Man's Tone.

What with this current debacle over training flights at Manston, I thought, rather than just keep whinging about it, it would be nice to propose an alternative.

So, perhaps a better sight and most certainly a better sound, maybe this would be the way forward?





Anyhow, must dash.
Time to sign-on!

Bride's Bed Revisited.

One good thing about being 'shit on the shoe of the working public' is that irregular eating has allowed me back into some of my old garnments.
As these things tend to have a knock-on effect, I'm hoping that this re-aquired ability will enable me to lure the eligable, millionaire bachelor who will be the answer to all my financial problems.

Well, a girl can dream, can't she?

Burns With Passion!

To A Mouse

(On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough)

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!


Still, nothing that a few pints won't aid with the appreciation of (and dim the consequences of), in The Montefiore Arms tonight.
That and haggis, tatties and neeps.

For my part though, I'm really looking forward to the food. Times have been a bit lean since I became one of Maggie's millions.

Whacks And Wayne.

I'd like to think that I'm broad minded (yes, ok, enough with the lesbian jibes already!), and am up for most things in matters of love, being a self-confessed tri-sexual (anything sexual, I'll tri it), but I do draw the line at certain things.
Near the top of that list would be violence. There's a time and a place for that, and it most definitely isn't in the sack!
So, after meeting a lovely young fella called Wayne last night (I do enjoy my girly night out on Thursdays), and seeming like the perfect gentleman, I invited him back for coffee.
We chatted and laughed, my house alive with innuendo and sexual tension. Tactile responses turned to kissing and cuddling, clothes becoming loosened and then detached, the heat almost unbearable, when he started smacking me on the bum! Quite hard too, I might add!
My reflexes, already fairly quick and then finely honed by my recent ARSE experience, kicked-in with my immediate arse experience and I think I may have broken his nose.
Well I'm sorry but I don't think that the urge to hurt someone, while attempting to give them pleasure, is a very healthy attitude.

It certainly wasn't for him!

And he had the cheek to accuse ME of being aggressive!!!

When I informed him that I thought he'd arsed for it, he called me a 'dwad' and then left.

Something else to add to my (ever growing) list of vetting questions, I suppose!

Flip-side Of The Coin.

As I'm a bit skint of late, what with being 'dole scum' and all, I thought I'd have another stab at that new place in Harbour Street, The Sovereign, last night.
Lovely beer (if a bit cold) at a lovely price, but I do have some concerns about the staff. The last time I was there, I got the impression that they were all a bit robot-like. This time, both of the door staff had wires hanging out of the tops of their legs and suspiciously Borg-like looking implants on the sides of their heads.

Still, it made me behave myself, so I don't think I'll bother going there again!

Perhaps resistance IS futile?

Femme Fatarse.

Upon spotting a rather generous 'size 16' lady in Churchill's last night, who'd almost, but not quite, managed to squeeze into a pair of 'size 12' jeans, I thought I'd try to save her from the potential embarrassment of her situation by having a discreet word with her about her error in judgement.
Feeling my way gently around her predicament, I asked her if she'd missed that day at her comprehensive when they taught everyone fractions, pointing out that 16 into 12 is, in fact, a bottom-heavy fraction, whereas she was looking more 'top-heavy', with her arse being pushed halfway up her back, as it was.
Yet again, while trying to help someone, I was rewarded with a torrent of abuse!

It reminded me, a little, of the time that I suggested high-heels and a wig to a rather aggressive, 5'4" ginger fella.

Aren't some people touchy?

Jimmy Riddle / Frank Question.

Yet again I spent the evening in the pub having to listen to small-minded people bemoaning the two great icons of Thanet's daylife and nightlife, Jimmy Thorden and Frank Godley.
Why keep having a poke at these two, when their great crime is making this Island what it is?
Don't we choose to live here of our own free wills?
Have none of you spent the afternoon trying to yank Poohs out of a glass tank, with a feeble grip, and then off to Frank's Nightclub for more of the same?

Well I suggest that people give it a try before criticising!
Gracious me, the times that Jimmy has toasted our Island!
And who do we have to thank for that ultimate oxymoron, 'Plastic Glass'?



Now then, I wonder if they (I) have a hole that needs filling, in their (my) promotional departments?

Dish Of Fish.

I've found myself, of late, frequenting that new wet fish shop in King Street. Not for the fish mind you, as I absolutely detest the bloody things, but for the rather dishy owner of the place.
The trouble is, I was starting to run out of valid reasons for going in there, so have just recently gone out and bought a kitten.
Now I have a kitchen that reaks of fish (blegh!) and all my nets have been ripped to shreds!

I think I'm gonna have to ask him out soon (as a typical bloke, he doesn't seem to be getting the hint), before this all gets out of hand!

Bearded Fruitcake.

I've heard a few chat-up lines in my time, but last night's delivery has to rank among the top five for originality and surrealism.
While enjoying a quick Leffe in the Belgian Bar, on my way home, I was nattering with this fella that I'd spoken to a few times previously in the Artillery Arms, when he declared that he'd just taken stock of a fruited beer cake and would very much like to share it with me. Almost inclined to take him up on his kind offer, I decided not to on the strength that he had a little goatee beard. Having had experience of one of those before, and a rather itchy rash on my inner thigh as a result, I figured he'd be best left alone.

Shame about the beer cake, though. That sounded quite nice!

Go Nad.

Typical, isn't it, that just after losing your job, a rather expensive piece of electrical equipment goes pop! In this case, my stereo amplifier, an essential tool, along with alcohol, for drowning out the voices in my head.
Well, after careful consideration, budgeting and advice from the 'experts', I decided to replace the old Pye amplifier with a Nad valve amp. and good Lord, my collection of Gary Glitter albums has never sounded so good!
I wish I'd done this while I was working, because now I'm starting to think that I need to replace my old pair of salvaged Redifusion telly speakers and autoload turntable too. Though I may keep the latter, so I can still play my 78's.

I wonder if it would help if I put this in my CV?

The Week Link.

Thinking it prudent, after four weeks of guzzling proper beer instead of that pissy Fosters, to calm things down for my last week off, you can imagine my surprise upon opening a letter from the Australian Reconnaissance Service Elite, a week ago, informing me that they'd probably be able to manage without my expertise, henceforth.

Talk about having your World turned the right way up!
Not a pleasant feeling, being forced out of the A.R.S.E.

As a consequence, I now find myself without a job and the whole of last week missing in some hazy blur, though I've no doubt that there'll be a few helpful souls filling in my gaps for me, over the coming week. I'll most likely be bumping into most of them at the job centre, too!

Ah well, I could always see if I can get my old job back at the abattoir. The owner there was often complimenting me on the way I took care of his meat.

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