The Wrong Trousers

Life just gets harder day by day by day doesn’t it? I have a few things on my mind this week, but at the forefront is the on going problem with my trousers. Now trousers are for about half the population, except for people like Eddie Izzard, the cross-dressing comedian and the men who live in Malaya who wear sarongs (inc David Beckham here too), common items of attire. We men have worn the trousers since we were little. First little short shorts, but then that glorious day when our parents bought us a first pair of long trousers (or ‘pants’ as you yanks mistakenly call them – pants are worn inside the trousers, at least in civilised countries like ours, you can well understand why Superman was so confused, apart from being an Alien, he was bought up in America and ended up wearing his pants outside his trousers – he would be a laughing stock here in the U.K. superpowers or no superpowers!)

So wearing trousers is a perfectly normal activity and I have never had any problems in this department until this last few weeks. I have already detailed (below) how after spilling a cup of coffee in my lap I had to walk sopping wet to the local Marks and Spencer’s to buy a new pair, but, and can you believe it, this pair too have let me down!

On Friday, after spending a hard week sitting on my arse, either in the office or in the car I SPLIT MY TROUSERS! Right up the arse. Like some half rate pop star a huge rent appeared and my arse fell out of my trousers, a good job I was wearing pants! Now I have a pretty normal arse, its not huge or J Lo’ ish at all and it has never ever ever split my trousers before. All I did was reach around for my back pocket to take my wallet and RRRRiiiiiiiiPPPPP a great jagged rent appeared – obviously faulty goods; I bet J’Lo has this problem all the time.

So Saturday I had to take said trousers back to M&S. The people there were quite nice and couldn’t understand how it had happened, and agreed with me that it was faulty material, and I never ever caught them looking at my booty, not once, nor were there any raised eyebrows when I told my story, see that’s the beauty of M&S they never ask any questions and believe that the ‘customer is always right’ – it’s the British way!

So matey went off with my ruined trousers to see if there was a similar pair in my size, he had only just disappeared into the maze of shirts and pullovers when some bloke in a stripy suit appeared with a tape measure around his neck, pretending to be a tailor. I could see his calculating eye appraising my waistline, I suddenly regretted that bit of chocolate cake I had had earlier. He told me of his surprise that these trousers had split in such away and was I sure I had bought the right size? I told him yes thank you very much and that they were very comfortable, thank you very much, that was why I wanted a new pair and not my money back. Suddenly when I wasn’t looking (my gaze had drifted over to the lingerie section) he had whipped his tape measure out and measured my waist! Aha he said *%inches (damn something wrong with my keyboard) a good 4 inches bigger than the waist of the trousers I had bought. No wonder they had split! How could I possibly think that my $% inch waist would fit into a ^& inch pair of trousers (damn keyboard). He marched off with a smug look on his face that made me think of Mr Humphries in ‘Are you being served’!

But the fact of the matter is even the ripped trousers needed hitching up all the time without a belt, but shamefacedly I did replace the ripped pair with a pair one size bigger, but I still need to wear a belt! If I’d gone two sizes bigger I’d look like Coco the clown!

I have spent the weekend trying to catch a glimpse of my arse in any shiny surface we have passed, my wife thinks I am getting a nasty twitch and is getting worried about me. I may have to join a gym and work on one of those machines that shrinks ones butt to the same proportions as Kylies.

I’ll email J. Lo and ask her for some advice!

Britany, I WANT to do something, please call

Once again the day starts badly. My face is covered by small red burn marks caused by a frying egg exploding in the pan – another practical joke enjoyed by God at my expense – the merry prankster. I have to give a presentation to the whole marketing department later today and of course they will not be listening to me but mentally joining the red dots on my face to see what picture they can come up with! That I have had to get up at the crack of dawn the past two mornings has not helped my mood. Yesterday to get to a meeting in Bristol at 9:00am, (a time when I am usual winding down with my first cup of coffee of the day) and was driving by 6:00 am and today I had to get my wife to work for 6:45, leaving me to cook breakfast for the two new French girls currently filling our house with Gallic Giggles (about 14 this time, so getting closer to the target age of about 18/19).

These girls seem to fill our two hulking teenage boys with fear; the boys retreat into their bedroom and never come out in case they should, in accident, bump into a female in the corridor. It’s sad but I fear that the only females these two boys have ever interacted with are some scantily clad virtual heroine featuring in one of their Computer Games. I hate to think what they would do should (ever) the opportunity arise that some temptress were to purse their glossy lips at them and whisper ‘Kiss me honey, honey kiss me’. Maybe teenage boys now only get wet dreams based upon said virtual sexpot and not Miss Jones the Art Teacher!

(While I am on the subject of the French Girls, I can report that they are having regular showers and eating everything we put in front of them, so my stereotypes are being seriously challenged – they even have some English, but still look at me strangely when I attempt French!)

In the evenings the girls invade the front room and take over the TV, so we have been subjected to non stop music channels which are the only thing they seem to be able to understand as they sing along with the hits in quite a charming 14/15 year old girly way. I have, of course, been forced to watch the music videos as well instead of the more serious and intellectual programmes I usually watch like Richard and Judy. To be honest I don’t know what the music industry is coming to. The videos they are producing seem to consist of half naked young women writhing around and jerking their bottoms like they are demented. I don’t know how I managed to watch three hours of it last night what with Britany asking me to ‘do something’ to her and various other women getting covered in water, suds, and various other liquids (I’ve noticed that none of these directors have used custard yet – or is that just me?).

I have tried to contact Britany but http://www.192.com/ don’t have a listing for her, so I guess I’ll just have to slope off in private a bit later to ‘do something’ with her in mind as it were.

These videos do serve a useful purpose though. As one gets deeper into married life one’s er ‘private time’ with ones wife becomes a little routine, a little boring maybe, she might not be as adventurous as you, complaining that ‘it hurts’ for example, so if one resorts to the tried and tested ‘missonary position’ (pop quiz – why ‘missionary’ position? I though missionaries were religious and thus celibate – maybe if God’s reading this He’ll give us an answer) where the wife is lying back and thinking of England ( or in America, Bill Clinton) we men can, as we do the ‘bunny hop’ think of Britany or the scores of women jerking their bottoms. (Actually can any of you women out there explain both the mechanics and the physics of that jerking motion?). So all of us are catered for - result!

I have recently written some song lyrics for one of our blogging musicians, Mike Da Hat, he and his band have recorded it, so I am hoping that when the video is shot I’ll be invited. I do envisage it set around a swimming pool in LA or somewhere with lots of girls in scanty bikinis jerking their bottoms a lot. As I haven’t yet heard the finished song I am obviously hoping that it will be a bit up tempo or even hip hop as I’ve noticed large concentrations of bottom jerking in hip hop/rap vids.

I await in sweaty anticipation!

The Emperors New Trousers

When I dumped the mug of coffee into my lap, as I sat at my desk, I knew I was in for a bad day. That I did it in front of the glamorous PR assistant who had just bought me the coffee was even worse. The peels of laughter that rang from my office bought more gawkers from their offices to watch me hopping about whilst holding the fabric of my soaking trousers away from my legs and other sensitive bits.

To top this, I then had to walk downtown in my sopping trousers, like someone with a very bad incontinence problem, to the shops to purchase a new pair of trousers because I had a meeting to go to later in the morning. I could see the passersby looking at me their eyes drawn to the wet patch that started, hugely, in my groin and then spread, like the Niagra falls down my left leg. I noticed, also, that as I moved towards them they changed the angle they were walking so that they left a good few feet between them and me as we passed, as if I could pass on some awful pissing disease to them. I felt like I should have been wearing a badge, or a sandwich board stating ‘Its Coffee’ not Piss!)

Then, the garage called about my car, I’ll not bore you with the details but they said it would cost about £200 max. I believed them. See what a mug I am. (Please disregard all I said in my last blog, it doesn’t relate to me at all, no that was someone else who hacked my blog passing themselves off as Dr. Rob!) Yes fooled again because the final total is £200 AND 96p! What a rip! See how one can’t trust a mechanic. Even if you asked a mechanic the time, he first has to suck in his breath, put a tortured look on his face, rub his grubby chin with grubbier hands, shake his head a bit, wince, pick his nose with grime encrusted fingernails (has no one ever told him about the link between dirty fingernails and cervical cancer?) then tell you it was about one o’clock, that its already two thirty in the afternoon, proves my point!

The next indignity to befall me this tainted day, was when having to walk into town again (not because of trouser problems) to get the said 200 quid from the bank, it rained on me. When I started out it was beautiful and sunny, I was lulled into thinking Spring was really here. All the signs were there. Bluebells and daffodils, birds making nests, and female students not wearing a lot around the campus! So I joined them in my new trousers and short sleeved shirt. Before I was half way there I was wet again.

I know about April showers and all that but please God (if you’re reading this – and I know you are!) why me. What have I done so badly in a past life that you send me this Karma? The only good thing to come out of this damp trip, is that when it rains and there’s a bit of a nip back in the air, the female students tops become interestingly topographical! Hurrah for thin tee shirts!

Of course the day is barely half over as yet, so I am hoping that this run of bad luck has passed. My main worry is when I return for my car the mechanic will say ‘yes boss yer spheres are fixed but I did notice that yer flange sprocket divider is a bit worn’ ‘O yes’ I’ll say ‘and how much will that cost?’ (see above because I can’t be arsed to write it all again but you know the score)

There is a bit of a storm outside my window at the moment, thunder and lightening, so knowing my luck all they’ll find later in the day is a pile of slightly smouldering carbon dust on my chair. Although I have great faith that my new trousers will protect me as they do resist ‘everyday spills’ according to the label (Marks and Spencer’s you know). I wonder what everyday spills they refer to though?

Ho hum Have a nice weekend folks!

My IQ Test

I have just done one of those online IQ tests, you can find it here: http://uk.tickle.com/test/iq/start.html obviously I was well above average and I don’t want to crow so I will not tell you what my actual IQ was, suffice it to say that I will not remind you that I have a Phd!

It’s just that us geniuses have such a hard time. I mean look at the evidence in history, if we’re not mutilating ourselves, cutting ears off or committing suicide then some revolutionary oik who probably never went to school is putting us up against the wall spitting and swearing at us as we get shot between the eyes, the final indignity – the bullet to the brain! No finesse at all, at least the French invented a machine!

Being a bit of a bright spark in these modern times isn’t so easy either, we’re not all famous like that Stephen Hawking who has people fawning at his every robotic utterance, anyway what’s so good about a ‘brief’ history of time, if he was really clever he would write a long history of time, as time has been around for millions of years. I would do it but people would just say I copied him!

Even going to the shops when you are a genius is difficult, firstly because most of the shops I go into seem to have employed utter morons who don’t seem to know what day it is and have little idea why they are standing behind the counter apart from yawning, sending txt messages and generally ignoring the rest of the world. It would be most useful if someone could, and I’ll give this idea for free, because that’s the role of us geniuses, to try and make the world a better place, start us a shop just for us geniuses. You could employ some of the brighter school leavers, the ones with A Levels in Maths, Physics and Philosophy for example (from the better schools of course so they have manners too) so that we could at least have some sort of meaningful conversation when we buy a nice dickey bow or a corduroy jacket with leather elbows.

When you’re an intellectual most people think you’re a bit of a know it all, but that’s because WE ARE - dimwits! I can give you an opinion on any subject you would want to discuss, go on try it, ask me a question – I dare you! You’ll get back from me a considered and intelligent reply which, you will find will enlighten you and make your life 100 per cent better. Most of the time, you see, we are kind people, us geniuses, we understand, the problems people face who only have an average IQ, the insecurity of knowing that there are people brighter than themselves, the indecision, because they can’t make up their minds that filters into every facet of their days, for example, should I have the Maltesers or the Mars bar? The chicken sandwich or the cheese? You don’t see me hovering around the sandwich bar humming and aarring. No sireee I know what I want and I go out and get it! I make decisions based upon quick and logical thinking, my huge IQ sorting out these issues quicker than that IBM computer they advertise on TV.

O yes its tough having the gift of a fabulous intellect.


By the way, have none of you read my last post? If you have why has nobody sent me the £20,000 I need? I can’t understand it, I expected my bank account to be choka bloc by yesterday evening and when I looked, not one penny, dime or centime. Look here’s the deal once I reach my target, anything over the 20 grand (plus expenses) I’ll send to the starving orphans OK? Now get donating or I’ll invent something hideous!

I need £20,000 asap please help....

I need £20,000, I need it now, and I’m desperate. To be honest no I don’t need it for a life saving operation, nor is my daughter suffering some rare disease that can only be cured in America. Neither do I have large gambling debts that has led to the mob threatening me with large and well used baseball bats for the return of the money.

No, I need £20,000 for a more mundane reason than that. I need to retire. I’m of that age now (over 50 if you remember) when the thought of getting up for work, or indeed work in general has lost the thrill it had in my twenties and thirties ( and here I am lying because it never did had that thrill, but bear with me here). And of course being April we have all received from our pension companies our statements that tell us what our pensions look like now and what they will look like when we reach 65.

If I took early retirement now I could look forward to the princely sum of £1,500 ish per annum but if I hang on until I am 65 I would be the beneficiary of the sum of about £5,500 pounds per year (of course this will be in the year 2019 when, with inflation, a tin of dog food will be £50 – yum!)

So the prognosis is not good so I have come up with the idea for this appeal, I need £20,000. It’s not a lot. Probably a few hours interest on the capital in the bank for many of you reading this blog. Why do I need it you ask? And after all £20,000 is a very modest sum to ask for.

First if I could get, scrape up, or be given £20,000 me and the wife could re-locate to the Crimea, buy a house and live quite well on my pension of £1,500 per year and I wouldn’t have to work. Of course if you were, for example a sole giver, you would always be welcome in the house and you could have a holiday in Sevastopol when ever you wanted.

Look I don’t want you to think that I am a lazy git who doesn’t want to work or earn this 20 grand. I have had some ideas.

Sell my daughter on ebay, I’m sure she’s worth at least £20, 000 as she’s priceless to me (don’t tell her mum of my plans though!)
Put the wife on the game
Sell a kidney or other part of my body (guys send me an email – you’ll be impressed!!)
Become an international assassin (rates on application)
Put myself on the game (women see the pics I send the guys!!!)
Kill my parents to get my share of the house (this is, of course, a last resort as they may die naturally soon anyway!)
Hassle God a bit more for some good luck on the lottery
Become a best selling author (commissioning editors who read this blog I already have the first 10,000 words of a novel in the bag!)
Find a piece of toast that looks like the Pope to sell on ebay
Put together a crack team of thieves like in Oceans 11 to pull a blag at the local casino

So that’s the ideas, what do you think, got any more?

Until I manage to get any of the above off the ground I’ll just put this little paypal button here so if you do happen to have a few thousand quid to spare or even a tenner or a quid you can donate to the fund by clicking on the button, its easy and secure go on – you know it makes sense.

So if you enjoy this blog and want to make a difference, show your appreciation, or want to be just damn generous (go on you'll feel so good) just click on the link. Thank you in anticipation.

PS if you do have £20 grand to spare and want to lend it to me or just give it to me to buy a house in Crimea get in touch with me, I will pay it back – honest.

The wheels on the bus

You know occasionally I take the bus to work and as it happens have to take it back home again. And as I am transported around this fair City my fellow travellers never fail to impress.

The morning journey, is probably one that millions of commuters across the world endure, often in silence, because at that time in the morning who wants the hassle. It starts with that last minute rush at home to get out of the door and to the bus stop before the bus. The symptoms are familiar, we all kid ourselves that we can spend and extra few minutes in bed, pushing the envelope (and no this isn’t a metaphor for other under the sheets activity) of time down to the absolute minimum it takes to shit, shower and shave. O how I envy those people who can get up have a leisurely breakfast of something healthy and wholesome, browse through the papers before stress free, amble through the park to work.

Once we have stormed out of the house, shirt tails flapping, we make it to the bus stop. Of course the times for the bus listed are only indicative. Will it turn up is the question of the morning? Of course when it does one has to make sure that one has the right and exact change. Try to proffer a five pound note for a ticket that costs nearly two pounds generates a sharp intake of breath by the driver together with a shaking of the head as he fingers through his change in those little tin things they have.

Although the bus is full these drivers can never ever change anything bigger than a two pound coin. Why is that? Is it because all the thoughtless people already on the bus have got on waving tenners around or is it really because the driver sorts his change as he drives ( I’ve seen them) and he has a secret stash of pound coins and other change sorted into pounds down the side of his chair. This is so that when he finishes his shift he can just dump the money then leave rather than have to spend another half an hour cashing up.

Of one’s fellow passengers, they are the usual mix of office workers in their suits and black outfits, students all ipodded up, and old people probably off to the hospital. En route the driver stops for every one, despite there being a sign saying 8 standing only, he regularly breaks the 16 mark (and the law). It is a relief to get off and breath some fresh air!

The afternoon journey is much more entertaining. It’s like being on a moving Oprah or Sally Jessy Raphael Show. The busses are full of Chavs getting back home after a hard day’s shoplifiting, and their unmarried mums who all seem to have three kids sired by different men and school kids!

The air is blue with foul language as this seems to be the only language the school kids are learning at school. Swear words linked together with ‘like’ and ‘yknow’ and ‘wicked’ which I thought as a word was passé in the 1990’s. The old ladies sit tutting and glancing but know better than to remonstrate with these retards, who god help us are the future of our country, because they know, probably from bitter experience that this would unleash a fury of filth.

The trailer trash mums spend their time, yelling at their kids to sit down and clip them around the backs of their legs and then glaring at everyone daring them to say something about cruelty to kids. These kids then spend the rest of the journey yowling and crying while their mums get more irate as they are suffering cold turkey because the ‘ain’t ad a fag for the last five minute’s’. So the kids get belted and given crisps in equal amounts as their mum’s mood swings from anger to guilt.

I guess once that these young women were foxes and that they turned heads on the dance floor and made some boys go weak at the knees. But somewhere something went wrong. Either their looks didn’t compensate for their lack of intelligence or there is little escape from the sorts of life they were bought up in. I should know this, as a sociologist, but their looks have been drained from them, you can see it in their tired faces, where there once must have been a sexy sparkle, there is now a deep dark pool of resignation. Resigned to a life of kids screaming on the bus.

Hmmm I had planned to make this blog funny and witty, but I seem to have written myself out of that mood. Take a bus journey once in a while to see what I mean.

The baby on the bus says, "Wah, wah, wah!
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah!"
The baby on the bus says, "Wah, wah, wah!"
All through the town.
(Fisted hands in front of eyesand rub them like baby crying)

The mummy on the bus say, "Shh, shh, shh,
Shh, shh, shh, slap slap slap"
The people on the bus say, "Shh, shh, shh"
All through the town.
(Put pointer finger to mouth to 'shhh')

The mommy on the bus says,
"I love you,I love you, I love you"
The chav on the bus says, "I love you, too"
All through the town.

(Point to self on 'I',right hand over heart on 'love',
and point to other on 'you')
Then puke!

Bolloxulitte

Recently, and especially since I have remarried, as I have been flipping through the various women’s magazines looking for the underwear adverts I have noticed with increasing regularity more and more adverts for creams and potions that claim to make wrinkles go away, I think I have even recently seen a set of products aimed at us men.

More worrying than the fact that this increasing number of adverts are reducing the space available for knickers and bra ads is that they all claim that their product has some new and wonderful product in it that will work better and more safely than the infamous Botox jabs. The fact that these wiz kids of marketing have had to come up with names that replicate or echo Botox makes me wonder just how gullible these marketers think women are? (Very, probably).

So we get products that contain Botolox, Botomax, Botocreme (these are real check them on Google). OK we can understand those, they are trying to tell you women that these will (probably) replicate (some of) the effects of injecting yourself with a deadly poison and won’t cost you an arm and a leg like botox does, just an arm.

Then things and names and contents start to get even more bizarre. A product that contains C-ESTA! Come on guys are we that stupid, the word looks like and sounds like Siesta but it isn’t is it? But what does it mean, does it send subliminal messages about relaxing, being young under the sun, not a wrinkle or sign of skin cancer anywhere! Or am I just too cynical?

And what’s Morpholift? When it’s at home? Here darling let me smear another £30 dollop of Morpholift over your ravaged face and soon you will look like a 30 year old again! Have you seen that woman on the TV who tells us that she not only feels like she’s back in her 40’s but looks it? No she doesn’t.

There’s another cream that’s ‘enritched with Dermo-Lastyl – what’s that? Do a Google search – there are NO findings! Or even ‘Lifactiv with fibrocyclamide’ which gets only 36 hits on Google and nothing in English that tells you actually what it is.

Searching any of these names and claims on Google will leave you just as uniformed about these products as this blog will. Because it’s all bollocks and no I don’t mean that’s the active ingredient of the actual cream but the active ingredient that the marketeers use to push these over priced tubs of lard that they claim will make us all more beautiful and wrinkle free. I believe I have read somewhere that Vaseline is just as good as it rehydrates the skin and that is simply what these overpriced treatments do. Plus I have also heard that the best thing for wrinkles around the eyes is Anusol or similar ‘pile’ treatments.

I mean, come on girls, tell us, do you really get taken for the ride. Do you, when out shopping, see that little tub, with the even littler tub inside, go, ‘I have to have this as its called ‘Sculpt 10’ and yes I am sort of aware inside my head that subliminally Sculpt is related to sculpture but look its enriched with DermoLastyl so it must be good and its by Lancome or some other French expensive and pretentious Laboratoire and I need it to look 10 years younger’.

Look go here and get yourself some emu oil – just don’t ask me how they extract it!

Emu Oil? – yuck that’s what I thought.

The French Girls are here

The French Girls are here. But through some unfortunate bureaucratic cock up they are both aged about 12 and not 18 as we were led to believe. So thanks for all the offers of spy cam kits, backhanded payments to come and stay at my place, and generous inducements to pass on the negatives, but it has all come to naught! Basically because I don’t want to spend the next six years on Rule 42 in the Isle of Wight prison checking out if anyone’s behind me when I drop the soap in the showers. I’m no pervert!

Once again I have opened my house to the world. This time to two very young French girls from Poitier (which is where the great black actor Sidney Poitier came from or so I believe) in France. They are tres timid and float around my house like ghosts, whispering to each other, in the way 12 year old girls whisper to each other all over the world. I strain my ears and edge closer to them to try and overhear to see if they are saying nasty things about us, but to no avail, plus they whisper in French which is unfair as I can’t understand it.

Once again our French guests have challenged my stereotype of the French being soap dodgers. They were hardly in the house for half an hour when they asked if they could have a shower. Of course this could mean that a shower is a luxury that they do not have access to at home. I mean, I have seen some of these French houses on those ‘Buy a House in France’ TV programmes and some of them are no better than barns – I kid you not!

They eat like Edith Piaf and treat the place like un ‘otel, refusing the generous portions of Fish and Chips last night on the grounds that the first one was allergic (say with French accent) to poisson and the other just wrinkled her nose in the same way she will when she’s 22 and someone’s just asked her for a blowjob! I though the French were great gastronomes and yet they don’t like Fish and Chips! They ended up with sausages of which they each only ate one of the two they were given. Tonight its Pizza and Smiley Potato Faces, they don’t seem to want to eat vegetables – we’ll see what they’re like with traditional Italian food. (I’ve already mentioned in an earlier related blog about the problems of finding traditional French food locally)

Whenever I have spent a holiday in France I seem to get along quite well with the language and have few problems communicating with the locals, we get fed, buy beer, ask the way to le plage and so on. So why is it that whenever I try to speak French to these two girls they look at me with alarmed faces as if I am saying something that terrifies them. Maybe I am who knows? But generally its ‘Have you got le picnic’, ‘ Time pour le manger’ ‘le plume du ma tante’ , ferme le fentre’, ‘ouvre la porte’ and so on.

We seem to be getting on alright though, last night they took photographs of my wife and myself, ostensibly to show to their mama e papa but now I’m worried that they might be passing them on to Interpol when they get back and the next time we try to enter France we’ll be arrested on some sort of trumped up foreign charge that is usually reserved for football fans and Germans. Then we’ll be thrown into some dank French Gaol and made to eat Onion Soup – heavy on the garlic!

Although they profess not to be able to parley anglais, even un petit pur, when they were in the back of the car yesterday they were singing along to something on the radio, in English. So I think that I might have discovered something here. A universal language, like Esperanto, but something, unlike Esperanto, that works. Yes, song lyrics. We could communicate through the medium of contemporary song lyrics as they seem to know these in English (the universal language I might point out). What do you think?

At this point I was going to post the lyrics of the Maurice Chevalier song ‘Thank Heavens For Little Girls’, but on reflection I refer you to the last sentence of the first paragraph!

Daddy's takin' us to the zoo

Daddy’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow,
Zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow
Daddy’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow
And we can stay all day!

Chorus:
We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo
How about you, you, you?
You can come too, too, too
We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo.

See the elephant with the long trunk swingin’
In a concrete pen that’s really mingin’
And a kangaroo that’s never springin’
And we can stay all day!

(chorus)

See all the monkeys they’re bored bored bored
Sittin’ around being bored bored bored
Hangin’ by the long-tail (bored bored bored)
And they must stay all day!

(chorus)

There’s a big giraffe and he’s lick lick lickin’
It’s a psychological tic is his lick lick lickin’
All the animals behaviour is sick sick sicknin’
I don’t want to stay all day!

(chorus)

The lions and the tigers are apathetic
The lizards and the snakes are catatonic
The miserable monkeys are just pathetic
Why must they stay this way?

(chorus)

We’ve been to the zoo zoo zoo
So have you you you
You came too too too
Are you ashamed too too too?

I’m not going to the zoo tomorrow!
Zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow!
I’m not going to the zoo tomorrow
Not even if you pay!



I don’t like zoo’s. I think I mentioned this in one of my last postings. But my new wife and my daughter wanted to go, so as the dutiful loving husband and father we went to Paignton zoo yesterday.

I must say first that it is quite well laid out in a wooded valley that one has to walk around to see the inmates – never has death row had such a rural feel to it. The happiest of the exhibits must be the wild rabbits that look fat and unconcerned at the proximity of humans and the various seagulls and other wild (and free) birds that enter the competition for the free food handouts.

The most animated of all the animals that I saw on this trip were the human beings, the inmates, served their time in a listless, apathetic stupor, much as I suppose humans on death row do. The most animated of all the animals on display was a lioness who was being teased mercilessly by a squirrel with a death wish, who’s destiny it seemed, if it was not so fleet footed, was to end up as a tasty snack sized supplement to the lionesses diet. The humans who were watching this little drama were more interested in the common or garden grey squirrel than the sad moulting lion and his mate – the Kings of the Jungle whiling away their time on earth (Hakuna Matata!) – the highlight of their day their joint of horse or cow being flung into the enclosure.

I know that these places spin up the rationale for existing as being a necessary part of the protection of such wild life and that if it were not for the breeding programmes then some of these animals might not exist now. But at the nitty gritty end of this business, it is simply that - a business, these animals become commodities in the same way as human prisoners have become a commodity for such organisations as Group 4 security. People make money out of the incarceration of both species.

I would accept the notion of breeding to re-stock the wild because after all it is through the activities of humans and mainly humans from the West that many of these species are at risk and we need to redress the balance. But please lets do it properly, lets give these animals a decent life, somewhere decent to live, something to occupy their time. Maybe the Romans had some of the best ideas about how to keep lions entertained! We could start by culling politicians, pop stars and celebrities just to start with - I will entertain any other suggestions for the Lions you might want to come up with!

O and:

I saw green alligators and long-necked geese,
Some humpy-backed camels and some chimpanzees.
Some cats and rats and elephant, but sure as you're born,
I never saw no unicorn!

Me no April Fool me young and beautiful

OK now I know it’s April Fools Day and I wasn’t born yesterday but who sent me the SAGA magazine? As you well know this magazine is for OLD people, people who are considering what colour the pearly gates are, people who are, to quote Dylan ‘knock knock knocking on heavens door’!

It may well say on the magazine that its for people who are fifty and over and well, yes, if you ask, I am fifty and over, BUT NOT REALLY, in real life! I might well be 51 in real human years but I’m only 7 and a quarter in dog years and mentally I would say I’m about 25 ish. Also, although I do say it myself, I am always being complimented about my looks, I don’t actually need to go on that TV programme ‘Ten Years Younger’ and have dead things injected into my forehead and other bits to make me look younger than I am because I already do! People tell me. So there!

Also I don’t have any clothes made out of crimplene, in the colour of beige! I don’t shop at BHS, Littlewoods or other old peoples shops, the only concession to this is Marks and Spencer, of course for my pants (Americans please note that by pants I mean underwear – like knickers for men – but not like women’s knickers if you understand – I’m not that old that I have turned into a perverted dirty old man – I’m planning to do that when I’m about 60 – something to look forward to in my retirement!)

I know that when we go out I do like a nice cup of tea and a cake, but that’s because I am British, that’s what we do when we go out, it’s not about being old. I could go out and have 6 pints of Stella instead of a cup of tea if I wanted but lately I can’t cope with the headaches so well. And actually there’s nothing wrong with a nice cup of tea, wherever you go in the world people do offer tea, whether its mint tea in the Arab sort of places, black tea in Russia, or something that looks like cows piss in France but its still tea, its not anything to do with getting old – which I’m not by the way.

And yes I do know that I did look at their website when I needed to renew my car insurance, just for comparative reasons you understand, you have to shop around, not because they claim to be able to get cheap insurance for the over 50’s. I wouldn’t be seen dead with Saga car insurance, which is probably why their premiums are so high. All these old codgers driving around with Saga car insurance, having heart attacks, not seeing the road ahead and the hairpin bends because of their advanced stages of glaucoma or not hearing the 20 tonne juggernaut bearing down on them because they have their hearing aid switched off. That’s why I went with a normal young person’s insurance company and saved about a £100 quid too. See I’m not even in the very first stages of senility, I’m bright, me.

So ha ha to however sent me this magazine, don’t think for one instance that I’m actually going to read it, let alone send off for the subscription (which I noticed was half price special offer!), so your little April fool joke didn’t work – white rabbits to you and no returnees ha ha ha!