I’m bored with blogging. I’m closing down permanently as of today, Monday, 14th November. I’ve decided to “get a life”, as they say, and do something different with the time I have left. Back to the Short Wave Radio and morse-key bashing no doubt!

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read my boring inane posts. These last few years have been nice, and I made a lot of new friends(?), but times change and I’d like to do something different now. Dont forget to strike me from your blogroll/list. I will still read your blogs, and who knows, might even make some “boring inane” comments! Bye.

The picture in the photo is the “Elephant & Castle” at Thurlaston where I go when I’m seeking a drink and inspiration!

On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, the guns fell silent over the frost covered trenches and the horror and bloodshed of the Great War finally ended, leaving our nation bereft of an entire generation who were sacrificed by the millions on Flanders field.

Not a town, village or street was spared the horror of losing so many local young men, and many who survived asked the simple question: Why?

Young men, most still teenagers, fathers, brothers, husbands, faced unimaginable horrors on distant battlefields. Why?

Because rightly or wrongly, they heard the call to arms to defend the motherland and knew they had to ‘do their duty’ no matter the cost to them personally.

If we look around our country today, can we honestly say that our war heroes would be happy with what they would see? Would they ‘understand’ our people’s inaction and apathy? I think not!

If they saw the degenerate state of our young folk, or the EU flag flying in Parliament Square, or Islamic extremist preachers on every street corner, do you think they would be satisfied with how we had squandered their legacy to us?

On armistice day every year we honour their sacrifice.

They died for us, and our country, so that Britain would remain free, sovereign and independent. Although led by donkeys, they fought like lions to ensure that future generations (you and I) would have a future worth living.

Those brave millions that gave their lives for Britain have been betrayed. They have been betrayed by our politicians and by our media.

Our war heroes never fought for a ‘multiracial’ Britain run by an EU superstate – this is exactly the kind of Britain they fought against!
In modern times, the torch of British freedom is carried by patriots just like you and me. We have a duty to act as our forbears did in defence of Britain and our loved ones.

Can we really afford to sit back and do nothing? Is that really an option? Surely by now we all understand the terrible consequences for our children if patriots did that?

Men and women of honour and integrity are always willing to make the defence of their country their life’s mission.

- Abridged version from the Britain First web-page. To read more click the link, and give them your support.

My long time childhood friend lost his only son to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan, and he has never come to terms with it . . . . he is now just a shadow of his former self.

I went into the town this morning to do my weekly shopping. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but Leicester is one of the most ethnically enriched cities in England – in fact when you look around you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Pakistan or somewhere similar.

We now have beggars on the streets. I don’t mean the usual charity muggers like the studentish types collecting for “Save the Children”, “Children with cancer”, “Help Abused Children”, “Disabled Children” and “Rainbows” etc., I mean real beggars sitting on the pavement holding their hands out and who flee when they see a Bobby approaching.

This morning I saw one young woman, who, from her looks was obviously from eastern Europe, sitting by Barclays Bank (best place to be I should think!) in dirty clothes with a piece of card propped up by her side stating that she was “Homless an Hungery”.

How on earth do people in that state that get into the country? What’s happened to own home-grown down-and-outs who live in shop doorways and cardboard boxes? Have they been ousted by the incomers? I think they should get organised and protest outside the Houses of Parliament to get these foreign beggars thrown out of the country for taking away their living!

The things you see when you haven’t got a camera with you!

NOTE: It just struck me that all the charity muggers on the streets, and the ones who waylay you as you leave the supermarkets, are all collecting for something to do with children nowadays. Is this because they have just realised that if the word “children” appears on the posters and tins it tugs at the heartstrings of the suckers (sorry, people) who pass by and cough up large amounts of money?

You never see anyone collecting for “Poor Old Age Pensioners” who don’t know where their next bottle of whisky, or even a Caribbean cruise is coming from. Shame.

My sister and brother-in-law have just returned from a trip to the USA. On the way out they were told to report to the airport three hours before the flight.

When they arrived they were checked in and had to go through the “golden gate” (the metal detector arch) along with all the other passengers. The whole process of searching everyone took almost two hours because of the number of passengers involved, and no-one was allowed to leave the queue, not even to go to the toilet.

When it came to my sisters turn the security officer searched her hand luggage and found her manicure set. “Sorry, but you cant take this on the plane, it contains sharp implements which can be construed as offensive weapons”, so he confiscated it, (I thought all weapons were “offensive”, this is the whole idea of having a weapon).

My sister was a little perturbed at first, but as it was only a cheap bit of tat she had bought at Poundsaver, so she let the matter go.

After the plane took off and everybody was settled down for the flight, a hostess came down the centre aisle pushing a trolley selling sweets, newspapers and the usual souvenirs. My sister was amazed to see amongst them were several manicure sets! She bought one and nobody said anything. When she opened it it was full of “offensive weapons”; two pairs of pointed scissors, a nail-file with a pointy end and a vicious looking needle-prodder of some sort.

The mind boggles!

Before reading the rest of this post please refer back to this story to refresh your memory.

Between June 2003 and January 2006 the BBC asked the public to contribute their memories of World War Two to a website here
http://www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/ which I thought was a good idea, so I sent a cleaned up copy of the above story.

A few weeks later I had a phone call from some jumped up faceless bureaucrat at the BBC informing me that they couldn’t use the story unless I could verify the facts with some hard evidence. I told him that my mother and father had long since gone to the big air-raid shelter in the sky and I didn’t know who the bomb disposal men were or when it was in the local paper at the time.

“I’m sorry” he said, “Unless you can provide us with some proof that this incident actually happened we would have to treat it as a work of fiction and cannot include it in the archives”.

Now I’m not known for being a patient person when dealing with idiots – I don’t tolerate fools lightly!

“Listen, you brainless moron, ” I replied “I’ll give you some proof. Me! If that bomb had been a real one when I sh . . . .sat on it it would have gone off and I would have been extremely dead, but it didn’t, and I’m still around to write about it. Is that proof enough for you, cretin?”

Silence. *CLICK* Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I got the feeling that it was perhaps it was something I said that upset him. Do you think it was “I’m still around to write about it” that caused him to ring off?

Last Thursday I went to my local club for a quiet drink and to listen to some folk music. A contradiction in terms I know.

I arrived too early, the musicians(?) were just setting up their 500 kilowatt amplifiers. Apart from them there was only one other person sitting in the corner supping his pint so I bought a pint of of the landlords finest ale and sat down beside him. As far as I can remember this is how the conversation went:

Me: “Evening XX”. His real name is XXXXXX, but I shall call XX to protect his anonymity or whatever . “How goes it then?”

Silence.

Me: “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” After a long pause he said “I want to know what they are going to do about it!”

Me: “Who? Do about what?”

XX: “Y’know”

Me: “No, I don’t. Enlighten me”.

XX: “Them buggers. They’re always at it, and it’s getting on my nerves!”

Me: “WHO for Christ’s sake?”

XX: “Old Thingy and his missus. They just go on and on and on. It makes a terrible noise y’know”

Me: “What makes a terrible noise? The creaking of the bedsprings?”

XX: “Naw, yer dirty minded sod, I mean that whatsit he bought at the boot sale*. It’s too loud. I think it needs a good oiling and a bit of maintenence”

Me: “What the f…. No, I’ll start again…. WHAT FLIPPING THING ARE YOU ON ABOUT? AND WHO’S GOT IT FOR CHRISTS SAKE?”

XX: “Ain’t you bin listening? If you don’t know now, you never will”.

With that he slurped his beer “Hmmmm”. I got up, walked to the wall, banged my head a couple of times and went back and sat by him.

Me: “Now start again and tell me just what you’re on about”

XX: “Tell you what?”

Me: “Never mind…. Just tell me what are you going to do about the ‘whatsit’”>

XX Looked at me for a while, and said “What are you talking about? You young ‘uns don’t make sense half the time – and did you know your forehead is bleeding?”

Perhaps I should have explained the XX is nearly 97, and he’s been going to that club ever since prohibition ended! He tells me all his friends are dead now. I’m not surprised; he probably bored them to death.

* For my colonial friends, a car-boot sale is similar to a garage sale but with somewhat more upmarket junk.

NOTE: If you want to read a similar post then go to the thingy-page of my good blooger friend, that well-know writer and actor – star of stage, TVscreen and various-other-things. . . . . . I give you Dave Dutton. . . . *loud applause*

1. Quivering :: Jelly on a plate
2. Eclectic :: Shaver (electric is spelt wrong!)
3. Superimpose :: Words onto a photo
4. The best :: Gratin Dauphinoise
5. Aches :: and pains of old age
6. Vinyl :: Ikea
7. Hot and cold :: Emotions
8. Girls :: Miserable
9. Wall :: Bricks
10. Baby :: Screaming!

If you’d like to join in every week go here

Idea from Anji’s page

As I approached the traffic lights I indicated left and moved into the nearside lane. When the lights changed to green I moved forward and started to turn left when something hit the nearside of my car. I pulled over just round the corner and looking back I saw a teenager of about 16 spread across his now useless cycle. I went back to see if he was OK and apart from a scratched knee and a knackered bike he was alright.

Apparently he came up from behind me at the lights and tried to squeeze between my car and the kerb as I moved off. Apart from the fact that kind of manoeuvre is against the law, I didn’t see him because he was in a blind spot of my mirror, and I was watching the traffic opposite to see if they were turning right.

He had badly scratched and dented the side of my car, but all he was concerned about was getting my insurance details to pay for the damage to his bike and sue me for the injuries he had sustained! It was obvious that it was his fault, and a pedestrian who saw what had happened gave me her phone number and address.

I asked him for his insurance details to have the damage to my car paid for and, surprise surprise, he said “Cyclists don’t have insurance, we don’t need it”. To which I replied “Well then, I’ll call the police out to this accident and get this matter sorted.” He stopped smirking and a look of panic spread across his face because by now a small crowd had gathered and I had quite a few more witnesses by then.

“F**k you!” he said, as he limped painfully off into the sunset carrying what was left of his bike. “Hey!” I shouted after him, “You’ve left one of your pedals behind!”

[Picture above is a library photo]

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“You looking at me?”

A long time ago, in the dim dim past; the early 60′s to be exact, we didn’t have computers with fancy fonts and greeting card programs or shops selling all sorts of gizmos for producing your own cards. In fact we didn’t have home computers! Now that will probably surprise the young ‘uns of today.

If you wanted greetings card for any occasion then you had to buy them from a High Street stationer for a ridiculous amount of money. Come to think of it, you still do!

So in the 60′s and 70′s I decided that I would produce our own family cards using my skills as a watercolour artist and calligrapher and using thin white card. I set to and painted little Christmas scenes on the front and lettered a personal greeting on the front to the person we were sending to. When I started I found that about 15 were sufficient for family and friends, but as other people soon realised that if they sent us a normal crappy cheap card from Woolworths they got a little original work of art back. I soon realised that I had to start producing the cards about September time to in order to have them ready for Christmas. I finally had to give up and start sending cheap crappy cards myself because they occupied to much of my spare time.

When the “friends” realised they weren’t getting personalised cards anymore they disappeared off the card sending scene pretty quick!

Now that I live alone I have more time on my hands so a couple of years ago I started making the cards again and, no, I resisted the temptation to use the computer or to buy card making materials and decided that each card would be an original work of art using only my pens, inks and watercolours and to only make them for close family and all my friends (both of them!). I thought that a personalised handmade card would be more appreciated by the recipient that something bought for a few pence and then chucked into the recycling bag after Christmas.

I admit that I don’t spend too much time over the picture or the lettering, after all, it’s not meant to be a Rembrandt, it just a greeting card when all said and done. For instance the drawing is done without an initial layout; I make it up as I go along, and the lettering is not precision stuff using guide lines etc.

The picture is an example of an “open” card with a blank page inside for the greetings. To make a card like that would take me about thirty minutes. [Click the picture to enlarge]

Now we get to the title of this post, An Old Meanie. After last Christmas I visited a cousin for a sherry and a mince pie. She has a grandaughter, Melanie, aged 8 who came and talked to me while the rest of the family were busy in the kitchen. She said “Are you really an old meanie Uncle?” I asked her what she meant and she replied “My mummy says that you are an old meanie because you don’t buy Christmas or birthday cards and you send homemade ones because you don’t like spending the money”. Out of the mouths of babes!

I didn’t mention to my cousin what Melanie had said, but I was deeply hurt and upset by that. It seems that people now don’t seem to have a sense of values, unless of course that are buying expensive material goods.

After that I made my excuses and left. As I’ve said before, you can go off people y’know. Guess who’s not getting a handmade card this year, and is not even getting a bought one.