A Toy Story

When I was little, every summer my Dad would mysteriously disappear for two whole weeks, with nothing more than a bulging battered suitcase for company and bedecked in a strange khaki green uniform – all freshly starched and ironed – a farewell smile and a twinkle in his excited eyes, whistling quick bars of a rather happy tune as he joyfully skipped down the street towards his already unlocked car.
“You know I don’t really want to go,” he would shout as a reassuring afterthought, but already halfway down the motorway. “You know I’d rather stay at home with you and the kids… Whatever they’re called.” His voice would quickly trail off as he waved, one last time, blowing us all a kiss and disappearing around the corner.
“I’m free! I am actually free!” carrying on the wind.
When you are young, a sudden disappearance can be a shocking and worrying experience, possibly scarring an impressionable mind for life. For two panic stricken weeks each June, I would wait patiently perched by a window, constantly twitching the very best in fashionable net curtains… Waiting for his car to turn slowly into our road… Waiting for the sound of his footsteps coming up the small path… Waiting for him to throw open the front door and gather me up with the excitement that comes with prolonged absence.
Where was he? Where had he gone? Why had we been left on our own?
Had I done something wrong? I asked, perched unsteadily on the window sill. Had I driven my Daddy away? But I had been a good boy?
Carefully, and quietly, I pondered these Earth shattering questions while waiting patiently, eating yet another vanilla flavoured ice cream as Mum wailed over an old black and white photograph of my father, now hanging up in the home-made shrine in the far corner of the kitchen. But then, one day, just as I had given up all hope, and Mum had run out of reusable Kleenex, back he came, with a big beaming smile and that twinkle re-ignited in strangely tired eyes that screamed through thick bloodshot veins for sleep, long beautiful and restful sleep.
“It’s my Dad…” I stammered and pointed, and banged on the window as loud as my little fists would allow, as Dad, my Daddy, stomped confidently towards us, case slung over his shoulder and beret perched to one side. He waved and smiled and I cried excitedly, pointing and shouting and banging on the window.
I would immediately scream and run to him, my arms flung wide with happy abandonment, unless the Wombles were on the telly of course. But then I’d play hard to get as he bounced cheerfully through the door, only pausing momentarily to hug my Mum, who had somehow managed to barge her way to the head of the queue, again. How did she keep doing that? Next time, if there was a next time, I was definitely going to booby trap the living room floor with my toy cars and a few strategically placed marbles.
As the door opened, I would leap headfirst from the nearest conveniently placed chair; so what if someone was actually sitting in it at the time, my Dad was home, and apparently laden down with presents, so tough. I just hoped and prayed that he would be able to catch me before I disappeared through the now open window, landing unceremoniously in next door’s freshly dug vegetable patch, just beyond the row of neat cabbages. My Dad was home safely after defending this green and pleasant land, this septred from… Defending England from? Oh, who cared what he was defending England from, he was home and now his suitcase was bulging with presents he had carefully liberated from heavily guarded enemy toy shops during the heat of some heroic battle.
Hastily Richard and I would rip open the boxes now strewn across the living room floor, our hands frantically pulling and tugging at the toy hidden somewhere deep inside, underneath all the layers of haphazard, multicoloured wrapping paper lovingly adorned in the back of an army Land Rover.
Mum and Dad would watch and smile, and then, when they thought we weren’t watching, when they thought that we were sufficiently distracted, they would tiptoe quietly upstairs, Dad pretending to be Rip Van Winkle and Mum merely giggling, obviously excited about the secret present brought back especially for her, I shouldn’t wonder. Whatever it was though, judging by the way they both rushed up those stairs as soon as our backs were turned, Mum was obviously in a great hurry to open it. It could not have been as cool as my new Meccano set though, complete with a full set of army stickers, of course. What more could any little boy, with a healthy passion for wanton destruction, want?
“Oh, Del,” I heard my mother exclaim.
While I tightened tiny bolts and carefully attached various “DANGER” stickers, mostly straight and the correct way up, Richard, having at this stage still resisted all of my very best efforts to have him forcibly deported by the authorities as an illegal alien, gurgled and sighed contentedly, sucking two fingers, as per usual, and twiddling his left ear while cuddling a funny looking stuffed toy. “Monkey,” he cooed.
My Meccano set gave me hours of fun and pain-free maiming pleasure, lasting for a few years in a battered box under my bed, but Richard was to reach the ripe old age of eighteen before he finally realised that Monkey was merely a stuffed toy and not a real gorilla, who had by now lost the use of one coloured eye, an arm, several sackfuls of toxic stuffing and half of his peculiar felt face: now that was real value for money.
Strangely, even after all these years, and with the gradual passing of time, I still somewhat perversely regard Monkey as a member of the family. He has, after all, brought me more drinks than Richard, while occasionally remembering my birthday, which is nice when all’s said and done. His advice on girls and snogging however, did leave a lot to be desired, especially in those early influential years, when practising snogging on the back of your hand was all the rage before school discos.
Monkey has now, all these years later, retired gracefully to a comfortable box in Richard’s loft, collecting his weekly pension and, every now and then, playing his tuneful harmonica to help pass away those long winter hours in Widemouth Bay – if they want me to call it Wydmuff then spell it as Wydmuff.
My Meccano set meanwhile, was unfortunately destroyed in the great 1979 battle for the rose bush at the bottom of the garden; a daring action that also saw Monty, my brother’s favourite Action Man, the one with the moving eyes, gripping hands and realistic hair, lose both legs after stepping onto a mine carefully and cunningly disguised as a normal garden gnome. For this act of selfless bravery – and for jumping headfirst out of bedroom window without the aid of a parachute, and with his trousers on fire – Monty was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross. I say “posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross”, because unfortunately, on his way to the medal ceremony, under the stairs sometime after Coronation Street, Monty was accidentally attacked by my killer cat Shandy. His no doubt mutilated body has never been found, but apparently he never talked, even under extreme torture.
“Simon! Have you been pulling the legs off your brother’s favourite Action Man again?”
Well, if she had to ask!


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.

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.
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?”’

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
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.

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!

Warning! Warning!

A brand new post, or rather a brand new inane rambling, will be appearing just about here very, very shortly… Just as soon as our wannabe author has stopped crying and screaming and hollering about turning 50, and wailing on and on about how now Death is the only thing that awaits him, whilst contemplating and dwelling on the meaning of what’s left of his life.

“Where has it all gone?”

You have been warned.

PS. There will also be a rather cute picture of a frog wearing a party hat, if all goes according to plan.

Thank you, you may now all return to your business.