Completely my idea

Writing - Is my latest hobby (Not for the past few days I hear you shout... You've forgotten all about your faithful daily readers haven't you, you horrible, horrible, man).

Yeah, sorry about that, I got a bit caught up in the old paying work thing... Won't let it happen again... Actually, thinking about it, I probably will, all things considered - Lot of meetings coming up in the next few weeks.  The Blog might go all sporadic, I apologise in advance, and arrears too probably, but I'll do that later.

Anyway, writing, or at least popular writing, was once described (by me) as a collection of ideas you've stolen from various better writers, changed just enough so that they can't sue you, and glued together in a slightly different order.

I mean, the chances of any one person having a completely original idea - Something you can't say 'Isn't that a bit like...' or 'Doesn't that remind you of that bit in...' is like, a bajillion to one.  I don't mean it doesn't happen, but it certainly doesn't happen very often.  I freely admit, and have stated publicly, on the Blog, that I sometimes steal ideas from successful authors and pass them off as my own.

Yes, this makes me a bad person, but I'm also good looking and funny, so you're probably going to let me off eventually.

It's difficult not to really - The book I'm writing, the agglomeration and expansion of my previously Blogged Edward Teach stories (See, I even stole that name!) is just a rehash of old tropes.  I mean, just look:

• Airships - Jules Verne et al.
• Ion weapons - The Empire Strikes Back.
• Powered Armour - Robert Heinlein's Starship Toopers. (The book and cartoon, not the films)
• Sentient Robots going a bit nuts - The Terminator series.
• Fantasy Feudality: Anything featuring Elric by Michael Moorcock.
• Young girl mentored by unsuitable older man - And, actually, vast swathes of the story itself: Charles Portis' True Grit.

And, as late night Rock 'n' Roll CD complilation adverts might say, 'And the list goes on'.  Have I not actually got an original thought in my head?  Well, plainly not - Apart from the eccentric 'let's all rub aardvark fat all over ourselves, dress up like herring and go to the zoo and annoy the sealions.' kinda stuff, but you couldn't do a whole book like that though - If I did, people would only say I was stealing from the stylistic musings of the acknowledged king of anapestic tetrameter, Theo Geisel.

But it's not just me, you look closely enough at any film, or book or what-have-you and you'll see themes that you've experienced elsewhere.  Admittedly, the further you go back, the more difficult it is to find them, but they're there.  Even the religious texts of the ancient religions nicked ideas from existing, more ancient, texts - S'true, do some research, it'll save you going out in this awful sunshine thing that everyone keeps raving on about.

We can trace the plagiarism back even further, Remember our old friend Urk? One of his ancestors once probably visited a cave belonging to one of his friends and saw a story painted on the wall that said 'Went to woods, fought a Arctodus Simus, kicked it's ass, went home, made a nice necklace'.  When he goes home he grabs the finger-paints and immediately draws on the wall 'Went up into the mountains, fought an entire family of Arctodus Simus, kicked their multiple asses, went home, made two necklaces and an attractive pair of bearskin flip-flops'.

Totally copied the story, but made it better - As long as he never invites that friend to his house, then Bob's your heavily brow-ridged Mother's Brother.

So, I guess I'm fairly safe, it seems that the few artists that I've blatantly nicked ideas off are either dead or in their 70's and I can run faster than both of those types of people, just about.

Right in the Ghoulies

Well, Friday was a busy day wasn't it Children?

I wrote a Blog that was a bit divisive, about a sensitive subject, from my personal viewpoint.  It went straight in at No. 2 in the most popular Blogs ever by The Chimping Dandy (Completely failing to knock the whole shattering pigeon story off the number 1 slot of course - Glad to see you guys have got your priorities straight) and helped to power May 2013 to the second most monthly pageviews ever - Only got 208 views to go to take it rocketing to the top though - there's always hope... You know what to do.

Anyway, back to normal now - Let's be a bit more inclusive, I'm going to talk about a subject that can't possibly divide people.  no-one takes it seriously - there aren't huge groups of sometimes slightly unstable types going to gatherings of like minded people, no banners, no secret handshakes, no wandering around disused buildings in the dead of night hoping to make contact with shadowy individuals. No massive amounts of senseless death.

Cock!

Actually there's all of those things.

I'm talking about the paranormal and the investigation thereof.

Longtime readers will know, and dippers (What I've now decided to call people who just read odd posts every once in a while, on the toilet perhaps) might have spotted, that whenever I mention my Mother, I qualify it by saying whether she was dead or alive at the time of the particular story.

And for the few people left in the Blogoshpere who don't know why, HERE's the story of my Daughter meeting my Mother for the first time, despite the fact that she'd been dead for a number of years.

So, it would be safe to say that I believe that some spark of consciousness can continue to exist after death. I mean, it makes a certain amount of sense (to me at least) what with the whole thing about what makes us, us, being a collection of electrical impulses trapped in the 3lb of mush that we keeps stored between our ears. Maybe with the right atmospheric conditions, those impulses can get transferred into the ether - I don't know, obviously, I'm pulling this out of my butt... But it's not impossible... So little is nowadays isn't it - what with the advent of the microwave and nanotechnology and suchlike.

This also explains the traditional 'Country House' type  ghosts, those ones that are forever cursed to follow the same route they did the night they died, moaning and clanking chains and looking for their lost babies and generally making a nuisance of themselves.  Their 'spark' is released into the ether, but gets trapped by the fabric of the building - Maybe there's a certain mixture of crystals or ores in the stones that record the spark and replay it in the manner of a cheap Taiwanese VCR.

This in turn fits in well with those, oh so popular in the 1970's, ghostly legions of Roman Legionaires that wander through country pubs and what-have-you, but have the audacity to be cut off at the torso by the floor - So it looks like they're wading through the concrete.  Then the owner of the building finds out that the floor's been raised by two feet and the Legionaries are marching at the level of the old floor.

So far, so spooky, but ultimately believable - As long as you have a stretchy imagination.

In fairness, I'm not wholly convinced about the whole 'Don't realise that they're dead' type things - But I suppose, thinking about it, it's not that huge a jump.  Maybe this 'Etheric copying' (Copyright Chimping Dandy 2013) isn't foolproof, and occasionally too much, or too little of the 'spark' gets transferred - You could use that to justify the angry spirit / poltergeist thaing too I suppose.  If there's supposed to be enough of you left to hold an understandable conversation with a small child, imagine the frustration if you still 'exist' somehow, but you can't communicate with anyone - Then imagine that there's enough of you left to realise that you're going to be like that for eternity.  Doesn't bear thinking about does it?

-oOo-

Then we've got those people who investigate the Rum & Uncanny for fun and profit.

There used to be a group of paranormal hunter types just down the road from me, they based their shenanigens from a semi with a high walled garden and had a website that had a few pictures of them in various dark rooms (And slightly more photos of them at various social events) - But they never actually displayed anything of a really ghostly nature, despite all of their night-vision cameras and EMF scanners, allegedly they ran a good ghost tour - Which I think was very brave of them as they had to compete in the same market with the wonderful Mr Richard Felix (Of whos Father's record stall in Derby Market Hall, I am proud to say I was a regular customer - in the 80's at least - Mainly because I fancied a girl on the Fruit & Veg stall opposite, but that's another story.) and his Haunted Derby / Derby Gaol tomfoolery.

You can't think about Richard Felix, without thinking about one time most popular woman on Television, Yvette Fielding... Who is great. And, with Husband Karl, has brought Paranormal Investigation to the masses.

Who hasn't seen Most Haunted?  Really?  That many of you?  Blimey! Go Google it or something, buy a box-set of the DVDs - Maybe Series 6 - Part 2, That features my local haunted house (Elvaston Castle)

If you ever watched Living, or Sky Living or whatever it's called this week you will have seen Most Haunted, at one time it was the only decent show on the entire channel and myself and Mrs Dandy were addicts.  It had it all, night-vision, history, believers, skeptics, stone throwing, table tapping, Ouija boards, orbs, and my most favourite thing ever in the world, is the consistent, regular as clockwork, reaction of Yvette's cousin Stuart to anything that could be misconstrued as even slightly paranormal.  Things such as plumbing noises, wind, spiders, darkness and on occasion, his own digestive system, would regularly sent him into a panic that started with a stream of expletives, continued via frenzied running through darkened corridors, and usually seemed to end with him banging his head off something and having to be rushed to hospital.

Sounds like I'm taking the p*ss?

Well, I'm not - I genuinely enjoyed it - It's one of the few shows that I would completely suspend my disbelief for.  If they produced a Stuart Torevell Teddy-Bear, I would seriously consider buying one.  Especially if it had a pull-cord that made it scream and spout fruity Anglo-Saxon invective, and you could buy a head bandage for it.

And that's before we even start getting into the antics (if you'll pardon the pun) of Mr Derek Acorah.  Seriously, he's too easy a target even for me, but if you get bored, and want to see his greatest work, go to YouTube and search for 'Derek Acorah Mary'

Mad as a Badger... Brilliant!


I include a photograph of 'The Brown Lady' of Raynham Hall - Not only because it's one of the UK's most famous ghosts, but it makes my link have a cool 'ghostey' image when I post it to FaceBook - Hey, kids, I'm nothing if not honest... And mercenary!

One more rusty nail

There's a lot of talk about racism at the moment isn't there?

With the terrible scenes at Woolwich Barracks, I suppose it was a bit of a forgone conclusion.  It really doesn't take long for the bug-eyed mentalists on both sides of the argument to start rattling sabres and throwing tomatoes at each other.  But once either side achieves critical mass, you'd better just stand back and let them get on with it, because it becomes a self sustaining reaction.

Let's get my position fortified first before I start receiving the hate-mail.  I don't believe for a second that what happened to Drummer Lee Rigby was an organised terrorist attack, sponsored by al Qaida, al-Muhajiroun or any other 'real' terrorist/extremist organisation.

It's my personal opinion that the two chaps involved are just f*cking mental - One slightly more than the other.  And were one day sat in their lounge, throwing chips into the air and catching them in their mouths, when one gets the great idea that they could get famous by killing a squaddie.

'But why would we do that?' Asks Less Mental.

'To be famous!' Replies More Mental.

'We'll never get away with it.' Opines Less Mental.

'We'll pretend we're terrorists, the police are really hands-off with terrorists.' Says More Mental.

'But don't you have to be an Islamic type person?' Quips Less Mental, threatening to blow the whole operation.

'Your point?' Asks More Mental.

'Well, We're from Romford. And we went to your Mum's for Christmas dinner last year.  So I kind of assumed that we were Christian.' Explains Less Mental.

'Ah, got that covered, you're right, I was Christian, but I converted to Islam about ten years ago - After I bought that Cat Stevens album off of Amazon.  In fact, from now on, I want you to call me Mujaahid.'

'Mujahadeen? Isn't that those Afghan blokes, out in the desert, with the flat caps?'

'Look, stop d*cking about, let's get on with it.'

'We'll never get away with it... We'll get shot or something.'

'Nah, it'll be fine, once we say that we're Islamist terrorists, they'll all be so busy lynching Asian people that they'll forget all about two geezers from Romford, whose parents are from Nigeria.  Remember though, we'll have to completely incapacitate the soldier so that there's no chance of it being a fair fight.'

'You're really counting on a knee-jerk reaction by the whole of the British public to mask our escape?  I didn't realise you were THAT mental, they're not THAT stupid... Are they?'


S'funny though, I've not seen much backlash against Nigerians (Although I guess they were both born in the UK - Maybe we should all march on Romford with torches and pitchforks) but plenty against Muslims in general.  weird that innit?

It's like they're our go-to bad-guy...

It's snowing on the Bank-Holiday? - Blame Islam

The corner shop's run out of Old Holborne - Blame Islam

Two airliners fly into American skyscrapers - Blame the FBI/CIA

Or something.

-oOo-

Now the serious bit... For those of you who say that I'm making fun of the situation.  I'm not, really - The people that I'm taking the p*ss out of are the mentalist, swivel eyed. 'If you hate Britain so much then go home.' brigade.  Thing is, for most of these people, this is their home - They've never been to Nigeria or wherever their parents or even their parents' parents were from.

I'm really very sorry for the loss of Drummer Rigby, my thoughts are with his family and friends.  It's a tragic thing that never should have happened.

But don't blame Islam

Don't blame the Police

Don't blame the Government

Blame two mental guys from Romford - They're who did it, no-one else.

They're the people who killed the soldier - Whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They're the people who widowed a woman and orphaned a child.

They're the people who raped an otherwise peaceful religious text to publicise themselves and increase their infamy.

Them...

No-one else...

At all...

Not this time...

And then it just slipped through my fingers

OK, a bit of a rarity now, I'm intentionally writing a serious Blog, with serious themes.  I'll probably work in the occasional humourous leitmotif.  But, as they say on the Discovery Channel - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Please note - As ever, these are my personal thoughts and opinions, your experiences and mileage may vary. if you have been touched by the theme of today's Blog and want to talk about it, please send an email to the usual address.


Today's theme is loss...

Every person who has ever lived has experienced loss, to a greater or lesser extent.  It's as much  a part of life as breathing or not being able to get to the remote in time to turn over when a Party Political Broadcast comes on.

There are as many different types of loss as there are scales on a pangolin.  They vary in seriousness and duration. For instance, there's what I like to call Temporary Trivial loss, characterised by the following phrases;

• 'Have you seen my keys?'
• 'Have you used all the shampoo you little scrote?'
• 'Where the hell is my wallet?'

These are annoying, and frequent.  But eventually, you'll remember that you still had your keys in your hand when you made a cup of tea when you got home, so you check the fridge and there they are.  You can always buy more shampoo, even if it's the Happy Shopper stuff from the corner shop. You realise that you're looking in the right jacket, but you never bothered to check the pocket that you never, traditionally, put your wallet in.  You're sad, or annoyed, but only for a small time.

Next one up would probably be Permanent Trivial loss, where you would say things like;

• 'Aw! I've dropped my phone down the toilet, and lost all the pictures that were on it!'
• 'What do you mean you've lost it? My Mum gave me that!'
• 'Do you think we left it when we moved last year?'

Thankfully, these happen less frequently. The actual stuff that gets lost on those occasions isn't usually what you actually feel bad about.  It's the memories that are associated with them. It's a weird one too, because you've not lost those memories, only the trigger that reminds you, but you've imbued those things with some of the 'spirit' of the person that they make you think of, it's like they actually contain your memories.

Our next set is the first of the serious losses, specifically Serious Physical loss. By physical loss, I mean the loss of a 'thing'. Something you can hold or lean against, or would hurt if you dropped it on your foot.  These are pretty much all characterised by thing other people say to you;

• 'I'm sorry sir, but the bank will be forclosing on your mortgage and you have 28 days to leave what is now our house.'
• 'We've found your car, and it's been burned out... As you freely admitted that you left it unlocked, them I'm afraid it's not covered by the insurance.'
• 'It's all been stolen, everything I've worked for over the past fifty years!'

This is where the pain starts.  I don't know how many of you have been evicted, but it's not a pleasant experience.  It's not just the losing of a house, it's the loss of self respect, the feeling that you can't provide for your family properly.  It's a real blow and it can change your outlook permanently if you let it.

Then we get to Serious Personal loss, where you lose a part of yourself rather than something external. This covers anything from having a limb blown off by a roadside IED to coming home early and finding your wife in bed with the Iceland delivery man.  You can lose a hand, a leg, or your faith in other people.  I won't bother giving examples of things you might hear as these things are happening to you as they're usually screams and expletives.

After that I suppose is the one loss that everyone really dreads, Death... Big one this is, I don't mean your own death, although, don't get me wrong, most people aren't actively looking forward to that - But you, yourself, are not really effected by it, everyone else is.  I mean the deaths of one of your nearest and dearest.  We all experience this at one time or another.  The death of a parent, or a friend, or a family member, or that particularly terrible one, the death of a child.  All truly terrible experiences.

I lost my Mother some time ago, and at the time, because we weren't hugely close, it took a really long time to hit me, but it did eventually, and quite hard. (Until she showed up again some time later)  Then, over ten years ago, we lost a baby (before it was born) which is a very odd feeling, it's kind of a potential loss, you lose something that you never really had.  Although I must admit that my experience wasn't improved by being asked why I was upset, it didn't happen to me after all did it? It happened to my wife... And whilst I feely admit to not thinking about it every day, I do still wonder what could have been on a fairly regular basis.

Funny phrase that isn't it - Potential Loss?  I suppose you could use it to describe losing something you've never technically had, as above - Or possibly losing something in the future.  The muse behind today's Blog was unwittingly suggested by one of my many virtual friends.  In the age of the Information Superhighway, I'm sure that we all know people who we've never actual spoken to, or possibly never even met in the flesh, Twitter and Tumblr and Facebook and Instagram pull the populace together into a single digital mass like no other system in the known history of spacetime.

This young lady is no exception, I've received Tweets from her and vice-versa, we've laughed at each other's jokes and read each other's Blogs, in another time and should we be closer geographically, I'm sure that we'd all be popping to each other's houses to borrow sugar and suggest a dual-family picnic in the woods (I'll bring the Pimms) every other weekend.

But she's recently had some bad news, and she Blogged about it - So I'm fairly sure she won't mind me mentioning it to you lot, in fact, why don't you go and have a quick read now?

Back?

Good... Bring a tear to your eye?... Yeah, me too...

But what emotionally effected me the most wasn't the bad news itself, but in the way that the young lady in question has decided to take a deep breath and just deal with it.  If only we could all be so pragmatic.  I can guarantee that that child's going to know nothing but love from their parents and siblings alike - And in the grand scheme of things, you couldn't really wish for anything better.

So, please don't think that this Blog is all doom and gloom.  I said at the start that it's about loss, and I suppose that it might be, but the really important thing about any loss... Trivial, serious, temporary, permanent, personal, physical or even potential.  Is how you let it effect you.  You can crumble, you can bury your head in the sand, you can rail against the injustices of the world and blame everyone from the Iceland Delivery man to any particular God of your choice.  I've done all of the above at varying times in my life (Except the Delivery Driver one... I blamed someone who worked for the Software Studio that brought us Tomb Raider once, but that's another story) and do you know the commond denominator?

Not a single one of them did me any good.

The only thing that I've ever found that helps is to join our heroine above in taking a deep breath and just dealing with it.

Doesn't mean that's what I always do, but that's what always works in the end.

He, quite literally, went 'berserk'

For the first part of this story, please feel free to read 'What a waste of good pork'


They lay, panting, against the rocks.  Behind them, all that was left of the Magus' tower was the huge rock that it had originally sat on, a few fluttering pieces of paper and the smoke from the still smouldering pigs.

'der var tæt...' Breathed Rasmus.

'Close? I'd say it was a damn site worse than close!' Exclaimed Mal, they all looked at each other and laughed.

They had only got down as far as the second floor when they were forced to jump by the accelerating magical disintegration of the blocks that made up the tower.

'Thank the Gods we were jumping onto sand.'

'Jeg ville foretrække at springe i vandet.' replied Ewald.

'Yes, jumping into water would have been even better, but there's not a lot of that around here, in case you hadn't noticed.' They all looked around, to see the unending, shifting sand in every direction, 'although, whilst we're on the subject, we'd better start heading back to the boat. Alfrun will think that we've been having a holiday.'

His new wife, Alfrun Krakensdottir, had been the head of the Kraken clan since her Father had been killed.  She was known for her beauty and her fairness, but not neccesarily for her patience.  She didn't agree that he needed to continue his Bounty-hunting, instead believing that he should be at home, defending the clan and making babies.

He recovered his leather armour and pulled the compass from his pack, pointed at the southern horizon and started to trudge towards the horizon.

It took them two days to reach the coast, as they climbed the dunes towards the landing, The Hunter held up his fist, the group stopped and knelt silently in the sand.  He sniffed the air and listened.

'Can you hear that?'

'Jeg kan ikke høre noget...'

'Exactly, a longship full of norsemen, sat on a beach, waiting for us, with enough heather ale to drown an ox.  Shouldn't we be able to hear the screams?'

'ja du har ret...'

'I know I'm right, that's why we're still alive.' He slowly craned his neck and looked over to top of the dune, down towards the ship, 'Bertrum has a green shield and a handaxe, right?'

'Ja?'

'But he doesn't have black hair does he?'

'på, rød.'

'Then that's not Bertrum.'

They all lay along the ridge of the dune and one by one identified that none of the people stood next to the longship were actually their men.  They were wearing their clothes, but that's where the similarity ended.

'hvad skal vi gøre?'

'I tell you what we'll do...' He thought, and then thought again, and try as he might, he couldn't think of a way that they could get around twenty enemy soldiers, take the ship and get it into deep water before losing a kidney or an eyeball to an accurate arrow.  And then it hit him.

'Algot, Runar tells me that your mother entertains rabid badgers in her bed, is that true?'

Both Norsemen turned to him incedulously, 'Hvad?'

'Yes, and Ewald, Jarne says that both he and Razmus have enjoyed the charms of your sister, both together and seperately, many times, and she enjoyed it too most of the time.'

Ewald launched himself at his kinsmen, screaming, 'Du har vanæret min søster, jeg vil afskære dine testikler!'

The scream, obviously, attracted the attention of the men guarding their ship, and within seconds they were charging up the other side of the dune, all pretence at stealth thrown to the winds.

'Look, they're coming!' Yelled Mal, as he pressed the button that extended the blade of Lyssvaerd.  Immediately the berserking Norsemen saw their enemy howling towards them and forgot their ficticious petty differences and descended to meet them.

The clash as the two sides met could be heard all the way to Svalbard, or so it seemed.  Instantly the Norse warriors started to hack blindly at their foe, arms were lost to axes, hammers were dodged and Lyssvaerd flew through gaps between armour and shield with clinical precision.  In minutes they were knee-deep in gore and the berserker rage had hold of them all.

They had fought their way down the dune and across the beach, Jarne had sustained a wound to his forearm that would need attention before the day was out and Runar was bleeding from a deep cut above his eye.  Other than that they were completely unscathed. The few defenders that were left guarding the ship were easily dispatched. Algot even managed to pin one to the bow through his neck, luckily above the waterline.

As they clamboured onto the deck of the ship, the smell hit them.  It wasn't the remains of the crew, it seemed that they'd been dumped into the sea, Then they saw it, in the bilges of the boat was an oily scum, it was moving against the rolling of the sea and slowly gathering towards the bow.  As the heap grew, it took on the features of a slouched human with a pointed head and long, grasping fingers, at least eight feet high and getting taller all the time.

'hvad i al helveder er det?' gasped Razmus.

'I don't know,' Replied Mal, 'But let's see how easily it dies!'

They screamed out a battle-cry and charged towards the giant, teeth bared and weapons ready.

Just to prove that I do actually, write a Blog

OK, some of you will know that I'm currently in the process of writing a book.

It's an extension of the Edward Teach stories that I occasionally regale you with - But don't let that put you off.

I've found that it's a scary old thing, writing a book... Along with the standard 'Can I actually write a book?' and 'Will I get bored and give up and hate myself until I drink myself to death in an old bathtub on that bit of waste ground down by the gasworks?' questions that you constantly beat yourself up with, you release a second level of torture on yourself, and that goes 'But what if I can't get an agent?' and 'What if I get an agent, but no-one likes it?'

You can literally (See what I did there?) worry yourself into a premature Bisto.  It's best to just shout 'Buggrit' and let the literature flow when it will (Now do you get what I did?).

It might be rubbish, it might be twaddle, it might be the sort of high-camp space opera that would have EE 'Doc' Smith running for the air-raid shelter with a cuttlefish in both ears - But I still think we should all have a go, including myself.

So, in my constant endeavours to improve the quality of service I give to you people (my adoring readership) I decided to join a real Writers Group.

Now, before we go any further, I'd just like to assure any members of the Group that may happen to be reading this, I am not going to make the group itself, or the members that I have so far met, the subject of a full Blog post... I don't 'Do' current affairs - I'm going to wait until I can give a more in-depth view once I've been to a few more meetings.

So, why did I mention it if I wasn't going to Blog about it?

Good question... Good, good, question.  As part of my introduction to the group I said,

'Hello, I'm the Dandy and I write a daily humour Blog'

And then realised that I hadn't written a Blog today, and that struck me as rude.  So, as I'm a bit strapped for ideas (Don't judge me I've written some Flash Fiction today AND I'm going to be chunking away at the book in a sec), I thought I'd fling together a quick Top 10 Most popular Blog posts ever, as voted for by you guys, list.

Enjoy!

-oOo-

Dropping three places, at Number 10 is - Waiting for God-Oh! - A fictitious treatment of a drunken, Kebab-shop conversation between two Gods about the initial construction of the Duck Billed Platypus - Caution, one of your number actually tweeted The Pope about this post (No, really, someone did... They asked for my immediate excommunication).

Straight in at Number 9 is - This is why I'm smiling, how about you? - This is quite an earnest post about making small changes in your life that have large consequences, your own, personal Butterfly Effect. (Not that bloody awful Ashton Kutcher thing - The Edward Lorenz thing)

Another new entry at Number 8 is a DogBlog - It was like the Somme, only with more protein - Four (IIRC) stories of how one of my lovable pets managed to sequester food from various sources, without the prior knowledge of it's previous owners, and all the hilarity that ensues.

Our previous Number 6, drops a place to Number 7 - An eye for an eye - Describes, in haunting detail about how my Mother (Before she died) tried to turn me into a gibbering wreck via the medium of the false eye... It is a wonder that I'm so well adjusted.

The Current Number 6 (or, more correctly, Equal Number 5) - Second contact closing fast, bearing 076 - Is a story of inclement weather, explosively defecating truck drivers, and the possible closure of the M40

Our other Equal Number 5 - A discussion of pornography, do not read - Is just that, a diatribe that explores the difference between erotica, pornography, page 3 girls, firemen and dusty old harridans.

The highest new entry, straight in at Number 4 is - Then I posed, and he took my picture - Where I 'accidentally' have a photoset published in a German Gay-porn / fetish magazine... Yes, you heard me right...

At Number 3 - Boobs, Melons and Jumper-Lumps - Tales of my Hi-Jinks in Asda, including the internationally acclaimed 'Running down the aisle throwing a watermelon to myself' story.

The penultimate plethora of poorly phrased pulchritude is - Barnably Wilde (Pt. 1) - My first collection of my slapstick motorcycling memories.  A collection of reasons why I should never be allowed to ride a motorcycle, or be allowed out on my own, ever.

You all know what's at Number 1 right? It's been stuck there since the beginning of February and it's lead is fairly unassailable - Thermodynamics, it's the law! - The story of my Father and the descent of a young secretary into permanent mental distress, and a bird - Don't forget the bird.

Normal service should be resumed tomorrow... Yeah, everything should be back to normal by then... I should think... Probably

He met me once y’know?

OK, back to everything being all about me.

Celebrity's a funny old thing isn't it?  You see someone on the TV or in a newspaper (For everyone under the age of 16, a Newspaper is something a bit like someone else's Facebook, but with the security settings that your Mum would use, and printed out) And they immediately become, oh... I don't know... Something 'more' than us normos.

(Actually, let me qualify... I'm not talking about A-List Hollywood Stars - They're a whole different species - Of which I have no first hand knowledge... Well, there was that time with Cheryl Tiegs in 1975, but I'm still under a gagging order on that one.)

You wander through London for instance and suddenly you're all 'Isn't that that fellah what played that bloke in that thing?' and then immediately walk into a lamp-post when you crane your neck to make sure it's actually them.

It doesn't matter if these people are complete buttocks, Blackguards of the highest order or proved to be kiddie fiddlers many years later.  At the time, these people exist on a higher plane - They're famous, and by noticing them, we can be briefly famous by association.  You can tell your friends that you saw that bloke, from that TV thing.  Then you become slightly famous yourself, so your friend who can say 'I've got a friend who bumped into that bloke what played Hitler in that thing, with the flying saucers, that was on BBC3.'

I guess, for those of you who live in the 21st. Century, it's the same as having something ReTweeted or Favourited by someone famous - It's not the same as someone replying to one of your tweets of course, that's actually like having intimate, possibly carnal knowledge of them (Did I mention Nick Knowles once replied to one of my tweets? - Great bloke, face like a badly looked after leather bag, but nonetheless, great bloke.)

Thing is, when you actually meet on of these people at an event, or in an enclosed public space and they're not 'on the clock' - The chances are, you're going to be disappointed.  Your disappointment, if you're lucky, will be because they're normal human beings.  You know, eat food when they're hungry, sit down to have a poop, that sort of thing.

If you're unlucky, it's because they believe their own hype and have started the long, hard slog up their own sphychters.

One such gentleman has interacted with the Dandy Clan on a couple of occasions.  Firstly with my dearly departed Mother, and then some time later with myself - One of Ironopolis' finest (Which doesn't bode particularly well for anyone else from Middlesbrough, but there you go.)

One Mr. Brian Howard Clough OBE

-oOo-

In the early 70's, my Mother was a bit of an 'organiser'.  She used to do a lot of work for the local schools and was always around where there was a cake stall to be managed or a coconut shy to attract customers to.  And on this particular occasion, they had enlisted the assistance of a local celebrity to open a school fete.

Yes, you guessed it, the quiet, understated, ex Hartlepool, Derby, Brighton, Leeds and Notts manager himself.

All went well, he did his five minutes and earned his... However much he charged for a personal appearance .. And then had a wander around the field, commenting on the shoddy amateurish nature of the stalls and how we could be making a lot more money if we employed cheap foreign labour.

Then, seemingly, my Mum started noticing kids wandering about with tears streaming down their faces -

When she finally managed to find one that could string a cogent sentence together without dissolving into inconsolable tears, she realised a confrontation was in order.

That Nice Mr Clough was sat with a line of shiney faced kids in front of him who were all waving scrappy bits of paper at him,  one by one they would get to the head of the line, walk sheepishly up to him and then start crying and run away.

She walked to the front of the line just in time to hear Le Clough say '£1 for an autograph Kid, take it or leave it.'

Now, forty years ago £1 was a decent amount of money, especially for a seven year old kid - It was probably all the money they had to spend for the whole fete.

Mother asked him what he thought he was doing, extorting money from children.  He asked her if she knew who he was and even if she didn't, could she go and get him a decent mug of tea.

Seemingly his language when she dragged him off his stool by the scruff of his neck was a joy for the sensitive ears of his young audience.  It didn't get any sweeter as she dragged him, bent almost double, to the main entrance - Pushed him through and aimed a kick that Billy Bremner would have been proud of at his retreating rear end.  And finally it faded to silence as he walked down the road to his car.

-oOo-

Loyal readers may remember the summer I spent building a bowling alley and chicken coup at my local pub.

One day, I was sat at the bar, on my usual stool, enjoying payment for my day's labours.  A pint of mild and a plate of tinned salmon & salad cream sandwiches.  The landlord came in and asked if I wanted another beer.  Of course, I answered in the positive, and he said that there was some stuff in the car-park paddock that needed moving into the garage.

Now, this paddock was the daytime home of Napoleon, the homicidal goose.  He and I enjoyed a somewhat laconic friendship, he left me alone and I didn't run around waving my arms in the air and squealing like a girl whilst he chased me.  But he sometimes had this look... As if he was judging your entire life, past and present, and found it wanting.

I went out of the front door, past these two guys sat on one of the benches, and walked towards the paddock.  As I got there, Napoleon started to hiss and flap his wings.  This got louder until he realised it was me, and he quietened down and went and sat in his water bowl, because he was a bit thick.

'Don't let that bloody goose out will you lad?' One of the Northern chaps shouted, as the other laughed nervously.

I looked and realised exactly who it was... The above story about my Mother immediately came to mind.  I collected the bits that needed taking to the garages, exited the paddock and left the gate open just enough so that it looked like it was still closed, but could be easily opened by a goose with a solid forehead and an attitude problem.

I waited inside the garage until, what the landlord later described as 'The bloody uproar' started.  there was frenzied honking, yells, expletives and all manner of shooing noises.

Giving myself a few minutes to regain my composure, I walked back into the carpark to see a Sociopathic goose, neck and wings stretched to their zenith, and two professional football types who looked as if they were about to play that game where you chase each other around a table.

Mr Clough shouted, with rather more panic in his voice than you'd expect from such a scary gentleman 'Lad! Put your goose away!'

To which I replied, 'Sorry mate, not my goose...' and walked back into the pub to claim my free pint.

The landlord pulled my pint and asked me what was going on outside, I said that it was just some pillock winding Napoleon up - Until they finally managed to get past him and make a break for their car and he saw them running across the carpark.

'Isn't that... Cloughie?' he said, somewhat incredulously.

'Yeah, think so... Does that mean the other one's Peter Taylor?' I asked, knowing full well that it was...

Which is funny - Because I didn't think they were supposed to be talking in 1986...