Where has it all gone?

Whoaaa there. I had to stop yesterday for a reality check.

Am I really sliding down the slippery slope to senility?

As a registered old fart, I find my outlook on life varies considerably from when I was a young, virile renegade with not a care in the world.

Recently, I planted some onions in a trough on the patio. So what's the big deal, you may ask? Well I actually make a point of everyday checking on the progress of said onions to admire my handiwork. I became quite excited upon seeing the first signs of growth.

"I became quite excited upon seeing the first signs of growth."

There lies my problem dear reader. Going orgasmic over some onions.

Oh where has that long haired, afghan wearing rebel gone to? The one who used to play progressive rock (70's heavy metal for the uninitiated) so loud it made your ears bleed, but at the same time piss off the old man. Who smothered himself in Petchouli oil to attract members of the opposite sex (it rarely worked as it smelt of cats piss). Who tottered around on dangerously high platform boots which would never pass Health & Safety in today's nanny state. And wore flares that you could house a family in - comfortably.

He's quietly residing in suburbia losing his teeth, hair and memory but getting his kicks out of growing veg. Alas, I fear there is no hope. 'cos I planted some peas yesterday and I can already feel the first tremors of exhilaration.

It's official, Spring has arrived

Walking into work today, I saw and heard the first skylark of the year as she soared above the local airfield.

And would you believe it, a wasp was banging its head against our window yesterday.

Question: What is the point of wasps?

Talk Talk my arse

Whilst indulging in the regular custom of putting the world to rights over some hop juice last night, the subject of Talk Talks 'free broadband for life' cropped up.

A couple of us had been toying with the idea. I mean, free calls to the U.S. would be brilliant for us, as Mrs k daily rings little one in the States. You must have seen the ad where they have groups of people portraying a phone/keyboard etc. The promise was for just £20.99 you have unlimited calls and free broadband. Sound too good to be true?
You're damn right it did. So, this morning I did a little detective work. Logged onto their site and yes, everything they said was true, but being a cynical bastard like I am, I typed "TalkTalk problems" into Google. This is just an example of peoples experience of TalkTalk.

Consequently, the chances of me switching ISP to TalkShitTalk are as slim as a Twiglet with all the knobs off.

England expects....

Today is the day when all true Englishmen (and women) should rejoice at the fact of being born in this wonderful country.

To pinch a quote via "we are the English.com",

cecil john rhodes (1853-1902)

"Ask any man what nationality he would prefer to be, and ninety nine out of a hundred will tell you that they would prefer to be Englishmen".

Boy, were we lucky, or what?

A true gentleman

Many West Ham fans like myself will be saddened to hear of the sudden death of John Lyall. A true gentleman from the game of football who tragically died within two months of his mentor, Ron Greenwood.

The game has lost two rarities the like we may possibly never see again. Honest managers who played the game with fairness and sportsmanship. Traits sadly lacking with today's money/media obsessed players.

Wherever they have gone, it will be a better place.

R.I.P. Gentlemen and Come on you Irons.

What better incentive can West Ham have to lift the F.A.Cup this year

Nelson will be spinning in his grave

Where once these mighty oaks were felled for the building of men o' war to thrash the cheese eating surrender monkeys, they are now hacked down in their prime for pure profit.

Yesterday, this colossal oak that has cast its shadow over our garden for over twenty years, is no more. Brutally chopped down to make way for a five bedroomed house. The only consolation is that I have made the developer sweat it out over the last six years, which has cost him no small amount of dosh in legal and architect fees.

Mrs K was in tears as the tree fellers moved in and it was her who recorded its demise that you can view on this page. She is convinced all the wildlife will disappear, although I have assured her they will keep on coming as long as we put out some grub for them.

So now we have got to look forward to a summer of building works right slap bang behind us. My fingers will be hovering over the phone in readiness to alert the Environmental Agency the minute they step out of line.

They may have won the battle, but the war goes on.

Nelson expects and it is the least I can do.

West Ham win again

Just to prove that Shaun Newton does actually know where the net is.

Cracking goal.

COME ON YOU IRONS

Sunday Afternoon driver

Yes, for one day only, I became that oft despised pain in the arse, the Sunday Afternoon Driver. Albeit without the traditional flat cap commonly donned by the fifty something old fart poodling along the country lanes pointing out local beauty spots to his blue rinsed doddering old missus.

Now, Mrs K (who definitely does not have a blue rinse) and I decided to take advantage of that little yellow thing in the sky that threatened to shine on us all day. It didn't, but what the heck, we risked going out anyway.

Teneterden was our chosen destination. Driving through some of the more picturesque parts of Kent allowed Mrs. K to ooh and ahh at all the country houses that we would certainly buy upon winning the Lotto.

The sun still shone when we arrived, allowing us the opportunity to meander along the main drag nosing around the obligatory antique shops which regularly haunt these country towns.

After a while, a distinct rumbling noise was heard. Our stomachs were telling us to fill 'em up. Lunch was taken at the White Lion.

A nice pub with all the beams etc. And good grub too. Suitably refreshed,it was back in the car and off to Hastings. Big mistake. Upon arriving at the outskirts of town, we fell upon a long queue of like minded souls trying to get in. When we did eventually arrive on the sea front, we promptly kept on going. The sun had gone in and the wind had got up, so we headed back home. Lots more oohs and aahs from Mrs K.

At this time of the year, Kent really does live up to its name as the Garden of England.

If you don't like the heat.......

I get thoroughly pissed of at what is now becoming a modern trend for serving members of our great armed forces whingeing on about certain wars being "illegal".

Point in case is Flt.Lt.Kendall-Smith, who refused a deliberate order to return to Iraq on the grounds of the Gulf War being, in his opinion, unlawful.

'Scuse me, but what's going on here?

When I took the Queens shilling and signed up, I always realised that my predominant role was to defend my nation or alternatively, to go where I was sent by the government of my time and to fight for whatever cause they decided was worthy enough. It was made pretty clear to me what I could be called upon to do and I was appropriately trained to do it. No argument. There was no debate about "legal" or "illegal" wars. If you were sent somewhere to perform a specific task, you did.

Fortunately, during my time served, I didn't experience any conflict, though we did have a dodgy moment concerning Belize where we actually readied the small arms on the ship.

I missed the Falklands War by five years. Yes, I'm glad I did, but if I had been involved, I wouldn't dream of questioning it. And yet this namby-pamby crabfat, who had already served in Iraq, decided to make a stand and refuse to go there.

I'm pretty sure a lot of his oppo's feel the same way, but come on mate, once you sign on the dotted, don't go preaching your rights and all that bollocks. You are a tool of HM Government and are to be used accordingly. You know the stakes.

If you don't like the heat, fuck off out of the kitchen.

He is now serving time in one of Her Majesties establishments instead of one of her airbases. Good riddance I say.

If you go down to the wood today.......

At last I can now walk out of the door without resembling the Michelin Man. Spring has finally clawed its way into the wood. And here is the proof.

Sweet Violet and the equally pretty Lesser Celandine.

The bumble bees are bumbling and the woodpecker is pecking. I love this time of year.



Soon the wood will be a carpet of Bluebells.

Can't wait.

Shock, horror.............

Just a few examples of the shit I came across in our mainstream media over the weekend.

1. Prince Harry seen in lap dancing club.

2. Bird flu strikes in Fife.

3. Bush's secret plans to nuke Iran.


Why wouldn't Prince Harry go to a lap dancing club? It's what lads of his age do.

Does anybody, apart from the media, a few unemployed scientists and a sprinkling of poultry farmers give a toss about this so called pandemic coming our way?

George Dubya's plans wouldn't be secret if they are splashed across the papers.

Just three examples of the degeneration of our media.

I AM CROSS....GGRRHH

And they're off

Well the sweepstake has been swept and I am nervously clutching my little ticket with 'Silver Birch' on it.

I am, of course, talking about the 4.15 at Aintree aka The Grand National horse race. This is an annual event where normally sane people decide to sit astride a highly strung piece of horseflesh and then proceed to jump over hedges in an effort to get to the finishing line first.

What possesses anybody to get on a horse, I don't know. Look at Christopher Reeve. You will never get me on a horses back as long as my arse points downwards, yet these idiots actually hurtle along at frightening speeds without being entirely in control of the beast.

If that horse decides to stop/chuck you off/have a crap mid race, there 'aint nothing you can really do about it. He's bigger than you and he knows it.

All I hope for is that no horse gets injured or worse, killed (couldn't give a toss about the jockeys). The mortality rate in the National is too high for my liking.

My selection in the sweepstake has been pulled up at his last two races, so I will not be holding my breath for a sight of the winners enclosure. Still at 28-1, who knows.

Death of a true songster

I was sad to hear of the death of Gene Pitney the other day. During all my days of seventies glamrock and heavy metal worship, whenever I heard Gene Pitney coming on the radio, I always stopped and listened.

His unique voice was indeed, music to my ears. I remember well his first ever performance in this country. He was introduced by Cathy McGowan on Ready, Steady, Go.

What a shame he died without any of his family with him, alone in an hotel bedroom.

It's arrived...

Quick, dig out those old Anderson shelters.
Rummage in the loft for that mouldy old gas mask. We have been invaded.

BIRD FLU HAS ARRIVED.

Yawwwwwnnnnn. One dead swan and the country goes hyper.

Whatever.

Scotland 1 - England 0

Work's a bitch at the moment. Our Edinburgh site is in the process of being shut down, resulting in many unfortunate redundancies. All the projects currently running are being transferred down to us at Rochester. Of which a lot of this work ends up with me.

Now I sympathise with the poor souls getting the chop, but just lately that is wearing a tad thin. Obviously, they do not give a shit about us down here in the south. After all, I've still got my job. So consequently, not a lot of co-operation is flowing our way. In fact they are going out of their way to make life as awkward as poss.

Jobs arrive short of parts and insufficient information is supplied and we are expected by our great masters to rise above this and get the job done. Pah! In their dreams.

It is very hard to bawl someone out on the end of a phone, especially when they do not give a toss, so methinks it is back to the gym tonight and take my frustration out on the treadmill whilst getting my eardrums shattered by Greenday. Better than listening to the crap they pump out to 'motivate' you.

Question: What is 'rap' all about?

When it was so cooool to smoke.

Chewing the fat at work today, the American War of Independence was the topic of interest. Don't know what brought that on, but there you go.
Peter Stuyvesants name was mentioned. Apparently, he was one of the early governors of New York, or was that New Amsterdam? I digress.

Hearing that name swiftly took me back to my youth when it was really cool to smoke. Do you remember Peter Stuyvesant fags back in the sixties/seventies? I think I had my first drag of a coffin nail when I was around fourteen. We had the ubiquitous corner shop just down the road from the school gates, where the greasy proprietor would often flog us youngsters ten Park Drive with a box of penny matches. We were all pretty convinced the shopkeeper was an old perve but with a Woodbine hanging from yer gob, you were considered 'ard. The brave ones would strut past the girls school, fag clinging precariously from the corner of their mouth, hoping to be spotted by one of the nubile young things. They usually got spotted by an eagle eyed teacher, which resulted in a sore arse. No, they did not bugger them, but the slipper was brought forth. Remember the times when teachers were allowed to whack you with the nearest available weapon? Didn't do me any harm.

As I grew out of my short trousers (what?), my preference for fags went onto Number six, or 'numbo's' as we used to call them. Looking at the size of cigarettes today amazes me how the tobacco companies got away with flogging fags that were about three inches, or a dozen drags, long.

On joining the Royal Navy I was introduced to the hacking cough and phlegm inducing 'Blue Liners'. These were manufactured specifically for members of the RN and were distinguishable by the blue line running down the cigarette. They were reputed to be made from the sweepings off the factory floor. Dragging on one of those bastards was enough to give anyone a hernia. Once out to sea, you could buy kingsize fags from the NAFFI shop. Needless to say, I was in much demand when coming home amongst all my civvy mates with their little numbo's.

My smoking days were numbered not long after leaving the mob. The Chancellor of the Exchequer of the time put the price of a packet of fags up to ten bob. "Sod that for a lark" I thought and promptly gave up never to smoke again.

And that was a bloody surprise.

Green fingers

Last week I planted some onion sets in a tray filled part with soil and also with recycled waste composted down by moi. You know, all the spud peelings, banana skins etc. which used to just get chucked in the bin. Everything that is bio-degradable goes into our Green bin and miraculously appears as moist, black, earth smelling compost a few months later.

This weekend I also sowed some tomato seed in the same mixture.

It's like waiting for the birth of a newborn. I find myself daily checking for the first green shoot.

Would have I been doing this twenty years ago? Not bloody likely. Isn't it strange how we evolve as we grow older?

Uurrgghh......

Today I am sick. Yesterday was my fifty second birthday and it was spent feeling miserable and cantankerous (ask Mrs K).

I had a bit of a sore throat on Saturday night, although that did not stop me visiting my local drinking establishment in an attempt to sooth it. Well, that is my excuse and I am sticking to it. Aches and pains quickly followed and the rest I am sure everyone is familiar with. Basically, I feel like shit.

Is it just me, or does everybody start slowly wearing out upon reaching their half century? The tally up till now is, I cannot smell or taste to any great effect, glasses are a necessity if I want to read anything and last week, I had to have the old lug'oles syringed 'cos I had gone deaf in one ear. I am slowly, piece by piece, falling apart.

'Senior moments' are becoming a regular occurrence. You know what I mean. Going up stairs for example and then wondering why you went up there in the first place. Yes, you've been there as well haven't you dear reader?

Or alternatively, whilst doing the local shop, not remembering where the hell you parked the car in the car park and looking suspiciously like some aged car thief peering down all the rows desperately trying to recall where the trusty old steed was.

Life after fifty. 'Aint it grand.

At last....

It seems that Spring has finally dragged itself into 2006. I took this picture today of the first blooming Wood Anemone. Within a few days the wood will be a carpet of white flowers.

I love this time of year when everything is green and fresh and new life is being created.