Are You Experienced?

What're the two most infuriating words that any parent will hear from their children ever, in their lifetime? I don't mean the really scary ones like 'I'm pregnant' or 'It's broken' or 'On fire'. I mean the ones that you hear every weekend and every school holiday and every advert break during an otherwise immensely exciting program?

Yes, that's right, 'I'm boooooored!'

The little cherub, who you not so long ago bought the entire collection of Moshi Monsters for? Who you queued for at 07:30am a week before release day to make sure she was the first of her friends to own the new One Direction CD that detailed not only their tour dates, but a scratch and sniff sampling of their underwear drawer? Who has demanded, and received, every type, style and colour of Nintendo games system past, present and future?

We must have spent the GNP of Lesotho on toys etc. for the Dandies, both Mini and Micro, over their respective lives. But both of them would much rather sit in front of a PC or Laptop or iPad and watch YouTube videos. If for some reason you temporarily take away this dubious privilege, say they've been zoned out for six hours solid, or you actually need to use the device yourself. You get a selection of sighs that could extinguish an Australian forest fire and the occasional theatrical flounce onto the sofa.

There are cries of 'I'm bored!',

To which my normal reply is, 'No, you're lazy!'

And then I go on to enumerate all the things that they could be doing instead, which in fairness gets more and more ridiculous every time - It'll start off as 'Play on the Wii, or the Playstation, watch a DVD, walk the dog, wash the pots, draw a picture...' and ends up with, 'Shave the cat, iron a herring, translate Harry Potter into Klingon, laminate a duck...' By this time they've usually stopped listening, wandered off or slipped into a narcoleptic coma - All of which, I consider to be a win.

But I realised recently that it's not just kids that do this, maybe it's my particular group of friends, but for evey Facebook update I see on my timeline that says 'Today I got up, felt great, walked the dog, took an artistic photo of a thing, made something tasty for lunch and did stuff with a person until my eyes rolled back in my head when I OD'd on the greatness of it all,' there's twenty seven that say, 'Aren't people rubbish, I'm staying in bed, there's nothing to do, it's raining, everybody stop picking on me, it's everybody else's fault, wah-wah-wah!'

For Gods' (yes, pedants, that apostrophe IS in the right place) sake people DO SOMETHING! If your life is crap, do something about it, find out what's wrong and change it. There's no situation that anyone is in that is insurmountable. Then again, you might counter with any or all of the below;

'But I've got depression!' To which I would reply 'Me too!' diagnosed and prescribed for, but the one thing I took to heart is what my Doctor said just before signing the green slip that I took to the pharmacist, 'Mr Dandy, this isn't a cure, this is just to make life easier for you whilst you figure out what's wrong and sort it out.' - Which is exactly what I did, and I'm proud of myself for doing it. I know it's often easier said than done, and I know that a lot of people's triggers are more difficult to sort out than mine, but you're never going to feel any better unless this happens. (P.S. if they offer you CBT, even if there's a long waiting list - Say 'Yes please' - I've seen this really work well... If you go to your CBT appointment and they ask if you need to borrow a helmet and gloves, don't panic, it just means they've booked you on Compulsory Basic Training, not Cognitive Behaviour Therapy - Just go with it, fewer people who can ride motorcycles are depressed - That's a fact... Probably.)

'But I'm missing a leg!' Life's harder with a disability, I truly appreciate that and I've not experienced it first-hand myself, so I'm not really qualified to judge. (Unless you count an inability to stop correcting people on their pronunciation as a disability - It seems the people who give out the Blue Disabled Parking badges don't... Fascists!) But you hear stories every day of people who have conquered seemingly insurmountable odds to achieve what their doctors said was impossible... Be one of those people. If you need a bit of a lift in this department, Google a guy called Taylor Morris, and then try keep a straight face whilst you tell the Dole Office that you can't make it to the shops because you've got a bit of a dicky ankle.

'But I'm thick!' Well, that's as may be, but you can't let lack of education hinder your dreams, book yourself on a course at your local school. Learn about something you're interested in to start with - just to get you back into it, then try learning something that might help you take the next step towards happiness. You never know, you might be lucky and those two things are one and the same. If you can't do this, due to having to look after your young or similar, become a member of your local library, borrow books and actually read them - There are, quite literally, worlds to discover.

'I'm in the middle of nowhere with no transportation!' Walk, no... seriously... walk. There's nowhere (OK, barring islands etc) on the mainland United Kingdom that isn't accessible by you leaving your house, locking the door behind you and walking in the right direction for long enough - It might take a while, you might need to take a snack and maybe a thermos with you but seriously, you can do it. We've only had the Infernal Combustion Engine for the past hundred and thirty years. What do you think people did before that? It wasn't bitch and moan and lie in their own filth watching repeats of Jeremy Kyle all day I can tell you.

'I'm broke!' Me too, again, sorry. I sit around all the time going, 'I could just eat a raisin and biscuit Yorkie, shame I'm broke!' I normally say this in my living room, surrounded by CDs I don't listen to and DVDs that I'll never watch again. If you can't afford to buy the stuff you need (not want, don't waste your money on things you want, spend it on stuff you need, you know, carrots rather than beer and stuff like that) then sell something that you don't need quite as much.

'But!' - This is, without doubt, the most invidious word in the English language, people usualy use it to explain why they're not going to do something. Examples include 'I'd take the dog for a walk, no problem, BUT I've got some some completely ficticious stuff that I've already arranged to do' and 'Yeah, I realise that this is a very important issue, BUT It doesn't effect me directly, so I don't care.' Do me a favour people, if you feel the need to use this word at all, use it in a positive way, as characterised by the axiomatic T-Shirt slogan 'I'm not a gynaecologist, BUT I'll take a look at it for you.' - Embrace the chance to do things, even if they're new, scary and have a medium to high risk of you getting slapped by a complete stranger. At least you'll be meeting new people.

I know that this has all been very flippant, because that's what I do, this is ostensibly a humour Blog after all. I do try and keep it light even when I rant.

And I understand that there are those people who are housebound due to circumstances beyond their control, for whom there is no available assistance, this was not directed at them in any way.

BUT, The rest of you, seriously, grab your life by the nuts and shake every single, solitary experience you can out of it - I'm fat, lazy, bald, not particularly attractive and don't have a huge circle of friends and even I've had enough experiences that I've thought are interesting enough that people would enjoy hearing about them here. (Rightly or wrongly).

Just imagine what things a svelte, vigourous, hirsute, beautiful person like yourself could get up to! - Don't hold yourself back with insecurity, propel yoursef forward with childishness and a blindness to your own inadequacies.

Just like I do!

If you do do this, feel free to tell me all about it via email and you never know, I might include your success story here, in these very pages.

Well, in fairness - I wasn't hungry

OK. It's Friday and we're all (well, those of us in the UK at least) bracing ourselves for the chaos that a flash blizzard containing a whole 3" of snow will bring to us this afternoon.

Roads will close, electricity lines will be brought down, ice-cream sales will drop by 5%, lions will lie down with lambs, and most importantly, brie and pate will be slightly more difficult to cut.

But I don't 'do' weather reports on this Blog, I try not to cover the standard, the usual and the mainstream - That's what Facebook's for. So I intend to perform a handbrake volte-face, whilst everyone is shivering in their caves, hiding from the winter's frozen bite, I will complete the story that I started yesterday, and tell you snippets of the sweatiest night of my life.

-oOo-

As was covered fully in yesterday's post, the Memsahib and myself had found ourselves inveigled into a group of towering transvestites, en-route to one of Europe's premiere parties for the momumentally uninhibited. I had just become Western Europe's newest Gay Icon and the night was still young.

We wandered from the pub, which was virtually next-door to the venue, The Hammersmith Palais (Sadly, no longer with us) and joined the queue of deviants. I remarked to Patrick-Mary, or possibly Brian-Fifi that there were a number of people there who weren't exactly 'dressed for the occasion', he smiled and knodded, as if to a child who had just asked why the sky was blue, and replied,

'Ah, a lot of the more hardcore types can't, or won't, really wear their gear out in the real world, there are changing rooms inside,'

I pondered on this for a while, I was still a little bit vanilla at the time, but thought it was odd that these people would be embarrassed about, well, anything really. We reached the front of the queue in short order and after being given a quick look up and down by the security staff and a read of about a thousand signs that explained what would happen to you if you were found taking pictures without a press-pass, we entered the hall proper.

What would be the best way to describe the scene? Have you seen Blade 2? There's a party scene in that film that is about the closest to my first impression of that room. Except that there was slightly less gunfire and the attendees of this party were significantly cooler, to the point of being, well, not exactly indescribable - Because there wouldn't be much point in me trying to describe them I guess, but they were certainly 'unusual'.

I'll describe a few of the more memorable guests:

I'm not sure how many of you are conversant with the work of Thomas Gainsborough, the 18th Century painter? But there was a couple there dressed in costumes inspired by his work. However, instead of being made of richly coloured silks and velvets, they were made of PVC, with a giant, yellow and black, houndstooth check pattern, and they were full coverage... As in they were wearing gloves and Luchador style (gimp) masks (with hats on top). I later found out that these were one-piece costumes with a long, single zip up the back from... Erm... crotch to top of the head - Please don't ask me how I found this out...

There was a young lady with an incredible powder blue crinoline shepherdess costume, also made of PVC, complete with white PVC underskirts - Odd you'd think, but not out of the ordinary, you might even just get away with it at a normal fancy dress party. She did have a lamb with her too... Well, I say a lamb, it was actually a hairy gentleman, on his hands and knees, being led around on a collar and lead... He wasn't the only one of these, but he was one of the few wearing pants.

An unusual gentleman, who seemed to have a very particular, I hesitate to use the word fetish, but I probably should. He was wearing a suit made of what I would describe as 'dummy' rubber - That thick, yellow tinged clear rubber that baby's dummy are made of... It had no seperate arms, these were constricted by his sides, and his legs were similarly constrained (I think, although I may be wrong - I remember wondering whether he'd been placed there by a friend or he'd shrugged his way there like 'The Very Perverted Catterpillar'). He spent the entire night lying in the doorway of the Ladies Conveniences, occasionally thanking the people who took the time to tread on him, with stilletos. And you'll notice I said people, not ladies, as both the wearers of the footwear, and the gender of toilet user were fairly mix and match.

The last people who particularly stick in my mind were a very accomodating couple... We went to have a sit down, after and hour or so of being bombarded with Dutch Techno music and performers taking angle-grinders to their codpieces and found a seat opposite them. The young lady was sturdily built and topless. I will not even try to estimate her cupsize, but I'm fairly sure it was at the end of the alphabet where the high-scoring scrabble tiles live. She was providing a service for her boyfriend, normally reserved for hungry new-born babies and for some reason frowned upon in train carriages.

Once he'd had his fill, as it were, he stood up, thanked the young lady, shook the hand of the almost skeletal gentleman sat on the other side of her. (Which I thought was the most insanely British thing I had ever seen in my life) and walked off. It turns out that the skinny chap was her boyfriend and the gentleman with the brand new milk moo-stache was simply a fellow partygoer. He looked at me, rasied his eyebrows, and pointed at his partner. I shook my head, waved my hand in a negative fashion and patted my stomach - Immediately thinking that me not wanting to suckle from his girlfriend/wife because I wasn't hungry was probably not the reply that he was expecting.

We made our excuses and left.

The rest of the evening (Well, early hours of the morning to be exact) passed without many other major incidents, we bumped into our friends a few times, we were 'halloooed' and flashed from the balcony by our new-found transvestite horde, we talked to some people who I've since found out were 'famous' in that particular scene and through them, got invited to a couple of after-parties.

We didn't attend them unfortunately, the thought of getting a cab halfway across town, partying until lunchtime and then doing the walk of shame back to the hotel didn't sound that appealing - And I was pretty tired. But given the chance again... I'd be there like a shot, and you should too. And I now fully understand why a significant number of people there were virtually naked...

PVC's bloody hot to wear...

Then I posed, and he took my picture

Some of you, mainly the people who've known me a while, or worked with me, or attended a formal event that I've gone to, or helped me celebrate a birthday, will know that I occasionally make and wear kilts. Not for any real ancestral reason, although the Dandy line is almost certainly blessed with a bewildering array of Scottish blackguards and jackanapes.

I just like messing with people's heads, and, as has been mentioned in multiplicity before, I am a massive show-off - And there're few things more likely to get you noticed in public than having your knees out and not wearing any underwear - You ask any woman between the ages of 16 and 40.

However, there are times when even wearing a kilt sees you fading into the background, Highland events for instance, or weddings of whacky and/or self-important people. The thing to wear on these occasions, for the fashion concious Dandy at least, would obviously be something like full Roman Imperial battledress or the rear half of a pantomime horse. This situation vexes me greatly, the Chimping Dandy does not do 'fading into the background' easily.

Which is bizarre really, because on one occasion, I was in a room with over a thousand, like-minded, people - And I was probably one of the most conservatively dressed people there, and I had a marvellous time.

Many, many, years ago, I used to work with a young lady, quite pretty, moderately shy, and very efficient at her job. If you looked up the phrase 'Butter would not melt in her mouth' in a dictionary of phrases (if such a thing exists) there would be a picture of her. After we both left the company, we kept in touch by eMail, as Facebook etc. did not exist at the time.

One day, I received an email from her that said something along the lines of, 'We're going to a show in London and can get you some cheap tickets if you're interested'. Now, not being blessed with children at the time, both Mrs Dandy & myself jumped at the chance and immediately started to prepare.

Prepare? I assume that you're asking, 'Why would you have to prepare for a London Show? Unless it was Rocky Horror? Was it Rocky Horror?'

No...

It wasn't...

The young lady in question, and her significant other of the time, had developed certain... erm... Shall we say 'Peccadillos'? that made them very popular with other, like minded, couples (Don't get excited, that's not where this story is headed - Not exactly anyway) - And the show in question was: Skin-Two Magazine's Rubber Ball.

Google it... But probably not at work...

It's a jolly get-together for people who enjoy dressing up and pushing the envelope, or being naked and being sealed in an envelope. And they really won't let you in if you're wearing 'Smart-Casual'. So I put on my Seamstress' head (The one I keep in the freezer for situations just such as these) And knocked up a couple of costumes. I made a PVC hobble-skirt for Mrs Dandy - Which was more zips than PVC. And for myself, I made a kilt, also out of PVC (Which, for those who wish to replicate the experience, is a right, royal, bitch to iron pleats into).

We booked a VERY nice hotel in London, a couple of First-Class train tickets, and waited.

On the night in question, we'd all agreed to meet in a pub around the corner from the venue in, I think, Hammersmith. Of course, when we got there, they were nowhere to be seen (Turns out that they'd 'bumped into some old friends in the hotel' - repeatedly, in several different positions, I'd imagine), but the place was full, almost to bursting, of clinically odd people. We found a table with a couple of spare stools and proceeded to wait.

We shared the table with three giant transvestites, I don't mean they were really, really, transvestite... I mean that they were all just shy of 7 feet tall. I really wish that I could remember their actual names, but I'm just going to have to make them up, they were great... guys?... And introduced themselves with both their male and female names - 'I'm Patrick-Mary, He's Brian-Fifi and that guy at the bar's Steve-Tracey'.

One was dressed in an outfit completely made of car-mats, which gave... him... a distinctly Female Klingon vibe, one was dressed as a bald Nun, with a PVC habit (the clothing item, not the lifestyle choice), but with the buttock area cut out, and the other was dressed in sort of a neon Flashdance ensemble which left very little to the imagination for either his male or female 'identities'.

We spent a happy couple of hours, swapping stories, such as we could with our limited knowledge of this type of thing - it turned out that we'd all turned up unfashionably early. And 'Patrick-Mary' was just telling us about the time his wife came home early and found him dressed in her wedding underwear and pleasuring himself with the toilet-brush when I felt a hand on my shoulder and a German voice said,

'Excuse me, may I haf a vord?'

I looked up and saw a bald, stocky gentleman, with a magnificent handlebar moustache, wearing a tight white T-shirt and a significant amount of rubber/leather.

'My friends unt I noticed vat ju are vearing vhen you vent to ze bar, ve vere vonderink if you minded us takink a few photos?'

I looked at Mrs Dandy, she shrugged, I looked at our new found friends, they grinned and excitedly gave me the thumbs-up. I stood, and then followed the German chap to the other side of the room, where a table of similar gentlemen, clad in various wipe-clean outfits were sat, along with a collection of suspiciously professional looking cameras.

'Ju stand zere und ve take a few photos, yes?'

I nodded, still not 100 percent comfortable with the situation, but did my best to strike a pose that didn't make me look like I'd stepped from the pages of the Littlewoods catalog.

'Nein, nein, nein... More... er... GRRRRRR!'

I did the 'Hulk-Smash' pose, you know where you grit your teeth, and sort of bring your arms into your chest and bend over (towards the camera, before you ask).

'Jah, Jah, ist gut... Now er... More sidevays!'

We were starting to attract a bit of a crowd, and if I'm honest, I was well out of my comfort zone, but it was all in fun and no-one seemed to be taking themselves too seriously (apart from one of the photographers, who REALLY looked to be enjoying himself) - It probably didn't take more than five minutes, it felt like a lifetime though.

'Gut, jah, I sink zat iz enough... Can ju just sign zis?'

They handed me what I assume was a model release form and offered to buy us all a drink, which we accepted. We were there for about another hour before we decided to head off to the event proper. As we left, the chap with the moustache waved and called,

'The magazine should be out next month!'

I might save the sights, sounds and smells of the actual Ball for another episode - I think it probably deserves one of its own.


So, if you ever find yourself rambling in the German countryside, and happen across a gentleman's art pamphlet, designed for one-handed reading, lying unloved in the bottom of a hedgerow, and think you recognise someone in a two-page photospread...

You might not be wrong.

We don' need no steenking dipthongs

This isn't a new blog, I originally published it on the 23rd. January 2013... It was one of my first - I've updated it a little because things have changed over time (as things tend to do) - If you remember it, you should feel free to skip to the bottom and see what I'm banging on about.

-oOo-

Today's Blog was suggested by my good friend @PedroVader1138 - The basic premise that is, not the theme. I mean, he's not mad or anything.

It's the (almost completely) true account of the Micro-Dandy's first, confirmed, lone kill. Only the setting, era, style, state and type of target, age of hunter, language and most of the other salient facts have been changed to maintain its artistic merit.

-oOo-

The hunter lay hidden in the snow, the cold dampness soaking into his furs as he looked down the ridge at the village below. All was quiet, the only movement, apart from the curl of smoke rising from the long-house chimney, was the sullen dawdle of the single huscarle on guard outside as he circled the building, whistling a tune that Mal Ak'hai didn't recognise. The full moon caught the boss of his shield, and brought the raised kraken motif into sharp relief.

He rose slowly from his prone position and brushed the loose snow from his furs. Moving around the ridge until the whistling huscarle was directly between him and the main building, not wanting his approach to look like he was trying to sneak and cause alarm. It took the man on guard a few minutes to notice his approach.

'Stoppe der!', He yelled, slowly raising his sword.

'I am here to see the Krakensdottir,' shouted Mal, the snow deadening the echo so that his voice sounded flat and emotionless, 'I have heard of your problem, I am here to help.'

The sword was lowered, equally slowly, to be replaced with an empty hand,

'Vent her,' ordered the guard, pointing at the spot where the hunter was stood, his Norse was rusty, but he knew enough to stay where he was.

The door opened and closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He looked up into the clear night sky, noticing that the constellation of Orion was directly over his head, and laughed, if that wasn't a good omen, he didn't know what was. He could hear the grumble of conversation from inside the long-house, the few words he could pick out made it plain they were talking about Him,

'Jeager... Frysning... Daemon... Ubevaebnet...'

The last one confused him... He was indeed a hunter, and he was definitely freezing, he was here to help with their demon problem, but unarmed? He wasn't unarmed, he looked down at the hilt of his sword, Lyssvaerd, clipped to his belt. Stroking the smooth length of hand forged sky-iron he smiled, he was about as far from unarmed as it was possible to be.

The opening of the door and a beckoning hand drew him back from his thoughts. He entered the long-house and was immediately blinded by the sheer number of torches that lined the walls and the size of the bane-fire in the middle, he was surprised that any snow survived within a mile.

'Hvad er dit navn?' Asked an aged man, clad in wolf fur and strips of studded leather.

'My name? My name is Mal Ak'hai, I am a hunter from the south, I heard that you had a problem with a d...'

'Pschh!' spat the old man, putting his hand in front of the hunter's mouth and stopping him talking. 

He turned to look at a figure that was barely visible beyond the fire and called,

'Hans navn er Mal Ak'hai! Han er en jeager fra sid!'

'I understand the language of the south, bring him to me.' The female voice, though obviously strong, conveyed notes of tiredness and stress.

He was led by the elbow around the fire and towards the voice. The heat seared his face as he passed, close enough to see the pile of crumbling bones at its heart. He looked up, into the face of Alfrun Krakensdottir, new leader of the Kraken clan, ever since her father had died on their last raid to Vinland, she had led the hundred or so remaining norsemen to times of plenty and prosperity. Until, that is, they had come upon their current trouble.

'Failures,' she said, noticing where he had been looking.

'Failures?'

'Yes, we recover the remains of people like you and burn them, it speeds their journey.'

She stared deep into the fire, 'I'm sure it does.'

'Yours will be the 17th body that we burn.' 

Alfrun looked at him with sadness, and a certain amount of longing. She thought that he was handsome, at least in the style of the south, but his hair was blonde and he would have had no problem passing for a Norse prince, if he survived.

'What makes you so sure that you'll be burning my remains? If you don't think anyone can succeed in this quest, why have you had your men travel the country asking for help?'

'We were looking for a hero, one that we could write sagas about, one who's song would be passed down through the ages, that is not you, you come unarmed to the fight.'

'Unarmed?' He looked down at Lyssvaerd, hanging unnoticed at his side, then back up at the warrior queen, 'I will do this thing for you, and I will not be more fuel for your fire.'

'You will go alone to the clearing in the forest to the east of here, that is where the demon makes his home. You must stop him, he raids our farms and kills our children, we find our animals frozen when the sun comes up and the well is solid ice. We cannot last much longer, there will be a bounty... and more'

The hunter bowed, turned, gave the bane-fire one last meaningful glare and walked out into the night, ignoring the shaking heads of the assembled norsemen and their hushed mumblings,

It took two hours for him to reach the clearing. The moon shone down creating short shadows which could serve only as hiding places for rabbits; the demon was not there. The recent snow had covered the tracks of previous heroes, but large patches tinged gently pink showed where they had met their end. He walked slowly, but confidently, out into the moonlight, took Lysswaerd from her thonging and called out to his prey.

'Come and face your end, demon, I have come to save the people of the Kraken clan, leave them in peace or die!' His words echoed around the forest, but apart from a fall of snow triggered by a bird roused from his slumber, there was no reply. 'Filth! come and face me, stop hiding behind your mother's skirts and fight, I am your doom!'

With the sound of a calving glacier, the snow behind the hunter began to rise, climbing into the night sky one hundred feet or more. Its features slowly resolved into those of a demon, with a goat's head and human body.

'Jeg er Hati, der spiser manen!' it howled, it's voice like the tumbling of thunder.

'You are Hati, and you eat the Moon?' Shouted the hunter, 'Why would you eat the Moon?'

The demon paused, looked down in momentary confusion, and replied with a swipe of his giant claws. The hunter jumped aside at the last moment and pressed the stud on the side of Lyssvaerd. A shining blue blade sprung from the hilt and severed the demon's paw at the wrist, as it fell, it turned back into pure, virgin powdered snow. The demon howled even louder, shaking the snow from the trees, and spun around to find his rapidly circling foe.

'Last chance demon!' Screamed the hunter, and held his glowing sword high above his head.

The demon lunged, changing form into a giant dire-wolf with it's maw open, breathing a plume of hoar-frost. The hunter jumped back just out of range of the freezing blast, but tripped on a root hidden under the snow and fell heavily, stunning himself. The impact jarred his sword from his hand and the blazing blade disappeared with a hiss.

Sensing that the game was nearly over, Hati reared once more. He inhaled deeply, intending to freeze the hunter to his very core and stamp him onto shards so small that his bones could never be burned. The giant wolf's head fell towards the hunter, it's icicle teeth bared, the howl of the coming ice-storm reverberated from the far foothills and his eyes closed as the strike came. The hunter rolled, grabbed his sword, loosed the blade, and severed the demon's head with a single stroke. With a sound like the breaking of a thousand glass pianos, the demon exploded into chunks of ice and fell to the ground. As dead as it was possible for a demon to be.

The hunter lay panting in the debris, trying to get his breath back. He looked around the glade, trying to find some proof that the battle had actually taken place, if someone happened across the scene now it would just look like he'd been smashing a block of ice, and none too expertly at that. His eye chanced upon a glinting object, slightly brighter than the surrounding snow. He levered himself to his feet and picked it up, it was a spherical diamond, the size of a watermelon, when he held it up to the sky, he could see the feint impression of a wolf's eye. This would be his proof, and his dowry, Alfrun Krakensdottir would be his queen, and his saga would be told until the Earth froze.

(OK, what actually happened was my son knocked the head off the snowman we'd all built with a stick... But who'd want to read about that?)

If you're interested in what happens next, you could always read the next installment 'What a waste of good pork'

-oOo-

Why have I reissued this story you might ask? - Well, It's World Book Day today (2nd March 2017) and Facebook reminded me of a day, one year ago, where my son went to his school's World Book Day celebration as Mal Ak'Hai Jeageren - He even took a copy of my book 'Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin' with him, to show that he was really a book character... Not that anyone really cared, but he's a stickler for the rules.

My son as Mal Ak'Hai Jeageren, with his bladeless sword, Lyssvaerd

Blogging Blues

(Sung to the tune of every Blues song ever)


Well, ah woke up this mornin',

an' ah couldn't think what to Blog.

Ah say ah woke up this mornin'

an' ah couldn't think what to Blog.

Then ah, got inta work,

and ideas weren't quite as forthcoming as I initially would have wished.


You see, that's the problem with setting yourself unrealistic targets. When I started this Blog, I said to myself;

'Dandy, you're a funny guy - people say it so it must be true, why don't you spend an hour or so each day, writing down funny stuff to make people snigger whilst they're walking their dogs or on the bus or having their lunch somewhere where you're not supposed to bring your own food?'

It's given me a chance to think about some of the, well, quite frankly unbelievable stuff that's happened to me over the past *cough* too many *cough* years. You've had tales of personal injury, idiocy, idolatry, isolationism, irradiation, irony, ineptness, infringement of animal rights and eyes (See what I did there?) and I hope you've enjoyed them.

But I have to apologise, I can't think of a single, solitary funny thing to write about today. Mind you, I think you've done well, you've had something pretty much every day for the past three months, barring work commitments and Janet Street-Porter.

I'm sure normal service will be resumed tomorrow - In fact, I'll probably think of something the second I publish this, kind of like a humourous l'esprit de l'escalier (a French phrase that means thinking of a witty comeback just too late - Literally 'Staircase Wit' - Isn't this Blog a wonderful learning experience? - I should work for the DfE - I wouldn't have shut all the local schools because of the snow so quickly I can tell you!)

In fact, thinking about it, foreign languages have a lot of words that we don't have direct translations for, for instance:

The German words Kummerspeck, which means the excess weight you put on when you're depressed (Grief fat), and Waldeinsamkeit, the feeling you get when you're alone in the woods.

The Japanese use the words Bakku-shan to describe a young lady who is very attractive, but only when viewed from behind, and Arigata-meiwaku, which is when you are forced to feel thankful for someone who has done you what they think is a favour, even though you really didn't want them to, but they did it anyway and then screwed it up and caused you more trouble.

Anywho, there are a bucketload more of these floating around the Interweb, have a search for them - Maybe you could use the time that you would normally spend reading this Blog.

See you tomorrow, hopefully I'll have thought of something by then.

And David Attenborough was no-where to be seen

As promised on Friday, today I will regale you with the story of the day when I trod on a penguin.

It started like any one of a thousand other Saturday evenings, the kids had gone to bed, there was a half-decent film about to start on Sky Premiere (other broadcasters are available), dinner had been successfully eaten and all was right with the world. Apart that is, from one glaring omission...

The whiskey, and its partner in crime, the slightly oversized glass, were still in the kitchen - a whole floor away, rather than being on the table next to the sofa - within lunging distance. I stretched out my hand and concentrated reeeeaaaaly hard... But unlike Luke, in the Wampa cave, with the lightsaber, it didn't spring into my outstretched paw. I asked Mrs Dandy if she was thinking of going down to the kitchen for anything in the near future, but the withering look she gave me told me that I was actually going to have to get up and service myself.

So I struggled to my feet, trudged the length of the lounge and started downstairs - The thought of impending alcohol the only thing keeping me going. It was this momentary lapse of concentration and premature ribaldry that led to my, quite literal, impending downfall.

We've all trodden on things going down the stairs haven't we? Especially those of us lucky enough to be blessed with children. But how many of us can say that we've trodden on things that are roundish, possesed of small, almost fur-like injection moulded feathers, usually found in the antarctic and of a piscavorian persuasion? Contrary to millions of years of evolution, the penguin (for it was he - But I was unaware of this fact at the time) flew across the stairwell, bounced off the clock and disappeared into a boot that I wear very infrequently.

I however, performed an almost perfect vertical triple salchow and finished with an impressive three point landing, the points being the heels of both hands and my left buttock - The assembled audience of the downstairs bookcase, my cashmere crombie and my amusingly ironic cowboy hat all gave me 6.0 for execution, but minus several million for good thinking*.

I proceded to slide down the remaining stairs in the style of a dimensionally blessed Homer Simpson, complete with the '*bang* Ah... *bang* Uh... *bang* Sunnova... *bang* d'oh...' soundtrack, belting my wrists and behind on every single step. When I came to rest, in a heap, at the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that my left forearm looked a bit 'funny' and was flopping about to the point where, apart from the excruciating pain, I could have quite easily done the David Brent, floppy arm-y dance without relying on the optical illusion.

I cradled the offending limb, in much the same way as my Father did the frozen pigeon and let out a distress call to alert Mrs Dandy that her assistance was required. She came to the top of the stairs and peered into the gloom.

'Are you OK?' she asked, 'Only, I heard a noise'

'I'm fine,' I replied, calmly, 'I could do with a hand in the kitchen if you've got a second.'

'The film's due to start, shall I pause it?'

'Yes, that'd be for the best, it might take a few minutes.'

I stood up, gingerly, and walked to the kitchen, opening the door with my good shoulder, I turned to Mrs Dandy and said,

'I need you to hold something for me and not let go.'

'Oh, really?' She replied, smiling, grasping the wrong end of the stick entirely.

'No, not that, this.'

I proffered the limb in question. which took this opprtunity to flop alarmingly in the wrong direction. Mrs Dandy's visage took on an ashen colour and she backed away.

'Erm... nope,' she squeaked, quite sensibly, 'Go to the hospital.'

'Casualty? On a Saturday night? With my reputation?', I quipped, trying desperately to make her feel more comfortable, 'Look, all you have to do is hold on, it's a really simple dislocation, as it swings, I can feel it wanting to go back in.'

On the whole, this didn't have quite the calming effect that I'd initially thought, and Mrs Dandy's complexion went from grey to white.

'OK, really, just grab my wrist, I'll try and pull it out of your hand, but don't let go - It'll pop back in, then we can go and watch the film.'

'Erm... I don't know.' She said, reaching for my wrist.

I contemplated yelling out as she touched it, but thought better of it. She took hold, braced herself against a cupboard, and closed her eyes, pushing aside the obvious similarities to our wedding night, I gritted my teeth and yanked my left arm back. Apart from a few stars appearing behind my eyelids, and having to resist the urge to invent a couple of new expletives, nothing happened. It seemed that Mrs Dandy hadn't been quite prepared for the violence on the movement involved. My arm waved around at my side like a particularly boneless octopus.

'Shall we give that another go?'

'No, just go to the hospital...'

'Look, really, it will only take a second, you just really need to hold on.'

So, my wrist was dutifully grabbed, the slack was taken up, nods of implied readiness were exchanged and I threw myself backwards. This time Mrs Dandy was ready, she kept hold of my wrist, my humerus and ulna seperated and reloacted with a loud *schlock* and I swore, loudly and earthily.

'I'm just going to have a bit of a sit-down,' I said as I slid to the floor, quite dizzily.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, the occasional twinge perhaps, but nothing more than that. The bruising came out nicely and the story joined the ranks of those that get told when anyone mentions falling down the stairs, whisky, dislocations, stairs, McDonalds, hats, trees, carpet or the number 43 bus (i.e. any time I can shoe-horn it in)

In actual fact, nothing was really mentioned about it until a couple of weeks later when I decided to wear a particular pair of boots. Giving rise to a phrase that I have only uttered once, but may well have printed on a T-Shirt one day;

'Why is there a penguin in my New Rocks?'

　


*(c) Douglas Adams 1978

It was like the Somme!

Well, here we all are, sat in anticipation of a 'Snow Day' - News reports warning of a massive 6" of snow being expected in 'some areas' during today.

Schools are closed, motorways are empty, people are panic-buying bread, beer and lubricant in case they get snowed in. I know that I for one will be spending the day staring out of the window watching students at the University over the road falling comically on their self-important backsides.

While we're on the subject of self important backsides...

A long-time friend of mine once shared my Blog on Twitter/Facebook with the words...

'Do you ever feel like you're a massive walking disaster*? Well spare a through for The Chimping Dandy, who really is.'

And in a way, he's right - I do have a fair collection of stories that involve gross physical harm taking place on or about my person. Many involve motorcycles, some, such as today's, involve a lack of care or attention, fewer still involve paint, but they're all true and up to a point, educational - I do idiotic stuff to myself so that you don't have to.

P.S. Sorry there wasn't a Blog yesterday, I was in London, trying not to get mown down by Janet Street-Porter

-oOo-

I'm a bit of a rambler, in most senses of the word, obviously, you all know that I could quite happily drive an echidna to suicide with my opinionated diatribe about the true meaning of Ridley Scott's Bladerunner, but in this case I'm talking about wandering about, in the Great British countryside, with a packed lunch and a flask of weak lemon drink. It doesn't take much to convince me that I need fresh air and I am more than happy to drag my progeny with me (Mrs Dandy never requires much convincing, of anything really, she what we used to refer to, in the Olden Days as 'a game old bird').

This particular day we had decided that it would be a great idea to walk the three or so miles to a nice country pub, have a spot of lunch, maybe sample the steeped fruit of the hop and get the charabanc home. So far, so; start of the Enid Blyton book entitled 'Five get drunk and upset some cows'. As has been recounted previously, we used to live a lark's belch from the 'Cundry' so I loaded the Micro-Dandy into his papoose, hefted him onto my back, gathered the clan and we set off.

We'd just left civilisation and started trudging across farmland when the terrain got a bit lumpy, then it became bumpy, and after a while we had to invent a new word, so we chose 'Rabbity', as in -

'I say Muriel, look at all the bally holes in this meadow,'

'Yes Tarquin, it's distinctly Rabbity'

So, we wandered on, through hedges and ditches, honouring the country code at every turn, right up until the point where I put my foot down a rabbit hole. I started to fall backwards, but realised that I had a small person, effectively in my rucksack, so I turned right to try and land on my side. Well, I say I turned, most of me turned, about 97% I think.

My right foot took the unilateral decision to stay pointing in the same direction. It didn't 'really' hurt when I hit the ground - I mean, it hurt, don't get me wrong, and there was definately a wet *crunch* as it happened, but it was more of an 'Oww! you Bugger' than a 'Quick! call the Air Ambulance'. With some assistance, the papoose was removed and the Micro-Dandy checked for ouchies and boo-boos, of which there were, luckily, none.

We continued the walk, at a slightly reduced pace, and finally made our way back to civilisation. The discomfort in my ankle was increasing slowly (I was wearing proper, supportive, walking boots though, which helped) and decided that maybe, it would be for the best, if we cut the walk short and just went home.

Walking home (as it was a Sunday and the buses were once every nine hours) did my minor injury no real favours and I spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the sofa feeling a mixture of nausea and self-pity. Every moan was answered with:

'If it hurts so much, go to the hospital.' Louder and louder, with more and more exasperation behind it every time.

I finally thought that the only thing that could take my mind off the pain away would be a catering pack of Cadburys' Minstrels. Obviously, I was much too weak to make it the three yards to the kitchen, so Mrs Dandy was dispatched on the provender run. She gave me (threw) the chocolates with more force than was strictly neccessary, and I ate them, one after another until the oversize bag was empty.

Eventually, it was time for bed, and Mrs Dandy went to the door, opened it, turned on the stairs light and said,

'Are you coming?'

'I don't think I can get up,'

After a series of exasperated sighs, she came back and helped me up - I was really quite uncomfortable at this point, and she helped me up the stairs. About halfway up, I fell to my knees, suddenly feeling dizzy.

'Come on,' Said Mrs Dandy, 'You're nearly there.'

And she was right, in a way - With a noise that has since been likened to a herring giving birth to a rhinocerous, I threw up the entire packet of Minstrels, my breakfast, and a selection of things that, to this day, I don't remember eating. This all managed to just miss my Dear Wife, but did mean we had to redecorate the stairs. Her reaction to this was priceless, she said;

'Oh my God. I'm so sorry - I didn't think you were really in pain, I thought you were putting it on!'

I leave you with a picture of the offending injury, the day after, when the swelling had gone down somewhat.

And will say that Monday's blog will be about the time I trod on a penguin (there may be photos again).

　

　
 *For some reason, whenever I re-read that, I usually replace the W, A and L with F, U and C...