Rubbing her up the right way

What with the hot, close weather, and a few other factors, the last few days have been quite draining. If you were to draw a diagram of my sleep pattern, it would probably resemble a Julia set.

Complex, almost chaotic - but pretty to look at.

As I write this, it is roughly 8:30, and I have been up and about since 4:30-ish. I have played cards, read some of a science book, done some writing, had a spot of breakfast, and completed a few puzzles in a magazine. About half an hour ago, Julie woke and switched her radio on to listen to the news. Roxy heard this from downstairs and came up to bid her 'good morning' and have a bit of attention.

I got dressed and came into my office to do the 'dailies' as I refer to my regular activities. However, no sooner had I sat down, than I heard Julie pipe up with something that absolutely demanded a reply.

For those of you that didn't know, Roxy is a bit of a tart, especially when it comes to having her belly rubbed. In fact, she will often go out of her way to make it easy for you and to indicate, in that ever-so-subtle manner of hers, that she wants a belly rub.

The inscrutable and the implausible.

Roxy is a cuddlesome doggie. After three years in a last chance rescue centre, I think anyone would feel a little insecure. One of the things that she enjoys most is having her belly rubbed. Of course, for a female dog, this means contact with the nipples (as has been previously documented). Normally, this is how Roxy shows she is after a belly rub...

In less energetic moments, Roxy likes to lean in for a cuddle while sat upright. Once you begin to stroke her, Roxy will then lean a little more, so you can then reach her belly. Cuddle AND a belly rub? That's a happy dog right there. This isn't a belly rub shot, but it shows the quietly happy pose Roxy can strike. The warm sun probably had something to do with it.

As Julie rightly pointed out, Roxy can look positively noble - even regal - when she is serenely happy. In fact, Roxy apparently looked so regal on one occasion she was receiving a cuddle/rub, that Julie was moved to draw a comparison to our own, dear monarch.

You'd think, after all this time, I would be more careful about having a mouthful of tea when Julie says things like this... Mind you, I don't imagine the Queen was too overjoyed either.

Ewe have to be joking...

If you drive a particular journey often enough, it begins to feel like the distance has increased. Having the radio on, or music can help, as can sharing the journey with a companion. You can chat or play games such as I-spy or, as we often do, alphagames. However, even then, you will often find there are times when there is simply nothing to say and you just don't feel like playing any games. You're on a motorway, doing a steady 65mph, you and your companion have exhausted all the normal topics of conversation.

And you begin to zone out.

It's not the same as falling asleep, but it can be just as dangerous.

If I am on my own and I feel like I am slipping into The Zone, I make sure I have some upbeat music - rock, ska, pop, whatever - and crank up the volume to disguise my abysmal singing voice. If Julie is with me, then I try and come up with a speculative area for a conversation. Why? Because there is no way any answer my wife would come up with would be in any way dull. In fact, I will often be in danger of not being able to see because of laughing so hard...

On one journey, I felt my eyes unfocusing. Time to come up with a conversation starter. Hm. How about reincarnation?

Trust me when I say that the car was quiet for a little while following that - although that was mainly because I honestly couldn't think of anything to say...

This seems apt enough, though.

Silly little things

For the benefit of our international readers, I shall begin this post with some background details.

In 1959, all the way up to 2001, there was a programme called Sing Something Simple. It was as easy as easy listening will ever get, but it served its audience well.

I don't recall much about the programme itself, apart from the theme tune. You can hear it in this clip on Youtube , after a then-current jingle for BBC Radio 2 and and brief time check. Sadly, I can't embed the clip, but here's the link.

Sing Something Simple intro

This soporific tune was perfect as a herald for the rest of the programme on its Sunday afternoon slot. For many other people though - normally those below the age of fifty - it was a cue to find a radio station playing more up-tempo tunes. In spite of us young folks' antipathy towards slow songs, that damn intro song has stayed with us for all our lives. Accordingly, those of us with lively minds often co-opt it into fun pastiches or even out-and-out piss-takes.

And then there's Julie's approach.

I do wish she wouldn't come out with these things when I'm driving. It really doesn't help you to concentrate on the road at all...

Nothing to sniff at.

Yesterday evening, me and Julie decided to do something we haven't had the time or energy to do for a long time - go out for a drive in the evening. What? Did you think I was going to say something else?

We got ourselves a bite to eat at a chippy and then drove to a nice viewpoint in Bexhill, listening to a little Americana on the radio. Nice as the view was though, the nights are now drawing in and there's not an awful lot to look at once the sun has gone down completely.

Hence the drive.

We stuck to the main roads, because small country roads in the dark can be pretty nerve-wracking to drive along. Yes, you can see traffic a little easier, because they should have their headlights on. What worries me is that pedestrians are another matter - and then there are the idiot cyclists who insist on wearing dark clothes...
</rant>

One road, however, was both a large road and in the countryside. And it appeared that agricultural things had been occurring - if the smell was anything to go by. It was definitely smelling a tad rural. Julie was having trouble trying to place a name on the smell, though...

There wasn't a lot I could say to that, so I shall leave it to this cow's expression.

Fairways and motorways

Also known as autobahns in Germany and freeways in the USA, motorways are technically supposed to be a means of bypassing all those nasty things that slow traffic down, like towns and winding country lanes. In a sense, they have worked brilliantly, because those towns and country lanes are a lot easier to drive around now. However, that's only because all the traffic is now to be found - gridlocked - on these multi-lane car parks.

Do I sound bitter? Oh, I'm sorry.

Yes I have a reason. You see, we have a guest this week, a very good friend who has managed to escape from her homeland of Greece for a few days. The only things is, we live on the south coast of England, and our friend was due to arrive in Heathrow airport. This meant driving, on a Saturday early in the school holiday season, on the infamous M25 - AKA the London Orbital. It's infamous for having many delays and has in fact been portrayed as having demonic origins by messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman in the excellently witty novel, 'Good Omens'.

The original cover of the novel
featured an eerie, glowing version
of the M25.

Whatever the origins, the London Orbital was definitely living up to its reputation on Saturday. For about thirty miles, we alternated between crawling and complete halt. When we reached a service station, we gave in and decided to have lunch - only to find that the service's car park was about as gridlocked as the motorway we had just left. Going in AND leaving.

After we finally managed to leave the services and crawl our way to the airport, we had another problem - how on earth could we pick someone up without using a car park?
Answer: we couldn't.

Despite us timing our arrival perfectly with our friend's ejection from security and customs, we wound up going through two car parks and getting lost on the way. In the end, what should have been a joyful meeting was instead a hurried "Oh hello, come on, let's get going." I'd had enough of the bloody roads.
With that in mind, I went along with julie's suggestion that we avoid the M25 and head off a different route. Since she had the map, I agreed and let her chart the course.

Whoops.

Julie readily agrees that map-reading is not her forte, so she can hardly be blamed for us going around roads, hitting the same roundabout twice from different directions - and leaving it from two other different exits - and crossing the M25 two or three times.

I have no idea what our guest in the back of the car thought as we bickered our random way across the western outskirts of London, but it's possible she had some misgivings...
Eventually, more by luck than judgement, we found our way onto the M3. Feeling a very certain need, I suggested - in no uncertain terms - that we stop at the next motorway services for a trip to the loo and a nice, hot cup of tea.

Fleet Services (circled), as portrayed in our road atlas.

'...and relax...'

You may be asking, at this point, why on earth we don't have a satnav. Well, I'll give you two good reasons. Firstly, the sound and the look annoy the hell out of me. And secondly, when the bloody things get stuck into a closed loop by turning right all the time, I remember that I actually like maps and enjoy browsing them. Julie, unfortunately, doesn't have the same facility with maps as I do, so it can be a little hit and miss when it comes to going to new places.

That aside, I decided that we would consult our road atlas together, before we set off once more.

As the three of us crowded around the pages, Julie betrayed her lack of experience (because that's all it is really) once more and wondered how I knew where we were.

Our friend was ever so pleased. She'd only been in this country for a couple of hours and she'd already been at Gem ground zero.

Oh, BALLS.

These balls, specifically.

Tits and balls, oh my!
They're blue tits, but that doesn't help much, does it?
At least they aren't great tits...

In my mum's garden, there are plenty of places for the local birdlife to get their fill - as long as the bloody pigeons and squirrels don't hog it all/crap all over it. But one of the best things we've found are the seed-packed spheres of suet - more commonly known as fat balls.

Yeah. You can see where we're going with this, can't you...

Obviously, it's going to take a total innocent not to make any kind of mental connection with, and let's not beat around the bush here, testicles. Bollocks, gonads, love spuds, the two veg to the penis's meat. Whatever you want to call the male reproductive organs, if you name a product of ANY kind 'fat balls', all kinds of people are going to be sniggering. To be perfectly honest, the manufacturers don't help either...

Ok, settle down at the back there...

As it happens, I recently had a request for me to buy some fat balls for the feeders in my mum's garden. In fact, the poorly-worded  text message I received from my sister ran, "Oh btw, Mum needs fat balls."
My reply? "No comment."

Today, as chance would have it, me and Julie were in a garden centre (cooing over the pets and discovering they even had a couple of hedgehogs!*), so we took the opportunity to buy some spherical bird treats.
After looking at all the pets, gifts and gardening gear, we left with nothing else but avian snacks. I admit to feeling a little sulky that we couldn't afford a 'hog (£150 - before care etc). Julie tried to put a positive spin on things though.

Honestly, I'm not sure one was worse than the other...

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* A little note on purchasing hedgehogs. Only buy/keep African pigmy hedgehogs, as all the other breeds are not suitable for keeping as pets.

I say thee neigh!

A Thelwell pony, looking alarmed. Why? Read on.

On a recent visit to my mum, she, myself and Julie were sat around the table, enjoying a game of Scrabble. Julie noticed that I hadn't got my notepad with me and was quite pleased when I remarked in a jocular manner that I was giving her the night off.

Silly me.

Honestly, it must have been the most Gem-packed time I have ever known.

One of the hallmarks of our family Scrabble games is a penchent for - accidentally - going in a place that blocks the next player on. Mum is particularly vocal when it happens to her, and this occasion was no exception. I have no idea what I put down, but I was immediately labelled as a 'ratbag' and it was commented, with a very loud 'tut', that you "just can't choose your family, can you?"

Hot on the heels of this well-worn saying, Julie piped up, mixing metaphors and the gods know what else...

Well, you probably could, but that's not to say that you should.

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In case you weren't aware of his work, the equine at the top was sketched by a very well-known English cartoonist by the name of Thelwell. He was most famous for his cartoons of rotund ponies and little girls, which, when I say it like that, sounds like he should have been arrested...

Instead, I invite you to go look at the website and perhaps to google him.

Sing something scary

Pretty much everyone likes to sing to themselves at some point. It may be in the privacy of the shower or car, or in the street, furtively looking to make sure nobody else can hear you. On the other hand, you might be bold enough to belt it out loud - possibly following a few alcoholic drinks...

Alternatively, you may be singing without quite realising it. A tune has got into your head and won't leave until you've sung the same few lines over and over. Much to the annoyance, most likely, of those around you.

I tend to fall into this category, I have to admit. Often, I'll start a tune and then tail off, having been distracted by something else - otherwise, I'd have gone through the whole song, knowing the full lyrics. 

Julie is also a subconscious singer, and it's usually highly entertaining, because knowledge of actual lyrics isn't necessarily essential; especially since it's all rather stream of consciousness stuff.

Normally, this isn't too distressing, as Julie will have just thought of something that reminded her of the words from a particular song, and she will simply riff off that. However, once in a while, Julie just begins singing. No external input, nothing on her mind - and no restraint...

Wait, so that's two possible songs, two bands, a traditional location for sing-songs and a WTF. 

Now that's a nasty mash-up.

Let's have ourselves an alternative mash-up of the odd persuasion...

Watery sponges and cheesy bricks

Every now and then, Julie and myself have a recurrent conversation. It usually takes place after a Gem, or when I have splashed out a little nugget of information. Essentially, Julie marvels that the garbage collector that resides in my skull manages to keep hold of so much detail - usually along the lines of "God, you know a lot of crap, don't you?"

This time around, I was expanding the definition of the word 'acoustic' for my wife. More precisely, that when applied to guitars, it means that they are of the non-electric variety (yes, I know that you can have an electric acoustic guitar, but it wasn't worth throwing that in, because I'd have been bogged down in explanation for another hour). This, of course, is why you had the MTV Unplugged shows and albums - back when MTV was about music, that is.

Luckily for me, I wasn't given a complement of the backhanded variety.
It was more a statement of wonderment.
Wonderment cut with a hefty dose of WTF.

....yes, dear.

A flowery fate.

Recently, Julie and me finally had a week off together, so we decided to go and visit my mum up in Birmingham.
As it happened, this coincided with the end of Julie's job at the CAB, a place she had worked at for quite some time. Obviously, not every place of employment works like this, but when the news broke that Julie was leaving the Bureau, there was a genuine disappointment (and relief for Julie, who had been trying to leave the bloody place for years). There was also a not insubstantial whip-round. In addition to this, a number of other staff members felt compelled to shower my wife with gifts directly and in addition to what may have been planned.

So it was that I received a phone call, asking me to collect her from the Bureau. When I drove up to the office, what appeared to be a triffid walked out. It was only when Julie's faced peeked out from behind the foliage that I undid the car's automatic locks...
Yes, she was a popular person. Even the boss chipped in, by buying some fake medals and awarding them to her, claiming that they were for long service, toleration of a certain colleague, and success in the face of labyrinthine and constantly changing procedures and protocols.

One such gift was a bowl of flowering plants - absolutely lovely, but there was an immediate problem. Since we were going to be visiting my mother in two days' time, leaving them in our front room without care may have been problematic.

PS
In case you're wondering, the flowers are still alive and flourishing nicely.

Moooooo!

The body is a wonderful thing. Rather like the age-old comparison with the apparent grace of the swan, there is so much activity beneath the surface that it would be fair to describe the human body as a battleground, one that will only be calmed when one side it vanquished for good. Sorry, but you know which side that is. As the phrase goes,

"Life is a sexually-transmitted disease with a 100% fatality rate."

Cheering, eh?

Let's steer things back to lighter matters.
Everybody likes a fart gag, don't they? Gaseous emissions have been a staple of comedy since time immemorial, but it's as much about timing as anything else.
Imagine a hall full of students taking their final exams. Despite hours or revision and weeks of preparation, it's turning out to be far harder than any of them had imagined. Half an hour in, and already, despair is setting in. The tension in the air is palpable. Then, from between clenched buttocks comes a noise, a sound like a cornet being blown to a tone of E flat. There's silence at first, then a muffled snigger. Soon, the whole room is full of students trying not to make any noise and failing dismally. However, the mood has been lifted and who knows - some of the students may have relaxed enough to improve their score.

"What you see might not be real" is a sculpture by Chinese artist Chen
Wenling. It's an unsubtle dig at the financial crisis. The bull represents
Wall Street, and the human is Bernard Madoff. He was convicted
and jailed for 150 years for being a Ponzi schemer.

Alternatively, let's pretend you are watching a sitcom. The main character works in an office. He's been stuck in a meeting for what has felt like the longest hour of his life. He has spent most of the meeting regretting the full English breakfast. It was tasty enough at the time, but it's given him some terrible gas. Finally, the meeting is over. He grabs his papers and dashes out for his own office. When he gets there, he bangs the door shut behind him, but doesn't notice that it has bounced open again. He leans his knuckles on his desk and carefully relaxes certain muscles. The resulting fart is loud, sonorous and meaty enough to be put into pies. Them, just as he sighs with relief, he hears the boss behind him, "I hope you feel much better for that." Oh bugger.

See? It can be humorous. Obviously, it can be taken too far. An entire programme of fart gags is a bit much (although Bottom seemed to get away with something very close to it for several series).

On the other hand, when you feel the need and you happen to be in public, it's really not done to simply let rip. In that case, one will surreptitiously glance about, making sure that the coast is clear. Only then will we allow ourselves to let something out. Hopefully, it will be as discreet as your attempt to clear the area.
Yeah, right.
Poor Julie, on this occasion, managed to create a passable impression of a foghorn. I was gasping for breath, I was laughing that hard, and Julie was laughing just as hard. Then, just as I felt I was beginning to calm down, Julie decided to justify herself.

And I was off again...

It's a weird, weird world

I may just have this as a sort of occasional series - just to show that Julie still isn't as baffling as what people do out there in la-la land.

Today, browsing the net as you do, I came across a video clip of Whinny the Pooh.
I have to confess to being rather trite, as I didn't report that bit quite right.
'Winny Puhh' was how I then read the name, and wondered just what was the game.
With trepidation did I press 'play', and hoped there was no cause for me to pray.
With WEIRD I was fully lambasted, my eyes with terrible oddities blasted.
With jaw on the ground, and brain spinning round, and about to enter a fit.
I hit the pause button and wondered, "Just what is this shit?"

Ladies and Gentlemen - and others - please welcome, all the way from Estonia in North East Europe, Winny Puhh - don't they look a treat...

And, for you gluttons for punishment, here is a clip of them performing... something...

The Birds of Time

(heh - sounds like a Doctor Who adventure, doesn't it?)

We have a nice pier in Eastbourne. In fact, considering the fiery fates of the pier in Hastings and West Pier in Brighton, the town and city either side of Eastbourne, it's doing rather well.

Yes, it needs a coat of paint, but it still has that essential Victorian seaside charm. Having said that, when we went past it last time, I noticed something wrong...

No, even Julie didn't know what that meant, either. However, as she said, "it sounds good, though, doesn't it?"

Drink and drive responsibly

Walking home one day, I noticed a van parked by the pavement bearing this logo:

I thought (and still think) that this was an excellent idea. If you go out for the night and suddenly realise you have had a tad too much of the jolly juice, then you don't really want to be risking life, limb and licence by getting behind the wheel. Which is where this lot come in.

Naturally, this sparked off a conversation between Julie and myself about alcohol and the dangers of Driving Under the Influence.Normally, you would have the standard joke, "don't drink and drive, you'll only spill it." Not when Julie's around you won't...

No, Julie wasn't talking about making a phone call.

This is so very wrong on so many levels, it's hard to know where to begin...

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DISCLAIMER
Obviously, we don't condone drink-driving. If you're going to drink, don't drive, that's it. However, if you go out somewhere (in the UK) and find your night is suddenly full of alcohol, then please make use of Chauffeur Monkey.

The Weekly Wotnot Club

There's a pub near us that advertises a 'Monday Club'. Now, given that this pub isn't the most salubrious of drinking establishments, I would really rather not know what this club entailed. I wouldn't mind betting, however, that it doesn't involve a nice game of shove ha'penny. Shove broken bottle, perhaps.

Putting that aside, it's perhaps just as well we don't really want to go, as I'm not sure just when it takes place.
Well, I was.
But that was before Julie decided to put logic and sentence structure into a drug-crazed TARDIS and send the schedule bouncing around the space/time continuum like a rubber ball on steroids.

My head hurts...

The epitome of 'sickly sweet'

Humans are weird.
I know about the whaling industry. I know that certain cultures enjoy eating whale meat. I also know that the blubber is used for cosmetic purposes. What I  didn't  realise was that there was another whale product used in the cosmetic industry. Now, if you read the title above, then you've probably got an uneasy feeling what I might be referring to.
Yep. Whale vomit. Apparently, it's quite the thing for providing a nice, gentle scent to a perfume.

Great gobs of whale sick. Lovely.

Feeling nauseous yet?
Here's something else to tickle your gag reflex. Not only is cetacean puke (allegedly) nice to spray on your lady's face, it's also pretty damn expensive too. With a nickname of 'floating gold', you can imagine how much people are willing to pay for such a seemingly wondrous thing.
How fortunate, then, that Ken Wilman's dog has a good nose.

Having unearthed what they both thought to be a rock, they soon realised was something completely different. Here's the story.
When we were reading about this, me and Julie were both bemused at the lengths people will go to for vanity's sake. And then we found out that Mr Wilman had been offered 50,000 Euros for his find by a French company.
Really? How much??
And of course, it set Julie to thinking...

Blech... Please never bring that up... I mean, raise the topic again.

The Great Irish Pizza Palaver

It all began innocently enough.

Julie and me were out for the day and had stopped in a cafe for a cup of tea. Known as Number 48, this cafe in Bexhill is a veritable delight for someone like me. Not only is it one of the few that offer the option of soy milk (as I am lactose intolerant, it's a help), but they also open in the evenings to have music and food nights. You pay an entry fee, and that gets you in to see the music - anything from country and western through to mod and folk - and a nice meal into the bargain. Sometimes the food is a curry, other times a lasagne or a cottage pie. I like folk music, and was interested (and amused) to see a billing for a 'traditional Irish folk band; The Leprechauns'.

No stereotyping there, obviously (cough, cough).
The food on offer that night is to be - you guessed it - Irish stew. I quite like Irish stew when it's done properly, but I will be honest and admit that the best I have tasted was when in Ireland. What I didn't know was if Julie had tried it.

Oh dear.
Then a thought struck me. You can have an almost infinite combination of toppings on a pizza, so who was I to pooh-pooh the notion of there being an 'Irish pizza'? I have to admit though that my mind shied away from a couple of possible ingredients. Black pudding (aka blood sausage in some parts of the world), white pudding and potatoes are all very tasty in various dishes. The idea of plonking them atop a stodgy bread base, however, just doesn't do anything for me.

Google to the rescue.

A few options came up, but most were essentially combining the words 'Irish' and 'pizza' in the description of an eatery, rather than the creation of a specific dish. The closest thing I could find was something on the recipe site The Daily Meal.
More worrying was a link to Urban Dictionary. For those not aware of this site, it provides definitions for slang and 'street' terms. You can see why I was a tad wary of going there.
But go I did.
Oh hell.

There were two definitions. The first was a 'pizza pie doused in whiskey' - which sounds vile. This wasn't as troubling as the second definition, though.

What.
The.
Hell?

********* UPDATE! *********

Many thanks to Scribe (who also felt the need to comment below) for actually managing to find a half-decent pan pizza recipe with a strong and genuine Irish theme.

Made with a potato farl base, this actually seems doable and tasty...
Fancy a go? Pop along to Tangled Noodle and have a gander at the recipe...

The worms that turned... into something else.

Our family, as a rule, are very friendly towards wildlife. My mum has a large garden, and birdwatching is a hobby. It makes sense, then, to attract birds to the garden. At the far end, there is a pond, designed to attract various animals, insects and birds especially. One of my father's happiest and proudest moments was when a passing heron decided to drop in and inflict a massive casualty rate on the amphibian population. As I was quick to remind him though, just because the pond works for attracting wildlife, the bamboo he had planted nearby was very unlikely to tempt any pandas...

The more common means of getting birds to drop in is by a number of feeders, offering different types of foods. Seeds, nuts and fat balls.
Yes, let's get the sniggering out of the way shall we? This is what I'm talking about.

Balls of nuts, seeds, and or bits of various invertebrates, moulded into a spherical shape and held together by  fat.
Whenever we visit, we always try and take along some supplies, just so the birds don't go hungry. We're kind like that. However, asking for these supplies does tend to make for awkward conversations. Asking if someone 'wants fat balls' in a public place is guaranteed to earn you a nervous look or two.
Especially if you add the word 'Mum' to that sentence.
It's not all balls, though. There are also fat blocks, which are most usually filled with mealworms or insects. There are others, though. Some have fruit, some have seeds, but those aren't wanted.

Thus is was that Julie was out browsing some shops, and happened to go into one place that had a section for bird food. Once the obligatory muttered conversation about 'fat balls' was out of the way, Julie tried to find out just which of the different blocks on offer were the ones wanted by Mum.
And then the confusion set in.

I very nearly asked if they actually had blocks with ringworm, but then I decided I wasn't all that interested in finding out and rather hurriedly dropped the whole conversation...

Vegetarian Pork II - revenge of the pigs

WAY back when, in the dawn of our existence, before I started adding fun images to the Gems, Julie came up with a question about vegetarian pork. Little did I know that my darling wife was channelling a truth that was even stranger than fiction...

Ladies and gentlemen, I have the dubious honour of presenting to you actual vegetarian pork - but chicken flavour!

Courtesy of Lamyong, a company that specialises in vegetarian foods, this has to be the most confused delicacy in the world...

According to the product page, these are the ingredients:

Water, vegetable oil, textured Soy Protein (27%), whey protein, wheat flour, salt, soy sauce, vegetarian seasonings 

Contains soybeans, gluten and dairy. May contain traces of nuts and seeds.

Now, what gets me is that I showed the allergy warning to Julie, and she reckoned that they must come from the pigs' bones. Apart from the possible nuts, that is...