Wordless Wednesday

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

Exactly Who Thought It Would Be A Good Idea To Let All The King's Horses Go First?

I've been thinking about some popular nursery rhymes and frankly? It's pretty scary what we've been teaching our kids.

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Up Jack got, and home did trot,
As fast as he could caper¹,
To old Dame Dob², who patched his nob
With vinegar³ and brown paper⁴.

Then Jill came in, and she did grin,
To see Jack’s paper plaster;
Her mother whipped her⁵ across her knee,
For laughing at Jack’s disaster.

1. In the event of a head injury, the NHS strongly discourages any capering for at least the first 24 hours.
2. Is Dame Dob even a qualified first aider?
3. On the use of acetic acid as an antiseptic/disinfectant, the general consensus is that this should be seen as a last resort. Plus, it stings like fuck.
4. Brown paper vs crêpe bandages? What would Florence Nightingale say?
5. Child abuse! Call Social Services, stat!


There was an old lady who swallowed a fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Perhaps she'll die!

The ingestion of Drosophila melanogaster is seen by the Health and Safety Executive as a relatively low-risk activity. Death by asphyxiation or other serious trauma only occurred in 0.01% of recorded cases in 2006. However, because of its perception as a "gateway" to more hard-core fauna consumption, e.g. dogs, goats, or in extreme cases, horses, HM Government has chosen to crack down and rate fly-swallowing as a class B recreational activity punishable by up to three months imprisonment or being forced to watch old Dancing With The Stars repeats.


Hey Diddle Diddle!
The cat played the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon.

The little dog laughed
To see such fun,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

Lacking opposable thumbs, cats tend to find fiddle-playing a particularly difficult form of musicianship. So full marks to puss for his/her achievement!

Likewise, bovine moon-jumping. This is why farmyard animals have been systematically excluded from participating in Olympic events. They would just show up human athletes for the weaklings they are. An ant can lift 200 times its own body weight. Fact.¹

Dog-laughing? Dogs are stupid easily amused.

Dish-Spoon liaisons? No on 8!

1. And by "fact" I mean I just made up that figure. But I bet it's more than a human could do.²

2. Unless that human was Jack Bauer off 24. Apparently.


Old Mother Hubbard
She went to the cupboard
To get her poor doggy a bone;
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor doggy had none.

She went to the baker’s
To buy him some bread,
But when she came back
The poor doggy was dead.

She went to the joiner’s
To buy him a coffin,
But when she came back
The dog he was laughing.

She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe,
But when she came back
He was smoking his pipe.

She went to the fishmonger’s
To buy him some fish,
But when she came back
He was licking the dish.

She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer,
But when she came back
The dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
For white wine and red,
But when she came back
The dog stood on his head.

She went to the barber’s
To buy him a wig,
But when she came back
He was dancing a jig.

She went to the tailor’s
To buy him a coat,
But when she came back
He was riding a goat.

She went to the cobbler’s
To buy him some shoes,
But when she came back
He was reading the news.

She went to the hatter’s
to buy him a hat,
But when she came back
He was feeding the cat.

She went to the fruiterer’s
To buy him some fruit,
But when she came back
He was playing the flute.

She went to the sempster’s
To buy him some linen,
But when she came back
The dog he was spinning.

She went to the hosier’s
To buy him some hose,
But when she came back
He was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsey,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant,"
The dog said, "Bow-wow!"

Old Mother Hubbard was on crack.

News Roundup

Still considering whether to dip my toe into journalism. In the meantime, here's what I've seen going on in and around the webz.

Some little 11-year-old spoiled brat shot and killed his dad's pregnant girlfriend with a gun designed especially for children. What. The. Fuck? No prizes for guessing which country.

PM Gordie Broon has been caught with his troosers in a conflagration, when he claimed that he only found out this week about Fat Cat Freddie's humungous pension. M'lud, may I present in evidence The Daily Telegraph from October 14th, 2008? "Sir Fred Goodwin blah blah blah reportedly stands to benefit from a pension worth more than £500,000 on leaving the group." Perhaps Gordie was reading that article with his blind eye?

It looks like we shan't be saying "Farewell to the Torrents"¹ anytime soon. Liars for the RIAA had the temerity to question the credentials of an expert witness in the Pirate Bay trial, aaaarrrrr, Professor Roger Wallis, PhD, from the Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm, when he testified that artists who market their own material over the intertubes (e.g. Esmeé Denters) were making the very concept of copyright a thing of the past. Read about it in Wired. I like the bit about the flowers.

Ryanair has decided to start charging customers a pound to spend a penny on their planes. Remind me next time I fly Ryanair to wear a kilt. I plan to make a sit-down protest ².

The spoilsport brigade are up in arms again, this time over the return of the circus elephant. This animal has already been driven to extinction once, during the 20th century, by fuddy-duddy do-gooders, and it has taken a decade of DNA cloning, genetic modification and that to bring it back to life. Returning it to its natural habitat in the centre ring of a big-top circus has been a painstakingly slow business, involving beating the fuckers with sticks and chairs, electric cattle prods and in extreme cases shooting them for their own good.
Basically, they're like wild elephants without the jungle.

WildJust a bit miffed
Yep. No difference.

Twitter ye not. I'm on Twitter. WTF that is. I dunno, techno-something or other. It's a bit like blogging, except there's a limi

¹ © Robert Burns.

² Read Misssy's blog from "So my brother".

Give Us Your Fooking Bloooood!

This morning dawned bright and clear, with a fresh dusting of snow on the ground, and I thought, "I should totally go and give blood today, how hard can it be?" So I picked up my trusty camera and off I toddled to the blood bank. And this is how it works.

First of all, they check your name, address and date of birth, then give you a form to fill in. Well, I say "fill in", actually it's just tick yes or no in a lot of few boxes.



Next, they prick your finger to get a drop of blood and drop that into a solution of copper sulphate to see how long it takes to sink. This tells them you probly don't have enough iron in your blood to donate any today.



Then they wheel in a trolley, whip out a syringe and take about a fingerful of blood to do a more precise measurement. But they don't take it out of your finger, obv, 'cause that would leave it empty. No, they take it from the inside of your elbow. Then they get you to hold a swab over the hole while they run that test, so you can't hold the camera, sigh.

Finally, they tell you that the minimum level of iron they need is 135, but yours is only 132, so if you'd been a woman that would be ok (so I should have gone ahead with that operation after all) but as it is you can have a free non-alcoholic beverage and a handful of biscuits and then come back in three months when you're fit enough to give blood.

Easy peasy!

And Now I Feel Itchy

So, not much in the news this week, really.

A seven-year-old boy has been thrown out of an Australian zoo for feeding the reptiles...to the crocodile. But hey, haven't we all done that? No? Just me then.

Aggie off How Clean Is Your House admits that she used to work for MI6. Who do think did all the cleaning up after those fights and explosions in James Bond?

Mortgage lender Bradford and Bingley has been nationalised after coming a cropper in the credit crunch. Apparently any speculators who bought shedloads of shares in the company when they bottomed out last Friday, in the hope of making a quick buck after they bounced back up, will now lose the lot. Bwahahaha! Not that I know anyone that stupid. *snort*

A couple of planes got stuck in mid-air after a Lesbian air traffic controller overslept. Her bosses were planning to discipline her for her tardiness, but decided she would probly enjoy it too much.

World War One veteran Henry Allingham, 112, has published the first volume of his autobiography. If sales go well and he collects enough material, he plans to release part two in 2108.

And finally, Cyril, this year's Ig Nobel winners have been announced. My favourite is the Biology Prize awarded to the French team who discovered that dog fleas can jump higher than cat fleas. This is stuff we need to know!

Toot toot!

And I'd Have Gotten Away With It Too...

...if it wasn't for those pesky non-existent kids.

How can anyone, even in Glasgow, claim benefits for fourteen children she doesn't have for four years and nobody even bother to check? Grr.

She'd probably be claiming still, except that she "got greedy" and started claiming for phantom disabilities that her phantom kids didn't have.

"Er, hello, is that the Social? Aye, it's Mrs Semple. Again. It's aboot oor wee, er, haud on...Tariq. The poor wee thing's got, let's see, Gulf War Syndrome. How much can we get for that? Pardon? Aye, he's three. Well, Ah suppose he must of caught it from his dad. Along with the mesothelioma, cirrhosis and Madonna's Disease. Making it up, what makes you think I'm making it up? The Internet wouldn't lie to me...would it?"

Anniversary

They played Fields of Gold on the radio today, just as the wreath arrived.

That's the same tune they played in church on the day we buried M.

It's four years today since this happened.

We took the wreath up to Livingston, tidied the grave, cleaned the little ornaments and the headstone.

Just as I was wondering whether it would be the right thing to take a photo to send to his big sister, who had never seen it, L said: "I'm just going to take a photo to email to his sister."

I would post it here. But some things are too personal.

Say A Little Prayer

Bossy's daughter has had a mishap. With a dog. Not Stella. Please visit Bossy here and let her know you're thinking of the poor kid.

If You're Easily Offended, Look Away Now

Lord Lucan, Shergar and Madelaine McCann walk into a bar. The barman says, "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Something Terrible Has Happened

This is one of my great-nieces. Isn't she a little angel? When she climbs up on my knee, puts her arms around my neck and declares, "I love you, Uncle Farty", it's the most wonderful feeling on earth. If anything bad were ever to happen to her, I would be devastated.

It hasn't.

But.

Pour yourself a stiff drink, then read this.

Mama They Hurt Me Here.

I feel helpless.

The Visit

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.

Return of the King

Yes, Steve has returned triumphant after conquering Mount Kilimanjaro. A little short of breath, but he made it all the way to the summit. Hurrah! The final push began at midnight, so he arrived at the top of the world in the wee small hours. For some inscrutable reason, he didn't wait around for dawn but headed straight back down, picked up Damion (who had only made it part-way up on account of a mild case of pulmonary embolism and fluid in the lungs) and hit the sweltering jungle a few hours later. Where else can you get frostbite in the morning and malaria in the afternoon?

Well done, chaps!

The Two Twats

Journey to the Crossroads

Dam: Oh, master Stevo, I'm so tired. We've been stumbling along for hours and we've gone no further than when we set out.
Stevo: Yes, it feels like we've been going round in circles. Let's ask that kindly-looking stranger over there for directions.
Security Guard: Could you step down from the carousel, please? You're damaging the other passengers' luggage. Now, you need to make your way through that dark and mysterious portal. No, that's the Ladies'. Over there to the left; the one marked "Exit".

***
Dam: Wow! Oliphants! I've never seen Oliphants before! They're amazing!
Stevo: If you've never seen them before, how do you know they're Oliphants? Anyway, those are giraffes, you idiot. You can tell by the stripes.
Dam: Oi'm so glad you're here to keep me straight, master Stevo.
Stevo: Think nothing of it. Anyway, we'll take two stuffed giraffes and four of those Amusing Monkeys. With the Fez and the Small Clay Pipe. And CAN! YOU! DIRECT! US! TO! MOUNT! KILIMANJARO?
Shop Assistant: No worries, mate. You take a left as you leave the airport terminal, two blocks along and you come to the bus station. There's an hourly service, tickets are twenny bucks each. You wanna coupla tinnies of FourEx to wet your whistle?
Stevo: Er, no thanks, but do you have any canned lager?

***

Wiilob's Lair

Wiilob waits patiently in the gathering darkness. Wiilob has waited a long time. She can wait a while longer. She hears footsteps approaching. Soon there will be a tasty snack.

***

Dam: The sun sets really fast in these parts, master Stevo; it's almost pitch black and there's still no sign of a Travelodge. We'd better pitch camp for the night while we can still see what we're doing.
Stevo: Fair enough, Dam. Hey, Tembe! Can you tell your boys to set us down here and put up the tents and that? We're off to scout around for totty; I remember seeing a group of Kiwis up ahead of us; they might be worth investigating.
Tembe: Sure thing, Bwana. {turning to the team of porters carrying the sedan chairs} Kiri-Te-Ka-na-wa!*

* Translation: "Wait until these idiots are out of sight, then leg it with their gear. This lot should fetch at least thirty bucks on eBay."

***

Closer come the footsteps and closer yet. Wiilob can hardly contain her excitement. Just a few more moments and then she can plunge her sting deep into the soft, yielding flesh of her unsuspecting prey. She would salivate at the thought if she had saliva glands. But she doesn't; so she won't. Just a few...moments...more...

Squelch!

"What was that squelching noise?" asks Dam.
Stevo replies: "I think I've just trodden in something." He fumbles around in his cloak, then proudly holds aloft the Light of Vidor that is Ever Ready. "Ew!"
"Is it edible?" asks Dam, pragmatic as ever.
"Kind of depends how hungry you are, I suppose."

***

The Fellowship on the Wing

The Fellowship Sets Out

Even before the stars had begun to fade from the night sky, Stevo and his trusty sidekick Dam had already packed their supplies for the trip into a handful of Tupperware boxes, grabbed a quick bite to eat from the magic white cabinet, prepared their steeds, thought "feck it" and phoned for a taxi. Dawn's early light found them gazing out over the silvery wing of flight LF552 bound for Schiphol.
"Tell me again, Dam" said Stevo. "How did you come to break your toe last week?"
"'T'were like this, master Stevo," replied his companion, tugging furiously at an imaginary forelock. "There I were, pruning back the hollyhocks and generally mindin' me own business, when this great black beast swooped down from the sky, its foul breath wilting all me lovely nasturtiums and - "
"Only the way I heard it, you cracked it with a number two iron at Gullane."
"Well, yes, if you want to get technical."
"This is going to be one tricky climb with your gammy foot. It's a good thing we've got my superior intelligence to rely on."
"Yessir, master Stevo. You're sure there's a Pizza Hut on Mount Kilimanjaro?"
"Of course there is. You worry so, Dam!" laughed Stevo. "And even if there isn't, I can always phone for a delivery. And you know it's free if it's not delivered in 30 minutes!"

***

At the Sign of the Non-Working Monkey

And so it was that, tired and weary after a 90-minute flight in first class, they came to the wondrous Land of Holl, known to the locals as the Lands of Nether. Although the language spoken in this country was Double Dutch, our travellers were lucky to find that the Common Tongue was well-understood, if they spoke clearly. And shouted.
"Just enough time to stock up on Longbottom Leaf," commented Dam, tamping down his pipe.
"Bugger that," said Stevo. "I'm going on another kind of trip altogether. Here, into this Coffee Shop."
Two hours later, suitably refreshed, they staggered out into the broad light of day and headed back to the airport, ready to face the longest stretch of their journey so far.
"Whit d'you reckon, Dam? Think they'll be showing Blood Diamond on ra flight?"
"Aw, bound tae, man. That or Hot Fuzz. Mebbe both."
"Quali'y, man."

Kilimanjaro Challenge

My mate Stephen and his mate Damion recently decided it would be a spiffing idea to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. For charidee. Next month. As you do.

When they sobered up, it still seemed like a good idea, so they started watching Ray Mears, er, I mean putting in some serious training. Walking five miles to work daily, swimming 24 lengths at lunchtime and that.

The lengths people will go to to get out of coming to our Silver Anniversary party ;-)

Can't wait to see the video diary...