What eats chest infections?

Like riding a rhinoceros, bareback through Halifax in winter time, or doing Lycra clad lunges at the top of your lungs in the women's lib section of your local Library, telling a Peruvian you think Paddington bear is English, is ill advised.

And I don't even speak Peruvianese.

There is a certain train of thought, just off the main line, down amongst the coal smoke haze that is the sidings and shunting area, that says metaphors are best left to the French.

And love making.

I shall now, not differ from that opinion thus: I agree.

The French, in particular their philosophers, have a knack of phrasing things in such a cunning and pleasing way I sometimes find myself wishing to insert a French phrase or word into the conversation, just because.

Unless of course you are Jean-Paul Sartre and therefore 'up yourself' and use the German word without explaining it.

Recently I found myself in the literary portion of the Labyrinth, or rather the new Literary portion. You see the old 'literary' part of my interminable papier mache hell was the bit that had been crafted out of 3 old take-away menus from pizza shops.

You'd like a Hawaiian pizza, with extra pineapple, a bottle of trademarked pop and some chicken nibblers for your son? Why that's easy, you carry the 4 and have yourself a bill (and tasty yet ultimately unhealthy snack) for 11.77. Unless of course you were shopping at one of the other two shops.

But, if you were shopping at M.ade UPizza Emporium no 2 you'd know that they don't sell chicken nibblers, only turkey gobblers.

Yes.

Back to the topic at hand. As I pushed past the cobwebs and slug trails I found my feet steering me upon new sands, new golden pathways.

I looked about me and saw row upon row of books, shelves stacked high with volumes and volumes, book after book after book. Followed by pamphlets and more books.

My hopes of a brilliant distraction and new found knowledge were hopelessly dashed when I found that all of the tomes were one of two, endlessly copied and duplicated.

The first was Sartre's masterwork and crowning achievement 'Being and Nothingness' which is more long winded than my great-gran on one of her rants about disabled parking spaces - and she lived to 107! All the time complaining about disabled parking spaces!

Look Gran-gran, you can't just leave your dog there and pretend its taken! You don't even own a car! Crazy lady.

The second was The Peruvian Health Service's guide to overcoming Nosebleeds' the deliciously entitled 'La guía de la peruana Salud Serivce a vencer Hemorragias nasales'.

Yes you read that correctly Hemorragias nasales. Hmm, those Spanish words, they sound so sexy!

So, it was great that a few months later, having examined all of the books and finding them to be the exact same work, simply recopied into different covers, I was called by a Peruvian man. Below is a rough translation of our conversation.

'Hello?'

'Hi. My name is Enrique P Eruvian, I am calling for Hector B Razilian. Is he in?'

'Erm, no. I think perhaps you should sit down, madam, as you seem to be a bit pale. Have you been experiencing dizziness?'

'What are you talking about? I am a man. Why should I sit down?'

'I apologise Miss, I now can see it is only a nosebleed. Would you like me to call a doctor, although you may be qualified, saying this may reassure people, or I can see to it myself, if you wish?'

'I think perhaps you are the one who needs help, you are clearly ***************** ****** ** *******************ing insane.'

(At that point we were interrupted by someone trying to fax through, so I missed the bit in the middle).

'Sir I think you may be becoming hysterical through lack of blood, would you like me to shove this up your nose, at this point hold forwards the specially adapted nose blocker.'

(I was then distracted by the wonderance of 'do they have Peru nuts, like they have Brazil nuts?)

'You are a mad mad man and I hope I never meet you. I hope you're Great-gran is a crazy old lady and her dog tries to mount Australians whenever it pleases. Good night!'

Just before he slammed down the phone I knew I had chance for one repartee, one final parting shot, to reclaim some pride and to 'win' the conversation.

'Yeah, well, Paddington Bear is definitely English, so there, Hombre!'

If life were really like Eastenders

We'd all be stuffed.

Announcer : And now on BBC1, the Queen's Christmas Speech.

Queen : Good afternoon. Shat it you cooooow, I'm speaking, int I?


Apollo 17 : Houston, we have a problem.

Houston : What is it Apollo?

Apollo 17 : Some freaking pikey chav has nicked our parking space!


Sunday School Teacher : So, Nikki, what is your favourite miracle in the Bible?

Nikki : The one where Jesus turns the water into Bacardi Breezer, innit.


Child : Shut up! You're not my mum!

Mum : Yes, I am!

Child : No! You can't be.

Mum : No, you're right. I just made that up!


Ricky : Janet! I need to speak to you.

Janet : Why, whats it about?

Ricky : I've been seeing your sister.

Janet : What? Where?

Ricky : Oh, just around and about, she looks much better. Just thought I'd say.

Janet : Ta, love.

Sometimes, everything you do, everything you touch, really comes off. You just can't help yourself, its like you're a walking, talking success machine. Everybody you see is smiling at you and wanting to be your friend. Everywhere you sit people want to be with you and everywhere you walk, birds fall from the sky.

Apparently.

For me its a little less like that. And more like getting your tie trapped in the spokes of a child's bicycle, the first thing everyone thinks is 'How?' Not, 'how do I help', but 'how on earth did that happen?'

And you keep catching your chin on the stabiliser wheel, and the child won't slow down because she thinks you're hilarious, like some kind of clown. Then she remembers she doesn't like clowns and pedals faster. All the while the onlookers are thinking 'Wow, he's so committed to his physical comedy.'

Its like the man said; its all fun and games until someone loses a tie.

Or like Woody Allen said 'Look at me, I'm rich and successful!' Sorry, I meant the other quote. 'Life doesn't imitate art, it imitates crap television.'

You've got to wonder though, haven't you.


No, you misunderstood;

You have got to wonder.

So go do it.

Herbert

So, you've all been wondering where our faithful sidekick Herbert has been these last few days and posts, and because you've all been wondering, I'll tell you.

He's been teaching in Scandinavia. You may remember that up there in the darker parts there is a small tribe of large necked geese, which are named after him.

He recently had to go and preside over a disciplinary action for one of the younger geese who had got it into his beak that it was OK for him to date a swanlet.

Unfortunately for him the Herbertians operate a strictly goose-on-goose policy concerning relationships. This obviously scuppered his chances of 'making it' with said swanlet, and thats a shame as he'd just started to learn a ballet by Tchaikovsky to impress her.

Whilst Herbert was up there in the dark land he took time to fill them in on some of his newer philosophies which he had recently been working on, a lot of them seemingly coming during his frequent midnight iced-cream and sci-fi binges. I'm getting worried for that giraffe. If he watches Total Recall one more time I might have to call the RSPCA and see if anything can be done.

'Hello, Battersea Giraffes Home.'

'Yes, hello. I have a small problem with my giraffe - Herbert - and I was wondering if you could help me?'

'Well, we can certainly try sir. What seems to be the problem?'

'He's... well, recently he seems to have changed behavioural patterns quite a bit. Just doing things that he wasn't doing before, staying up late, that kind of thing.'

'Ah yes, it sounds like he's entering what we like to call the 'midnight' phase. You might find that he goes through quite a lot of 'Cookie dough' ice cream and develops a sudden inexplicable interest for the back catalogue of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Its really quite normal.'

'Oh, ok. What about a sudden socialist bent in his politics, is that a normal thing?'

'What are you? Some kind of nut job!? Get off the phone now, you freak!'

Yeah, that would go really well.

One of the pastimes I sometimes engage in when I'm bored and need cheering is to answer the phone in more and more whimsical ways.

Think about it for a second, if I answer the phone to you 'Hello' you know things are normal, and the conversation could be dull, our lives dull, and dullness will continue.

If I answer the phone (at 10AM) 'Good evening Windsor castle - corgis for hire' you begin to get intrigued. You wonder if it is always evening in Windsor castle (yes) if they do hire corgis out (yes) to anyone who calls (not really) and how I manage to get a paragraph of text out of such nonsense.

Its a gift.

One of my favourite examples of this really working was me answering the phone thus;

'McHelloooo!'

The Scottish lady on the other end of the phone laughs and replies 'How did you know it was me?'

'I didn't.'

I'm sure you'll join with me in admiring the sheer class of that situation.

Speaking of class, its time for me to reveal another of my (not) award winning musical jokes, this one based on a Kylie Minogue song - 'I just can't get you out of my head'.

I just can't get you out of my shed
Boy your lawn is all that I think about.

Trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel.
Trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel, trowel!

One reviewer said of my musical jokes 'I wish I could ... write like him. They're so ... funny and seem so effortless. Its almost like he isn't trying. Sometimes ... I sit ... and ... read them ... and laugh for hours.'

Ok so, I just made that up, but it could have been said, certainly bits of it could.

Recently, my boss has introduced me to something which I now call 'Dan's double drat scale'. It consists of making a perfectly acceptable exclamation of annoyance - for example 'bottoms' and then multiplying it logarithmically.

As a for instance, the above 'bottoms' because 'oh, bottoms to the power of ten!'

This is much more effective at conveying the annoyance and can keep a conversation going where the event that caused the exclamation may have killed it. I shall now leave you with a few of the best examples I can think of in the next 1 minute.

'Poo, pants, knickers to the power of poo, pants knickers.'

'Disproportionate buttocks times seven.'

'Oh, mongs cubed!'

'Fail x Fail.'

'Spastic cow noises divided by the square root of an irrational number!'

An Epic Poem - The Tale of Libax the Righteous

For one of the faithful few who actually read this nonsense!

Come one, come all,
My dear maids and men,
come to the fire, be warmed by my words.

You asked for a tale, young sir,
Said 'spare not the glory, nor honour, nor power
and make it quite good, eh?'

So I'll give you your 'logue,
Thirst for adventure be sated,
when you hear the Tale of Libax the Righteous.

In a land far off, in thought and in space,
A way not trodden, through dense ferny dales,
we find our dear hero, about her ways.

Our patron saint, in those far off lands,
She stands tall and strong, determined and pure,
with a voice that melts ice, and lies.

Now, saints start humble, none born into patronage,
With hearts of pure crystal and heads full of hair,
though most will add crystal to their dark locks.

They stand between man and God, 'twixt lover and lost,
With hands in the dirt and eyes on the sky,
roaming our Earth, causing good will.

Of course our fair hero, the inimitable Libax,
Is not at all different, as this tale will tell.

Not so much born as bequeathed, a gift,
To us the mere mortals, who quiver like reeds,
an example, a statue of upright, correct.

Leaving behind, conventions and frivols,
putting asunder, the cares of us simpler types,
she rides a grey stallion, and heralds the truth.

I tell of a voice, clear and far reaching,
And so it was simple, calling unveiled,
to lead forth the singers and blessed others, her task.

Our fledgling saint, now commissioned and sent,
Put to the test by torturous evils. Condemned to live
with jester-cum-fool, her patience grew to inordinate strengths.

Eyes of clarity and mind filled with stratagems,
Heart of gold, crystal and silver, burnished, tested,
tried and true.

Libax, the warrior, the priestess, the princess,
Our hero, our favourite, our Patron Saint.

Astride grey 'fuego', the fore mentioned steed,
she powers onwards, towards the inevitable transfer,
where life becomes more and death left undone.

Time and tide may wait for none,
But Libax pays even less heed,
punching through stratospheres with ferocious aplomb.

Those singers and songstrells, once hearing the voice,
Lost not a moment to unite their wills,
and capture her sainthood, for their lost cause.

Libax the righteous, formed and fulfilled,
Though far from finished, or ceasing at all,
stands tall to guide, a Patron Saint of Singers.

Say what of an ending, your eyes seem to speak,
Tell of the transfer, the switch that you spoke,
but to tell all is not my dominion, nor my realm.

See, my friends, this story's come far,
and much left to do, but like all the best endings,
it is yet to be told.

Seven pence, times twelve

So, today we have a little breathing space.

Its called a decompression chamber. Ba-dum, tish.

I'm very fond of the rhyme 'As I was going to St. Ives...' and often preface it to many things, to see if I can get the funniest possible sentence to follow it.

So far I've had a few, one which I was very proud of in Norway, during a game of Mafia, but I'm not going to tell you what it was. Its more fun for me that way, and its all about me having fun.

Instead what I am going to tell you about is seagulls, or peanuts, or whist. I'm not sure which. You see, I was going to write about something else entirely, but decided that it was far too true and honest, and the purpose of this catalogue of words is entertainment, not honesty. That's the Pope's job.

So there I was, sailing the seven pence seas aboard the good ship dodecahedron when I sighted land. Or at least I thought it was land.

What it actually was, will shock and astound you. It beggars belief, it is so completely counter-intuitive it could be a Microshift Whatdows product.

I turned to my first mate - Three legged Willy - and said 'Is that what I think it is?'

'Aye' said he, 'as long as you are thinking it is what it actually is. Arr.'

'Thanks, Willy.'

So I called up to Herbert in the crows nest. Well, I say in the crows nest, he's so tall he actually is the crows nest.

'Is that thing out there what I think it is?'

'That group of highly trained Polynesian hippos doing a circular dance for the BBC? Around an invisible aquatic maypole? Yes.'

Ahh, I thought to my self. That's not what I had thought it was, but I shan't tell the crew that. In fact, I thought to my self, I'll keep it to my self.

'Good, that's exactly what I thought it was.' I said loudly, and not at all shiftily.

It was at this point I did something foolish, something I didn't think through, and have regretted doing ever since I made up this whole story, on the fly, about 1.47 seconds ago.

I shouted up to Herbert again; 'While you're there, you wouldn't mind shoo-ing away that Albatross, would you?'

Three Legged Willy gasped, but said nothing. He knew better than to question his captain. Unless it was charades, in that circumstance he's nothing but questions and no respecter of rank.

At that exact point, from stage left, appeared a man who looked not unlike Michael Palin shouting 'Albatross' a lot and swearing copiously. Luckily he was dealt with by two-tone Trev and Jimmy 'The shoulders' Mcgee.

Like the school fool eating gruel, I forgot my Coleridge and carried on.

Many nights I had lain awake, ruminating on 'Kubla Khan' and the mastery of language therein. I'd thought of his other works, his thoughts and ideas, all eloquently expressed.

And I'd forgotten the most important of all lessons. I'd forgotten all I'd been taught at Sea-Captain Pirate school for the Nautically deficient.

I climbed up on Herbert's back and began the shoo-ing myself.

Twelve times it dove and wheeled and dove again. Herbert bravely stood his ground, getting terrible wounds from its poisonous fangs and trailing tentacles. Finally I put away my broom stick and clambered down of Herbert's back. I had realised my error.

Never, ever, mess with an Albatross. For a sea captain they are a symbol of life, of hope and of a 'Yours is on the house tonight, my lad' at the Pig and Whistle.

I turned to two tone Trev. 'Ruddy Albatross, it won't leave Herbert alone!'

'Oh that isn't an Albatross, boss' he rhymed idly. 'That's the mystical offspring of a chance meeting and mating of a Unicorn and a Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish.'

'Ahh,' said in a revelatory tone 'is that all?'

'Well, man the cannons then, we'll have it for supper.'

Hose cleaning

So, underneath this post is the [not] eagerly awaited 2nd part of my saga about a man on a hill. I hope you enjoy it.

I'm not going to explain it, not yet at least. There are 2 more installments to go before we reach the end, so it should all become a little more clear then.

I was going to write something longer and funnier for here, but I've just used all of my creativity and half of my lunch break writing the post beneath, so I'll bid thee all 'fare the well' which is an olde Englishe terme for(e) 'don't knock the fairy into the well' and see you on the morrow.


Or something.

Carry Moonbeams Home In A Jar...

I turned to look at him, it was the first time I'd really done that.

He'd come away from his place by the tree effortlessly and seemed to glide towards me. He walked like a street brawler, or an accomplished dancer, I couldn't tell which. I noticed I'd clenched my fist and was eyeing him up the way I would before a fight. I could take him, I decided, but then, thats what I always decide.

'Is this your field then?' He talked like he knew all the answers and I clenched my jaw in frustration.

'Actually, yes it is.' What the hell, if he wasn't going to claim it, maybe I could and get him out of here. There was still time to get my peace back.

'Why didn't you ask me to get off then? Or put up a sign?'

My response was a long time in coming and he knew why. 'Its not your field, it never was. Its mine really.'

I was intrigued by the 'really' but hated myself for it. This guy was getting under my skin, with his pleasant smile and meek attitude. He's the kinda guy that would get a beating in the school playground and still be friendly with everyone when they'd finished. What a jerk!

'I come here to get away from people too.' How he knew why I came, I'm not sure I'll ever know. It worried me though.

'You some kind of stalker, mate?' It wasn't friendly, it was threatening.

'No, no. Just read it in your face, thats all. Its a nice place to come, when you've got better things to be doing. I love the tree line over on that hill there, the way it leads down the hill to the river bank. Its so beautiful.'

If it wasn't enough that he'd stolen my tree, my hill and my peace, he'd also laid claim to the best looking bit of the view.

'So,' I started 'you've got better things to be doing?' I wasn't really in the mood for subtlety, and this guy really didn't merit any.

'Maybe I'm doing them.' He turned back to me and smiled. I could have punched right on the nose.

'What do you do then?'

'I used to be in planning, but now I mostly work in consulting.' He waved the question away with the back of his hand. 'What do you do?'

'Oh, I'm, well actually, I'm...' My voice faltered and I wondered why I couldn't just tell this guy. Just man up and say it, spit it out. What do you care anyway, you've said much worse to people.

'I'm not going to say, its none of your business.'

'Quite right too.' He paused and looked me up and down. 'Thats a mighty fine backbone you got there son.' I didn't like it how he suddenly had adopted a Grandfather role, I never knew my Grandfather. And where did he get off calling me son? He looked at me, seeming to admire my posture. 'You could carry a lot of weight on those shoulders.'

'I already do.'

'Yeah, but you don't enjoy it do you? Sometimes you've got to let someone help you, that way you can carry more.'

'Alright, Socrates - keep it to yourself! I'm here for the view, not a philosophical weightlifting session.'

'I know, I know. I'm sorry, philosophy is like one of my hobbies. I love it. Love talking about it, I'm totally in it for the discussion, you know? The chats, I'm like that phone company; 'I love to talk!'

His talking annoyed me, but I wasn't going to say that. It would be to admit defeat. I was also annoyed that he couldn't even quote adverts correctly. I'd had enough.

'I'm going to go. I'd say it was nice to meet you...' I let my voice trail off, meant it to be sarcastic, ironic, even hurtful.

'But we haven't even finished chatting yet!'

That was the second time he stopped me from leaving, I told myself it wouldn't happen a third.