Well that was disappointing, I must say.

I have just returned home from a weekend in London, safely. I know, I was stunned as well: that was 150 quid on an antique suit of armour totally wasted.

Imagine my surprise at not being immediately murdered the moment I got out of the car south of Harrow, or my horror at not being mugged entering Victoria Park. What the hell’s wrong with me? I wanted to scream. Wasn’t my money good enough for them, the bastards? I wasn’t even stabbed. In fact, I didn’t even see a bloody knife the whole weekend, apart from in the shaky hands of a dodgy looking old couple munching away on their full English breakfast in full view of everybody else in the Premier Inn – other hotels widely available. I must admit to feeling slightly cheated I must say, and now, in the cold light of day, I have the overwhelming urge to ask for my money back. It’s not on, I thought our nation’s capital was a war zone, or was that just a particular hospital?

I was not even stared at menacingly in a street, or intimidated by anybody on the tube, truth be known someone even held a door open for me, and with a smile no less; although I must admit that this slightly offended me – I’m not that bloody old after all!

What’s more, it was sunny. Sunny!! What’s going on there, this is London for God’s sake? Maybe I should just stop reading the newspapers and totally ignore the mad keyboard warriors spreading doom and gloom all over social media from the safety of their bedrooms – or from a podium in front of the N.R.A.? It would appear that despite everything I have been led to believe it’s a rather lovely world out there…. I should get out and visit it a bit more.

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Press Release

In light of today’s shocking news, I would like to announce plans for a fund raising single in order to show support and raise awareness for all those traumatised Scousers who have had their flights to Kiev for the Champions League Final against Real Madrid cancelled.
Furthermore, I demand the immediate recalling of Parliament so that all those responsible for this outrage are immediately brought to justice and pilloried from post to post for the next two decades.
Rest assured people from Liverpool, You Will Never Walk Alone…

Or, apparently, fly!

Okay, okay…

I apologise, but writing a new article designed especially to split your sides is taking slightly longer than I expected as, unfortunately, such articles aren’t to be found growing from trees: and I should know, as I’ve been searching for ages. In the meantime, please find below another in our occasional series of Horace Wimp’s school days, and this time, rather aptly for this time of year, he’s revisiting the annual Sport’s Day; a nightmare for those slightly athletically-challenged;

 
‘I cut a rather splendid figure, strutting across the playing field. In tight white shorts that dazzled teachers and students alike, now covering their eyes. The funny looking kid with glasses in a small athletics vest, in a shining red that caught the sun. Are they budding man-boobs?
That morning’s air was full of the sweet smells of spring; of newly cut grass and freshly disturbed lumps of “dog shit!” Frankie Crisp warned, holding his nose and averting his eyes. The sounds of hay fever sufferers, sneezing and wheezing and running from the pollen, collapsing in some far corner and surrendering to the inevitable. Dan Kerr – or Wayne behind his back – seizing the opportunity, sneaking out from behind the mobiles. Rummaging at leisure through the pockets of these poor unfortunates. Today he had been very lucky, finding two slightly sticky gobstoppers and a melting bar of only half-chewed Curly Wurly; Bradington Comprehensive’s broad shouldered bully soon slinking back into the shadows with a twisted grin of satisfaction.
Over the homemade tannoy system, two tin cans on a long ball of frayed string, Miss Royston enquired once more over the whereabouts of her new glasses, offering a reward of “ten whole shillings”, for their prompt and safe return, but warning of brutal hourly executions, “should they not materialise within the next few minutes.” She waited, buckteeth poised and ready, eyes squinting as she checked her watch.
“Fine,” she hollered. “Don’t say that you haven’t been warned.” We’d brought it on ourselves. She snapped her fingers and Oddball Robson, the snotty-nosed First Year eating worms beside the Long Jump pit, was dragged away by the larger of his ears, his heartfelt plea for mercy falling on stony ground as the blindfold was thoughtfully administered.
“One every hour,” Royston ordered. “And may God have mercy on your souls.” And then she welcomed us all warmly, toothy smile now fixed and flabby arms flung wide, as if to embrace us all. Welcomed us to the annual “Bradington Comprehensive Sports Day,” the newly revealed banner fluttering in the breeze, the gramophone playing rousing music at 78 r.p.m.
We cheered whenever prodded, and waved flags on flimsy plastic poles that snapped within seconds, but it got us out of Latin with crazy old Collingwood, and double French with… crazy old Collingwood. Every proud House competing for the honour of a small dented cup that hung proudly from a rusting chain above the door in the heavily guarded foyer, the name of that nearby Secondary Modern crudely erased by a well-handled wood chisel. Strenuous athletics in the morning, track and field, and then, after a replenishing lunch, Swimming, where those who hadn’t drowned within the time allocated, were adjudged to have won.
I was quite good at swimming, strangely, and was due to compete in exciting duels such as the Freestyle, the Breast Stroke, the Relay – where I would swim that dreaded “Butterfly” leg – and the 50 metres Egg and Spoon race, all the while dressed as a rather macabre clown, running make-up leaving its greasy trail. But athletics?
“Good luck everybody,” Miss Royston shouted, her teeth clicking together, a straining encouraging thumb cracking with arthritis as it tried to rise. “That’s going to smart in the morning.”
To the astonishment of the whole school – puzzled pupils scratching their heads, teachers shrugging their shoulders – the loveably insane Bully Bulstrode had chosen me to compete on behalf of Wansdyke House, in the toughly competitive Hurdles, Taffy Roberts, our House leader, sobbing that it had come to this. But it was a decision rather forced on him by Kerry Noone’s sudden expulsion, for something deemed “unmentionable” with Emmanuelle, the school’s rather innocent long-haired goat, whose dark eyes now bulged and whose gait was now painfully bow-legged, the distressed “baa”, worryingly high-pitched.
“What the hell’s ‘Hurdles’?”
Frankie Crisp kindly lit my cigarette, singeing my eyebrows with a roaring flame. “You sort of run…” and he kindly demonstrated running for me, in slow motion, just in case I had forgotten with the passing of time, his bony knees raised extremely high and with elbows now flapping wildly. “And jump. The emphasis, in case you didn’t notice, on the word ‘and’.”
“Oh.” Running and jumping. Deep down, despite the outward air of confidence and arrogant invincibility, I had an unmistakeable sense of foreboding, of fast approaching unavoidable doom and dread.
“Running and jumping. Two things at once? Simultaneously?” Frankie nodding. But I didn’t do simultaneously.
“Don’t worry,” the voices in my head whispered soothingly. “You look bloody cool in your athletics vest… Despite the onset of man boobs. And those white little legs… At last visible to the whole school.” Were they mocking me?
Firstly, after the opening ceremony, a somewhat dispassionate performance of someone’s National Anthem – using spoons from the cafeteria and a tatty piece of greaseproof paper – contestants were called forward for the Long Jump, to be held over the small sandpit in a corner of our small field.
Those pupils not smoking, mugging teachers or burgling the new computer room while everyone was otherwise distracted, politely applauded as fifty points were hung over the scoreboard’s hooks, Grovelly’s “Long Legs” Lambert who looked uncanningly like a preying Crane Fly, had beaten Third Year champion “Hop-Along” McCluskey, of Mr Joseph’s Braden House, by two falls and a rather painful submission.
The 100 metres, the very next event, was won in the blink of an eye by a heavily panting policeman who had chased and dragged down stocky Simon Noone on the mere suspicion of joyriding. A harsh sentence was passed down, and carried out, well before wheelchair-bound Benny Driscoll collapsed over the line in second place. Loudly he protested. Complaining vigorously as he floundered, face down in the grass, that he would have won, that he should have won, could have won had some “heartless bastard”, not stolen his brand new wheels, leaving what remained of his chair perched on bricks in the parking lot. He may well have won his appeal if he hadn’t been struck from behind and decapitated by a wayward discus, hurled entirely the wrong way by blind Fourth Year student, Colin “What You Looking At?” Nightingale.
“Oh the humanity,” the announcer spluttered over horrified gasps.
“Good shot.” Again the splattering of polite applause, and the awarding of fifty more points to Grovelly, the prone but still twitching body of a badly missed friend, old what’s-his-face, dragged away for secret disposal behind the school’s prize-winning compost heap. His mother, the young Widow Twankie, who lived in the old shoe outside Easterton, would be told in a nicely framed letter from the school vicar, that her beloved son was missing, presumed dead. But she could be proud, the letter informed her, for her son had died like a hero, “and not the snivelling wreck one may well have expected.” She was consoled, or so it was reported, consoled by what was left of his tatty and slightly bloodied school tie that would later fetch a little money at the “Bring and Buy” sale.
“And now…” Cue that screeching fanfare, of greaseproof paper over thin plastic combs, the tone deaf orchestra surpassing themselves; Helen Hadley letting rip on her violin and poking the trumpeter’s eye out; Jane Pierce on clarinet sucking when she should have blown, and now choking on her reed; Sara’ Walker’s oboe unavailable this morning due to the wren’s nest. “The Hurdles!”
The announcer calling forward all the competitors, my heart trying to beat a hasty escape. We waved enthusiastically towards supporters, sprang up and down on the spot and pumped the blood around our systems while waiting for the whistle. And I calmly focussed on the track, on the individual lanes that stretched out unevenly before me. Tried to ignore the howls of derision directed towards my white legs, and the fake catcalls and wolf-whistles from Frankie bloody Crisp and an easily led Marty Farrell. Damn them!
“Run and jump,” I reminded myself. “Run and jump.” The emphasis most definitely on that word “and”.
“On your marks…”
I took a deep breath. Stepped forward, copying every one around me. Flicked out my legs, loosened those muscles, wherever the hell they were.
“Get set…”
I bent down, as per the manual I had quickly flicked through, pored over…
The whistle blew… after an age. But I was away, first time, running like the wind. My breath in perfect rhythm with my swinging arms, steering me forward, towards that first hurdle now looming large and fast, waiting my arrival in lane four. I looked to my left, then to my right, at the expressions of grit and determination across the faces of my competitors; cheeks blowing and eyes bulging.
The wind blowing through my hair… My glasses bouncing on my nose… “Run and jump. Run and jump,” those voices sang in unison, apart from one, which chanted loudly, “Burn the school down. Burn the school down!”
I held my breath and adjusted my step as I prepared to take the first tentative leap, up and into the unknown.
“Run and jump. Run and jump.” The emphasis on the “and”.
I was doing it. I was actually bloody doing it. I closed my eyes… I was in the air, hanging above the hurdle with all the grace and prowess of a leaping…? Oh what the hell do you call those delicate things that prance and leap gracefully? Before being ripped to shreds by the odd hunting cheetah, or the marauding pack of ravenous lions? Anyway, whatever they are, I was now one of those things.
My left leg was stretching out and over the hurdle; I was actually clearing the bloody thing, the very focus of my recent nightmares! All that needless apprehension.
My arms hung, momentarily still, giving me both poise and stability.
My leg was over, my muscles tensing, preparing me for the touch back down on the freshly cut grass the other side, and the sprint towards the next hurdle a few metres on: my body coiled like a spring, ready to power me onwards, towards certain glorious victory.
Victory!
God this was easy. What was all the fuss about?
Something was not quite right, though… I felt something, and it didn’t register, brush against my right knee, as my left leg crashed back on to the track. And buckled underneath me.
I felt my trailing foot hook itself around the wooden bar, momentum carrying me. But my right leg was trapped, momentarily. I opened my eyes, in confusion and just in time, my nose piling into the still damp grass, my body bent, wildly contorted. What was my left arm doing all the way over and up there?
I began to roll, to spin out of control, the hurdle crashing down, clattering me, spilling over me. From somewhere above me, around me, to the left and right of me, over the sound of splintering wood and creaking metal, I heard a scream of panic. I felt the pair of spiked shoes connect, scratch along the top of my head, flailing arms and legs spinning, bodies cart-wheeling all around me, the dull thuds of bodies falling to the ground. Cries of shock… Then all fell silent. Except for the ever-so-faint groans and the whimpers of the doomed.
Between the arms and legs desperately searching and calling out for their owners, I saw two runners racing away, not daring to glance back at the disaster that had occurred in a flurry and a blur, at the bodies entangled with toppled hurdles, at the wounded being prised apart by the highly trained medical staff who rushed in from every direction, armed with bent and battered stretchers.
“What happened?” the distressed asked pathetically.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Is this your leg, son?”’

Just a quick thing…

I have just watched the British Sky Sports television presenter Simon Thomas’ heartbreaking interview regarding the sudden death of his beloved wife through the bloody awful disease that is Cancer. I could not help but be anything other than moved to tears as he spoke in great depth of his feelings; of being heartbroken, of his utter helplessness and hopelessness and of not having the chance to say a proper final farewell to the woman he so obviously adored and loved.
He also spoke about how he had to break the devastating news to his young son, something he, “would not wish upon his greatest enemy”, and of his utter determination to protect and care for him as they move forward together, side by side.
Now, those who know me personally will already know that this is, of course, the total opposite of my experience, of when a once close member of my family took the completely opposite approach: that of total abandonment at the very first opportunity… Mind you, he did his leg-over in the process so, hey, everyone’s a winner! Except for the kids, of course.
If you haven’t yet seen Simon’s interview yet, or read of his situation, then please take a little time to look it up on You Tube, or to quickly Google his name, and let’s help him raise awareness for his cause and bring an end to the ignorance.
Thank you.

Extracts from Adolf Hitler’s long lost dairies…

And even a few pages from his long lost diaries.

As translated by Simon Gale

As I hope these diaries left to prosperity vill prove beyond all reasonable doubt, none of the var vas ever my fault. It vas the other three, I svear. I am not naming names, I am merely pointing out the truth. I had nothing to do vith it, and Adolf Hitler does not lie! You can ask my mum.

31st August 1939
The new edition of my Magnum Opus, now available in all good bookshops and given avay free in certain beer cellars, especially if you’re vearing leather shorts, is proving to be very popular: hurray for me! My publisher has informed me that it is currently outselling Dan Brown, although, in his opinion, if I could add a chapter solely concerned with bondage sex then sales would no doubt improve ten-fold. I’ll have to consult Goering as vhips and leather and all that sort of stuff seem to be clearly vithin his area of expertise.
A little later, sometime after cucumber sandwiches…
I have given a copy to the British Prime Minister who seemed very excited by one page in particular, vaving it about and around his head as soon as he landed back in the UK. How I love Britain, and all vings British.

3rd September 1939
Bollocks!
Britain declared var on me this afternoon. Vhat’s that all about? Vhat did I do? Have ve stolen their towels again? So much for their legendary sense of humour, eh! I really hate Britain and all vings British. Especially Charlie Bloody Chaplin! The places I vould love to stick his frigging cane!
Oh look out, here comes little old Peg Leg, screaming and shouting and posturing again, ranting on and on about this and that. He really does bring the place down. Hess and Speer are right though, if you look at him from a certain angle and in just the right light, he really does look like a little gnome.
Must go now as Eva is calling me down for tea. My little vixen!

4th September 1939
It has been brought to my attention that France also declared var on me yesterday. Yesterday vas not a good day. (NOTE TO SELF, UNDERLINE THAT SENTENCE AT LEAST 3 TIMES LATER TO HIGHLIGHT THE MAGNITUDE!) They have taken my complete ignorance in the matter somevhat personally apparently, although, to be fair, It’s not really my fault I didn’t notice. I was kinda busy.

10th May 1940
Vas bored today, tired of just kicking around the old homestead, so decided, on some fink of a vim, to invade France. Vell, ve haven’t done it for ages now.

27th May 1940
Vatched a lovely little flotilla just off the coast of some beach called Dunkirk yesterday. Very pretty, although quite vindy and Eva lost her favourite hat. Of course this vas all my fault for bringing her here to this, and I quote: “God-forsaken little backwater, full of French people. Vy can’t ve go to London this year?”. Vhat does she fink I am trying to arrange, even as ve speak?
I also tried to point out, as patiently as I could, for I am nuffink if not patient, that the reason this place is full of French people is because ve vere in France, but she vasn’t having any of it. It’s not as though they smell that badly, or that much really, once you get used to them, and, on the upside, all this cheese is lovely, although the snails von’t keep still vhile I try my damnedest to prod them, and the little sods vill insist on escaping. Look! There goes one now. I bet they are English! They are really beginning to test my patients (sic).

28th May 1940
If Churchill flicks me off once more with that bloody v-sign I vill not be held accountable for my actions! Didn’t they teach him any manners at school, or the closest he could get vithout putting out his cigar and taking his hat off ? Mind you, on the plus side, he looks just like my little baby Godson.

25th October 1940
Have delayed the invasion of Britain until next weekend. For now though, I am going Line Dancing!

1st November 1940
Have decided I don’t want Britain after all. Far too troublesome. Did you realise that they have a vord for “fluffy” and that their so-called operas last barely an afternoon?
Peg Leg, or The Gerbil, as everyone else has taken to calling him lately, is bloody furious as he has ordered all the merchandise, including the special tour t-shirts to come in all colours, shapes and sizes, but it can’t be helped.
Maybe next year? I console him by reading his latest speech in my loudest voice and with my Mr Angry face.

20th April 1941
“Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me…” It’s not like anyone remembered. Not one bloody card! You know vho I blame? Jewry!
Oh, and Charlie bloody Chaplin of course, that goes vithout saying.

12th May 1941
Vhere the hell is Rudolf these days? I have looked and looked but can’t find him anyvhere. This is the best game of hide and seek, ever!

22nd June 1941
Vhere to go on holiday this year?
Eva wants to go to either the Caribbean or Scarborough but I have heard that Russia is nice at this time of year. Moscow’s nightlife is apparently something to be experienced, and the cheap Vodka… But vhat to pack? Decisions, decisions. No one understands the pressures on your average run-of-the-mill brutal dictator. I blame Charlie Chaplin.
And the jews… They’re not half as funny as they used to be!

21st January 1942
Himmler and old vhat’s-his-face came to see me today with the answer to the “Jewish question”.
Somefink of a surprise to me, I must admit, as I vas not avare the Jews had asked me anything to begin vith.

6th March 1944
Vhere have all those little people gone? No Goering, not the Smurfs! The ones with the perfectly manicured moustaches and the funny little walk. No, Himmler, I don’t mean Charlie bloody Chaplin! (It is quite apparent to anyone reading these diaries, that Hitler really despises Charlie Chaplin). I mean those with the pretty little yellow stars sewn onto their suits and/or jackets?
Talking of vhich, I haven’t been able to get a jacket tailor-made to fit me for years now! This bloody var. Himmler is such a dungcuff!

6th June 1944
Churchill, you bastard!
That just vasn’t fair. I so thought that the invasion vas going to be somevhere near the port of Calais – ve all know how much the British love their duty-free! – but oh no, that Sweinhunt plays a dirty underhand and rotten trick by invading France in some place called ‘Normandy’. Bloody Normandy? Who’d ever vant to land there? It’s a shithole! Even the bloody French vant shot of it. They must do really nice fish and chips there! The bloody English, leading those nice American chaps ash tray, (Whoops, sorry.) Astray.
Eva tells me, when she is sober, vich isn’t too often these days to be fair, that I shouldn’t be so surprised, for does not everyone invade France at least once every 3 or 4 years?

29th April 1945
Have just married her indoors – that should keep her happy for a bit, or quiet, although she’ll probably vant kids next! Vhat’s vrong with a golden retriever?
Oh, that reminds me. I must go and clean my pistol as I am expecting guests over any day now. I am so excited, as it’s been ages since ve’ve been able to throw a decent party, and I do so like a party and a quick game of charades.
Apparently, someone called Ivan is on his way to see me and, judging by his shouting, swearing, raping and pillaging, he sounds a tad over-excitable.
“Eva. Eva!” Bloody hell woman, she’s fallen asleep again. Must have been one hell of a vedding night, eh? Vink-vink! My one ball is vorking just fine, thank you Mr Churchill! And that’s bloody slander by the vay!
“Eva! Vhere’s my best suit?”

A Little Later, just after tea but before Coronation Street…
There seems to be somefink stuck in the barrel of my favourite pistol… I can see something in the barrel, just down there but… bollocks, if I can reach it. Vill nuffink go right for me lately? I vonder, if I press the trigger…
Nope. That didn’t vork.
Urg!!!!!

For some reason the entries stop right about here… And over there on the wall.

Perhaps not quite the bees-knees after all?

Up until exactly 17 minutes ago, maybe 18, I thought that I was the bees-knees at this blogging lark.
“Look at me,” I hollered from my lofty vantage point on more than one occasion. “I have 33 followers, 2 from Somalia. Am I not the big cheese?”
Apparently not, for it has recently come to my attention, 19 minutes ago to be precise, that a girl in Oregon – very pretty, I must admit – had 178 people following her as she opened a box! Opened a box!!!
God, I’m rubbish!
Mind you, in my defence, she is very pretty so I’d probably watch her open a box as well. Hey ho!