In my own time

Change is inevitable. It's not like you can change change. People, cars, attitudes, jobs - they are all subject to the inexorable march of change it seems. Well, I'm not one for changing much. In the Ivanovitch bubble, things change around me rather than me being a catalyst of any colour. I have been quiet this last month, quiet in my family, my car, my bed. Since August I've pulled the shades down on my life, despite the challenges of a new job, and the usual black-pepper sprinkling of daily issues, my self has remained hidden. Grief does this to you, I've discovered. Learning so much about myself, as reflected in those nearby sharing this grief, I realise how little I planned for grief in my life. Keeping so positive, with my sunny smile, has kept the loss of my Dad compartmented, shut behind a door, not locked, just closed for now. Something tucked away for a rainy day, to muse and mull over privately, perhaps later. The trouble with playing this game with grief is that, much like any game, the umpire or the referee or the linesman, or even the banker will occasionally send a reminder that there is an unfinished play, strategy or half that remains to be completed. I'm not sure I want to face playing right now, but the time is coming, surely coming soon. Those of my friends who have triumphed in their grief games would surely tell me of the healing process, the salvation of time, the numbing of hurt that will come with the passing of the days and weeks. I know it will. Little reminders of my Dad, little paintings or photos sometimes burst into view, suddenly brightening or dulling my eyes for a moment, then they pass, as all clouds do, leaving me bereft and joyous in the same instant. I have a secret though. I lived my whole life knowing my Dad loved me, knowing - simply knowing that he was right there in every way. And I loved him back, regardless of the miles or time of day. I still do, that hasn't gone away with his passing. I said everything I wanted to say to him, and he to me, and that knowledge is stronger than grief. It overcomes everything. I have no regrets. That, too, commands enormous comfort. So thank you, my glorious Pa. You did it just right. Your music lives on in me and my kin, and I'll play it until my time ends too. Daniel x

Days of Thunder (How to live with an irritated stomach lining)

Penny From Heaven

A hole has appeared in the fabric of life today.
Like a Tom-torn window in a cartoon curtain, it is certainly cat-shaped, and has certainly left the velvet lining in shreds.

As Tracey and I stand together, hand in hand, gazing at this new unwelcome window, we recognise that it cannot be patched, cannot be repaired and cannot be replaced in any way. Beyond the ragged frame, we can see nascent sunbeams dancing on the fields, and a little rainbow splashing its way across a muddy path. It is but for a few moments that it lives, before shuttering down in measured grey venetian blinds of shadow. A sudden sharp relief; a golden brown cotton-cloud flits across the cold slate sky. We watch, willing it to change to a familiar tab-stripe, noting the way the trees on the horizon gracefully shape themselves into fluffed tails as it passes them.

Our way of coping with loss is to share it. Together, in an embrace - the way she taught us. And indeed, this cat did teach us such things. How to stay close on a sofa, how to bring routine to chaos, how to keep calm and carry on.

This beryl-eyed love-child of ours loved us simply, and wanted nothing more than exactly that in return. She was our first-born and longest lived, sharing every joy and sorrow, every fair-weather fortune and rainy-day worry.

She sleeps now with the soundness of the innocent. The sweet release from the recent loneliness of being completely deaf, and - in her last few days - also blind, means that we somehow also can rejoice in her freedom from discomfort. I was with her to her last caught breath. Her head gently cradled in my hands, so she could know I was there. And there I remain.

She will return in time, to lovingly revisit her favourite places - the shady hedge, the sunny lawn.

We miss her. Yet carry her with us. Knowing she watches from her new window.

Penny: 1992-2011

Nitty Gritty - or just left plain icy

Everyone I speak to remembers the winter of 1976. Everyone of course who is old enough to remember the seventies that is. I remember it. This evening for instance, whilst scything through my front garden, digging my frustrated way through 5cm of snow, I was remembering what 'real snow' was like.

How about 4 feet or so, within a sheltered back garden. Deep crisp and even above my head aged 7 years old. Bloody marvellous it was; real snow. Winter 1986 was another 'real' Winter too. My little car buried itself in a drift which no amount of effort with a spade would get it out of.

So what is all the moaning about in Winter 2010? What the heck is everyone on about when they say the country has ground to a halt? Why? Whats the difference between then and now?

In this digital age, where we order everything over the web, and then moan about having to wait in for it to be delivered, why does it matter that we can't get to the shops?

Why do we care when the roads aren't gritted, when we cannot afford the cost of fuel to go anywhere anyhow?

If anyone ran out of bread in the 1970s (as was the norm during the bread strikes) then they baked their own. Or lived on biscuits. And tinned spam.

Everone used to buy their Xmas presents over November and December, because they knew the shops would run out of everything if they waited until the last week before the big day.

No-one expects Xmas cards to be delivered on a Sunday, especially when there is a foot of snow on the ground, and the Royal Mail lorries can't get up Wilbury Hill.

Why on earth are we expecting the British Service Industry to collectively break it own neck in trying to serve our every unreasonable whim, when in fact we can't even be bothered to clear the pavement outside our own houses?

Who are we trying to fool exactly?

Keep Feeling Fascination

Doors closing. Doors opening. Life moves around me in swirls and eddies. Sometimes, you know, if you stop focussing on what is directly in front of you, you suddenly get the whole picture. In 3D.

Love has been powerful strong in all it's manifestations over the last fews days. Sport also has been almost orgasmic in it's intensity; both training and winning are such rare bedfellows that when they finally deign to make a joint appearance in the same week I could cry with the pain of the emotion.

Anniversaries of all sorts have also been constant companions over this year, what with short, medium and long term celebrations putting in welcome and sometimes surprising appearances.

Now, late on Saturday night, and accompanied by a glass of decent Merlot, I see two more doors that need to be opened.

The immediacy of the necessity of opening that first door cannot be underestimated...but after I have rinsed my hands I fully expect to contemplate the opening of the second, mysterious, and extremely important door.

More news on doors, orgasmic sport, and possibly even more decent bottles of Merlot will be forthcoming.

Elton John is on the telly by the way.

There's another Sergei.

Sergei

Preshing The Buttonz

Changes are afoot. Professionally, decorationally, relationally, and automotivationally. Also badmintonationally.

I should have been American, with such violent use of the english language. Hmmm.

Professionally?

Well, the company is being sold off to the highest bidder. Or not. Or not the highest bidder, but the best advised. And our ex-CEO is advising such a bidder, He is fondly remembered here, and I hope he doesn't burn any bridges.

Decorationally?

The fireplace has been ripped out, the carpet is coming up, the shelves are being built, the new bookcases are in place.

Relationally?

I lied about that one. No changes there...

Automotivationally?

The Vauxhall Tigra is for sale again. Properly this time...

Badmintationally?

Finally retired from competitive matchplay for Comets, after what can only be described as my worst season ever. So have decided to do it properly on my own terms next season, and go for the jugular at some orbital tournaments. Just for one year.
Hang what my consultant said. I reckon I'll die a whole lot sooner if I don't play sport than if I give it up.

Stroll on my trusty Yonex Carbonex 15/MusclePower77 combo.

(Just in case you are wondering, I finished a cold beer or two before starting todays blog. Just a social experiment you understand)

And yes Flipper. I do need that night out. I need a couple more beers to wash down what Ive got on my plate right now...

Shlergei. Ooops. Hic.

On a less maudlin note...

I'm rather pleased.

Not in a 'I Predict A Riot' kind of way.
Not in a 'Fiddler On The Roof' kind of way.
Not even in an 'Article in The Times' kind of way.

Just secretly, in a 'Jam On Hot Toast' kind of way.
A 'Sunny Spells are forecast' way

My Sister knows why.

Pleased, pleased, pleased.

It's just the way I feel.

;))))))))))))))))))

Sergei x

Dorian Gray Snaps

No. I'm not about to tell you some fast breaking news from beyond the grave about Noel Coward's literary creation - though the film does have a bearing on this article.

It is, however, this.

There is a picture or two in Grandma Sergei's house that I particularly like. I haven't seen them for a little while, as there is some redecoration going on, but like them I do.

One is of big Sis, at the height of her badminton career, about to serve a shuttlecock. The other is big Bro, in road-racing mode, resplendant in CC Breckland colours.

I often look for these two pictures. They mean rather a lot to me.

Here's why.

I'm a bit younger than my siblings; five and seven years respectively to be precise. This means that - academically - I never got to go to school with them at the same time, in the same schools. They were up and out with their friends long before I could ride a bike. They were passing driving tests, working, drinking in pubs before I was yet arrived in High School. We were born in the same decade, but it might have been a generation apart.

Before I reached the age of about 13, I found it difficult to see who exactly they were. They were conceptual: a little distant but loving nevertheless, and rather tolerant of the bespectacled, aggravating little brother that I probably was.

So, those pictures. Those particular pictures, are the very snapshots of my siblings that I carry around with me in my little locked-up treasure-chest of memories. They are the mental pictures that flash up each and every time I speak over the phone with them. They are the perpetual portraits in my gallery. Unchanging, age-defying, ever youthful.

It explains why I feel slightly shocked, each time we meet. Surprised that they don't look like that any more. I mean, they do, kinda. But older.

In my mind, they are still 19 and 21. Still beautiful and handsome. And they still are. Really. Just - older.

I'm older too, of course. In my forty-first year. And I also have a mental self-portrait of myself in that private gallery. It also is an image that doesn't age, but again, each time I look in the mirror, I'm slightly shocked by the middle-aged man staring back at me. I don't recognise myself.

When I'm on court, I'm still 19. Still surprised when I ache so terribly the next day. When I can barely walk across the office for two days. But it allows me to keep that portrait looking youthful. It's a magical secret, and I don't know why I'm sharing it, but here it is.

Spend some time with yourself. Paint that self-portrait in that private gallery. Frame it with happy memories, and then remember to take a peek every now and then.

If the portrait doesn't age, then neither will you. Because it is you.

It's not magic. But it really can feel like it.

Sergei x

Peering Myopically Into the Past

I have a very good long-term memory.

Because of this, I can recall things that happened or places or objects from a very long time ago. This ability to remember means that they always are very fresh in my mind, as if they happened yesterday, or perhaps last week. In reality they are 30 year-old memories. For example, I can remember my neighbour's car registration from 1978. HLC 84T. It was a dark blue Ford Cortina 1.6GL estate, a company car, and the owner worked for IPC Magazines.
I can recall many other small and obscure details about every aspect of where I lived, who I knew. Who wore what aftershave, what colour shoes they had, what their favourite meals are, how they ate their peas in with their mash.

It's quite amazing exactly how much junk I have in my cranial attic.

And I continue to cram it in. In bucketloads.

Newspaper articles, television documentaries, books. Books especially. I can remember whole chunks of paragraphs and even what word a chapter starts with from books that I read at Primary school.
I remember many of the cars that my teachers had from all my schools, the way the green paint flaked on the toilet doors, the diary entries I wrote aged six in my school books after the Summer hols. I can remember the name of my first proper bicycle - a Raleigh Chicco, from my 5th birthday. The name of the paint of my Dad's Hillman Minx (Forest Green). Quite easily I can tell you the exact make and model of any British car from the 1970s just by looking at a wheeltrim. What optional extras you could have with it; what came as standard; what colours you could buy it in.

I remember what I said, how I felt, what I thought, what it smelt like, who owned it, where it was, why it was there, when it was moved.

Not many people would like to be me.

At any one point in time, I will have a multi-coloured explosion of memories bombarding me. Absolutely anything I do, I associate with a memory of something else. People, places, times.

There is no peace for me, in my little world. Nothing is ever quiet. I never have a blank moment. I even dream some of my memories.

When I meet someone from twenty years ago, I will simply continue the conversation that I was having with them the last time I saw them.

It's exhausting. And it's achingly hard to concentrate on anything for any length of time.

Perversely, it also means that I forget important things. I can't remember what I've just walked into a shop to buy, and will have to ring Mrs. Sergei to ask.

I forget birthdays, appointments, family events, work tasks.

I think I'm nearing capacity. Can anyone teach me how to lose some of this junk, and make room?

Erm......oh yes.

Sergei.

Port Or Starboard - The Choice Is Yours

I hear the new Speaker to preside over the Ship of Elected Troughs has finally been chosen. I wonder if the Ship of Appointed Swine will now also toe the line? A certain Mr. Berko has been selected by his fellow Commons' shipmates to walk the plank between the creaking benches and attempt to bring the lurching HMS Rotten back into a fair wind.

And, indeed, a fair amount of wind is exactly what will be necessary to bring her to some kind of heading at all. The Mother of All Ships has been at full speed ahead in the Red Sea for the last 12 years, but has finally come to grief on the rocks of the Tory Reef; the Blue Sharks are circling.

Captain Brown has had his good eye so firmly clamped to his economic telescope that he forgot to keep his own very able seaman within his line of sight, and they are in mutinous mood these days. Swarming over the rigging with their knives firmly clamped between their teeth, some have lost their grip and hit the deck. Others have attempted to over-run the crows-nest, whilst the weaker ones have simply jumped overboard - vainly clinging to the hope that their receipts don't get too wet during the long swim to the shore.

There isn't a man, woman or Mandelson alive who can control this kind of runaway vessel. The problem is that the current is too strong. And that current has been caused by the huge tide of hopelessness that has engulfed the electorate; a tide of utter despair caused by a torrent of half-truths, untruths, black fibs and downright boneshaking lies that have come to light since the expenses scandal broke.

I believe that a new laundry is what is necessary this time. Not more desperate mopping, furious pumping, drain-rodding or plughole plunging. Not enough detergent exists in the supermarkets to clean away the stain and stink of corruption that pervades the air in Westminster.

I have no doubt that there are a few, a noble few, who actually become MPs because of conviction, or because of passion or even some strange notion of doing right by society. The sad fact now is that the Government has become exactly what Lady Thatcher dreamed it could be - a glorious cruise-liner of private enterprise. And those of us who have worked within any large company will recognise the signs - company credit cards being abused, expense accounts been misused, staff being disabused, and we just know we have seen it all before.

We have to live and die by the sword in this system - and it should be absolutely no different for the Sailors of HMS Rotten.

Rats overboard now please..

Sir Guy.

News Just In

DISCOVERED!!

When standing on your office toilets replacing your spectacles with your contact lenses, make sure you snap the lid of your glasses case shut really loudly.

The bloke standing at the urinal peed down his leg.

Much hilarious cursing.

Serglee :))

NightWalk

Meet me here at fall of light, whilst climbing banks of cloud
Appear, to move my thought but forty miles, to be with you
and not in here.

Can my touch and warmth of heart, when inward calls of doubt
Provoke, becalm your fear of long travail, and keep you safe
by 'magined thought?

Above your head I'll fly at stealth, not daring yet to catch your
Eye, 'round whispering towers of green and brown, and many voices
hushed and high.

Across your path I'll weave my flight, yet truly here I've never
Left, my loving net I'll cast again, o'er every step I'll
keep you safe.

A moment lost and not aware, I wake with start to thrilling
Tone, A wearied nudge of honeyed sound, her task complete
she's homeward bound.

(Written with love and admiration for Mrs. Sergei upon her completion of the 2009 MoonWalk)

Sergei x

Hellish Kitchen

I tell you what. Sorry, I should introduce myself again - probably. I'm Sergei Ivanovitch, possibly not my real name but certainly the owner of this sparse blog...and I seem to have been away for quite some time.

Where was I?

Oh yes...I tell you what. Kitchen nightmares. Hell's kitchens.

Mine's non existant at the moment. Mrs. Sergei and I have stayed with the same kitchen design for nearly eleven years, as we didn't know that kitchens designed by monkeys and built by gorillas during the winter of discontent ever went out of fashion.

We loved the straight edges and broken handled look. Chipped cupboards; walls that simply came to life when the artex was peeled back. Literally. We know where all the greasy spoons are gone, I can tell you.

Well now the kitchen's gone. We've bucked the trend for poverty recently, and splurged like there is no tomorrow. (Actually, there probably won't be a tomorrow according to my Bank Mangier)

The trouble is, no-one told us exactly what it is like having open-heart surgery on your house. It. Is. Horrendous. One minute you are cheerfully making a cup of what you think is tea (Earl Grey) for the contractor as he walks in for the first morning, the next you are unceremoniously dumped out of your entire life whilst he re-tunes your radio to Wogan, cracks open his own PG, and starts whistling along to Spandau Ballet - even if it's a Simple Minds song.

There's dust on the floor, rubble on the carpet, footprints on the stairs, and an unused dustsheet lying sadly nearby. Every cupboard is ripped from it's comfortable placement, every tile has seen it's last splash. No plaster has survived.

We are washing up in the bathroom for gawd's sake. Have you every tried scrubbing things whilst taking a shower for heavens sake? Oh you have. I see.

Also, we are bathing in Persil whilst still fully dressed, because the washing machine is in the garden. Actually, this particular task is quite jolly - you can generate an awful lot of bubbles whilst getting the grass stains out of junior's sports kit, whilst at the same time coming out peachy clean yourself. And smelling of roses for a change. If you add fabric conditioner too, it brings a whole new dangerous dimension to wet shaving.

Did I say we are splurging?

The bathroom is next.

I wonder if the kitchen sink is big enough for me?

And does Fairy Liquid make your skin squeak?

Bed bath anyone?


Sergei

When the world is not enough

The Fantasy

When you get to my age, you've stopped railing against the injustice of life. You've stopped banging your head against that brick wall. You've realised that it's not what you were meant to do with your life, and you have started feeling comfortable in your own skin. And BMW tourer.

Perhaps.

Or, having turned around to fondly bid farewell to your thirties, twenties and even teens, you realise that it was actually quite a comfortable place to be for a couple of decades.

You may start thinking you could have done more with yourself/partner/house/car/job/lawn etc.

You might even start believing that you can do something about it. And this is where the middle-age crisis begins.

The Fantasy

You start wearing tighter jeans. The smart loafers they all wear down the pub. The better styles of sunglasses/haircuts/phones that all the twenty-somethings are hanging out in.

Finally, you convince yourself that the barmaid has started eyeing you up in all this gear, and is chatting about the style you just know you are oozing, and is going to ask you out for a date.

The Reality

Your aftershave is attracting the flies away from their favourite horse's pile.

You are still wearing your sunglasses after 9pm.

Everyone else is wearing trainers tonight.

Your hairstyle is being copied by the two architects in the corner of the bar as the inspiration for the new Head Office for Barclays.

It's not the barmaid but the barman who has been asking about your waist size.

The Conclusion?

Give it up. You're not fooling anybody under the age of thirty. Get back into your faded chinos, scruffy trainers, Tesco-brand T-shirt, and old spice.

Because actually that's what everyone else is doing these days.

And that is actually cool right now...

So my £100/hour stylist said at the tanning salon last week.

Sergei.

Kneeling At The Altar Of Darwin

Well, not physically at least.

I have just finished reading 'The God Delusion' by Richard Dawkins. I'm now re-reading it - like anyone who enjoys a second helping of ice-cream after a sumptuous dinner - to make sure I don't leave any traces un-enjoyed.

I know at least one friend who owns the book, although I don't know if he has read it or not.

I thought it would be into 'bashing' the bible bashers, but actually it's not like that at all. It's more like a parent explaining the birds and the bees to an adolescent, and helping them to leave their childish beliefs and worries behind.

I've always been a fence sitter when it comes to God. Like any law of physics, it has always been the equality of the two forces, Atheism and Theism, which has kept me there, somewhere in between, swaying slightly in the breeze. But the Dawkins book, a bible for Atheists (although he would hate me to say it) has turned that Atheistic breeze into a wind of change, and the metaphysical topple has begun.

Like a huge cup of tea, if the contents are stirred enough, and the right amount of milk and sugar is added to sweeten, the force of the liquid will overcome the natural tendancy of the teacup to stay in it's saucer, and things will start to spill over.

I feel like that teacup. I've has my emotions stirred by Dawkins' spoon, I've left the saucer, and I'm spiralling towards a soft landing in the deep-pile carpet of Darwinism with a strange sense of familiarity.

Familiarity? Well, yes. Familiarity because all those feelings of 'just living somewhere behind my eyeballs' is something I thought just happened to me, and it turns out its a recognised state. Just like Dualism. I've now been shown the signpost to Sensetown, and I'm stepping out on that road, knowing I'm not alone any more; the whole of the human race is with me.

Perhaps thats what it feels like when someone who is spiritually lost finds God, and a church. I can now identify with them. But it's not God I've found, it's me, and the church of humanity.

Evolution is beautiful. It's cathedral is the planet we live on. It is everywhere and yet no-where. It is infinitely complex, majestic, satisfying and true. All powerful, all seeing, all hearing, even handed, never brutal, and we are it's most gifted products - it's children.

Perhaps that's what Jesus really tried to tell us - he just gave it another name.

Sergei

Bangers & Monster Mash

Great fun has been had by all in Gaunts Way, Letchworth over the last week or so. The usual sweep of giggling children knocking at our door, politely asking for sweets with perhaps the merest hint that they may otherwise do something rather funny with some toilet-roll on one’s car aerial. Smaller children also visit our house, some of their parents obviously having been to the sale at the Rocky Horror props department. All good humoured, traditional fayre you might say, and I’ll agree.

However, it’s what happens when the 9pm watershed is passed, when more sinister elements come out to play that I speak of today.

Teenagers, some barely, roam the street – intent perhaps upon having some fun of their own - triggering the metaphorical tripwire of wrath of some of our older residents when they dare to shout or laugh too loudly. I’m not one of those parents who has forgotten what it is to be a teenager, but I am a parent of two smallish-fry, and married also.

So, having given all the goodies away, and keeping only one small bar for medicinal purposes, I left the house for some sport of my own - badminton.

Only ninety minutes later – not even long enough for Arsenal to score an equaliser – my wife was ringing my mobile phone pleading with me to come home again to deal with the local funsters who had pelted her, and our neighbours cars and house with eggs, lit a firework and pointed it up his drive at his car, verbally abused other neighbours and had then sat in the dark on the ‘Rec’ whilst harassed-looking PCSOs chased around with two cars looking for them. A couple of friendly teenagers, thankfully more responsible than the perpetrators, informed me that the trouble had originated from a local youth who lives only ten doors down from me, with a few of his future cellmates to back him up.

As luck would have it, whilst I was enjoying a day off on the Wednesday, the lad happened to saunter past the end of my drive. Perfect opportunity to parley with him. So I called out to him, and asked him whether he had been involved. Quickly popping a handy Babel Fish into my ear, I realised he was speaking English, but sporadically interspersing recognisable words with the four-fettered variety. I gather he was intimating that he wasn’t in, it wasn’t him, he’d been out with friends, and further representations to the otherwise should be made through his Dad.

I had no proof so, as he suggested, I prepared to enter the local soil-turning competition finals.

His father collared me – literally – on the following Saturday night. Offered me outside to deal with the problem there and then. I politely made my excuses, as he was obviously somewhat the worse for drink, removed his rather flaccid grip from my overcoat, and rejoined the family fireworks night.

So whilst our local politicians battle with the rights and wrongs of a fireworks licensing bill, curfews for rude teenagers, or the question of underage drinking in the town, I would humbly opine that many problems begin at the home, and that all neighbours should always try to talk to each other, discuss, work as a force instead of an individual, and stamp out problems at source rather than resorting to police callouts all night. Strident disapproval from peers always worked in the playground, and in the office, so why don’t we all give it a try in our neighbourhoods.

Are You Being Served?

Well we certainly were looked after on this business trip...

Go Hooters...

Back From The Dead

I am 37 years old. 3 years away from being able to play in veteran badminton tournaments. In the other direction, 19 years since I last played in regular competition. In most senses of the word - ex.
Ex-county...
Ex-champion...
Ex-handsome...
Ex-fit...
Ex-actly.
So why on earth would I choose his year as my comeback year? After a few years of being a little overweight, dealing with a kidney condition, not enough exercise?

The truth is...I haven't chosen this year to be my comeback year.

It has chosen me.

As part of my new year's resolution, I determined to join a badminton club. I couldn't find a good one in my immediate locality, so I looked up an old contact, and joined a club a good deal further away.

Turns out they have some damn fine players there. And some really cracking matches have ensued. Ok, my form wasn't top drawer to start with. Missed a lot of shots whilst getting my eye in. Suffered a lot of aching muscles. Lost a contact lense in the vast oceans of sweat pouring from my brow.

But suddenly, two weeks ago, it all clicked back into place.

Every shot started working. Power arrived abruptly in my wrist. Closely followed by the return of the killer instinct.

As luck would have it - on that very clubnight - a County Selector happened to be watching from the balcony.

I've received my call to arms.

County match invites floating down onto my doormat.

No, I don't believe it either.

But by-God-am-I-ever going to seize this second bite of the cherry with every denture I own, and I swear I'll never let it get away again. With every nerve, fibre, tendon and muscle until I physically cannot crawl onto the badminton court, I will train, workout, run, dive, attack, defend, and hunt down every point until my blood is on the service lines.

Make no mistake, I'm going to win everything or die trying.

Whoever gave me this second chance, you won't regret it.


(Lilleshall Center Of Excellence England Trials 1983)

Sergei

Deuterium Blues...

I wanna tell you a story...although I can't vouch for it's veracity yet...

In the very north of Scotland, the Shetland Isles in fact, there were two RAF bases during the war. RAF Saxa Vord, and RAF Sullum Voe. Saxa Vord, as some may know, is/was a long distance radar station, manned only by Naval personnel, and served to warn us of impending raids by the Luftwaffe. All highly secret of course at the time.

RAF Sullum Voe may also have played a part in the war effort, perhaps quite an important one. And this is the story that I'm trying to piece together.

I'm sure you all know the "Heroes of Telemark" story, about how Norwegian resistance fighters sabotaged Nazi efforts at creating Deuterium, aka Heavy Water. The folklore - and the famous film - tell the significant details of the story, as they were known at the time. Several of the heroes also played characters in the film, to seal their memories forever in cellulose.

The story goes that RAF Sullum Voe provided backup during this operation, and was the place that the Norwegian fishing boats returned to, against the odds, bringing the heroes back to safety.

What is less clear, is how my Grandfather managed to lose his RAF greatcoat in Norway during the incident, and was promptly ordered to pay for another one...

More details hopefully forthcoming about my Grandfather, Frederic Claud(e)Warren from the RAF Personnel site at RAF Innsworth.

This might be interesting.

Let you know.

Sergei

Legs In Treacle Syndrome

I have a weird dream every now and then - usually once a week.

In this dream, all my colleagues and I have relocated to a new office, somewhere deep in the woods. The new office is surrounded by barbed wire, and patrolled by sentries with guard dogs. No-one seems unduly perturbed by this seeming prison. We just all get on with our work. Like Groundhog Day, the work never ends, but just repeats itself.

Suddenly, there is an emergency - some type of fire or incident which requires everyone to evacuate the building.

But no-one can, because they aren't allowed out of the doors.

So Yours Truly saves the day with some superhuman effort, by climbing out of a window on the third floor, dodging volleys of gunfire, and rescuing everyone.

What is this dream telling me - apart from the fact that I should get out more?

Is this a future event, or something deeper?

Whatever it is, I've relocated a Fire Extinguisher from the corridor to under my desk, because I don't think my knees will take the strain of a third-floor somersault with 1/2 pike.

Sergei

Obeying The Laws Of Levity

A new and unexciting phenomenon caught me unawares this morning...

Levity.

I'm not overweight, but my bike thinks I am, and the pot-holes on the path through the Common also agree. When I get on the bike, my 12st bod doesn't exactly make the tyres flatten. So why is the ride so uncomfortable?

The saddle has one of those Madonna pads across the top. A Madonna pad by the way, is so-named because of how it gets 'into the groove' so easily.

So, why, when I hit a particularly large hole this morning, did my ar*e leave the saddle by at least three inches?

And then land back on the saddle, but slightly to the left.

Wow - that hurt.

Hopefully no damage done, but I won't be modelling any thongs at the next Ann Summers party or two.

On another note, I'm really looking forward to a good day at the office today...just a few projects to rubber stamp...

Twerpish

The Pink Princess got the present she wanted on Christmas day. Yippee-kye-ay.

Amongst the various Art Sets, dolls and other 'it won't last a week' stuff, Father Christmas bought her a really Top-Hole pressie.

Furby.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, a real, live, walking talking Furby.

In pink.

For those who have never owned a Furby, or perhaps even heard of them, a Furby is the cutest little critter to have ever graced a little girl's bedroom. They are 'Interactive' toys, which initially speak their own language - Furbish - which sounds very much like Japanese Shorthand being read out loud by a Danish Midget. But through the magic of modern technology, they slowly 'learn' the language of the child, and start to hold conversations with her.

For example.

If the Pink Princess holds the Furby and says "Hey Furby", the Furby will answer "Doo?" which apparently is Furbish for "Yes?". The child will then perhaps say "Sing me a song". To which the Furby will reply "Ok" and will start singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - in Furbish. If the child sings along with the Furby, it listens to her voice patterns, and the next time it is asked to sing a song, some of the words will be in English.

Amazing, one might think.

But it goes much, much further than that.

Oh yes.

The more times this happens, the better the Furby's English becomes, until, incredibly, it actually begins to converse with the child.

But it doesn't even stop there.

Oh no.

If an adult picks up the Furby, it recognises that the adult's voice pattern isn't the same as the child, therefore sometimes mis-understands what is being asked of it.

For instance - Yours Truly picked up the creature earlier this week, and said "Hey Furby".
Silence.
"HEY FURBY" I repeat.
"Doo?"
"Sing me a song"
"No" it replies.
"What?" says I.
"I no happy - no sing you song"
"Why Furby no happy?"
"You no love me" says the canny toy.
"Yes I do" says I.
"Cuddle me" it demands.

There are sensors on the sides, the front, and underneath it's body, so it knows when it's being picked up. So, laughing, I picked it up, and gave it a squeeze.

"YOU NO DO THAT TO ME!!" is screams at the top of it's voice - and I drop it like a hot potato.

Bloody cheek. Just as well I wasn't in a public place; I'd have been arrested. It's terrifying. It listens to your every conversation, interrupts with inopportune comments, farts (yes, it does) and screams blue murder if you hold it's sensitive parts underneath.

So now I know exactly what this annoying little toy really is.

It's an ASBO'd Teenager.

If it answers me back just once more, I'm going to tie it to an armchair, sellotape it's eyes open, gag it, and force it to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre three times.

That'll sort the little bludger.

I hope.

Sergei.

Well...Whaddya Know?

I've finished my Xmas shopping by the 23rd of December.

See, miracles can happen at Christmastime.

I've also got some cash left.

Think I'll treat myself to a pint of milk.

Line my stomach, ready.

Sergei

Populist #2

Here's another one...

Human
League
Gentlemen
Ladies
Ascot
Hats
Coats
Winter
Coal
Port
Starboard
Green
Pleasant
Pheasant
Turkey
Christmas

Sergei

Populist #1

In the manner of word association, I'm just going to write whatever comes into my head - as fast as I can, and without trying to influence my thoughts. Ready? Deep breath...

Bach's Toccata and Fugue
Music lessons
Piano
Lost skill
Sadness
Fingers
Nails
Cut
Rattle on keyboard
Grubby keyboard
replace kit
peripheral
vision
night goggles
see-through
nightie
teddy
cuddle
furry
warm
sleep

Ok. See where my mind goes when I let go of it's hand, metaphorically speaking?

Sergei

Welcome to the Production Support Group's Xmas Party 2005...

West End Girls..................................and East End Girls...
No prizes for guessing that we ended up in Leicester Square...

Damn Fire's Gone Out Again...

David "Davey Dave" Cameron is the new leader then. Anthony "Tony Tone" Blair is the elder stateman. Charles "Where's the Bar" Kennedy now looks old and frumpy. Know what? I reckon that Boris Johnson is the man for the job. I'm not sure exactly what job that may be, b-b-b-but I'm certain he'll be good at it.

All in all then, Authority's gone to the dogs, but realised that Walthamstow isn't what it used to be. That's where all your tax has gone then...kenneling fees.

Annual appraisal time is just around the corner - just past the Circus Tent and near the Clown's caravan. You'll find our Director there, in the Stocks, with the other Directors throwing wet sponges at him. I've got some housebricks ready, just waiting under my desk. Take That. There's still no F in Money. Mutiny hangs heavily in the air, but we are just waiting for him to sign off our Christmas Meal expense sheet first.

Merry Christmas - my A**e.

And it's not often I wish my a**e merry Christmas either.

Or kiss it under the mistletoe.

Cross My Palms with Silver To See Your Future

I have recently been offered a look into the future. Everything seems reasonably rosy, but I don't necessarily want it to be.

Sitting in a very comfortable leatherette armchair last week, I felt the wind of change blowing through.

Where I was, it is the only place on earth where one can easily see directly into one's own near forthcomings. Or even possibly shortcomings.

I looked into the large mirror in front of me, and saw myself ageing rapidly. As the months came off, the years piled on.

I spoke softly, and was answered with a minute buzzing in my ear.

I asked for a number four all over.

And was advised that I really shouldn't do that unles I'm considering joining Holy Orders at the nearest Monastery.

As the hair became shorter, I saw the ancestry of the human race slowly being uncovered. I began to look like a chimp. Ok, Ok - even more like a chimp than usual.

Oh well.

Hair today, Goon tomorrow.

Samson, I know how you felt.

Sergei

...and bump goes Pottifer..

There is a girl sitting near me on the train this morning. She's really purrrdy, but suffers from acne today. Twin sister is standing next to her. She's really purrrdy too. No acne. I wonder if there is any jealousy in that relationship. Very topical.

Man exactly opposite me is obviously ex-SAS. Or at least Army. Maybe. He's wearing a Rolex - a real one. Checked shirt and tweed jacket. Creases sharp enough to slice through a table leg. Eagle-eye lever on the back of the head is a real give-away though. And he's having trouble holding on to that coffee cup with his extra grippy hands.

Lady next to me has a crutch. I mean she is supported by a walking aid. Very large. The lady I mean. You can't take very large crutches on the train. They get in everybody's way.

Passing through one of the stations, I saw Peter Sellars on the platform. Looked like he'd been waiting a helluva long time for his train.

The bloke across the aisle has got an enormous hooter. Very annoying. Parp parp like he's Noddy's little red-and-yellow car or something. Poop poop like Toad's bad habits. Get a life. Or Beechams.

My carriage seems deserted today.

Must remember to buy deodorant at lunchtime.

Sergei

Daddy...why does...?

Q and A session whilst the Pink Princess was in the bath last night:

"Daddy?"
"Mmmm?"
"Where is your Grandad now?"
"He's in heaven now darling"
"Where is heaven Daddy?"
"Heaven is where you make it darling - wash the shampoo off please"
"splutter...I think Heaven must be a horrible place Daddy"
"Why's that darling?"
"Because firstly, it's full of dead people which is sooooo creepy, and secondly because no-one really wants to die so Heaven must be full of people who are really sad that they left their friends behind on the ground".

Five-year-old logic eh?

Can't argue with it.

Sergei

Ready For Xmas

Well, I reckon I'll get some brownie points now.

Whilst Mrs. Sergei was out shopping at the weekend, I got a couple of chaps in to install the new Plasma TV in the lounge.

Seeing as they seemed honest and open young men, I left them to it whilst I nipped over to a neighbour's house.

Mrs. Sergei was so pleased when she walked into the lounge...and even more pleased when I offered to do all the gardening for the next year as well...

What are the chances...?

Going back over the Friends Reunited site the other night, I decided to search for some of the missing classmates who hadn't as yet bothered to add their names to the list.

Started with some of the ones who might still be local to the schools...nothing.

Despite extensive Googling and Boogling (I made that one up) - nothing.

Not one missing person could I find.

Except, that is, the one person I absolutely never believed I would ever find.

In between 1984 and 1987, I had a close friend with whom I really had a lot of fun. We never went out together as such, just did an awful lot of teenage-type things followed by the inevitable hangovers. Ah...such fond memories...Suzannah...

I remembered that, in about 1989, Suzy went back to America with her 8 sisters, and her only brother.

So I simply typed Suzy's sister's name into Google.com.

Francesca...

First entry - an exact match in a short story about a Air Stewardess, from Anchorage, Alaska.

Unlikely - I thought.

Reading the story, the stewardess's age (when I worked it out) was exactly right though.

Another entry showed the same name registered to a riding school in (you guessed it) Anchorage, Alaska.

It won't be her. What are the chances of finding someone after 20-odd years with the first results from a single, global Google search?

In a place that's cold. And she hated the cold.

Actually?

It is her.

Hi Cesky!!!

Hi Suzy, Tori, Lucy, etc...

Then I found Cesky on Friends Reunited.

.co.uk.

Sergei.

Dont you find this...

....eerily spooky?

Perhaps it's "Keep your head whilst others about you lose theirs..."

If machines had feelings...

...then would mowers be all forlorn?

And You and I

Now, this man really had something to say. Does he speak of love for his God, or his girl in terms such as this? Leaving you to decide is the sign of a true, true genius.

A man conceived a moment's answers to the dream,
Staying the flowers daily, sensing all the themes.
As a foundation left to create the spiral aim,
A movement regained and regarded both the same,
All complete in the sight of seeds of life with you.

Changed only for a sight of sound, the space agreed.
Between the picture of time behind the face of need,
Coming quickly to terms of all expression laid,
Emotion revealed as the ocean made,
All complete in the sight of seeds of life with you.

Coins and Crosses, never know their fruitless worth;
Cords are broken, locked inside the mother earth.
They won't hide you, they won't tell you,
Watching the world, watching all of the world,
Watching us go by.

And you and I climb over the sea to the valley,
And you and I reached out for reasons to call.

Coming quickly to terms of all expression laid,
Emotion revealed as the ocean made,
As a movement regained and regarded both the same,
All complete in the side of seeds of life with you.

Sad preacher nailed upon the coloured door of time;
Insane teacher be there reminded of the rhyme.
There'll be no mutant enemy we shall certify;
Political ends, our sad remains will die.
Reach out as forward tastes begin to enter you.

I listened hard but could not see
Life tempo change out and inside me.
The preacher trained in all to lose his name;
The teacher travels, asking to be shown the same.
In the end, we'll agree, we'll accept, we'll immortalise
That the truth of the man maturing in his eyes,
All complete in the sight of seeds of life with you.

Coming quickly to terms of all expression laid,
As a moment regained and regarded both the same,
Emotion revealed as the ocean made,
A clearer future, morning, evening, nights with you.

And you and I climb, crossing the shapes of the morning.
And you and I reach over the sun for the river.
And you and I climb, clearer, towards the movement.
And you and I called over valleys of endless seas.

Jon Anderson
And You and I
YeSSongs

You didn't really say that did you?

Mrs. Sergei's birthday yesterday.

Grandma Sergei, on my side, sent a rather lovely pair of slippers.

The right slipper features half a pretty transfer of a cuddly kitten. The left slipper features the other (back) half. So, placed together like so, make a cute whole.

Mrs. Sergei mischieviously said that she found it funny that the only way yours-truly is going to get to see her pussy is by her keeping her legs shut.

Stunned silence.

**********************************************************************

What do you get if you cross an Essex Girl with a Norfolk Bumpkin?

Boiled beef and carrots - what else?

Oh yes - mayhem.

Polly-Tickle Parties

I think, when it comes to political discussions, I'll remain on the sidelines.

It might infuriate some people to know that when all seems well in one's own world, sometimes it's just pleasant to accept that fact, and let everyone get on with their own mess. And there are so many messes out there, perhaps I don't have enough energy or compassion to lavish thoughts/actions on every one.

Some people are just like that.

I do care.

Just not today. Or - possibly - tomorrow.

But I might take up arms when required.

Politically Troglodyte.

That's me.

For now.

Sergei

Grape Hoobs

I'm a great fan of Hoobs. They seem to have been with us since time began, although perhaps only since pubescent times in reality. Hoobs seem to come in all sorts of colours - blue, pink, green - even brown.

Well, I've just discovered the latest colour which have appeared in that special place where the Sun doesn't shine.

Grape Hoobs.

Very rare, and I can only think of one other person in WHQTTT who has also made this fascinating discovery.

Scissors anyone?

Sergei

Drained

The National Manhole Cover Society of Great Britain meets today at it's annual get-together of fun and jollity. Members are encouraged to wear their conference badges with pride and decorum, and to spread the word about their interest far and wide.

What, you may ask, am I doing writing about this event?

Well, (pun intended) I have recently been fascinated by this often mis-understood society, whose main aim in life is to preserve and record the many different designs of cover in our capital city, going back to the first cover installed in 1848 outside Kings Cross.

Also, I've decided to send in some designs for new covers, which have the potential to entertain, enlighten and educate the millions of pedestrians and tourists. The reason behind my new hobby is to create a national network of postcoded drain covers, which could prevent anyone from ever getting lost again.

How?

By persuading the foundries that create them to stamp the nearest Postcode prominently somewhere within each design, thereby creating a myriad of markers for the lost and confused.

So, by checking the nearest manhole cover and cross-referencing the postcode against the soon-to-be-nationally-distributed map, pedestrians, cyclists and ramblers will always know exactly where they are.

It's just the kind of thing every effluent nation should have.

Sergei

Fruit of Me Loins..

Rather amazing really.

One minute I'm cradling my son in my arms, gently rocking him to sleep.

The next, I'm watching him with pride as he runs out onto the Saracens Rugby pitch and takes the opposition apart, scoring a try in front of 6103 spectators.

Dreaming?

Nope. It happened last Sunday.

Sergei

Robot Wars

Watching late Channel4 last night, I came across an interesting program concerning the art of Robot Design.

Mechanical Men.

More specifically, mechanical members.

The program discussed the rise in mechanical sex aids that is occurring in certain sections of society. Not just any old plain vanilla, hand-held devices. Oh No.

The scientist had created a fully functioning, 6ft robot with eyes, arms, and a very large member covered in some kind of latex.

The Robot was placed 'foursquare' behind the attractive lady, the device was inserted in the usual fashion, and then the hydraulics were set in motion.

Faster than humanly possible, and even faster than that, the self-lubricated member pumped and pumped.

The lady was ecstatic, beside herself with pleasure.

When finished, she even kissed the Robot as a thank-you.

Don't believe me?

Then it's a shame I cannot find the link on the channel Four website to prove it...there's the gauntlet...FETCH.

Sergei

Daily Blah

My new boss has taken to holding daily production meetings each morning at 09:45. This is a meeting where the problems of the preceding 24 hours are discussed, and fingers are pointed, blame is apportioned, and cheeks turn red.

Whilst doing wonders for morale (as one might imagine) this meeting usually turns out to be a real set-to every day, with everyone squirming and writhing in their attempts to pass the buck and lie their way out of their responsibilities.

I won the Bullshit Bingo game three times last week.

Sergei

Lord Above...and it's only Tuesday.

That's it. The final straw. I fear I'm about to join several esteemed ex-colleagues on the gentle, but rapidly-steepening decline into the world of the Baldies. Give it about a year or so. Six weeks even, the way some of my projects are going right now.

I've also decided to finally rebuild the Honda CX this year. I've owned this delicious classic V-Twin 500 motorcycle for seven years this year, but it's been off the road for the last five.

The two statements above are not necessarily connected, but in my experience, anyone who goes bald in their mid-thirties suddenly has the unmistakable urge to feel the wind in the hair once more.

Except of course the Baldock Hells Angels chapter. You guys will never lose your hair. Ever. And may your nuts remain shiny forever.

Spring Is Here...

Lent has well and truly been blown apart by Easter eggs. Chicks are hatching into shorter skirts. My lawn has had it's first cut of the year. Pay-Rise Day has been replaced by Spelling Test Day at my place of work. I got nine out of ten, because apparently there's no F in money.

I'm looking forward to a '76 Summer.

Always preferred the Summer of '69 though - that was actually in 1987.

Sergei

Lies, Damn Lies, and Photos

Given some lovely photos by Mother Russia last week.

Piccies of yours truly, aged about 9, in a school group.

I didn't realise quite how uncool I was.

Even amongst the flares and pudding bowl haircuts, I'm the uncool one.

My hair is shaped like a large afro, but with a slice like a piece of melon taken out.




Oh dear.

That's one for the bottom draw.

Sergei

Leaving Traces

Your Boss is off, and he asks you to conduct a meeting with Software Consultants, using his office as the location.

Good idea - you can make use of the gigantic whiteboard, the overhead projector, the electrically operated blackout blinds and all the other super-dooper trinkets of higher officialdom that come with promotion.

So.

While you are waiting for your guests, what does one do?

Play of course.

Up, down, in, out, on, off.

"I didn't get where I am today by playing with executive gadgets Perrin"

The best gadget of all, though, is the filter coffee maker, nicely filling the office with the aroma of fresh grounds.

And when I knock it over, drowning my Boss's desk, his leather blotter, his remote controls for the blinds and projector, his laptop bag and his brand new carpet, I reckon that aroma of fresh grounds is going to last a whole lot longer than I want it to.

He's not back until Monday, so I live in hope.

Sergei

Laughed? I nearly Cried...

Sitting at the dinner table this evening, Mrs. Sergei and I ask Ivanovitch Jr about his day at school.

"Fine" comes the reply.

"Any more detail?"

"Well, our teacher asked us to find out whether we have anything 'Bombproof' at home, and write about it for homework."

Thinking quickly, and with my usual wit, I answer "What about Mummy and Daddy's marriage? That's bombproof."

"Naaahhh...I mean something that works "

Scraping ourselves off the floor, Mrs. Sergei and I can't explain to him exactly what was so funny about what he said.

You had to be there.

Sergei

Showing The Sensitive Side

I can identify soooo strongly with this one... 

Mail Menopause?

I see my plan for world domination is progressing nicely.

Have you all received my mails about cheap Canadian Viagra?

You haven't tried it yet? Mature, yet crumbly. Strong, yet slightly rubbery. And is that just the merest bouquet of Moose?

And that's just my customers.

Sergei

Butterfly Mind

Hey - I've got one of those.

Just to keep it fresh, I pickled it last night in red, red, red wine.

Ouch.

It's a butterfly mind because of all the colours I'm seeing this morning, and the strange sound of beating wings when I tilt it on one side.

Shlergei

They Say The Grass Is Greener Over there...

Well they are liars.

At least, I think they they may be fibbing slightly.

Ok. I don't know.

Mebbe it's me but...when people say "the grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence"...which fence are they on about? Is it my neighbour's fence, to the right of me? Because their grass is definitely not greener than mine. They mow it too short, so it's died over Winter.

The neighbour on the other side has patio'd his garden to death. Nary a stem or shoot dares poke it's pretty head over the side of a slab, lest it's murdered in cold blood with sodium phosphate.

So what's it all about, Sergei? I never actually peek over the 'fence' as it were, because I think that my 'grass' is better than anyone elses. Lawn, that is. Sorry Officer.

I just somehow feel that whatever everyone else is doing, I'd rather be exactly where I am right now.

At least, I think I would. But I don't know, because I don't know what they are doing. Who are they anyway? And why do they allegedly have greener grass than me? What are they doing to that grass? Why are they gardening at all? They must have better things to do with their lives. I bet they all have better sex lives than me. They certainly have nicer cars. Nicer suits. More money. Posher accents. Richer in-laws. Cleaner wheelie-bins. Smarter haircuts. I hate them - their lives must be immeasureably more satisfying, rewarding and fulfilling than mine.

But my grass is truly, definitely, actually and positively greener than anyone elses.

Groovy.

Looking Back Over My Shoulder

You may have read recently on the whqttt.com journal that el stoopido here left a box of historical love letters from girlfriends past on the marital bed last week. Explained hurriedly to Mrs. Sergei (who knew about them, but had forgotten) that I'd rescued them from a flooding loft the night before.

The strangest thing about the whole affair was what happened next.

The very next day, the main writer of all those letters, L.R., a girlfriend from 20 years ago this year, suddenly wrote to me once more. Whoosh. Actually, it was on the subject of a missing boy from the Tsunami disaster, whose parents she was trying to find, but that did not lessen the shock of getting an email that day.

After a couple of mails to-ing and fro-ing between us, L.R. sent a current picture of herself and her sister, looking just as I remembered the pair of them, but minus the Gothic garb and make-up. Brought lots of memories back. Particularly, it reminded me of the time when we exchanged small gifts: she sent scented notepaper, and I sent back a small bag of Blue Stratos talc, at the time my favourite. I never knew that her mother found this sweet-smelling gift, and managed to convince herself that I was trafficking cocaine...only a timely intervention and a hurried explanation prevented the matter from going to the authorities.

It's so wonderfully cathartic speaking to old friends - you can just be the person you were all those years ago, without the cares and worries that play such large parts in your modern life. It's also pleasing to know that someone you cared about found happiness in her life, just as I have in mine.

So thanks L.R, and keep in touch.

Sergei

Please Do Not Litter

Very advanced, the Catt People were. Highly, technically and mentally advanced.

They lived many thousands of years ago, before even the ancient Egyptians - in fact, the Egyptians took a lot of artistic licence and broke several copyright rules when they etched those supposedly original pictures on the walls of the great tombs. Never mind about getting sued though, because the Catt People had died out several centuries earlier, and therefore had no standing in Egyptian law.

The Catt People are not recorded in many books of historical reference. Their artefacts do not appear in the great museums of the world. Their very existence has been hidden, brushed over, and all traces removed by some very shadowy backroom figures representing the governments of the globe. If you look up Catt on the web, all you will find are references to Mike Catt the England Rugby forward, and lots of misspelt categories on small unimportant websites. Nothing about any ancient civilisations here. Or anywhere.

So what has happened? Why the big fuss? Or lack of it, anyhow? Who are these people who want it all under the carpet, with nary a mew to be heard in opposition?

I'll tell you now.

Infiltrated throughout every nook and cranny of every major power's leading political establishments, there are the last known survivors of the Catt people's ancient and mortal enemies - the Dogg People.

Again, nothing has ever been recorded about this mysterious and wild-roaming race either. They come and go down the corridors of power like wraiths in the night. Pausing only to wipe a computer record here, scratch a file there, destroy some homework, or stain an important memo. They leave no evidence behind them except perhaps the odd furball or chicken feather. The Catts don't stand a chance.

So I've decided to trumpet the Catt's cause. Give ear to my cry, readers. This campaign will almost certainly affect you in one way or another.

'Catts of the world Unite' is the slogan I've chosen to spearhead the PR push. 'No More Pussying Around' is another I thought of, but didn't think people would take me seriously on that one. Some of my backers wanted to mount a presidential campaign in the US, but I'm advising against this. With a Dogg already in power, it could prove just too risky at present. Alongside the main thrust, there will be other, more subtle shows of strength. We already have our elder PR statesman, Tom, in place at Scraatchi & Scraatchi, and he has started muddying certain pools in the City. His finest flyer, now appearing all over the major conurbations from lowly tavern walls to posh mews, is a master stroke. Kitten Needs You. Particularly effective, I thought. The Catts Protection League has discretely joined our cause, by training their strays to whisper subliminal messages into their owners sleepy ears at night. Marvellous.

A major blow to our movement came late last year when Humphrey, our distinguished representative at No.10, was said to have been 'retired to the country'. Utter rubbish. The truth is that he was caught scanning through some of the PMs sensitive documents in the Downing St. office, and was duly neuterelised in the interests of National Security.

So here is the main message.

We may be few who have made this cause come into being, but we mean business. The original owner of this blog was blackmailed into writing this for us. We know he likes a nice bit of Pussy every now and then. We wouldn't like Mrs. Sergei to find out now, would we? So he writes in our cause now.

Our demands are simple:
1. Write a new clause into every contract for employees of all petshops that they must wash their hands and cut their nails.
2. Vets must have warm hands, and use kid-leather gloves.
3. Catts must have the vote.
4. Proper welfare for cute kittens.
5. No more stupid names like 'Tiddles' or 'Ginga'. They're just not funny.
6. Launch a fatwah against Garfield - treacherous b*stard.

These are the demands. Meet them. Or else we'll think of something really horrible to do to your expensive carpets.

Signed: Mogadon

Too Many Cooks?

I heard that a certain well-known celeb chef was visitng a local restaurant over the weekend. Apparently, it was The Italiano's turn to feel the heat of Rordon Gamsey's attention, and it caused a ripple amongst the politer circles of the town.

The restaurant itself is well known as the place to go when one wants to impress one's lady-friend. The gentle air of the camp Maitre D' and the sommelier's sensual touch of even the cheapest bottle of plonk makes one feel so wanted - nay - cherished.

So, one wonders, what on earth were the management thinking of when they invited the sharklike Mr. Rorden Gamsey over for canapes with cheese and pineapple.

Well, perhaps they have sussed out that whether the honourable gourmet gave them a good or a bad write up, the attendant press and/or notoriety would put them on the map for years to come.

Funny thing is, I heard that once word got around that Roaring Rorden was on site, the crowds melted away like so much butter in a hot pan. Not because of the chef's notorious bad temper, or his pugnacious looks.

No.

It was probably the fact that the cameras might just have recorded some of the less permanent couples at some of the shadier tables, and they might not want their official other halfs to know about the Swingers Club that meets there every Saturday evening.

Sergei