There was this one time, at Chelsea FC

Now, before you panic, this post has little or nothing to do with football - In fact, it's about IT.

As it happens, the only even remotely football related part of it is that it took place at Stamford Bridge in Fulham, London, the home ground of Chelsea FC

(Here's one for factoid fans, did you know that Chelsea FC started originally, in 1905, as the pub team from the Rising Sun across the road?)

Anywho, I was working for a Nottingham based company who specialised in Educational IT Services and 'Building Schools for the Future' at the time, and we'd got a contract for 'upgrading' and documenting the IT systems of a primary school just around the corner from the ground.  As I was going to be there for a week or so, the company put me up in a hotel, which happened to be a very posh one based at 'The Bridge' as I'm assured the faithful call it.

Each glorious late spring morning, I would trundle from the hotel, buy myself a cardboard mug of scalding hot, soapy dishwater that was doing its best, but missing the point by a fairly massive amount, to masquerade as coffee.  Smile and wave cheerily at my fellow commuters as they happily skipped along the Fulham Road, With a song in their eyes and a determined thrill in their hearts, then arrive at the school some fifteen or so minutes later.

(On a lighter note, my spellchecker just tried to change 'Fulham' to 'Shameful' - And maybe I should have let it)

I'd spend the day tracing, then replacing network cables, trying to explain to the School's on-site IT guy what I was trying to achieve, although this took a while, because I could only talk to him between breaths, as he couldn't concentrate and breathe at the same time. And asking ridiculous question like 'Do you know where this bunch of cables goes?' or 'Would you mind not dribbling on my new shoes?'

The week featured many instances of me replacing little boxes with green flashing lights on with newer boxes with green flashing lights on and trying to trace cables through Victorian-built service risers, originally designed to be scaled by a five year old boy.  In fact, I did find myself looking at the occasional skinny, tousle-haired young chap and thinking, 'If he'd just grip my lengthy cable in his teeth and shin up this drippingly moist chimney, it would make my job go a lot faster.' But I stopped thinking this once I'd made the first few cry.

On the evening before the last day, I convinced myself that I'd done a good job and that I deserved a decent meal 'dans la Bistro' so I put on a tie, and wandered into the dining area.  I was greeted by Miguel, (That may or not have been his name, but he looked a little bit like the opera singer from the Go Compare advert, but without the lengthy moustache and he seemed to be happy to answer to it) who I'd been swapping funny stories with for the entire week, and he showed me to a table.

'Meal anna Drink Mr Dandy? Like-a yesserday?' He asked. (I should probably explain that my company was quite happy to pay for an evening meal and a single alcoholic drink, per person, per night)
'Yes, I suppose so Miguel, Although, seeing as it's my last night here, I'll let you decide what to bring.'
'Lass night here? Oh! Real pity, I bring you something nice, I havva juss tha thing!'

So, off he trotted to the kitchen, only to come back minutes later with a larger than average starter, to my eternal shame, I can't actually remember what it was, but it was definitely very nice, and not strictly from the 'Table d'hote' menu.  Once I'd finished that, he cleared the plate and gave me a huge lamb shank, which is one of my favourite ways to spend a formal dinner date.  Once my mouth was full of meat, he went to the bar and came back with a bottle of red wine.

'There-a you go Mr Dandy, your dreenk.'
I checked the label, it certainly wasn't the house red, so I looked at him quizzically and said, 'Ah, well, that's very nice and everything,' dabbing at the thick, warm, delicately seasoned, home-made gravy that was escaping from the side of my lips, 'But I'm afraid my expenses won't run to that.'
He tutted at me, 'Is OK, we order too much of this, too expensive, it not sell so well, we reduce the price next week anyway.'
'But still, I'm only allowed to charge one drink to my expense account.'
He pantomimed searching my table, lifting the cruet and looking under the napkins, 'I no bring you a glass. Is technically only one serving of wine.' He looked both ways conspiratorially and stage whispered, 'But I might have accidentally put an extra glass onna next table.'

So I had a splendid bottle of wine, a splendid meal (The desert was Eton Mess if I remember correctly) and wandered to my bed.

In fact, the meal was so good that I almost didn't mind having to pay the £75 bill for parking my car at the hotel when I checked out the following morning.

There's something else that I miss...

I was driving to work this morning and pondering what to Blog about today. and by the time i'd got to Historical Castle Donington, I'd decided that it was either going to be about football (Because my local team has decided to re-name its stadium and people are threatening to commit suicide) or breasts (Because my fellow Blogger Tattooed Mummy just did one and I thought I'd offer the male perspective).  But try as I might, I couldn't decide which one to do, what with them both being very emotive subjects.

So, I decided to trot out another one about how things were much better in the 'Good old days' than they are now, but to combine the subjects I'd previously thought of.

Ok, so it happened more in the olden days than it does now... Involves football... And breasts... It can only be?..

(Actually, all of you people who just thought 'spit-roasting' can just leave, right now - There's no place here for people like you here, this is a family Blog.)

I am, of course, talking about streaking.  The act of taking off all/most of your clothes and making an organised public event 1000% more interesting - Often as a form of protest, but mostly to show off.  And who hasn't, if they're being completely honest, ever just wanted to remove all of their clothes in a completely inappropriate situation and then have a bit of a jog about the place? It's like, guerrilla naturism and it should be given our wholehearted support.  I mean, I can remember saying, on many occasions, 'I should like to give that young, naked, statuesque lady my wholehearted support.'

*cough*

Anywho, I would probably say that the the first person to bring this time honoured tradition to my personal attention was a young lady by the name of Erica Roe at Twickenham in 1982.

Aye, she could certainly fill a policeman's helmet could young Erica

(We won 15-11 By the way - Seems that the Aussies may have gotten a little distracted)

To an impressionable fourteen year old boy, she was the very epitome of pulchritude, and the fact that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Sally James didn't hurt either.  It seems that she, and her friend Sarah Bennett (also pictured, being covered up by John Bull, with a Union Flag - Be honest, you hadn't spotted her had you? Me either.) Had gotten a little bit drunk and did it for a dare... How very British!  What's even more British is that she did it in January and it was pretty cold - Which you can see in some of the 'other' pictures that are freely available on the Internet, but it doesn't account for why the Copper is sweating...

However, because I'm a completely law abiding citizen, I must warn you that streaking is currently illegal in the UK and is covered (if you'll pardon the pun) under the Sexual Offences act and, depending on who sees you, what the circumstances are and the sense of humour quotient of the arresting officer, the punishment can range from a hearty 'Put your clothes back on and bugger off.' through, a lifetime ban on entry to the venue where you streaked, to two-years imprisonment and your name on the Sex-Offenders register... Although an £80 fine and a good, hard, quoting of the Public Order act seems to be popular at the moment.

Also, you have to remember though that not so long ago, nakedness was a major part of organised sporting events. Wrestling in the original Olympic Games for instance was originally conducted naked, covered in olive oil too... probably.  Actually, I think that this is as good a time as any, to introduce today's new word...

PLETHRON:  The length/width of a Greek Wrestling square, 100 Ancient Greek (just called Greek at the time, obviously) feet - Which, strangely was the width of the gap in the middle of an Olympic running track... Spooky!

If you'd like to picture the scene, you've got a couple of oiled-up Greek chaps, chasing each other around a 30 meter square of sand making the Zoidberg woop-woop-woop noise, trying to pin someone to the floor, I'm sure you can imagine the opportunities for junk-flappity action that this 'sport' involved.  Although don't get me wrong, it wasn't a free-for-all, there were rules... Some of which included:

• Grasping of the Genitals is prohibited. (which is where it's different from most of you guys' standard Saturday night out I'm guessing.)
• No gouging of the eyes or biting is allowed (see above)
• Infractions should be punished by immediate whipping by the Referee until the undesirable behaviour is stopped.

Is anyone else really surprised that the phrase 'Homo-Erotic' is of Greek origin?

-oOo-

And finally, as this Blog usually comprises my thoughts and experiences, you'll all be glad to know that I, your ever-loving Blogger have, indeed, streaked myself.  It wasn't at a sporting event, because I'm not particularly 'sporty'.

It was however down a busy shopping street, in the center of my home town (Well, city technically I suppose) and was the the upshot of someone saying 'You daren't'.

It seems that 'I certainly do dare'...

It was like the Somme, only with more protein

Another short one for you today.

Partly because I've noticed that the average length of my Blogs is increasing, but mostly because it took me over two hours to get to work today, and I'm probably going to end up being pulled off to do something at some stage - Or at least looking like I am.

Not looking like I'm being pulled off - Not in the office... Good gracious no! How could you possibly think such a thing?

-oOo-

Anyway, I think it might be time for another part of the DogBlog.   You'll remember last time, gentle readers that we were discussing the antics of Saffron, the vegetarian Rottweiler that could attain Warp speed with no external assistance.

A lot of the stories about her feature food, often other peoples' food... Well I say other peoples', I mean it starts off as other peoples' and ends up being hers.

Four dogfood based stories for you today.  Hope you like them.

-oOo-

As has been mentioned before, I used to live quite close to the countryside, which made dog walking very pleasurable   We'd often wander up onto the farmlands, get really muddy and toddle home for a refreshing hose-down in the garden, before wrapping ourselves up in front of the fire, in a tartan car-blanket and drink cocoa until we dropped into a coma.

On this particular Sunday, we had got halfway through the toddling home part of the plan when Saff decided to try an experiment.  She reasoned that if she stopped dead, the check-chain around her neck would loosen and all she would need to do would be to step backwards, and she would be free.  She performed this maneuver successfully and had it away on her paws.  Not into the road, not off down the street like a hairy Starship Enterprise, but through the open front door of one of the houses on our Avenue.

I said something like 'Oh poop! Stop you silly dog, I shall revoke your carrot privileges if you don't stop immediately!'

Then I followed her into the house.

Have you ever walked in, unannounced, on a family, having their high-tea on a Sunday evening? A family that seem to have invited some friends round? A family that had a large selection of sandwiches and salad and other pastries on a coffee table in a kind of smorgasbord for everyone to share? A family whose very fancy repast was being noisily decimated by a muddy rottweiler?

No?

I have... It's suprisingly peaceful - In fact, the only sound, other than that of a dog's jaws snapping open and closed repeatedly was me saying 'I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... Really, I'm really sorry...'

And a small child sobbing in the corner.

-oOo-

Another occasion, myself and a friend of mine (Strangely, this friend is now married to the young lady who dreams of me kicking footballs at her head) were sitting in my back garden on a glorious summers day, enjoying a casual beer or two and some nibbles.  We were sitting on folding garden chairs, you know, those aluminium deckchair things?

Anyway, we were being watched by the dog.  I use the word 'watched' here to describe a huge lump of dog, sat directly in front of the chairs, huge, fat, head some 18" from our plates, slobbering like an incontinent version of Niagara Falls.

My colleague reached down to get his beer and unthinkingly waved his plate an inch too close to her mouth.  The next few things happened almost simultaneously, I will describe them in slow-motion for clarity.

Saff launched herself at the food on the plate, within a femtosecond this was noticed and the plate pulled away and towards Dave's (for that was the gentleman's name) chest.  Unfortunately the food seeking centre of the dogs brain had fully engaged by this stage, and she changed her trajectory mid leap.  Her front paws both landed in Dave's midsection both winding him and pushing him backwards slightly.  As all his weight was now on the back leg of the chair, it folded up - trapping him with his knees up by his shoulder-blades and on the ground. His luncheon hit him in the face, closely followed by a sopping wet rottweiler mouth.

As ever in these situations, as a responsible dog-owner I laughed heartily until I actually wet myself and was unable to breathe.

-oOo-

This photograph, from Facebook, shows the dog we are talking about asking for some ice-cream.

Ahhh! I hear you say.  You know why you say that?  It's because you are not a petrified paperboy.

One day, much like any other day. I was preparing to go out - I can't remember whether I was intending to take the dog with me, but let's say, for the sake of argument that I was.  We were stood in the hallway (The same hallway where we locked her the time she drugged herself) and I opened the front door.

Captain Picard gave the 'Engage' command and she covered the hundred yards between the door and her chosen target in the blink of an eye, without her feet actually touching the ground.  Her target on this occasion was the paperboy, on a BMX bike, with an ice-cream (They should totally include that as one of the options in Cluedo).  Give the kid his due, despite biting his lip and shaking gently, he gave no outward signs of fear and just held his cornet up as high as he could, out of her way.

Which was great, until she, very slowly, reared up on her hind legs, stretched her neck, and bit the top off the ice-cream cone level with his fingers.  I think that it was at that point that he started crying - I did give him a pound to buy a new one though.

-oOo-

And finally, I thought we were all due a 'Greedy Dog gets her come-uppance' style story.

My pigeon-exploding Father, unwitting star of my most popular Blog post ever, had, and in fact still has, a thing about chocolate covered Brazil nuts.  Every Christmas and Birthday, that's the go-to present if we can't think of anything else.  Now, if you don't want to buy the poundshop ones that are covered in the same chocolate they make dog-treats out of, they can be quite expensive.  One Christmas, it was decided that we should try and make our own, so we bought a number of Brazil nuts, along with some very posh chocolate, and made some of our own.  Some... Some... That just filled a Christmas Quality Street tin.

We went out to do some last minute Christmas shopping and came back to find the empty tin on the floor, along with the dog, who was quietly moaning to herself.  The first thought that went through our heads was the old 'But chocolate is poisonous to dogs' thing... No, that's a lie, the first thought was to beat the dog to death with a broom a-la Tom and Jerry.  But we realised that there wasn't a lot we could do and we'd just have to wait and see what happened.

It didn't take long.

She was up and about in an hour or so, and dragged herself into the garden.  The mixture of nut-based roughage and upset stomach combined in a scene from the worst war/horror film ever.

Firstly, the nuts had been completely unchanged by the trip through her digestive system and were coming out whole, at speed, along with some very unpleasant plumbing type 'spattery' noises from one end, and strangled howling from the other.

Secondly, she seemed to think that the pain she was suffering was something to do with her location, so she kept walking around the garden whilst nature was taking its course.  I must admit to laughing when she got too close to the fence and they started richochetting off it.

She never ate chocolate again, in fact she'd actively shy away from it, even dog chocolate.  The next day when I went out in full NBC gear to clear it all up, it'd all disappeared... I'm guessing squirrels - Who knew that they didn't have a sense of smell?

To sleep perchance?

I was thinking about dreams this morning on the way to work, pondering the fact that I can't remember having dreamed for a long time. I appreciate that you often can't remember what your previous night's dreams had been about, but I actually can't remember having any at all recently.

Weird... Maybe I'm overtired, or I'm so good at working out my problems during the day that my brain doesn't need to thrash them out overnight using a tiger with Noel Edmond's face or a three eyed haddock called Raymond who can play the spoons... Pity really... It'd give me some easy bones to throw to you guys.

When I do dream, it tends to be fairly sedentary stuff, real world situations, no flying or turning into an ocelot or a trifle or what-have-you. Just me doing stuff that I would do if I had the time/money/social skills. The only major oddity I can think of is that I've never dreamed about a motorcycle, but I've had many dreams that feature me riding a motorcycle.

That's due a little explanation I suppose, I dream about the act of riding, but as far as I can remember, there's never been a bike. I sort of just float there, in the starfish position, with my hands on non-existant ape-hangers and my feet on completely ficticious forward controls. In fact, I remember having one dream where I tried to ride the (non) bike on several occasions and fell on my ass every time - It transpired that it had been stolen, but I hadn't realised - I actually went to a shop (in the dream) to buy another one, I remember wheeling it (and when I say it, I mean nothing) out of the showroom.

The only other real odd thing that happens to me, and I guess most other sentient life-forms in the Omniverse, is the prophetic or deja-vu dream. It's only snippets that I get, like I'll be dreaming about walking down the road, turning a corner and almost tripping over someone walking an amusing looking dog, and then a couple of weeks later, I'll be walking down the street, turn a corner and there's the dog, with the little wellies and a PVC sou'wester and the 'Please Gods kill me with a length of pipe' expression on its face, whilst the owner carries on about her business not realising what permanent emotional damage she's doing to the poor canine. Never had the lottery numbers though - not so far.

Now, scientists try to tell you that deja-vu is caused by impulses from the eyes being accidentally routed to the memory centres of your brain before being re-routed to the cognitive centres, so you see something, and think that you remember seing it before and then do that double-take, puzzled look, point your finger whilst thinking 'Hang on a second', thing that they do in low-rent comedies that have a laughter track and say 'You have been watching' at the end.

I don't believe that for a second, I think that during sleepy-time, your brain is occasionally hit by a stray Tachyon (a theoretical particle that travels faster than light) and the minute explosion of Cherenkov radiation that's caused by it impacting a live electron in your brain causes you to remember things that haven't happened yet.

Plausible, I think you'll agree.

I also found out recently that according to current theories, all of the people that you see in your dreams are real - I mean, not real, they're dreams obviously, if they were real, physical people and you dreamed about a crowd, then your head wouldn't be big enough to hold them all and it'd like, go POP! or something and there'd be cerebrum all up the bedroom walls when you woke up.

Actually, thinking about it, your head wouldn't be big enough to hold even one physical person would it? Especially if they were wearing a big hat. Aaaaand, you probably wouldn't wake up either. Well, you might, but you might not like celery any more, or be able to smell purple and hear tartan.

But what they actually mean by that is that you haven't made any of these people up in your imagination, you've seen them all somewhere - On the bus or in a shop, you might have pointed at them in a police lineup or said 'Sorry' to them when you bumped into them whlst filming an amusing personal injury compensation lawyer advertisement.

Your brain stores their details for future reference, or for inclusion in dreams, or if they're particularly stereotypical, for thinking about when you're telling a joke that involves a little light racism.

People often dream about people they know, sometimes in unusualy situations. Sometimes it's wish fulfilment, but sometimes you'll dream about things that would make Freud do some interprative street-dance movements in his final resting place in Golders Green (OK, so he was cremated, but you know what I mean).

For instance, a friend of mine (who reads this Blog, whilst walking her dog - which doesn't as far as I know, wear wellies and a sou'wester) once had a dream about me. I know she won't mind me sharing it with you, as she posted it to her Facebook feed herself, and she requested that I write The Further Adventures of the crew of the Edward Teach (Running to FOUR episodes!) - Which I subsequently did, because she was ill in hospital (for all of you who wondered why it was called 'Les Invalides'), so she owes me one.

I'll have to paraphrase what she wrote, as I can't find it on her timeline, but the gist of it was:

"I had a dream last night about an old friend of mine, called Dandy, some of you might know him. Anyway, I was the age I am now, and he was my Dad. I had done something wrong, I don't know what, but he took me to the park for my usual punishment.

This involved him kicking footballs at my head as hard as he could until I learned my lesson, I remember that he was a very good shot."

So, on that dreamscape I'll leave you.

Remeber, dreams aren't real, they're fantasy, you shouldn't be embarrased about them, and you certainly shouldn't make decisions based on their contents.

Till tomorrow... Sweet Dreams Children...

Thermodynamics, it's the law!

Today's story isn't about me... It's about my dear old Dad - If anything, I like to think it goes to prove that whatever I have wrong with me, I probably got from him.

He's a young 84 year old - He's done a huge number of jobs in his long and happy life, from being in the RAF to working as an electrician on the railways and is blessed with a permanently sunny disposition (apart from the times when he's opinionated, rude and kranky)

This particular tale takes place in the (I think) 1960's and shows the healthy disregard for Health and Safety that made this country great.

-oOo-

It was summer, and hot. Hot enought that you could forget the whole frying eggs on the pavement scenario, and jump straight to the 'nylon trousers melting to your body and your conkers exploding' kind of deal.

At the time, my dear old Dad worked for British Oxygen (BOC), a company that makes and bottles all sorts of interesting gasses for industrial and medical uses. As the company name suggests, one of their biggest sellers was oxygen, liquid oxygen. This was stored in large, white tanks, you might have seen one - They're characterised by the fact that the pipes around their base tend to have a thick layer of frost on them.

One lunchtime, he and his cronies decided to go out into the yard to eat their 'snap' as was the colloquial word for a packed lunch at the time. Finding the sun to be a little warm and direct for their tender, British hides, they found respite in the shade of the big liquid oxygen tank. Halfway through their lunch, one of his friends spotted a pigeon, who had obviously landed on one of the pipes and had frozen, quite solid.

My father, who still has a love of physical humour, went and found some welding gloves and broke the bird free (unfortunately leaving its feet behind) and proceeded to marvel at this wonder of accidental science, it's perfect preservation, how peaceful it looked etc. One of his gang thought that a game of football would be the order of the day until it was pointed out that this might be, in some way, disrespectful.

At that very moment, a young and pretty secretary came around the corner and started to walk across the yard. Thinking on his feet, he grabbed the bird from the aspiring Bobby Moore and cradled it in his hands.

'Awww,' He said, 'Did the little birdie fly into the big nasty tank?'

As he said this, three things happened; He stroked the bird gently, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, his friends looked at him as if he had just had a debilitating brain aneurysm, and the secretary's interest was piqued. She started to walk over, all high heels, miniskirt and bouffanted hair and said,

'What's that?'

'It's a pigeon, we think he flew into the tank and knocked himself out... Didn't you little man?'

'Awwww.' Said the girl, leaning closer.

'In fact, we've been looking after him for a while, he's about ready to be released.'

'Really? can I watch?'

'Of course, Off you go little chap, be safe!'

With that, my Dad pitched the frozed pigeon up into the air, whereupon it arced about fifteen feet then crashed down onto the concrete yard and shattered into a million shards.

It's said, that on warm nights, if you're walking past the old BOC works in Derby... You can still hear her screaming.