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