| Subcribe via RSS
My unbroken string of posts is going to come to an end soon as the pressure to come up with something - anything - is something I can do without at the moment, thank you.
Having said this, of course, I’ll probably find myself inspired to write post after post but, eventually, my muse will desert me.
And then the posts will stop, so you’ll have to amuse yourself for a day.
I just thought I’d give you a little warning.
My plan - to try to beat the four hours and ten minutes time for the return to Norfolk that I set last week - had a fundamental flaw. Torchwood Town and the roads surrounding it had been infested by Londoners in town for the Pointless Cup Final.
Now logically they’d all have been clogging the roads into Torchwood Town, leaving the escape routes clear. In fact, they should all have been parked up and busy getting wet under the open roof of the Millenium Stadium.
But no, it wasn’t to be. Traffic problems (both road and rail, I gather) meant that enough people had had enough problems to be meandering around in a lost fashion well after the game kicked off.
So, not under four hours then. Lot by a long way. Oh well, there’ll be other chances.
Joy’s really racking up the miles, though, considering that this was only our third weekend together. In fact, we’ve almost travelled 1900 miles together already. If this rate was to continue - which it clearly can’t - the first 9,000 mile service would be due in just another two months’ time, and that’s just silly.
I won’t deluge you with posts this weekend - I’ll just add and add and add to this one and then hit the “Publish” button every now and again.
“You’ve got an evil streak.”, Ferny the Goth told me yesterday. I don’t recall what it was that I’d said or done (probably said) to prompt this, but I felt I couldn’t let this go uncorrected.
“You’ve misunderstood me.” I countered. “I have a nice streak. I’m mostly evil.”
It was a cry for help from LSLP:
IF you happen to be planning to stop off at Middleton Hovel
AND
IF you want to get rid of the fabric flowers that I seem to recall were a feature of Rarsh Manor (though not I feel of your choosing) and you wanted to find a home for them
THEN perhaps I could help …
How could I fail to rush to the aid of a damson in distress? I arrived at Middleton Manor (I don’t think a hovel has a half mile long driveway) just after nine last night and handed over a couple of bunch of, um, lovely floral things. LSLP was perfectly correct in that they were a “feature” of rARsh Manor and definitely not of my choosing).
So that’s a start on clearing the house, then. 
We sat and chatted for a while (Wuglums being off in the U S of A for work - hence my third trip to Torchwood Town in as many weekends) and LSLP asked how my experiences of the Meet Market were coming along.
“Single friends of mine say that the Guardian’s adverts are good.” she told me, although she was quick to spot the key word in the sentence that might argue against its accuracy. “Although they are still single, of course.”
Indeed.
Both Bob and I have bemoaned the state of education in the UK today but, after a visit to Freshco this morning, I feel an apology may be in order.
“There’s all this fuss about kids leaving school today unable to spell or count …” I announced to the Little Old Lady at the Ten Items Or Less till … need I go on?
She just looked at me and continued to unload her trolley, so I huffed off to another till to pay for my Guardian. From the look on the face of the Freshco-ette womanning the till you’d think I’d just accused the old biddy of molesting children or something.
Biddy. Hmm.
Wasn’t there a Blue Peter producer called “Biddy”?
What sort of person names their child “Biddy”?
This blog is now the #1 search result for “Grand Master of Sarcasm and Wit”.
I’m going to have to publish the joke, aren’t I?
Dad’s favourite phrases today:
His most surprising exclamation, though, came as we left the building to get to the car.
“Hell’s Bells! It’s cold.”
“‘Hell’s Bells’? Where did that come from? I’ve never heard you say anything like that before.”
He just looked at me as if I’d started to speak Portuguese.
“Are Wales playing rugby today?”
“No, I think they’re playing France tomorrow.” (I was wrong, it’s later tonight).
“Is it in Torchwood Town?”
“No, it’ll be in Paris. It’s the Pointless Cup Final in Torchwood Town tomorrow - Arsenal against Chelsea.”
“Oh. Are you thinking of going?”
Where did that come from?!
There’s a model of the SS Titanic in the cafeteria at Chateau Llandough.
“That’s an excellent model.”
“Yes, it’s the SS Titanic.”
“Yes.”
Hmm. Let’s see how his memory is today. “What can you tell me about the Titanic?”
“Oh, it’s a very famous, um, …”
“Boat? Ship?”
“Yes, a very famous liner.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, it’s been crossing the country famously for years.”
“The country?”
“Ah, no. The, um, …”
“Atlantic?”
“Yes. Ocean.”
“Are you sure it’s been crossing the ocean famously for years?”
He thought long and hard about this. “Yes.”
“You don’t think that it may have been the least successful maiden voyage ever, hitting an iceberg and sinking before it reached its first destination?”
He thought long and hard about this before replying: “Oh no. It’s famous.”
Oh well. No sense in arguing. Nice model, though.
I’ve got a shedload of work to do tonight but have arranged to visit a woman tomorrow morning before I go to collect dad for lunch.
“As long as you don’t mind me coughing all over you”, she wrote.
“I’ll counter by coughing all over you“, I replied, “and I’m from Bird Flu Land.”
“I’m ok, it’s only affecting young birds with firm breasts.” came the reply.
Now there’s a mental image to toy with while I concentrate on my work …
Dad’s received a letter from your friends and mine at HM Revenue & Customs. I mention this because it starts:
We believe you are currently between jobs …
Between jobs? At eighty one? Having not drawn a wage for twenty years? I know there’s a need for form letters, but really.
The blog’s just had the weirdest spam comment ever.
It came from “Kamagru” and the message left was
Hello. My compliments to a very nice website. I have a great time on your to see your lovely cat. Lots of succes in breeding.
I believe the kids in da hood would respond WTF?
Warning: This story includes language which is likely to offend. Trust me on this. It’s totally unsuitable for anyone who is likely to be offended and even a few people who think they’re unoffendable. Read on by all means but don’t come complaining to me at the language. It’s an integral part of the tale.
This is being posted as a result of the Tough Crowd post and its subsequent discussion in the comments, by the way.
It’s 1972 and for weeks a certain little boy has been excited about the prospect of the circus coming to town. There have been posters everywhere - the chippy, the grocer’s and even in the post office. Timmy (for that is his name) is really, really excited because he’s a huge fan of clowns. His bedroom has clown wallpaper. His favourite toy for as long as he can remember is “Mr Clowny”, a large stuffed clown. He has a sit-on clown car. You get the picture, I’m sure.
For weeks, then, Timmy’s mum and dad have been putting up with countless questions.
“Can we go to the circus?”
“How long is it until the circus comes?”
“When are we going to see the clowns?”
Sensibly - not wanting to delay the prospect of some peace and quiet - they’ve bought tickets for the very first night. Front row seats, too. Just to keep their bloody son quiet.
At long last - much to his parents’ relief - the morning of the show dawns. By the evening, Timmy’s been bouncing all day around like a child who’s swallowed too many red smarties and has wet himself with excitement at least twice but now that he’s been cleaned up they’re ready to go to the show.
Timmy’s fidgetting excitedly as the house lights dim and the ringmaster strides into the ring. The circus is here!
There are lions! There are acrobats! There are jugglers! but Timmy only wants to see one act - The Amazing Boffo.
After what seems like hours of boring acts, The Amazing Boffo takes to the stage and, with his young accomplices, is involved in a complicated dialogue-less series of visual gags. The children (not knowing any better) find this hilarious, Timmy especially so.
Suddenly The Amazing Boffo calls for silence. You can hear a pin drop.
“For the climax of my act,” The Amazing Boffo announces, “I shall need a voluntee …”
Before he’s finished his sentence, young Timmy is standing before him, gazing up with eager eyes into his big clowny face.
“Aha! A volunteer! Wonderful.” The Amazing Boffo hams it up for the crowd. “So what’s your name, little boy?”
“Timmy.”
“Well then, Timmy. Tell me - are you the front end of an ass?”
Timmy is puzzled. He wants to throw buckets of confetti or get a faceful of custard pie. What’s all this about?
“Pardon?”
“Tell me, young Timmy. Are you the front end of an ass?”
“No?”
“Very well”, The Amazing Boffo chortles. “Are you the back end of an ass?”
Timmy is now very confused.
“No?”
The Amazing Boffo, using his years of experience to its full effect, winds up to the magnificent punchline.
“Then you’re no end of an ass!”
The parents roll about with laughter at this appallingly weak play on words. The children laugh (although mostly at their parents). Young Timmy, confused and bewildered, feels a warmth in his groinal area that can mean only one thing - total embarrassment. Blinded by tears of shame he flees the ring and the tent, followed by his parents.
“Let’s go home and get you out of those wet trousers” suggests his mother, but Timmy’s too tearful to even agree.
Lying awake in his warm bed that night, Timmy goes over and over The Amazing Boffo’s act in his head. When his mother goes in to wake him the next morning she finds the wallpaper has been torn down. the car has been crushed and Mr Clowny is just a pile of stuff and shreds.
The previous evening is never mentioned again. Even at school, Timmy’s classmates soon learn that there’s one subject which must never be raised - the look in his eyes at the “C” word is enough to frighten even the teachers into silence.
Time passes. Listen, time passes1.
Timmy is grown now. His schooldays over, he goes up to Cambridge to study English Language, specialising in the higher forms of humour - the subject of his PhD, for example, is “Sarcasm, Wit and their rôle in traditional entertainment media”. Timmy leaves with first class honours. His active participation in “Footlights” during his time at college leads, inevitably, to work at the BBC and he is soon a regular on Just A Minute and the News Quiz.
But in the back of his mind sits a bugbear. A bugbear with a painted face and yellow nylon hair.
His popularity soars and he makes the jump to television. Initially as an occasional guest on Newsnight Review, then as the guest presenter and finally as the undoubted star of “Talking with Tim”, BBC2’s premier erudite discussion medium (it’s far to high-brow to be a chat show).
But in the back of his mind sits a bugbear. A bugbear with a painted face and yellow nylon hair.
His pièce de force, however, is his arts review programme which is a vehicle for his witty yet biting and cruel reviews of stage, screen and gallery. Curiously, thanks to his gifted use of language, although his reviews are unquestionably cruel and cut to the quick, his show becomes the ultimate forum for new arts and media - if you’ve not been savaged by Tim’s sarcasm and wit then you’re just nobody, darling.
Still, in the back of his mind sits a bugbear. A bugbear with a painted face and yellow nylon hair.
Unable to ignore the bugbear any longer, Timothy seeks therapy. Endless expensive sessions on the couch lead only to the obvious conclusion that Timothy must face and defeat his bugbear if he’s ever to be rid of it.
He scours the internet for The Amazing Boffo but finds only mention of magicians, workshops and performing frogs. His hopes fade as he realises that The Amazing Boffo is likely to have passed on to that great circus ring in the sky by now - his memory is hazy, but The Amazing Boffo can’t have been a young man back in 1972 so now, thirty five years later, the clown must be in his eighties.
During a visit to his parents, though, Tim spots a poster in the chip shop’s window. A poster which brings unwelcome memories flooding back. The circus - not “a circus” but “the circus” - is coming back to town. There’ll be acrobats, jugglers, tightrope walkers - no animals, of course - and, amazingly enough, will be featuring The Amazing Boffo in his farewell tour. A heavily made-up face smiles out from the poster and there can be no doubt. It’s him. The original Amazing Boffo.
Tim feels his stomach churning at the sight. There’s only one course of action open to him - he buys a front row seat for that very evening’s performance.
The tent lights drop and a trio of spotlights pick out the new ringmaster.
“Weelcum eevrybody to ze Circuz!” he announces by rote (having learned his script phonetically). The greatest show on earth begins. Jugglers juggle. Tightrope walkers walk the tight rope. Trapeze artists perform art on the high trapeze. Tim sits and waits.
Suddenly disaster strikes. Attempting a triple reverse Heimlich twist, The Astounding Alfredo makes a tragic misjudgement and misses the outstretched arms of The Temporary Stand-In on the other trapeze. The crowd’s collective gasp does nothing to counter the inevitable grasp of gravity and he plummets to the sawdust covered earth below.
To distract the audience as The Astounding Alfredo is hurried from the ring, the ringmaster calls out The Amazing Boffo. He must be eighty if he’s a day but fifty years of performing the same routine eight times a week mean that he’s operating on autopilot.
The Amazing Boffo takes to the stage and, with his now middle-aged young accomplices, is involved in a complicated dialogue-less series of visual gags. They are performed, it must be said, rather slower than Timmy remembers and with The Amazing Boffo no longer on the receiving end of anything which might damage his now-brittle bones. The children (now knowing better) find this only mildly amusing but their parents, who’d been here thirty five years ago, smile as the memories flood back. Tim sits impassively and waits for his cue.
The Amazing Boffo calls for silence. You can hear a pin drop.
“For the climax of my act,” The Amazing Boffo announces as Tim stands up and strides towards the old entertainer, “I shall …”
The crowd laugh at the sight of a grown man volunteering but Tim hears none of this, his gaze fixed as he stares down with steely eyes into the surprisingly small clowny face.
“Aha! A volunteer! Wonderful.” The Amazing Boffo is clearly confused but finds solace in the script. “So what’s your name, um, little boy?”
“Timmy.”
“Well then, Timmy. Tell me - are you the front end of an ass?”
“No.”
“Very well”, The Amazing Boffo chortles, nervously. “Are you the back end of an ass?”
Timmy’s expression does not change one iota.
“NO.”
The Amazing Boffo, in spite of a nagging feeling that something’s not quite right, winds up to the magnificent punchline.
“Then you’re no end of an ass!”
The crowd laugh appropriately at this appallingly weak and tired play on words. The children sit and look bored.
Tim stares at The Amazing Boffo then, seemingly noticing the audience for the first time, slowly looks around the tent. He is recognised.
“It’s that chap off the TV.”
“It’s that Tim Something. You know the one.”
“It’s the Grand Master of Sarcasm and Wit. Off the TV.”
Back in row 20 a pin drops and the sound of it hitting the hay reverberates around the canvas auditorium.
Tim’s gaze returns to The Amazing Boffo and it’s the clown’s turn to feel confused and bewildered. It’s been thirty five years since their last meeting. Thirty five years of study and graft for Tim, as he learned how to squeeze every possible ounce of cruelty into a masterful and unstoppable put-down. The outside world disappears for the two protagonists. Both know they cannot break the stare until this has been resolved. The Amazing Boffo is feeling increasingly nervous as - after having waited for the perfect pause - Tim delivers the perfect response.
Ok, so if I’d rushed to unpack “Lappy” I could have avoided the “Just in case” post.
But I didn’t.
It wasn’t traffic, though, it was roadwords and a rather nasty period of torrential - and I do mean torrential - rain.
Must remember to check the Highway Code tomorrow to see if Mini Metros are subject to the same speed limits on single carriageway roads as HGVs before I rant.
If you’re reading this then I didn’t reach Torchwood Town in time to post before midnight.
As I’d not want traffic problems to break my sequence (at least one post every day this year), I’ve prepared this little missive to appear just before midnight.
That is all.
I may have criiated a monster.
I went to tii with Tall Andy and Kitten this evening, taking my Wii with mii so that hii could have a play and, hopefully, persuade Kitten that it’s a workout machine rather than a games console.
They both picked it up very quickly and will, I think, enjoy their wiikend’s loan (well, I’m off to Torchwood Town so wouldn’t be using it).
Wiinjuries? Only to me - too much bloody baby clutter! Ow.