Missing Link

"And I would have got away with it too, if it hadn't been for those pesky links."

Apologies if you've tried any of the sidebar links. I had a small brain seizure last night and entered the wrong code. For everything.

(i.e. I made a complete arse of things - I promise to make it all ok)

Bear with me little ones...

S'andy man

I have been sanding floors.

For two days.

My head hurts.

"Worse things happen at sea," smiled Mrs Stark in an attempt to diffuse my explosive mood.
"Yeah, some poor bastard has to sand and stain the entire deck," I replied before returning to the task in hand.

I hired an industrial sander from one of those hire places which make you feel less of a man because you don't know the difference between an 'orbital' and a 'drum' sander.
When I say " you" I obviously mean "me."

Perhaps I am less of a man because of this. Or because I had to use ear plugs when using the big, scary alpha-male sanding machine. (Well, it was creating a bit of a racket and I'm growing more noise sensitive in my old age).

Anyway, Stark mansions has returned to its peaceful state and the floors look... well, like it's been 'Tango'd'. The tin read 'antique pine' but the lady at the counter must have switched it for 'Shades of Dale Winton'.

"Never mind," said Mrs S, "it'll look better when it dries in."

Things never look better when they 'dry in.' (ooh, hark at the woodstain philosopher)

Ants In My Pants

OK, not so much my pants, exactly, but it's hard to make anything rhyme with 'kitchen working surface'.
They are everywhere, the devilish little movable inkspots.
I've tried all traditional methods of ant obliteration - stamping on them, squishing them with kitchen roll and screaming: "GET THE HELL OUT MY HOUSE YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!" at the top of my voice. All to little or no avail.

(incidentally,why is it things are always to NO avail. When was the last time you heard someone say "the stamping on them was to HUGE avail"?)

But the ants are wisening up. No sooner than I slowly crook my head around the kitchen door when one ant spies me and sends out secret ant messages to his fourteen thousand friends. "The ant serial killer is upon us" they squeak in an anty squeaky way, and they scatter like a bag of dropped marbles.
It's an ongoing battle - a little like Inspector Clouseau and Kato. You can guess who's who here.

I fear the armies are gathering, their force is strong. It;s like Zulu, only with ants. Where's Michael Caine when I bloody need him?

It's a waiting game...

All ant-obliteration tips gratefully received.

The sooner I'm elected God... the better

I’m having one of those days when I think the world would be a better place, if only I were God.
Being God should be a democratically elected process. I think I’d run a good campaign.
The main points in my ‘Manifesto For Becoming God’ would include...

1) All personalised car license plates would read TWAT, irrespective of what the owner asked for. The owner of the yappy little BMW might have asked for K00L J1M - and to their eyes, that's exactly what it will say, but to the rest of us, it will read TWAT.

2) Snakes (and any other animal which attack me in anxiety dreams) will become extinct. Effective immediately. Watch your step Mr Adder. Oh, and the same goes for the ants who infiltrate my kitchen. Your card has been marked.

3) Chips will make you thin and attractive to the opposite sex. The same will apply to Guinness.

4) The notion of celebrity will cease to exist. The most ‘famous' person you know will be the local baker. Note to footballers' wives - be afraid. Be very afraid.

5) Kwik Fit will provide an friendly, efficient service. And be free.

Sorry... it must be the heat.

Beer goggles

OK, I know this page looks as appealing as Christine Hamilton sans make-up but bear with me.

I have the technical ability of a baboon. With no arms. Or eyes. Or the
concept of ability.

I will rectify this. I will slap on some blog make-up and make it look attractive when you're sober, and not just after a few drinks.

(Sub)Urban Survival - Part Two

Where once the hand of friendship was held out to my furry grey chum, it has now been withdrawn.
Permanently.
He's taken advantage of my hospitality, of my generosity with a packet of out of date cashews.
He began inviting his friends over to share in the spoils. At one point last week, there were even three 'Steves' in the garden, loitering with malicious intent like the rodent tearaways they are. They even ruined the lawn, digging little holes to store their stash for a rainy day. I've even considered approaching the SSPCA with a view to taking out an Anti Social Behaviour Order on Steve and his treacherous gang, but I'm not sure ASBOs were designed with squirrels in mind.
I feel used, as if I've left a teenager in charge of the house while I've been on holiday, only to return to realise they've had a wild party and emptied the drinks cabinet.
Friendships don't recover from things like that.
If you thought squirrels were those cute little critters who would entertain the That's Life cameras by completing an SAS-type assault course, think again. Some squirrels have no respect.
From now on, I'm keeping my nuts to myself.

(Sub)urban survival - Part One

IT started out friendly enough, my relationship with Steve the squirrel.
But like so many blossoming friendships, things quickly turned sour.
The build up of resentment, the bitterness, the distrustful looks, all contributed to the messy end of what was once a promising relationship between man and beast.
Like so many similar tales, it started one spring weekend. As I glanced out of kitchen window and despaired at the amount of weeds infiltrating the onion bed, I spotted a little ball of grey fur darting across the lawn.
Excited as five-year-old I Immediately grabbed a few brazil nuts from the kitchen cupboard and headed outside to confront our garden visitor. To my utter delight, he didn't dart off to the safety of next door, fleeing from the big scary man with a manic grin.
Over the course of a few weeks, and taking my queue from the Bird Man of Alcatraz, I'd tamed my new wild friend enough to feed him a few nuts by hand.
Along with the family of flea-ravaged pigeons and the nervous ginger tom cat, he became part of the menagerie of animals that use my back garden as a kind of drop-in centre for wayward wildlife.
I say him, I've never got close enough to carry out a full medical. Nor, I hasten to add before you turn your computer off and call the SSPCA, do I have any plans to. Doctor Doolittle I'm not.
Admittedly, calling him Steve wasn't the best of ideas as it's also the name of a close friend who, upon hearing of his tree-dwelling rodent namesake, was less than enamoured. I couldn't blame him really.
Not to mention my father-in-law's look of bewilderment when we I explained I'd caught Steve hanging upside down from the bird feeder trying to scrape out the remaining seeds. "He doesn't look agile enough," was his response.
One day recently, I kid you not, I left the house only to find my new furry friend sitting on the doorstep awaiting his daily nut feast. He even began following me down the street like a lost puppy as I made my way to the bus stop. "Steve, you can't come with me, go home," I ordered him before realising I was talking to a squirrel and quickly stopped before anyone noticed.
But time changes everything.

To be cont'd...

..and they're off!

OK, I admit it, I'm a bit slow off the mark.

Just when it seems blogs are 'very last season dahling' I finally get round to writing one.
Being an incurable procrastinator, it will probbaly take me weeks to get round to writing things like 'my profile, etc. So, for now, you'll just have to draw your own conclusions...

I can't promise you much, dear reader (he says optimistically , as if there were any ACTUAL readers at all) except regular musings, ramblings, rantings and generally talking bollocks. It's what I do best, really. The bollocks bit I mean.

No, really.... stick around for joy.

Hello world...

Thursday, July13
Hello... one, two... hello?

Can you hear me at the back?