Route 66 (minus 22)

Last week I turned the square root of 1,950. The strange thing is I really do not feel that old, although I am getting thin in areas I dont want to be thiner in and larger in areas that I would like to remain thiner. But at least I have all my marbles, no sign of Alzheimers or short term memory loss yet thank goodness. But at least I have all my marbles, no sign of Alzheimers or short term memory loss yet thank goodness.



Only two whole days after my birthday the wife took me into town to buy me my birthday gift, a rather super Tag Heuer watch. Guilt gifts are always the best.



Then as aways seems to happen on me oriented shopping expeditions we went on to buy stuff for the girls. Strange how that always happens. Anyway, we ended up in the cosmetics department of some chic boutique where the wife stocked up on Botox and assorted lotions and postions.



When the time came to pay I noticed that the saucy young sales girl was gazing intently at me. "Well the poor girl is only flesh and blood" I thought " who can blame her if she gets hot and bothered by a tall, dark international man of mystery". I gave her my brooding, Mr Darcy look that said:" I know you are fighting your passions but you must be strong. I am a married man you know".



"And perhaps Sir would like some of our new Clinique Age Defence Hydrator" she said. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. She did not see me as a sex object, only as a sales opportunity, obviously in need of age reducing gloop. My ego has been on life support ever since.



Do I really look like I need age defence products?!. OK, I admit that over the last few years I have been using a hedge strimmer on my eyebrows, chase nesting birds from my nasal hair and developed an unexplained fondness for The Antiques Roadshow, jigsaw puzzles and Werther`s Originals, but for goodness sake I am still only in my extremely late thirties.

I have just checked the post and would you believe it, those scallywags at Saga, the magazine for people shortly about to cool to room temperature, have sent me an offer. Buy a stairlift and you get cut price Viagra. I am appalled but strangely tempted. Must dash if I want to catch the last post.

Ice Age

Very quiet in the compound today. The weather is keeping most of the breast feeders indoors, it`s nipple crackingly cold here. The paths are covered in snow and ice, a real death trap if you wear fashionable winkle pickers I can tell you.

Winter sports have never really been my cup of tea but as the wife is a ski nut I have had to make concessions. To be fair I do quite enjoy skiing now. But ice skating, no. This stems from an incident back in 1978 when I brained myself during Kevin Stevens`birthady bash at the local ice rink. The old bean took quite a pounding that day I can tell you and I lost a considerable amount of computing power, which explains why I am like I am, and the 12 year old me vowed never again.

I would like to apologise to the 12 year old me because I have broken that vow. The wife and daughter and associates decided ice skating would be a good idea. I pointed out that it is bloody dangerous. Do you ever see road signs saying "Icy Conditions Ahead-Enjoy Yourselves". No you don`t. It is lethal stuff and should only be approached with hob nail boots and a bucket of salt.

Would they listen, no. So off we went. All the other adults and kids took to the deadly frozen water like skate wearing ducks. I ventured on, did an impression of a new born giraffe on roller skates, and lunged for the side rail. And that was as far as I got, and will ever get. Unfortunately, the daughter loves it and wants to go all the time, fortunately I have discovered a cafe with sheepskin covered chairs that serves a delicious hot chocolate. I can lounge around, reading the paper and pretending to be a great skater simply resting between pirouettes, and no one is any the wiser. It is my birthday tomorrow and if i get ice skates I am going postal.

Anyway, I have sent off my application to join the local "Stitch 'n' Bitch" group. This is where you sit around sewing, darning, knitting or, I assume, learning practical medical procedures for closing wounds and have a good gossip. Should be fun and save a fortune on socks.

Finally, a big hello to my worldwide readers: Big J and Annie Down Under, Blind Jon on his firm sponsored world jolly and my dear old friend AM from Leipzig who hates receiving this blog. Give me an answer and all will be as before. Cryptic eh

X-Men and a Baby

Well another Christmas is over. I love the festive season, scrumptious tucker, crap telly and having good friends to stay. Sadly this year the good friends were busy so we had to bus in the standbys.

The first lot were the Gillespie Massive, a well known South London crime family. With admirable foresight I had planned for their every need and layed in industrial quantities of Vaseline, alcohol, intimate wipes and steroids which kept the whole clan in the festive spirit. Despite the restaurant incident, where a diner took a fork to the eye, the car jacking and the disgraceful things they did to the local Heidi impersonator, the authorities mercifully decided not to press charges. Thankfully the rest of their visit passed off without a major diplomatic incident. They were waved off from Zurich Airport by the rather relieved Swiss riot police.

Then a few days later Captain America and the X-Men arrived accompanied by their official photographer. Must be a new film out soon. The whole compound knew that they had arrived when we heard the car horn blaring out a rendition of James Brown`s Living in America. I glanced out of the window to see a gleaming white super charged Hummer.

Once they were settled and were satisfied that their communication equipment was draining the Swiss national grid, I offered them a cup of tea. No sooner was my back turned reaching for the Hob Nobs, than Captain America, or Stu as he likes to be known when off duty, proceeded to impregnate the official photographer. The official photographer looked somewhat startled as you would expect.

Well what does one do in such a situation, does one offer congrats or phone the fuzz?. I decided to play it safe and cracked open a fresh tin of First Flush Lapsong Suchong.

I consoled the photographer and offered her one of the buns I had in the oven. She collapsed into a feotal postion and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. "Why me? My life is ruined". Well I have never been in a situation where someone reacted like that, not since my wedding night anyway.

When she had calmed down I promised her ( I won`t use the real name because Jacks asked me not to) that all was not lost and I would use my super blogging powers to boost her fledgling photographic business. Anyone want any photographic work done? She really is rather terrific.

The rest of the visit passed quietly with Captain America pausing only briefly to remodel my house, rescue small children locked in bathrooms and drink the European wine lake dry. I can`t type anymore because I pulled a muscle carrying the emptys to the bottle bank this morning. Check in soon.

PS-can everyone who gets this let me know as I am trying a new thing

Twas the Night Before Christmas....

Just got back from doing last minute Christmas food shopping as the wife is still suffering from flu. Town was filling up fast with last minute shoppers. The difference between the sexes is all the more apparent on Christmas Eve. The women shoppers were gliding between counters and buying with the practiced assurance of the professional. Do they teach young girls to shop at school or is it genetic?.

The men on the other hand were looking pale, stressed and sweaty as they blindly stumbled around looking for that special something, wishing they had paid a little more attention back in July when She mentioned something that She liked. But what the hell was it?!

Other men, sent out to do the shopping, held lists, chewed pens, scratched heads and phoned home. From the furrowed brows and intense middle distance stares you would have imagined they were trying to solve Fermat`s Last Theorem rather than locate the eggnog and brussels sprouts.

I drove home with that warm glow that only comes from knowing others are suffering. The compound is very quiet at the moment but I did bump into Sunnymountain`s resident homosexuals, Butch and Sundance. They are a delightful elderly couple but are prone to complain a bit. After wishing me and mine a happy Christmas Sundance, he makes Quentin Crisp look butch, launched into a monologue about parking spaces and how all the foreign visitors didn`t know the rules and parked willynilly. This seemd to drag on for ages, it was like the Queen`s Speech. In the end I had to feign an attack of the vapours to get away.

So here I am back in the bosom of the family. It is already 11.30am and the wife hasn`t touched the gin. She must be ill. The daughter is playing with one of the local urchins. She would not normally associate with this child but as most families are away she is having to swim in the shallow end of the play pool.

I suppose it is Christmas and these kids, the ugly, the smelly and the boring, think Christmas has come early when they get a call. Bless them. Sadly, when the holidays are over and the A-list return these poor little creatures will be abandoned like unwanted puppies. I believe it is still legal to dispose of unpopular kids in sacks thrown off a bridge at exactly midnight in certain parts of Switzerland.

On that festive note I shall wish you and yours whatever kind of Christmas you want. I shall be off line under the influence for a few days.

As a worldwide blogger with immense influence, the police have asked me to leave you with one last thought: Eggnog related violence peaks at this time of year. Drink responsibly.

Hard Core Prawn Addict

Very cold and wintery here at the moment, but not as bad as the UK where news reports tell me that life as we know it has ceased to exist. Reminds me of a story I was told last year. Zurich was several feet deep in snow and the storyteller had just caught the train into work, on time. A tele-conference was due to take place between offices in Zurich, London and Moscow. Zurich dialled in on time, Moscow, under several metres of snow and -20 temperatures dialled in on time. And London? Well London had experienced 8 inches of snow, key staff had been put up in hotels overnight, all other staff were told to stay home. The London caller just did not stop bitching about how hard it had been to make this call happen. Is it any wonder we lost the Empire. Just wanted to share that with you.

Off for a curry now. Hope it is prawn. I love prawn curries, oh yeh. Have a lovely wintry weekend.

Strange but Sort of True

All sorts of interesting things have happened to me today. It all started when I found three, yes I said three not the normal two, peanuts in one peanut shell. I know!. Then I saw a cloud that was an exact facsimilie of the British Ilses, just without Stoke on Trent. Amazing!. Then the daughter asked if she should tidy her room totally unprompted. Unheard of!. What is happening, are these portents of doom?. Ah, who knows. (NB: the last one was totally made up, get real)

Anyway, the Street has been very quiet of late. I suspect it is because all the Daughters of the American Revolution and spawn have gone back Stateside to enjoy the "happy holidays". Meanwhile, without an external enemy, the Sunnymountain Street Mother`s Mafia seem to be engaged in some internecine struggle to see who can come up with the best/most yuletide decorations. The houses round here are sagging under the weight of Chritsmas lights, Santas on ladders scaling the walls and for some reason this seasons must have, large straw donkeys. Me neither.

That means gang related violence drops off drastically this time of year and the daughter and I are free to roam at will without fear. However, Eggnog realted violence peaks around now, so it is always worth staying on your toes. We went to look at the Christmas market the other day. It was lovely, but spoiled a little by the immigrant British bankers who hang around at the train station. Talk to them and they will tell you how they have been driven out of the UK by economic persecution and cannot return for fear of the death tax penalty. I do feel a little sorry for them huddled around their warmth giving bonuses behind the station, begging passersby for the price of a good relocation agent, or if they are really lucky, a room in a low tax shelter community down the lake. There but for the grace of God.

Ciao for now

PS- please start using the comment facility under articles. I would love to get some feedback as long as it is glowingly positive. I know who you are.

What Is Amiss with the Swiss Kiss

Influenza still grips the Welle-Skitts in it`s sneezy, bless you, stacks of soggy tissue stranglehold. The daughter has recovered just enough to go back to school this morning, thus ensuring the virus should clobber the maximum number of households over the Christmas period. Ho ho ho. Well, at least I get to take it easier today, and that`s the important thing. Sadly, the wife is still affluent (I think that is the right term for a banker who is off with flu?). They do say it hits the elderly particularly hard.

Anyway, I blame the Swiss. They kiss like it is going out of fashion. As I have metioned before, three air kisses is the accepted norm here everytime you greet or retreat. It is not surprising that we are being stalked by a flu pandemic with all this intimate and unprotected carnal canoodling going on. If you turn up at a place where there are lots of women, say a brothel, there is simply no point in taking your coat off as by the time you have finished the greeting kissing it will be time to start all over again with the retreating kissing so that you can make your last train home. Madness!.

And the Swiss will steal a kiss whenever and where ever it presents itself. The wife was knocked off her bicycle a couple of years back and, while she lay dazed and bleeding at the roadside, a passing pervert saw his chance and kissed her on top of the head then ran off giggling.

Maybe I am feeling just a bit grumpy because I have quit smoking. I have composed a short poem in memorium to my erstwhile companion, the humble cigarette.

"You were My north, My Silk Cut, My Emphysema, My West,
My morning drag, My constricted chest,
My crutch, My Marlborough Light, My midnight walk, My old bloke pong,
I thought that cough would last forever, I hope I was wrong."

Ciao for now