Head Rambles

Grandad July 25th, 2008

I awoke this morning to find that Herself had left me out a fresh shirt and trousers, during the night.

I’m not quite sure why, as the ones I was wearing were clean.  At least, they were four weeks ago.

I am very fussy about my clothes. 

Shoes must be comfortable, and I hate leather soles, because they are slippery.  Runners tend to fit the bill here, but I draw the line at the one that have little flashy lights in them.

Socks must be above the ankles.  I don’t see the point in socks that don’t even reach the top of the shoe.  I also hate socks that have worn out at the toe, as it is very uncomfortable walking with a big toe sticking through a hole.  Sometimes, I even wear matching socks, but not often.

Trousers must have deep pockets.  I have a lot of things to keep in my pockets, so capacity is of prime importance.  They must also have zip flies.  I hate buttons.  They are fiddley and after a while I tend not to bother doing them up, which has led to some awkward moments in the village.

I am very fussy about shirts.  My shirt must have a breast pocket, for holding my drinking money.  For some reason, shirts with pockets are out of favour, and are not that easy to find.  I also will not wear a shirt that has writing on it.  I don’t see the point in paying good money for something, and then walking around like an advertising billboard.  The exception to this is when the writing is funny.

I was in a pub a while ago, and there was a girl there.  Frankly, the poor cow wasn’t much to look at facially, but she had a fantastic figure.  She was wearing tight jeans and a white t-shirt.  The t-shirt had two arrows on it pointing upwards and the text “my eyes are up here”.  This was written across her rather alluring chest.  I had a white shirt on at the time, so I nipped into the Gents, and customised it with a pen.  I then went out, found the girl and plonked myself in front of her, and had a good long look at her tits.  I had put two arrows on my shirt pointing downwards, with the text “My brain is down here”.  She wasn’t amused.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  Clothes.

The shirt Herself left out for me has no breast pocket.

I thought I had destroyed all the pocketless shirts, but apparently not.  I have just put a large hole in it by spilling some burning pipe tobacco.  I’ll dump it shortly, and find a decent shirt.

At least the trousers have a zip.

When I go down to the village later, I won’t be airing my differences.

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Grandad July 24th, 2008

There are people in this world who annoy me.  I know you will find that surprising, but it’s a fact.

These would include people who try to push me around or SUV drivers.

Then there are the people who I actively hate.

I’m talking now of the pond life who spend their time sending me pathetic emails about my manhood and how to make my woman roar like a tiger.

At the very bottom of the food chain, there is a species of low life.

This species sets out to damage things just for the fun of it.  I would include petty vandals and hackers in this category.

There is however a newly discovered life-form, which is actually so far down the food chain that they have dropped off the scale.  They make amoebas look like prime candidates for Mensa.

I came across one of these new life-forms today.

I got an email from the Jack and Jill Foundation to say that their web site had been hacked.

This is a charity web site, for fuck’s sake!  What kind of mentality hacks a charity site?

I restored the site to its pristine glory.  It wasn’t easy, as Low Life had deleted all users except himself and had inserted code all over the place.

I can insert code too.

I left his access in place.

But the next time he logs in, he will activate a script.

I don’t know when he will next log in. 

But I would advise the immediate evacuation of Turkey, just in case.

*heh*

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Grandad July 23rd, 2008

I feel curiously ill at ease today.

This morning, I dropped the car down to Spanner for its two-yearly service.  I didn’t actually drop it, but you know what I mean.

So now I am stuck in the Manor for the day.

I had no intentions of going anywhere today, so why am I edgy?  If I want anything from the village, I can walk.  If I want to go any further, I can always phone our K8.  I know she will drive me anywhere I want [if she doesn't want me to publish her diaries from her teen years, that is].

I get the car serviced every couple of years.  It doesn’t really need it this time, but it’s better to be safe.  I also need a wing mirror replaced.  It was broken by a little bastard on a push-bike when he insisted on cycling too near my car.  I’m going to sue the little fucker once he gets out of hospital.

It is a curious feeling, that I can’t just hop into the car and drive to Cavan.  Why the hell I should want to drive to Cavan, I don’t know, but I can’t do it now, anyway.

I did ask Spanner if he had a Courtesy Car I could use.  After he finished laughing, he said he’d do me the courtesy of not repeating that down in the pub.

So I am stuck here for the day.  Maybe I’m stuck here longer, if Spanner can’t find a spare mirror off one of the wrecks in the sand pit.

If Brian ‘the Fucker’ Cowan wants my advice on urgent matters of state, he is going to have to come here for a change.

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Grandad July 22nd, 2008

What have we done to the Gormleys that they are inflicting the dimwits of their family on us?

First we have to contend with John ‘Gormless’ Gormley and his pathetic ‘Greening’ of the government.

Now we have to put up with another monstrosity, again inflicted on us by a Gormley.

Apparently the green [sic] light has been given for a hideous eyesore to be dumped in the Liffey.

I don’t mind statues.  I can take ‘em or leave ‘em.  But when the fucking thing is 46 meters, or 150 feet high there is no getting away from it.

I think it looks terrible.  It dominates the whole skyline and looks oppressive.  It says nothing to me.  It merely represents an ego trip for the artist who has modelled the form on himself.  If it were a water feature that ejected water from roughly half way up, I would say that it is representative of the modern Irish.

Could someone please tell me what it is for [apart from wasting €1.6 million of our money, of course]?

Unless, of course it is Irelands answer to The Wicker Man, and they are going to stuff it fill of all the drug dealers, crime barons and other politicians, and set fire to it?

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Grandad July 22nd, 2008

I have spent the morning over on Bock’s site.

Andrew J Hanlon

I have been reading the full story of Andrew Hanlon, and his death on the 30th June last.  It makes for very disturbing reading.

The facts, as far as I can ascertain are:

• Andrew Hanlon [20] from Dundrum was shot down and killed in Oregon on Monday the 30th June.
• He was unarmed.
• He was shot seven times [twice in the arm, three times in the abdomen, once in his thigh and once in his back] by police officer Tony Gonzales.

Tony Gonzales

• Gonzales was suspended with full pay after the event.
• The medical examiner refused to give a copy of the autopsy report to the family, who will have to wait six weeks for information about the causes of his death.
• Gonzales has since been arrested on allegations of two charges of first-degree sexual abuse and three of third-degree sexual abuse.
• There is a disturbing lack of information from the authorities who are examining the case.

There are some very disturbing questions here.

• Why was an unarmed man shot seven times?
• Why was he shot in the back?
• Why are the authorities being obstructive?

I suggest you head over to Bock’s site and read for yourself.  It is disturbing reading.

Andrew was laid to rest on Monday.

But in the meantime, his family not only had the expense of bringing Andrew home, but have an ongoing battle ahead of them to uncover the truth.

Andrew’s family have set up a fund to help with their costs.  If you’d like to contribute, these are the details.

Account name: Kate Hanlon re Andrew Hanlon Home Fund

Account number: 08376045

Sort code: 93 13 30

Bank: AIB, Terenure, Dublin

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Grandad July 21st, 2008

Whenever I go abroad I like to bring back some seeds.  This may sound like a strange thing to do, but surprisingly some varieties are illegal difficult to get here.

A few weeks ago, I was rooting around and I came across some we had missed out on in our planting frenzy two years ago.

Just for the laugh, I popped them in water for a couple of nights and then planted them in two seed trays.

They all died.

Except one.

Jean Claude popped his head into this world about six weeks ago [weighing in at a healthy .026 of an ounce].

For a long time he just sat there in the seed tray and didn’t do much.  So a week ago, I transplanted him into a huge pot.

He has me scared now,  He’s growing like the clappers.

Not only is he growing, but he is sussing out the lay of the land.  He would stand there looking out the window.  Half an hour later, he would be looking at me.  Another hour would pass and he’d be looking at Sandy.  Anyone would be nervous of that kind of carry-on.

I had visions of ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ and fed him some meat.  He didn’t like that, which was a relief.

Yesterday afternoon, I put a stick in the pot.  When I got up this morning, Jean Claude had wrapped himself around the stick for some reason.  I’m not sure if he is trying to digest it, or maybe he’s expecting a gale?

He doesn’t look anything like the normal plants we grow, so I checked the packet.  It was all in French so I had to do some research.  Jean Claude looks like  Convolvulus [that's Bindweed to you lot], but according to my research he is a Morning Glory.

This has me very confused.

I always though a Morning Glory is what most of us men wake up with?

 
Jean Claude

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