STRANGE BEDFELLOWS - Sunday Scribblings - 27/5/2012

A Story for Our Times (Sadly)

subtitled:

An innocent tale, of innocent things, written

by an innocent blogger, where the content may

well cause the American Government to

shit itself in consternation.

......................

     My uncle, who is an Air Marshall , was recently in hospital suffering from a bout of severe food poisoning caused by a surfeit of oysters of doubtful origin.  He is spending a long weekend with me in the country as part of his recuperation period, and hopes to make a full recovery whilst enjoying the delights of my country-cottage garden. 

     I am a coast guard by profession, but I am also an extremely good cook and have decided that I will make him a special Sunday lunch of roast pork, with all the trimmings.  My oven is powered by gas. I do not have an electric cooker.  I recall my grandmother warning me years ago that I should have the supply pipes checked regularly, to avoid the possibility of a leak, and in response to her advice I have them serviced at least once a year.

     Having just looked out of the kitchen window, I notice a large, dark cloud coming over, which suggests a threat of rain.  I think I'll go and bring the old boy inside; too much sun will burn his skin anyway.  I'll collapse the recliner chair he is using, and put it away in the garden shed, then he can come into the kitchen with me and I'll put on a record of Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass, I know he used to like them.   After lunch, if it is raining, we can sit in the lounge and I'll put on a 'western' film for him - probably 3:10 to Yuma.

.............................................................................................................................



Well, that's the little story - not much, was it!

But the chances are that Homeland Security, CIA, et.al.

will read it and have kittens, as they say.

Why?

Because all the words that I have written in italics are on their

list of 'suspect words' that, if found ,when they are snooping

around among your/our internet writings, will spark off

suspicions of terrorist planning or other sneaky things.

I have only used 17 words from their list, but it runs

to hundreds.

Let's see what I've used:

Air Marshall; food poisoning; recovery; coast guard;

pork; gas; electric; recall; warning; leak; response;

cloud; threat; burn; collapse;

Tijuana; Yuma.

Those words make very strange bed-fellows indeed,

as does the entire collection  on this infamous list.

..............

THANK YOU AMERICA, FOR MAKING ME FEEL SO MUCH MORE

SECURE, SAFE, AND PRIVATE - NOT!!

THE WORLD HAS GONE MAD - TRUE! AND I AM WILD!



FACED WITH INCREASING ACCUSATIONS OF

RASCISM WITHIN THE FORCE, THE

METROPOLITAN POLICE HAVE DECIDED

TO ACT POSITIVELY, AND DO SOMETHING

ABOUT IT.

WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAS BEEN

RECOMMENDED?

THE WORDS 'BLACKLIST' AND 'WHITELIST'

ARE BEING BANNED FROM USE BECAUSE

THEY ARE RASCIST.

IN ALL ITS WISDOM, THE METROPOLITAN

POLICE HAVE DECIDED THE TERMS

'REDLIST' (TO REPLACE BLACKLIST)

AND

'GREENLIST' (TO REPLACE WHITELIST)

WILL BEST AVOID OFFENDING THOSE

OF LIGHT OR DARK COLOURED SKINS.

THIS IS THE  POINT WHERE WE MUST ALL

RAPIDLY FLICK OUR BOTTOM LIPS WITH

OUR FINGERS, AND GO:

"BLURBLEURBLEURBLEURBLEURBLE"

.......................................................

IT WON'T WORK, OF COURSE. 

I ENVISAGE A LOT OF COMPLAINTS FROM

LAW-ABIDING RED-HEADED PEOPLE, OR

HONOURABLE GENTLEMEN WHO HAPPEN

TO BE BLESSED WITH RUDDY COMPLEXIONS.

AND WHAT ABOUT ALL THOSE WHO ARE

WITHOUT THE REQUIRED EXPERIENCE TO

BE CONSIDERED ADEPT YET,  IN THEIR

CHOSEN PROFESSIONS?  I WOULD

PERSONALLY BE EXTREMELY OFFENDED TO

LEARN I HAD BEEN PLACED ON A 'GREEN' LIST,

EVEN THOUGH THAT WILL BE  OFFICIALLY

DESIGNATED THE APPROVED TABULATION.

WILL THERE BE NO END TO THIS 'POLITICAL

CORRECTNESS' NONSENSE?

YES!  WHEN WE ALL SAY - NO!

"This Royal throne of Kings,

this sceptered isle.

This earth of Majesty,

this  seat of.......   IDIOTS!"

Sorry Will!

.............................................................................

Sunday Scribblings - 'Wild' - 5/5/2012

Wild

What can one say about wild?

I thought, as I leaned back and smiled.

I was tempted to rant, but I know that

I can't,

it would just make you less than beguiled.

My garden is full of wild creatures,

from squirrels to jackdaws and tits;

the magpies are horrid, their behaviour torrid,

all they do is just tear things to bits.

Our big hare comes visiting nightly,

looking for carrots and such;

when I check in the morning, to see what he's left,

I have to say - not very much!

We once had a moose in our garden,

and a bear was seen just down the lane;

it was chased by a ranger, to remove all the danger,

and it's never been back here again.

In woods and in gardens in Finland,

a host of wild creatures abound;

and for someone who really loves nature,

it is so good to have them around.

..........................................................................................



Sunday Scribblings - Storm - 29/4/2012

Heraldic Coat of Arms - Joutseno, Finland

........................................................................

After spending a few years back in England, watching my family

from my first marriage grow up a bit, I became very disillusioned

with the Blair government, and particularly with his Foreign

Secretary (a Scotsman) who amazingly came out with the

instruction that Englishmen and women should stop calling

themselves English as this was racist.  We should call ourselves

British, so as not to offend the Scots; Welsh; Irish, and other

assorted nationalities who lived in the United Kingdom.

Needless to say, the Scots; Welsh; Irish, et.al, were allowed

to refer to themselves by their own nationalities, without any

adverse comment from the government.

This idea caused a storm among the English patriots, and

inspired me to turn my thoughts back to Joutseno, and to

write the following poem - which preceded my eager return

to Finland by about a year:

My love, My Country

England in storm, or under the sun,

but my olde England's time is done.

Patriots no more are heard,

patriotism a forbidden word.

Multi-culture is the theme,

and ethnic English just a dream.

So turn, my thoughts, to my other land,

where patriots still make their stand,

and noble songs are sung with pride,

and nationalism not cast aside.

So I will to my new-found love,

and we will future's promise prove;

our souls united from the past

with love that surely now must last.

And I will sing, and wait for spring

............and FINLAND!

.........................................................

Three Word Wednesday - Bloody,Kinky,Tender - 25/4/2012

POTTY POEM TIME AGAIN
(FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE NOT EXPERIENCED ANY
PREVIOUS POTTY POEMS - YOU DO NOT NEED
TO BE INSANE TO READ THEM - BUT IT HELPS)

'twas bloody odes of the merry woof
that caused the dogs to bark,
and run around the silent town 
in the ebon, midnight dark.
...
They ran along the winding streets,
through kinky, narrow lanes;
two of the fiercest searching wide,
like furry paravanes.
...

Their feline foes took shelter,
in hiding places slender;
out of reach of the raging hounds,
in search of cat flesh tender.
...
But one old Tom, all battle-scarred,
he stood his ground instead.
"Come singly, or in gangs" he hissed,
"I'll fight until I'm dead."
...

Yep!  They killed him!
.......................................

Three Word Wednesday - 18/4/2012 - Dependence, Kept, Rumple.

An Interlude, with Trebuchet 

Dali

Doigy Flambeau was rumpled, after a night out on the tiles. He could

not remember what had made him go up there in the first place; drunk, he supposed, because he certainly felt decidedly 'hung-over' right now.

   His suit was crumpled, and carried smudges of indeterminate detritus;

his shoes were scratched, and one had a dent in the toe.  Going up had been relatively easy, with plenty of foot and hand-holds evident before his eyes, and above his head, but coming down, he recalled, had been slow and difficult.  What with the increasing weakness in his arms, and having to feel about for foot-holds that were out of sight below him, he had been fortunate not to have fallen.  It was only Morgenstern's dependence on him for food and tender loving care that had kept him clinging on, and slowly moving down.  Poor old Morgenstern must be very hungry by now, he thought.  The last time he had fed the hamster had been early yesterday morning, shortly after he had succeeded in chasing the capybara out of his kitchen, and back into his neighbour's swimming pool.

   Doigy sneezed violently.  Catching a cold now, he thought, which would not be surprising.  It had rained during the night, and he had been sitting fifty-eight feet up on the exposed ridge of the Daliville School for Moronic Reform.  At its inauguration, a couple of years ago, it had been suggested that ex-president Georg Pensas be invited to be its patron, but it had quickly been realised that, far from being its patron, he should be enrolled as its most needy student.

   Arriving at his front door, Doigy removed the banana from his coat pocket and pushed it into the banana-lock on the door.  Having received a bashing from its journey up, and then down, the exterior wall of the School for Moronic Reform, the banana was very much the worse for wear, and it took Doigy several messy, squishy minutes to get the door open.    Once indoors, he threw the shapeless remains of the banana into the rubbish bin in the kitchen, then went to check on Morgenstern.  The hamster was sitting silently by its wheel, staring out at Doigy Flambeau with large accusatory eyes.  "I know, I know," said Doigy.  "Just be patient until I've washed this muck off my hands."   He rinsed his hands in the sink, then filled Morgenstern's water bowl, and topped up his food container.  Now, where's my spare banana?, he said to himself - then he remembered - the capybara had found and eaten it three days earlier.  "Damn!" he cried.  "Now I'll have to buy a couple from the  store."  He rushed off, and half-an-hour later was back with two fresh, green bananas.  One worked perfectly immediately; the other was a little stiff, but would probably wear itself in over time.

   It wasn't until after he had showered and changed into dry clothes that he noticed the message light flashing on his telephone.  He pressed the play button, and a woman's voice came out of the speaker:

   "Doigy, this is Pandora.  Don't forget you've volunteered to help clear fallen timber in the town wood.  We're meeting at mid-day.  See you there, and don't forget to bring your chopper with you."

   He sighed, and went to find his Jack Daniels.

      

Hall

Sunday Scribblings - 'Treat' - 8/4/2012

'TREAT'

What constitutes a treat?  Well, my wife and I

both woke up this morning, which was a

treat - it meant we hadn't died in the night.

Looking out of the window we found that

a spring sun was trying to break through the 

cloud cover and do a bit more thawing of the snow.

That was a real treat!

So, what now?  Well I shall now treat myself, 

and hopefully anybody who reads this, to a

medley of videos of some of my favourite 

'bits and pieces', starting with the lovely

Anita O'day singing Sweet Georgia Brown. 
They do say she was stoned on cocaine
when she did this gig:                                      

I have to admit, I couldn't understand the

lethargic dumb-heads in the crowd - she

was giving an incredible performance.


Jo Stafford was always a great favourite of mine,
so you can imagine what a treat it was for me
to find this clip of one of her 'funnies',
with Red Ingles.  
I just love the expressions on her face:

The very first Stan Kenton number I ever heard,
back in 1952, was Southern Scandal.  It was a
new kind of music for me, and it sparked off
sixty years of my Kenton mania.  What a 
treat for me, to find this video only the other day:

And now for something entirely different.  In 1963 I went

to the Royal Albert Hall, London, to see the

Red Army Choir, orchestra, and dancers, under

their leader Col. Boris Alexandrov.

I was filled with wonder and awe at the sheer

magnificence of the ensemble - and have been

ever since.  

So, 'Here we go'....

The Yehudi Menuhin of the balalaika,

playing 'Kamarinskaya' (Only 3 strings!)

Yevjeni Beliaev and 'Annie Laurie'

You will never hear it sung better,

and just note his breath control:

Beautiful, wasn't it?

...............................

Finding 'London Town', after 65 years, was a treat

for me.

Here is Sid Field and Jerry Desmond's  golf sketch:

One last treat, at least for me.  I fell in love

with a voice - in 1952.  When I could put a 

face to the voice, I fell even deeper.

June Christy:

I have got all these, and many, many more in my

archives.  I can play them any time, and it is

always a treat to listen to them.

I am sorry if I have bored you to tears,

if you managed to get to the end of the blog that is.

HAPPY EASTER!

.............................