I've been quite busy...

Gosh. It's been a while. I've been busy, busy, busy.

I am a year older,

I am now the proud owner of a beautiful walrus,

I've fitted a new gear stick to my broken Land Rover,

I've been working too much,

But most of all, I've been growing a beard, which is hard work and doesn't leave much time for blogging.

Come September 1^st the Handlebar Club is hosting the World Beard And Moustache Championships at the Brighton Centre in (not surprisingly) Brighton. I'm not planning on competing (Antonia thinks I should, and I might see what grows...) but we have our tickets already and I felt I should show my support for Blighty and facial hair in some way.

From tiny acorns....A new blank canvas.

It's been on the go for three weeks now and is starting to show promise. I haven't decided quite what style to go for yet. For a New Year's Eve party (1999) I spent three months working on a replica R.A.F. standard-issue (circa 1930) officer's handlebar.

I say, you there! Looks like a splendid fellow. Probably spent the morning giving Jerry what-for over sausage-side, then nipped over Frogland to be back in Blighty for afternoon tea and crumpet.

Then a couple of years ago, with somewhat less notice, I mustered up a passable Australian Sports Personality 'Chopper' style moustache which I coupled with a classy David Dickinson tan (Pantone1505 CS) and some hair I borrowed from a retired Austrian porn star.

G'day, sport! Chuck another slab o' piss in the ute, cobber, we're off to a barbie this arvo.

So, the big question is what to grow this time? I'm inclined towards a musketeer. Any suggestions gratefully received.

Taking the air. Isle Of Wight 2006.

A friend in need is a friend indeed...

This weekend we did many things, though mostly we went to Devon to see my aged P's and Grand P, who hadn't yet met Esme. Along the way we passed to wondrous Stonehenge, and it got me all remembering. Many, many moons ago, when the Earth was young, mammoths ranged over what is now Surrey and the ice caps came down to just past Penge. I was a teenager, I had hair, and in those days, long before I'd met Antonia, and before Esme was a twinkle in any eye, I had a love. It was a big love. One of those big, young, all-consuming loves that drive young men to drink and poetry. One day, my love done left me. As it turned out it wasn't the first or the last time that that particular love done left me, but at the time it was a mighty powerful 'my love done left me' moment. I did what any chap in my position would do and rang my mate. (Not that any chap would ring *my* mate, you understand, but a chap will turn to a fellow chap in times such as this, for solace and companionship). I can't remember the exact conversation, for this was many, many moons ago. It went something like this.

"Graham, she's left me!"

"Ah...yes....but she's done that before..."

"But this time she's really left me!"

"Ah.. yes..errrr.."

"Can we go for a drive?"

In those days when we all lived with our parents in deepest darkest South East Essex we often went for drives when upset, angry, annoyed (or any of those other emotions young men feel too much).

"Sure." says Graham, "Before or after the pub?"

"After!" says I, and it is arranged.

So we go to the pub. Graham stoically doesn't drink a drop, we meet some friends and they come with us.

We went to Stonehenge. Like this.

We got there at about 3 in the morning and drove into the car park. A very bemused security guard came and told us that it wasn't open. We'd forgotten in all the excitement that you couldn't just walk up to and around the stones any more. There were fences and visitor centres and the like. So we went and looked at Woodhenge, and the earthworks and fort at Old Sarum (where there wasn't a security guard - we ran up and down the moat and climbed a fence to get inside), eventually we went back to the Stonehenge car park at about 5am and poor Graham had a nap. We had a look about when it opened at 9. It was getting foggy and very cold. Then, rather tired out, we went home. As we were driving back frozen fog was building up ice on the wing mirrors. We went back round the other side of the M25 (like this) and did something near 400 miles, just to take my mind off things.

Now that's a proper friend, that is. Thanks Graham.

It weren't me, luv...it were t'f*ckin' ace wot done it....

Fans of Viz (see below) will no doubt have noticed the lovable, wife-beating alcoholic Eight Ace has been in the news.

"I mean the language of war is victims. I don't like to kill people. I feel very sorry they been killed kids in 9/11"

I hope they have their man. Four years detained by the CIA, somewhere secret and presumably worse than Guantanamo Bay, and I'd probably confess to most things.

Cormorants Of Futility

From Viz magazine, a while back. I love cormorants - doesn't everyone? - and having had a particularly bleak period in my early twenties I especially love the Chadwell O'Cheese and his Cormorants Of Futility.

It just came off in my hand! (Fnar, fnar)

I've had a few motoring problems in the past. I've broken my big end, warped my head, endured a weak, then perished, diaphragm. I've suffered seized drums, blowing pipes, sticking floats and all sorts of other auto-mechanical indignities. More recently I have had other vehicular woes when my pride and joy was stolen from me (see here). The ne'er do-wells that took her did this to the poor old girl's dash board while extracting the ignition:

This is after I bent the bits back to be flat(ish)

So when a replacement came up on Ebay I jumped at the chance and after some frantic bidding and an afternoon of fiddling and swearing we now have this:

It's so shiny! Just like a modern car!

Hoorah! Awed by how shiny and lovely the new dash is, I couldn't help but notice the sorry state of neglect the rest of the paintwork was in (It was hand done by me, with a cheap brush, in a hurry, some years ago). Righty-ho, thought I, let's get a respray! and have some dents taken out! Let's make the old thing a thing of beauty once more!

So after some searching t'internet I found a spray shop (I also found that spray shops haven't really found t'internet yet). They only open Monday to Friday, so I set off bright and early Friday morning, had a chat with a nice bloke about a respray, got a quote and set off again. I was really happy that I'd been nearly to Croydon (Hell) and back and could still get to work on time. A mile from home, setting off from some lights I reached to put her into gear and guess what? The gear stick came off in my hand. So there I was, engine running, lights green, gear stick wafting around like a, er, like a.. well like a gear stick that has broken off. (I'm really stuck for an analogy for a lump of metal in your hand that really ought to be firmly attached to another bigger lump of metal on the floor, but suddenly isn't. If you have one please let me know.) So there I was. Ended up spending an hour waiting for the AA (A splendid, if rather young, chap), spent an hour with them trying everything we could think of to her into gear so I could limp her home using one of the other serviceable gear sticks (She has three - four if you include the the four wheel drive selector). Oh the embarrassment. A great big tatty green pile of no wheel drive.

Surely something missing here?

We Gave up, I got towed, and spent another spent half an hour pushing the heavy thing back and forth to get her onto the drive between the neighbours skip and upstairs' car. So now I'm waiting for the new stick I've ordered to arrive so I can spend a happy couple of hours fitting it. Tits. Next time I get a bright idea about improving something, remind me to stay in bed.

Ah, yes! Here it is!

Side note: Can anyone explain (preferably with diagrams) how a 1st 4½ month old baby girl can burp like a 20st 50year old trucker with digestive issues? She just isn't physically big enough for all that gas, nor should her throat/larynx be capable of such deep bass rumblings. It just isn't right. I think there might be devilry involved. I keep expecting her head to spin, the bed to levitate and a barrage of inappropriate blasphemic/sexual requests. Thankfully none yet, but I'll keep you posted.

It's a bit bland...

Have you ever read the ingredients of Lea & Perrins' rather famous Worcestershire Sauce? They are (and I hope they don't mind me listing them) : Malt Vinegar (from barley), Spirit Vinegar, Molasses, Sugar, Salt, Anchovies, Tamarind Extract, Onions, Garlic, Spice and, here's the punchline -Flavouring!
They obviously looked through the ingredients list and thought 'Well it will be a nice colour and smell good, but surely it will taste a little bland? After all, none of those things has any kind of strong or distinctive flavour of their own. Gosh yes, not much flavour there at all. We'll have to add 'Flavouring''.
The mind boggles. I have decided to write to the manufacturer and ask about this. I'll let you know how I get on.

For now here is a picture of Derek reading the news. Since we stopped feeding her raisins she's become a big fan of *Current* affairs! (Boom! Boom! Haha!)<sup>*

*</sup>Antonia has warned me that just because I'm now a dad, I mustn't start telling 'dad' jokes, but I can't help myself. Is there a 'Shit Puns Anonymous' group I can join?
My name is Ian. I tell shit jokes - could you pass the ashtray? - well I'd have to swallow it first! -Hahahahaha!