gamboling.co.uk

I would like to take this opportunity, aka today’s article, to apologise to those regular readers who have missed Monday and Tuesday’s articles. While I would love nothing more than to take the blame for this turn of events I would like to have the record show that it wasn’t my fault.

Well, okay, so it was my fault. You may, or may not, know that the articles are prepared some time in advance and that there usually is a good bit of slack in the system. But the main problem is that the slack is only on paper. I generally write these articles on paper and then type them up before uploading them to the site.

Sadly for us all I left a pad of paper which contained this weeks articles somewhere in Sussex last week. Which meant we were all denied our articles. But, I thought, never fear! I shall go and rescue the articles from certain death. And so I set off. It was a long and tortuous journey, but in the end I was rewarded with finding the pad of paper.

THE END – Seemingly.

But the story doesn’t end there. Once I was ensconced in deepest darkest Sussex I needed to type and upload the articles. Simple you’d think, they have computers even in the home county’s. Some people would even claim it’s almost as sophisticated as London out there. But I digress. They do have computers which are attached to the modern internet and everything, but in my haste to go and find the lost pad I had forgotten one very important thing. My password.

I couldn’t upload the articles, so I asked the web hosting service to send me a new password – which they kindly did.

THE END – Seemingly.

But the story doesn’t end there. Once I had asked them to send me the password I discovered that my internet service provider has been having e-mail delays due to some kind of nasty virus that’s going round this time of the year. So although my new password was winging it’s way to me I couldn’t actually read it until Wednesday. So here we are finally caught up. Please read the previous two articles, you can find them in the archive or here (article 1 / article 2).

THE END – Actually.

“Start finishing up your drinks now please.” It’s the common call of bartenders, and bar staff everywhere. And it doesn’t make any sense.

We all start finishing our drinks the minute that we start them. It’s a universal thing. The problem is that they’re including the word “start”. They’re actually adding words which aren’t necessary. Which seems an odd thing for people who tend to spend as much time as possible subtracting words from their sentences. “Time Gentlemen please.” See, there are only just enough words in that sentence. Well actually this common version of the call lets women off the hook at one fell swoop. Which is why you will often see women arguing semantics with bartenders at closing time.

So I’ve been trying to think of some way to encourage the uptake on my calendar idea (see previous article for details: click here). I think modern way to get things accepted is to hire some kind of celebrity to help me advertise. My first thought, was to go for somebody from the world of pop. That way I’d be able to get my calendar idea to appear more light and fluffy instead of all stuffy. Maybe, I thought, they could create a song which extolled the virtues of the calendar through the popular medium of song.

Well it was worth a shot. But who would it be? Britney, Beyonce, Christina? All of them seem a little “flash in the pan”. What we need is some kind of star quality that’s in for the long haul. Madonna! That’s it. She’ll be perfect. Especially when it comes to convincing the Catholic church, well Madonna worked for them last time. “Hey everyone we’ve got this new calendar, it’s really good, it’s an awful lot like the Roman one, but don’t worry about that. We’ve looked into it and it’s really great. Oh and by the way, if you don’t believe us Madonna will be appearing soon and she’ll whack a few stigmata on you for your troubles.”

Anyway I think if I can get Madonna to get a private audience with the pope this week I might be in with a chance. It would seem that the current Pope has gone completely mad. At least that’s what I thought. He’s has named more saints in his reign as Pope than all the other Popes combined. This, I thought, was probably just a sign of his own dementia and whatnot. But the other day I suddenly realised what it probably was. In the last 1000 years there have been 124 popes (and 23 anti-popes*) but only 5 of them have been made Saints. He’s trying to get himself canonised.

He probably got the idea from Margaret Thatcher, no I’m not kidding. By the time Thatcher came to the throne it was generally considered unacceptable to create hereditary peerages. But she wanted one. She wanted it bad. So she made Harold Macmillan a earldom. He became Lord Stockton (the title is now held by his grandson). Which meant that when she retired it was more acceptable for her to be offered a hereditary title of her own. Which she was. Now that Dennis has died you may be surprised to learn that Mark “what I was just wondering out here in the desert? No those aren’t arms behind my back – well they are arms but you know, not weapons” Thatcher is now Hon Sir Mark Thatcher, Bt.

So that’s what the pope is up to I reckon. He’s out for the sainthood. He’s practicing his card tricks right now. Surely if he can get a good one in, in front of one of the more doddery cardinals he’ll believe it was a miracle? Surely. Anyway so this is my big chance. If he thinks his legacy is going to be assured by being one of the millions of Saints he’s created then he’s going to be sorely disappointed. If he wants a new legacy he needs to get all the Catholics to sign up to my new calendar.

So that’s it I’m strapping a halo to Madonna as we speak, and I’ll be parachuting her in the first chance I get.

*Antipopes don’t come before the pope (like antipasta) but they are like pasta made out of plastic.

The woman down the corridor is speaking very loudly. He has a right mind to go and have words. But he doesn’t. Of course, “Can you stand this woman?” he says, as though he’s talking to the guy at the next table but secretly hoping that he doesn’t answer.

He does, “She’s alright.”
“Doesn’t she annoy you?”
“No. I’m deaf.”

Neither of them say anything for a second.

Then the deaf guy says, “I’m reading your lips.”

One half of a phone call…

“It’s the only language they understand.”

“Yeah. It’s because they’re Baptists.”

“What? It’s a cheese and wine party not a cheese and cheese party.”

“Tell them we’re boycotting it.”

“look it’s the only language they understand.”

“But I’m doing it for the principle not just plain avarice.”

One of the Italians has found a boyfriend. The other one is sadly missing hers. So they both have boyfriends now. Which is handy because it means that Pete and I are safe from the perceived agents of disaster.

Ah the long distance relationship. An exciting prospect at the outset, but after a couple of days the novelty probably wears off. The lad in question is a young man from Scotland, he’s half Irish too just to add to his mysterious Celtic genetics. Throw a few extra Cornish genes and he’d have the set (if you ignore the Welsh – which you do at your peril if you’re Anne Robinson).

But he lives in London now, and studies with my brother. He came back to the flat with the Italians and Pete and decided (as people will often do when they’re drunk) to buy some property. Man, it has often been said, is nothing without a bit of land to call his own. It’s just a shame that the particular piece of land he wants to buy is that which is just above my roof – the upstairs flat. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the lad, in fact he seemed thoroughly pleasant. But the reason I was upset about him moving upstairs was that in my mind I had already married him off to the Italian he was cuddling. I had them living in a small farm somewhere outside Rome, cooking spaghetti every day and watching movies.

And who knows it may still happen. In a few weeks he’s on the return exchange, he may get to drinking a few beers, and he may get to thinking about land again, and this time the land might be in the country that invented perspective* and who knows he might even gain some.

* Leon-Battista Alberti

My brother was moving out. At least that was the theory. The reality was that he was asleep on the couch. I accidentally knocked over some beer cans while I was reaching for my coffee. My coffee pot is in my living room due to size issues relating to my kitchen. So is my fridge, there’s one in the kitchen too. But I digress. I knocked over some beer cans and Pete woke up.

He looked at his watch and exclaimed, “Oh I’m late.”
“What time were you supposed to be there?” I enquired quietly in case his head was hurting.
“Yesterday.”
“Ah.”
“Indeed.”

I moved away as a flurry of activity looked imminent. He started throwing cloes into a box. Then grabbed the car keys. “I’m going to start loading the car.”
He looked confused.
“Ok,” I encouraged.
“Right.” And with that he went, box in hand.
About two minutes later my telephone rang.
“Hello?” It was him.
“Hi! I decided to leave. I’m driving to Brighton.”
“Oh.”
“I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye then.”
“Yeah. And there’s a frozen chicken under my bed. You better eat it.” And with that he hung up.