The Village Green Preservation Society.

We are the Village Green Preservation Society.
God save Donald Duck, vaudeville and variety.
We are the Desperate Dan Appreciation Society.
God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties.

Preserving the old ways from being abused.
Protecting the new ways, for me and for you.
What more can we do?

We are the Draught Beer Preservation Society.
God save Mrs. Mopp and good old Mother Riley.
We are the Custard Pie Appreciation Consortium.
God save the George Cross, and all those who were awarded 'em.

We are the Sherlock Holmes English-speaking Vernacular.
God save Fu Manchu, Moriarty and Dracula.
We are the Office Block Persecution Affinity.

God save little shops, china cups, and virginity.

Preserving the old ways from being abused.
Protecting the new ways, for me and for you.
What more can we do?

We are the Village Green Preservation Society.
God save Donald Duck, vaudeville and variety.

We are the Office Block Persecution Affinity.

God save little shops, china cups, and virginity.

God save the village green!

The Theory Of Doing Nothing Till It's Knackered

Blessings generally come in such small packages that you have to snuffle through an awful lot of crap to find them.

So when I wrecked a bit of expensive equipment due to equal measures of incompetence, laziness and downright stupidity recently, I had to trawl through a quagmire of personal guilt and heartache to find a silver lining. But find it, I jolly well did.

The tale centres on a shiny red tractor mower, like the one pictured. The sort that lords of the manor in green wellies are seen steering around the rose garden while milady entertains the village spinsters in the drawing room. Mine is eight years old and is mainly used for keeping the clover, nettles and brambles under control. It was performing its functions adequately until a few weeks ago when it exploded.

To cut a tediously long - and embarrassing - story short, it transpired that I had been woefully remiss in the oil-topping-up department. Apparently my determination to make it continue its duties without lubrication had resulted in a catastrophic seizure. They told me the con-rod and crankshaft had somehow been dragged into the metal-on-metal conflagration with devastating consequences.

The motor had ceased to be. It was an ex-engine.

Quickly putting aside - for the sake of brevity - my sense of shame over this sin of omission, I have eventually arrived at a rationale which has soothed my tortured breast like a gallon of cool Duckhams poured over a red-hot piston.

Swiftly reminding the reader that the mower was bought eight years ago, it had been treated to an “annual” service by experts.....once. Well, it cost £180! For a mower! I mean!

So I vowed to do my own “servicing” in future and I do vividly remember changing the oil at least once. Probably cost me £5. A bargain. Ha-ha, says you. False economy! You saved on servicing but look how much it cost you when the plucked turkeys came home to roost.

Total cost: Just short of £900.So here’s the gist of my Theory of Doing Nothing Till It’s Knackered.

In eight years, if Grumpy o'Man had done the decent thing by his steed, annual overhauls would have cost around £1600, assuming an average of £200 a throw when allowing for inflation.
He actually shelled out £185, say £230 when we include a couple of drive belts which he fitted. So the family pension fund is up by £1600 minus £230 minus £900= erm £470.

So he's actually £470 richer because he’s been a lazy, good-for-nothing tosser.

And here’s the real bonus. The shiny red stallion now sports a brand-new, incredibly quiet, reduced-vibration powerpack with an extra 50cc of muscle compared to the old model.
However you slice the courgette, the glass looks very-near full to me. I’ve got an extra £470 in the pocket and have secured an upgrade to a Rolls Royce among mowers.

And it is all my own fault. Great!

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Grumpy o'Man Hates Country Shows, But....

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OK. It should be said I hate country shows. Loathe is another appropriate word. As a cub reporter I was forced to attend and type out ream after ream of results.

At a Bishop's Castle show, I silently rebelled and intentionally ignored the goat competition. Nobody noticed. Result! It was one of the highlights of my miserable, grumpy existence.

So, dear reader, you will understand why you wouldn't get me into a "fayre" with a super-charged cattle prod. A "fayre", for heaven's sake. What sort of people use words like that.

But that smooth-talking m***** f****** Jeremy Clarkson, of Top Gear fame, has almost persuaded me to give them another try. It won't happen, but for a second I was tempted.

Therefore, a bit from Jezza's The Sunday Times piece. As a taster:

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"Sadly, it’s illegal to use pliers on the other problem: the local lord who turns up in a crap suit with a walking stick to mooch about with a grumpy face, judging bonsai trees, cauliflowers and the face-painting competition. He looks like he’s hating it. He’ll tell his friends he hates it. But the fact is this: every year, he organises his holidays around the show so that he can go. He loves it because for one marvellous day it’s 1850 again. He is not some moth-eaten old buffer in a leaky house. He’s the lord. He’s in charge. And he’s a prat for pretending it doesn’t make his heart soar.
I only intended going to the village show for an hour or so. But I stayed till I was so drunk I could barely stand up. I’d seen more emotion than I’ve seen in the past 100 Hollywood movies. I’d eaten horrible food, got a massively sunburnt face and laughed, really laughed, with my children at the sheep’s enormous testicles. It was, quite simply, the perfect day."

~

Not often is joie de vivre promoted in this blog. But if you can cope, here's the link:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/jeremy_clarkson/article6735911.ece

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Blowing in the Wind at Tesco

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Email: customer.services@tesco.co.uk

Dear Sirs at Tesco,

May it be writ large in local tabloids that, in the face of local planners' opposition, your stalwart resolve to build a wind turbine in the car park at Tesco, Ludlow, is inspired.

Many is the time when the Beaufort scale in Station Street, where your shop is sited, has been sorely tested and experts in the locality have been forced to increase the maximum reading from 12 to 13. Wikipedia now officially rates a ‘Ludlow’ force wind above ‘Hurricane’.

This obvious untapped natural resource has been crying out for a corporate philanthropist such as your kind selves to harness the energy with equipment which could never be seen as an unwarranted blot on the skyline.

Ludlow Tesco staff have often been seen heroically clinging on to small children to prevent them being blown on to the roof by a sudden gust. On many occasions I have found it so easy to enter the store with the aid a Force 11 tailwind only to find it impossible to push my trolley back to the car without the help of a dozen large security guards.

“A waste of such power is a scandal,” I thought as we sweated manfully across the tarmac plucking flying geriatrics out of the air.

And you could never be accused of erecting any eyesore which could be seen as a cheap advertising gimmick.

How could detractors suggest that these svelte edifices might in future be painted in corporate livery thereby creating a easily spotted navigation aid to shoppers?

You may or may not have based your thinking on the fact that Ludlow folk rarely take their knuckles off the floor to notice the machine is just a teensy bit ugly. But well done, you. They’ll get used to it.

The Tesco store itself caused all that commotion and now everybody has grown to ignore it.

No, I say. Fear not the gainsayers. Push onwards with your corporate dream fearing not the local councils and popular opinion. The future is yours and we plebs should be grateful.

Yours faithfully,

G o’Man

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Come The Revolution, eh!

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(It should be made clear to people living under stones that the following is doing the rounds on the email circuit).

Unbelievable, but true! Guess which organisation is made up of about 600 people of whom:

29 have been accused of spouse abuse
7 have been arrested for fraud
9 have been accused of writing bad cheques
17 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses
3 have done time for assault
71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit
14 have been arrested on drug-related charges
8 have been arrested for shoplifting
21 are currently defendants in lawsuits
84 have been arrested for drink driving in the last year.


It's the House of Commons.

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Aussie Grump. F**kin Great, Mate.

Letter sent to the Australian Foreign Affairs Minster.

Dear Mr. Minister,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believethis.
How is it that K-Mart has my address and telephone number, and knowsthat I bought a Television Set and Golf Clubs from them back in 1997,and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born andon what date.
For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand?
My birth date you have in my Medicare information, and it is on all theincome tax forms I've filed for the past 40 years. It is on my driver'slicence, on the last eight passports I've ever had, on all those stupidcustoms declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed offthe planes over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable censusforms that I've filled out every 5 years since 1966.
Also..would somebody please take note, once and for all, that mymother's name is Audrey, my Father's name is Jack, and I'd be absolutelyfucking astounded if that ever changed between now and when I dropdead!!!...
SHIT!
I apologize, Mr. Minister. But I'm really pissed off this morning.Between you an' me, I've had enough of all this bullshit! You send theapplication to my house, then you ask me for my fucking address!! Whatthe hell is going on with your mob? Have you got a gang of mindlessNeanderthal arseholes workin' there!
And another thing, look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? Ican't even grow a beard for God's sakes. I just want to go to NewZealand and see my new granddaughter. (Yes, my son interbred with aKiwi girl). And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shitwhether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever gotthe urge to do something weird to a sheep or a horse, believe you me,I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!
Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of thecity, and get another fucking copy of my birth certificate, and to partwith another $80 for the privilege of accessing MY OWN INFORMATION!
Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot, toassist in the issuance of a new passport on the same day?? Nooooo..that'd be too fucking easy and makes far too much sense. You would muchprefer to have us running all over the place like chickens with ourfucking heads cut off, and then having to find some high society wankerto confirm that it's really me in the goddamn photo! You know thephoto..the one where we're not allowed to smile?! ...you fucking morons

Signed - An Irate Australian Citizen.
P.S Remember what I said above about the picture, and getting someone inhigh-society to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in thiscountry since before 1850!
In 1856, one of my forefathers took up arms with Peter Lalor. (You doremember the Eureka Stockade!!)
I have also served in both the CMF and regular Army something over 30years (I went to Vietnam in 1967), and still have high securityclearances.
I'm also a personal friend of the president of the RSL.. and Lt GeneralPeter Cosgrove sends me a Christmas card each year.
However, your rules require that I have to get someone 'important' toverify who I am; You know.. someone like my doctor; WHO WAS BORN ANDRAISED IN FUCKING PAKISTAN!!!......a country where they eitherassassinate or hang their ex-Prime Ministers, and are suspended from theCommonwealth for not having the 'right sort of government.'
You are all Fucking idiots

A Form of Torture

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Ye gods and all that may be considered holy!

This "Form of Torture" arrived in the post this morning. Can you possibly guess what it's all about.

Luckily there was a duplicate in English...but that's not the point. If there is anybody in the universe who cannot understand the English version but is able comprehend the Welsh gobbledigook (no offence, I'm sure it's a beautiful tongue) he/she must be under the 24-hour care of some Unfortunate who could pick up a Biro and fill in the squares.

It's for someone who has just hit 60 and is now entitled to claim for next winter's fuel allowance of £125 (eat your hearts out, American cousins). So any recipient, however Welsh will have benefitted from the more recent efforts at State education which are mainly in English. Even in the valleys.

Waste! Don't get me started!

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