You're going to Camp Blood, ain't ya?

Well, it's Friday the Thirteenth - The first of the two Friday the Thirteenths of 2013

Have we all been lucky so far?  I've been OK, got to work without too much traffic, my office building wasn't on fire, or flooded (which would have had to have been fairly deep, because I'm on the first floor, or second if you're a colonial) no plagues of locusts, and the rain, i'm reliable assured, is water not blood - Sorry to all the Slayer fans out there.

Does anyone out there know why Friday the Thirteenth is unlucky?  No?  Me either, let's ask the Internet...

OK, it says here (here being Wikipedia, the fount of all knowledge) that the reason Friday the Thirteenth is unlucky is because Friday is unlucky and the number 13 is unlucky.

Well, that doesn't tell us a huge amount does it?  Just let me read ahead a bit...

OK...

Yeah...

That's a bit flimsy...

Uh?

Oh...

It seems that it's all a bit made up really, there's no basis in truth for it - Just like most superstitions... Well, all except not walking under a ladder, that's great advice, often the people at the tops of ladders are carrying paint or buckets of hot rivets, although, in fairness, that may only be in wartime Bugs Bunny cartoons.

We have Geoffrey Chaucer to blame, at least in England, for popularising the Friday part in a book he wrote seven hundred years ago called 'The Canterbury Tales' - It's written in Middle English which can make it difficult to read, unless you are monumentally drunk, when it becomes as easy as going downhill in a shopping trolley - I enclose an example, below:

'We didest, thene decite to goeth forth to Birming-hamme, our merrie bande of yeoman (accompan'd by ourest faire-buxom laydies forsooth) But Barrye didst decry; 'Buggar thatte for a larke, yonne M6 wilt be chokker at thisse tyme of the nyte most definiately on a Fry-Day.  Let us decamp to the pubbe where we canst regaile the local peasantry with stories of The United Man-Chester's footeballe prowesse.'

So you can see how easy it would be to mistranslate, or at least misunderstand something like that, I pretty much copied that out from The Miller's Tale word-for-word and I only gotte.. I mean, got, about half of itte.

And what about the Thirteenth I hear you say? - Well, as far as I can work out, the number 13 is unlucky, purely because the number 12 is supposed to be lucky.  Which makes about as much sense to me as saying beavers have been declared fish by the Catholic Church so Canadians can still have things to eat on a Friday.

(You know all those jokes you thought of then? - keep them to yourselves, this is a family Blog)

There are the other stories about Friday the Thirteenth that everyone 'knows' are true, Jesus being crucified on a Friday for instance, The Knights Templars getting arrested on Friday 13th October 1307 (And with so many things Templar / Freemason / Opus Dei - You can thank Dan 'Explain everything to the Nth degree' Brown for making that one popular) - But on the whole, it's what you make it.

The Italians, don't think that Friday the 13th is particularly unlucky, their unlucky day is Friday the 17th - I'm guessing that they were actually aiming for the 13th, but, well, you know what Italians are like.  They realised that their 'unlucky' project timescale was slipping, shrugged and went 'Ah Never mind-a Luigi, we make-a itte for da next-a Friday'

The Greeks and the Spaniards miss it slightly too, instead plumping for Tuesday 13th, and helping to cause a glut of general unluckiness in central Europe, around the middle of the month.

There are people, people in this case should be taken to mean, swivel-eyed loonies who write in crayon and eat with a rubber spork, that refuse to leave their house, bed, or in some cases, their own craniums on Friday 13th.  This syndrome (because everything's a syndrome nowadays isn't it?) is so prevalent in some countries *cough* America *cough* that hundreds of millions of dollars are lost every year in business revenue because of people staying in bed and crossing themselves repeatedly to ward off the 'bad juju'

The flip side of this of course is that it's actually become the safest day to drive anywhere, because all of the nutters have encased themselves in bubble-wrap and are busily locking themselves in an unplugged chest-freezer that they've scrawled a load of Harry-Potteresqe sigils all over in monkey blood to protect them from evil spirits.  So the roads are clearer and those people who still drive are paying more attention.

Although, saying that, there was a guy stopped by the side of the motorway this morning in a white van... And his propshaft had fell off.

And it's someone's birthday at work today, and the choice of cakes that he brought in for us all to share were, frankly, sub-par and that left me upset and confused.

And I've just snagged my foot on a network cable...

So, scratch everything I've said above, buy yourself a stout hat, arm yourself with a voluminous moustache and a healthy disregard for your fellow man and shout loudly and clearly into the aether...

'Leave me alone Friday the Thirteenth! Go and bother someone else!'

Then encase yourself in bubble-wrap, make sure the freezer's unplugged, and jump right in.

Oh, and try to remember to remove the monkey corpse first - You don't want to accidentally be fingering that in the dark when the lid's slammed shut.

No, chopper as in motorcycle - And Greeks.

In the good old days (for new readers, the 'Good Old Days' was a time, in the past, some 20 or so years ago, where my life involved more beer, more motorcycles and more morally challenged young ladies) there was a Greek restaurant around the corner from our local.  We used to go there on Saturday and Sunday nights, mainly because they used to serve alcohol until about three in the morning and they had a very novel 'Buy two drinks, get one free' deal going on most of the time.

It was called the Village Taverna and run by a chap whom we called called 'Gleekos', which may have actually been his name, but it's more likely one of those playfully racist names that the English gave to people of differing racial backgrounds at the time. He used to wander between his restaurant, the pub and the betting shop bellowing a hearty 'Hey You!' and wave at anyone who acknowledged him.

I think it's a Spanish Tapas bar now, which is a pity - Their Mezzes used to be legendary, well, we used to like them, but I've never actually been there sober, so they could have been made out of cardboard and fish-paste for all I know.   Anyway - To the stories.

-oOo-

Because he was a generous type, had lots of experience with drunks (His wife used to throw them out for him, he was only little) and was one of the few Greek Tavernas that still did plate-smashing, he was very popular with stag parties.  You would often wander past, look through the windows and see crowds of apes in football shirts hooning plates at each other, whilst Gleekos ran around like Woody Woodpecker with his hair on fire, shouting 'No dee surfing playt! - We god da spesh playt for dee smashinge!'

On this particular night, we left the pub and decided to go for a quick stifado and a couple of bottles of retsina.  As we pushed through the little door into the restaurant, it was obvious that there had been a stag night going on.  Gleekos had pushed three tables together and there were slumped bodies all over them.  The man himself was sat on a stool by the bar, rocking backwards and forwards saying 'My byootifull playt, I say no smashinge the surfing playt, they smashinge innit?, iz like they no hears me or sutin.'

We found a table, ordered some drinks and started to take the mickey out of the drunks.  Now, in the dim and distant past, the restaurant had probably been a private house for some 19th Century mid-range toff and the upstairs (where the toilets were) was a bit of a maze. This is something you need to bear in mind for the next bit.

So we were sat there, happily drinking, enjoying a bit of houmous and pitta and suchlike (which we got free because we spent so much money there) when it started to rain.  You know when you're sat there, on a park bench, admiring the view, and you feel the first few drips of rain and you think 'If it gets any harder, I might go home'?  Well, the same was happening to us, but we were in a Greek restaurant, at just before midnight, on a Saturday, indoors.

It took us a few minutes to actually register that we were getting wet, and we called Gleekos across saying 'It's raining mate!'

He lifted his palms to the ceiling, agreed that it was indeed raining and then traced the water to a ceiling fan that was quickly spinning, and flinging water off the ends of the blades.

(Worked it out yet?)

So, he explodes in panic 'Ah godda leak, innit?' and runs upstairs to see if someone had left a tap on.  He came down minutes later, holding a drunk dude by the scuff of his neck, jibbering away at him in Greek and clipping him around the ear.  Turns out that the poor drunk chap had been looking for the gents, couldn't find it, and just decided to relieve himself in a corner.

It had gone through the floorboards, onto the ground floor ceiling and had found its way to the fan housing, which it then dripped down and onto the blades...

-oOo-

This story is completely second hand, told to me by my good friend Jock.

This is him, accepting a trophy for 'Best Chop' at the HAMC's 2006 Bulldog Bash, unfortunately for everyone who knew him, he died shortly afterwards.  I've included the picture to give you some idea of scale in the story that follows.

Jock belonged to a group of like-minded motorcycle enthusiasts called the National Chopper Club.  They would meet socially, very regularly and... How shall we put it? Knew how to have a good time.  He knew Gleekos, as all of us did, which made his restaurant an obvious choice for one of their many robust social gatherings.  It started out very sensibly, there was food and beer, then food and wine, then ouzo and wine, then ouzo, then Mr Sensible picked up his bowler hat, umbrella and briefcase, and left the building.

Sometime during the evening, two middle aged couples had come into the taverna and had chosen to sit as far as was humanly possible from the NCC lads.  All fine and dandy so far, you might think, and it was, until Gleekos started playing 'Zorba's Dance' on the stereo, brought out the 'spesh' smashing plates and it all went a bit 'Anthony Quinn'

(Bit of trivia for you here, Anthony Quinn, who played Zorba in the 1964 film, was actually Mexican... Born in Chihuahua - You've learned something - Thank me later)

So, spurred on by the thought of smashing plates and general pratting about, our heroes decided to have a bit of a dance.  Despite Gleekos' best efforts, it quickly degenerated from a traditional Greek-Cypriot folk dance, to something more like a Bad-Manners inspired can-can.

It was at this point that Jock noticed that one of the women was clapping along - and he did no more than wander over, grab hold of her, and drag her into the pile of broken crockery that had previously been the dance-floor - More dancing ensued, with the mature, but still attractive lady teaching the bikers how to dance.  After the tune was over, Jock escorted her back to her table, politely pulled out her chair for her and thanked her for the dance.

Her husband, who had gone quite purple and sweaty remarked, 'You've done well to get her dancing.' With a fixed, rictus grin.

To which Jock replied, 'Ah don' know whut yer grinning aboot flower, after ah've had a pish, you're next.'

By the time he came back, both couples had, probably not surprisingly, made their excuses and left.

When Jock awoke the next morning, in his own bed, he wasn't alone...

You're assuming that his dance partner had returned aren't you?

Well, I'm afraid she hadn't.  Jock was sharing his bed with a 4 foot square mirror, that had previously been screwed to the wall of the taverna.  Up until the last time I spoke to him, he still had no idea of how or why it'd gone home with him, or why he'd particularly felt the need to take it to bed.  Feel free to fill in the blanks yourselves - You probably won't be that far from the truth, however perverse you are.



I must extend a thank you to Briz at Custom Cycle Developments (Custom Harley Davidson frames and bespoke parts a specialty - Reasonable rates) who provided the above picture of Jock, although he freely admits that he can't remember where he got it in the first place - So, if you actually took it, my apologies, feel free to get in touch and I'll put in a credit for you.

I see a tall, dark stranger

Crap! is it that time already?

Better start Blogging I guess.  I could go for the whole Easter story, what the Bible actually says about it, how it's another stolen holiday that the pagans celebrated ages before Christianity was brought to England, how commercialization has ruined it. How it's a travesty...

But in fairness, I really like chocolate, so it would be a bit two faced of me.

So I sit here, on the verge of a four-day weekend pondering what to re-hash in a humourous fashion and entertain you guys with before you zoom off to Paris for the weekend (or whatever it is that you're telling your workmates you're going to do, we all know you're going to spend the days sat in a dimly lit room playing COD or FIFA, in your pants, whilst the snow falls outside like the cobwebbed cape of Thanatos himself.

So I thought long (lie) and hard (lie) about today's subject... Fortune telling.

There are many ways that people claim to be able to tell the future, there's palmistry (Reading of lines on the palms), hepatoscopy (Reading of entrails), scrying (crystal ball and water-bowl reading) and tasseography (Reading Tea Leaves - Which was a favorite of my paternal Grandmother), to name but a few.

I'm not saying it's all tosh, it could all be cockroach jugglingly true for all I know, but it's very open to abuse... And not in a good way.  In the olden days, anyone who was a bit bald, and a bit mad, and fairly greek, could set themselves up as an oracle, all it took was a bit of narcotic incence, and possibly getting someone from Handmaidens R Us to pop in on a Wednesday afternoon, wear the diaphenous clothes and wiggle about a bit. while you talked about auspicious circumstances, stars rising in the East and the lion lying down with the lamb.

So I got to thinking, I'm a bit bald, and a bit mad, and I like Greek food...

Welcome to the Grotto of Dandyissimus, newest, wisest and most accurate of the new wave of oracular prophets.  Cross my palm with coinage (but not the Euro, obviously, because that's worth less than a dog-fart in a crash helmet) and I will foretell your future with such accuracy as would blind a hamster.

You want a free trial?

Is that the marketing model that you're used to?

OK... Here goes - Some free glimpses into your future, but seeing as you buggers haven't paid me, I'm not going to tell you whose fortunes they are, or whenabouts they're going to happen.  (these are in no way just things I have overheard, or have been told in confidence)

Your husband, who loves you very much, will start living a double life.  Don't worry, he's not gay or having an affair or anything like that.  He finds himself mixing jam, drinking chocolate powder and 'space dust' and spreading it over his body with your best spatula every time you go out.  He will enjoy the feeling at first, but after a while it will become a compulsion, and his usage of it will get more and more extreme.   Things will come to a head when you notice that your toothbrush is sticky and smells of strawberries and every time he breaks wind, it crackles slightly.

An entire group of people, who currently meet under social circumstances will decide, after a celebratory night out, possibly after some kind of sporting event, to have commemorative tattoos.  These will done in ultra-violet ink and will look like random lines drawn all over their bodies.  However, when they stand in a human pyramid, naked, at a local nightclub, the silhouette of Deliah Smith 'tasting a tangy sauce' personally prepared by Heston Blumenthal will be revealed.

Two seperate people, in two wildly seperate locations will start vociferously complaining about the quality of british cheese since we joined the EEC.  MI5, intercepting their (completely seperate) emails will assume that there is some kind of lactose intolerant terrorist uprising on the way and ban the sale of Stinking Bishop and Sage Derby to anyone without a Rolls-Royce.  Questions will be asked in Parliament, which will lead to the leader of the opposition being 'outed' for running his own, black market trade in Dairylea Triangles.

Your wife will decide that her current position as your nearest and dearest, agree-er to your hair-brained schemes and backer-up of your obviously idiotic ideas is no longer enough.  She will start her own business on eBay, buying up surplus fur coats, cutting them up and sewing them back together as suits for those bloody awful sphynx hairless cats.  All will be rosy at first as all over the world people who have mistakenly bought these obscene creatures realise their mistake and buy a new coat for their hairless companions.  Then there will be a short period where sales will fall off due to an expose in the press over allergy issues and then business will boom again as she branches out into fur coats for reptiles who wish to live in arctic areas.  (P.S. she will also discover she is a lesbian and will take you for every penny you have.)

The Government will decide that to bolster the economy, they will put a tax on ducks, only privately held ducks are targeted and the bill (if you'll pardon the pun) flies through Parliament (if you'll pardon the pun) without notice by the general populace.  The next morning you will be visited by agents of Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, demanding £6,000,000 pounds tax on the 20,000 ducks that you purchased from a man that you didn't realise at the time was the Speaker of the House of Lords.

And finally.

One of you out there will realise that that thing that your Aunt left you in her will, that one on the mantlepiece that you hate, but can't bring yourself to throw away, the thing that makes you feel all tingly and nauseous in equal measure.  The one with the purple stone that looks like it glows when you look at it out of the corner of your eye, is the key to the time machine that she had in her cellar.  You'll realise this just after the developer you sold her house to to make a quick buck has bulldozed it and built a housing estate on top.  You spend the rest of your life digging in peoples gardens in the darkness... You disappear one night, never to be seen again.

Happy Pascha to everyone.

Recipe: The 'Yeah, should be fine' Chilli

Originally posted on Facebook 7/10/12

So, with everyone giving it the 'Ohh, I'm cooking the Hairy Biker's Barbeque' or 'I've just made the Hairy Bikers Jam Roly-Poly' - I've decided to share some recipes that me and my old mate Scots Mick used to throw together, In that we've both an interest in motorcycles and we're both (to a greater or lesser extent) hairy.

The 'Yeah, should be fine' Chilli

1. Hang around outside a function room that's holding a badly attended party.
2. After the few guests leave and the organisers troop out with the food, muttering about what a waste it all is, ask them 'Are you going to throw that away?'
3. Look at them like Puss in Boots from Shrek
4. Realise that that doesn't really work when you're not a cartoon
5. Get them to empty everything off the plates and platters into a bin liner.
6. Go home and pour the contents of the bin liner into a cauldron
7. Pour in a couple of cans of chopped tomatos
8. Add a bottle of chilli sauce.
9. Put on a slow heat and stir, occasionally saying things like 'Is that cauliflower?' and 'Should we have taken the bread off the egg mayonnaise sandwiches first?'
10 Go to pub
11 Leave pub, remembering that you don't need to go to the Greek as you have hot food at home
12 Divide the chilli up between all willing participants, setting aside anything you can't actually recognise
13 Eat, incredibly gingerly
14 Wish you'd gone to the Greek

Coming soon: The Baby Carrot and Concussion Chilli (With Rottweiler Sauce)