http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/ en Copyright 2008 Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:03:25 +0000 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Old Tom, the parish's retired gamekeeper, has for the last three weeks dreamt the correct Wolverhampton Wanderers scores. They come to him in almost Biblical visions as he's about to drop-off on Thursday nights. If Tom eats blue cheese just before bedtime, he also gets the Partick Thistle result, for some reason. He gets other stuff, like the year the world's going to end, but nothing as important as football scores. At a time when nuns are queuing to see Jesus' face on a digestive biscuit or a talking Action Man whose hands bleed, we at last have a miracle to really shout about. What's more, everyone in the parish can make a few bob out of it. In Old Tom's trance-like state, he follows the players into the dressing room, watches them change, strides on to the pitch and is only feet away from every kick. He's even there during post-match recreational activities. "That means you know which players get the goals," I babbled excitedly to the 82-year-old, realising the financial implications of placing a bet on the score and the scorers. Problem is, Tom hasn't been to a football match since 1952. A couple of times, the rattle he uses in his dream wakes him up before full-time. "Wolves play Crystal Palace on Saturday," I implored, with fellow parishioners gathered expectantly around the sage. "What did you see?" "I see a young man with an expensive hairdo," recalled the misty-eyed OAP between sips of best mild in the Drum and Monkey's smoke-free snug, slowly easing back into a dreamy state. "He's stepping into an expensive sports car. I think it might be a BMW." "Yeah! Right!," scoffed Colin. "That's narrowed it down a bit." "The match," I pleaded. "What about the match?" "There's a beautiful, semi-clad woman gyrating infront of him," he stuttered. "She's covered in baby oil." "He's at the bloody lap-dance club afterwards," I hissed to my fellow gamblers. "Tom," I shouted, shaking the pensioner. "What about the game?" Tom's eyes half-closed and dribble glinted on the corner of his mouth. "Leave him alone," petted landlady Marj. "He wants to stay at Spearmint Rhino." "I've got a shiny new six pence to put into your stockings, my dear," moaned Tom, grinning but comatosed. "He's used his hands," shrieked the pensioner in ghostly tones before his head lolled onto his chest. "Is he still at the lap-dance club?" asked Colin. "It's a penalty," shouted Tom, suddenly shaking. "He places the ball on the spot. He strides towards it. The noise is deafening. He slams the ball in the top right hand corner of the net." "You don't save those," he muttered, suddenly sounding Scottish, before slumping into his seat, sparking back into life a second later to resume the spirited running commentary. "The players are going wild. They're jumping on him...she's wriggling on his lap." "He's gone back to the piggin' lap-dance club," groaned Colin. "Tom," I asked gently, trying to suppress mounting despair. "What colour's the kit?" "Black," he mumbled, "looks like latex and in the style of a nurse's oufit." He was definitely still at the lap-dance club. "Just think," I implored the dozing pensioner. "What did the goal scorer look like?" "Black," babbled Old Tom. "Big...very strong. Just what you need in a hard game..." "He's on about Wolves new striker," murmured the throng. "...you can't beat a cup of Bovril," grinned Tom, licking his lips. "Shall I kick him or will you?" whispered an exasperated punter. "I don't want to be here when he queues for the toilet," whispered one worried young woman. "The Crystal, the Crystal...," he mouthed. "The Crystal what?" I barked. "...chandelier lights up the pictures on the wall..." "That's so sweet," cooed Maj, "he's singing country and western." With that, Old Tom submitted to slumber, snoring loudly in the snug. "That was a total waste of time," huffed Colin after the hour grilling. Not at all, I assured him. "We know it's going to be 1-0, the goal coming from a penalty." "And do you really think someone called Tanya Whiplash scored it?" No, but the odds would be huge if she did. We gambled on a 1-0 win for Wolves, with a spicy side bet that the goal would come from a penalty awarded for handball. "Ten quid down the spout," I shouted, dramatically slamming the front door to Chateau Lockley. "It was 2-0 - all goals coming from open play." Really," gasped my smirking wife. "Funny that - I followed Old Tom's dream to the letter and did rather well for myself." But Wolves won by two goals, I stammered. "Did they?" she tutted. "Partick Thistle, however, scraped through on a late penalty." http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/03/i_bet_old_toms_right.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/03/i_bet_old_toms_right.html Talking Point Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:03:25 +0000 * JUST A THOUGHT....Ballet dancers are always on their toes. Why don't they just hire taller dancers? * WARNING...you know you've turned into your dad the day you put aside a thin piece of wood specifically to stir paint with. * Bloke at the car boot sale offered me a TV, reduced to £2 because the volume button on the remote is stuck. How do you turn a bargain like that down? * "We're celebrating," shrieked Colin above the sound of popping champagne corks at our local watering hole. "We've just won 700 million El Salvador lira in the South American country's official lottery. A bloke called President Cortez has written and told us." To claim the prize, Colin simply has to give President Cortez his bank details, inform the El Salvador government's representative in Warley, called Shane, when his house is unattended and where he leaves his car keys. To comply with the country's rich tradition of embezzlement, he must also write down how much he'd pay if a family member is kidnapped, purely as a precaution. Should his mother-in-law be spirited away by hooded, armed terrorists, Colin has pledged the price of a fish and chip supper. For two, if need be. But he'd have to be sent a finger first. "It's a scam," I told the sozzled merrymakers, stopping the conga chain before it spilt onto the pub car park. "It is not," insisted Colin. "The letter's even got the El Salvador coat of arms on it. You can clearly see Kevin Keegan's face in the middle - below the gold leaf toilet roll." "Ask yourself this," I cautioned the jubilant rustic, "have you ever entered the El Salvador lottery?" He had not, but once got three 'John The Bapstist' heads in a row on a scratch card bought during a vacation in Vatican City. The prize allowed him immunity, in confessionals, over overdue library books. Three 'Josephs' and he would've been allowed to spit in the street without owning up to a priest. A line of 'Marys' and he could stage a millitary coup. Colin believes the Vatican scratch card may have 'bought him in' to the El Salvador lottery. "Listen," I said, shaking my jubilant colleague, "it's a con. Write back and it'll be the last you'll see of that £4.60p you've got in your bank account." "£4,15," corrected Colin, shuffling uncomfortably, "I bought a Finger-Of-Fudge yesterday." "And," I added sternly, "they'll purchase thousands of pounds worth of goods on your credit cards without your knowledge." "My wife's already done that," mused Colin, suddenly crestfallen. "If an offer is too good to be true," I advised, "it usually isn't, or is - I get mixed up. Unless it's that free bucket of chicken nuggets and root beer with every deep fried suckling pig purchased at the fast-food place up the road." "Isn't or is what?" asked Colin, looking baffled. "'An offer', 'true' or 'good'?" Told him I'd speak to Trading Standards and report back. "How much is 700 million El Salvador lira, anyway?" I asked. "Over there, enough to buy a tin mine." And over here? "I'm not sure," admitted Colin, "but the El Salvador economy's definitely stabilized. Workers still collect their wages in wheelbarrows, but they don't need two people to push them now. Economists are confident that in five years a rucksack will be sufficient." "You can't stand the thought that I've won something and you haven't," chided Colin. "Like that time I found that stray animal. I wanted to keep it, but...," be blew out his cheeks,..."oh no, you had to tell the authorities." "It was a llama, Colin," I pointed out, testilly. "Just look at it logically," I implored. "You didn't pick any numbers, you didn't enter the competition, you've never heard of the country, yet you've won. Doesn't that seem a little bit odd?" "Stranger things have happened," argued Colin. "My dad won spot-the-ball with a nosebleed." "At least speak to the authorities before doing anything rash," I counseled my colleague. Colin had - the El Salvador authorities, or rather their Warley representative, Shane. Colin rang at a bad-time, though. Shane was wrestling with a 'bit of a rush on Big Macs'. "He called me a jammy so-and-so, said he'd been doing the El Salvador lottery for five years and had only ever scooped a donkey," stammered Colin excitedly. "He promised, though, that my life will change forever by simply handing him my bank details." Misty-eyed, he gushed: "Cars, home, expensive clothes..." "...you'll lose the lot," I assured him. "It's the second slice of good luck I've had in recent weeks," my pal boasted, refusing to bow to cold reality. "I scooped the prize in a 'are you the mystery shopper in our photograph?' newspaper competition. "Someone pretending to be me, spotted me and gave the paper my details. I've just got to confirm my pin-number to claim the prize." 'Confirm' by telling them it. They'll let him know if it matches the one they've got. I told Colin that sounded a little bit far-fetched. "Far-fetched!" he babbled, "it's downright weird." "Don't tell anyone," he added in hushed tones, "but I cheated. I've never even been to Sao Paolo Sainsbury's." Each morning, my wife crawls from under the duvet, stares at herself in the big mirror and mouths: "You fat cow." Yesterday, I was so concerned I asked: "You are aware you're talking to you?" I fear she may have spent too long with our delinquent cat, and, like Keogh, will one day fling herself at her own image. The glass will surely shatter. As an aid to losing weight, the self-abuse is puzzling. She should go to an organised slimming club, where a professional can insult her. Such public displays of self-deprecation have no place at Chateau Lockley. I know. I began criticising myself infront of the mirror at 9am last Saturday and still had two decades to go by 4.30. "And who blew that date in 1984 by taking the girl to an Indian restaurant and trying to eat the hot towel?" I seethed, my eyes welling with embarrassment. If I hadn't skipped over the job interview where my flies were open and the time I mistakenly walked into the women's changing rooms at the public baths I would've missed pub opening time. It was a painful process. I've told Julie the extra baggage she's now carrying is a sign of contentment. Like him-over-the-road. He was so content after tipping the scale at 18 stone, he had a heart-attack. Just shows...you can be too happy. Each morning my wife locks herself in the bathroom, weighs herself, utters a load oath, then declares the scales don't work. She's even accused family members of stealing into the little room and putting their foot on the machinery while she's weighing herself. Nobody's foot is that heavy. Julie says that if I knew how much she now weighed, I'd never talk to her again. At least if I knew, I'd have an excuse for the silences. Suffice to say, if we had talking scales they'd protest about being trod on - or bruised. Yesterday I made the mistake of telling her our scales were spot-on. She called me a heartless pig, raced weeping into the bedroom and again began berating herself infront of the big mirror. "Oh no, ONE cake wasn't enough for you," she hissed at her reflection. "Julie Lockley," she croaked, "you've got absolutely no willpower!" "And you can't make Yorkshire puddings," I shouted through the door, desperately trying to add a touch of realism to the scene. She's decided to take up swimming in an attempt to get into shape. I have my doubts. Whales swim. Have you seen their shape? Last week she discovered a diet that allows you to eat as much as you want - as long as you run 15 miles immediately afterwards and stick two fingers down your throat. I told her it sounded dangerous. "I'd just do anything to get into that old bikini," she moaned. "Anything?" I asked. She nodded, fighting back tears. "Well you can start by sifting through the decomposing rubbish at the local landfill site. We through it out five years ago." Whisper it, but our Chav cat Keogh has a boyfriend, or should that be Tomfriend. And judging by the caterwauling from underneath our bedroom window, it's no casual fling. The pet has fallen for an 'older' feline - a burly, flea-bitten moggie that waits patiently by the kitchen door. I just can't see the attraction and she can do better for herself, frankly. I think he's only interested in one thing - her cat food. Because of the cat coupling, Keogh now longs for the outdoors and has been known to stay out, sometimes in sub-zero temperatures, until the wee hours. On the coldest, frost-tinged, night, my wife sent me to coax back the love-struck animal, with the aid of a packet of Keogh's favourite treats. What a crushing blow to Keogh's suitor that would be. Losing your partner to another cat is one thing, losing her to a single 'chicken nibble' is quite another. I can sympathise. I once lost a girl to a cheeseburger. She promised to return after purchasing the greasy snack from a nearby van, but never did. When I plucked up the courage to ask why she'd left me standing under a lamp-post for two days, she explained she was waiting for the onions to cook. In the hunt for Keogh, I had to trek four corners of an adjacent field, shaking the packet of cat snacks and calling her name, the blistering cold turning my breath into clouds. "Come and get it," I bellowed at woodland, frantically shaking the packet. "It's your favourite!" At that point, our camouflauged gamekeeper emerged from bushes, trying desperately to suppress a smirk. "You'll have a lot more success as a poacher," he whispered, "if you climb into the undegrowth and find the pheasants. If you're waiting for them to find you, you're going to be here for a very long wait," The unsolicited phone calls to Chateau Lockley are becoming more bizarre. Only hours after being given the joyous news - in a disjointed edict by a foreign gentleman in a faraway call-centre - that I'd won a mobile phone, a frightfully nice lady rang and asked if I was concerned about the plight of piglets transported from Eastern Bloc countries. Only 24 hours earlier, a chipper fellow rang with hearty congratulations. My entire family had won a weekend break in a deluxe Cornish chalet. All I had to do to claim the wonder prize was attend an all-day seminar in Aberdeen, he gushed. If that wasn't enough, there was a finger buffet, too. I had to sign something in blood as well, apparently. But I was under absolutely no obligation to buy anything if they were selling anything, which they most definitely were not. However, the company had the legal right to detain us, without sustenance, for as long as it took to clear-up any 'grey areas' that arose should we chose, of our own free will following a sustained period of beating, to tick boxes on a survey that we were under absolutely no obligation to take from which ever armed guard is on duty at the time. "So we don't have to sign anything?" I asked. That depends, he told me. Depends on whether we'd like to get back home in time to celebrate Easter. "Wouldn't you, as a family," oozed the caller, "love to spend every day of every holiday for the rest of your lives in the same wooden chalet in Padstow? Isn't that what we go to work for?" Sounded too good to be true. I accused him of peddling 'time share' breaks, which he vehemently denied, but grudgingly conceded the chalet was already owned by a family of seven from Bloxwich who are very quiet and have signed a legal declaration that the bathroom will be available to us from the hours of 3am to 5am. It's just a question of adjusting sleep patterns. I put the phone down. More baffling still, an Asian gentleman rang to ask if I was entirely happy with my water supply. I'd be happier if it was alcoholic, but you can't have everything. One the plus-side, it's doesn't fall out of the taps in heavy gloops and isn't brown. It flushes really well, too. He asked if I had five minutes to answer a few simple questions for a water survey he was conducting. What do you expect from your water supply, enquired the clipped, distant voice? "I expect it to be runny and not have insects it in," I answered, off the top of my head. "And when I drink it, I don't expect to get dysentery." Question Two. Apart from bathing, washing up etc, do you have any unusual uses for your water? I make the occasional waterbomb and fling it at neighbours. I've also been known to throw buckets at mating cats. "What if," said the caller excitedly, "I offered you a service so cheap, you could leave all your taps on, 24 hours a day, and still pay less than you are at present?" I told him it would be the fulfilment of an ambition I've caressed since childhood: leaving all the taps on. You can judge a man by the number of taps he's left on. I apologised, but had to hang-up because the very thought of so much free-flowing water had made me woozy. In fairness, at least the 'Polish piglet' crusader made it clear from the outset she wanted my cash. A standing order of £5 a month would help end this barbaric trade, she reckoned. How did she get my number? Who told her I was worried about piglets? If someone's out there informing charities I'm prepared to pay hogs' travelling expenses, I have a right to know. The caller, suddenly coy, said she'd got my details from 'the usual source' . I thought so. Him-over-the-road. "Take no notice," I told her. "He had a skip delivered to our house - just because I confiscated his son's football." "When you're next served pork," she pleaded, "will you at least dwell on the suffering that poor animal endured?" I'll try to, but I'm usually more concerned about where the apple sauce 'boat' has gone. "Can you help in any way?" pleaded the caller. I certainly can. I've got the number of a guy in Padstow's who's got a chalet they can stay in. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/03/colins_lotto_win_is_no_cause_f.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/03/colins_lotto_win_is_no_cause_f.html Mon, 03 Mar 2008 11:38:11 +0000 Our delinquent cat Keogh was affectionate for the first time yesterday, rubbing against my leg and making a soft mewing noise. Then she was violently sick. I feel it was a protest by the mad moggie after being given cheap cat food, instead of the gourmet feline fare she usually feasts upon. Perhaps she was aiming for my shoes. Whatever the reason, there can be no denying Keogh is not her usual self: her 'usual self' being extremely violent. She still lashes out with razor-sharp claws and sinks her teeth into my hand, but her heart's not in it. I can tell. I no longer bleed. Julie is worried about the pampered puss. She fears Keogh is bored and needs more stimulation. I'm bored and need more stimulation, but I try not to vomit on the carpet. "Listen to that," whispered the wife. "She's never made that noise before." Keogh was purring. "We need to change her routine," fussed Julie, "give her something a little different." If she means a different part of my anatomy to savage, she - and the cat - can forget it. The local 'cat whisperer', who in the past has helped with our pet's behavioural problems, thinks we should do things together. Keogh's favourite pastime is killing things, then flinging the mangled remains in the air for half-an-hour. She also carries earthworms into the house in her mouth. I've promised to give it a go. I refuse to chase my tail, however. "The problem is," cooed the cat shrink, holding the crazed creature dangerously close, "you are just too clever, aren't you, Keogh." Three times this week Keogh has tried to urinate in her litter tray and missed. That's not the work of a MENSA member. The odd behaviour could also be a case of worms, conceded the expert. It's often the way. There's a very thin line between pure genius and suffering from tapeworm. If she's looking for excitement, the cat's picked the wrong house. I had to sit down and get my breath back after discovering a tub of hazelnut yogurt had past its sell-by date. "A lot of this apparent naughtiness is a desire to feel wanted," said the cat whisperer. "If she bites my hand again, she'll feel my foot up her..." "That's exactly the kind of attitude that makes matters worse," scolded the woman. "How would you feel if you were threatened with physical violence by someone a lot bigger after a misdemeanour?" "If I'd gone to the toilet in their new Nike trainers," I told her, "I'd probably feel I deserved it."]]> http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/02/mad_moggie_drives_me_mad.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2008/02/mad_moggie_drives_me_mad.html Talking Point Thu, 28 Feb 2008 11:10:02 +0000 I've just come across a container full of all my schoolboy achievements. That is one cramped matchbox, I can tell you. I was so success-starved as a youth, I got a bogus certificate knocked-up for reaching puberty - with a 'well done' message from Hugh Heffner. Cycle proficiency and 50 length swimming certificate are still numbers one and two, under 'academic achievements', on my CV. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/the_success_of_youth.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/the_success_of_youth.html Talking Point Thu, 10 May 2007 13:25:13 +0000 Bloke up the road is selling labrador puppies for £300! For £600, he'll train them, too. "What do you train them to do?" I asked, stunned by the price tag. "Fetch sticks," he told me proudly. For an extra £300 I'd want the mutt to fetch the sticks, then knock-up a coffee table. Possibly drive me to the pub and back, to boot. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/a_dogs_life.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/a_dogs_life.html Talking Point Thu, 10 May 2007 13:24:18 +0000 I was asked to judge a pole dancing competition on Wednesday. Honest. Complete con. The girls had Midlands accents. Not an Eastern European in sight. I thought they'd be wearing clogs and crushing cabbages. Instead, semi-clad women, covered in baby oil, gyrated inches away from me. Gosh, it's changed so much since our maypole dancing at junior school. Not one of them hit me with a pig's bladder. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/pole_dancing_palaver.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/pole_dancing_palaver.html Talking Point Sun, 06 May 2007 13:22:21 +0000 The council skip cometh. Fifty two items of tat we loaded onto that rusting communal bucket. We decided to take 13 back, in the hope there may yet be someone on ebay who wants a one-legged Action Man with a stutter, a bird cage ladder with four rungs missing (a must for budgies who take really big strides) and a blender without the blades: we think the latter would make an excellent executive toy for high-powered businessmen who find it relaxing to watch vegetables spin very quickly. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/oh_joyous_joyous_day_1.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/oh_joyous_joyous_day_1.html Talking Point family life Sat, 05 May 2007 13:20:30 +0000 I just can't sleep. I'd take sleeping tablets, but don't want to end-up like Judy Garland. A gay icon. Every day this week I've been jolted from slumber, bathed in cold sweat, by fears over the spreading mould on our bedroom ceiling. The cause - despite forking out a fortune to a battery of tradesmen - is still unknown. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/just_cant_sleep.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/just_cant_sleep.html Talking Point family life Thu, 03 May 2007 13:18:27 +0000 The thoroughly modern family over the road have tutored their two children with Churchillian precision. The youngsters have an un-nerving ability to describe the aches and pains collected during a day playing on the village green in medical terms. Their 'book at bedtime' must by The Lancet. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/anatomy_the_new_age_way.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/anatomy_the_new_age_way.html Talking Point family life Wed, 02 May 2007 13:17:01 +0000 She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed is over the moon because our son has befriended the son of the rich couple in the Big House. This is an appalling brand of snobbery, of which I am not guilty: affluent or poverty stricken - anyone can buy me a drink. http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/shewhomustbeobeyed_is_over_the.html http://chasepost.midlandsblogs.co.uk/2007/05/shewhomustbeobeyed_is_over_the.html Talking Point family life Tue, 01 May 2007 13:14:30 +0000