Elgar - The SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION

As a great admirer of Edward Monkton, I decided that there needed to be a story about a SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION. The title was easy - the rest of it was the problem!

Elgar hadn’t always been the SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION although he rather liked the title. It made him feel important having capital letters: rather like UNESCO, STD or MOT. He also rather liked his somewhat cultured name although, had he been told that this was a tribute by his dyslexic parents to their favourite drink, he might have been less proud. His retributive role had been thrust upon him by the Goddess, Helixa following the Great Salt Wars and he devoted his life to wreaking vengeance upon all enemies of the snail world - his slime-green shell a symbol to snails everywhere.

One day, he was leafing through ‘Nude Slugs’ (motto: Ditch that shell and what the Hell), when the SnailPhone rang. His trusty assistant, Biran, slid to answer it.

"Elgar, there's trouble in Patio Area 5! It's..........." he gulped, ".......Beer!"

"To the SnailMobile." cried Elgar as he slid down the SnailPole and hit the ground with an earth-shattering bump. "Sometimes," he complained ruefully, "you can have too much lubrication."

Pausing only to plug in his GastroPod and listen to his favourite Shell McManus track, they were soon on their way.

"What's our ETA, Biran? he asked. Biran computed their course and speed and immediately replied "It's a short one, Boss. Only 3 days and 7 hours.". Elgar settled back and passed the journey reading his latest book, a biography of his favourite French model, Jardin called 'A Snail of Two Titties'. Biran navigated through the dark territory of Compostia, skirted the grasslands of.....erm.... Grassland and the great desert of Playpit before turning to face Elgar.

"You're looking forlorn." said the SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION. "Oh no, Boss, We passed that ages ago - it was the green bit with the dog-turds"

Elgar gave Biran the full force of his personality. "I meant you're looking sad" he said patiently.

"I was just thinking about Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men. Bill came to me for some marital advice. Apparently his wife doesn't understand him.

Elgar reminded him of the task ahead, their role as protectors and his sacred duty to dispense vengeance on the perpetrators of this assult on the snail world and prepared to do battle as he saw the jar of amber liquid ahead.

Biran looked at the beer. "Watneys?" he guessed.

"Waddya mean, what knees? I'm a bleeding sn............ah, yes, I see what you mean. Right, how shall we do this?"

They struggled to push over the container but to no avail and finally, after much effort, Elgar looked at Biran. "It's no good, we'll have to drink it - for the good of the community we must make sacrifice."

Biran got the short straw (which of course, didn't reach) so the task fell upon Elgar. He wriggled his way to the top of the beer and gazed at the lake of amber liquid. "Oh, suck this." he thought, took a deep breath and away he went. Slowly, oh so slowly, the level of the liquid fell until, finally, Elgar tumbled to the ground; his task complete.

Biran rushed (relatively speaking) over to him. "Boss, you OK? Say something."

Elgar opened one rather bleary eye..............."I love you. I really bloody love you, hic!" and promply passed out.

Some hours later, his horns throbbing, our hero plotted revenge upon the human perpetrators. Sadly, being a snail, the choices were limited so, in the end he decided to go for the ultimate sanction - cabbage nibbling!!!

They travelled to the vegetable patch and were immediately beset by difficulties. First of all, a large green cylinder almost crushed them. "That was a marrow escape" gasped Biran. As they passed the potato patch Biran wondered at all the varieties. Elgar explained about how one cross-bred different types.

"See that one there" he said, "that's a cross between a Jodie Marsh and a John Motson."

"Ah," said Biran "a common-tater."

After stopping off to download some corn on his Blackberry, Elgar, feeling the effects of the beer, went off for a leek whilst Biran detoured via the mange tout when, suddenly, there was a cry of pain! Poor Biran had got himself trapped and suffered a ruptured squidgy bit.

Elgar watched helplessly as the life left Biran's eyes.

He gazed at the lifeless body. "Lettuce hope he rests in peas" he murmured.

Of course, vengeance was not the same without his buddy but he still managed a nice munch and finally, returned home - a sadder, wiser mollusc.

The snail community welcomed him with open......The snail community welcomed him home but looked puzzled when a young lady snail climbed on his back. Someone shouted out "Who's that?" "Oh, that's Michelle!" replied Elgar.

The Chief Snail wanted to honour Elgar and bought him a really flash car with a big S for SuperSnail on the side. "That's terrific" said Elgar, gratefully "Now everybody will see me roar past and say 'Gosh, look at that S car go!'"


The End

Myrmekiaphila neilyoungi

For many years I've wondered why a blog such as mine - indeed, such a personage as Yours Truly - hasn't been honoured. I expected the odd MBE, Booker Prize or Papal canonisation but, so far, not a bleeding dickie bird. Each morning, I wait patiently for the 'clang' of a beautifully enamelled, gold medal hitting Bassett Towers' welcome mat but the disappointment is becoming part of life. This morning, all I received was a hospital out-patients appointment and, coincidentally, a circular from Saga exhorting me to go for their hospital plans which avoid NHS queues.

Talking of Saga, my 50th birthday was an auspicious occasion which was totally ruined by the "Welcome to Geriatrica" brochure from Saga that landed on the mat that very morning. Talk about being quick off the mark! Since then, they have offered me holidays, insurance, funeral plans, free ballpoint pens and numerous other emblandishments, each one is accompanied by photos of silver-haired people having a whale of a time and looking ecstatically happy; presumably because they've found some way of getting themselves removed from the Saga mailing list.

Anyway, the point of all this is to do with a certain Mr Neil Young. The more erudite among you may have read that he has been immortalised by the naming of a new species of spider in his honour. I have declined to show a photograph of the aforesaid arachnid as I know some of my readers are sensitive to such creatures but if you want to see it in all its glory, you can click on this link. Now, as part of the intensive research which goes into each of my blogs (yeah, right!) I have found that there have been other honours of a similarly strange genre. The whirligig-beetle (Orectochilus orbisonorum) was named in honour of singer Roy Orbison whilst asteroids have been graced with such august musical names as The Beatles, Frank Zappa, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.

I started wondering about people, both famous and friends, and what they could be named after? The wide-mouthed frog sprang to mind in many examples but self-preservation prevents me exploring this one further. Haemorrhoidus vordermanus springs to mind as doesUgliusbastardius lloyd-webberi.

How about charadniiformus drogbaii (Charadniiforms, incidentally, is a genus of diving bird)? As for me? Well, I would settle for Lama bertius - no, not as in "Call yourself a spiritual leader? Get the f*ck out of Tibet, it's part of China now" but this sort.

On now to another subject - Lenor! What's all this rubbish about new Lenor with Black Diamond and Lotus Flower? Have we run out of all the world jojoba stocks? Is the whole gamut of fruits, herbs and other things that make my Speedos so soft exhausted? Come to think of it, if there are so many things in the world so good for our hair, clothes etc., why don't we just use the nearest thing in the store cupboard?

Just imagine it - "Ooh, you hair looks so shiny. " "That's because I conditioned it with Marmite and finest pureéd Pop Tart."

Black diamond! Are people really going to think Lenor are fragrancing their conditioner with black diamonds? Come to think of it, who has ever smelt a black diamond? Now, having sniffed Mrs B's ring (so to speak), I merely detected a slight odour of Nivea hand cream on her plain, boring old white diamond but this may be misleading. Perhaps black diamonds smell differently although I might be cynical in thinking that this isn't the case. For all we know, they could put essence of bat poo into it and call it black diamond? Come on, Lenor, tell us the real story!

Final thought in today's offering: did you know that traffic roundabouts are a rarity in America? It never occurred to me until today but have you ever seen any in the plethora of American programmes tainting our channels?

Apparently, the first ones were introduced over there only in the last decade and are making a serious contribution to lessening traffic accidents. Rumour has it that this is because nobody knows what the hell they are and so just stop driving, sit there, scratch their heads and say suitably American phrases like "Goddammit, what in tarnation's that, Elmer?".

Oh and a final, final thought: if quizzes are called quizzical, what are tests called?

Bring Back Grammar Schools

Now, I'm your average television viewer. Although we have a TV in the lounge, it's rarely used as neither of us are good at sitting and just watching, but the TV is always on when we're at the PCs or doing something in the PlayRoom. We also have TVs in the kitchen and bedroom so there is plenty of scope to watch.

The reason I feel constrained to mention the dreaded goggle box is that tonight, I was aghast at something I saw! I don't mean aghast as in those wonderful letters that used to be seen on Points of View. You know the sort I mean:

Dear Points of View

I was DISGUSTED when, whilst watching that lovely programme "Open All Hours", I noticed a vegetable on Mr Arkwright's greengrocery display which I found rather lewd in shape for that time of the evening. Surely, we don't pay our license fee for THAT sort of behaviour and the BBC should be far more careful regarding such matters in the future.

Yours,

Ivor Carrot-Dick, Penge

I rather like 'proper' quiz shows, like Eggheads (even though it ruins my cooking as I tend to throw whatever ingredients I'm using at the screen when Daphne gives her supercilious 'Oh, yes, I knew that because I know every bleeding thing in the world' look). I like certain dramas like Waking The Dead and Shameless and I like documentaries. Naturally, I like the sport, apart from rugby which I just cannot understand. I think it's possibly a reaction to the one time I played the game. I vaguely remember standing there with this ball, desperately trying to remember what to do next when several hormonally-charged, over-active Goliaths fell upon me and I discovered a severe allergy to pain. Now, I can watch it but understand it? 'Fraid not.

Whilst we're on the subject of television, why is it, when we now have 20,000 Sky channels to choose from, there is still so much crap? I mean, I love Buzzcocks and QI but when they play them every night and then, just for a change, joyfully announce a QI weekend, even I get a tad frustrated.

The movie channels are full of so-called blockbuster films of which I have never heard and, in desperation, we end up watching the old classics yet again. I'm quite sure, in 30 years time, people won't be sitting there avidly watching Snakes on a Plane for the umpteenth time as it has become a classic. We actually watched that one. For those of you who haven't ever watched Snakes on a Plane, let me spoil the whole plot - it's about some snakes ....... on a plane. Ter-bleeding-iffic!

Anyway, back to my aghast-ness. What has upset the Bassett, you may ask? Was it the horrifically hypnotising You Could be Nancy with those garish costumes and dog-ugly personalities (and that's only Messrs. Norton, Lloyd-Webber & Humphries). Could it be the plethora of totally crass and inept Amercan offerings polluting our screens? Maybe it was one of the many shock, horror, gasp Channel 4 documentaries like The Dwarf Siamese Twins with Lizard Skin and Athletes Foot?

Nope, it was tonight's Holby City!!

This dysfunctional hospital, complete with alcoholic doctors, drug addict consultants, nymphomaniac nurses and a bomb/train crash/murder roughly 3 weekly is eminently believable. The operations are seemingly realistic (It must be great working for their props dept. - just imagine; 'Good day at work, dear? ' 'Oh yes, I made 2 hearts, a spleen and 3 diseased fallopian tubes.'), the characters are totally relateable and the deaths per episode correlate to the National Mortality Statistics. Tonight though, my illusions were shattered by one insignificant sign on a door. It said.................. 'Sisters Office'.

Now, if it was the office of a Sister than it would be 'Sister's Office'. If it were shared by several Sisters then it would be 'Sisters' Office'. The one thing it cannot be is what was so beautifully signwritten.

It's spoiled my evening......possibly my week. It has destroyed my trust in the magic of television and I am seriously considering accepting the invitation of one of those nice lawyers who appear so regularly during the commercial breaks on Sky promising me vast amounts of money if someone has harmed me, which this unfortunate episode has certainly done.


Some people might say that I am a bit O.T.T. about grammar and punctuation but it's something that has always annoyed me intensely. My kids always raised their eyes heavenwards when I pointed out apostrophe or preposition abuse yet they freely admit they are now exactly the same. Young Zoë will indignantly tell me how one of her tutors at college used a double negative and I can just imagine my son, when he starts his Police career shortly, staring at a Statement and shaking his head sadly; not because it's a confession of heinous criminality but because of the spelling and grammatical errors.

"OK, chummie, I see you've written '.....is the address which I took the dismembered bodies to'. Now, unless you change that to '....... is the address to which I took the dismembered bodies', I'll make sure you're locked up and that they throw away the key".

Mrs B is used to it now although, I recall that when Norris in Coronation Street once pointed out an apostrophic error, she (for reasons which escape me) hooted uncontrollably and, for several weeks afterwards, asked me if I was getting up early to mark up the newspapers!

I think I have managed to get it off my chest now although, knowing my luck, next week's Holby will remind me of it when an intestinally-damaged patient is admitted suffering from a semi-colon!

Finally, please note: any grammatical errors within my blogs are placed there purely to test out my beloved readers - honest!

Here Comes Summer!

It's been far too long since my fingers danced across the keyboard (well, when I say danced, I must admit that the Mavis Beacon Typing Course has been on the backburner lately so I am still stuck with typing salad dallas flak etc if I want to go into 'proper' mode).

It's been a tad busy lately with both sprogs celebrating birthdays this week. Young Zoe reached adulthood on Monday and is now eligible to drink, vote, get married, get a tattoo and kill people. As a good and caring Father, I have recommended only the first!

My little boy (6'3" now!), James, was 22 on Wednesday so, once more, Happy Birthday kids. You've made me a proud Dad.

Right, what else is new? Warm weather, trees bursting with their new growth, colourful gardens and people wearing clothing which is totally unsuitable.

Why do a few degrees of heat bring out a total fashion kamikaze mentality? Older men suddenly wander around in shorts: spindly white legs (complete with socks and sandals - god forbid!), varicose veins glinting ............. and why on earth do older men's legs lose all their hair? Pale and shiny is NOT a good look. Younger men strut around, wearing their football shirts, Adidas shorts and surrounded by a cloud of testosterone-scented Lynx, posing madly for all the girls whilst deciding whether to wear their baseball cap, forwards, backwards or sideways.

And as for Hawaiian shirts..............................

Women are just as bad. In order to help me understand, perhaps just a few questions:

Why do young girls vie to wear as little clothing as possible as soon as the temperature rises above freezing? One sees them wandering down the road in March wearing tee-shirt, mini skirt and blue tights dancing around frantically. It's only on closer inspection that they're bare-legged and just very cold and the dancing is actually terminal shivering presaging the onset of terminal hypothermia.

Why do so many twenty and thirty something women wear clothes 2 sizes too small during the Summer? Is it a wistful desire to relive their lissome days or just a determined effort to put me off my strawberry Mivvi? If I wanted to feast my eyes on 2 large bags of potatoes shoved down the back of a pair of leggings I'd go to Primark via Somerfield and do the job myself. Vests and tops which are so tight that the body underneath creates more folds than an Origami Convention are not a good look, ladies.

And that's another thing: If you're going to wear a crop top, please remember that they're designed for flat stomachs and not Johnny Vegas body doubles! I'm seriously thinking of starting a new trend in navel piercings by recycling a few anchors lying around the harbour. There's a fair chance they might be seen among the ripples of fat.

White trousers! Don't wear cheap white trousers which are see through. Seeing a dark thong is bad enough but 2 enormous pink cheeks, reminiscent of the Elephant March in The Jungle Book is enough to drive me to a new life in Antarctica.


Just one other thing on the fashion front. Why do old ladies always wear either a cardigan or an M & S quilted anorak - even when it's in the 90s? I don't know if it's some physiological metamorphosis but their perspiration always seems to have the fragrance of lavender as well.

Summer is my favourite time. I love the sun, the world seems a happier place and life is good - except in Brighton. We love Brighton, the 'buzz', the shops, the people; but Summer tends to ruin the whole ambience. The reason is very simple - foreign students! Vast hordes of jabbering brats, wearing stupid, bloody rucksacks, blocking every pavement and competing to see who can set the new shoplifting record. Why oh why do they have to shout? All the time! Does the seaside climate act as some aural dampener that necessitates a babble of unintelligible garbage? Presumably, they're asking each other where the Hearing Aid shop is? The NHS has a lot to answer for.

Mind you, getting to Brighton is bad enough in the Summer. 20 million German coaches parked all over the place whilst their drivers pore over their satnavs planning the next invasion. Ah, perhaps, it's already started? Das KinderKorps, a regiment of dwarves from the Waffen SS are embarking on a devious plan of infiltration, dressed as students and preparing us for the main assault.

Then comes that fateful day when they all bugger off back to their respective countries (or, in the Germans' case, Poland). Time to relax? Oh no, then we get all of our own kids on their school holidays!

Roll on October!

If Music be the Food of Love..................

I figured it was time to do some more music for my juke box. Actually, I was depressed having seen Eastenders and, now that the lovely Heather is married off to Minty, I needed something to cheer me up...........I'm trying to get over her loss but it's tough. She follows a long list of women I have placed on pedestals and who have missed their chance. The likes of Helen Shapiro, Lena Zavaroni, Francesca McAlea (1st year, Junior School) and Kylie could all have won the great jackpot of love if they'd played their cards right but I shall get over Heather as I have got over the others.

I always go through the angst barrier selecting blog music. It has, essentially, to be special to me but also I want readers to enjoy and, maybe, think about what they hear (small moment of panic as I suddenly think of anyone reading switching off straight away and I do it all in vain!).

This latest selection comes with a list of reasons why each piece has been chosen. Maybe it's of interest, maybe not? Here goes anyway:

Green Manalishi - Fleetwood Mac
I went to a band rehearsal tonight and they were trying out the Judas Priest version of this. The reason why it's here is to demonstrate just how many good songs I've forgotten about - this being a supreme example.

SWLABR - Cream
A trademark offering from the first (and greatest) supergroup. I could have taken any track from the album 'Disraeli Gears' and been happy to have it here. The title is an acronym of "She Was Like a Bearded Rainbow"; like the song's lyrics, it's not supposed to make much sense!

Hang on to a Dream - The Nice
Brian Davison, the drummer, died this week so this is a tribute to him. I fell in love with their music very early on and they performed at the first gig I ever saw, along with Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Move and Amen Corner. Not a bad 17/6d worth! Although people tend to remember Emerson's time afterwards with Greg Lake and Carl Palmer, The Nice were pioneers of progressive music and stretched musical boundaries.

Neil Young - Heart of Gold


The first single I ever bought. I fell in love with that song and, subsequently, Young has played an enormous part in my musical life. A man of total integrity, he continues to explore different styles of music which, although not always to my taste, never fail to provoke thought, emotion and excitement.

Pink Floyd - Grantchester Meadows
From the album 'Umma Gumma', this was the height of Floyd's exploratory (and chemically induced) phase. The live tracks are just amazingly weird and I well remember hearing them around a friend's house, suitably in the mood (shall we say!). Meadows is such a contrast and I love its gentleness.

Sky - Tuba Smarties
Sky were a band of talented musicians, including classical guitarist John Williams. I saw them at Brighton and this particular track lives in my memory. Ex-Blue Mink bassist and sought-after session man, Herbie Flowers, wandered on stage dressed as Noddy and, carrying a tuba festooned in fairy lights, proceeded to play this. The whole audience were in hysterics and it was a magical moment of utter frivolity, given the musicianship displayed both before and subsequently.


Sky - Toccata
Sky made 4 albums and this is a more typical example of their style. Combining both their own compositions as well as classical adaptions, they are hidden jewels in the treasure chest of music.

Phil Collins - Another Day in Paradise
I seem to be drawn to emotive songs. This makes me sad.

Neil Young - Fuckin' Up
Neil at his grungiest best. Backed by Crazy Horse, they seem to gel wonderfully together. How strange that a guy whose voice is not his strongest asset and 3 musicians who are not technically the most proficient produce such hard-hitting, archetypal rock music. I also kind of relate to the lyrics hence this particular choice.

Nick Drake - Time Has Told Me
Just a wonderful, wonderful singer and lyricist - worthy of any music list

John Mayall - Country Road
From 'Jazz Blues Fusion', arguably my favourite album ever. Mayall has put together an incredible collection of musicians who seem to have found a perfect blend of the two styles. The line-up also holds the distinction of being the only one of his many line-ups which made a second album. Those of you that know the frequency of Mayall's personnel changes will appreciate how happy he must have been with them!

Jimi Hendrix - Castles Made of Sand
I think this is the saddest song I have ever heard. The simplicity of the lyrics seems to emphasise an overwhelming sense of hopelessness of Life. Probably the most-played song of mine over the years (but gladly decreasingly); I know that when I reach for this, all is definitely not right in my world.

Crosby Stills & Nash - Long Time Gone


I love their harmonies and the skill with which they can write a song of protest and make it beautiful as well as meaningful. This track showcases the voice of Steve Stills, which is just amazing.

Neil Young - All Along the Watchtower
From 'Road Rock', a real family concert which included his wife, Pegi and his half-sister, Astrid alongside Chrissie Hynde, this track has grown on me over time. I guess once I never thought anyone could even attempt to match Hendrix' version but I much prefer this to Dylan's.

Traffic - Riding High
Any Traffic track is worth including, purely for Stevie Winwood's wonderful voice. My own particular CD of this album ('Far From Home') is a promo which was given to me by their manager so it's got a special little place in my collection.

Ian Dury - Itinerant Child
I wept when Dury died. His lyrics were not only poetry but an observational journey through life. He made people smile, he didn't give a damn yet he cared - an epitaph which I would gratefully accept.



Well, that's about it. I hope you enjoy them. Use the playlist and have a meander through my choices. Your comments will, as always, be appreciated.