I know I should be writing something topical about the two teams playing for the Super Bowl in 3 days time, or commenting on the bile emitting from Donald Trump’s mouth, aided and abetted by another loon, Sarah Palin. But that’s the beauty of having one’s own blog, and I can make the rules as I wish. So allow me to take you back in time to last November.
We usually spend Thanksgiving in England visiting relatives because if you fly standby as we do, most Americans stay home for the big holiday which gives us a better chance of securing seats on the plane. We were indeed fortunate to board the plane since we competing with a hoard of standby passengers eager to sample the delights that London has to offer.
We stayed at the Holiday Inn, Farnborough which is lagging slightly behind the new century, but nevertheless provided a fabulous British cooked breakfast. It was probably the best cooked breakfast experience I’ve encountered in a hotel/bed & breakfast in the past twenty years.
We spent a day at Milestones in Basingstoke, Hampshire with my son and two grandchildren. Milestones is a unique concept. It’s a museum depicted the 1930s and upwards with several exhibits and artefacts reliving a bygone era.
We visited a pub in the evening, the Waverley Arms, which offered a pint of Bollocks. Unfortunately there was none available which may have been my good fortune. Not to worry, we late dined at a very good Indian restaurant in Farnham, and the absence of a pint of bollocks made the meal far more appetizing.
Our trip was a short one, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting at Heathrow Airport anxiously waiting for our names to be called from the standby list. Flying standby can be frustrating, stressful and irritating all rolled into one enigma, and this trip was no exception.
We tried two days running without success, and we were forced to retreat to The Heathrow Hilton. This was some consolation for not be able to board a plane home, and was only available because my wife travels on business around the world building up a cacophony of points. We had little enthusiasm for travelling up to London to visit tourist attractions we had seen countless times, so we decided to do our version of the “Yoko and John sit-in.”
An executive room at Heathrow Hilton provided a splendid shower and we dined on complimentary heavy hors d’oeuvres which softened the blow of being bumped twice off our plane home. Not much to watch on the TV except for Great Britain winning the Davis Cup for the first time since 1936. Three times through Airport security works a charm and we finally secured our flying wings home.
Christmas was rather uneventful, and in a blink of an eye we were tentatively driving in torrential rain with friends towards Savannah; making our annual New Year’s Eve pilgrimage. Savannah is an ideal city to welcome in the new year. It’s a walking city dripping in history with a friendly and hospitable Southern charm.
Molly Macpherson’s is a Scottish style pub which serves a wonderful bowl of mussels the flavor of which is further enhanced by a pint of Bellhaven ale. We reserved a table at the Boar’s Head for New Year’s Eve. My friend is always anxious to know the waiter or waitress’s name, and upon request she informed us her name was Brandy. That triggered the song in my head, and I made a feeble attempt at singing it. Thanks to my android I was reminded the song was a hit for “Looking Glass” in 1972. I know this sounds like meaningless trivia but wait for the payoff.
We left the restaurant and made our way to City Market where a live band “High Velocity” were helping party revelers to greet the New Year with a bang. No sooner had we joined the crowd at the Market the vocalist announced their next song: “We would like to take you back a few years and play a song that was a hit for Looking Glass in 1972: Brandy!!!” Had we entered the Twilight Zone?
Archive for the ‘Absurdity’ Category
Thanksgiving to New Year’s Eve
Sunday, February 7th, 2016A Brief Return to the Masters
Friday, April 17th, 2015Congratulations to 21 year old Jordan Speith for winning the Master equaling the lowest aggregate score of Tiger Woods in 1997, and achieving more birdies in four rounds than any of his predecessors. I just hope he is aware that the American media has been looking for a poster child since the gradual decline of Tiger Woods. Believe me Jordan, those media whores will build you up, invading your privacy layer by layer, and then attempt to destroy you for a cheap headline or two.
I trust his high school sweetheart is prepared for a roller coaster ride because she will be ideal bait for some of the disingenuous media hacks scraping the bottom of the barrel for a hint of scandal or skeletons lurking in the cupboard.
I wish we could arrange a firing squad for the pompous Chairman, Billy Payne, whispering sycophant Jim Nantz, and Sir Nick Faldo, current owner of the biggest ego in the golf world. Didn’t anyone ever tell him there’s no “I” in “team?”
Can we stop treating the Masters other than a golf tournament. I was about to put my remote through my TV screen if I heard another moron referring to Augusta as this “special place.” Why do the American commentators need to whisper as if their commentary booth was overlookin a shrine?
Sixty three year old and two time Masters Champion Ben Crenshaw was playing in his last Masters before hanging up his clubs. I guess old champions like to say goodbye to the “patrons” and milk the applause and adoration before riding off into the sunset, but it was embarrassing. The man had completed two rounds 29 shots over par for goodness sake, but he walked down the 18th fairway with the air of a golfer whose name was on the top of the leaderboard. I was hoping the ground would swallow him up and he would disappear with an iota of dignity.
Apart from the grinder, Nick Faldo, why do Englishmen love to finish second? Justin Rose was in contention at four shots behind Speith at the end of the 3rd round, and managed to reduce the arrears to two shots early in the final round. Unfortunately he dropped shots when Jordan Speith occasionally faltered, and he appeared content to finish joint runner up with Phil Mickelson. Mickelson would probably have put more pressure on Speith if he had been paired with him in the final group.
Spare a thought for Tiger Woods. He hadn’t played competitive golf since February, and like many other cynics, I didn’t believe he could make the cut after two rounds. He finished the tournament at a credible 5 under par despite having to pop a ligament back into his wrist during the final round. I didn’t realize ligaments were so flexible, but then Tiger is capable of regaling a tall story or two.
What do the following golfers have in common: Ricky Fowler, Lee Westwood, Sergio Garcia, Luke Donald, Ian Poulter, and Steve Stricker? Jordan Speith has one more major than these guys have put together.
CBS Network has covered the Masters for many years, but one of its regular golf commentators is conspicuous by his absence. During the network’s coverage 21 years ago in 1994, Gary McCord remarked that the 17th green was so fast that it appeared to be “bikini-waxed,” and that “body bags” were located behind that green for players who missed their approach shots.
Mr. Payne climb down off that high horse of yours for once, and allow CBS to reinstate the old blow hard in its commentary team for next year’s Masters. After all, it’s only a game and Augusta is just another golf course, isn’t it?
Dumpsters at Dawn
Wednesday, February 25th, 2015We decided to spend Valentine’s weekend in a very chilly Chattanooga. You may well ask when did they drop the Saint from Valentine? Was he defrocked? Did he do something wrong to be removed from Sainthood? Anyway, onto the main event:
We stayed at the Bluff View Inn in the Bluff Art District. The Bluff View Inn is a bed and breakfast establishment located in three turn-of-the-century houses overlooking the Tennessee River. However, that is not strictly true; only the Maclellan House and The Martin House overlook the river, while the Thompson House is nearer to the underpass. But more of that later.
On the subject of “bed and breakfast”, they only provide breakfast on weekends which is situated in the Mother Ship, The Maclellan House. Between Monday and Friday guests are given vouchers which they exchange for breakfast at the neighboring coffee shop, Rembrandt’s . Orders are taken at the counter which works very well if there are any tables available. We managed to find a table for two adjacent to the front door, but experienced an arctic blast each time another customer walked in.
Chattanooga is a charming town and the main attractions are the “fresh water”acquarium, Lookout Mountain incorporating Ruby Falls, and the Hunter Art Museum. We had visited all three in the last few years, so we wanted to enjoy the river walk and the magnificent spectacle of the River Tennessee untainted by commercialism and pollution. Unfortunately, the temperature was a balmy 18 degrees faranheit when we embarked on our Sunday morning constitution. Luckily we stumbled across the Chattanooga Choo Choo made famous by Glenn Miller, and managed to escape the frigid conditions for a few minutes. You’re possibly wondering who is Glenn Miller? Suffice to say I am a big fan of Glenn Miller’s big band music from the 1940s.
A unique attraction for visitors is the Walnut Street Bridge. Built in 1890, and spanning 2,376 feet, it was the first highway bridge to connect downtown with the North Shore. The bridge closed to motor vehicles in 1978 and sat in disuse and disrepair for nearly a decade. it reopened in 1990 as a pedestrian walkway and is one of the longest pedestrian bridges in the world.
Returning to our accommodation we were given a very spacious room in the Thompson House. It was tastefully furnished with a collection of period pieces which enhanced the ambience of the room. Unfortunately the bed’s mattress felt like a rock which may have been specifically designed for previous guests, the Flinstones’ while the pillows had the texture of cement bags.
Nevertheless, a couple of bottles of bubbly intermixed with some fine chardonnays and pinot noirs helped dull the pain. That is until the early hours of Monday morning when I was unceremoniously awoken at 3.45 am by an horrendous beeping noise followed by yellow flashing lights. I opened my eyes and exclaimed “What the dickens!” Editorial intervention has censored the actual wording of the exclamation used. I momentarily thought I was in the middle of a remake of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”
I looked out through the curtains and saw a dumpster maneouvring back and forth in the parking lot. Leroy was barking out orders to his co-pilot: “up bit, down a bit, drop it! Do it again man, you didn’t make enough noise….crash, bang wallop.”
(Definition: a dumpster is a large waste container for garbage, trash, rubbish whatever your origins, designed to brought and taken away by a special truck or to be emptied into a garbage truck.)
Note to self: do not book a Sunday night at the Bluff Inn again.
It’s All Greek to Me.
Friday, February 13th, 2015I drive part-time for a well known car and truck leasing company, and we comprise a band of twelve just men; most of whom are retired from their real jobs and engage in this driving lark for comaradrie and some pocket money. I should say we used to be men because I don’t remember discussing shows like “Downton Abbey” and exchanging recipes with other males when I was young and handsome.
Well, one of the stalwarts of the group, Nick the Greek, retired recently through ill health. It was a mixed blessing because he was the on the wrong side of 80 and the speed and volume of traffic on state roads (expressways, motorways ) was beginning to make him nervous. So much so that a few years ago he convinced an unsuspecting driving associate to take side roads from Atlanta to Savannah when they delivered a car to a customer. Normally, its a 275 mile route one way and a round trip normally takes 8 hours. On this occasion they clocked up over 14 hours by taking what Nick called a short cut!
Nick is a second generation Greek and is extremely proud of his heritage. He could have been a consultant on the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” He was adamant that his children should only marry fellow Greeks, but apparently he’s having a battle convincing his grandchildren to follow suit.
Nick was a banker by profession, and to say he was careful with him money would be like referring to Shylock and Fagin as benevolent benefactors. We usually grab lunch in fast food restaurants, but Nick would bring his own lunch, lovingly prepared by his wife, and sit at the table with us. However, one time, we had lunch in a burger bar which had waiter service. When the waiter asked him what he would like to order he replied: “I’m on a special diet (the cheap skate diet.”) The waiter asked him if he would like a glass of water, and without batting an eyelid Nick replied: “yes please, but could I have some ice and a slice lemon with the water please?”
Nick is a deeply religious man and is heavily involved in the Greek Orthodox Church. A couple of years ago he became an Archon which is the highest honor that can be bestowed on a civilian in the GOC. One of the uninitiated amongst the drivers asked him: “How did you get the part of Archon in the forthcoming Star Wars movie?” Nick gave him a withered look and bit into the remainder of his homemade sandwich.
Nick is not at all demonstrative or given to theatrical outbursts like some of the other diverse characters on the team, but equally does not take himself too seriously and occasionally has a twinkle in his eye with a sense of the ridiculous.
One of the funniest moments of his driving career involved retrieving an old box truck from one of the customers. The customer informed us that the truck was tucked at the back of the warehouse and could only exit the building in reverse.
Unfortunately the reverse gear was not working and the truck would have to pushed manually outside. Nick was instructed to sit behind the wheel while two burly drivers and myself attempted to push the vehicle to its destination. We were making little progress until Shrek (one of the burly drivers weighing in at over 300 pounds packed into a 6′ 7″ frame) becoming quite crimson in the face screeched: ” Nick has got the effing brake on!”
Nick, get well soon.
Professional Sports and Media Whores.
Saturday, January 31st, 2015Memo (that dates me) from editor: if you can’t find a story then make one up. That would appear to be the case when there is a two week gap between the NFL Conference Championships and the Super Bowl. This is dead time in the American sporting calendar. Save for mundane basketball and hockey games there is not much going on.
The two teams to contest the Super Bowl ( Seattle and New England ) have been determined, and the week leading up to the big event is hyped up to turbo charge with endless, meaningless players and coaches interviews, analysis by retired players turned talking heads, and previews of the commercials specifically designed for the event. Don’t knock the Super Bowl commercials because more times than not they make better viewing than the actual game.
To prove my point regarding the dead zone, a story involving New England deflating match balls for their Championship game against Indianapolis has been running for nearly two weeks. They even managed to give it a name: “Deflategate.” The Patriots have a habit for courting controversy. A few years back they were involved in “Spygate” when they were caught illegally spying on their opponents training regimes. Apparently (I know, it’s a word I’ve come to rely on) the match balls were deflated prior to the game to give quarter back Tom Brady the edge. It didn’t appear he needed much assistance in routing the Colts 45-7.
Both quarter back and Head Coach pleaded their innocence, and the fall guy will be some lowly schmuck in the locker room. The punishment for this transgression will be the loss of a draft pick. The Patriots will take that in a heart beat because they usually trade away their picks and sign players cut by other teams turning them into super heroes in the process. Now that’s a story guys!
But here’s the kicker. If New England violated the rules as this long winded story implies then why not reverse the result and place Indianapolis in the Super Bowl? Answer: it’s a storm in the proverbial tea cup ( substitute super bowl) generated by the media whores who can’t think of anything better to write about.
Turning closer to home, the Atlanta Falcons decided to fire their Head Coach, Mike Smith, following two desultory losing seasons. His time management left a lot to be desired and I’m pretty sure he will be late for his own funeral. Nice man, but he’d taken the franchise as far it could go.
So the Falcons jumped onto the merry go round of potential candidates for the Head Coaching vacancy. The local media whores, not much different from their national brothers, were canvassing for the appointment of Rex Ryan recently fired from the New York Jets. He had just finished a 4-12 losing season which was worse than previous incumbent Mike Smith. Ryan has not enjoyed a winning season since 2009, so why all the fuss to hire him by the local media? He makes good copy. He is controversial with his off the wall interviews, he’s a blow hard, and he sucks his wife’s toes. I kid you not! He’s always good for a headline or two, but can he take his team to the promised land? I don’t believe so.
This unfortunate episode sums up the character of the man. The Falcons had interviewed him once and were planning to invite him back for a second interview when Falcons owner Arthur Blank’s mother died. The interview was put on hold while Mr. Blank attended to the funeral arrangements. True to form Mr. Ryan came back with an unforgettable statement: ” I had the impression the Falcons were dragging their feet, so I accepted the job with the Buffalo Bills. They gave me the impression that they really wanted me to be their Head Coach.” Good luck to the Bills handling the prima donna’s baggage.
I’m sure the January transfer window in the world of soccer was a brain child of the media. There is a down time after Christmas and the next round of the Champions league doesn’t kick off until March. Absurd rumors were circling the air waves pronouncing that Barcelona’s Lionel Messi and Real Madrid’s Gareth Bale were disenchanted with their clubs and they would be transferred to the Premiership during the transfer window. That is just as likely to happen as England winning the World Cup in 2018.
Unfortunately constant speculation in the press regarding Swansea City’s star striker, Wilfried Bony, became reality when Manchester City “made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.” I believe it is an unfair (not illegal) practice which allows the bigger, wealthier clubs to wave their cheque books at the mid table teams and prize away their star players in the middle of the season.
The January transfer should be dropped, and teams assembled at the beginning of the season should determine their clubs’ destiny. Here “endeth” Daveswelshrarebits’ first lesson of 2015.
A Wine Club Dinner in a Mailbox.
Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014I have just returned from visiting my children and grand children in the UK. I missed some of the food over there and I took advantage of having kippers for breakfast (only once,) a splendid carvery at a bargain price in Totnes, and a liver and bacon casserole in The Old Inn, Widdicombe, Dartmoor. For my last night I plumped for a whole plaice (bones et al) which while very tasty tested my dexterity at maneuvering around the umpteen bones.
I didn’t realize that my stomach would react so ferociously to British culinary delights which I happily grew up with. Possibly it’s the march of time that’s taken its toll on my digestive system because it is 18 years since I emigrated to the USA. I was looking forward to making a Madras curry when I arrived home which may sound like a misnomer, but I’ve been eating curries from the age of 21. Swansea is regarded as the curry capital of the world, and there must be at least 60 Indian restaurants in the Swansea area. It may have something to do with the water or the Welsh and Indian accents being very similar.
We hadn’t been home but for a few days when we were on our way to the bi-monthly wine club dinner. We enjoyed a baker’s dozen (13) in the club until one couple decided they could not cope with the various international cuisines that members were inspired to make. Their unique contribution to the menu was a spam casserole which consisted of two ingredients: spam and ketchup. The writing was on the wall when a few members complained of feeling very nauseas the next day.
We were back on an even keel, and the forthcoming dinner was of the Thai variety which I like very much. The wine club is confined to our neighborhood so the drive isn’t a long one. Unfortunately the driveway to our hosts’ house is very steep and winding. To those familiar with Swansea it was tantamount to driving to the top of Kilvey Hill. For our international travelers, it favored the famous” zig-zag” Lombard Street in San Francisco. Half way up the driveway one would encounter a formidable tree which would play an active role in later proceedings. Despite my pleadings my wife insisted we parked the car at the top of the drive near the front door. Heaven forbid we derive exercise climbing the steep gradient.
It is an eclectic group of people, but for some odd reason four of the eleven no longer drink wine. It was a mildly enjoyable evening and light hearted conversation filled the air. The food and wine were very palatable and members had made an effort with their pairings. What on earth do you pair with spam casserole you may well ask, rot gut?
Our evenings don’t go gently into the darkest night. They are usually over by 9.30pm when members begin to drift away. I don’t drive very well in the dark, but my wife didn’t relish reversing her car down the driveway and suggested one of the hostesses undertake the task for us.
At this point my male ego went into overdrive and I practically screamed out: “I’m a professional driver (which I am since I work part-time as a driver,) and I’m taking this baby down.” All well and good when you haven’t imbibed in copious amounts of wine particularly when you are making up a shortfall of 4 members.
I gave the impending obstacle a once over and discerned there were two bends to negotiate one of which was adjacent to the formidable tree. Very slowly and carefully I backed down the driveway cognizant of the formidable tree. It seemed like an eternity, but I miraculously reversed around the bends and mercifully avoided the tree. I was home and dry save for a harmless little curve egressing onto the highway which I failed to notice.
I triumphantly backed straight onto what I deduced as the highway and suddenly heard a sickening crunch. I immediately braked and pulled forward with the attention of heading for home and sanctuary. Then I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed the hostesses’ mail box lying prostrate on the ground. (For non-Americans most houses have a free standing mail box situated on the road frontage. It comprises a wooden post approximately 4-5 feet high and a metal mail box sits on top of it.) I thought no problem; lean it back up and away to go. Unfortunately the post had snapped in two (hence the crunch,) and the box was badly dented.
I tried pushing the top half of the post into the ground, but it stood only 3 feet tall; good enough perhaps for a hobbit but unacceptable for the US Mail Service. Following a series of groveling apologies, we gave the bemused hostesses a cheque for $60 to pay for a suitable replacement, and my assurance not to interfere with reconstruction. My wife’s car, which is a sturdy Crown Victoria, was unscathed with barely a scratch.
Moral of the story……take a taxi. It’s cheaper!!!!
The Biggest Turkeys for Thanksgiving
Friday, November 28th, 2014It’s the day after Thanksgiving and thanks to my Big Green Egg we enjoyed a succulent, juicy turkey for dinner. On the subject on turkeys listed below are some of the biggest ones for 2014:
- Barak Obama. I’m not going to validate this bozo by giving him his official title. How many other presidents would have sat back and allowed Americans to be beheaded by a terrorist organization? Answer; only one: HIM. This is the man who allowed Putin to bully him and Ukraine without any meaningful recourse.This is a man who should be impeached for overriding Congress and abusing his Executive Powers. This is the man who claimed that France are America’s greatest allies.
- Alex Salmond. The Scottish Independence vote had no chance with this used car salesman at the helm. He did not have an answer when UK Government informed him Scotland could not retain the Pound Sterling as a currency should they gain independence. The Bank of Scotland pulled the rug up from him when they announced they would move to London should Scotland win independence.
- Frank Wren. the general manager of the Atlanta Braves threw millions of dollars at mediocre players not fit enough to lace the cleats of former greats Chipper Jones, John Smoltz and Greg Maddux. Malcontent BJ Upton was given $75 million to behave like a clown in center field. Dan (Mr Magoo) Uggla was mercifully released but is still owed $19 million. Frank Wren was eventually shown the door, but not before he ensured $65 million is tied up with the remaining years of Upton and Uggla’s contracts.
- Mayor of Atlanta and his Chief of Transportation. In January, heavy snow and frozen ice conditions were forecast well in advance of the anointed time. These two gentlemen chose to ignore the impending storm and the City of Atlanta was brought to its knees leaving thousands of motorists stranded.
- Head Coach Mike Smith of the Atlanta Falcons. Clearly Mr. Smith missed the seminar on time management. Two games were blown this season due to his incompetence at controlling the clock when his team were minutes from victory. The game staged in London against the Detroit Lions was more embarrassing since it was played out on a global stage.
- Luis Suarez. The little man chose to audition for the new Dracula movie by biting a chunk out of an Italian defender in the middle of a World Cup football match.
- Brendan Rodgers. Tasked with replacing Dracula wannabe, Luis Suarez, Liverpool spent $190 million on a bunch of “garden shed” players. After a winless November, Liverpool are languishing in 12th place in the Premiership and struggling to remain in the Champions League. Meanwhile Rodgers is adamant that he is the greatest manager in Europe.
- Tom Watson. Eight time major champion and former winning Ryder Cup captain was plucked from the knacker’s yard to right the floundering American ship. Unfortunately he was completely adrift from his players who could not relate to a “legend;” some young and immature enough to call him granddad.
- Legends of Oz: Dorothy’s Return. Hollywood’s animated movie has not fared very well; Box Office: $19 million, Budget: $70 million, Return: 27%. The only thing that will be “Frozen” on this movie will be its assets.
- The Welsh rugby team. Wales have not beaten the All Blacks since 1953 when Bleddyn Williams was captain and the late Cliff Morgan was fly half. It’s not a mental thing dummy. They are quite simply better than us.
- Everyone who left Southampton FC in the summer.
Speaking of New Zealand, bring on Black Friday and Cyber Monday.
The Fender Cut
Monday, October 27th, 2014I began worrying about losing my hair in my mid teens. It was only natural. My mum’s maiden name was Fender and she had four brothers; Alec, George, Sam and Cyril all of whom were follically challenged. Alec, the eldest, had spent a fortune on hair restorer, but was only marginally rewarded with a few more strands of hair than his brothers. Needless to say my maternal grandfather, Alexander David, was as bald as a coot and it’s only fitting that I followed the hair loss having been named after my grandfather.
It was probably one of the few times in her life that my mum told me a white lie. She assured me there was no need to worry since I resembled my dad who possessed a fine head of hair. So did his brothers Sid and to a lesser extent Phil. What she conveniently forgot to tell me was the hair genes invariably came from the mother’s side!!!
However, there are exceptions to the rule, so Shaun please note. My Uncle George’s son Desmond is the spitting image of his dad bearing the identical bald pate and demeanor, so what happened to his mum’s genes? My son has been convinced he was losing his hair since his teens, and to counteract it he cuts his hair very short; presumably to prepare himself for the inevitable hairless years ahead.
I now confine myself to the standard short back and sides for the hair that has survived nature’s evil trick on 25% of the world’s male population. But once I mentioned to my wife I was contemplating shaving my head in the fashion of Michael Jordan for example. She simply replied: “No way! It only looks good on black men.” I threw Yul Brynner and Tele Savalas into the equation as white males who adopted the style, and she dismissed them as perfect examples of why white men should not shave their head.
According to Medem Medical Library website male pattern baldness affects roughly 40 million men in the USA. I knew I shouldn’t have emigrated to the States. For all they know hair loss could be contagious. I’m joking people. Approximately 25% of men begin balding by age 30; two-thirds begin balding by age 60, so I was somewhere in the middle.
There is a 4 in 7 chance of receiving the baldness gene. It was previously believed that baldness was inherited from the maternal grandfather. While there is some basis for this belief, both parents contribute to their offspring’s likelihood of hair loss. So basically they don’t have a clue and sorry Mum for doubting you.
The nearest I got to having the billiard ball look was by accident. I told the hairdresser to use mark 6 on the clippers for the back and sides and mark 2 on the top to erase the wispy bits. She wasn’t really paying attention and transposed the numbers leaving me dumb struck when I retrieved my glasses and looked in the mirror. I wore a baseball cap for the next six weeks, and never removed it even at bedtime or take a shower!
Speaking of hairdressers, it always irks me to pay the same price for a haircut as a man with a full head of hair. They can cut my hair in two minutes while a male with a full mane can take 20-30 minutes. Furthermore, it never fails to amaze me why successive hairdressers make a “dog’s dinner” of my haircut. They only have to take care of the back, sides and sideburns, but invariably I sometimes look like I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. They then have the temerity to ask if I intend leaving a tip.
May I conclude by expressing my surprise for managing to write 600 words on baldness. The topic was quite hair-raising (I’m sorry,) and I was relieved to get it off my chest. I don’t have many hairs on my chest either. What I don’t understand about human hair is why it stops growing on the top of your head, but conversely begins sprouting profusely from one’s nose an ears. Let me know if you have an explanation.
Choices
Friday, October 17th, 2014This particular post has rumbled around in my head for a few weeks, so some of my reference may appear to be outdated. Nevertheless, I must stop procrastinating and put pen to paper.
The recent result in the Scottish Referendum made me realize that we all make choices in life; some life changing, others regrettable while many are mundane decisions that we are required to make out of necessity in our daily routines.
Scotland had the opportunity to free themselves of the English yoke, but The First Minister of Scotland, Alex Salmond chose to confirm the mantra that former First Minister of Wales, Rhodri Morgan, placed upon him as resembling a used car salesman. He continued to assure Scottish voters that they would retain pound sterling as their currency when they had achieved independence. British Government representatives were equally adamant that an independent Scotland would be required to adopt another currency. Equally damaging was the Bank of Scotland’s statement that they would move to London should Scottish independence be achieved.
These two factors were sufficient to dowse the flames of a Scottish revolt, and normal service resumed almost immediately. It’s a shame the vote was lost. The next ten years could have changed the face of politics in Britain never mind its culture and intricate history. Many of the Labor Members of Parliament represent Scottish Constituencies and without their numbers it is unlikely that Labor could achieve a majority to form a Government.
I believe most citizens of the USA would agree that Obama has achieved immortality by becoming the worst President in history. Therefore it was somewhat of a surprise that he was re-elected for a second term, and even more of a mystery how he was re-elected when nobody will now admit voting for him. Democracy gives the people the opportunity to elect candidates of their choosing which is tantamount to placing a loaded gun into a child’s hand.
Several years ago I made the choice to emigrate to America. It was the right thing to do on a personal and emotional level, but it proved disastrous in terms of my career. America was lauded as the place to make one’s fortune, a place to re-invent oneself where age was not a barrier. Believe me reality can bite you in the butt.
Europe retained the Ryder Cup yet again by comprehensively defeating their illustrious opponents the good old US of A. The Americans were so miffed that Phil Mickelson savaged his captain Tom Watson in the post match press conference. Tom Watson is a legend of the game and appeared to be an excellent choice to captain his team to victory. He was captain when they won in 1993 on British soil, but unfortunately appeared to be out of touch with his players. Watson was old enough to be Jordan Speith’s grandfather for example.
Watson couldn’t win matches for his players, but he chose the pairings for the four balls and foursomes. Some of his pairings proved to be bizarre, but ironically his decision to pair two young rookies, Speith and Reed, was a bold and successful decision. However, some of his other choices led to his downfall.
Reeling from only two wins from the last ten meetings in the Ryder Cup, the USPGA decided to form a “Task Force” to examine ways of creating a team capable of winning the Ryder Cup in two years time. The task force includes former players, current stars and former captains all of whom have a habit of losing. Conspicuous by their absence are the two winning captains for USA in recent times, Ben Crenshaw and Paul Azzinger.
One could argue that it is wrong to look back on your choices in life. To a certain extent I agree. However it pays to return once in a while and learn from them. The secret is not to dwell on the negatives, but move onward and upward with no regrets.
My last concluding thought on choices; this blog is approaching one million visitors and I have submitted 160 posts over the last four years. I’m seriously calling it a day when I hit the two milestones of one million visitors and 200 posts unless I receive some positive feedback. But don’t discount me emulating Frank Sinatra.
The Ballet Recital
Thursday, August 28th, 2014My daughter suggested I write a post about this incident, and therefore without further ado I dedicate the following lines to her. Maestro please…….
My four year old grand daughter was performing in a ballet recital. We had tickets for the show which was held in a compact rural theatre, and ran for approximately two hours. My grand daughter’s involvement comprised five minutes on stage because several ballet classes of various ages were represented, but like good troopers we stayed until the bitter end. Poor little mites; they all looked very cute in their tutus, ballerina tights and enough make up to put Joan Collins in the shade. But just as well we weren’t judging them on talent.
It all began very civilized. Accompanied by my stepson and his wife we embraced our positions which left me sitting in the inner most seat of the row immediately next to a brick wall. It could have comprised another material or compound, but in the scheme of things the composition of the wall was irrelevant. It merely represented an obstacle to my subsequent actions.
Amidst a plethora of squealing the show began with a series of groups of little girls treading the boards attempting to remember their allegro from their arabesque. It was all very sweet and melancholy until I needed to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately I am of an age where bathroom breaks are necessary more frequently than I care to remember.
Luckily, according to the programme, there would be an interval where dinosaurs like myself could avail themselves of the facilities. I was nearing the abyss where crossing my legs and stamping my feet were having little effect on my unfortunate predicament. Reciting the alphabet backwards sometimes helped in these uncompromising situations, but my mental faculties were zooming in on a very active bladder which was about to explode.
Finally the interval arrived and I quickly rose from my seat with every intent on heading for the nearest rest room. To my horror Tom, Dick and Harry and their family ensembles rose as one blocking the central aisle to the exit doors. The people sitting in my row weren’t aware of my plight and were in no hurry to leave their seats.
There was only one thing I could do. I would have to climb over the wall. This wasn’t just a wall; a four foot steel fence was perched on top. Stepping on the three foot wall was easy, so straddling the fence couldn’t be that difficult. Could it? Okay, I hitched one leg and my torso onto the top of fence, but my trailing foot was trapped between two railings. I was frozen in time, and my aging joints were beginning to seize up and I was losing any trace of flexibility.
I suddenly yanked my foot out from the railing, and in doing so went crashing unceremoniously over the top of the fence landing in an undignified heap on the floor. Unfortunately when I hit the ground the momentum threw me back against the fence and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.
The adrenalin was flowing like a flooded Chattahoochee River and coupled with my humiliation, I ignored the pain and bounced quickly up off the floor, not daring to look back at a packed house, and made a bee line for the exit door and the rest room.
A few minutes later, I bumped into my wife in the foyer and she furtively asked if I was okay. I replied that my shoulder was very sore, but it didn’t hurt half as much as my dignity! She then mischievously asked: “Was that an attempt at a pirouette, a western roll or a Fosby flop?” I certainly didn’t score many marks for presentation or content, but I gather the entertainment value for a captive audience was priceless.
