The Hymen Manoeuvre

So. Just another quiet weekend at Farty Towers. Up at 7:30 on Saturday morning for a pee. Dither over whether to stay up. For about a nanosecond. Wake up again at 9:30, that's more like it. Make bacon sandwiches. You get the idea.

Blah blah blah Britain's Got Talent crap except for that little black girl blah blah.

Blah blah blah Eurovision. Denmark's attempt to clone Ronan Keating - creepy; Germany using a stripper to boost their vote - FAIL. Russia - as host, superb production values; their own entry - not so much. France - completely forgettable¹. Spain sitting there all alone on nul points until neighbouring Andorra took pity and gave them twelve. Nope, not political at. all. UK could have done better if Andrew Lloyd Webber had stayed off stage.

Lloyd Webber

And well done to Alistair Darling's love-child on pulling it off for Norway.

Alistair Darling

Love Child

Anyway. Today. I've made roast chicken, parsnips, boiled potatoes, carrots, sweetcorn and gravy, nothing fancy. Mrs F compliments me on my cooking. Little Miss F has just gone outside for some fresh air. Drummer Boy ² goes to check up on her, then comes running back inside.

"What?" asks Mrs F, "tell me what's wrong!"

Not a word comes from him, although his face has gone a funny colour.

LMF comes running in behind him, all in a panic. By this time he's bending over, facing away from us and pointing to his back. Mrs F realises what's wrong and thumps him on the back. "Has that cleared it?" He shakes his head.

This is where Mr Farty steps up to the mark, puts his nose to the grindstone and leaps into action. I ♥ mixing metaphors. Read this bit from the bottom up.



Step up behind. Hug below ribcage. Squeeze. Hard. Again. Take a bow.

So yeah, I just totally saved someone's life. Fuck me.

Having choked up the piece of chicken that was stuck in his throat, he then showed his Scotch credentials and asked for ice cream.

"Christ, how can you be thinking about pudding at a time like this?" I asked.

"Naw, it's for my sore throat," he croaked. "That bit chicken scratched it on the way up."

So Mrs F called NHS 24 and told them all about our little drama, including me giving DB the Hymen Manoeuvre to dislodge the chicken. "What? Oh, Heimlich. Right." And they asked him to drop in for a checkup.

Anyway, he's just been to A&E³ to get it checked out and they say he'll be fine. Just so long as he remembers to chew before swallowing.

¹ No, really. I don't remember the French song. Was it any good?
² I've decided to call him this at least until he marries my daughter. It's shorter than Potential Second Son-In-Law.
³ ER

There Is So Much To Tell You

Was it just me or did my blog disappear for a bit when my stat counter hit 40,000? Hey, my stat counter just hit 40,000! Yay!

Apparently what's-his-name has been compared to a dead monkey and the Merkan people are up in arms about it. Hello? Anyone remember Dubya "monkeyface" Bush? Monkeyface. That still kills me. Ask Tired Dad if you don't get it.

Do you think anyone will notice if Darling Alistair updates his blog? Hmmm, better not diss the boss. I, for one, welcome our new political paymasters.

Something in the Grauniad online about the King Kong Defence. I would have thought the only defence KK would need was a giant fly swatter.
See Golden Shpleem for more Lego scenarios.

Slapheads are wondering why Geordies (people from Newcastle) don't wear coats in cold weather. Answer: They don't want to look soft compared to Aberdonians, who don't even bother with a t-shirt until the mercury has frozen in the thermometer.

So the French ran into one of our submarines with one of theirs. The official excuse is that "they can't see each other in the water", but I prefer to think that our cloaking technology works and their anti-cloaking technology doesn't.

Kids are so ignorant these days, it's almost as if they're being fed misinformation deliberately. Case in point:
GS#2: "Grandad, who said 'religion is the opium of the people'?"
Me: "Groucho Marx."
Honestly, I thought everyone knew that. All that knowledge right there at their fingertips, sigh.

Favourite Niece phoned earlier to say that her Sunday afternoon at work had been interrupted by her boss turning up and telling everyone in the office all about his recent trip to Tie Land, whoop de fucking doo.
Me: Is that like Tie Rack or World of Ties? I mean, I like ties but an entire store given over to them does seem a bit excessive.
FN: No, Tie Land the country.
Me: You're shitting me, right? A whole country given over to tie production?
FN: Bang cock.
Me: Tits and - oh, you mean Thailand!
FN: Yes, silly.
Me: So did he bring back any ties?
FN: Just the one he married.

I ♣ seals.
PETA is running a campaign to save the sea kittens. That's fish, to you and me. Mmmm, tasty kittens. Well, not for me, obviously, I prefer baby sheep with mint sauce.

Toot toot!

I'm Not A Racist But...

I just can't stand the French.

Now I'm not sure whether it's because they're an arrogant bunch of cheese-eating, wine-guzzling, garlic-munching surrender-monkeys...



...or because they nuked Muroroa Atoll in breach of local and international laws...



Perhaps it's because they sank the Rainbow Warrior, murdered a Greenpeace crew member and thought they could get away with it.



No, mainly I think it's because they like to eat snails, frogs and horses.



Nothing to do with today's 6 Nations rugby result, no sirree!