2009 September | Head Rambles

Archive for September, 2009

Sunday in Street S’eye Prine

Grandad September 6th, 2009

I got up this morning at around half nine and looked out the window.

What was normally a spectacular view of the Dordogne river, was nothing but fog. Fuck.

Went down and made myself a cuppa and went out into the garden. No fog, just blazing sunshine, and that in the space of five minutes. Weird.

Herself decided that we were out of a few essentials – mainly cigarettes for Herself – but that she was too lazy to go shopping.

I muttered a few choice words, and went to do some research on the Interweb. I’m not going anywhere until I know it’s open.

The big supermarket – E Leclerc – was closed. That was fine. I checked our nearest town which is Saint Cyprien. I found two – an 8 a Huit and Champion. I had seen the 8 a Huit before and it can’t decide whether it’s a supermarket or a garden centre, and anyway the girl behind the cash desk was plug ugly, so I decided on Champion. I looked up their website. They closed at twelve, but at least they gave a map of their location, so I stuck Roger in the car and off we went.

I had programmed Roger to give me directions to St. Cyprien, but he insisted on giving directions to some place called Street S’eye Prine, which was a little disconcerting.

We arrived in Street S’eye Prine, at the location given by the Champion website, but it was a wee tobacconist. I hadn’t time to get the fags as it was close to twelve, so I asked Roger if he knew where Champion was. He was a little smug about this, but he told me it was the other end of town. We got there with about ten minutes to spare.

I managed to get everything on the list, despite being electrocuted by my trolly, and was last out of the shop.

Roger and I then headed back through Street S’eye Prine to the tobacco shop, which wasn’t easy as it was market day and the streets were mayhem.

I got her fags, and decided I needed some tobacco, so got some of that too. No sooner had I gone back to the car, when I realised the twat had given me rolly cigarette tobacco, so I had to go back and change it. I wasn’t too pleased about the price of the stuff. It was the same price as in Ireland, which was a bit of a downer.

It was only when I got back home that I realised it was a 50gm pack and not 25gm.

My faith in France is restored.

My faith in Roger is a little shakey even if he did find the supermarket.

My faith in Champion’s website is zilch.

And I’m still not sure whether I was in Saint Cyprien or Street S’eye Prine.

I am not interested

Grandad September 5th, 2009

When will you miserable bastards learn that I am not interested in your precious Viagra?

You keep writing to me from your fucking “VIAGRA ® Official Site” which isn’t a fucking official site and has fuck all to do with Pfizer.

I couldn’t give a flying shite if you are offering me 82% off. I’m still not interested.

You are NOT a Canadian fucking Pharmacy. You are a wanker by the name of Edward Seversky, and in case you don’t know it, you live in Izhevsk, which, for your information, is in Russia, you vodka-swilling pig-shagging cretin.

Addressing a mail or letter to “Dear admin@headrambles.com” is not exactly going to endear me to you either, you miserable fuckwit.

I have no need for your “product”. If I want a stiffy, I’ll just make a quick call to my friend Sharon. That usually more than does the trick. In the unlikely event of that failing, all I have to do is peek over the wall to the next house where the Fine Thing there has a habit of bathing in the starkers. I don’t do that often, as I run the risk of pole-vaulting out of the garden and down the cliff, which wouldn’t be very funny. What would I want with your miserable offerings?

I see that as well as offering Viagra you also sell Viagra Professional. What’s this? Taking a leaf from Microsoft? Do you also offer Viagra Home Edition and Viagra Server? Or is the latter for people in long term employment only?

Like a good wanker that you are, I suggest to get a firm grip on yourself.

Go and do something useful.

Like swallow all your precious pills, and then go fuck yourself.

I’ll stick with Sharon, thanks.

Grandad is not on holidays

Grandad September 4th, 2009

A few people have noted that I am still blathering away when I am supposed to be on holidays.

Actually I’m not. On holidays, I mean.

Holidays are when you pack your suitcase and head off somewhere to forget about everyday life and to relax for a week or two.

I see myself as living here in France, and am doing all the things I would do back in Ireland. Basically, we have just moved to France for a month, and at the end of the month, we’ll unfortunately move back again.

Living here is great. It is September, but the doors are open and the warm sunshine is beaming in the doors. I might even fire up the barbecue later like what I done yesterday. We have had one real bout of rain [this morning] that lasted for a few hours but that has gone and the forecast is for sunshine and temperatures around the thirty mark for the next ten days, at least. The humidity is very low, and I have forgotten what sweat smells like.

Shopping takes a bit of getting used to. there are very few items in common to the two countries, so you can’t just wander in looking for the familiar old packaging. As a result, shopping can take quite a while until you get used to it. I also still find it a little strange wandering into the local grocery supermarket and finding myself walking between shelves of car batteries, fishing rods and endless racks of wine, when all I am looking for is an Oxo cube. Of course they don’t have Oxo cubes here, and you have to find KUB OR Buillon Culinaire, which is in a yellow box and not a red one.

One of the great pleasures here is the coffee shop. They are everywhere, and of course all have outside seating. Jayzus but the coffee is hard to beat! And at €2 a shot for a large one, I’m getting through the stuff.

The language isn’t much of a problem. I have enough of a grasp of it to tell anyone to fuck off, should I so wish, or to ask very politely for help, should that need arise. One they ascertain that I’m not a Sale Anglais, they bend over backwards to help anyway. They are not particularly fond of the British around these parts and that’s why I have a large Irish sticker on the back of the car.

There are other huge advantages of course. There is no Cunt Cowen slobbering all over the place. The Plank is nowhere in evidence. If Harney set foot on these shores they would probably use her for nuclear target practice. They don’t even have Tubridy on the television here.

All in all, I love it.

We fully intend to do this every year.

Provided this fucking site can pay for it………..

Thibaud and Cowen

Grandad September 3rd, 2009

I did French for the Intermediate Certificate back in the ‘60s. That was in the days before they changed the exam’s name for some inexplicable reason to the Junior Certificate.

There are two things I remember about the lessons I had. One was the De La Salle brother who was more interested in touching us up than he was in teaching French.

The other was a character in some French text book called M. Thibaud. The only single fact I remember about M. Thibaud was that he was described as always having chicken grease running down his chin.

Every time I see that cunt Cowen, I think of M. Thibaud.

Regular readers may be aware that I am not particularly fond of the ‘c’ word, but I’m afraid that where a soubriquet fits, it should stand.

Cowen is a cunt, and you can see the chicken grease running down his chin.

I had the misfortune to tune into the Irish Times website last night, and there was the little bollicks telling all to vote ‘Yes’ in the Lisbon thing.

I notice that the heading is the predictable threat – “Cowen warns of long-term damage of Lisbon No vote”. Damage to whom exactly? Damage to Ireland? Or could it possibly be damage to Cowen’s reputation in Brussels?

I can’t see Cowen as having much of a reputation to damage anyway. He has been confirmed his position as the most unpopular leader of the most unpopular party since the founding of the state. He is persisting in carrying on despite a total collapse in even his core support. He is persisting in supporting his friends the bankers and builders even though that will put us in hock for generations to come. He is even allowing his pal Fingleton to hang on to a one million bonus “for legal reasons” despite the latter riding the Irish Nationwide almost to insolvency.

I was going to vote ‘no’ to the Lisbon thing anyway. To be asked to vote twice on precisely the same treaty is a negation of democracy. To be asked to pass a treaty that other countries are denied a say on is anti-democratic. To be asked to vote ‘yes’ by that lying conniving cunt Cowan is merely the last straw.

I can still see the chicken grease on his chin.

Ring roads and rings

Grandad September 2nd, 2009

We had a grand thunderstorm yesterday. The French really know how to throw a thunderstorm. None of this ‘one fart and it’s all over’ kind of lark that the Irish are used to. We had about an hour of grand rib shaking crashes and bangs and it cleared the air beautifully. The air needed clearing badly as the day before it was hot. And I mean fucking HOT.

So, after the thunder was over, Herself crawled out from under the bed, and I came in from trying unsuccessfully to photograph a bit of forked lightening and we met in the middle.

“Will we go into Sarlat?” says she.

“It’s a grand day for it,” says I. “Let’s do it.”

Sarlat is quite a big town. Essentially it consists of a circular core of Medieval streets and a ring road outside of which they have thrown down all the modern stuff. Herself likes to be dropped off in the middle of the Medieval bit, leaving me to do the parking and all that mundane shite.

“Where will we meet up?” I asked, as I know her wandering habits of old.

“In the main street,” she replied with that hint of innocence which I know too fucking well.

“I’ll meet you in the main square,” I said firmly.

“The main square?”

“Yes. The main fucking square. The one with the big church doors, Got that?”

“Yes,” says she. “The main square with the big church doors.”

“And you won’t go wandering off?”

“No. I’ll meet you in the main square.”

I dropped her off and headed out on the ring road to the car parks.

Sarlat is one of the biggest tourist attractions in France. It is the French equivalent to Killarney. Unlike Ireland however, they do not believe in fleecing you at every single possible turn. In Ireland, if you so much as fart, they’ll charge you for the pleasure. Not so in France. Here, they appreciate their visitors and the parking is free.

I parked the car without any problems whatsoever and made my way down the zig zag steps that lead down the slope into the city centre.

I arrived in the main square.