This middle aged malarkey is all bollocks, I'm starting to fall apart. From the top, the thatch is receding, I grant you, but no bald spots yet, and if I was selling it, I'd describe the side bits as 'elegantly flecked with grey.' Since I packed in the evil weed a month and a half/six weeks ago (I've yet to decide which sounds better) my skin has such a glowing lustre, I'm half expecting a phone call from L'Oreal. That's about the limit of the good news.
The downside to no longer being a slave to fags, is unfortunately the stereotypical one, and I appear to have been ironing my shirts on a wok. I'm playing squash twice a week, and doing two kids rugby sessions every week, but obviously I need to do more. Running is out of the question. Firstly, I find doing any sport that doesn't involve a ball a bit boring, and running buggers my knees. We all did the sport relief mile at the weekend, and whilst some Sudanese peasant now has a new goat thanks to my efforts, my left knee is shot to bits. After a mile. Last night I was hobbling around the squash court like some old biddy adjusting her incontinence pants.
The other thing that keeps breaking is my groin. Not the fun bit, that's fine judging by the amount of times my wife requests that I 'stop poking that sodding thing in my back you twat' most mornings. Romance is alive and well at Gumph towers. No it's the sodding muscle, which despite my warm up ritual, keeps pulling when I play squash. Sore and very annoying.
I'll be at rugby tonight with a knackered left knee, and a gimpy right groin, a perfectly balanced middle aged cripple.
This middle aged malarkey is all bollocks, I'm starting to fall apart. From the top, the thatch is receding, I grant you, but no bald spots yet, and if I was selling it, I'd describe the side bits as 'elegantly flecked with grey.' Since I packed in the evil weed a month and a half/six weeks ago (I've yet to decide which sounds better) my skin has such a glowing lustre, I'm half expecting a phone call from L'Oreal. That's about the limit of the good news.
The downside to no longer being a slave to fags, is unfortunately the stereotypical one, and I appear to have been ironing my shirts on a wok. I'm playing squash twice a week, and doing two kids rugby sessions every week, but obviously I need to do more. Running is out of the question. Firstly, I find doing any sport that doesn't involve a ball a bit boring, and running buggers my knees. We all did the sport relief mile at the weekend, and whilst some Sudanese peasant now has a new goat thanks to my efforts, my left knee is shot to bits. After a mile. Last night I was hobbling around the squash court like some old biddy adjusting her incontinence pants.
The other thing that keeps breaking is my groin. Not the fun bit, that's fine judging by the amount of times my wife requests that I 'stop poking that sodding thing in my back you twat' most mornings. Romance is alive and well at Gumph towers. No it's the sodding muscle, which despite my warm up ritual, keeps pulling when I play squash. Sore and very annoying.
I'll be at rugby tonight with a knackered left knee, and a gimpy right groin, a perfectly balanced middle aged cripple.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Friday, March 02, 2012
Caught by the fuzz
Very impressed with the police response to the arsehole driver of a few days ago.
A local officer came to the house that evening, discussed how best to proceed, and we both agreed a bollocking would be in order, and see the response.
He rang later. The woman was shocked to have the police knocking on the door. Good.
Amanda recognised the car, and I saw it when I was walking the fuckwit. She lives around the corner. Unbelievable.
A local officer came to the house that evening, discussed how best to proceed, and we both agreed a bollocking would be in order, and see the response.
He rang later. The woman was shocked to have the police knocking on the door. Good.
Amanda recognised the car, and I saw it when I was walking the fuckwit. She lives around the corner. Unbelievable.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Sad
This is me and my gorgeous little sis.
She's been staying with us for the past few days, and she left this morning.
To live in Singapore.
I had to leave the house very swiftly after hugging and kissing her goodbye, I didn't want the boys to see me crying.
I'm going to miss her, and I worry at how much Mum is going to miss her. The boys will.
She's starting a new life with a new man, who happens to live there, and not here. You only get a few chances of happiness in life, this guy seems a thoroughly decent and kind man who obviously adores her.
I hope she stays happy. She deserves it.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The driver of the Saab 93 soft top
Registration number V057 SMX
Yes, you.
My goodness, you must be very important, because there was somewhere you really had to be as you drove through the village I live in at 8.50 this morning.
In fact, it was so important that you had to overtake me on a quiet residential road, and then overtake someone else, a bit further up, where the road narrows, forcing the other car to the left.
You were still in a very important hurry as you left the village, but as you couldn't get past the van in front of you as the roads are so narrow,so you chose to sit about three feet from the back of it's bumper instead, just to let them know how important you are, and how much of a hurry you were in.
This slowed you up, and allowed me to get this picture, and to get your number plate, and to report you to the police for dangerous and aggressive driving. It's not something I've done before, but my 9 year old son was walking to school along that road this morning, along with other children.
I'm guessing you're not that important, in fact I'd be closer to the money if I said you were a cunt of monumental proportions.
I don't know if plod will follow up my complaint. They took all the details and I hope they do. If they want a statement, they'll get one.
Try getting up earlier.
Cunt.
Yes, you.
My goodness, you must be very important, because there was somewhere you really had to be as you drove through the village I live in at 8.50 this morning.
In fact, it was so important that you had to overtake me on a quiet residential road, and then overtake someone else, a bit further up, where the road narrows, forcing the other car to the left.
You were still in a very important hurry as you left the village, but as you couldn't get past the van in front of you as the roads are so narrow,so you chose to sit about three feet from the back of it's bumper instead, just to let them know how important you are, and how much of a hurry you were in.
This slowed you up, and allowed me to get this picture, and to get your number plate, and to report you to the police for dangerous and aggressive driving. It's not something I've done before, but my 9 year old son was walking to school along that road this morning, along with other children.
I'm guessing you're not that important, in fact I'd be closer to the money if I said you were a cunt of monumental proportions.
I don't know if plod will follow up my complaint. They took all the details and I hope they do. If they want a statement, they'll get one.
Try getting up earlier.
Cunt.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Filthy fags
I have not smoked a cigarette since the half time break in the Wales v Scotland match.
Believe me, it is a very big deal.
Believe me, it is a very big deal.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Strange old day
Within a couple of hours earlier today, I two hugely different messages regarding friends with cancer.
The first, from an old friend who had battled it and won, he was overjoyed at having just being given the all clear.
A few hours later, another old friend letting me know that his mother had finally passed away after losing her battle.
The first, from an old friend who had battled it and won, he was overjoyed at having just being given the all clear.
A few hours later, another old friend letting me know that his mother had finally passed away after losing her battle.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
There but for the grace etc, etc
I know man should always be in charge of his dog and all that, but sometimes life ain't perfect, and this video is what it sometimes can be like having a leisurely stroll in the company of the fuckwit spaniel
Bizarrely, this scenario actually happened last week when Amanda was walking said fuckwit spaniel with a few of their respective human and canine chums.
There were a few key differences. The deer were proper roughty toughty country types, not those indolent, latte sipping London ponces, and the language was considerably more agricultural than 'Jesus Christ.'
Although the sight of this fool both squealing and running like a girl is bloody funny, my favourite bit is the smug, Muttleyesque giggle by whoever filmed it, right at the end of the clip.
Bizarrely, this scenario actually happened last week when Amanda was walking said fuckwit spaniel with a few of their respective human and canine chums.
There were a few key differences. The deer were proper roughty toughty country types, not those indolent, latte sipping London ponces, and the language was considerably more agricultural than 'Jesus Christ.'
Although the sight of this fool both squealing and running like a girl is bloody funny, my favourite bit is the smug, Muttleyesque giggle by whoever filmed it, right at the end of the clip.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Fags and charity
I know it's about as socially acceptable as admitting that you like hanging out the back of pigs whilst wearing a pink thong, but, I'm a smoker. I shouldn't be, because it kills you and stuff, but at times I enjoy it, and it's somewhat of an addiction.
I can't stand the smell of fag smoke. Pubs are much nicer places to be since they stopped being submerged in a blue fug. I don't smoke in the house,I don't smoke around my kids. I smoke in the car when I'm on my own. I would never dream of having a fag with the kids in the car, and never use the ashtray. Quite often, I'll pull over and get out of the car for a fag, even when on my own. I'm not particularly comfortable smoking around non smokers.
I can understand today's news of a drive to ban smoking in cars, because people are idiots, and smoke in their cars whilst their children are with them.As an example, the road up to the village school is a narrow lane, one cars width. The school ask time and time again for parents not to drive up to the school entrance. The pub around the corner allows parents to use it's car park, and it takes less than a minute to walk up from there. Every day, the same Land Rover Discovery drives up the narrow lane with the mother puffing away on a fag and discharges her kids, reeking of smoke, directly outside the school. Both actions speak volumes of the mindset of the individual. But, the same people will inevitably smoke in their homes when their children are around. How do you legislate for crass thickness? It's basically a common sense thing, although you could argue that no smoker has any common sense, but could the accusers then step forward and confess to their own flaws?
It's Children in need tomorrow, and it's obviously a worthwhile cause, and as usual, we'll probably send the donation text. I couldn't give a gibbon's hairy hoop if people don't give to charity, it's fucking tough out there. As I type Five live announces the new jobless totals, a seventeen year high. The last two mornings, I've listened to Chris Evans charity auction for CIN, the stuff you can't buy kind of thing. A round of golf with Clark and Westwood, driving rare Ferraris. Despite the obvious fact that it's going to a good cause, I found the amounts bid for these items obscene. It seemed to me to be a crass flaunting of wealth when some people are making choices between heating their homes or putting fuel in their car. I am turning into a proper leftie.
I can't stand the smell of fag smoke. Pubs are much nicer places to be since they stopped being submerged in a blue fug. I don't smoke in the house,I don't smoke around my kids. I smoke in the car when I'm on my own. I would never dream of having a fag with the kids in the car, and never use the ashtray. Quite often, I'll pull over and get out of the car for a fag, even when on my own. I'm not particularly comfortable smoking around non smokers.
I can understand today's news of a drive to ban smoking in cars, because people are idiots, and smoke in their cars whilst their children are with them.As an example, the road up to the village school is a narrow lane, one cars width. The school ask time and time again for parents not to drive up to the school entrance. The pub around the corner allows parents to use it's car park, and it takes less than a minute to walk up from there. Every day, the same Land Rover Discovery drives up the narrow lane with the mother puffing away on a fag and discharges her kids, reeking of smoke, directly outside the school. Both actions speak volumes of the mindset of the individual. But, the same people will inevitably smoke in their homes when their children are around. How do you legislate for crass thickness? It's basically a common sense thing, although you could argue that no smoker has any common sense, but could the accusers then step forward and confess to their own flaws?
It's Children in need tomorrow, and it's obviously a worthwhile cause, and as usual, we'll probably send the donation text. I couldn't give a gibbon's hairy hoop if people don't give to charity, it's fucking tough out there. As I type Five live announces the new jobless totals, a seventeen year high. The last two mornings, I've listened to Chris Evans charity auction for CIN, the stuff you can't buy kind of thing. A round of golf with Clark and Westwood, driving rare Ferraris. Despite the obvious fact that it's going to a good cause, I found the amounts bid for these items obscene. It seemed to me to be a crass flaunting of wealth when some people are making choices between heating their homes or putting fuel in their car. I am turning into a proper leftie.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Parenting
When one is doing the enjoyable jiggy bit that actually creates an infant, unsurprisingly, you're not that preoccupied with thoughts of what the coming years may bring.
There's no user manual either.
Duw, it's hard sometimes.
There's no user manual either.
Duw, it's hard sometimes.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Middle aged motoring
Is forty three middle aged? Probably.
Anyway, unless you come from a different planet (or Norfolk, much the same thing) you will know that putting fuel in your car now costs roughly the same as the car itself. Public transport isn't an option, as it never goes where you want to go go, it's usually broken, and generally stinks of piss.
So, when it was obvious that Amanda's car was due a few quid spending on it, we bit the bullet, and have a shiny brand new one of these jobbies turning up on Monday.
It's pretty dull (to be honest, it's duller than your average Tory backbencher), but is does 75 to the gallon, produces virtually no C02s (so the government doesn't charge you gazzillions to tax it) and it's going to be the Gumpher family mode of transport from now on.
Unless of course, we have to take off fully loaded with the fuckwit spaniel and other assorted paraphernalia, in which case we'll take this, which is mine.
It doesn't do 75 to the gallon, it does however produce more C02s than all the cows in Wales, and as a consequence does cost gazzillions to tax. It has the redeeming qualities of having a flappy paddle gearbox and going like greased weasel shit, which is fab for humbling spotty chavs revving up their burberry infested vauxhall novas, and by the same effect, making one not feel quite so middle aged. I also, ahem, need it for work.
And before you ask, I am not sploffing cash I don't have in these austere times. I stuck it through the business on contract hire. They can have the cocking thing back in two year's time, I'm sick of losing small fortunes on cars.
Anyway, unless you come from a different planet (or Norfolk, much the same thing) you will know that putting fuel in your car now costs roughly the same as the car itself. Public transport isn't an option, as it never goes where you want to go go, it's usually broken, and generally stinks of piss.
So, when it was obvious that Amanda's car was due a few quid spending on it, we bit the bullet, and have a shiny brand new one of these jobbies turning up on Monday.
It's pretty dull (to be honest, it's duller than your average Tory backbencher), but is does 75 to the gallon, produces virtually no C02s (so the government doesn't charge you gazzillions to tax it) and it's going to be the Gumpher family mode of transport from now on.
Unless of course, we have to take off fully loaded with the fuckwit spaniel and other assorted paraphernalia, in which case we'll take this, which is mine.
It doesn't do 75 to the gallon, it does however produce more C02s than all the cows in Wales, and as a consequence does cost gazzillions to tax. It has the redeeming qualities of having a flappy paddle gearbox and going like greased weasel shit, which is fab for humbling spotty chavs revving up their burberry infested vauxhall novas, and by the same effect, making one not feel quite so middle aged. I also, ahem, need it for work.
And before you ask, I am not sploffing cash I don't have in these austere times. I stuck it through the business on contract hire. They can have the cocking thing back in two year's time, I'm sick of losing small fortunes on cars.
Friday, October 07, 2011
More excited than a toddler full of sherbert
It's World Cup quarter final weekend! And we're still in it!
Unlike four years ago when we went out in the group stages and I had already booked my trip to Marseilles for the quarter final. More of that here Rugby and oysters and here Rugby and oysters 2
I am going to struggle to sleep tonight, 6 AM kick off here we go.
Unlike four years ago when we went out in the group stages and I had already booked my trip to Marseilles for the quarter final. More of that here Rugby and oysters and here Rugby and oysters 2
I am going to struggle to sleep tonight, 6 AM kick off here we go.
Thursday, October 06, 2011
Because I'm worth it
I am not a particularly hirsute man, but nonetheless, I do like to be clean shaven. I appreciate that stubble looks rather fetching on some blokes, the laydeez tell me that some chap by the name of Clooney carries it off rather well. I don't.
If I don't shave for a few days, I don't end up with a even layer of stubble of my face. Oh no. I end up with some strange appendage on my upper lip more reminiscent of a certain seventies style of film where some German chap in tradesmans overalls turns up and knocks on a frauleins door and announces "I am comming to be fixing your pipes, ja?" before lobbing out his purple veined bratwurst, much to the delight of the said fraulein as it makes all of her clothes fall off.
I digress, but it's not a good look.
Anyway, over the years, I've lined the pockets of Gillette and Wilkinson trying out all of their wares with every increasing blades and technology, and do you know what ? They're all shite, and replacing the blades costs about the same as small cottage in Devon. So I went on the interweb thingy, and got myself one of these bad boys.
It's luverrley, beautifully engineered and comfortably heavy. It does take me rather longer to get ready every morning. I no longer shave in the shower. Try that with one of these babies and you'll end up with bits of your face all over the tiling. I now lather up in front of the mirror and ponce around, gurning like a loon as I manfully stroke the flashing blade over my fizzog.
It's really rather enjoyable, and my wife is very impressed by the results, even though this morning she told me that "You look like a cock when you're doing that" which I thought was a tad uncalled for.
If I don't shave for a few days, I don't end up with a even layer of stubble of my face. Oh no. I end up with some strange appendage on my upper lip more reminiscent of a certain seventies style of film where some German chap in tradesmans overalls turns up and knocks on a frauleins door and announces "I am comming to be fixing your pipes, ja?" before lobbing out his purple veined bratwurst, much to the delight of the said fraulein as it makes all of her clothes fall off.
I digress, but it's not a good look.
Anyway, over the years, I've lined the pockets of Gillette and Wilkinson trying out all of their wares with every increasing blades and technology, and do you know what ? They're all shite, and replacing the blades costs about the same as small cottage in Devon. So I went on the interweb thingy, and got myself one of these bad boys.
It's really rather enjoyable, and my wife is very impressed by the results, even though this morning she told me that "You look like a cock when you're doing that" which I thought was a tad uncalled for.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Search engine weirdos
Some oddball with severe spelling issues somehow arrived here after chucking 'fuccing+lisbians' into Google.
Also, CUNT+PHOTO, bingo, you're in, helloooooooooo.
That, I feel, is a tad harsh.
No lesbians here, oh no sirree.
Also, CUNT+PHOTO, bingo, you're in, helloooooooooo.
That, I feel, is a tad harsh.
No lesbians here, oh no sirree.
Bleurgh
On top of not being in the best of health for the past six weeks, and not being able to take any time off (running your own business has plenty of upsides, the downside being, don't work, don't get paid) we have had the added bonus of poor Josh going through a rather unpleasant bout of night terrors.
Last night, he finally got off at 2.30 AM after a few screaming fits which woke us all, including Charlie. The third time Bean threatened him with bodily damage if he didn't belt up, which isn't much good, as although he's howling like a loon, he's actually asleep. I felt sorry for Charlie as he trudged up the road to get his bus this morning, he was down on his straps.
Poor little sod, Christ knows what goes on in his head, because I certainly struggle to figure it out. Putting aside the fatherly concern, I could have quite happily throttled him around 1 AM when he was in full on nonsensical rant mode.
At some point in the near future I really must ditch all of this gloominess and switch into Funtime Frankie mode. I've turned into a social hermit and barely touched a drop of grog in six weeks. People are talking.
Last night, he finally got off at 2.30 AM after a few screaming fits which woke us all, including Charlie. The third time Bean threatened him with bodily damage if he didn't belt up, which isn't much good, as although he's howling like a loon, he's actually asleep. I felt sorry for Charlie as he trudged up the road to get his bus this morning, he was down on his straps.
Poor little sod, Christ knows what goes on in his head, because I certainly struggle to figure it out. Putting aside the fatherly concern, I could have quite happily throttled him around 1 AM when he was in full on nonsensical rant mode.
At some point in the near future I really must ditch all of this gloominess and switch into Funtime Frankie mode. I've turned into a social hermit and barely touched a drop of grog in six weeks. People are talking.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Me, my shadow, & Chris Huhne being a fuckwomble
When you're a kid, your shadow is your chum, it grows, it shrinks, you jump about it. My shadow as an adult lives a damn sight closer.
It's about two and a half feet tall an makes an odd hissing noise. It has never left my side for the past six weeks. It reassures me with it's constant presence, yet I always resent it being there.
It's my oxygen cylinder, and it's changed my life. I resent it, because it means pain is near, but I adore it, because it makes the pain bugger off, like nothing ever has done before.
I am not a huge admirer of the odious little turds that choose to make politics their chosen way of life, and over the past few days, one in particular has stuck his head above the paprapet and demanded that we yell 'cunt' in order for him to duck down.
Chris cuntarsing, I've never broken the speed limit, nor shagged a lesbian Huhne.
On Sunday, anyone who didn't shop around for an energy deal was a lazy twat, and it was fucking spiffing that these companies were making oodles of cash because it was ace and everything. Try telling that to a pensioner who neither has access to the internet, nor wouldn't know what a fixed rate online deal was if it slapped them on the arse with a wet haddock.
By today, when oddly enough, he had to stand up and give a speech to all of his Libdem closet Tory mates, he had slightly changed his choon. He, big bad Chris, was going to get proper, proper roughty toughty with those nasty boys from the energy companies, and give then what for. Oh yes he was, and everything.
What a total, unmitigated cunt the man is. I'd wish shame on him, but he probably couldn't even spell it.
It's about two and a half feet tall an makes an odd hissing noise. It has never left my side for the past six weeks. It reassures me with it's constant presence, yet I always resent it being there.
It's my oxygen cylinder, and it's changed my life. I resent it, because it means pain is near, but I adore it, because it makes the pain bugger off, like nothing ever has done before.
I am not a huge admirer of the odious little turds that choose to make politics their chosen way of life, and over the past few days, one in particular has stuck his head above the paprapet and demanded that we yell 'cunt' in order for him to duck down.
Chris cuntarsing, I've never broken the speed limit, nor shagged a lesbian Huhne.
On Sunday, anyone who didn't shop around for an energy deal was a lazy twat, and it was fucking spiffing that these companies were making oodles of cash because it was ace and everything. Try telling that to a pensioner who neither has access to the internet, nor wouldn't know what a fixed rate online deal was if it slapped them on the arse with a wet haddock.
By today, when oddly enough, he had to stand up and give a speech to all of his Libdem closet Tory mates, he had slightly changed his choon. He, big bad Chris, was going to get proper, proper roughty toughty with those nasty boys from the energy companies, and give then what for. Oh yes he was, and everything.
What a total, unmitigated cunt the man is. I'd wish shame on him, but he probably couldn't even spell it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
What, more blog?
I am currently taking enough medication to make a medium size carthorse raise an eyebrow in gentle query.
One of the annoying side effects is sleep, or lack thereof. I am a blissful eight hours a night kind of chap, so getting between three and four hours, and then not feeling tired, is a bit odd. Amanda says that I'm acting a bit weird. I have bitten my tongue, to avoid acting a bit rude. I kind of reckon that no sleep and feeling manic would make one appear a tad odd.
So, 4.25 am, and Charlie comes belting into our room convinced that Satan and all of his little weevils are invading our house because the milkman zoomed passed at 3mph and woke him up. So he's crashed out on the floor in our room, and I've been pottering around the kitchen since, ooh, 4.35.am. Triffic.
I've stuck some photos on FB, made myself a tuna and egg salad for lunch later, had two cups of tea, checked the news, blogged, and even though it's not yet 7, I may even have a crafty fag.
Sleep deprivation, life on the edge.
One of the annoying side effects is sleep, or lack thereof. I am a blissful eight hours a night kind of chap, so getting between three and four hours, and then not feeling tired, is a bit odd. Amanda says that I'm acting a bit weird. I have bitten my tongue, to avoid acting a bit rude. I kind of reckon that no sleep and feeling manic would make one appear a tad odd.
So, 4.25 am, and Charlie comes belting into our room convinced that Satan and all of his little weevils are invading our house because the milkman zoomed passed at 3mph and woke him up. So he's crashed out on the floor in our room, and I've been pottering around the kitchen since, ooh, 4.35.am. Triffic.
I've stuck some photos on FB, made myself a tuna and egg salad for lunch later, had two cups of tea, checked the news, blogged, and even though it's not yet 7, I may even have a crafty fag.
Sleep deprivation, life on the edge.
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