I didn't help in the slightest... Well, not much anyway.

If you were reading the Blog this time last year, you may have read a post about a project that the MicroDandy had to do for school, all about Britain in the Second World War.

The post was pretty much a list of all the stories that my Dad told us that weren't completely 'appropriate' for a seven year old's school project.  I thought at least a couple of you would be interested in reading what actually did make it into the project.

Or not...

Either way...

Here it is.

-oOo-

My Grandad in the RAF

In 1947 my Grandad Fred, who was 18 years old and training to be an electrician was conscripted into the Royal Air Force.

This meant that he had to leave his job and travel to RAF Innsworth in Gloucestershire to receive Basic Training in being a member of the armed forces.

After eight weeks of training where he learned, amongst other things, how to fire different types of gun and throw hand grenades.  He was one of four men in his group chosen to go to Northern Europe.

He sailed from Harwich to The Hook of Holland on the HMT SS Vienna (Picture below).

He then travelled, by train, up through Holland and Germany, to Hamburg and then to Flensburg, the most northern town in Germany and its Capital at the end of the Second World War, to complete his aircrew training, which meant that he was qualified to be a member of the crew of an aeroplane.

After completing his training he was made a Sergeant (Signals) and assigned to a part of the RAF called Headquarters 46 Group - Transport Command.

Signaller Brevet (Badge)

Sergeant's Stripes (or 'Tapes')

During the next four years he crewed transport aircraft all over the world, visiting places such as Cyprus, Hong Kong, Iraq, Libya, Malaysia and Malta.

One of the largest operations that he took part in was the Berlin Airlift.  Between 1948 and 1949 the Russian army blockaded the city of Berlin in Germany.  This meant that food and fuel could not get in to the people there. So the RAF and the United States Air Force used hundreds of aeroplanes to deliver thousands of tons of supplies every day.

At the busiest times, around 1,500 aeroplanes were landing every day in Berlin, that’s one every minute! The pilots of these aeroplanes had a very difficult job, flying at 150 Miles per Hour, sometimes only 150 meters apart.  Sometimes an aeroplane would crash onto the runway, if this happened it had to be pushed out of the way very quickly by a bulldozer so that the next one could land.

My Grandad remembers that there were times he had to work for 36 hours in a row flying in Avro Yorks and Douglas Dakotas loaded with Coal, Oil, Food and Mail to make sure that the supplies got delivered in time.  Sometimes, on the return trip, his aeroplane was loaded with some of the 11,000 children who were being evacuated out of Berlin to live with families in the West.

Whilst stationed at RAF Jurby on the Isle of Man he was one of the crew that flew training aircraft that were used to train new Navigators, these are the people who tell the Pilot where the aeroplane is and how to get to where he needs to go.

And one of his jobs when stationed at RAF Wunstorf  in Germany was to help fly Mosquito Fighter/Bombers back to RAF Broughton in Wales.  These Mosquitoes had been sold to the Post Office (now Royal Mail) and had been converted to carry mail.

I am really proud of my Grandad and the things he did in the RAF.

-oOo-

On the next few pages are some facts about the aeroplanes that my Grandad flew in and what he thought about them.

Handley Page HP67 Hastings

The HP67 Hastings was a transport aircraft used by the RAF between 1948 and 1977.

At the time it was introduced, it was the largest transport aircraft designed specifically for the RAF.

Its first and most famous job was to transport coal and other cargo into Berlin in Germany during the Berlin Airlift.


My Grandad Says:

‘The lights that told you whether the wheels were down properly when you were landing often didn’t come on… Usually because the bulb had popped, we used to keep a bag of spare bulbs, just in case’

-oOo-

Avro Type 685 York C1

The Avro York was a transport aircraft used by the RAF between 1944 and 1964.

The York was often kitted out as the personal aircraft of VIPs

Famous York included:

‘Ascalon’ The personal aircraft and flying conference room of Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Britain.

‘Endeavour’ belonging to HRH The Duke of Gloucester.

‘MW102’ Louis Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma and Viceroy of India had his York specially painted light, duck egg green to try and keep it cool in the Indian sun.


My Grandad Says:

‘Once, when we were landing a York at an airfield in Germany, one of the tyres burst… It was pretty scary!’

-oOo-

Douglas C47 Skytrain (Dakota)

The C47 was called the Dakota by the RAF.  It got its name from the acronym "DACoTA" for Douglas Aircraft Company Transport Aircraft.

It was used by over 100 Air Forces all around the world including the RAF and the German Luftwaffe at the same time!

The Dakota first flew in 1941, but the RAF still uses the Dakota now, 70 years later, as a training aircraft for the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight.


My Grandad Says:

‘The Dakota was really noisy and uncomfortable, there was a big pipe around the doorway of the cockpit that carried air to the engines, and it made some very strange noises!’

-oOo-

Airspeed AS10 Oxford

The Oxford was mainly used for training aircrew (Bombardiers, Gunners, Navigators and Wireless and Camera Operators).  It was also used as an Air Ambulance.

They were first produced in 1937 and more than 8,500 were made.

On the 5th January 1941, the famous aviatrix Amy Johnson disappeared in an Oxford, never to be seen again!


My Grandad Says:

‘We used the Oxfords as flying taxis.  If someone was stuck at an airbase and needed to be somewhere else quickly, they’d usually go in an Oxford’

-oOo-

Avro Anson

The Anson was mostly used as a training aircraft by the RAF between 1936 and 1968.

In June 1940, a flight of three Coastal Command Anson were attacked by nine Messerschmitt Bf 109s of the German Luftwaffe.  The Anson shot down two and damaged a third before the dogfight ended with no British losses.

In September 1940, two training Anson of the Royal Australian Air Force collided in mid-air and got stuck together.  The two aircraft landed safely, still stuck together!


My Grandad Says:

‘If I could own any of the aeroplanes that I used to fly in, it would be an Anson’

-oOo-

de Havilland DH98 Mosquito

The Mosquito was a Fast Fighter/Bomber made almost completely of wood!

The engines used in the Mosquito were designed in Derby by Rolls-Royce.

It could fly at over 400 Miles per Hour!


My Grandad Says:

‘When we were flying Mosquitos back to Britain over the English Channel we would sometimes fly really low over the waves and try to scare the captains of fishing boats, but don’t tell anybody!’

-oOo-

All the MicroDandy's own work... Gawd's honest truth.  I'm not one of those parents that does their kids' homework for them so as they look more impressive.

Cross my heart, hope to... to... Erm, suddenly I don't feel so good...

*Expires theatrically, stage left*

And then I killed Bobby Davro

Well, I hope you all had a happy Easter. And I hope it was happy for the right reasons, not just because you were whizzing your mammary glands off due to having eaten the GNP of Matabeleland in chocolate.

I had a pretty quiet long weekend; I ate merely a reasonable amount of chocolate, drank some wine and played an awful lot of Mass Effect. (an awful, awful, lot of Mass Effect if the snorts of loneliness coming from the memsahib were anything to go by.)

But that's not what we're here to talk about is it? You want to know why I'm wildly claiming to have killed a popular 80's comedian and impressionist who happens to have been born Robert Christopher Nankeville and is both the son of an Olympian and is an all 'round good guy (or so I've heard, I mean, I've never met him or anything - But he looks the sort, always smiling, not afraid to cross-dress for comedy purposes - You know what I mean.)

And there's something that you need to know before I continue - I don't much care for fairground rides - It's not that I'm easily scared by loud noises or quick changes of direction or anything... Honestly, it's because... Ah... It's just... Well... You see... Some of those noises really are rather loud though aren't they?

-oOo-

Just before the holidays, Mrs Dandy suggested that we do something nice for the children whilst I was away from work.  I reminded her that I had just spent literally tens of fine, English pounds on less than two pounds worth of chocolate for them (And that was EACH, I'll have you know, not in total!) But I was informed that this was insufficient and that we would be 'Going somewhere' to have 'Fun' Then I was grabbed, unceremoniously by the collar, lifted bodily from the floor and reminded, more forcefully that I thought wholly necessary, that I would be having 'Fun' even if it killed me.  I looked down at the cherubic face of the Mini-Dandy as she bent her younger sibling's fingers back almost to his wrists until he sobbingly cried 'Peanuts!' and agreed, 'Yes Dear, let us do something nice for our delightful children.'

So, Good Friday came and we stuffed our young into the Yew-panelled steerage compartment of the MkII Dandymobile, Stoked the gargantuan engine into life, and set sail for the heart of the Sun (or Drayton Manor Park and Zoo as I understand the hoi-palloi call it.)  Our plan was to arrive at our destination as it opened, and therefore 'beat the rush'.  Luckily, only twenty or so thousand people had had exactly the same idea.  We left our vehicle in a grassy field that was masquerading as a car-park, and instructed Heckmondswycke, our faithful native bearer, to guard her with his life. 

We then joined the queue for entry and wondered at the many wonderful ways that one could pay to enter the Pleasureopolis itself. I was shocked to find that, if we had merely 'turned up' at our destination, it would have cost us £141 ($232) to get in. The irony of this being more than I had recently sold the MKI Dandymobile for was not entirely lost on me.  Luckily, along with almost everyone in the queue it seemed, I was in possession of a 'BOGOF' voucher which cleanly cut the price in half.

As we entered the garden of Earthly delights, we were informed that 'The rides didn't actually open until 10:30.'  And as we had 45 minutes to kill, we decided to split up, the girls went to go and queue for an hour for a 30 second ride on a frankly flimsy looking, ramshackle collection of ironwork.  Whilst we boys decided to repair to the amusement arcade to, as my father once described it, 'Throw good money after bad.' However, on the way to the Perfidious Pachinko Palace we were accosted by a pretty young lady holding a basketball, 

"Psst!" She Pssted, and beckoned us over, "You look like someone who'd be good at this. One basket wins any prize." Then she looked at the Micro-Dandy, "You'd like your Dad to win you one of these wouldn't you?"  

My son stepped back to look at my athletic physique, struggling to be contained by my XXL Darth Vader T-Shirt and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'd love my Dad to be able to do that.' He replied, then he shrugged, as if to say 'But whaddya gonna do?'

"Well, I tell you what, it's normally £3 for one shot or £5 for three. But we've got a special on today where, if you give me a fiver you can play until you win." She winked conspiratorially as if to say 'No, it's not just so that other punters see you carrying a prize around and think that it's possible for a normal, overweight, human being to win one and then have a go themselves.'

Needless to say, I passed over the required fee and stood there for a good fifteen minutes, abortively bouncing my balls off her rim until, against all of the assembled laws of physics, my spherical plaything entered her waiting aperture with a rubbery 'Thunnnggg'. 

"OK," she breathed in relief, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow, "What prize would you like?"

My son pointed at one prize, which she inspected. "Ah, it looks like the stitching's going on that one."

He pointed at another. "I can't actually reach that one, sorry." She stretched up to show that she was a good foot too short. 'How about this one?' She hefted a large, red, fluffy bean-bag at him.  Which he happily accepted as tribute and then gave to me... And then I had the honour of carrying it around the park, for the next six hours, along with the two ducks (One with, and one without a humorous pink mohawk) and a camel with a pink hump and a shock of pale-blue hair.  

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion, whereby the girls would spend a vast proportion of their time queueing to feel sick, queueing to get wet or queueing to close their eyes as noisy things happened around them whilst we boys had a ride on a train and visited the arcade, or giftshop, or hook-a-duck emporium over and over again.  There was a break for lunch at 'The Grill', which was very nice. And in the afternoon the jollity continued, up until the point where the MiniDandy convinced her brother to go on the Pirate Ship.

I have had emails from my friends in America to say that they could hear him screaming, at one point he reached the frequency required to loosen the bolts that held the ride together, flecks of paint and surface rust fell to the ground like the fallout from an exploding scrapyard - Obviously we were asked to leave, which we did.

All in all, it was a good day, apart from the life-time ban from all UK-based theme parks that is.  My son even won enough tickets in the amusement arcade to purchase a radio-controlled car for himself, which is absolutely splendid for tormenting the dog with.

Oh Bugger!

I missed out the Bobby Davro bit didn't I?

The MiniDandy and myself were sat outside some water-based Pirate ride (which was billed as an 'Experience' and therefore interested me not one little bit.) waiting for the other members of our party when suddenly, from out of nowhere, a flying caterpillar hoved into view.  Well, I say flying, it was actually dropping from the tree above us on a silk line.  It was duly caught and forced to race across various parts of my anatomy by my dear daughter which was about as entertaining as it sounds.  My repeated attempts to put it back into the undergrowth all failed until I felt a tickle on the back of my neck. I reached around, expecting to find another, similar creature, but instead found a tiny spider. 

"I wonder if they'll fight?" asked my somewhat bloodthirsty daughter, moving the mini-beasts closer to each other.

"No! He might eat Bobby Davro!"

She looked at me as if I had just suffered a major psychotic episode and said, "What?"

"Bobby Davro?' I held up the small caterpillar, "I panicked, it was the first name that I thought of."

She shook her head and put the spider in my other hand.  I lowered both of my hands, until first the spider and then the caterpillar disappeared into the nearby shrubbery.

"The spider will hunt down Bobby Davro and eat him you know, he's got his scent now.' She grinned.

"Stop it..."

"And it's all your fault..." At this point she raised her voice so that the surrounding families and their children could hear and called, "Dad! You killed Bobby Davro!"

One wonders if everyone's family days out are like this?

The Baroness' Birthday

For those of you who don't know, The Baroness, Grand Matriarch of the Lohlephel clan, the main protagonists of my next trilogy of Science-Fiction books is loosely based on my long-suffering wife. This is a story that I wrote for her Birthday - She has kindly agreed to let me share it with you.

See if you can figure out who her husband, The Baron, is based on (I'm not going to give you any clues, but I'm trying to get Gary Oldman to play me... Erm, I mean him... in the upcoming film.)

-oOo-

The Baroness was cornered like a hedgehog.  In all of her years as captain of the airship, The Granthar’s Hammer, she had prided herself on always having a fool-proof escape plan. Not this time though, trapped in the claustrophobic corridor between a supply closet and the hangar bay, she eyed the scarlet steel behemoth in front of her warily. Its thick shoulder armour scraping gouges out of the plasterwork as it shuffled left and right to match her attempts to slip around it. “Get out of my way you idiot!”

Its ironclad head slowly rotated from side to side.

She sighed, “So help me, I will take a can opener to you if you do not get the hell out of my way right now.”

A deep, modulated laugh came from its external speakers and one of its gargantuan hands unfolded menacingly towards her, its flexing index finger indicating that it wanted her to follow it. She took a step back and shrugged out of its way. “I have a patrol to fly. We had a report of Spider activity in the Northern Province and you know how upset Hadleigh gets when I keep him waiting.”

It waved its finger at her admonishingly and gestured to her to follow it again.

Her head dropped to her chest as she exhaled, “Alright, if we have to go through this pitiful charade every time.” She grabbed hold of its finger and climbed up its thick leg armour, “The least you can do is give me a lift.”

It bowed deeply as she clung onto the knot of thick cables that surrounded its torso. It turned and set off at a run through the corridors. By the time it reached the wide open space of the hangar it was travelling at high speed. Its tree-trunk legs pounding into the marble floor like pistons and the Baroness was just managing to keep a grip on it with her thighs, hands and teeth. They passed by the bulk of the Hammer like a blood-red blur. She just had time to shrug at Hadleigh, the pilot, as they sped around the corner and back out of the cavernous room, the steel treads of the giant’s feet struggling to maintain grip on the polished surface. 

“Slow down you bloody imbecile, you’re going to-“ her warning was punctuated by a crash as an unfortunate maintenance construct wandered around the corner, only to be dashed to pieces by a quarter of a ton of kneecap travelling at fifty miles per hour, “- Hit somebody.” She mumbled. They continued along the corridor until they reached the atrium that signified the entrance to the Roost’s living quarters and without warning, the giant leaped thirty feet into the air, its gorilla like hands grabbing the edge of the second floor parapet and effortlessly lifting the pair of them over and onto the sumptuously decorated floor that held the Baroness’ private quarters. Its huge frame crouched as it made to once more accelerate along the corridor.

“Stop!” cried the Baroness, “Let me down, I can walk from here thank you very much.” She slid from her perch at the monster’s waist and massaged the feeling back into her legs. Looking at the crushed handprints in the stonework of the balcony, she shook her head at the featureless face towering above her. “Lead on.”

It stomped, gently but resolutely towards her chambers and stopped at the security door, it’s face on a level with that of the Stalys terminal, the artificial intelligence that controlled the Roost’s systems. There was a decidedly canine growl from the giant’s speakers and the door slid open. It then stood aside as the Baroness entered the room.

“Don’t let your daughter see you do that, she’s got enough of an attitude problem as it is without her developing an abusive relationship with the constructs.” She took off her uniform jacket and threw it on the bed, “So, what did you want? As if it wasn’t obvious.”

The huge figure clutched its hands to its chest as if it had been shot through the heart, “You wound me My Lady.” It laughed as its hands moved to each side of its head and twisted. With a click and a hiss of escaping pressure the helmet was lifted to reveal the smiling, bearded face of Baron Massimo Lohlephel. “Happy Birthday, my sweet, my ghostly tune of the first jackdaw of autumn, my babbling laughter of a woodland stream, I would like to present you with…” The spade-like gauntlets of his armoured suit slapped against his thighs. “With… I have it here somewhere…” He furiously looked around the room, “I’m sure I… Ah!” One of his suit arms went limp as he removed his real arm from it to search the inside of the suit. “Exit!” He commanded and the suit split open from neck to groin. He stepped out of it and climbed down onto the ground, holding out a flat box in front of him, which he presented reverently to the Baroness.

“Oh it’s lovely Massimo,” She gasped, holding up the Egyptian inspired necklace up to the light which skittered along its thick, gold rope. “If I may ask one question though, you old goat?”

“Anything my love, you have but to ask.”

“Do you not usually wear clothes under your power-armour?”

“Not today my sweet, no…”

Whilst not 'Entirely' dishonourable... Still a kind of disharge.

I think I'll start April with a story about my dear old Dad.

Those of you who actually knew him will realise that when it comes down to it, he was a bit of a rogue (Not rouge, as I originally wrote there - Although in fairness, I cannot actually guarantee that he didn't repeatedly rub himself on an innocent young lady's cheek in some far-flung foreign land in the middle of the last century.)

As you may remember, he was a a Flight-Sergeant in the Royal Air Force in his younger days and did, like so many others, avail himself of certain 'opportunities' to supplement his meagre government income.  That would have been frowned upon by his superiors if they had ever found out.

For instance, He used to quite regularly fly between North Africa and South-east Asia (or 'Bloody Chindit Central' as he lovingly referred to it on occasion... Usually after watching Bridge on the River Kwai on a Sunday afternoon) and he set up a string of laundry services along the route.  He would collect dress shirts and suchlike from the men at whatever RAF Station he happened to land at, then take them with him to the next station where he'd set up a franchise and hand them over to one of the locals.

The honest native type would then drag the bundle to the nearest cow-dung infested river, beat them to within an inch of their lives on a nearby rock (The clothes that is, not the cows), do a bit of the old invisible mending and give them a brisk going over with a charcoal-filled flat iron before returning them to Dad on his way back.  He would then deliver them to their rightful owners, and make half a crown profit on every bundle.

Simples!

Why didn't he just employ the local population at the same place at where he picked up the laundry you may ask?  Well, he did try that once, but one of his customers found out and decided to 'Cut out the middle man' and go direct as it were - Very bad for business.

However, his business boomed, and it wasn't long before he started getting requests like, 'Here Our Kid, You going to [Insert exotic sounding place in Burma or Singapore]? Can you get me some [Insert difficult to get hold of item] whilst you're there?' Then there'd be some complicated 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink' style communication and the deal was done.

For the first three-quarters of his burgeoning business empire, his most popular (and therefore profitable) line was, believe it or not, ballpoint pens. This was closely followed by strange-smelling oriental tobacco (No... Actual tobacco) and sweets.  In fact, this new endeavour proved so popular that he gave up his interest in the laundry business and concentrated on the Del-Boy style buying and selling... One hesitates to use the word smuggling, although I don't suppose that there were a huge number of customs officials involved in any of the transactions.

Then the order came that was to take his assault on Mr Selfridge to the next level - And also see it come crashing down again.

The UK based customer had heard tell of a certain mythical beast that strode through the deserts of Egypt with gay abandon, fading into the background at the merest hint of danger and grabbing it's prey without warning, like a Northern Lass who's finally got to the front of the queue in the kebab shop.  He asked if it would be possible to hunt down one of these creatures and return it to Blighty to be displayed as a curio - What we would now call an 'Exotic Pet'

The next time that he and his crew visited the land of the Sphynx and the Pyramid, he loaded himself up with water and tinned corned beef, rolled up his trousers to the knees, tied his combat knife to a broom-handle and set off into the high desert.  It was days before he sighted his prey, basking majestically on a huge boulder, outlined by the first primordial rays of the rising sun.  As he approached, he dislodged a small rock which clattered to the ground.  The beast reared up at him and clacked its razor sharp jaws in defiance.  He raised his pole-arm and...

Actually, I can't keep this up, what actually happened was that he wandered off the base, found the first dodgy-looking Egyptian fellow he could, (Which, according to him, didn't take as long as you'd think) gave him a hessian sack and said something along the lines of 'Abdul, take-o this sack-o, fill-o with-o Chameleon-os, quick-smart, jaldi-jaldi.' (I like to think that he said it in a Captain Jack sparrow voice, but he probably didn't)

So, some time later, a bag of incredibly angry chameleons was winging its way by military cargo plane, to the UK.  One was delivered to the original customer, others were distributed to the customer's friends and close family and the last one, the sickly looking green one, cowering at the bottom of the sack was adopted by my Father. (In fact, it's possible, if you are currently the proud owned of a captive-bred chameleon in the UK, that it is a decendent of one of these very animals) It both kept him amused during boring flights doing that 'Leg in the air, rocking backwards and forwards thing' that chameleons are so good at, and acted as an advert for his new pet supply business.

All went well, for many months until one fateful day, as my Father's plane was starting to taxi towards the runway, he stood up, patted his pocket and shouted 'Basil!' (Actually I don't know what he called his chameleon, but I imagine it was probably something like Basil, or Peverill, or Cholmondely.)  There was vexation amongst the rest of the crew, but with the judicious application of a few dead-arms and a particularly vicious Chinese-Burn, he got the pilot to park up and he ran back to the billet to fetch him.

But it was too late, by the time he got there, the next set of flight crew had already moved in, some sweaty radio operator had his stuff all over the bunk and didn't take kindly to my Dad going through it trying to find the errant colour-changer, so in a fit of spite, he lay down trying to cover as much of his own gear as he could.

And that's when he heard the crunch and felt the small, warm, damp patch creeping through his shirt.

Poor Basil... (or Peverill, or Cholmondely.)

\m/ Rockbitch are so NSFW that it's not even funny. \m/

No, seriously guys, I mean... You've read various posts about the pale underbelly of my life... You've read details of events that may even have nipped at the edges of illegality... Actually, you may well have seen the odd post that tore great chunks out illegality and spat it out whilst laughing maniacally and poking at a koala bear with a greased herring.

You've even read about the time I was trapped in a darkened room with a load of wild transvestites, and had my photograph taken for a German Fetish Magazine.

But this one...

It may not be for everyone... You should probably be at least 18 to read this.

And if you've ever been offended by anything, ever, don't read this either.

Don't get me wrong, everything that happened was between consenting adults and whilst money had changed hands... Well... It was still technically just a Gig.

-oOo-

It was just prior to the dawn of the New Millennium, and I was working for a global producer of aeroplane engines during the day, and drinking copious amounts of alcohol at night.

The pub I spent a lot of my time in was The Victoria Inn, opposite the main railway station in Derby which was at the time, and still is, one of the country's leading alternative live music venues.

This particular day, I was having a conversation with the landlord about the bands that he was putting on and the see-saw, swings and roundabouts situation that you get where 'Cover' or 'Tribute' bands are always very popular, but up and coming original bands are a bit more 'honest' but don't drag as many people across the threshold, if you know what I mean.  there was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing and it all got a bit philosophical until I mentioned a band that I'd only recently heard of, that I thought might well bring in the punters.

They were a bunch of melodious young ladies who sailed under the sobriquet of 'RockBitch'

Do feel free to Google them, but maybe not from a PC at your place of work.

For those of a shy (or quite sensible) disposition, I will give you a quick rundown of the, now sadly defunct, band.

They were a group of young ladies, who I believe at the time all lived together in a polyamorous, pagan, feminist community based in a chateaux, somewhere in France. They all knew each other very, very well. And were not hugely shy about showing their friendliness towards each other on or off stage.  In fact, they weren't shy about showing their friendliness towards themselves either.  In their spare time, they played pagan, feminist, empowering rock music... Which, if I'm honest relied more on the fact that they didn't wear very much than on any huge technical ability, don't get me wrong, they all knew how to play their respective instruments but, well, you know, boobs 'n' stuff.

Fast forwarding a month or so, the band was booked and it was discovered that 'The Vic' wasn't big enough to deal with the number of perverts that had said that they were interested in buying tickets, so a deal was struck with a local Rock club, 'The Rockhouse' to host the gig.

Then someone 'leaked' to the local paper that an all-girl hardcore sex-show was coming to the peaceful little hamlet of Derby-on-Derwent, which generated a potload of free publicity and increased the number of interested parties no end - Everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the gig to get cancelled, and everyone was very surprised when it wasn't.

I had the bright idea of getting some of my workmates to attend, as I'd been trying to get them to come out for a beer for a while, most of them were contractors who only lived locally during the week and went home to their loved ones at the weekend, and would otherwise just have been say in their digs, staring at the 1950s wallpaper and drinking 'Happy Shopper' lager.  To a man, they all said 'Yes'. (Please note, one of my workmates was almost seven feet tall, remember this, it pops up later)

The Gig Itself...

Now, I've seen the 'band' at the same venue twice now, once with Mrs Dandy and once without, and I can't for the life of me remember which time this was, I'm sure she'll remind me later, not that it matters hugely I suppose.

It all started off fairly normally, I suppose the band were gauging their audience and the stage was about 40 deep with 99.5% men,crammed together so tightly that you couldn't get a cigarette-paper between them. 

I remember looking at the back of this one chaps head and thinking, "why has that guy got a swimming cap on?' It was only when he turned that I saw the anatomically improbable phallus protruding from the front of it which the lead guitarist 'perched herself upon' repeatedly at various points during the evening.  

There were a couple of moments where the band members 'Openly celebrated each others femininity' via the medium of digital manipulation (No, I don't mean Photoshop) Which, if I remember correctly, raised more applause than any of the songs.

Then about halfway through the show, everything kind of stopped... The vocalist (who was excitingly named 'The Beast') called for quiet and produced from somewhere (She didn't have any pockets that I could make out) a condom, in a golden wrapper, which she held high in the air.  there was a short speech about female empowerment, women's rights to enjoy themselves however they saw fit and all sorts of other things that no-one was particularly listening to.

She then cast the item like a prophylactic Frisbee into the crowd.

Remember my altitudinally blessed colleague?  Well, he reached out one of his baboon like arms and plucked it, unthinkingly, from the air. (I kept my hands firmly by my sides through the entire sordid ordeal, obviously)

He grinned gormlessly at me and shouted into my ear, 'What did I win?' - I pointed at the band, who were all alternating between frantically gesturing him forward and doing that over-the-head handclap and shouting 'Woo' thing.

What he'd won, as some of you may already know (especially those of you who ignored my advice and Googled the band) was to spend the time that it took the band to play the next song, with an extended guitar solo, in the dressing room, in flagrante delicto, with a member of the band.  He toddled towards the stage, and was led away by a pretty young lady who looked him up and down as if trying to work out whether he was totally in proportion or not.

It seems that he probably was, as she came out as the song was drawing to a close, naked but for her boots, and asked them to play it over again.

-oOo-

These are the wonderful ladies from around the time in question, sorry it's not a great photograph, but it's quite difficult to find a decent picture where they're actually wearing clothes.

What? you were expecting them to be ugly?

A shiny tuppence for everyone?

You know something I don't get?

Well, yes, you're right obviously, I'm still not sure that I completely understand how aeroplanes work, or why so few ocean-going liners capsize and are lost with all hands (I was going to put a link to that post too, right up until the point where I realised that I hadn't written it yet)

What I'm currently having trouble 'getting' is... The whole... area of... Ladies intimate topiary...

Now, I'm a child of the sixties, and started my long appreciation of the female form, specifically the female form as displayed in various gentlemen's art pamphlets, such as you may or may not find in the bins behind the newsagents after they had closed on a Thursday evening, during the late 70s and early 80s.

The ladies of the time were, how should I put it? The best word would be 'hirsute' perhaps? Their lady-gardens were guarded by an impenetrable (There's a poor choice of words I suppose, when you think about it.) thicket of tortile fluff that, to my untrained eye, looked as if it would repel all boarders, nautical, piratical or otherwise. (Yes, I appreciate that there's an obvious 'Seaman' joke in there - Feel free to make it yourself - For added pre-pubescent jocularity, may I suggest the addition of the word 'salty' to increase the general mirth quotient.)

But, over the last thirty years or so, the 'acreage' of the female frontal bottom area that is thus covered has slowly reduced, up to the point about ten years ago, when it became fashionable for it to be virtually non-existent. (or so I understand. I myself have been happily married for approximately 15 years, so I am no longer exposed to the frenetic variety of mimsy 'in the wild' that I once was.)

I vowed to find out what was happening and why.  Donning my favourite gaberdine raincoat and picking up one of the microphones that we normally use for playing SingStar (TM) I strode out into the wide world with a badly prepared handful of diagrams - Drawn on little cards for extra authenticity.

Did you know that it only takes two or three resounding slaps around the face to make your cheek feel really sore?

Also, it seems that young ladies find being asked the question, 'Would you mind pointing at the card that contains the feverish Sharpy drawing that most closely resembles your secret special place?' upsetting and impertinent in equal measure. One young lady did in fact examine the cards and go to the trouble of pointing one out.  Unfortunately, as the card in question was a postcard featuring the head of a Bison that I had accidentally picked up in error, I had to abandon that particular test.

I retired to the Internet... Which, as it turns out, is the go-to place if you wish to compare the sleekness of a selection of muliebrital beetle-bonnets and found that there are almost as many reasons to cut-back the grass on the Mound of Venus as there are coiffured leaves on any bush that you care to mention.  It seems a lot of people decide that their choice of beachwear can have an impact on their ventral tonsure... variation in gusset-width and translucency when wet for instance.  Others opine that it is 'Cleaner' and 'Lower Maintenance' when in fact, it seems that many specialists (people who specialise in looking at moustachio'd pudenda - Not just casual hobbyists such as myself) believe that this is not the case, shaving can give you all kinds of icky infections and pustular complaints... Ewww pustules... Doesn't bear thinking about does it?

Then of course there's the sticky situation that you get yourself into when you start taking puberty into account.  Traditionally, that's when the stuff in question appears, usually sometime in the early to mid teens.  It signifies the translation from childhood to (biological at least) adulthood.  So you'd have to question the motive of someone who was trying to turn back that particular clock wouldn't you?  No wonder DJs in the olden-days sometimes got confused.

It's also thought by many that it acts as a kind of 'sponge' that holds pheromones that are produced... Erm... locally... And people who get rid of it are making themselves less attractive to people with a half-decent sense of smell - But, I think that could go either way really, depending on the weather.

The thing that I really don't get is that it seems that the popularity of hair 'down there' for ladies is reducing at about the same rate as the popularity of luxuriant beards for men is increasing.

Oh...

Wait...

I think I might have got it...

Easing myself in gently

Right then, my first Post in two weeks...

I'm going to jump back into it with both feet and an easy hit.  The state of the Dandy Nation for the first bit of 2014.

Hmm... Dandy Nation, the more I say that, the more I like it - Maybe there could be a T-Shirt line in there somewhere... A bit like (or, you might say stolen from) the 1972 David Pelham cover for 'A Clockwork Orange'

Like this:

Feel free to steal this image and post it every-flipping-where

Hasn't this year just flown past? it only seems like seconds seconds that I was was telling the younger members of the Dandy family things like 'No, I'm sorry, we've run out of that size of battery.' and 'Well, if the dog's eaten your Pokemon then you're going to have to wait until it evolves its way out.'

But we're in February already, beset by floods and snow and sinkholes and we're rushing headlong towards Easter and the chocolate coma that we could so easily all drop into, having not fully recovered from eating that entire tin of Roses or Quality Street to ourselves on Boxing Day.

Here we go:

Since the 1st of January, the Blog has had 2,757 views, which is a little down on average, but I guess that I've not posted anything in February at all.  This takes our total pageviews, as of today, the 12th February 2014, to 29,048

(Oh yeah, whilst I remember, a pet peeve of mine... The name of this month is pronounced 'Feh-Brew-Ehry' not 'Feb-You-Ehry'.  And also, You know the sticky black sweet, liquorice? that's pronounced 'Lick-O-Ris' not 'Lick-Er-Rish', just so as you know.)

It's been another world-wide month, with our popularity rising again in Russia.  We seem to be getting popular in The Ukraine now too, in fact after the UK, USA and Russia, they're our number 4 most populace readers, then comes Australia, Canada & Germany, followed by Brazil, France and the plucky little Isle of Man.  We're also starting to get hits from Denmark, Kenya and Hong Kong, which is nice.

-oOo-

The 'Things people have searched for on Google and found the Blog' list has a couple of surprises.  Apart from the normal 'thechimpingdandy.blogspot.com' type things, there's been a distinct upsurge of queries involving some of the following words 'Gunzmore, shooting, 14, stepfather, Facebook, rape and virus.' Which, for those who haven't read the post, will be explained later. 'Dzit Dit Gaii translation' is also enjoying a resurgence.  But our newest Google query (In that it's one I've not seen before) is: 'british masturbation blogs/ dandy' - Your guess is as good as mine...

-oOo-

And here's the current Top-Ten chart of Blog posts:

10: You like it when I do what? - This is a 'State of the Dandy Nation' post from October 2013.  Which, as well as detailing the top ten posts, also ruthlessly pimps my last book - Which you can buy from Amazon here *cough* - You could buy the Kindle version instead if you wanted, but that wouldn't help my kids go to University.

9: Like a firm, ripe, peach - A slightly salacious post about 'Mooning', the act of baring one's buttocks in the direction of another person to show a general lack of respect (Caution, includes a description of an event that involves the buttocks of young boys - But I have never, at any time, been a Radio 1 DJ)

8: Priorities - An unusually serious post for The Chimping Dandy that describes the way that my Father told me that he was suffering with inoperable cancer.

7: Today, My Dad died - You can probably get what this one's about from the title - Had some good comments about this one.  Although you should probably know that what I call a good comment, would be something like 'That was difficult to read.'

6: Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young - I'm so glad that this is still in the Top 10 - Although I understand that that might be because I pimp it every time someone mentions that they like beards on Twitter.

5: Learn to govern yourself, be gentle and patient - This is one of my personal favourites, it details some of the things closest to my heart, anachronism, Radio Four between 18:30 - 19:15, steampunk, bodily fluids and Victorian burial procedures

4: There's one born every minute - This post is the reason for all the Google searches involving the name 'Gunzmore' - It's about those people who share the 'If you like this post, Bill Gates will donate $1 to help this Polar Bear cub to get the plastic surgery he so richly deserves' posts on Facebook, despite knowing full well that it's complete balderdash.

3: Sabian, the Token Yank - More death here I'm afraid... But this time of a long-time friend, rather than a family member.  It does hold the current records for comments though, and bizarrely, it's the only post so far that I've had to delete an offensive comment from.

2: No, it is not a 'Slow News Day' - Now, I don't get this one in the slightest.  This is another 'State of the Dandy Nation' post, this time from September 2013 - There's a top-ten, a list of Google Searches like you'd expect... The only difference is that it gives you details about how you cam get hold of Chimping Dandy 'Merch' from the great people at HashTogs - They're on Facebook if you're interested... Please be interested... It'll make me feel that this isn't all for nothing.

And here we go.

The Blockbuster, the most popular post ever in the history of the Universe!

Destined to stay at number 1 for the foreseeable future:

1: You get me closer to God - Even though I ruthlessly stole the title of this post from the Nine Inch Nails, it's actually a story set in Church, about the time The Micro-Dandy got baptised - This is in the lead by, like, 100 pageviews - People seem to really like this stuff, and I'm not going to complain.  Even I think it's pretty good, and I wrote it.

-oOo-

So, there you go for another month (at least) - Please bear with us, normal service will be resumed in the near future - Maybe I'll do something about James Blunt (Blount) next.

P.S. if you want a higher-resolution version of the 'Dandy Nation' logo to make some stickers to stick on your nearest lamp-post or whatever, drop me an email, and I'll send you one

Please note: sticking anything on lamp-posts could be seen as defacement of property and you might get into trouble - So make sure you do it when it's dark