Jim's World: King's Lynn 2017

November/December 2017

Not too much to write about this month, life’s pretty boring. I’ve now applied for about fifty jobs, as office manager, office assistant, LGV Cat C, or forklift, and all I’ve had back is three rejections, and a lot of silence. It’s getting a bit depressing, but at least I have alcohol to make things better.

No, oh wait, it’s now January, and Marc and I are in a competition to see who can lose the most weight. A large part of the competition is not to drink any alcohol for all of January – great, there goes my comfort blanket!

I am registered on several job websites, and have put down what I’m capable of, and set the search radius to twenty miles from King’s Lynn. There are plenty of jobs popping up, problem is they’re in Birmingham, London, Edinburgh – all of which it turns out are within twenty-bloody-miles of King’s Lynn. Who knew that King’s Lynn is the central hub between them all.

Although I am now closer to age sixty than I am fifty, I still enjoy playing video games; my favourite at the moment is Company of Heroes, which is a strategy game, where I get to play as either British, American, or German soldiers. It’s fun trying to outwit the enemy and involves artillery, tanks, and infantry, in other words it’s a challenge.

A new game has appeared on my radar, it’s one that I will never, ever, play, even if you take hold of, and squeeze very hard, my testicles. The game is called ‘Ice Lakes’, and I quote from Steam’s webpage:

‘Ice Lakes is a modern ice fishing simulator with different single and multiplayer game modes and sandbox approach to wintertime fishing. Use and customize wide selection of fishing gear and learn how changing season, bottom topology, time of day and weather conditions affects fish behaviour.’

I’ve had a look at the screen shots – you walk on to a frozen lake, drill a hole in the ice, and lower a fishing line. There does appear to be an exciting twist – it’s multiplayer. In other words, you can invite friends and family online to join you.

There is no demographic I can think of that would enjoy this game, perhaps to make things a bit edgy, throw in a sniper, or a zombie stripper, or a Tyrannosaurus Rex with an erection, do that and you’d increase the market tenfold, but a game where you simply dangle a bit of string through a hole and wait – fuck, even solitaire is more exciting!

Moving on, I have noticed a seemingly new trend of people using flashing collars on their dogs, the grass in front of my house, pre-dawn, looks like a UFO convention, as dogs with green, blue or red flashing LEDs chase each other around and take a dump.

I wonder if anybody has done any research as to whether or not these collars effect the vision of the dogs, or whether these flashy things can give the dogs epilepsy, but then I remembered about Jack Russell’s and realised that there are already dogs out there that seem to already be suffering, and are still as annoying as fuck.

At one of the last car boots in December Marc and I were treated to the sight of large fat bearded man wearing flowered (as in bedazzled) jeans and a bright pink fleece, but it was all dirty and scuffed, he looked a bit like a gay redneck who had been mud wrestling. The good thing was he made Marc and I look slim and well dressed, which makes a nice change.

A couple of friends came around for New Years Eve, and we spent the time drinking red wine and scotch, and taking it in turns playing our favourite music. Mine was stuff like the Eagles, Hozier, meatloaf, etc..

Someone decided that one of their favourites was ‘Amore’, I think by Dean Martin. Seriously, how don’t people slit their own throats when forced to listen to that shit. It might have been cool forty years ago, but now, it’s just a punishment!

Despite certain lame musical choices, it was a good evening, and we ended up finishing at about 0315 in the morning. I have seen footage of the evening and I ended up dancing with another man, but there was nothing weird about it, as no tongues were involved.

Quote of the month, by someone whom we’ll call anonymous to protect him:

Anonymous: This coffee tastes like hickory

Me: what the hell does hickory taste like; why would you even be licking wood?

Anonymous: You know, it reminds me of Camp coffee.

Me: You mean chicory, you dumbass!

Anonymous: Well, they probably taste the same.

2^nd Quote of the month by same person as above:

Anonymous: My knives are magnetic

Jim (intrigued): How Do You mean?

Anonymous: They stick to the magnetic strip on the wall.

Jim (no longer intrigued): Or perhaps, dumbass, they're made of metal and stick to the magnetic strip because of that.

Anonymous: Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.

Statement of the month:

Julie: Oh look, they do the same mattresses in this catalogue as they use in the Premier Inn

Jim: What you mean it’s covered in spunk, loneliness, and disappointment, and Lenny Henry’s wiped his arse all over them?

Julie: There’s no need to be like that!

That’s it for this month.

October 2017

It’s a short month this month as I’ve been a bit unsociable, all will be explained below, so not much to waffle on about.

Marc has been twittering on for a while about how every time we sit down in MacDonald’s, somebody comes over and mops the floor next to us. Every time (and as is the case with Marc, it’s been more than once) he goes on about it, I mock him. However, turns out he’s right, the past few times I have gone in to MacDonald’s at the Hardwick and it’s been empty, or nearly so, one of the staff starts pushing a broom or a mop around us.

So, I carried out an experiment and stopped off at the golden arch of cholesterol on the Eye bypass at 0700 the other week, got a brekkie wrap and coffee, and spread out at a table and waited. Sure enough, 5 mins into my coffee, one of the ladies started mopping the floor near me, didn’t speak to me or make eye contact. Weird – it was like being on one of my dates! I’m not sure if they have some inbuilt sensor that can detect mingers, or it’s company policy to stop/prevent customers in their ones or twos, feeling lonely or unloved.

I’m currently practising like buggery for my LGV theory and hazard perception test, as in two or three hours a day, this isn’t because I’m crap, but because I panic whenever there’s a test. I’m doing well on the road signs and highway code, but struggling with the hazard perception. It’s not that I’m particularly slow witted or incapable of recognising an incoming threat, but because they seem to have shot the footage with the same type of film they use to make 1970s porn films with.

They are grainy as fuck and like said porno, I can barely see what’s occurring on the screen, so I have to use my imagination. FYI – I typed this on my phone whilst on the go, and when I read it back, it had auto corrected ‘porn’ to ‘open’. Why the flying fuck would it do that? Not once in my life, or the life of the phone have I ever gone to type about, as an example, the ‘open air’, only to mistype the ‘porn air’ in its place, and then correct it back.

Interestingly enough, my mobile phone always autocorrects the name ‘Marc’ to ‘Marx’, possibly giving lie to Marc’s self-confessed conservativism and bigotry. Does my phone have an algorithm that picks up on peoples’ deepest desires? You know, is he like those Christians who wave placards and protest the loudest about homosexuality being a sin, and they are the ones who deep down desire a bit of cock? (I’m referring to the men; if it was the women, that would be okay – theoretically, they’re meant to desire dick!).

I read in the press that women are being warned to stop using cucumbers to clean their vaginas, I must be old, I never even knew it was a thing. Not once have I been out on a date, had sex, and missed the fresh taste of fresh veg or summer fruits! And when they go and buy one from the salad section of Tesco’s, do they pick one based on the size of their husband or boyfriend, or do they choose one based on wishful thinking or the stretchiness of their parts?

What about men? Is there a cross-section who use it to fragrance their bottoms, and if so, are they also going to be warned of the dangers of a light refreshing smelling sphincter, or do gay men not count?

I use Pinterest for recipes, and have noticed an annoying trend. It keeps letting me know when someone has saved one of the recipes that I too have saved. Why!!! It came up the other day that ‘P Huggard has saved one of your pins’.

Why would I be interested in this, and more to the point it means that somewhere across the world, ‘J Drake has saved one of your pins’ is popping up on someone else’s screen. What happens if he/she is a serial killer and decides to hunt me down via the medium of Facebook or LinkedIn, or even the serial killer network (motto – Sit back and get plastered, we’ll hunt down the fat bastard).

From what I can see, the emails telling me that so & so have saved one of my pins, adds no value to my Pinterest account. Should I start feeling paranoid that if I save a recipe and nobody else saves it, it means I have crap taste?

Update:

I have sat my LGV theory, hazard perception and theory CPC, and aced them; let’s see how I do with the driving lessons and test, which I have booked to start on Monday 13 Nov. The good news from my point of view is that the actual hazard perception test was all digitalised and therefore, crisp and sharp on the screen, so it was relatively easy to see the hazards developing.

The only downside was that whoever wrote the program hasn’t quite got the range of human motion correct; all the people in the clips looked like Jar-Jar Binks when they walked, and we all know how annoying he was.

Matt, Ben and Craig came round the other night for macaroni cheese and pulled pork, and to play Texas Holdem. Matt won the cards, and then we decided to have a game of Trivial Pursuit, which was won by Craig. Him winning was like the proverbial one-hundred-year storm – everybody knows it’s coming at one point, but nobody really believes it, until it sneaks up on them.

Or….. It means I may have been wrong about him, and it turns out he may just have been a very good actor these past twenty years or so; perhaps he could consider Harvey Weinstein as an agent.

For the poker night, Matt brought round some very good English made vodka, which coupled with four pints or so of lager, meant I was a miserable bastard the next morning at the car boot sale; however, a double hamburger (about a half a pounder) helped to cure me. We did quite well, but it was so windy (not me) that the clothes and light stuff kept flying off the table.

Is it as uncomfortable watching Blazing Saddles with a black friend as it is watching a sex scene/porno with your parents? The reason I ask is that we have Blazing Saddles on our car boot stall, and we recommended it to one of Marc’s black friends, and said we’d watch it with him.

Staying with the car boot theme, the other day we got there at 0640 for a change, it was pitch black and already there were people trying to rummish through the bags on the table as we unpacked, and because it was pitch black, they had brought torches.

That’s it for this month

September 2017

A group of us spent the day at the King's Lynn Heritage Day this month, for those of you who are unaware of this event, and that’s everybody who does not live in, or around, King’s Lynn, this is a Sunday in September when all the buildings that have used Heritage money to renovate their property, have to open their doors for the day so the general public can wander around touching things.

Our plan was to have a couple of drinks, some food, and walk around looking in old buildings and going ‘Oh’ and ‘Ah’, however, this plan had a small flaw in it – Marc!

Marc’s idea of a Heritage Day was to go from pub to pub, and peer out the windows at the surrounding buildings and go ‘That’s nice, now pass me another cider and a shot.’ Last year, we fitted in the vintage car show and about 10 buildings/museums, this year we got in the vintage car show and two museums. That’s it – Two!

Julie did her usual thing in the museums of reading and then analysing the labels/descriptions on every single exhibit, this meant that the rest of us had gone around, twice, and could have easily packed in a third time before she had finished a single circuit of any museum.

While Pat played the part of dutiful husband and stayed with her, Marc and I got bored, and legged it to a newly reopened pub called the Wenns. We got our drinks and then joined a group of friends, and then I farted. The trio we were speaking to got one whiff, dumped their drinks, and legged it rather than be poisoned.

The group of 3-4 behind us thought there was either a gas leak or the drains were clogged up and were complaining. When they realised it was me, they too abandoned the pub, and on the way out one of the women who was holding her breath, angrily said to me in a strained voice 'you should be in hospital!' I’m not proud, but the truth must out!

I have owned and used a Dyson vacuum cleaner for several years since Craig used his Curry’s discount to get me one. Although, overall, it’s a cracking vacuum cleaner, my main complaint has been that it’s useless on wooden floors – great on carpets, shit on hard surfaces. Since all of my downstairs is tiles or wooden flooring, it’s been a bit of a pain in the arse.

The issue is that when I use it on hard floors, more often than not, the rotating brushes will throw the debris out the back, and I end up using the hose and wand (or whatever you call the stick type bit that picks up rubbish) to finish the job.

A couple of weeks ago, Pat and I moved one of my sofas and exposed the issue of single men living on their own – several years’ worth of pubic hairs, sweet wrappers, beer bottle tops, corks from wine and whisky bottles, and hair clips. The hair clips are not mine and remain a mystery!

I set up the vacuum cleaner, and as I did so, I moaned to Pat about how Dyson had missed a trick on not having a cleaner that cleaned hard floors. His answer was look me in the eyes, lean over and press a button on the body of the Dyson and say, ‘You do know that this button turns off the brushes so you can use it on hard floors?’

Maxine’s given me her front room furniture as she’s moving to a new house and wants all new stuff. So, I went to the local recycling centre and was told that I couldn’t bring in my old sofas/couches. Uncle Pat said, ‘Bollocks to that, of course you can!’

I then went and paid thirty quid to have the council come to my house and collect one of my old three seaters. Pat, on the other hand is remodelling his house, and simply took his old ones to the same recycling centre that I had been to, and got them to feed them through a big machine that ate them up. Que one pissed off Jim who’s wasted thirty nicker!

Marc and I took my other three seater to one of his step sons, who according to Marc lives on the 7^th floor. He didn’t, he lives on the 5^th floor. Again, que one pissed off Jim, who stormed off and took the lift downstairs, and left Marc to manhandle a chair down two flights of stairs. With lots of useful advice from Chris and Jackie, we finally got all three seats in to the flat and assembled them in to a 3-seater couch.

This meant we had to get rid of his step son’s old three-seater – guess where we took it? The recycling centre were only too happy to show us their machine that chewed up old sofas and the like. It was really relaxing hearing the motors whine, the sofa crunch and splinter. I made me wish there were certain people who I could put in there.

On the subject of me paying to have the sofa collected, when I was in the RAF I deployed in some really different places and I noted the following:

Iraq – shithole, rubbish and excrement everywhere (but partly our fault for illegally bombing the shit out of the infrastructure)

Afghanistan – shithole (mainly as a result of lack of education for general population, particularly the females)

Kuwait – not a complete shithole, but only kept clean by the thousands of migrant workers. If it wasn’t for them, the country would be waste deep in litter/rubbish.

Turkey – not a complete shithole, but too be fair, I only saw East/Southeast of the country. Way too much litter. (Sorry Ferdi and Murat)

Scotland – as beautiful as England

Wales – as beautiful as England

Western Europe – overall, nicer than England (includes Poland)

USA – varies. Los Angeles and Las Vegas were dirty; San Francisco was lovely as was Santa Barbara.

Anyway, since I started taking Charlie out for walks I have noticed something. I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. It is lush and green, with good roads and paths, and it slowly being ruined by litter! Everywhere I look, there is either litter, or dogshit. The council have teams who regularly carry out sweeps and pick up everything, and if they didn’t do so, we would be, genuinely, chest deep in the rubbish these selfish fuckers dump.

On my estate, there is a massive amount of fly tipping, and I have to ask, what kind of people fly tip? What scummy message are they sending to their children – ‘Kids, you live in a lovely country, but tonight we’re going to sneak out like a couple of syphilitic ridden chavs visiting a pox clinic, and spread our rubbish all over the country or streets because we don’t care.’

Great way to ensure that your own children grow up respecting the country. Notice I said ‘the country’, not ‘our country’. There is a large amount of what I term casual littering – discarded empty cans of pop, cider beer, glass bottles of vodka, gin, and Tesco’s hot deli counter packets and crisp and sweet wrappers.

A lot of the beer and glass bottles are from Eastern Europe and pinpoint the origin of the litterer. The Baltic States have been quite well represented recently, as has Poland. The culprits could be British, but since the DGAF* pissheads have to walk past the 24-hr Tescos to get back to the estate, I find it hard to believe that they would divert to one of the eastern European shops to stock up for their journey, when they could easily go in to the 24-hr Tescos and get Carling Black Label**.

Rant over. Moving on. I went to buy a pair of jeans for an outdoor wedding. The only place I could find a pair, size 44 waist, was Debenhams. Did You know that shops put the bigger sizes on the bottom shelf? When I asked why, I was told that the sizes were in size order - smallest at the top, fattest (sorry, I mean biggest) at the bottom.

I personally think it's to weed out the tubbies by making them have a stroke when they bend over to reach down. It would more logical from a health point of view to put the big sizes at the top, and the smallest sizes at the bottom; after all, midgets have less far to bend!

The weather has turned so I'm wearing a fleece when we go to the gym. When we get there, I take it off before training or I get too sweaty, and we all know how disgusting it is when a fat person sweats.

The fleece is a green hoody type thing that has a wide front pocket and therefore no zipper, and so the only way to get it off is to pull it over the head. I have noticed that when the women who also frequent the gym pull theirs off, they do it smoothly and both maintain their dignity, and their t-shirts stay in place.

When I pull mine off over my head, my t-shirt rides up and allows my belly to flop out and then it gets stuck on the upper part of my chest, so showing my tits off to all who have the bad taste to be staring at a fat man stripping.

The women pull theirs off with what seems to be one move, me, I have to fight mine off and usually have a slight panic attack halfway through when the fucking thing gets caught on my face like a fluffy alien trying to dry hump Sigourney Weaver.

This week’s car boot had a man walking around carrying a 3-foot tall Stormtrooper and a 3-foot tall Wookie from Star Wars. I’ll be honest, I would have bought them if I’d seen them first. Marc’s party trick this week whilst at the car boot was to put the money box back in to the van with the lid unsecured and then go off for a walk. Did you know his favourite film is Hamburger Hill?

A few minutes later I had to give a woman some change and reached in to the van, picked up the box expecting it to be, you know, in one bloody piece, as in the lid fixed on. But no Marc doesn’t do securing lids. My thumb dislodged the lid, which flipped the box and all the money all over the grass.

Do you know how far approx. 30 quid of loose change flies when boosted by a man who realises what’s happening as it happens and panics, makes a grab at the falling box and spreads it even further?

So, there I was bent over at the waist going red in the face as I couldn’t breathe properly because my stomach was trying to occupy the same space as my lungs, trying to pick up about a thousand fucking pieces of silver, when a woman who had been looking at one of the coats that was clearly way too small for her wanted a price check.

Her method of a requesting a price check was to constantly tug at my t-shirt (just above my arse crack) as I was bent over and clearly engaged on something more important than her, and say constantly ‘How much? You, how much this? How much? You, how much this? How much? You, how much this?’

I straightened up to get a lung full of air and yelled at her to F*ck Off, and then taking a deep breath, bent down again and continued picking up a million fucking coins (or so it seemed). She got the hump and stormed off muttering something under her breath, and then came back half an hour later, acted as if nothing had happened and spent about 5 quid on various other bits and pieces.

As this (to me) drama occurred an old lady had come up to look at some of the tat on the stall, saw what had happened, and came around the stall and using her wheeled Zimmer frame to prop herself up, helped me to pick up the coins and notes.

When she decided to buy a couple of things from the stall, I offered a discount for helping me, but she declined and paid full price, but did have a few words about the other woman, and like most other pensioners, she was quite direct.

The car boot we display our wares at is actually only about two hundred yards from our houses. This month, Chris, Marc’s wife walked over from the house with a cafeteria and two mugs, so fresh coffee all round.

We made a decent amount of money and decided to invest in our own trestle/pasting tables in order that we didn’t have to rely on the community centre supplying them. We went to Argos, The Range, and B&Q to see what they had.

We had a choice of one super Gucci table at 25 quid each, or three normal tables at 9.99 each. Marc who was in charge of the buying, is of the school that it is better to buy a super-duper Apple product at many hundreds or thousands of pounds, rather than an adequate Microsoft or Android product at a third of the price. Guess which we bought, and have now wiped out all our profits? Still, we’ll look good!

The other week as I walked in to the Tesco car park I noticed an Incredibly large woman park in a mother and toddler slot, and I couldn't help but think that the only reason she felt entitled to park there is that perhaps she had eaten several small children, and to be honest she made me look like an athlete.

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UPDATE – Maxine’s no longer moving to a new house, but she’s not having her furniture back!

That’s it for this month.

Jim

Footnotes:

*DGAF – Don’t Give A F*ck

**Only joking – who would drink Carling Black Label when there’s urine freely available.

August 2017

Maxine’s moving to a new house, and has offered me her front room furniture, and since hers is quite expensive (as she reminded me several times) and I have a tradition of accepting second-hand furniture, I took her up on the offer, and so sourced a Luton van (box van for you yanks). The first website I went to, Thrifty’s, kept defaulting the date back to 1936, and I couldn’t be arsed to scroll forward 81 years, I had to wonder if their website is so crap, what are the vans like, so gave up.

I looked at Enterprise, but they only allow you to book for two days minimum and it costs 238 quid; Deeping Car & Van Hire was 87 quid for one day, and they had a tail-lift van available, so no contest really. I bribed Marc into getting up at 0600 on his day off with the promise of MacDonald’s and we drove to Deeping, collected the van.

We then drove to Maxine’s and collected my new furniture, and then back to King’s Lynn, where we unloaded the furniture and I let Marc go home. I then drove back to P/Boro to help Maxine for another hour or so. When I got back there she laid a surprise on me. She had three bookcases upstairs that needed bringing down, and could I just help her?

Yes of course, but when I asked her why she didn’t mention this when Marc was there, she said she didn’t want to inconvenience him. Balls to that, I bought him two MacDonald’s, I could have worked him to the bone!

Moving on, I have a new lodger, his names Ben, and already we have a problem; he likes single malt, I like single malt; he likes red wine, I like red wine; he likes cooking, I like cooking. All I can say at this moment is that things are not going to end well.

A few weeks ago I was on a downer and sat at home and got drunk. As in really drunk! The next day myself, Matt, Rachel, Jane and BJ* went to Sandringham Food Fair. Because I was thoughtless, I didn’t think through the drinking in the evening part, and regretted it the next day. The hangover was tolerable, but there was a dozen or so booze stalls giving away free samples of the most incredible whiskys, gins, vodkas and beers, and I couldn't touch any in case it made me sick , but Matthew and Jane more than compensated for me.

Most of the food stalls gave away free samples of their produce. There was so much free bacon and cheese, I really didn’t need dinner that evening. All the samples were self-help via the medium of toothpicks, and even I was surprised at how much some of those people could fit on one tiny piece of wood. Everywhere you walked, there were toothpicks littering the ground, if they had collected them all together, there was probably enough wood to warm a small town.

I quickly realised that there are two types of people when it comes to free shit; those who had some manners and queued for the free sample, and those ignorant pricks who pushed to the front. Interestingly, not all the ignorant pricks wore a tracksuit ensemble, many of them wore polo shirts and chinos. There was also a lot of large women wearing flowered clothing, with lots of make up on, who it seemed hadn’t eaten in days judging by their behaviour.

Any event at Sandringham is always posher than any others, this was borne out by the fact that one of the stalls was playing radio 4.

A couple of weeks later, Matt, Rachel, Jane, BJ, Marc and myself went to the South Wootton Beer Festival. It was a glorious day, and a good time was had by all, especially Marc, who decided to try all the ciders, twice! He then cycled home, and we took bets as to whether he would make it alive.

There were a number of non-beer stalls there, including a Bucking Bull. Marc by this time was tanked up and wanted a go. While we were waiting, a fat kid aged 12-14** was pressured in to having a go by his father. He clearly didn’t want to go on, but, and I mean this, he got heaved on to the bull by his father who seemed to have some misplaced belief that the chunky monkey would at least try to stay in the saddle. The second it was turned on, the little chubster threw himself off on to the mats, and daddy had wasted a couple of quid humiliating his child.

Next in line was a small thin and very energetic kid who took a run at it, and bounced up and on. When the bull was turned on, he held on for dear life and did really well, and got a round of applause. The lessons I took away from those couple of minutes was that one child clearly likes pizza, and the other likes exercise; and one has a father who doesn’t know his kid as well as he should. Easy to see who will do really well in life!

A quick statement:

Toast is one of the greatest inventions ever, but:

White toast – Average

Brown toast – Ok

Wholemeal or multi-seeded – Awesome

Unsalted butter – Only soulless people or White Walkers use Unsalted

Marmite – fan-fucking-tastic

Marc and I did another car boot sale the other week, and because the weather was nice, and I had got bitten last time, I covered myself with Aldi insect repellent, and seemingly as a result, got bastardly bitten to buggery***. My arms and legs were covered in a spiteful red scaly rash, and my whole body kept itching, and I spent the next week and a half scratching until I bled.

It turns out that Aldi insect repellent, doesn’t! It was as useful at repelling insects as an Armani suit is in repelling sluts in a cheap nightclub. Turns out that the active ingredient is citronella, which is apparently slang for ‘Let’s fuck the fat man over.’

Marc was also bitten, but having a modicum of intelligence he took antihistamines and went straight to the doctors for antibiotics, and was okay within a day or so. After a fortnight of pain and disfigurement, I gave in, and followed Marc’s example, and went to the doctors and got some antibiotics, and it cleared up like magic.

At the car boot we were visited by a number of, let’s call them, larger ladies. They held up some of the dresses and tops that belonged to my ex-wife, Ruth, and modelled them. Now if I had to describe Ruth’s build, I would use words such as; slim, tall, athletic, graceful. I would not use words such as, cake eater, MacDonald’s lover, width-challenged, hippo hips, which these women were (and me).

They actually bought some of the clothes, perhaps they were just modelling them for a slimmer friend/relative who was unable to attend, but since they were Eastern European, I couldn’t understand what they were saying; however, if they were buying the clothes for themselves, then in the words of Samuel Johnson**** - ‘The Triumph Of Hope Over Experience’, as I suspect that not even lycra can stretch that much.

One of the highlights of the car boot was an elderly man wandering around carrying a three to four-foot-long realistic cow under his arm. The question is – did he bring it with him for company, or did he buy it, I mean, who would be selling that, and more to the point, why buy It?

Marc’s discovered black pudding on the BBQ, and whenever we have a BBQ, there are three things that happen; Jim cooks, Marc has as many cocktails as possible, and we get drunk. On a slightly creepy note, Marc is constantly trying to get me in his hot tub, but due to water displacement, getting the both of us in there at the same time, would not bode well for the rest of the estate.

An unrelated subject to my life, what’s the deal with vegetarians? Are they just lazy vegans? Do they lack the commitment to go full herbivore, in other words, I don't mind the animal suffering for me, but I don't want it to die for me?

Do they think, that, you know, I like cheese, so I don't mind your calf being dragged away and butchered for one of those horrible omnivores, in order that you keep producing milk. Or I like egg mayo sarnies, but I don't mind someone stealing your unborn child (egg).

Back to my life. I was asked if I would look after Jane’s dog, Charlie, while she and her other daughter went on holiday for a week, and I said yes. After all, how hard could it be, after all, I had Indie for nearly fifteen years.

Long story short – Charlie’s easily the most stupid, inbred and untrained dog in the country. Matt warned me that he would only shit in the bushes, and he was right, the stupid little git keeps backing up to big, tall clumps of nettles and crapping in them, this means I have in the first time in over twenty years, been stung by those little bastards while I try that very British game of ‘Retrieve your dog’s shit.’

Yesterday, the little retard cocked his leg for a pee to mark his territory, and shit himself at the same time, he then walked forward shot gunning it along the path. Ahh, the joys of having a half-wit dog!

For the first couple of days, every time I used the words; Sit, Stay, Heel, With Me, Lie Down, he cocked his head slightly, and then disappeared off across the field to roll around where another dog had taken a dump, or went and stuck his nose up the arse of any other dog in the vicinity.

He and I have reached an accord of sorts, he will now sit and stay, but is still not entirely sure of the principles, and in return I don’t use PAL*****. When Matt and I used to take Indie for walks, he very rarely ever went on the lead, and had a great time exploring other dogs piss spots, but Charlie has to be kept on the lead for most of the time because he still hasn’t worked out what a road is or what his boundaries are.

Quote:

‘I knew a bloke in the army once, he worked on submarines.’

Or as the rest of the world calls them, sailors!

This time Two posts from the comments section of my blog:

2017/08/07 at 7:45 am
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2017/08/06 at 12:51 pm

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(I think – tempting and all that, but I’ll give them a miss this time.)

That’s all for this month.

Jim

* His name’s Freddie, but I wanted him to be called James, so I call him BJ, which stands for Baby James. When he starts walking, I’ll call him TJ (Toddler James). I can also carry TJ on for when he’s older and a teenager. I always wanted the nickname MAP for Matthew, but decided not to, because if challenged I would have to confess that it stands for ‘Matthew’s an Annoying Prick’, and since Ruth would have kicked off if social services took him away, I kept my mouth shut.

**I’m like a catholic priest – not too good with the ages of children.

***‘bitten to buggery’ does not imply that the bugs were gay, it’s just an expression.

****Samuel Johnson – some American dude.

*****PAL – Pain Assisted Learning.

More waffle from King’s Lynn for July 2017

One of the things I have noticed from the car boot sales, is that those amongst us from eastern Europe have a particular style. They all wear various types of drab tracksuits. Some women also wear them with heels. I have to wonder if when they arrive at the border of Ukraine, Latvia, Romania, etc. are they are pulled to one side and have their regular Street clothing taken off them and are then issued tracksuits.

When they prevaricate, they are told it's the height of fashion in the UK; perhaps they are also a survival aid as some of the seem very fleecy and could probably keep you warm in the artic.

There are very few times when it’s appropriate to wear a track suit, or its bastard cousin, the shell suit. There should be some kind of etiquette guide of do’s and don’ts for trackie wearers, perhaps when they are issued it, or buy it from Primark, there could be some kind of handbook, it only needs the one page:

Page 1:

Where to wear a tracksuit – At a gym or sporting event.

Where not to wear a tracksuit – Every-fucking-where else.

Grey seems to be a popular colour, as does the fact that the bigger you are, the tighter the trackie bottom needs to be; the manufacturers of lycra must be proud at how strong their product is. Perhaps the company that sells lycra could come up with a new motto ‘Constraining camel toes since 1962.’

A quick story about shell suits:

Ruth and got married in December 1991, and moved in to a quarter in March ’92, whilst she was heavily pregnant with the light of our life*

It was cold, wet, windy, and miserable whilst we were humping and dumping all our possessions (mainly hers, I had very little to my name), and Ruth had to take it easy and was a little hormonal. As we were carrying the boxes through the mud and damp, a RAF wife walked past us, she was wearing a purple shell suit, her hair was done up on her head, she was layered in make-up, wearing pink high heels, and smoking a cigarette.

Ruth stopped dead and watched her go by and then started crying a little, and said those immortal words “I can’t be a RAF wife, I can’t dress like that!” A cup of tea later and she was back to normal, but it did signal to me two things; shell suits are never suitable clothing for anywhere, except a shell suit sex party which is inhabited by chavs, and two; we really needed to buy our own house, preferably in a tracksuit-free area.

Now confession time – I have (only once) worn a black tracksuit to go out one evening. It was because I’d put on so much weight that I had no other clothes, so the moral of the story is – I’m a hypocrite! Perhaps I should go in to politics!

Back to the present and the continuing theme of car boot sales; I have noted that there are two types of women:

Those who look at the clothes, and then re-fold and replace.

Those snotty cows who look, sneer, and drop them back on the table in a mess.

Triv quiz:

What’s the difference between a postman and a leafleteer?

One closes the gate after them. The other delivers mail, and then like a cunt, leaves the gate to bang in the wind, forcing you to pull on some shorts and flip flops and venture out in to the driving rain to secure it. You would think that with the sheer number of houses, a postman might have some actual idea of how a fuckin’ gate works, but no!

After, in this case, he had put the mail through the mail slot, and wandered off to piss off the next householder, I had to go out and risk influenza, or face the sound of my gate pretending to be the door to a knocking shop on a particularly good payday.

I finished work last May, and my last official day in the RAF was the 30 Sep 16, and a couple of weeks ago, in other words, eight and a half months later, I finally received my testimonial through the post. For someone who had been in 25-26 years, it wasn’t as impressive as I thought it could be.

It also had three (by my count) spelling mistakes – how good is that! I have knocked up a letter and sent it, and a copy of the testimonial to Honington, let’s see how long it takes for them to respond and hopefully send a corrected copy.

Up until recently, I have been stalked by various telemarketing firms for:

My recent accident. Never had one.

My problems with my broadband. Never had any.

My problems with my bank account. Never had any.

So, I’ve bought a BT cordless phone system that has Caller Blocker. It works, I’ve not had a single call since installation, which also means I’ve not had a single telephone call since, which has demonstrated just how few friends I actually have.

Now I know that if I miss a message, the Play button flashes blue to get you to press it to listen to your missed message, and then it offers you various options. Every day as I walk past the machine, although I know I have no missed messages, I have taken to pressing the Ansaphone button to listen to the recording ‘You have no messages.’ I swear the voice on there is getting more and more pissed off that I keep checking for something I know doesn’t exist.

This was posted on my blog, by, and I’m guessing here, a ‘bot’:

2017/03/06 at 3:50 pm

Did you know that if you stare at the sun for 15 minutes a day, that you won’t need to eat food anymore? You will literally gain superhuman abilities and feel like an enlightened person. Obviously you would need to stare at the sun during the early morning or late evening when the sun is at it’s lowest brightness. But NASA did a study and proved that people who engage in this sun-staring practice achieve a state of high spiritual and mental enlightenment. Full information here: http://yourbrainhealthtraining.com

I have now stopped looking for jobs for the moment, as I’m really getting pissed off, I have applied for over thirty-five jobs, and had two replies, one of which hinted that I was too fat. Turns out that Stagecoach (a bus/coach company, not an actual stagecoach from the wild west – that would be stupid in King’s Lynn) have a weight limit of eighteen stone for the drivers’ seats, I now weigh a lot more than that, and according to their reply, there are better qualified people out there. What they really mean is lose some weight, you fat bastard!

I’ve received my HGV/LGV provisional through the post. I’m going to book myself on the theory/hazard perception and then hopefully use my Enhanced Learning Credits to do the training and test. I think I’ll make a good trucker – I’ve got the belly for it!

My book, Relative Ties, is finished, and has gone out to several friends for comments and proofreading, so once I’ve looked at the suggestions and made any necessary changes, I’ll look at seeing if I can get it published in August.

Jim

*Only joking – neither of us can stand him.

June 2017

More wittering on from King’s Lynn by a lonely fat man. Marc came round for a coffee the morning after the election, looked sadly in to my eyes and said, "Be gentle, I've got a political hangover."

Because I'm weak and unmilitary, I sometimes use wet wipes to finish off on my bottom, and recently after I'd ran out of the ones I normally use, I decided to try some new ones*. I bought a couple of packets of Luxury Soft Coconut Oil wipes to see what they would be like.

They're fine, in terms of cleaning, no different than the normal ones. The only side issue, and it's not an unattractive one, is that my arse smells like a stale Pina Colada. It takes an effort not to whiff my finger down there for a cheap smell sensation.

Every Friday after the gym, as a treat, we try somewhere different for brekkie, and our morning is full of debate such as which is best breakfast: MacDonald's, Greggs or Subway:

No1 - MacDonald’s - Breakfast wrap and coffee. As far as mass produced go, these are still the best.

No2 - Subway - breakfast sub and coffee. Filling, and coffees ok, nothing special.

No3 - Greggs - Bacon and sausage roll and coffee. Tasteless and roll is tough, coffee ok.

However, Archer’s still wins hands down for their breakfast burrito. Also, the best-looking staff (both male and female), so - No1 (with gold star)

An article on Pinterest that caught my attention was labelled ‘8 Life-Changing Ways to Use a Spiralizer’, and listed the following:

Zucchini (courgette)

Bell Peppers

Apples

Sweet Potatoes

Cucumber

Cabbage

Red Onions

Yellow Squash

They were wrong! Having read the article through. there is no way on earth I bounced into the kitchen re-invigorated, and thought ‘I know what will make my day and change my life – a vegetable that has been cut to look like a fucking shoelace.

If a spiraliser has changed her life, wait until she tries a potato masher, she’ll have an orgasm (I did!). Quite possibly the woman who wrote the article was told to do so, either that, or she’s lonely and out of touch.

I had Pat and Julie round for dinner the other day and decided that as the main course I was going to do savoury mince and pasta. So in went the Onions, cream of mushroom soup (at a quid a tin – Tescos, what a rip-off), and a little water and some mild spices (Julie doesn’t do exotic or chillies).

I bought the cheapy mince from Aldi (which as you may know, is my new temple of worship) and fried it off, and added half a pint of water when it was reasonably browned (this is called de-fatting). After then straining it in to a bowl, I put the now cooked mince, and the separate bowl of decanted fat in to the fridge overnight.

The next morning, I had about an inch of solid fat in the bowl, which a few years ago I would have used to make roast potatoes, but it went straight in to the dustbin. However, I forgot that it's not necessary to use as much liquid as normal when using a slow cooker, and basically we had mincemeat soup and pasta, and the mince was so well cooked, that it was no longer meat – in other words, we had baby mush and pasta instead.

My point here is threefold; look at how healthy I've become; and, look how the poor in our great nation are being killed off; and finally, god, I'm getting old caring about this shit.

Pat, Marc and I are on a sabbatical from alcohol to see if we can lose some weight. We agreed no drinking for a month, and we have each tackled it in our own special way. Marc's taken it as a challenge and is going balls-to-the-wall to win a non-existent competition in which he’s the only contestant.

Pat gave it two or three days, and said 'Fuck it, I need a glass of red wine.' and went to the cafe to be corrupted. I however, just wander through the evenings moaning 'This is dog shit.'

There is a bright side to the whole abstinence thing for me, I've virtually stopped snoring and so no longer snore or snort myself awake every night. This means I'm getting a decent night’s sleep, and coupled with the lack of alcohol, means the days are really bloody long.

Marc, Pat and I agreed to do another car boot the other Sunday. The evening before I got a text from Pat saying he wasn't going to make it, his dog was ill. In the pantheon of shit excuses, that one’s right up there with ‘I’ve got to wash my hair’, and ‘I haven’t got an ironed shirt’. So Marc and I went alone.

We got there at 0700 and started to set up. We actually had some people pawing through our black plastic bin bags as we dumped them on the table as a prelude to unpacking them. About half of the clothes belonged to Ruth, who was going to throw them away or give them to charity.

We set up two trestle tables and I said to Marc, “Keep the stuff separate so we can each make our own profit.” He agreed, and after laying the stuff out, I started to tout for customers. An hour or so later, Chris, (Marc’s wife) turned up and asked why we had mixed each other’s clothing up together? The moral of the story is, watch Marc when he's unpacking bags - he's got more enthusiasm than common sense.

One of the tops was sleeveless and totally covered in sequins and I held it up and said "Ruth must have looked like a whore wearing this!” Anyway, Chris holds up the top, and announces to us both proudly "This was mine!" Marc turns to me and said “Go on tell her, I dare you!” So I did!

Just behind we had a bloke selling refurbished petrol lawnmowers and strimmers, his method of testing everything for his punters, was to turn them on and then rev the bollocks out of them for about 10 seconds or so. He was quickly voted 'Annoying Prick of the day'.

The only weirdo we saw this time was an elder gentleman, not slim, who was topless and yet had a pair of red braces holding up his grubby jeans and protecting his nipples.**

I enjoy looking at recipes online, and have found that bloggers tend to have some of the nicest and most imaginative food, but they have one annoying trait – they love photographing their bloody food.

An example; the other day I made halloumi and red pepper burger for lunch for myself and Lisa. I typed it in to google and clicked on a link which took me to a blog. The first photo looked nice and I went with it.

However, five fucking photographs later, I finally got to the actual recipe. I can understand their pride in their food, but I really believe they can sum it up in one or two photos.

Moving on - The thing about dating websites such as ‘Plenty Of Fish’, and ‘Eharmony’, is that I can justify women not contacting me because I don't pay a subscription fee. With Tinder, it's free and they can see me in all my glory, and all they have to do is swipe right to like.

I’ve been on Tinder for about two months, and have only had a couple of women like me; however, since I have rule that says if a woman takes a photo from above, she’s concealing her body, and more than likely weighs as much as me. Now, I’m not being fattest here, it’s just that my bed is made from pine, which we all know is a softwood, and with two chubbies on it doing the horizontal mamba, it won’t last long. So, it’s more of a Health & Safety thing.

I can’t make excuses as to why virtually no one has contacted me. But I still maintain that there must be market out these somewhere for badly shaven obese men, but I'm just not finding it. I would put a new photo on there, but my phone doesn't do wide angle, and to use a normal lens, I have to stand so far away I look like one of those poor-quality police CCTV pictures of Britain's creepiest old men hanging around outside an all-girls school.

One woman on Tinder has only put a close-up of her feet on there . She's got black painted toe nails and a black tattoo of some kind of flower, again - why? Is she looking for a man with a foot fetish?

Matt came around the other day to use the printer, and whilst he was visiting I had to pop out for ten minutes. When I got home I discovered I couldn’t get on to the wifi, here’s why –

Matt and Rachel’s son, Frederick, is starting to become less of a sand-bag, and more interesting. I finally plucked up the courage to hold him for the first time the other day, he’s now nearly three month’s old, and I still worry that when I hold him, I’ll break him or something. I can’t remember being this worried or gentle about Matt when he was a baby.

Julie’s introduced me to a new word which has particular relevance to a man of my age:

Shart - halfway between shit and a fart. You know the kind of thing, it’s where you blow-off, but then have to pause, and check for that feeling of shit running down your legs.

Marc, who runs his own computer business went round a ladies the other day to sort out her computer. It was bollox’ed, so he told her she needed a new hard drive, and recommended retro-fitting a SSD, or Solid State Drive. She then told her son, who sorts these things out for her that she needed an STD, or Sexually Transmitted Disease. However, they soon sorted things out, and she didn’t need a visit to the Genital Clinic, but ended up with a superfast computer.

As I write this rubbish, it’s Saturday the first of July, and it’s the day Marc and I have our first beer in a month. We are having a BBQ to celebrate a month of abstinence and I suspect I’m going to regret things tomorrow. I have eight bottles of bitter, two bottles of whisky, one bottle of whiskey, and one bottle of 12yo rum. As I read this, I’m also aware that this could be the last blog ever!

That’s it for now folks.

Jim

*Remember – there is no such thing as a flushable wipe. No matter what shit they print on the box, none of them can safely go down the toilet. When I say safely, I mean they'll block the bog or clog up the drains, not that they carry knives and mug the turds or whatever.

**Yanks – Braces are called suspenders in USA.

March/April/May 2017

One of the reasons I missed out writing the blog for the last couple of months, is that there really isn’t much to write about, all I do is sit at home writing, playing computer games, reading and masturbating*.

As to the writing, my word count is:

Relative Ties – 60,000 Words (vampires and revenge)

Apprentice – 30,000 Words magic and war)

Librarian – 12,000 Words (sequel to Librarian,)

Playboy Cop – 21,000 Words (playboy solves crime – shit title, I need a better one)

Orcs – 17,000 Words (orcs join humans and go to war, everyone dies)

Sapphire – 2000 Words (outline/plot only – female sheriffs’ deputy and white supremists)

Part of the problem is there is so much on the internet, especially addictive content like Facebook; I’m in my mid-fifties and am addicted to the crap that’s on there. I am also job hunting, and to date have applied for over twenty jobs. These range from forklift driver, courier, office manager, and office assistant, and haven’t had a single reply.

It’s quite dispiriting. Some of the employment agencies have a counter on the webpage when you apply for a job. This means you can see how many other people have applied for the position, one of them was up to 167, and most are hovering around the one hundred mark.

I am hoping to use my remaining Enhanced Learning Credits to do a HGV course, we’ll see how that pans out; it also means these coming weeks will be filled with the Highway Code and Hazard Perception practice.

Myself, Matt, Marc, Pat, Ashley, and Matty, spent the other Saturday at the Cambridge CAMRA beer festival. My first impression was that it was organised by a bunch of Doolally^¥monkeys who had problems organising a piss up in a .... oh wait! When we arrived, we spent 10 minutes queuing, got to the end of said queue, and discovered that we were in the CAMRA Members only queue. There was no sign or any information that we were in the privileged line, until we got to the part where we had to pay.

We then had to go to the end of the queue snaking in from the opposite side, and requeue for another 10 bloody minutes. This may not sound a lot, but when you have already had a shit load of coffee, water and beer, and your bladder is the size of an under developed orange, those extra 10 minutes are quite emotional.

Anyway, once we were in, CAMRA redeemed themselves with good overall organisation, and a superb selection of beers and food vendors. For those of you who don’t know how a beer festival works, the first thing you do is buy a one-pint beer glass.

This glass is marked up with measurements at the one-third, one-half and one pint marks, so when you womble up to the counter you can order those sizes, this helps prevent you only ordering pints all day and getting totally smashed.

There were approx. 216 beers, ciders, and meads. There was also a stand with wine, which I didn’t taste. To give you an example of how seriously the Brits take their drinking, here is a selection of my favourite beer names taken from the Cambridge Beer Festival website:

Twisted 7.0%
Lavender Honey 3.7% (with real lavender added)
Milk Shake 5.6%
Mariana Trench 5.3%
Black Pig 4.2%
True Blue 3.9%
Henry Tudor 5.0%
Death or Glory 7.2%
Strawberry Sundae 4.5%
Lonely Snake Citra & Simcoe 3.5%
Repetitive Strain Injury 5.6%
Brainstorm 4.0%
Slightly Foxed 3.8%
Ginger Panther 3.7% (this one made me think of Craig – but replace the Panther with a Sloth)
Dark Side of the Moo 7.0%
Chocolate Orange Stout 6.7%
Marcus Aurelius 7.5% (apparently it’s an Imperial Roman Stout)
Spiffing Wheeze 3.9%
Horny Goat 4.8%
Crispy Pig 4.0%
Prince of Denmark 7.5%
Fallen Angel 4.2%
Visions of Heresy 5.7%
Hand of Doom 8.2%
New Balls Please 3.7%
Mad Monk 4.8%
Back Sack & Quack 4.2%
Scream If You Want To Go Faster 8.1%
Smooth Hoperator 4.0%
Fall of Man 6.0%
Hot Dog Chilli Stout 5.0% (Just enough chillis to produce a pleasant aftertaste)
Bitter Invention of Satan 8.6%

Remember, these are beers or ciders, and all of them are handmade with love and affection. I enjoyed drinking them, not only for the taste, but also so I could walk up to the counter, hand over my glass, and say “New balls please.” Or “May I have Visions of Heresy please.” The other good thing about the day, was I was not the largest person there, not by a long way, in fact some of the women could have easily dominated me.

Matt and I had a most fantastic handmade pizza, which was made in front of us for lunch, and although it was slightly expensive, it was worth it. The only downside to the day was that my back had given way the week before, so I was in the most terrible pain. I was alright when I was walking, but struggled with sitting down. So the rest of the lads decided to show their caring side, and we walked the couple of miles back to the train station, and had bit of a pub crawl on the way back.

Marc held his 48^th Birthday in his back garden, and he and I did a BBQ. For those of you who are unaware, Marc has a bar and a reasonable sized hot tub in his back garden, and as the weather was okay, most of us had a good time.

The only two creepy events of the evening were; Marc seemed determined to get me in the hot tub with him – I fought him off bravely; and I spent 20 minutes using a rolled-up towel to gently flick the bottom of a 6 year old girl in a swimsuit as she ran back and forth daring me. All present seemed comfortable with it. But I suspect that come my trial, it’ll be used as evidence against me.

Anyway, moving on. I’m currently looking for love, or just good old sex, on Tinder, and my age range is 45 – 60; apparently, it’s wrong of me to put 16 – 25 – who knew! One thing I have noticed is that a large number of women around my age, post pictures of their dogs, cats, horses, etc, instead of themselves. Why, do they think I’ll find the pets sexy?

How am I as a middle aged-to-old man, supposed to know if I can love you, or mate with you, in a loving and non-kinky way, when aIl I can see is a picture of a parrot, a pussy, pug or poodle, are the women subconsciously sending out a message as to what they think they look like? If so, they need to be seeing a psychiatrist, not looking for rejection or perverts on tinder.

Every couple of months I get my haircut by a gentleman of Brazilian descent, and the other day as I was sitting in the chair all tucked in, I couldn't help but notice that, a) he wasn't wearing underpants, and b) he was quite well endowed. Imagine if you will somebody walking around you in a tight circle, occasionally brushing your arm, with a small snake wiggling around in his pants. It was the closest I've been to sex in years, even if it was with the wrong gender.

Envisage if you will, a snake charmer whose snake is hiding in his pants and swaying gently from side to side, and it occasionally brushes up against you like a cat, or rather a snake, behaving in a non-threatening manner.

A few blogs ago I queried why manufacturers made deodorant that was good for 48, 72, or 96 hours. Since I have stopped working, quite often I'll not bother showering every day, and my record is three days. In other words, the manufacturers make deodorant for the unemployed. And I suspect it's not because we're all skint, it's because we either can't be bothered or we lose track of time.

The other week Whilst in Norwich, I went to Jacamo to get some t-shirts for myself, and when Marc found out I was going, he asked me to pick up a couple of things for him. He wanted sleeveless t-shirts, and when I questioned him about his poor choice, he told me that sleeveless was the correct dress code for the gym. Now, to be honest, I’ve seen him wearing nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, and trust me the correct dress code for him at any time, never mind in the gym, is a burqa and gimp mask.

Julie and Pat came round the other day for dinner, and as she walked in, the first thing Julie asked was “Jim can I use your Spermy keyboard?” Great! How well she knows me. First thing she saw when she sat down at the desk was a pubic hair, I swear it wasn’t, she insists it was; I did however, strongly suggest that once she’d finished, she wash her hands thoroughly.

A few weeks ago, Craig suddenly out of the blue asked me if my mobile was a Samsung Galaxy S6, and when I confirmed it was, he said did you know they're all wireless charging - it must be true because his mum said so. After mocking him for 5 mins, we drove to the only place we knew with wireless charging points - McDonald's, and arrived there at nine o’clock at night.

We bet a McDonald's meal on it. I was right, when we put the phone on the recharge pad nothing happened; however, Craig had more faith in his mum than McDonald's technology, and went and tried a different recharge point. Bastard phone started recharging, so we stayed, and Craig tried to eat his own bodyweight.

Quote of the month:

Quote: All the Islamists from Saudi Arabia are wasabi.^Ω

Corrected quote: All the Islamists from Saudi Arabia are Wahhabi.

How do you know that your friends are following the Slimming World diet? They turn up at your house for a dinner party, and bring Best Of Both (BOB) milk because they want to be healthy when they have their obligatory cup of tea or coffee, but then spoil it by having four or five cookies along with it!

Myself, Marc and Pat are on one of our diets again. We’ll eat healthily, but also cut out all booze for June – let’s see how that goes and who crumbles first. Marc’s trying to turn it into a competition and is giving me daily updates as to his weight, food, and toilet schedule – and people say nothing exciting happens in my world!

That’s it for now, hopefully I’ll get a job and have something interesting to talk about in future.

Jim

*Record is still five, and I’m not going to lie, I thought my dick was going to drop off by the end.

^¥To 'lose one′s mind'/an idiot or, Temporarily deranged or feeble-minded.

^ΩWasabi'ist – someone who loves hot Japanese condiments.

February 17

Marc, my neighbour asked me to tow his van to the garage in order that they can make it work again, and we agreed that the grand journey would take place on a Tuesday morning as the theory was that the roads would be quieter. However, on the morning, Marc decided to try jump-start the van, and the conversation went something like this:

· Marc: Can u jump start me?

· Jim: Sure, u got jump leads?

· Marc: Of course.

Five minutes later after frantic searching van and house.

· Marc: Bugger, my son's taken them, Jim have you got one?

· Jim: Yes of course.

Five minutes later after frantic searching car and house.

· Jim: Bugger, can't find it, I’m sure my son’s involved somehow.

· Marc: Never mind, I've got a battery booster we'll try that.

· Jim: Is it charged?

· Marc: Not sure, I've lost the charging lead.

Anyway, It either wasn't charged or the glow plugs were too fucked.

· Marc: Never mind, can you give me a tow?

· Jim: Sure, have you got a tow rope?

· Marc: Yes of course.

He produced a tow rope that was modern in the 80's or early 90’s and that was frayed to fuckery and not capable of towing a tonka toy.

· Marc: Bugger, Jim have you got one?
Jim: Yes, of course.

Five minutes later after frantic searching car and house.

· Jim: Bugger, can't find it, again, I’m sure son number 1 is involved, but have no proof, and he denies all involvement.

Anyway, by this time, I swear there was clown music playing in the background. Que trip to Halfords to buy both missing items. So after approx. an hour of mucking around and revelling in how crap/unprepared we are, it was time to tow Marc to the garage.

Now he had a choice of choosing a garage nearby, or all the way across town, as in the furthest he could go; guess which he chose? We got there by driving slowly and carefully and by not going above forty miles an hour. When we arrived safely, Marc asked in passing "How was my breaking?"

"Okay, I think, why?" And I quote him "Well, the brakes were a bit mushy, so I had to use the hand brake for most of the stopping."

Great I wish I had known that up front.

Still the above episode demonstrated to me just how unprepared I actually was
I mean, I have a breathalyser, a high-vis jacket, and some spare bulbs, but I would have been buggered if I had any problems not associated with those.

Staying with the subject of Marc, he had to put his cat down the other day, and because his van was out of action, I took him to the vets. On the way back from the murder, I managed to show what a complete dick I was my saying "Meow have done the right thing." And then several minutes later " Be careful when you're driving that you don't dwell on it and go catatonic and lose concentration."

My back fence was falling down, correction, it fell down on Marc’s van, luckily it did no damage and we both had a good laugh; me thinking, thank fuck I got away with that; him thinking, bollocks, I could have done with a new paint job.

So, sorting out my money, then borrowing heavily from my sister, I called and left messages with two English fencing companies, but never got a call back, so I walked across the back road to a bloke who happened to be replacing a broken fence and asked him to have a look and give me a quote. His name was Thomasz and he was from one of the Baltic states.

Anyway, the fence has been up for over a year now and have discovered I paid a fortune for a fence that:

· One week after erection, the front gate lock stopped working; called Thomasz and left a message.

· One month after erection, the back-gate lock stopped working; called Thomasz, and left a message.

· 6 months after erection, the screws start weeping rust and the wood is stained.

Thomasz comes round, has a look and promises to get back to me. A year later, I’m still peering out of the back in the vain hope that he’s hiding out there somewhere.

As an extra bonus, the fence clearly hasn’t been waterproofed and after about a year, now the wood is starting to fade and buckle. Now, Thomasz and his mate did walk around brushing down the fence with a clear liquid, that upon reflection, was either water, or the tears of his previous customers.

This shows me that Baltic state workers are welcome here because they are either just as incompetent and dishonest as a large number of British workmen that I’ve met.

The other weekend I volunteered to help Marc run his table at a car boot sale on the Sunday, this was to allow his wife, Chris, to have a lay-in. For those amongst you who don’t know what a car boot sale is, it’s when a load of complete strangers bump their cars up in to a muddy field, park in parallel lines, set up trestle tables and then load them with all the crap from their houses that they want to get rid of; this can be anything; old DVD’s, clothes, books, VHS (still!), old toys and games; old crockery and cutlery, old garden furniture and tools, etc. etc...

You get the picture, it tends to be quite simply junk that people would normally take to the skip. One of the strong points is that you charge pennies for the items on sale and are open to negotiation; it’s surprising the number of people who will haggle over a used (but washed) t-shirt that you are selling for 0.50 pence. (50 pence – 0.63 cents (USA), 2.26 TRY (Turkish Lira), or 0.59 cents (Euro)).

In addition to all the amateurs such as Marc and I, there were also a number of people who do car boots for a living and some of them turned up in Luton vans loaded with stuff from either house clearances or auctions and seemed to do quite well. The couple setting up the stall next to us I recognised as my neighbours from about sixteen years ago, and we had a pleasant morning serving discerning customers and catching up on what had happened in our lives since we last saw each other.

The people doing the selling were British and, seemingly, most of the customers were pensioners or eastern European and a few of them had clearly eaten their own children or way too many calories (and that’s from someone my size).

Another thing with women who are large, is that they have a problem sourcing trousers or jeans, and so choose to go with the easiest of alternatives – yoga pants (Google them), the problem is that yoga pants are made from a very thin, stretchy material, and are skin tight and in the case of some large women, they give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Camel Toe’; I can tell you that some of those toes were so underfed, they were trying to eat the yoga pants.

There were also a number of women who matched these pants with gilets, the tackiest of which had a hood ringed with fur.

There was also a man selling a selection of what seemed to be soft Porn DVD's, I was tempted to ask him if he had anything harder stashed away, but then figured there might be a camera trained on the stall and it might be a blackmail trap or something. Top tip – if you’re going to buy porn in this day and age, don’t get it from the back of somebody’s car!

The highlight of the morning, other than Marc using his earnings to keep us supplied in burgers, hotdogs and coke, was a pensioner wearing a Mexican shawl, a massive sombrero and cuddling the top half of a life-size female mannequin, which was also dressed in a matching sombrero and Mexican shawl. He was also carrying a very large Mexican flag which he was waving and had a mini speaker playing Mexican/mariachi music as he danced his way down the line of cars and tables.

I was surprised at the number of boxes of jigsaws and the fact that people were quite happy to take the word of the stall holder that all the pieces were in there; it seems that jigsaws go to nursing homes to die, but to car boot sales to be reborn.

The last three highlights of the morning were some woman driving her car across the field, one of the back wheels was turning, but the other was jammed and the divvy woman dug a 25-metre furrow across the grass. I suspect the handbrake was on because she was rev’ing the buggery out of the engine just to go at about five miles an hour; due to the noise of the engine I don’t think she would have heard all the cheering from the stalls as she destroyed the field.

Then Marc’s wife Chris appeared with fresh coffee and made us feel superior to everyone else who was drinking the instant shite from the burger stall. And finally, an old woman walked by with a child’s pushchair in which was her Chihuahua type dog wrapped up in a blanket. I submit to you, if a dog is so small and useless that the only for it to move about is in a pushchair, then there is no point in its existence, unless it’s to give the old dear a workout picking up its miniature turds.

Copied from Blog:

2016/10/29 at 10:47 am

This will very conveniently be a replay again connected with 2014, when Rangers dragged theirselves through several games against the Flyers in the initially spherical, switching victories along the route. Then they were definitely forced an additional from the space to kill the Cold-weather animals in more effective, before beating often the Canadiens inside half a dozen.

I went in to the fridge the other day and found I had run out of god’s food (cheddar cheese) and went to help myself to Craig’s; however, his cheese had big bite marks in several places, either he’s taking big bites (and probably licking it as well) to discourage me, or we have the world’s biggest rats.

Jim

Update – I have been corrected; apparently sad people who own dogs that are so pointless and small and risk getting stood upon, can buy a Doggy Pushchair or Pet Pram, to give its correct name. I submit to you, that if a dog is incapable of walking around a car-boot sale, then it’s pointless!

Jan/Feb 17

During the Christmas holidays I spent a day childminding Eva (aged 11 and usually annoying) as Sarah and Carlos had to go in for a day of teacher training prior to the new term starting. We began our morning with a McDonald’s breakfast.

Whilst there Eva was tampering with her IPad and looked up and me and in all seriousness said, and I quote, “I tapped the black thing over 700 times and I died." I snorted my coffee out of my nose and wondered what kind of porn was that interactive; however, she was referring to an ipad game where you have to tap loads of black squares as they scroll down the screen and it plays piano music

Back home next on the agenda was the DVD ‘The Huntsman, The Winter War’ which was continuation of Snow White and the Huntsman, but apparently, and I’m not sure if it’s true, but Kirsten Stewart was cut out of the new film because she slept with the director, who is about twice her age. As an obese older single man, I thoroughly approve of that kind of behaviour and would have happily paid to go see the film.

The film was followed by Eva sitting me down and giving me a makeover; lips, cheeks and eyes, and before you criticise, I’ll have you know I looked fabulous! (I have photographs) (for the Americans out there, a film is the correct word for movie)

I had Pat and Julie round for dinner and I knew it wasn’t great when Julie who worships the god of boring flavours, said “This is a bit bland!” So, the other week to try not to be so boring I made chicken in a Dijon mustard sauce, but mellowed it down with loads of single cream and crème fraiche for Julie, and even then, she couldn’t eat it as it was too spicy; but it was okay as she then made up for the lack of dinner eaten with a lot of cheese and biscuits afterwards.

Pat, Marc and I have cut down the amount of alcohol we drink for the next couple of months to assist as part of a weight-loss programme; we only drink on a Friday or Saturday night, and after having done this shit for a month, now I understand why Teetotallers are so boring! Teetotallers are almost as bad as people who both believe strongly in religion and fervently try and force it down your throat.

Some religions try and force you to convert through violence, or punish you through ostracisation, or in the case of the CoE, disapproving looks and church fairs. Teetotallers have it the wrong way around; look at the Temperance Map, seriously, look now! Nowhere does it show the peninsula of staying sober and having an awesome kebab, fumbling sex with a stranger (male or female –a hole’s a goal) behind the kebab shop after closing time.

It does show Malt Island, which is traditionally a beer made in the USA with inferior ingredients (Corn and added sugar), which is why it’s on this map, it’s shit! I note that Real Ale Island is missing – this means that some of the Temperance Movement were clearly fans of real ale and CAMRA*.

There is a ^JWhiskey Island, which means they were targeting Irish or American spirits, which shows that the Temperance Movement liked good quality Scotch and decided to play fast and loose by omitting Single Malt Whisky Island.

Prosecco Island is also missing, as is Bacardi Breezer Island, which between them have done more to repopulate council estates than the catholic church and its no-condom gospel.

Also, the alcoholic islands are in the middle, which as I’m reading it, means that you can visit them with friends, but not to get too drunk and rowdy. Also in the middle is Missionary Island; now does that refer to the Movement itself, or have they slipped in a sexual position just to check if people are actually paying attention to their whiny preachy bollocks?

Anyway, moving on, hands up, I’m crap with money. I hadn’t looked at my bank account since I retired and went on to my internet banking early this month to transfer some money and realised that I was down by several thousand pounds.

Now I know that in the weeks/months before I finished at Honington, I changed my bank details and then the week later, called the **JPAC to check it had all been done, and they confirmed it had and there were no problems. Wrong!

It turns out that the JPAC had indeed updated my records, but not told the pensions people, Equinity, that I had changed them. But not a problem, a month before I’m out, Equinity, being all professional and such, send me a letter and ask me to check my bank details in order that my pension payments are not cocked up. This I definitely did not do as I’d checked with the JPAC a couple of weeks before, so I ignored the letter – big mistake!

Anyway, I was down nearly four grand and called Equinity and they were brilliant; once I had gone through the identification process and queried where the money was, they confirmed that yes, my pension was being paid, just not to me. They gave me a clue and then helped me correct the bank details. Now all I had to do was find the missing money!

Up until I left the RAF, myself and my ex-wife had been paying fifty quid a month in to a slush fund for our delightful son, and it seems that was where all my dosh had gone; queue one frantic phone call to Ruth. Her reply was “I noticed all that money in there but didn’t know where it had come from.” When she queried it with the bank, they also didn’t know where it had come from, and luckily for me, she didn’t spend it.

Jan/Feb 17

Some religions try and force you to convert through violence, or punish you through ostracisation, or in the case of the CoE, disapproving looks and church fairs. Teetotallers have it the wrong way around; look at the Temperance Map (on photo page – seriously, look now!) nowhere does it show the peninsula of staying sober and having an awesome kebab, fumbling sex with a stranger (male or female –a hole’s a goal) behind the kebab shop after closing time.

Prosecco Island is also missing, as is Bacardi Breezer Island, which between them have done more to repopulate council estates than the catholic church and its no-condom gospel.

The next day I met Ruth for coffee and a cheque hand-off in the Marks & Spencer’s café, and twenty minutes later the cheque was in the bank. Phew! As an aside, an hour later I got a text message from my son saying I had been seen with my ex-wife having a coffee – the Marks & Spencers gossip network is alive and well and still reporting to my son.

Wherever Maxine goes in the world she takes photographs and frames the nice ones in multi-frames so each wall in her house has a theme; Vegas, skiing, Venice, etc. The issue I have with this is that the photos for Florence are in the downstairs toilet and whilst standing there having a pee I look to the left and find myself about six inches away from a photo of Michelangelo's David; in other words, I’m having a pee and have zoomed in on a stone penis, which was clearly carved on a cold day!

New Feature:

My blog is now getting spammed practically every day and it’s bloody annoying having to delete all the utter rubbish that keeps turning up in my mailbox, a lot of them seem to be about Viagra or such; so perhaps they are profiling me! Below is the latest message that I received, I dare you read it all the way through:

2017/01/22 at 2:48 am

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I’m guessing these are spambots and not actual people, because if they are people they must be the Nigerians of the spamworld.

Pat’s had a suspected heart attack, which then turned out to be myocarditis, so he’s out of danger, but it can take up to six months for the infection to clear up, and in that time he’s not allowed to do any exercise, he’s got to take it easy; it’s amazing what some people will do to avoid having to come to the gym at 0630 in the morning. However, the good news is that he can continue to drink red wine.

I arranged for my ex-wife, Ruth to come around my house so we could sort some stuff out about favourite son number 1, but then had to rush off and collect Eva as her mum had to get her hair cut and didn’t want a whingy child getting in the way, so she fobbed her off to me, great move!

This meant I wouldn’t be home when Ruth came around, so I briefed Marc, my neighbour to give her my spare key and allow her to let herself in. Marc asked me to describe her so he would know who to hand the key over to and I couldn’t help but wonder why? When was the last time a random woman turned up at his house and asked for my key, is it that often that he needs to be sure?

Eva and I got back to the house and let ourselves in to the kitchen and found that Ruth had emptied part of the fridge and was cleaning it for me, she was bored waiting and noticed a pool of water at the bottom and stripped the shelves out to investigate and just started cleaning it. Ahh, things don’t change!

Later that day, I spoke to Marc over the fence and one of the first things he said was “I gave your ex missus your spare, you were definitely punching above your weight there, no wonder she left you. Tosser!

Jim

*For the Americans, Europeans and Turks who read this, CAMRA is – Campaign for real ale. CAMRA hold beer festivals where large bearded men and women get drunk on real ale and spend the next couple of days farting, or at least that’s been my experience!

^J Whisky is Scottish. Whiskey is USA or Ireland, or anywhere else

**JPAC - Joint Personnel Administration Centre

Jim's World

King's Lynn 2017

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