Friday, 21 April 2017

The number crunching begins...

Sodden Prickney Parish Council

Notice of Election

The following candidates will be standing for erection (shouldn't that be Election - Ed) around dinner time on June 8th 2017: -

Kalashnikov - Basil Islington Aloysius - Local Lobster Party

Molestrangler - Cynthia Snythiea Janetreger - Sodden’s Suffragettes

Newt - Amelia Celia Ophelia - Justice for Newts party

Groat - Ronald Bumhole - Justice for Ron Party

Trumpet - Sidney Charles Larkin - The winner by a long chalk party

Wibble - Norman Herbert Albert Norbert Gilbert - Generosity for old farts party

Baggage - Edwina Maserati Bicyclette Golikeatrain - Allow sex on trains party

Billary - Florrie Doris Mavis - Swivellers anonymous party

Clinchton - Willy Endaway Table-ender - Alwaysinthekitchenwiththerestofthem party


I, Simcox Corbyn Reichstaffenbendercrimplene O’Blene hereby announce the results of the election of Sodden Prickney Parish council as follows: -

Molestra...(don’t be so bloody stupid man, we haven’t even had the election yet - Ed)

Friday, 14 April 2017

Easter Greetings...

Here's to a happy and enjoyable Easter holiday!

By coincidence, it's exactly twenty-eight years to the day that we moved to the current 'Turrets', and the reminiscences of that day will naturally surface amid a moderate sea of suitable tinctures!

Back then, the place was in a very sorry state, having been built in the early fifties, when materials weren't easily available, and most designs had been kept to a fair minimum of style to accommodate the limited supply of timber etc.

The place hadn't even been decorated since that date so there was thirty-five years of original battleship grey paint in some rooms, hideous pink in the sitting room, and the kitchen was the same colour as the pic above! There were home-made friezes everywhere too, and all the ceilings were coated with distemper, which needed to be washed off completely before being emulsioned...

But it was a labour of love - still is really - and I still have some shelves to put up...

So I wish everyone here a pleasant and happy holiday, and also ask you to join me and Mrs Scroblene in a glass or three of Prosecco!

Friday, 7 April 2017

Nine decades of two fingers to failure...

A good friend of mine is nearly ninety-one years old.

He lives with his lovely wife very close to The Turrets, and he is one of the nicest, and most articulate and knowledgeable people I have ever met. It is always an honour and a pleasure to hear him recall incidents from many years ago, about his travels and work abroad, his brushes with famous names, how he handles his formidable Bridge passion and, then finally, he'll bring about his inevitable sparkling humour in finishing almost every breath of banter and serious discussion with a chuckle and a joyous hoot.

Just recently, I was chatting with his wife over the garden gate, and she mentioned that in a routine appointment at the doc's, they thought he ought to go for some 'tests'. They were made some way away from here, and a subsequent appointment was made for a specialist to tell him a few days afterwards, that the tests were 'inconclusive', and that they needed to repeat them all. So my dear friend has to go though the mental and physical turmoil a second time, and that has made him more worried than ever, which is not his nature. He doesn't 'do' worry!

I don't know what's happened in the last few days, but I soon will, and again, I'll agree with his dear wife, that there seems to be a cruel antipathy to letting a ninety-year-old living his last few years in harmony with all he has achieved in his honest and varied life so far, to spending hours with needles and drips and scans and pokes and earnest talks with medics and rush-hour drives to hospital and no food for twenty-four hours and the sad sight of less fortunate patients and the dread of something going on which he knows little about and used to fear less... and now the endless worry...

The list goes on, and they still can't find out if there is any reason to suspect that he may have something wrong!

It's wrong.

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Ten years after...

This week, Scrobs can celebrate ten years in the amazing blogosphere!

Yup, it was ten years ago that the first trembling keystrokes hit the net, and a new wandering soul joined a great crowd of lovely people!

I suppose the immortal started it all off for me, with some hilarious moments and many happy hours trying to keep up! By coincidence, the site has returned only recently, and of course, retains its original stature!

We've lost several good people along the way, The Beast, or Peter Hitchens as he was back then and dear old Mutley the dog, who is sorely missed! Lots of other names have moved on, like The Lakelander, Tuscan Tony, Idle, Ed, E-K and many more, which is a pity, but so many other ways to mix in have developed since then like Twatter and Bookface, and the lethal Linkedin, which is like a rash only worse! I just feel safer knowing that at least I can edit my own mistakes before sending a dubious message while outside a few tinctures...

Blogging ten years ago was also a serious antidote to the dreadful recession brought on by the Blair/Brown experiment in screwing the country, and every opportunity to escape the concern of a dreadful economic situation helped an anxious Scrobs through trying times. Things were not great back then, but now, with new opportunities through Brexit and a final good riddance to those awful Labour years, and of course the magic retirement kicking in with gusto, the future is so much brighter and more positive!

Thinking of the blogs that are still around, It's always a pleasure reading Blue Eyes, Bill Quango and of course Nick Drew, who still calls by here occasionally! I'd have loved to join them for their Christmas bash, but as I keep away from London as much as possible now, I always miss out! I even missed Old Holborn's visit to the Clarence, by several hours too, so that's another hero worship episode I missed! A.K.Haart always brings a smile, even when he's being serious! Looking back at comments from that time also brings so many more old chums out into the air! I actually spoke to Daisy when she was about to fly home! Of course, Reevers is a stalwart here, and always good for a reply, for which I'm eternally grateful, especially as there aren't as many of us around to comment!

Other bright spots like meeting Lilith and Elby, having chats with Pips and getting serious computer help from The Lakelander has made all this online stuff an honour and a pleasure, and I hope in another ten years I'll still be able to plonk a few more posts around, with whatever a computer will look like then! Mine will probably still look like the kit above anyway...

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Family fortunes...

There was yet another chaotic disturbance at Sodden Prickney's monthly meeting last Thursday, when it was announced that after the next local election, no members would be able to charge expenses and wages for family members. The decision had been taken by an overpaid crowd called IPSA, presumably funded from an island in Greece.

Sid Trumpet, who more or less runs the whole council these days, on account of Basil Kalashnikov sectioning himself, (not a pretty sight - Ed), announced that he couldn't give a damn, as he had enough money of his own, and also owned a string of garages. and as the mandatory uniform of a full length sheepskin coat and tweed cap was classed as a business expense, he charged no more to the hard-pressed general public.

Basil Kalashnikov, in a rare lucid moment (are there any - Ed), complained that the salary list of his family, plus two 'partners', a parrot for the answer phone, his eight children of assorted hues and nationalities and an aged aunt as a receptionist in his shed was a necessity to keep the wheels of local governance moving smoothly, and refused to come out and discuss the matter further without his bent solicitor, Herr Wilhelm Nargh taking notes and gabbling into an old Nokia.

Ms Cynthia Molestrangler went even further, and stripped off in protest, much to the annoyance of Norman Wibble, who's been trying to get her to do that for several years, but in the safety of her own home, but nobody else took much notice, so she had to stand there in the draught until someone put an old raincoat round her and ushered her to the geezerbird toilets to calm down.

The local press, under the influential Bicycling column headed up by Ms Edwina Baggage thought it was a good idea as Mr Kalashnikov's seven bedroom sheltered gated community home was not to the taste of most people, who seemed to be paying for all of it, but she was pointed at by Mr Nargh's ring-finger, and decided to say nothing further.

So there you have it, little local councils have to pay for their own stuff, and real business people carry on doing what they do best - earn their dosh!

Wednesday, 15 March 2017

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

How do you hate...

When I was at boarding school, back in the fifties and sixties, I made many good friends; and also, sadly a few serious enemies.

I suppose that now I am in my late sixties, I should be constantly thinking of Daughts, grandchildren, gardening, pensions and lunch with old farts like me and Mrs Scroblene! And I do all of these things, very easily, without concern for anyone else (except for the said Mrs Scroblene, who is my pride and joy and definitely not an old fart - sorry Mrs S - slip of the keyboard)!

But it is a funny (not funny) recall that comes to me on occasions, on how I dealt with people who were unkind to me, back when I was at school.

I was never physically bullied as I could swing a punch as good as the next lad, but there were some chaps who were the type who just made a life nasty because of 'teasing'. It got to me seriously, as being an emergent Scrobs, with all the world at his feet, and despite wanting to like people first, some little-minded git would try and knock me down for reasons only known to himself, and think he was better than me.

I've never really bothered about anyone claiming to be 'better', if that's what they believe, then good luck to them, but just don't knock a more normal sort of bloke, eh?

I learned only yesterday, that the person who caused me such grief back when I was a simple teenager, died from a heart attack last year. He'd been a journalist of sorts, and was something high up in the Daily Mail, but as a lovely family member recalls (as she used to work for him') he hadn't changed, and was still a nasty little shit back then.

So 'bye then asshole. You caused me much pain and turned good friends against me, and you also hurt many others when you became a 'senior' at school. You're dead now, and I feel great about that.