Up to Hope Slide, where
thousands eleven four people lost their lives when an earthquake shook half a mountainside loose and buried part of a highway and filled in a lake back in 1965. Saw Chip and Dale running amogst the rocks, so threw them some crisps which they had no trouble picking up in their nimble paws, even though the crisps were as big as the chipmonks themselves.
Later, took the SkyTrainTM down to the harbour, then the SeaBusTM across to Lonsdale Quay (which they pronounce kway), had a Hawaiian Burger for lunch, then went for a wander. Saw the Canadian Outback and a New York taxi. Pictures to follow.
Luckily, Fucktard has several grown-up kids who all hate him, so there was plenty of accommodation available when he decided to throw out the other three members of our party - Mrs F's brother, sister and brother-in-law - after him inviting us to stay with him, taking three weeks off work to show us the sights, etc. Screw him. We're off to Vancouver Island tomorrow for a couple of days, then down to the US for the weekend. Fucktard couldn't join us even if he wanted, on account of the Yanks won't admit anyone with a criminal record. Hahahahaha! He kept that one quiet.
Monday, 28 May 2007
Up to Hope Slide, where
In Which Events Take an Unexpected Turn
It appears that fucktards are to be found the world over, as we discovered when our host threw us out of his flat. I'm not sure whether it was because we didn't want to go to the hockey game with him, leaving him out of pocket by fifty bucks per head, or because Mrs Farty told him to ditch his crack-whore good-for-nothing thieving girlfriend before she sold off everything he had for drugs. Anyway, we moved in with his pot-smoking daughter and her trailer-trash husband, who made us feel somewhat more welcome by giving up their bed for us. And driving us up to Whistler.
Whistler is a beautiful piece of unspoilt Canadian outback. Or was, until the ski resort was built. And they won their bid to host the 2010 Winter Olympics. Now it's more of a tourist trap. Still, they had nice chocolate-coated strawberries (at two dollars ninety-nine each, how many do you think we bought?), toffee apples and a great big (stuffed toy) grizzly bear. We stopped off on the way back down to take in the Brandywine Falls - simply breathtaking - then detoured through Stanley Park to see the black skwerls.
Still loving the Canada...
Friday, 25 May 2007
went were taken to a rodeo, with brave men fighting young bulls, girls on horseback looking pretty, clowns and that. But the most interesting thing that happened was when a guy was caught taking photos. Perhaps he missed the signs all over the place and the printed warning on his ticket, "NO CAMERAS". There he was, standing up at the very back row of the stand, with his professional-looking long-lens camera, when the security guys down front, whose only job is to scan the crowd for photographers, duh, clocked him and sent someone up to remonstrate with him. Again, very Canadian, very polite, but he was not allowed to stay. Twat.
Then we drove up the mighty Fraser River to Hell's Gate. Now that was impressive. Fifty squillion tons of water pass through this canyon every second, and it's not even in full flood. In a masterstroke of marketing, the Canadians have taken a leaf out of the Merkans' book and put all the toilets in the visitor centre on the other side of the river, just a short cable-car ride away. Ok if you're not afraid of heights. Mrs Farty gritted her teeth and told herself that Table Top Mountain [sic] in Cape Town was worse.
After crossing, we saw a cardboard Mountie, fifty flavours of fudge, edible bear claws, lots of ice cream and a presentation aboot the history of the place. It's got fish or something, who cares? Fifty flavours of fudge, how aboot that?
Nae foties, ah cannae make them jump frae the camra tae the pooter. Mebbe later.
It was the longest four-hour flight of my life. 10:30 take-off from Glasgow, down to Manchester to pick up the rest of the passengers, then back up over fecking Glasgow, over Iceland (formerly known as Bejams), Greenland (no green that I could see), the Hudson Bay and the Rockies to land in Vancouver at 14:30 the same afternoon. Christ, I was knackered!
We took with us a kilt as a gift for our host. He promptly put it on back-to-front. Oh, how we laughed! Then he played a selection of shite Scotch tunes, e.g. I Love A Lassie, Scotchland The Brave, Campbeltown Loch, over and over and over. Oh, how we cried!
Canadians don't appear to have road rage, they go the opposite way. If you so much as hint that you might be considering the possibility of crossing the road (should a break in the traffic chance to appear), every vehicle immediately comes to a dead stop while they all patiently wait for you to make your way to the opposite kerb. Fan.Bloody.Tastic. You will never confuse Canadia with the US of Asshole for this reason alone.
Christ it's past midnight (08:00 BST). More later. Having fun.
Friday, 18 May 2007
This was going to be a brilliant post about something or other, but someone spoke to me and it went clean out of my head. Must write the fecking things down when I think of them, doh!
Anyway, Spanish Goth mentioned this in his blog so I've
stolen borrowed it.
You find the oddest things when you check your site stats to track how people found your blog.
This week it's:
Yaeli shoes - say what?
Fern Britton Coke - I can't believe she would - oh, that kind!
Banoffee Pie - well, I do make the tastiest banoffee pie in the world!
Emily Symons tits/flashing pussy shots/up skirt - Feckin perv! I see she's
renegotiated her contract and been allowed to stay in the show barely escaped with her life.
Lorraine Kelly up skirt - naughty Cat!
Farty knickers - say no more - and
How to make slime that farts - can you do that?
We're off this weekend to the Canada. Can either of you keep an eye on LMF while we're away? Keep her supplied with Pot Noodles and she'll be fine. Ta. But no Quavers.
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
A road is a road is a road. Despite what the Romans thought, not all of them lead to Rome.
The bit down each side, that pedestrians walk on, is the pavement. From side+walk.
A man wears trousers; a dog pants.
What Englishmen wear under their trousers are called pants or underpants.
Ask a Scotchman if anything's worn under the kilt and he'll tell you no, it's all in perfect working order.
- Friendly Fire
This oxymoron, with the emphasis on moron, appears to be uniquely Merkan. There is no equivalent in the civilised1 world.
In the UK, we throw faggots on the fire.
In some US states, they may well do the same. That doesn't make it right.
This can refer to either the Reigning Monarch or the Popular Beat Combo.
It does not, as far as I know, mean a homosexualist.
I'll concede this one. See, I'm flexible!
Amplification by the
Stimulated (not Zdimulated)
I don't care that Google has 215,000 hits for 'lazer beam', you're still wrong.
1That's civilised with an 'S', not a 'Z'2.
2And 'Z' is pronounced 'Zed', not 'Zee'.
Since you've been good, here's an excerpt (from memory) from I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again (ISIRTA) sometime in the 1970's:
"I went to a mixed school. Girls, boys, rabbits, horses, lions..."
"When I was at school, I was a fag."
"I was a fag-end."
"I was a dog-end."
"I was a dog."
"I was a hot dog."
News reaches me that five new "in-vitro" tests have been validated for skin irritancy in cosmetics, meaning that there's
no longer any even less of an excuse for smearing chemicals in the eyes of bunny rabbits. This brings the EU one step closer to a total ban on testing cosmetics on animals by 2009.
In my humble opinion, the only rabbit that looks good in makeup is Jessica.
That is all.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Tagged, sort of, by Cream.
Seven random things about me.
- I've read Virgil's Æneid in the original Latin.
Becoz wen u git a Classical educashun u don' git no choice.
It wiz sumthin aboot a big fight. Lots o' fights. Stick the heid in!
The only bit I can actually remember was where the adventurers found tables laid out with food and drink, but as soon as they sat down to eat, winged harpies came and attacked them. ISTR Ray Harryhausen made a superb animation of this for Jason and the Argonauts.
- I've spent the night with a gay man.
No, just talking about what we were planning to do with our lives. I don't remember the details, probably because we were pretty stoned at the time, but in the end he decided to emigrate to South Africa as a mining engineer. Hmm...gay man, South Africa, 1980, AIDS explosion just about to happen. I never heard from him again.
Everyone should have at least one gay friend.
- I've won prizes for my computer animation.
One was of the sun overhead in a blue sky, morphing into the rocket exhaust of a spaceship coming in to land.
The other was of a giant ant attacking a beach buggy, which then grew progressively bigger until it transpired that the buggy was about to run over the normal-sized ant.
I miss my Amiga. Sniff.
- I've destroyed a pressure cooker.
- I've had my pen stolen by Arthur C. Clarke.
He was signing autographs and when he finished mine, he calmly put my pen in his inside pocket. When I asked for it back, he opened up his jacket and asked, with a cheeky wink, which of the several dozen that he'd nicked that morning was mine? I let him keep it.
- I was born with six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot, but had them surgically removed as a baby.
- Number six is a load of bollocks. I do have a pigeon chest, but how boring is that?
If you feel like doing this, meh, knock yourself out.
I'm off to the Canada in a few days, and if my sources are correct they don't have t'internet over there, so it'll probly go quiet here for a bit. Be good to each other.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
We went to visit Mrs Farty's son this week. He has a nice quiet spot on a hillside overlooking the town of Livingston, between Edinburgh and Glasgow.
Stepson M and I have never really seen eye-to-eye. Probably a bit of jealousy on my part over Mrs F's affections, but also due to differing viewpoints on life. I like nothing more than to bury my face in a good book, while the house is littered with M's sporting trophies. He's cost me a small fortune in boots, clubs, pads, helmets and that over the years, but meh, it kept him off the streets when his schoolmates were getting off their face on drugs.
Our biggest argument came when he announced, out of the blue, that he had decided to walk out on his ten-year marriage. No, there was No Other Woman, he just "wasn't in love with her any more". I think I called him a fuckwit or similar. Still, M knew best. He still loved his two sons, though, and arranged to meet them at our place every fortnight. I think Mrs F would pine away without the boys.
We stopped off at the town centre so that Mrs F could pick up some flowers to take along and brighten up the place.
Three weeks after the walkout, we were introduced to NOW. I wouldn't say she was prettier than the ex, but a few years younger and a lot more outgoing. Of course, she didn't have two kids to bring up. They seemed to be right for each other, which was the main thing.
Well then, wouldn't you know it? M started feeling terribly run down, headaches, tiredness, couldn't do his sports any more. So he went to the doctor, who took a blood sample and promised to call him as soon as - fucking hell, get your arse down to the hospital now! A few more tests confirmed M had myelodysplasia. Funny how a chronic disease can change your attitudes.
We arrived just as the sun broke through the clouds, though the wind chimes were still clattering about like nobody's business. Quite musical, in an atonal sort of way.
The next time I went to give blood, I asked if I could give platelets too. They took a small sample there and then - much less than an armful - and told me no, my counts were just a bit too low. "And Mr Farty - take some iron tablets before you come back here." Meanwhile M saw no reason to slow down, as his blood transfusions allowed him to carry on with his life. He even took NOW for a trip to Australia.
Mrs F set about arranging the flowers, while I was dispatched to fetch some fresh water. That's some view, must remember to bring my camera next time.
Weeks went by, then months. M was in and out of chemo, sometimes in Edinburgh, sometimes Glasgow. Mrs F and I would take turns to go through on the train. NOW took long-term leave to stay with him. All his hair fell out, natch. But it had always been short. And eventually the nice Anthony Nolan people found a bone marrow donor. Hurrah!
M was given radiotherapy to kill off his immune system completely, the new stem cells were injected and we all held our collective breaths. For a month. Then two months. You don't know for sure till day 100. His hair started to grow back - red and curly.
Flowers all spramped up, I went to fetch more water while Mrs F tidied the place up a bit and passed the latest gossip on to M.
Day 90 arrived and with it, the phone call. The leukaemia had survived the treatment and was back in force. M asked if we could send him over to South Africa to see his sister. "Don't be silly, they'd never let you on a plane in your condition. And besides, she's coming over for Christmas so you can see your nephew. Surprise! Oh. Right. We'll bring the date forward."
Eldest Daughter and Youngest Grandson came for a month, then stayed for two. YG learned to walk in Scotchland. M was delighted. But hubby had to get back to SA to make ends meet and ED - reluctantly - went with him. Just a week later, when no-one was looking, M quietly slipped away. He was thirty-two years old.
We worked together to scrub the accumulated dirt from the headstone, then rinsed it clean with the rest of the water. "There you go - good as new!" declared Mrs Farty. "Goodbye and God bless, M."
Oh. And take a look at this. Please.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Me: Healthy, happy, intelligent and active professional single man, 45, originally from southern California building a house in Baja California Sur, about 900 miles below San Diego on the Sea of Cortez. Sometime hang glider pilot, downhill skier, and offroad racer, I love anything in, on, or under the ocean. Power boating, sailing, winery tours, bicycling, blues, jazz or rock concerts, Morrisey, dancing, fishing, kayaking, woodworking, tennis and weekend getaways are just a few of my interests. Improving my salsa dancing is my next goal.
You: A sense of humor is mandatory, as is intelligence. If you like the ocean and water activities, music, dancing and travel I would be captivated!!!
A walk along the beach to a nice restaurant to engage in conversation, enjoy a nice meal, and sip a glass of wine. Dancing afterwards would really complete the evening for me...all of this shared with a lady with a sparkle in her eye.
N.B. Big tits essential.
Monday, 7 May 2007
Some residents of Blogland don't care who knows their true identity1. Some go so far as to advertise their name, address and phone number. Others, who don't really fancy getting weird phone calls at all hours of the day and night, are a bit more circumspect. Some still give their name, but keep their address a mystery. Many use a pseudonym(sp?), if only to distinguish themselves from the million other "John Smiths" out there. And some are complete enigmas. I wonder if any are aliens writing blogs right now?
My point? Did I have one? Yes. You might not want certain people in your workplace or family to know what you're writing about them. Or not writing, as the case may be. People have been fired for this. And possibly divorced. Or beaten up.
So imagine my shock when, a few weeks ago, an electromail arrived in my normal inbox, from a fellow blogger whom I had never heard of until then (although it turns out that this one is in the book). How had this person found me out? Was I about to be blackmailed? What if Mrs Farty had been leaning over my shoulder when I opened my mail (as she sometimes does)?
As it turned out, I needn't have worried. I had been targeted by my blog id, but BCC'ed to hide my name from all the others on a circular. Since my inbox rules send all "MrFarty" mail to my blogger inbox, and "MrFarty" wasn't named, the default applied.
And then there was the time I posted something in the comments box of a blog that was being moderated. A hiccup in the interweb meant that the owner didn't get notified, but instead I got an "undelivered" message to let me know. From the owner's (until then) secret email address.
When someone posts a comment about one of my posts, I get an email to tell me about it. Naturally, this email goes to "MrFarty", which is the same address you see when you want to contact me. I thought everyone on Blogger did the same. Until yesterday.
Imagine my surprise when, shortly after posting a comment on xxxxx's blog, I received an email from yyyyy, helpfully telling me that yyyyy was "out of the Office until the 9th May". The contact address in the blog was not even remotely similar to the one on the email. Shome mishtake, shurely? And this from someone who works for a security firm2.
So let's be careful out there. I'm just saying.
1 A philosopher might ask, what do we mean by "true identity"? After all, you can have one identity on the interweb, one at work, one at play, one with one's spouse...see Nietzsche for more on this. I dare you.
2 btw, what does DWFN stand for?
Friday, 4 May 2007
Dontcha lurve Merkins? One little slip of the brain can give me enough material for a whole post.
I suppose it was a fair enough question, given that he was a seventeen-year-old hick from North Carolina who'd probly never been further east than the Outer Banks. The correct answer would have involved the Union of the Crowns, the Quarter-to-six rebellion, the outlawing of Gaelic, maybe a sideswipe at the Highland Clearances and the deportation of a sizeable chunk of the population of Scotchland to make room for all the sheep.
But I thought I was being sharp that day and replied: "If you come from North Carolina, how come you don't speak Cherokee?"
Which was a really lucky guess. There must be a squillion Injun tribes in North Merka, and I'd picked a local one by chance.
Hell, I was seventeen myself, so that was pretty damned smart!
But there are better ways to make friends and influence people. Like not being sarky.
Camera-ha and that. The noo.
Oh looky, Doctor Who, Billie Piper, Daleks and The Stupid French all rolled into one.
Yes, ok, this is just a filler while I think of something deep and meaningful to write. But it's a laugh, innit?
(Not Safe For Coffee)
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
I first heard Nick Drake's Place To Be on the radio in 1979, and fell in love with it straight away. On the strength of that one track, I went out and bought The Complete Recorded Works, which I thought was an odd title - what if he decided to record some more? Would they then reissue the extended triple album, or give free copies of his new material to anyone who had splashed out in good faith?
Then I read the sleeve notes.
He had died five years earlier, after overdosing on antidepressants.
He seems to be more popular now than when he was alive.
Like all great artists.