Farewell, Old Friend

Well, I have survived the rigours of Christmas........actually, between you, me and the gatepost, there were few rigours to cope with as not much happened. Mrs B was (and still is) bed-bound with some nasty sick-y, chest-y malaise so no traumas of Christmas lunch, no subtly leaving the room as the sprouts took effect and no groaning and dozing for the rest of the day.

In fact, truth be told, I was a bit dicky myself so Christmas was all a bit anti-climactic apart from the visits of the young Bassetts who showered me with a cornucopeia of gifts on Christmas Day and introduced me to the ridiculously funny board game called Balderdash on Boxing Day. I might just mention at this juncture, my beautiful young 18 year old, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth daughter who has never ever sworn in my presence before but let herself down rather badly after a particularly shrewd ploy of mine during the aforesaid board game. Anyway, sweetie, I have a birth certificate to prove what you called me isn't true!!

I am, as usual, moving away from the subject in hand viz. a farewell to an old friend. Who is this, I hear you ask? Could it be an epitaph to Harold Pinter? Might it be the passing of my dressing gown (replaced by a rather snazzy M & S grey marl version)? Is it a precursor to the wailing and gnashing of teeth as Brighton & Hove Albion slides inexorably from the nondescript region of Division One to the barren wastes of Division Two? Is it possible I am bidding goodbye to the gremlins perched sardine-like on both shoulders? Nope, it's a tribute to the great institution that we know as Woolworths.

When I was a child and we ventured from the cave into the realms of civilisation, there were several chain stores. Obviously nothing like today: you still had small shops where people called you Sir and Madam and you were sent for "half a pound of bacon and not too fatty" from your local butcher. I remember we had Home & Colonial, Mence Smiths hardware store and the biggest of the lot (whose name escapes me) where, after one had paid, the cash was placed in a container which would zoom along the most amazing system of cables across the ceiling to the central citadel where a large, superior-looking woman sat like a giant spider - custodian of the dosh. The one which always stood out however was F W Woolworth & Co. It was a veritable treasure trove where a small boy could wander and wonder at the vast array within.

I can still remember getting lost in there and standing in the middle of the store bawling my head off until a nice lady rescued me and reunited me with my mother. The traumas of this stayed with me for some time but I eventually managed to re-enter the confines without tying a safety rope around my waist and attaching the other end to the entrance doors. In those days, Ladybird clothes were the must-have of the cool kid and shoelaces were a necessity. The floors were always really shiny and great for sliding and the biscuit counter was at exactly the right level for young eyes to gaze in lust. I also have to say that Portslade Woolworth was tthe scene of the one and only time I have ever shoplifted (a packet of Polos, I seem to recall).


Both my children earned their first pay packets as Saturday staff at Woolies and, even in the last decade, there was always something there to capture my interest. Pick 'n Mix of course was always an attraction and I remember going in to see my son once and him standing there chatting to us as, much to her embarrassment, he shovelled large amounts of Pick 'n Mix into Mrs B's bag and pockets. He also related the story of having to redo all the bins as there were some little beetle-like things inhabiting them and - best of the lot - the eccentric lady who was banned from the store after weeing in the aforesaid Pick 'n Mix bins!!

I popped into my local Woolies today and it was a sad sight. Like vultures stripping the bones of a once great warrior, the people latched onto the last bargains. Having said that, they were flogging off the sealed boxes of Pick 'n Mix so I was tempted with a 3.5kg boz of strawberry cables marked down from their retail equivalent of £20 to a mere £10. I took it to the checkout and the young lad explained that there was a further 50% reduction hence he could only accept 5 of our glorious English pounds. I reacted rather like John McEnroe doubting the presence of the Prisoner of Azkhaban ("You cannot be Sirius!"), told him I would be back shortly and, cutting a long story short, added 3 more boxes of apple cables (spot the deliberate mistake here!), Haribo liquorice wheels and strawberry sweethearts to my purchases. I now have 14kg of sweets for the princely sum of £20 and the plan to start my diet regime after the New Year might just be in jeopardy.

A suitable memorial perhaps but I shall still miss the old girl. After all, where else do I go if I need some stick-on soles in a hurry? Where else can I wile away a few minutes watching a TV demo of the latest JML gadget?

RIP Woolies - you'll be sorely missed. You were an anachronism in this modern world but you were part of Life.



PS I make no apologies for the new juke box selection - Christmas is a time to indulge!

Season's Greetings

As Greg Lake says in "I Believe in Father Christmas", the Christmas you get you deserve.

To all my lovely readers, a truly magical Christmas where you are surrounded by love and happiness. May your every dream become a hope and your hopes become reality.

Monkey Business

Lucky is defined as "having unexpected good fortune".

Some people are quite lucky when it comes to winning raffles, draws etc whilst others are lucky in less material ways. I am certainly of the latter although the reason for this small but perfectly-formed blog entry is to celebrate the fact that ..........I HAVE WON SOMETHING!! Please allow me to elucidate:

Now, there is an extremely talented and quite idiosyncratic lady of whom I have an internet acquaintance and who goes by the name of Kitty Wrinkle. We are part of the same forum and she is one of these people who seems to remain positive throughout all sorts of happenings in her life. She writes a blog which is full of .........dare I say, girly things such as sewing and crafts and the like. Not exactly the thing for a superhero although she does write very wittily about all sorts of other matters and has this quirky view of Life which can be both amusing and thought-provoking. However, she gets excited about buttons.......need I really say any more?

Anyway, it seems to be the done thing in the weird and wonderful world of crafting to share one's talents by swapping not only exciting pieces of material or a particularly amazing ball of wool (shakes head sadly) but also exercising the philanthropic gene by doing the occasional giveaway. Followers of Kitty's blog will see that she has been quite lucky in these giveaways herself but I am now the object of her own particular generosity insofar as I appear to be the proud owner of .............................. SantaMonk!

Of the 70 odd comments left on her blog where this specific act of Christmas cheer was announced, the name of Bassett was apparently randomly generated and I now have a simian Santa to cherish. Kitty is justifiably a doyen of the monkey-making world and her creations are much sought after so I am both touched and honoured that I have a second creation of hers. Second?, I hear you say. Oh yes, she created Plod Monkey which I commissioned when Master Bassett became a police officer and he now resides in the foetid pit which is PC Bassett's bedroom alongside the Liverpool posters, sports equipment and pictures of scantily-clad wimmun.

Thank you, Ms Wrinkle and may your sock box never diminish.

"Winning" SantaMonk made me think back over the other wins of my long and tedious life. The first I remember is on the now defunct Radio Brighton when I entered a phone-in competition and won an LP token. It was my first album - Well Respected Kinks - and is still in my possession and worth every penny of the 17/6d which I didn't have to pay.

Other wins have been a limited edition Monopoly set, Rolling Stones tickets and a portable TV although, I have to say, I'm not somebody that necessarily goes in for competitions as a matter of course. Actually, come to think of it, maybe I AM quite lucky and ought to enter more things.

Anyway, I shall publish an in situ photograph of SantaMonk in due course and wait hopefully for Kitty creations to assume the financial worth of an early Steiff bear. Gosh, the thought of Arthur Negus' great grandson handling my primate is making me feel quite faint!

Above image from sockmonkeylady.com

Bertie's Travelogue Part 5 - Iraklion to Entebbe

It's been a while since I last published my flight journal. Although I have been carrying on with my circumnavigational exploits, a combination of factors prevented me from sharing them with the world - until now, that is! Thrill to the bounce of an horrendous landing at Luxor, marvel at the combination of pixels that represents the pyramids, gaze in admiration at the devil-may-care way I walk through the green channel at Entebbe customs, share with me the rigours of a Ugandan prison after they caught me (sigh).

I left Iraklion in a blaze of Mediterranean sunshine and climbed to 13,000 feet en route to Cairo. I have to say that, considering it's a virtual trip, I was quite excited at travelling through Africa. Egypt has always held a fascination for me and I can remember , at the tender age of 16, reading all 3 volumes of Carter & Mace's "The Tomb of Tutankhamun". I still periodically dip into my other Egyptian tomes although I have yet to realise my ambition of a visit to the country. One author of whom I am quite fond, Wilbur Smith, writes with a deep love of Africa but, more importantly, he's an author that provides a lot of historical fact. He has written a series based in Ancient Egypt as well as many others chronicling the discovery and exploration of this great continent so I felt quite at home with many of the pla ces I was to visit.

A gentle flight found me at Cairo, Africa's most populated city and also known as Al-Qahirah, or 'the victorious" by the Arabic world. It never existed during Egypt's greatest period and was not founded as such until almost 1000 AD. Lying at the mouth of the Nile delta it is, to many visitors, merely a starting point for the journey south , deep into the dynastic majesty that was Ancient Egypt.

Now, in reality, I would have made a beeline for Cairo Museum but time was short and I had no more Egyptian Pounds to put in the parking meter so off I flew. The first thing I looked for as I left Cairo and set a course for Luxor was,of course, the Great Pyramid at Giza. Sadly, the view of the pyramid with the desert behind it is a bit misleading as, if you swing round 180º, you find the slums of Cairo gently nudging its perimeter.

I won't bore you with details of this monument and burial place to Khufu (or Cheops); that's why God invented Google. Suffice to say it was the world's tallest structure for almost 4ooo years. It comprises of 2,300,000 blocks of sandstone each weighing 2.5 tons, is perfectly orientated to the points of the compass and has no more than 8 inches difference between the 4 sides. Damn' clever these Egyptian chappies!

Back to the flight and I sped over the Sahara with the Nile to the West and the Red Sea just about visible in the far distance to the East. One of my great holiday memories was flying over the Sahara on my way to Sri Lanka. As the dawn came, I gazed in awe as this seemingly limitless expanse of sand was slowly revealed; the rising sun giving it an a blood-red cast and its beauty almost enough to take away the discomfort of a long flight in a cramped aircraft seat.

Luxor duly loomed and I ignored Air Traffic and went for a low-level flight along the banks of the Nile before touching down. Now, if this was a real flight, I would spend a lot of time at Luxor, what with The Valley of the Kings, Valley of the Queens, the Ramesseum, the Colossi of Memnon et al. Luxor was previously known as Thebes, the capital of the Egypt of the New Kingdom. In the early days, its local god grew in stature commensurate with the growth in prominence of the city and this god, Amun, became linked with the sun go d Ra thus creating the new "king of gods" Amun-Ra. The great temple at Karnak is dedicated to him and, although Thebes lost its status as Egypt's capital during the Late Period, it remained the spiritual capital right up to the Greek Period.


(Apologies if I'm getting carried away with this - I warned you Egyptology was an interest!)

I'd better move on to my next stop, Khartoum; another city steeped in history. I have to say that the flying had become somewhat repetitious although at least there were a few lakes and hills on this leg: the principal lake being Lake Nasser which was created following the construction of the Aswan Dam in 1970 and solved the historical problem of the Nil e flooding.

Khartoum, where the Blue and White Niles converge, is remembered predominantly in the UK from when the forces of the Mahdi besieged an Anglo-Egyptian force led by General Gordon way back in 1884. Sadly, we lacked the ability to score the all-important away goal and the garrison was massacred. The replay at Omdurman several years later saw the Brits, under the captaincy of Kitchener, take not only the Mahdi trophy but also the country of Sudan.

These days, Khartoum, (along with the rest of Sudan) has a depressing modern history. In the '70s, the Black September group held ten hostages at the Saudi embassy, five of w hom were diplomats. The incident resulted in the deaths of the US ambassador, deputy ambassador, and the Belgian chargé d'affaires. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Khartoum was the destination for hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing conflicts in neighboring nations such as Chad, Eritrea, Ethiopia and Uganda. The refugees settled in lar ge slums at the outskirts of the city which were swollen even more when, from the mid-1980s onward, large numbers of Sudanese, displaced from the violence of the Civil War and Darfur conflict also fled there.

Hmm, depressing stuff. I had a search around for some positive facts about Khartoum but, apart from a museum, a souk and a bowling alley, it appears the best feature is th e runway out of there.

Off we go again and it's off to the first place whose name is unknown to me - Malakal. I can only imagine the stop is merely to refuel as there seems to be naff-all here. This is one picture I found which is entitled "Malakal marketplace" !!

Paying my Sudanese pounds to the nice man at the avgas station, I soared up once more and headed for my final stop in Sudan which is the the city of Juba, capital of southern Sudan and which sits on the side of the White Nile.. Now, in the back of my mind, I had a feeling that Juba was linked to slavery but research shows this was totally wrong. In fact, Juba is NOT a nice place to be as it was right at the heart of the Civil War and now has a virtually no n-existent infrastructure as well as a proliferation of land mines and other ordinance lying around ready for the unwary. On the positive side, as of 2008, it has 3 paved roads! Incidentally, the juba I was thinking of was actually the name of the food eate n by the slaves in the Southern States of America - I just knew slavery came into it somewhere.

I was glad to leave Sudan, It's like so much of Africa, historically war-torn and ravaged but with not a lot of the inherent topographical beauty to redeem it. Perhaps now, I can leave the arid desolation behind and revel in verdant splendour?

I knew that the flight to Entebbe in Uganda would take me over some more interesting country and it certainly did. To the west, Lake Albert and the Kabarega National Park whilst beneath me the massive Lake Kyoba. As I neared Entebbe I hastily checked my bearings as I seemed to have reached the coast whilst in the middle of Africa! Even at 19000 feet, Lake Victoria is colossal - 68,800 square kilometres (26,560 miles²) in size, making it the continent's largest lake and the second widest fresh water lake in the world. Enteb be is situated on the northern shore and it was a nice touchdown which left me with an almost palpable sense of relief.

For the more elderly (or scholarly) among you, dear readers, there may well be remembrance of a certain president Idi Amin of Uganda and his decision to expel all of the Indian residents of the country due to his paranoia of their entrepreneurial skills and his desire to seize their shops, factories and businesses. I was a 20 year old Civil Servant at the time and volunteered to go and work at one of the "resettlement centres" hurriedly being set up as planeloads of British passport-holders turned up without prior warning and little luggage. Yhey were allowed to bring out the equivalent of £22 and had lost everything. I arrived at a mothballed army camp which had hurriedly been resurrected and was given 6 staff and told to create a department , open 24/7, coping with anything that wasn't dealt with elsewhere! From memory, there were 27 centres opened and some 2 years later I ended up as Staff Officer at the very last one at West Malling. It was a crazy period where one never knew what was going to happen from one hour to the next and I made some wonderful friends among the residents. It's also pretty unusual in the Civil Service to see something through to the end (although the actual end is a bit hazy courtesy of a certain Major Colin Landells and his champagne cocktails).

Anyway, I digress and I am also conscious that I have wittered on for far too long. Next time, it's up, up and away to Mount Kilimanjaro..... hmmm, looks li ke I'm going to reach my peak!

A Myriad Thanks

I achieved a milestone this week. Not a big milestone as milestones go but a milestone nonetheless. Perhaps that should be a 1.609344 kilometre-stone in these time of metric nonsense or even an 880fathom-stone for the diving fraternity? It matters not in the general scheme of things but you are undoubtedly agog at the cause of all this excitement..................?

Well, if you let your eyes travel down the left side of my blog, past the profile and the picture of the rather dashing chap relaxing with a bottle of Bud, you will see a counter which has reached the figure of 10,000! In other words, there have now been that many visitors to the blog. It sounds pretty ace although my stats show a lot of those merely got here through Googling a certain word or phrase and stopped for about 3 nanoseconds when they realised I was not quite what they wanted..........but stop they did. I tend not to leave lots of keywords and things to increase the hit figure as I would rather be small and discreet with an air of sophisticated quality (rather like a Gucci version of Tena); after all, to quote Disraeli, "lies, damned lies and statistics".

When I first started this blogging lark, some 2 years and 131 blogs ago, little did I think.................and I still don't. The words that appear are a spontaneous reaction between keyboard and fingers with absolutely no interference from the brain whatsoever! I regret none of my blogs although there have been a few disappointments along the way. For example, I don't think I have ever used "callipygian ", which is rather a nice word (and an even nicer meaning), my flying exploits haven't caught the attention of the Red Arrows, my humour has not tickled the humeri of such comedy legends as Cleese, Connolly or Carrott (unless, of course, they are too in awe to contact me), I haven't even reached the first step on the road to fame by getting invited onto 'I'm a Celebrity'!

Having said that, I have a merry band of very loyal readers and to them I offer my heartfelt thanks.. Some I know, some I know of and some I am just aware that they read my blog fairly regularly. I have a new little widget on the blog now which shows people who actually follow the blog; strangely enough, it's called Followers. At the moment, it has just the one follower (hello Mermaid632 :)) but I assume it can cater for more so feel free to come out of the closet, so to speak.

10,000 has an almost mystic significance in several civilisations. In ancient times it was used as a symbol for the number that followed 9,999 as well as (strangely enough) the one which precedes 10,001 whereas in Papuan folklore it symbolises great wealth and literally translates into "Cripes, he's got more bush pigs than there are missionaries in the cooking pot). The Patagonians of the past worshipped the great God IOOOO whereas the England cricket team view it as 100 innings'.

Other exciting facts about 10,000:

• A myriad is specifically defined as 10,000
• In scientific terms, it is written as 10⁴
• It is the square of 100
• It's the square root of 100,000,000
• A myriagon is a polygon with 10,000 sides (no doubt, Blue Peter will show you how to make one if you supply enough egg boxes)
  
• In anatomy, each neuron in the human brain is estimated to contain 10,000 others
• Land of 10,000 Lakes is the nickname for the state of Minnesota
• 10,000 square metres is one hectare
• In zoology, there are approximately 10,000 species of birds
• In currency, the new Iraqi 10,000 dinar notes has a portrait of Abu Ali Hasan Ibn al-Haitham on the front, the Japanese 10,000 yen has a picture of Fukuzawa Yukichi and the US $10,000, a portrait of Salmon P Chase

• In films, titles include 10,000 B.C. (2008), 10,000 Black Men Named George (2002), The Phantom from 10,000 Leagues (1956) and Vietnam: The Ten Thousand Day War (1980)
• In games, each of the nine Mahjong character suit tiles (1 to 9) represents ten thousand (wan) coins. Ten Thousand Year Ko is a one of the rules of ko in the board game of Go and Ten Thousand is one name of a dice game that is also called Farkle
• In music, 10,000 Men is a song by Bob Dylan
• In sports, 10,000 metres is approximately 9,975 metres more than I like to run

Well, that was all jolly exciting wasn't it? No doubt you all want to rush off and pass on these little nuggets to others so I will say a fond farewell for the moment.

Once again, appreciation to all of you. Should you have stumbled upon this due to Googling "polygon with 10,000 sides", feel free to stay awhile and immerse yourself in this cornucopiea of nonsense and whimsy.

Oh, and finally, today's challenge - betcha can't fit callipygian into a conversation!

(Not so a)Musings

Looks like another sleepless night ahead. Staring out of the window at the empty road; wanting to drive into the night and off who knows where?

Driving away from what is within me and which cannot be escaped.

Recently, I found a lot of writing I did about 10 years ago when I was first diagnosed as depressive. I wrote a lot then but now I find it increasingly difficult to place my deeper thoughts on paper. Perhaps that's because they haven't changed? Perhaps it's because I have given up trying to justify the causes. Perhaps I have just given up?

I wrote this. I don't remember why; maybe it was a therapeutic exercise (you'll have to imagine the cynically wry smile at this point. Even then, I knew I was a lost cause):

My Favourite Things

People are one of my favourite things.Perhaps because, at times, I feel so apart from them whilst, at others, they affect my life so radically. They continually challenge and excite.

Ever-changing, I love to see the unintentional humour of a situation, the tenderness in a mother's eye, the poignancy of a lover's kiss, the beetle-browed bluster of Mr Always Right, the wisdom of advancing years and the subtle interactions of a million lives and moods.

I love the unpredictability of people - each one so special, so unique. I love to hear their laughter, I feel for their pain, I long for their acceptance.

Without people, I would be forever searching for someone. With people, I am forever searching for something.

People give me love, they allow me to live, to grow and maybe, one day, to understand.

I know now I will never understand as I don't even know what I am seeking.

It's all questions with no answers, riddles without solutions and a future without substance.

Still, on the bright side, as I sit here and look out to the harbour, there's no sign of any Somalian pirates on the cross-channel ferry. Every cloud......and all that!

I really don't want to face another night of wakefulness. I dozed for literally 5 minutes earlier this evening and that seemed to be enough to recharge my batteries. The same happened last night and I eventually got to sleep at 7am. Having said that, I quite like the tranquility of night-time; maybe I ought to get dressed, go to Asda and develop a social life? Better still, maybe I ought to get a job that involves nights? Vampire? Owl catcher? How about switchboard operator at Insomniacs Anonymous? Presumably you answer the phone by saying "Hello, Insomniacs Anonymous, I can't say to whom you're speaking, how can I help you?".

What about people who have an addiction for craving fame? You can hardly have a Fame-Cravers Anonymous, can you? Defeats the whole object. Mind you, there is a wealth of TV programmes to cater for all of them.

Can't even watch live cricket tonight. Let's have a look what's on Sky:

Ooh I tell a lie, it's Australia v New Zealand or better still, there's live American Football until 4.30! Bengals versus the Steelers.

Right, that'll do me. Night, all you normal people - Vaya con Dios.

A Bassett History

As some of you may know. flying is in my heart and in my blood. Why, young Icarus Bassett was the first person to fly to the Sun (apart from Rupert Murdoch)  although, sadly, his test shots for Page 5 were rejected after his pectoral implants melted under the studio lights.

The Bassettier Brothers, following a night at the local curry emporium and several very silly schoolboy japes involving a condom and a disposable lighter, hit upon the idea of balloon flight and became the first humans to fly from one side of the river Dresser in Poland to the other. Since that momentous occasion, Bassetts have been renowned as cross-Dressers.

Wilbur and Orville Bassett's efforts were overshadowed by events at Kittyhawk. They were busy on the sands of Shitehawk where they experimented with rockets. However, they found that over a longer period, wings were much safer and thus developed the aircraft as we know it. Their first attempt was actually much longer than the Wright Brothers although, sadly, we know not how long as steering was not high on their priorities and they were last seen heading out into the Atlantic.

WW1 saw the first airborne fighting Bassett, whose wits were pitted against the scourge of the Royal Flying Corps - The Red Baron! Percival Bassett, or the Yellow Count (at least, I think that's what the German fliers used to shout at him) took part in many dogfights with the Baron. Dogfights were all very well but Percival soon tired of Binkie, his beloved Yorkshire terrier being savaged by Von Richtofen's dobermann, Beckenbauer, so he took to the skies to give battle instead. The sun glinted off his goggles as he flew through the clouds. He peeled them off and wished that the squadron hadn't been scrambled whilst he was at the swimming pool as it was getting a bit chilly in his khaki Speedos.

He looked down and saw a glint of red. Hmm, chlorine rash could be a terrible thing.

Suddenly he saw a line of bullet holes across the fabric of his Sopwith Camel - the Fokker was attacking! He realised he was doomed and decided to bale out whilst he still could. It was as he plummeted through the air that he realised it was still to be several more years before aircraft were equipped with parachutes. Damn this bloody war.

Between the wars, young Biggles Bassett was at University where he studied Integrated Modular Avionics and Looking Grimly Determined. The 1939 hostilities saw him undergoing the selection course at RAF Cranwell where his slightly below par performance resulted in a posting to HM Submarines at Portsmouth. By a combination of determination and a rather smudged photograph of the Air Chief Marshall and a young Turkish lad, Bassett finally undertook pilot training at RAF Nether Wallop where he passed out...... several times. Eventually though, he got over his fear of heights and the time came for his first solo. Up into the skies he soared; a young gladiator, charged with the responsibility of saving his homeland, alone, several thousand feet up in the air, half an inch of wood and canvas between him and certain death, lost ........alone ........frightened.

He felt something jettison from beneath him (which made him feel a whole lot better) and his jaw tightened as the integral Bassett hero chromosome kicked in. He cast a glance across the horizon as he climbed, ever faster, and wondered at the green and brown of the sky and how it contrasted with the light blue of the ground far below. Ah, he could never get that bit right .............. He was buried, with full military honours, in a matchbox. Incidentally, the military honours were on behalf of the Imperial Japanese Airforce, after his cousin Bassimoto heard of his action and this inspired a completely new way of attacking enemy shipping.

I, of course, follow in the footsteps (wingprints?) of these illustrious forebears. No doubt I shall prove as competent as my predecessors.

Tally ho!

Incidentally, here's another little video for your pleasure - hope you like it :)

Bertie's Travelogue Part 4 - Algiers to Iraklion

After leaving Algiers, I eventually arrived at Palma Airport, Majorca. Fortunately, being a virtual flight, I didn't have to join the inevitable queue of easyJet and Ryanair cattle trucks waiting to disgorge their cargoes of holidaymakers, gagging to get to the nearest karaoke bar and a pint of Watney's best bitter. Actually, that's a bit cruel as I've been to Majorca before and found parts of it absolutely delightful. My main memory is actually from my honeymoon when I broke my arm in three places playing football!

Majorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands, the others being Minorca, Ibiza and Formentera. It boasts some august residents, both past and present, including Chopin, Miró, Michael Schumacher, Julian Lennon, Boris Becker, Rafael Nadal, Michael Douglas & Catherine Zeta-Jones.

If you ever get the urge to head down that way, might I recommend Formentera? It's the smallest island and certainly the least spoiled when I was there. You arrive by boat from Ibiza and it still retained a hippy lifestyle around the capital of San Francisco. Incidentally, I slipped a disc whilst holidaying there - just what have the Balearics got against me?

Yet another Euro country, so here are some older and more recent peseta banknotes for your pleasure.

Refuelled, and off we go to Elmas on the island of Sardinia. The actual flights across the watery sections of the Med are fairly boring until I get towards the Greek Islands but I'm looking forward to casting a glance down towards one of my favourite places - Corsica. Elmas is just outside Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia and towards the south of the island so I made a slight deviation and headed off to look fondly upon the beautiful island of Corsica. The southern part of the island holds a host of memories for me and I could almost feel the warmth of the water whilst diving off Bonifacio.

I know that Sardinia is Italian but I am still going to post a French banknote in homage to Antoine de St Exupery, aviator and author who will forever be linked with the Mediterranean and whose body lies beneath the waves.

Moving wistfully on to Naples, I was quite excited as I have never, ever been to Italy. I dutifully consulted Wikipedia to discover some interesting facts and ploughed through acres of information about Roman culture, art, history and the like. It was at this point that I remembered why I had never wanted to visit Italy - I just don't get off on such stuff! I enjoy history and visiting places but there is something about Italy that just leaves me totally cold. I'm sure that would change if I were to go there but, for the moment, there are plenty of places that take precedence. As far as Napoli is concerned, their salami and the fact that it is apparently the birthplace of pizza seem worthy of note. Why, even the notable Neapolitans through the ages are all foreign!

Hanging my uncultured head in shame, I passed swiftly on to Palermo in Sicily. I always tend to video my landings in the hope that I might eventually get one more or less OK and here is the effort at Falcone-Borsellino Airport.



Sicily is of course synonymous with the Mafia although there is a lot more to the island. Sicilians (for that is what they think themselves - not Italians), are a proud race with a rich heritage of tradition, food, folklore and culture with "family" always at the heart of every action. The Mafia (Cosa Nostra) date, arguably, back to medieval times and were originally families who were looked on as protectors of their local area, town or village. The period of the "Fascisti" in the late 1920s saw a clampdown on their power and this, together with the immigration opportunities in the USA, saw the growth of the families in America and the vogue of horse's heads decorating one's pillows!

The Mafia still goes on, with Palermo Airport being named after the 2 anti-Mafia judges assassinated by them in 1992. In the spirit of true commerce, however, the Mafia has turned into one of Italy's biggest business enterprises with a turnover of more than US$120bn a year. Somehow, I think I wouldn't like to be their Collector of Taxes. Here are a couple of examples of what they might have earned in 1944 and 1990 (the lady being Mme. Montessori; she of the schools).

Time to say 'arrivederci' to Italy and 'kalispera' to Athens. I have never been to mainland Greece although I was lucky enough to have been on the flight deck of a British Airtours aircraft once as we overflew Athens and Piraeus Harbour. A friend of mine was a pilot with them and he'd arranged for me to spend time up there (obviously before 9/11). As we passed over the harbour, the aircraft started banking sharply which was a bit of a worry as the captain was turned round and talking to me, the first officer was doing a crossword and the flight engineer was peering at something on a panel. For a second, I panicked and it must have shown in my eyes as the captain laconically said "automatic pilot" and then carried on chatting. Once I'd relaxed it was a wonderful sight!

Do I really need to say anything about Athens? A few little-known facts might be of interest:

• It has more theatrical stages than any other European city
• It has its own Metro
• It has 5 professional football teams
• It hosted the 51st Eurovision Song Contest in 2006 (won by Lordi)
• Athenian bus drivers are renowned for not stopping at bus stops

and...................

• We've still got their Marbles!

Greece is one of the prime examples of hyperinflation (something of a speciality interest of mine). In 1943, the highest denomination was 25,000 drachmai yet, by 1944, the highest denomination was 100,000,000,000,000 drachmai. The Greek inflation rate reached 8.5 billion percent per month (prices effectively doubling every 28 hours). Incidentally, that second note doesn't look that impressive without all the zeroes - this Yugoslavian one is far more the business!


Final leg of this blog and it was off to Crete and the airport at Heraklion. It's always nice landing at airports I have "done" in real life and here was another. I had a happy time identifying all the islands in sight as I flew over the Cyclades - thank goodness for Google in the cockpit :)

Crete is a fabulous place and I have vivid memories of my time there when I was (much) younger............ and who might this young Greek god be, posing at the harbour of Agios Nikolaos? I can remember hiring a car and driving up a long, climbing, winding road and then stopping in awe as I saw the Lassithi Plateau stretched out ahead of us.

We were further amazed when, asking for somewhere to get a drink in a small village, we were feted by the locals who still loved the Brits (and hated the Germans), following the war. We spent several hours there being wined and dined whilst the locals practised their English. Apparently, visitors were few and far between so they used the opportunity wisely. I remember little of the return journey but, amazingly, we somehow made it!

Two other "must visit" places are the Minoan Palace of Knossos, where Theseus won on away goals against the Minotaur and the Samaria Gorge at Chania. The gorge, longest in the world, is truly beautiful and I have never seen so many butterlies in one place.

Well, that's about it for the moment. Here's a map of what's been happening so far. Tonight I'm off to Africa!

(click to enlarge)

An Interjection

After a long but very pretty flight from Palermo to Athens last night, I retired to bed dreaming dreams of azure seas with the quiet rumble of a well-tuned engine lulling me into the arms of Morpheus ...........(actually, truth be told, I lay awake for ages reading "The Last Enemy" by Richard Hillary before finally drifting off at about 5am but it's not quite so romantic).

The reason for this little interjection in my global circumnavigation is to point out a comment from my last blog. It said this:

glad to see you are enjoying my Around The World trip! please keep us updated as you fly all the legs!

It took me months to design the route so it is really exciting to see someone who has bought the package flying it and clearly enjoying it!

all the best
Jane Whittaker
(designer - Around The World In 80 Flights package)

I have to say I was more than a little chuffed that the designerof the whole concept had taken the trouble to leave a comment. It is almost like the technological equivalent of my Terry Pratchett signed first editions so thank you, Jane.


The software concerned is called Around the World in 80 Flights and is published by First Class Simulations. The company do some superb FSX add-ons and I totally recommend them to any armchair pilots out there. It's no coincidence that, with Christmas coming up, I left their home page open on my PC when Mrs B was around. Incidentally, assuming it is the same Jane Whittaker, she also writes some excellent articles for PC Pilot magazine and the thought that she is a "proper" writer and also, judging from her articles, a very competent aviatrix fills me with fear of her perusing my own meagre efforts.

Once I finish this epic journey (although I may well become another St. Exupery if I fly as badly as I did whilst landing at Athens in the early hours this morning: an episode in my burgeoning flying career which is best forgotten*), I intend to actually get off my derriere and plan flights around both South America and China and the Far East.

Of course, if First Class Simulations want to take on the concept and require beta testers, advisers etc.....................!


* Imagine a cross between a crab and a kangaroo. Forget "The Few", this more more like "The Phew" when I eventually touched down!

Bertie's Travelogue Part 3 - Lisbon to Algiers

I think you left me last time sampling the delights of downtown Lisbon before a short hop to the southern Portuguese city of Faro. I have to say that my journeys through Europe have never taken me there before (Portugal, that is) and I've yet to meet anybody who doesn't say what a wonderful place it is.

Faro itself has both Arab and Roman ruins although the Moors were the predominant rulers until it became part of Portugal as we know it. In 1596, the Earl of Essex (complete with chain mail white stilettos and Von Dutch logo'd shield) popped in on his way to the Crusades and basically nicked the entire library of the Bishop of Faro. These books are still in the Bodleian at Oxford. Apart from the obvious holiday potential of the Algarve, Faro has one of the biggest annual motorcycle festivals in Europe so break out the AC/DC music, leap on the Honda 50 and ride!

In a bid to make this whole travelogue/blog more interesting I have decided I can combine another of my loves and post both a modern and an older example of each country's paper currency (for those of you who know my feelings on the Euro (see here), the modern versions will be pre-Euro in the relevant countries).

Here then are Portugal's representatives for your viewing pleasure. As always, kudos and thanks to Ron Wise for his wonderful banknote database. I will try and show similar notes to ones I also have in my own collection but, to save hassle, I will link to Ron's examples.

OK, now for the one I'd been looking forwad to - Gibraltar. As I said the other day, it's an interesting landing here as, due to the ongoing issue of sovereignty, the Spanish refuse to allow aircraft arriving at Gibraltar to overfly the Spanish Coast on final approach which makes for difficult aviation procedures. Basically, this means a very tight turn before lining up to a very short final approach on runway 09 ........oh. and try not to hit the big rocky lump!

It was actually quite a simple descent and landing in a single engine aircraft although I think I'll wait a while before I try it in a "heavy". The one thing I remember above all else when I was there in my late teens/early twenties was walking off a palm-lined street full of burnous-clad Arabs into a Spar grocers which might just as well have been in dear old Blighty. Having just come over from Morocco, it was the strangest experience but also very comforting to see Marmite, Rich Tea and Corn Flakes!

Of course, Gibraltar uses Pounds sterling and here are both old and new.

Pausing only to stock up on Caramacs and Tizer, I set off for Algiers which is basically a flight routed to Malaga, then over to the north coast of Africa and then follow the camel tracks along the beach.


I thought the beach seemed a tad large as I flew along and then realised I was actually gazing down some 9000' and seeing the northern edge of the Sahara! At last, I was out of Europe and into exotic and I wondered anxiously just how many carpets I would be persuaded to buy once I reached Algiers.

Memories of Morocco and Tunisia flooded back. I spent the princely sum of £108 for a fortnight's holiday at a place called Camp Africa in Asilah as a young man and had the dubious pleasure of living in a mud hut with no electricity, no furniture and merely a mattress on the floor. Having said that, it was a great time and I have many strange memories of that holiday. I can't actually remember doing a drunken dance with a couple of cobras in a Tangier night club but have the photos to prove it, I can remember one guy going a bit doolally and the only way to calm him (the local medical authorities not being interested) was to go and fill his mud hut with calming herbal smoke; needless to day, there was no shortage of volunteers. I can also remember that there was only water available in the camp between 8pm and 10pm. With the incidence of Arab tummy being quite high, I'll leave you to imagine the state of the communal bogs at about 7pm!!

Anyway, I digress. Founded by the Phoenicians, Algiers has historically been one of the main ports of the Mediterranean as well as the main centre for piracy. In 1511 the Spanish occupied an island in the city's harbor, but they were driven out when Barbarossa captured Algiers for the Turks. Algiers then became a base for the Muslim fleet that preyed upon Christian commerce in the Mediterranean. The French came along in 1830 and stayed around until 1962 when the armed struggle for independence, led by the OAS, resulted in a free Algeria.

The airport at Algiers isn't the most well-kept but it's flat and there was a fuelling depot so, leaving some links of 1924 and 1996 currency as a souvenir of Biggles Bassett, I once more took to the air for a shortish hop back up to the island of Palma de Mallorca.

This is me on the way there (kill the music first)!

A Grumpy Old Man's Guide to Christmas

Christmas, that time beloved by all small children, shopkeepers, credit card companies and admirers of Carry On films will soon be upon us. This small offering seeks to provide some insight into that overblown, lumbering and unstoppable machine that is the festive season.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love the interesting gifts that prove desperation can turn sensible people into panic-stricken buying machines (and special thanks there to Auntie Jean for those 12 different small pots of “Jams of the World” - a present I shall always treasure).I love the naïve hope that this year I will eat my Christmas lunch with its 7 varieties of overcooked vegetables, starter, pudding, various alcoholic beverages and STILL have room for cold meats, pickles etc as I watch the joyously festive murder/tragedy/catastrophe served up by the scriptwriters of EastEnders. I love the assortment of gaily coloured greetings cards from people met once on holiday many years ago with the brief note telling me that someone I have never met has had a baby and how festive Worksop looks at this time of year. Most of all though, I love the build-up to Christmas..........

Like the first cuckoo heralding Spring, the Advent Calendars melting gently in the September heat provide the first glimpse of that well-oiled machine, designed to rid us of our money, our sanity and any goodwill. You know then that the Christmas timetable is upon us and shortly, nothing in the supermarket is where it should be as all the everyday items have been pushed into small, dark corners to make way for far more important purchases like Mint Thins, cocktail cherries and cheesy footballs. Gift Catalogues as large as telephone directories crash through the letterbox reminding us to panic that there are only 2 months left to bankrupt ourselves, children start to compile the first few volumes of their Present List and we all utter those immortal words…. “This year, I am going to be really organised and get everything out of the way to save the last-minute panic”

Of course, it never happens. By early November, shopping centres see vast multitudes of people, secure in their smugness, wandering from shop to shop looking for that special present. By the end of the day, you see those same people, defeat and tiredness etched across their faces, clutching several rolls of wrapping paper, 2 calendars and a novelty kitchen implement trudging dejectedly back home.

And so it goes on. Week after week, we gradually whittle down the list with the main expenditure being the cost of car parking tickets (courtesy of those extorting bastards known as NCP) and headache tablets. The joy of hearing When a Child is Born in every shop we fight our way around is only slightly increased by the sadistic pleasure derived from thinking of the poor sods that work there and have to listen to it all day. All this is guaranteed to send us into a fit of homicidal rage and even a turkey seems to have a better outlook on life.

As the Day looms ever closer, we get to dread the sound of the front door bell and the 4 children standing there singing the first line of We Wish You a Merry Christmas before the youngest is pushed forward for their just reward.

By now, we have developed a siege mentality and are planning the final food shop. Cupboards are bulging with sweets, savouries, cakes, biscuits, chocolate and every conceivable relish, chutney and pickle so it’s only the fresh food left to get. Now this is where the strange quantum physics of food requirements kicks in. It goes something like this:

Allow 4 times the normal amount of food consumed per person and add sprouts. Multiply this by the inversely proportioned ratio of bodily sounds and functions as we sleep through the afternoon of Christmas day and subtract the amount of sherry consumed by any pensioners present. Failing this, just grab a shopping trolley and fill it with whatever you can find left on the shelves.

At last, you get to that wonderful moment on Christmas Eve when there is no more that can be done. This is that special time when one can sit down and relax, casting an appreciative eye over the decorations dropping from the walls where the Blu-Tack failed yet again and thanking all Gods that Noel Edmonds is no more a traditional part of Christmas Morning. Christmas Eve is also a good time to go and slip a card into an acquaintance’s letterbox if they haven’t sent you one already – guaranteed to send them into a panic of indecision.

Christmas morning finally arrives; that special time when all the New Year sales are first aired on the box and the summer holidays adverts are tempting us to spend even more money that we haven’t got.

……………………….. OK, I give in, it’s a fair cop. I LOVE the thought of Christmas really. Every year I still look forward to it although I do hate the build-up and the commercialisation. I still think of open fires and children’s laughter, strangers wishing each other a cheerful greeting and happiness and peace. Being with friends and loved ones, remembering the sheer joy that Christmas brings to children and that special air of excitement.

Perhaps that is what Christmas is all about: what is in one’s mind and in one’s heart. You can’t buy Christmas – you can only live it.

Now, where did I put those Easter Eggs…………………..?

Bertie's Travelogue Part 2 - Marseilles to Lisbon

Well, I made it to Marseilles after a fairly uneventful trip down through France.It was a strangely real experience after a few hours at the controls, seeing the blue of the Mediterranean was really quite exciting as I was vectored in for a nice simple landing. Did you know Marseilles is the second biggest city in France as well as the oldest, dating back to 600BC? I didn't stay too long, pausing only for a quick bouillabaisse, a pastis and a look around for Popeye Doyle before climbing back on board and heading off to Sion in Switzerland.

Sion is up in the Swiss Alps and was my first experience of the "interesting" effect mountains have on an aircraft. I was thrown around a fair old bit and was having to keep my eye on both heading and altimeter all the time which,at the end of an almost 3 hour flight was a tad tiring. By now though, I was used to doing 6 things at once and the voices of the Air Traffic Controllers no longer provoked screams of "Alright, in a minute...stop being SO bossy" It was really rather lovely flying into Sion Valley and seeing the strip laid out inviting me to land. Sadly, I was way too high and the kamikaze dive was never going to work so I had to ask Traffic Control to send me round again (incidentally, one 'talks' by bringing up a list of options on screen relevant to any given situation).

A neat landing second time round and I made a big decision - I was going to change my aircraft. The Electra was all very well but was underpowered, cumbersome and, most importantly, had few sophisticated instruments. I wanted a bit more speed and, being a 20th century boy, I also wanted some technological conveniences. Popping into the local Planes 'R Us, I exchanged a few Euros and my trusty Electra for a rather fetching Mooney M20M Bravo with Garmin G1000 glass cockpit. I even managed to get the registration G_BERT!


Basically the G1000 is the bees knees of avionics and takes a lot of mundane tasks from the pilot. The software recommends downloading the actual manuals from the Garmin website in order to familiarise oneself! For me, it means yet another very steep learning curve but also the added benefit of auto-pilot so that I can at least read up on it as I fly.

The trip from Sion across to Bilbao was long, uneventful and boring and certainly the longest leg thus far. Fortunately the Mooney cruises at 150 knots, 25% faster than the Electra and that, combined with auto-pilot, made life easier. I haven't found out whether I can programme course changes into the G1000 yet so I am having to go manual for route changes and changes of airspace responsibility. I don't really mind because otherwise, I could just programme it and then forget the whole thing until journey's end. At the moment, I feel part of it and I'm starting to feel an affinity with the aircraft. I am very lucky that my PC spec. enables me to tweak the performace of the software so that I get a smooth, graphically realistic representation of the whole experience,. although even the aforesid tweaking needs a science degree. For those of a quizzical bent, here is a small part of the 'tweakability'.

I eventually arived at Bilbao (on my last drop of fuel) although sadly I have found no interesting facts about the city apart from the intriguingly designed Guggenheim Museum. Frank Gehry's spectacular edifice boasts to have no flat surface on the entire structure and houses works by Paul Cezanne, Pablo Picasso, Vasily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee.

l had a lovely early morning start down to Lisbon.


Weather is pretty good so far and, here's a clever bit; the weather is real-time weather which is downloaded/updated for the region I am in every 15 mins! How impressive is that?

Perhaps I am getting blasé about Europe but I can't help but look forward to getting to more exotic places. After Faro, I have a landing at Gibraltar to which I am really looking forward. I remember visiting there a good few years ago and it's a fascinating chunk of concrete, sort of stuck on the end of the Rock. I seem to recall that the main road runs across it so some poor sod might end up with my tyre marks on his roof.I got to Gibraltar by cattle boat from Tangier in real life so it will be nice to do it the comfortable way.

The fact that I am talking of the future shows that Bilbao to Lisbon was another flat, boring, flight. I soon got fed up with lookingaround at the featureless landscape and ended up reading my Flight Simulator X trainig manual - a mere 722 pages!

Incidentally, I was watching a programme late last night on Sky where round the world flights were mentioned. One guy in the 30s had a 32 hour leg in an aircraft where he was so confined, his shoulders literally touched the sides of the plane. They showed him being helped out after and his head was covered in blood where the turbulence kept smacking it against the cockpit roof. In some small way, I felt a little bit closer to that brave but foolhardy soul and, as I contemplated future journeys across the Pacific, I thought about how the last 80 odd years have seen such changes in our world. There seem to be few daredevils anymore, only the deep remains unexplored and challenges of man and machine no longer abound. People related to those venturers and they became the celebrities of their day. Ordinary men and women lived out their fantasies through such exploits as people today also endeavour to emulate those of celebrity status. Personally, I would rather aspire to Lindbergh than Katona any day.

Flown this blog:

Paris - Marseilles 342 nautical miles
Marseilles - Sian 210 nm
Sian - Bilbao 505 nm
Bilbao - Lisbon 412 nm

Bertie's Travelogue Part 1 - Farnborough to Marseilles

Well, as you peruse this, dear reader, I am cruising gently southwards towards Marseilles, having just passed Avignon (and yes, I did sing it!). My flight from Farnborough to Paris was not without incident, however, as part of the simulation involves pre-flight checks involving switching magnetos, heating pitots, darning the parachute and other sundry tasks. Sadly, there is no documentation so there followed several scenes variously involving total inaction, take off followed by an ominous silence as the engines died or a strangely beautiful ballet as I corkscrewed through the air before splatting into the ground.

After some frantic research and armed with a full list of pre-start, startup, taxiing, take-off, climb-out ....yawn .... cruise, descent...zzzzzzz..., approach, landing etc etc checklists, I finally soared off into the wild blue yonder. Pootling off southwards, the nice man at Air Traffic Control passed me onto Shoreham ATC where I was admonished for being at the wrong height as I dropped down to see where I was born. Up I rose and said a fond farewell to Blighty whilst playing "We'll Meet Again" on my Dansette Junior.


I got a bit muddled for a while and ended up over Deauville but finally saw the gleaming dome of the Basilica of Sacré Coeur and, more importantly, the lights of Orly airport. Feeling rather smug at my navigational prowess, I decided to video my landing as part of this blog (another clever part of Flight Simulator X) and post my triumphant touchdown. Needless to say, my landing was roughly similar to a kangaroo on a trampoline which is why I will just show you a nice picture of Paris!


I refilled my trusty Electra and filed my next flight plan before once more taking to the skies en route to Marseille - a city pretty high on my list of must-visit places.

Incidentally, by sheer coincidence, after I mentioned Amelia Earhart in the last blog there was a Sky documentary on the lady that very same day! How spooky was that? Apparently, there was a very strong rumour that she didn't actually disappear whilst circumnavigating the globe through aircraft failure but was captured by the Japanese and accused of conspiring with the US government by using her flight as an excuse to spy on the strength of the Japanese military forces. The contention was that, eventually, she was summarily executed. If you want a read - yer tiz!

Toodle pip!

Around the World in 80 Flights

Recently, I decided the time was ripe for a foray into global circumnavigation. Having checked my air miles and realising that, even if I flew really quickly, 57 miles would be insufficient ,I had to settle for a virtual trip and this has now been planned. Flying a 1937 Lockheed Electra 10E, the intention is to start from Farnborough and, hopefully, end up back there 80 flights later.


Details are as follows:

• The entire journey covers a staggering 43,000 miles across the planet
• Over 60 countries are either visited or flown over during the course of the journey
• The entire trip will take approximately 400 hours to complete
• The journey includes crossing both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans
• The northernmost point of the route is Sondre Stromfjord in Greenland, whilst the southernmost point is Darwin in Australia

Naturally, I may well not do it over the next few weeks but it seems like a pretty cool thing to say I have flown around the world in real time. I shall accordingly keep a journal of the trip and post the occasional blog detailing my adventures and also a few salient (or totally irrelevant) facts about the areas over which I have flown. I am mindful of some of my predecessors like Earhart, St Exupery & Glenn Miller, all of whom disappeared during flights, and am therefore appreciative of any glowing tributes before I disappear so that I can read them!

At the moment, I am hurriedly studying the vagaries of Air Traffic Control, flight planning and how to pee out of the window of a twin engined aircraft at speed. I have radios and people keep telling me where to go (nothing new there then) but up until now I have, to be honest, been more of the school of "aim for where you're going and hope for the best". The first leg is a short trip of 243.8 nautical miles to Paris Orly and below is the flight plan - 9 changes of heading and Bonjour Paree! I'm currently struggling with vectors, frequencies and even what call sign to have - Bravo Echo Romeo Tango six nine?
It's really quite weird planning it all as it's now taking on some strange reality and it'll be interesting to see if it actually feels like I'm crossing the Equator, gazing down at the landing strip at Mogadishu or flying over the Earth's smallest nation (Nauru - 8 square miles!). No doubt we shall see.

Thoughts for the Day

I know I've said this before but I really do think that blog writing for me has come to a natural end - either temporarily or permanently.

Ennui seems to have overtaken my life and I can't really be arsed to even get annoyed about too many things as is my rightful role. Meldrewitis (as it is clinically known) seems to have either tucked its head below the parapet or perhaps I am so annoyed at everything, there comes a natural neutralisation of all things rantable. Allow me to give you an example:

Saturday night; totally bored, TV full of capering terpsichorean 'celebrities', people's home movies showing somebody dropping a bucket of paint on their head whilst decorating in a desperate attempt to have us believe that they just happened to always keep video records of redecorating and it's nothing to do with causing £300 worth of damage and hassle to try and win £250! Personally, I would rather pay £250 not to have that idiotic buffoon Harry Hill on my screen. I was bored with sitting in front of a PC. I had spent the day realising that my recent gastro-enteritis was merely an hors d'oeuvre to the real thing and therefore not at my best.

Anyway, I decided to do a jigsaw. I quite like jigsaws as long as they are not the normal landscapes, flowers, soulful-eyed animals or other sundry charity shop rejects. Something that is vibrant, makes one think or has a picture of Felicity Kendal in her prime tend to be on my list of faves. Perhaps something like a Wasgij?


The one I selected was 1000 pieces and I sat down to the task of sorting the edges. This is, of course, totally boring but necessary. I patiently sorted and also religiously turned all the pieces up the right way until I was finished and noticed that the edge pieces pile was a tad small. I grant you, I might miss the odd one or two but when a 1000 piece jigsaw only yields 23 edge pieces then something is definitely amiss. The sheer calumny of such a deed suddenly hit me - some evil swine had deliberately sabotaged MY jigsaw! Charity shop purchases might sometimes have a piece missing, occasioned by a negligent previous owner, but to deliberately take out a large percentage of the edge had the effect of equating clipping a wing mirror whilst driving along to racing a 4x4 through a crowded shopping centre wearing a blindfold.


Now, going back to my opening comments, I would normally shout, swear, borrow a cat to kick etc but not this time. I merely sat there and sighed. Let me say though, whoever you are, you are a cad!

If you are listening to my latest juke box, you might notice I decided to put together a sort of prog rock compilation. Whether it's age, associations or lack of taste, I actually think some of these stand up pretty well so feel free to drift away to the strains of Soft Machine and Juicy Lucy (hands up who remembers their first album cover?)


Sundry other thoughts:

I am not normally one to apportion blame but who else has noticed that the Western economic recession was prefaced by Carol Vorderman exhorting people to hock themselves up to their eyeballs on credit? That woman has a lot to answer for!

Talking of selling out, I will say only four words: Johnny Rotten, Country Life (shakes head in despair).

I've been doing a bit of playing on PhotoShop recently in a bid to actually effect the transition from PaintShop Pro. One thing I really enjoyed was a little tutorial on repairing and colouring old black and white pictures and here are a couple of results.



I have a Wacom graphics tablet which I use and, for anyone who designs/draws/plays with graphics software, I heartily recommend their use (they make a bloody good toy for gadget freaks as well).

October: Summer over, nights drawing in, Advent calendars in the shops, cold, wet, miserable. May I be the first to say.....Bah, humbug!

Have a nice day.

Dad - In Memoriam

It's been a year. Miss you, Pops.

Read it and Weep

You may have read earlier blogs this year when Gertie, my beloved gall-bladder, was (to mis-quote Macbeth) from his father's abdominal cavity untimely ripped. At the time, I was perhaps a tad harsh on our health system when I rashly (and possibly cynically) intimated that 5 admissions to get the job done was arguably not over-efficient. I may have drawn parallels between the service I got then to the time when, as a valued employee, I was a recipient of private health insurance. I say 'may have' as I lack the courage to re-read those particular blogs in case I get bitter and twisted about the residual scar left by the machete-wielding psychopath whom the Dept. of Health & Mutilation let loose on my body.

The last thing I want to do is go on and on and on about the vicious slash marks left on my poor, abused physique. Not the small laparoscopic blemish left on any other recipient of a cholecystectomy - oh no, MY surgical cicatrice was so big Lloyd frigging Grossman could have gone through the keyhole! Anyway, I'm certainly not going to think about it any more although, between you and me, I am considering a personal injury claim. I've heard tell of some reformed prostitutes who have taken legal training and opened up an injury claims helpline specifically for cases such as mine - they're called the ScarPhone Whorehouse!

Recently, I have been reintroduced to the joys of private medicine as the NHS decided to shorten their wating list by offering Mrs B a replacement knee at the local private Nuffield Hospital. When we heard, I rather spoiled the pleasure of this medical equivalent of a flight upgrade by pointing out it would normally cost an arm and a leg - hmmm, not the best phrase to use perhaps? Anyway, the pre-operation ...........sorry, I mean pre-procedure assessment (bloody Americanisms!) was all dealt with on time and with numerous offers to help ourselves to tea or coffee The following week, Mrs B was ensconced in a private room with excellent catering, the operat......procedure was carried out and and it was all rather nice.

Now, to the nub of the matter. We have all sat in a GP's surgery waiting for the obligatory 48 minute delay before those 30 precious seconds where we are finally allowed into the presence of this scion of pharmacalogical expertise.

I'm pretty sure that I am not alone insofar as I spend a lot of that waiting time rehearsing exactly what I want to say; the symptoms and how they present themselves, all beautifully succinct and word perfect until we step into the inner sanctum where it all goes tits up and I lamely stand there and say "Erm, I'm OK really Doc. Dunno why I'm here really' whilst casting covetous glances at all the drug company freebies adorning the room. The reasons for that frantic rehearsal are not necessarily all because of my desire to appear organised and efficient but also due, in part, to the reading matter strewn around the waiting room.

Being an optimistic soul, I always hope that there might actually be something worthwhile to read rather than Peoples Friend circa July 2005 or the many and varied leaflets and booklets which are designed to help me cope with stopping smoking, glaucoma , excess wind, living with fungal nail infections etc. I remember once finding a National Geographic magazine with some wonderful pictures of the Gobi Desert and I still make a beeline for any National Geographics which surface in these slowly mutating piles in the hope of discovering it once more. On the whole though, I sit back defeated and listen to the glorious CD of Songs from the Shows which plays constantly through the sound system, punctuated occasionally by the guffaws of the lucky bastard who's found the one and only Reader's Digest and its 'Laughter - the best medicine' page.


Of course, it's all different at the Nuffield. Glossy magazines extolling the virtues of the Caribbean, current OK magazine, the day's newspapers, The Tatler, Golf World - all arranged neatly on occasional tables around the various waiting rooms. You can tell it's posh there because, by the end of the day, they haven't been nicked and the sudoku has been completed by fountain pen.

That's the real difference between NHS and the private sector. Forget the waiting times, ignore the MRSA infected wards - it's all down to the quality of the reading matter. Get a subscription to Horse and Hound in every hospital and the whole thing's solved - easy!

Incidentally, the inspiration behind this blog was due to a visit to a 'foreign' GP surgery this morning as Mrs B had to have a retinopathy test. As I sat down in the portakabin, I pondered on the difference of standards between there and the Nuffield but was gratified to see 2 extremely glossy magazines sitting there invitingly. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all, I thought as I made myself comfortable and tried to decide between............ WeightWatchers magazine or Pregnancy & Birth! Ho hum.