Top Searches

About a year ago I wrote a post commenting on the strange searches that people had used to find my site – you can read about it here.

Well, I am glad to say that I still seem to be popular with a certain demographic. Today’s top ten searches were:

• Kat Deeley (note the American spelling thereof)
• Louise Minchin stockings
• Claudia Winkleman nude
• Anthea Turner
• Kylie Minogue nu-di-ty (why the hyphens?)
• Poppy Appeal
• Banana Splits
• Cat Deeley nude
• Nude celebrities
• Christine Bleakley nude

While I personally am disappointed at the demise of Sally James in school uniform, I guess this at least explains the success of Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing and Dancing With The Stars. Methinks it also provides a certain insight into the inner thoughts of men in their mid-forties. Dirty boys!

If you have found this post through one of these searches please feel free to use the search box top right to find the specific post you are looking for. Knock yourself out!

Only in America 2

They are at it again! Mind you, I can tell you a thing or two about neighbours – read about it here.

Only in Holland

I saw this article in the Sunday Times yesterday. It reminded me of the “joys” of bitte ballen. The Dutch are even less foodie than us Brits. Mind you, Rotterdam is a special place – read about it here.

Only In America

Girls In Uniform

I knew that using this title would get someone’s attention……..

I was back at the hospital yesterday. With my ears. Well, that might be kind of obvious – I guess I should have said, “for my ears” and the ongoing attempts to get them right following my operation last February and various different infections since then.

I am very appreciative of the service I receive from the NHS – America wake up and listen to Obama! – but I did not appreciate the hour and ten minutes wait in the pharmacy. The reception at the pharmacy was staffed by two ladies of a certain age. I promise you, they were like something straight out of a Les Dawson sketch. They WERE Cissie Braithwaite and Ada Shufflebotham personified. But without the headscarves….

They did make the time pass somewhat more amusingly. Normally I wait patiently (how apt) trying to spot one of the several attractive young pharmacists that work in the department as they busy themselves collecting potions, lotions, pills and bandages in the background. I think it is back to that thing I have for women in uniform – air stewardesses, dental nurses, Avon ladies and the like. I am not sure why I have a thing about ladies in uniform. It certainly pre-dates the policewoman stripogram that my petrol station dealers gave me as a leaving present. It may have had something to do with Miss Diane in the original Crossroads I suppose……..but I digress.

Clearly Cissie and Ada were volunteering. I cannot imagine that they were being paid to receive their customers. They were having far too much fun. They were there for the company and to entertain the various people waiting for their drugs – fat people, old people, people with damaged limbs, people with hacking coughs, and, kids in school uniform who looked like the Cheshire Cat having been allowed to skip class on the first day back at school.

Cissie and Ada talked loudly. They must have done. Even through my infected ears, my perforated ear drum, my ointment plug and wads of cotton wool, I managed to catch every word of their conversation. They were doing the crossword. They were doing it badly. “Helicopter moving part, four letters”, says Cissie. “Blade” says Ada.  “A thread, six letters ending in d” says Ada.  “Cotton” says Cissie. This went on for a good forty five minutes or so until one waiting patient volunteered the answers “rota” and “strand”. “Oh, we’ve done it. We’ve finished. We’re cleverer than we look.” exclaimed Ada to Cissie, ignoring the fact that they had been helped somewhat.

Cissie and Ada greeted every patient with the same message. It could have been a script from Little Britain. ”Do you want to get a coffee? Computer is down. It’ll be a good fifteen minutes to wait.” Regulars would take their advice. They would go for a coffee in the cafe run by the Friends of Leighton. Or they would go to get their blood test done. Or, mostly, they would go to have a “quick fag”. Anyone over 60 would be invited to share Cissie and Ada’s thoughts on how we are “too dependent upon computers these days” and how “young people today wouldn’t know how to run a reception without a computer to rely on”. And, neither did they.

Cissie and Ada decided that they needed to share their mobile phone numbers with each other, producing brick-shaped objects that would not have been out of place on the set of “Wall Street”. Cissie, who wouldn’t know how to turn a computer on, didn’t know how to program a number into her phone. Ada, walked her through the process in excruciating detail, making several errors on the way and oblivious to the growing queue of infirm people clutching prescriptions and desperate to escape for another cigarette.

My stay was a little longer than fifteen minutes. This was due to the fact that the pharamcist had to check with the consultant that he really meant me to put an unlicensed lotion normally prescribed for bad knees into my right ear, and, because they needed to go back to the ward I had just left to get some of the ointment that I needed for my left ear. Apparently, the hospital pharmacy didn’t stock it because it only comes from Australia. As you can see, we are at the experimental stage in the treatment of my ears……

But, my drugs were finally dispensed and by a very attractive brunette with an East European accent and a nice white uniform. So, it was worth the wait.

Related posts:

Ear, Ear – the operation

The Avon Lady

The Air Hostess

Too Fat To……?

Did you see the start of the new-look X-Factor at the weekend?

 It seems that Simon Cowell has successfully refreshed the finogueormat, recognising that most people enjoy the auditions more than the competition proper. There is the usual line up of judges – the brutally honest and open Cowell; the dated and out-of-touch Louis Walsh; the apparently botoxed-no-more, wrong Minogue sister (sigh Kylie); and, the gorgeous, heart-on-her-sleeve Geordie, Cheryl Cole. But, now the auditions are held in front of large, live audience – adding a big chunk of fear factor and instant audible feedback to proceedings.

As ever, there was the usual mix of untalented, out-of-tune wannabees. There were some who were obviously/hopefully doing it for a bet/laugh. And, there were a few uncomfortable moments when it felt that the great British public were having a laugh at the expense of the mentally ill – I am sure that a number of care institutions were missing a few inmates on the days of the auditions.

But, why oh why oh why oh why oh why do we continue to give airtime and media coverage to those lard-arses in the super-sized Chawner family?!?!?! Follow this link to the video but make sure you have a sick bag or other suitable receptacle to hand……..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HxT2AuF1M0

This was the third year on the trot that talentless titan, Emma Chawner had auditioned for the show, but, this time, she brought her equally obese and untalented sister with her. I assume that they had the floor reinforced for the occasion. I wish they had provided ear plugs too.  I have heard foxes having sex that were easier on the ear.

Earlier this year, the Chawner family (83 combined stones of mom, dad, and two elephant princesses) were splashed across our tabloids (presumably double page spreads) defending their £22k in benefits on the basis that they were “too fat to work”. What?! Why?! Were they trying to induce sympathy from my fellow tax-payers and myself?

This family should be given media coverage. There should be posters around the country showing this family with slogans such as “If you are like this you will have your benefit removed”, “If you treat your children like this you will be prosecuted for child abuse”, “It’s not big and it’s not clever”, “Education is the way out”.

Now prepare for all those comments from bleeding-heart over-weight moaners and their defence of “big bones”, “medical condition”, “depression”, etc. Drag yourself off the sofa, get a life, do some exercise, and, above all, step away from the fridge!

Related posts:

Kylie – sigh

Fat People

It is Summer – Today!

 

According to the rather attractive Sky News weather girl, Lucy Versamy, it is going to reach the heady heights of 28 to 30 degrees Celsius in the UK today. Consequently I am sporting my shorts, t-shirts and flip flops (thongs for any Aussies that pop by) and my knotted hankie and deck chair are at the ready. And, I am waiting.

To be honest, I am not hopeful. It looks a tad overcast out there at the mo and I am trying to entice the cat to sit on my lap to keep my knees warm. And, we were promised a “barbecue summer” by the Met Office some time back. And, it never materialised. Indeed, a few weeks back I had to bolster our flood defences……it has been October/November throughout the months of July/August in this small corner of Cheshire.

My resident conspiracy theorist, C,  claims that the “barbecue summer” claim was put about by the government to encourage people to take holidays at home or in the UK to boost the economy. For once, she may have been right.

But surely it will backfire next year – one fortnight bailing out of a leaking tent or sitting in a British seaside cafe nursing a mug of tea and soaking in the vinegar will surely prompt a mass exodus of the great unwashed to Costa Del Karaoke next year………

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It Rains Up North

Hollywood Re-writes History

So, apparently our kids are growing up and learning a Hollywood version of history which is not factual! Read about it here.

It seems that our American cousins are sometimes re-writing history to show the USA in a good light – if you look at most American WWII films you would think that they won it on their own and would have done so a lot quicker if they were not constantly distracted by rescuing us poor Brits….and let’s not even start on U571.

I would like to think that this is not deliberate Soviet-style re-writing of history. No, more likely it is driven from a desire to tell a good story. Or, it could be based upon a lack of awareness of the world outside of America and a lack of knowledge of historical facts.

I once sat in an airport lounge in Athens in 1992 or so and “overheard” a conversation between two very large American businessmen. I say “overheard” but it was clear from the volume of their conversation that they felt a strong need to share their wisdom with the entire lounge. They were talking about the Bosnia-Croatia-Serbia conflict that was raging in the former Yugoslavia…..or at least I think they were. The conversation went something like this (to be read in a southern American drawl) – “Ya’ll heard about this war in Czechoslovakia? Jeez, that would be like Kentucky going to war with Virginia!” In retrospect I think that probably sums up the troubled history of the Balkans pretty well

To be honest though, I am not sure that being flexible with historical fact is restricted to our friends across the pond. I am not sure that the UK’s first venture into Afghanistan was successful because a Scottish regiment lifted their skirts (I know they’re called kilts) as in Carry On Up The Khyber…….

Male Bonding

This weekend saw my annual male bonding exercise. Six men on a testosterone fuelled display of strength, endurance and all-round manliness on a yomp around the Peak District.

This year included two of my best friends in all the world – friends from university who I have known for more than half of my life. Then there were three others who have joined the group over the years either by being a friend of a friend or by marrying into the group. They are all great guys and fun to be with. But, I still don’t want to sleep with any of them.

We spent Friday night at the YHA in Eyam, Derbyshire. Youth Hostels have changed a lot since I last used them – which was some 22 years ago. Back then the typical age range would be from about 14 to 25; you were segregated into male and female wings; there was no alcohol; and, you had to do chores to earn your breakfast. Now, our group of forty somethings were amongst the youngest of the residence; the corridors were mixed-sex; they had a bar; and, all we had to do for our breakfast was strip our beds.

That said, our room was still reminiscent of a POW camp – three bunk beds, a window with bars, and a single sink. And, the facilities were less than salubrious. The carpet in the corridor was suspiciously tacky. If you were not first up (and I was not first up) then you waded into the shower. And, you didn’t want to think too hard about why the floor of the toilet was a little damp and tacky. Men and their toilet habits. Pigs the lot of them!

As much as I love my guys, sleeping with them is not the most enjoyable part of the walking weekend. That would be the pub at the end of the walk. Indeed, my sleep on Friday night was somewhat deprived. It is never a good idea to follow a trip to the pub (during which several pints of ale and lager are consumed in order to wash down fish and chips or sausage and mash followed by some pudding that has not passed ones lips since school dinners) with communal sleeping. It is doubly not to be recommended when the walk from the pub is up a one in five slope on a very muggy and humid evening.

I pity the three women in the room next to us. I pitied me. Within just five minutes of our return to the hostel our room and the corridor we shared were, well, fragrant. Beery, sweaty, farty fragrant with an undertone of mint. The one brief attempt at cleanliness seemed to involve a communal huddle around the single sink in our room for a bout of tooth cleaning.

Isn’t it funny how different people clean their teeth? Me, myself, am one who needs to hang over the sink in case I dribble and I need to rinse and spit a lot. Some of my fellow ramblers were very adept at brushing while walking around the room.

We all then sucked in our bellies, averted our eyes to ceilings, corners and floor and undressed for bed. This involves grunting and harumphing in a deep, gutteral, manly way as if to say “yes I am dropping my trousers now so avert your eyes or, as alpha male, I will be required to beat you”. 

There was a strange array of pj bottoms, boxer shorts and briefs, with or without t-shirts. We all clambered into and onto our bunks, said goodnight (like the Waltons), and turned our faces to the walls. Turning our faces to the walls was clearly a failed attempt to convince our psyche that we were not in fact sleeping in a room with five other men. Like hiding from monsters by burying your head under the duvert, if you could not see them then they weren’t really there.

“Sleeping” is not something that I did much of that night. I did not sleep well because:

1. I was attempting not to breathe the beery, sweaty, farty fragrant with an undertone of mint atmosphere through my mouth
2. I was in the top bunk with my head closest to the door; there was a glass panel above the door through which the corridor light burned throughout the night like a searchlight in a concentration camp
3. My fellow cell-mates have shrivelled bladders or pituitary issues which required an average of two trips to the loo per man; this required the door to be banged and light to flood the room
4. Two of our number snored like troopers while another squeaked and whimpered like a little girl (clearly the face to the wall trick had not worked)
5. All beds creaked and groaned with the slightest movement and there were several wrigglers amongst our number
6. It was hot, hot, hot

It was a relief when 7.30am arrived and I was able to vacate the room to take a gulp of corridor air and wade to a shower cubicle.

Next year I will insist on my usual separate room and restrict my bonding activities to the daytime.

Ear, Ear

 

Having spent the best part of the last two months frequenting the depressing environment of Tameside Intensive Treatment Unit (RIP Ken!) it was with some trepidation that I approached my ear operation yesterday.

This was my first operation (unless you count a semi-circumcision and I was too young to remember) and my first general anesthetic. I was somewhat tense as C drove me to the hospital. My fear was partly the result of my recent hospital experience (they are not healthy places – full of MRSA and the like), partly C’s driving (I much prefer to be in control), and, partly because my homing instinct is strong and I was fearful that they would keep me in overnight, and, partly because everyone has spent the last week or so giving me their worst “general anaesthetic” stories.

Why do people do that? You are getting married – people share their wedding day nightmares. You get pregnant (well obviously not…..) and people tell you their giving birth horrors. You need an operation and, well frankly, you don’t want to know what happens to people in the operating room.

To be honest, one of my greatest fears was that I might just begin to drift under the anaesthetic and I would look up to see the face of one of the medics I was at university with smirking at me from beneath their surgical mask. All of them were irresponsible alcoholics and I wouldn’t trust any of them near me with a sharp instrument. Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

Indeed, the whole lead up to the op was quite stressful. None more so than the whole process of buying pyjamas. Yes, pyjamas. Proper grown-up, adult night attire for adults. Not “PJs” or “jimjams” as C insisted on calling them. You see, I have not possessed a pair of pyjamas for………well, let’s just say that my last pair probably had teddy bears or super heroes on them.

Since being an adult I have much preferred to sleep commando, au naturale, in the buff. Calm down girls! But, with the prospect of an overnight in hospital, it was necessary to think of my dignity, the poor nurses, and, the not wholly unlikely need to hide an involuntary erection. Well, I often wake up with one, there are nurses about….in uniform…..and, to be frank those hospital gowns are rubbish and offer no protection. Nowhere to hide.

So, a week or so ago, C took me shopping for pyjamas. Jeez, when did anyone connect the words “pyjamas” and “fashionable”. Being a bloke, I wanted something traditional and practical – blue and white stripes, fly, draw strings. Oh no, no, no. “Far too old fashioned”. “Wouldn’t see you de..” (don’t go there). So, I spent two weekends….TWO WEEKENDS – it only took me two hours to buy a new car for Heaven’s sake – trying on every shape, colour and style of designer sleep attire that John Lewis had to offer. And, finally ended up buying a pair of M&S pyjama bottoms (lycra-type material, elastic waist, NO FLY….but trendy, apparently) and a white Polo t-shirt.

I drew a very clear line when it came to the prospect of buying slippers. I am not an old man yet! I have fought hard to fight off my working class, Midland background. I only wear white socks when doing sport these days. Consequently, I never wear white socks these days. My family still won’t leave their houses to visit anyone without their slippers. It is the first thing they do upon arrival – take off their shoes and don their slippers. Me, you get in my shoes or, if I think I might dirty your carpet, in my stocking feet (socks that is – I don’t wear stockings……..often).

No slippers for me. I took my flip flops (or “thongs” as the Aussies call them). I was hoping for that trendy, looks-younger-than-his-age, surf dude look as I walked the corridor to the operating theatre. But it was not to be. To be fair I was not helped by the fact that my friendship bracelet had fallen off just two weeks after we returned from our Thai holiday The hospital gown, my fluffy dressing gown, and skinny legs sticking out the bottom didn’t help. Oh, and the look of sheer terror on my face!

I actually wasn’t feeling too bad as I arrived at the hospital, despite the fact that I had had nil by mouth for the previous five hours. I was hugely relieved that my insurance company were refusing to pay for an overnight stop unless required so the hospital were happy for me to go home as long as there were no “complications”. Also, my environment was pleasant. I was going private. I had a private single room with en suite and a plasma screen. A nurse came, filled some forms, took my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. I left my urine sample (I’m never quite sure how much they need so decided to fill it as much as I could without “spillage”). The anaesthetist came, cracked jokes, filled some forms. And, then my Consultant came………….and he scared me.

He was clearly having a bad day. He was in a bad mood. It seemed to be my fault. He was annoyed that BUPA had refused to sanction an overnight stay (I think it messed his schedule). He was annoyed that the person who should have showed at 1pm to do a hearing test hadn’t, so I had to wait until 2pm, which meant that he was running late. Then it came to the consent form. Then it came to him telling me all of the things that could possibly go wrong requiring drilling of bone, skin grafts, pierced eardrums, deafness, hearing aids and the like, if I every survived the anaesthetic and post-operative infection. Help! At this point I was all for going home with an “actually, I feel much better, thank you”.

But, I needn’t have worried. I went in. I went to sleep. I woke up – no erection, phew. I went back to my room – C fussed and looked please to see me. Within quarter of an hour I had had a drink and a sandwich. Within the hour I had had a wee (hospitals are obsessed with the need to urinate). The, now much happier Consultant, turned up to tell me all had gone well and, despite the fact that they had had to drill bone and do skin grafts, he was happy for me to go home.

And at home I am. I have a huge dressing on my ear which makes me look not unlike Van Gogh following his self-harming incident. I am not allowed to drive or operate mechanical equipment for 72 hours which means that I am under a strict regime as laid out by she who should be obeyed.

And, my advice to you all – don’t broddle*, if you get an infection go to the doctor straight away, and, if you can, go private.

* Broddle = to insert an alien object such as a cotton bud or finger or pencil end for the purposes of scratching or cleaning your ear.

Related Posts:

Girls in Uniform