Category Archives: Comedy


Hello, and welcome to my blog.

The irony continues.

And by that, I mean that I continue to make progress (tiny, incremental progress), even though in a few weeks my swimming lessons will stop because I have cancelled them.

This week, we revisited breathing. Aah, breathing – such a tiny thing, yet so vital to the whole “living” malarkey. My fellow pupil and I are in the same boat (not literally – that would be a bit cheeky in a swimming lesson) when it comes to breathing whilst swimming in that we struggle with getting enough breath in, often take in water, and end up panicking / floundering / forgetting any technique we might have learned.

I suppose I had somewhat of an advantage over my fellow learner in that I had already been “taught” about breathing. The simple fact that I had failed to take in anything taught to me is beside the point, but as Kate our teacher explained to us about breathing techniques, I did feel kind of smug that I already knew this.

Luckily, there was no one around to point out that in spite of already knowing this stuff, I still couldn’t do it.

But then I had an epiphany. No, not an epiphany because that is a divine manifestation, and Jesus did not appear to me in speedos and a rubber ring (if he did appear in a swimming pool, I’m fairly sure that he wouldn’t be concerned about his buoyancy). What I did have, is a moment when something ‘clicked’. And for once it wasn’t my lower back. Kate was talking about how we should not raise our head out of the water when we breathe in, but should just turn our head to the side and breathe in. I had tried this previously, but always got a mouthful of water rather than air. Well, this week Kate told us that as we move through the water, the motion of our arms entering the water on each stroke makes the water part and go either side of us. Not Moses style, but enough to create a small pocket of air on our shoulders – a pocket that we can breathe in, in when we turn our heads. Now, there’s a bit more to it than that, but when I tried it out – it worked! Like I said, it wasn’t perfect, but I was able to take a breath and continue swimming, and Kate said my stroke looked much smoother. So it’s that little pocket of air on my shoulder that just might

I also swam a total of four lengths this lesson – again, not all at once, and my technique went very ragged for some of it, but I’m starting to see the rewards of my efforts.

To end with, I’d just like to prompt those of you who aren’t regular visitors to my blog to visit the “Poems” page of this blog via the menu, and take a look at last week’s Friday Poem, “Otis Rem”. This was a poem inspired by the inside of a lift (elevator). I know that doesn’t sound too exciting, but just go with it..

If you are a first time visitor to my blog, I hope you will have a look around, and perhaps pop back to see me again.

Until next time…..


Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Before we get into this week’s poem, may I remind you that I am looking for suggestions of topics / subjects to write a poem about, as part of this year’s “Poem Challenge”. Basically, I want YOU to decide what my Friday poem’s #70 to #75 should be about. I’ve already had one suggestion, but I need at least four more.

In fact, I will write a Friday poem based on each suggestion I receive – there, I’ve opened it right up!

So what are you waiting for? Use the contact form on the About me / Get in touch page of this blog to send me your suggestions. There no rules as to what you can suggest, so let your imagination run wild!!

Now, to this week’s Poem. This poem is one that I wrote back in August 2017, but until now hadn’t realised that I never actually posted it before. I have read this poem at spoken word open mic events, but it has never graced this blog as a Friday poem.

Fortunately, this error has now been rectified. So enjoy the poem – and take heed……

A Cautionary Tale

Here is a fact that you cannot deny;

Being eaten by an Alligator will make you cry.

This is a tale of deep regret

Of a boy who pestered for such a pet.

Young Randolph was an impetuous child

Demanding, with a temper wild.

And when he knew which thing he wanted

He would force the point to be confronted.

His parents – a spineless pair, of simple mind

Would cave in at the merest whine.

And would succumb to every whim

To mute their offspring’s endless din.

The trigger for Randolph’s fateful strop

Was the inhabitant of a pet shop.

Within its window lay the agitator;

A foot-long baby Alligator.

The boy gazed intently upon the creature

As wonderment spread across his features.

He knew he wanted the scaly babe,

And so Randolph began his loud tirade.

His folks capitulated in an instant

For fear of a moan and wail persistent.

They really should have told him “stop!”

But followed meekly into the shop.

Now, normal parents will know this clearly;

Alligators don’t make good pets really.

Alas, here this was not the case

As with beast in tow, they left the place.

Once home, young Randolph was entranced

And proudly with his new pet pranced.

One fateful decision sealed his doom;

The Alligator slept in his bedroom.

Like many things, this fact is true;

A one foot Alligator soon grows to two.

This trick is repeated, and then again

Until it reaches eight or ten.

Young Randolph fed it every night

And squealed excitedly at the sight.

As it swallowed whole some mice and rats

Then larger things, like dogs and cats.

And all the while he failed to see

His pet eyeing him up hungrily.

One night, the alligator seized its chance

And bit Randolph in his underpants.

In two bites little Randolph died

As the Alligator gulped him down inside.

Still hungry, silently it slipped downstairs

And ate his parents in their chairs.

Then, having eaten all in sight

The creature slipped out into the night.

Though searched for, it was as feared –

The Alligator simply disappeared.

There is a moral to this tale;

Although your children moan and wail

Not getting their own way makes them stronger;

Plus they’ll very likely live for longer.

If you like this poem, then you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy! Get it from your Amazon,wherever you are – or if in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

Today was the second of my swimming lessons. This week I had a new teacher, Jo. And before you say it, my teacher last week has not resigned due to stress caused by my ineptitude in water. She is on holiday, and will return the next week.

I had to wait a few minutes to Jo to get to me for my lesson, so I had a quick go at “Sculling”. Sculling is where you lie on your back and control yourself in the water by moving your slightly cupped hands in the water in a motion that gently propels you (if both hands are moving in the same direction), or keeps you stationary (hands moving in different directions). Much to both my delight and equal frustration, I was happily able to Scull quite well this week – as opposed to last week, when for some unknown reason, despite my best efforts I was only able to propel myself in the opposite direction intended; if I tried to scull backwards, I ultimately would end up serenely moving forwards, which was very annoying.

It was good having a different teacher this week, because although Jo went over the technique just like last week’s teacher did (have you guessed yet that I can’t remember her name?), she also added some snippets of info that added to my learning. For example, I was taught last week that when kicking as I swim, my leg should be straight with the kick coming from my hips. There should be very little knee bend. This was echoed by Jo this week – but she also added that my feet should be floppy as if I was trying to shake off a sock. Nuggets like this will help my technique no end.

So, I did a few half lengths with the new and improved technique, and my swimming was indeed improved. I have purchased a pair of swimming goggles – at the exorbitant price of £20 (£20! For swimming goggles!) so I can now see clearer underwater. That is, of course, when my “anti-fog” goggles didn’t fog up. I have spoken to my partner about going back to the shop to complain, but she suggested rubbing my spit on them first. I’m not sure that is necessary; I’m quite capable of telling the shop manager how I feel without stooping to those depths.

Later in my lesson, we moved on to breathing – and when to breathe when doing front crawl. Jo told me that she has a way of remembering (apart from the feeling that your lungs are on fire) when to breathe, and that is ‘Bubble…Bubble…Breathe’. On the ‘Breathe’ is when to turn my head so my mouth is out of the water and take a breath. So it’s head facing downwards for the ‘Bubble..Bubble’, and then breathe. Now I’m sure that Jo is a very qualified teacher, but in my head, I did wonder if saying “Bubble” underwater was the best thing to do, as an open mouth lets in more water than a closed one does. In the end, I decided to think my bubbles.

I ended up swimming an entire length of the pool with my new technique. In fact, after a prolonged rest each time, I was able to swim a length back to the shallow end. But then the tiredness kicked in. I cannot tell you how exhausting swimming is when doing it properly (or as properly as an uncoordinated person can do). Remember that when I am swimming, I am trying to recall all the technique I have to do:

  • Stretch my body out to maintain a streamlined body position
  • Kick from the hips – maintain a straight leg, with minimal knee bend
  • Have floppy feet – like I’m trying to kick off a sock
  • Rotate my body as each arm stroke happens – but keep my head still, facing downwards
  • Keep my head on my arm when turning my head to breathe
  • Remember “Bubble…Bubble…Breathe”
  • Alternate my breathing from side to side each time

All of the above takes huge amounts of concentration and physical effort, and as I was pushed hard by Jo (I’m still the only one in my class, so no respite) I flagged – and flagged spectacularly. Twice!

The first flagging came as a result of my goggles. Wearing them, as I have mentioned before, gives me clearer vision under the water. So, as I approached the two-thirds mark of the pool, I saw that the bottom of the pool sloped away from a stand-uppable 1.5 metre depth, to a Jules Verne-esque 3 metre depth. Instantly, I was out of my depth – one of my biggest fears, and one of the reasons for taking up swimming lessons – to build my confidence in the water, and especially when out of my depth.But this was only my second lesson, so when I saw the bottom of the pool far below me, I panicked – and my tired body threw technique out of the window as I resorted to my default setting; head up, gasping for breath and thrashing about like a cat in a hot-tub.

The second flagging came as a direct result of my swimming shorts. I was at the deep end, clinging to the side of the pool like a limpet with abandonment issues. I was still recovering from my first flagging episode, but wanted to keep trying as I knew what I was learning was good for me on so many levels. In my lessons I have started my length swimming with a “push and glide” – that is where I push-off from the wall of the pool with my feet and glide for as far as possible in the stretched out, streamlined body shape. In theory, being just under 2 metres tall means that a good push and glide could allow me to cover a considerable length of the pool before having to think about technique.

So, with grim determination and still slightly out of breath, I pushed off from the wall of the deep end. As you might expect, my swim shorts are not streamlined and so cause a little bit of drag (I’m not ready for speedos just yet – and I’m damn sure the young families at the pool will never be ready for that image! Or you, for that matter). My tired legs did not give me the greatest momentum, and yet I immediately felt the effect of the drag on my shorts and they slipped to just half-way down my bottom. In amongst the techniques that my brain was recalling every nano-second, a small voice chipped in, “Your shorts are falling down Larry – everyone can see your bum. Best pull them up”. So as my right arm moved forward to help propel me forwards, my left arm shot back and began tugging at my shorts to pull them up.

Of course, less than a second later, my left arm was meant to be moving forwards to continue the stroke – but it was still grappling with my shorts. My forward motion was maintaining the drag on the shorts and holding them back, fighting the efforts of my left arm to raise them back to decency. So I had both arms back along the sides of my body – the right, maintaining the streamlined body position I had been taught, and the left frantically pulling at my swim shorts like a fisherman trying to haul in a full net by hand. All this meant, that my head didn’t have an arm to rest on when I turned to breathe, so when I did open my mouth it was still below the surface of the water, and I gulped in water and then stopped abruptly coughing and spluttering – thankfully just inside the 1.5 metre mark so I could stand on the bottom.

Fortunately, at that point my lesson was up. I regained my breath, and swam on my back to the side of the pool, and got out.

Jo said I had worked hard and had made improvements since the beginning of the lesson. I don’t know about the improvements, but I know I worked hard: my body aches from my shoulders, to my core muscles, down to my quivering thighs – and even the soles of my feet. But I’m still glad I’m doing it – it is such a good work out, and as I get better technically, my confidence will grow. And that must be a good thing.

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

I’m fairly certain that the title of this blog post already has many of you curious – and who can blame you? Tears AND Laughter? What’s all that about!!? Well, like a flasher in a park – let me reveal all.

Actually, hold that thought. No, not the thought of me flashing in a park, but the thought of flashers in general. Now I’m not complaining here, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere near as many flashers around as they used to be. You know what I mean – when I was a kid, there were always stories about flashers. It was always men (typical) wearing beige, long overcoats called ‘Macs’ who would lurk by trees or by the bushes and then jump out on passers-by and open up their macs to reveal themselves wearing nothing. Their victims (or “Flashees”) were generally women; I can’t recall hearing about a man being flashed at – presumably, because if it did happen it would turn in to a competition, with each person showing off what he is got to prove who has the biggest. (it what we do ladies – even if we deny it. Whenever we are in the gent’s toilets next to another bloke at the urinals, there is a voice in our head begging us to take a sneaky peek at the bloke next to us to see how big his is. Wherever you are in the world, you ask your man if they do this – and if they deny it, they are liars!)

They would be there for hours, jiggling their groins about, oblivious to whatever was going on around them, boasting to each other with phrases like “wot do yer think of that then?” and “you wouldn’t get much change out of a tenner for that!”. Anyway, flashers – like white dog poo – just isn’t seen anymore. The lack of white dog poo is down to a change in the ingredients of pet food, though I doubt the same reason applies to the diminished numbers of flashers seen. Perhaps it’s a sign of the times; it was the seventies when I was a kid, and as we are finding out now, most of the things that went on in the seventies, would not be acceptable now. Society, although still a long way off the mark in lots of ways (the gap between the rich and the poor for example) is making progress. I mean, look at women – well you can’t can you? Not in the way people used to. And that’s a good thing.

But going back to the flasher – why by the way, you should never do; you should treat them like a lit firework: always keep at arm’s length, and never let them go off in your hand. Forms of flashing still happen today; think about internet dating sites – we all know a woman who has been on an internet dating site and has been sent a dick pic – and I don’t mean a photo of Donald Trump. Getting an unsolicited, and unwanted picture of someone’s penis is the modern version of flashing. That’s where the flashers are – they are all online! And Ironically, some are still using Macs.


Blimey, I’ve gone right off on a tangent with that lot – although there is a link to a later part of this blog.

Anyway, tears and laughter:

Today, I made a number a map of Italy of people cry, and made a different number of people laugh. The tears came from a member of senior management, who was leaving work today to retire. Her team, knowing that I am a poet and write poetry for people, asked me to put their thoughts and feelings into a poem. This I duly did, and I was asked to read to the manager just before she left. By the time I had finished, most of the people there were crying – and my bottom lip was trembling a bit too. I’m just a big softie at heart.

But the sadness was counteracted by some laughter. As well ass being a handsome and caring guy, I also like to tell the odd joke or two, and as today was the last day before a four-day weekend (thanks Bank Holiday!), people were busy tying up the loose ends, of their work so the office was a bid subdued. It’s at times like these that I like to pull out a few gags, so I hit them with a couple of my favourites – which both come from my favourite comedian, Mr Tim Vine. If you don’t know who he is, just search for him on the web. The two jokes I told were as follows:


  1. Yesterday, I had a map of Italy tattooed onto my chest – and now I’ve got terribly sore Naples.


  1. This friend rang me yesterday, and said to me, “I’ve just come back from holiday where I visited a volcano and had an accident”. I said to him, “Krakatoa?”, but he replied, “No – I broke my arm”.

The laughter that rang out after I told those two jokes, was more like a low groan – but I knew what they meant.

At my place of work (or ex place of work, after those jokes) we can listen to music with headphones on. We have a radio app on our work phone, which is what most people use (we have one each – we don’t all fight over the same one – that would be ridiculous). I however, don’t just listen to music – I also listen to radio comedy shows. I’ve just started listening to a well-known, and popular show called “The Infinite Monkey Cage”, which is hosted by Professor Brian Cox (him of the permanent smile, and formerly of the band D-Ream), and a comedian called Robin Ince (I’ve never heard of him before). In each episode they discuss various scientific things – black holes, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, evolution, and have a panel of guests made up of people from the scientific community and usually a guest comedian (as if one wasn’t enough) who contribute. I’ve only listened to a few episodes so far, and it’s growing on me – like mould in a petri dish. At times the science goes over my head, but the humour usually hits the mark. Anyway, I was listening earlier this week, when I found something out that made me go “wow” – and the last time that happened was when I was kicked in the nuts whilst doing a ventriloquist act. The fact that astounded me was one of a natural basis, and it was this:

Ducks have a Psuedo-Penis; that is, a fake penis. It is made to look like a penis, but does not function.

Sadly, the show did not go into any further detail as to why, how, why again, erm…what? or give any further information on the subject. I will leave it up to you dear reader to investigate this further, but I will leave you with a summary of a discussion that took place around our dinner table with the children after I announced this amazing and incredible fact;

My daughter surmised that the fake penis that Ducks have is actually made out of cardboard, and they carry it with them so that they can whip it out when a female appears in the hope of attracting them.

Which brings us nicely full circle, back to the subject of flashing.


Thanks for reading this – until next time……

Hell o, and welcome to my blog.

In the past, people have referred to me as ‘childish’. On other occasions, I have been named as a ‘yes’ man. Some people have even gone as far as to call me the Space Cowboy – hang on, that’s a song lyric! I guess what I’m getting at is that in general, I am regarded as a light-hearted fellow who enjoys a laugh. Indeed, let me assure you that no-body likes a good laugh more than me. Except perhaps my Fiancee, and some of her friends. Oh, and the milkman. But that’s beside the point!. I do try to take a lighter view of the world (that is, when I’m not battling my own demons), and there is nothing wrong with that – at least I don’t think there is.

Take this afternoon for example. I was at work, at the Sister site of the company I work for. When I say “Sister” site, I don’t mean they are constructing a new Convent – I simply refer to the other location that the organisation I work for, operates. Anyway, I went to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, when I noticed two mugs side by side on the counter. They had been left there by someone who, like me was about to make themselves (and a friend) a drink. I was the only person in the kitchen (that’s where you’ll find me a parties), as the owner (s) of the mugs were nowhere to be found. Presumably they had nipped to the toilet, as is customary in English workplaces; you decide to make a drink, drop your vessel off in the kitchen, and then nip to the loo to empty your bladder to make room for the drink of your choice. Kind of a ‘One in, one out’ arrangement.

I looked at the mugs for a moment, and then a wave of devilry washed over me: I decided that it would be hilarious if I re-arranged the mugs somehow. Initially, I though of turning them over – so that their open tops would be counter-side down. I pictured the bemused look on the faces of the person (s) returning to the kitchen to find their mugs tampered with. Obviously, I wasn’t go to stand there and wait for their reaction – the fact that I would be blatantly to blame by my excited anticipation, and the fact that being 6’6″ tall means my most delicate parts are at the perfect height for slamming in the dishwasher that resides in the kitchen, availed me to rely on my imagination. I didn’t upturn the mugs – I just swapped their positions. This would just be enough to play a small mind game on the mug owner(s). Humans have the ability to take thousands of mental snapshots of our surroundings everyday as we go about our lives. Usually, these mental Polaroids are never recalled but every now and then – like when we lose our keys for example, they come back into our memory. This is what I hoped would happen here – I gambled that there person (s) would partially recall the image of the mugs they left on the counter – not completely, because that would say that someone had tampered with them, but just enough to confirm that those are the mugs they left on the counter, but with a degree of uncertainty as to which one was on the left, and which was on the right. My hope would be that they would be unsettled just enough to make them question their  sanity for a few moments. That is all, no harm done.

Or is there?

Mid way through patting myself on the back, a second thought coughed politely to get my attention: What if the person(s) never noticed the swap in position? So? So what? Well (the thought went on), what if one of those persons having one of those drinks had an intolerance or allergy of some kind – say lactose intolerance? And when I say intolerance or allergy – I’m talking a really serious, life threatening kind . And what if the mugs had been specifically placed in that position so that the person making the drink would know that the one on the left (or the right) did (or didn’t) have regular (or lactose free) milk.

At this point, my back-patting hand was now stroking my beard as my conscience insisted the thought continued.

So what if the person(s) never noticed the mug swap, and then put the wrong milk in the wrong mug! The consequences could be disastrous!! Someone’s life could be in danger! My stupid, childish idea could render somebody in hospital, or even worse, A&E! This was bad; this was very, very bad. What was I thinking? I can’t just go around messing with people’s lives like that – what am I some kind of monster!? I had to go back and put things right – I’d go back and swap the mugs round if I can and if not, I would confess to the person with the mug and tell them the whole sordid story, and then face the consequences like a man. A stupid, childish man.

Thankfully, at this point another thought wandered into my brain and asked “What am I having for tea tonight”, to which both my conscience, and the other thought replied, “dunno”. “oh”, said the new thought, “what were you talking about?”. “Erm….I’ve forgotten” said my conscience.

And I thought no more of it.

I’m sure it was fine.

Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Today is the Birthday of my soon to be Mother-In-Law (she who was bitten by a Bat), and to celebrate, last night we went out to a lovely restaurant  – as all the horrible restaurants were booked, thankfully – and had a lovely meal.

It was a very pleasant and uneventful evening.

Unlike last year. Don’t get me wrong – last year my Mother-In–Law’s birthday was equally lovely and pleasant, but was also altogether more eventful. The following extract was originally a Facebook status update, which my friends will tell you is often littered with tales of mishap as the hand of fate regularly pokes me in the eye.

I thought I would share it with my Blog fans.

I hope you like it.

The Birthday Pub Meal Restroom Restriction!!!

My friends, it’s happened again. The seagull of fate has yet again dive bombed my chips, and simultaneously pooped on my new shoes.

This week has been a week of Birthdays: Marianne Lagrue , Dan Lagrue , Glenn Bratley , Emma Bratley , Rebecca Hurley (tomorrow) to name a few very lovely people, and included in this Cacophony of celebration is the divine and sublime Margaret Hurley .

It is her Birthday today along with the afore-mentioned Emma, and so Dr Adrienne Rogers and I booked a table for three (sorry Emma) at the Blue Vinney Pub and Restaurant in Puddletown, Dorset. The Blue Vinney is a lovely place that serves great food, but has very poor telephone reception.

Adrienne and I picked up Margaret from outside her house – she hadn’t fallen, she was just waiting – and we drove the short distance to Puddletown. Margaret was in good spirits (tequila I think) and was merrily telling me to get a haircut, and complaining about modern pop songs and how they were just noise and you can’t hear the words anymore like in the good old days.

Before you could say “you can’t beat a bit of Frankie Vallie” we arrived at the pub, and went in to take our seats.

‘Table for three, Rogers – I booked’ said Adrienne cheerfully as we approached the bar.
A furrowed brow and a sense of confusion stared back at us, interspersed with checking of the booking log.
Soon it became apparent that the empty table reserved for “Hodges X 2” was actually ours, (poor telephone reception) and we decided that we didn’t want to sit there anyway and chose a different table with a view out to the pub garden.

Menus were inspected, and drinks and food chosen. The meal began, and all was lovely.

It was midway through my main course that the “WC available” sign came on in my bladder, and I excused myself and went to the gents toilet.

For those of you who are neither local, or male, let me describe the interior of the gents:

Three urinals, one cubicle, and a sink.

(you now
never need visit)

The urinals were on the far wall and the ceiling slanted down directly above them – a fact I did not consider important initially. Looking downwards, I readied myself for emptying, and only as the process started did I raise my head – and found that the slanted ceiling was so low that I couldn’t stand up straight.

Usually, I could cope with this. It’s not the first time I’ve been bent over in a gents loo, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. However, of late I have been suffering with a bad back and I knew I couldn’t maintain this position for very long. I decided that the answer lay in my erectness (as it often does).

I gently leaned backwards whilst expertly maintaining my fluid release. I found that this allowed my back to stretch out straight alleviating the uncomfortable feeling. At full stretch, my forehead was less than 2cm from the slanted ceiling.

After a moment to steady myself, I relaxed and closed my eyes, and let my mind wander. My lower half was on Autopilot so I need not concentrate on that. Thoughts of the upcoming Pantomime, and the lines I still had to learn filled my head. And that’s when it happened.

In my relaxed state, my internal gyroscope had switched off, and my centre of balance became unstable. With my eyes closed, I was unaware of myself gently moving forward…..

Until the cold, hard plaster of the ceiling touched my skin, and gave me a sensation much akin to brain freeze. In that instant, my body stiffened and I effectively wedged myself up against the ceiling, with my back bent, my hips forward, and my penis out.

It was a genuine struggle to reposition myself enough to become free of my own made trap. I tidied myself up, washed my hands, and returned to my meal.

The rest of the meal was lovely and uneventful.

Another tick in the column “how?”…..


Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Here is a blog originally posted 6 years ago on a previous blog. I apologize for the lack of modern content, but I am juggling my time badly, and need to organise myself better.

The orbs I am trying to throw and catch include:

  • Completing the manuscript for Volume One of ‘The Friday Poems’ (poems 1-52) which will be published as an e-book for Kindles shortly.
  • Drafting a poem for the Hidden Needs Trust ( – a charity working with children with special education needs.
  • Writing my Friday poems
  • Increasing my Social media activity
  • Finishing a commissioned poem for someone.

So I am busy. Honest!

So here is this blog – written when I was younger, but less wise.

Rude Cyclists, Communicating With Dogs, and Swearing at People Who Can’t Hear Me.

I have to be quick, as I am off out in a bit. Yes, I am a Social Butterfly.

Yes, I know that social butterfly shouldn’t have had Capital first letters.

This morning I did my third walk of the weekend. I walked 8.5 miles – but the sport tracking software only recorded 7.48 miles because it was at that point that the battery on my phone died. But I did really walk 8.5 miles today, bringing my weekend total to 21 miles.
The route that I walk is a well used walk, and I pass many other people along the way. As is customary with anyone who has any resemblance of manners, polite acknowledgments are exchanged as you pass. This morning, it was “Good Morning”. As I walked along, I exchanged such greetings with dog walkers, joggers, and families out for a walk – the children on their bikes and the parents walking in front or behind. However I discovered that one set of path users had no manners what so ever: Adult Cyclists.

On three occasions I was passed in the opposite direction by a couple of cyclists. I presume they go out in pairs because they know that one of them will end up getting punched in the face because of their mannerless, self-importance obsessed attitude. Each time I encountered these cyclists, I said good morning. Each time, I was ignored.
Now I’m sure that cyclists have a lot to think about: Is their helmet on straight; are they wearing sunglasses (irrespective of the weather); do their lycra cycling shorts enhance the size of their genitals whilst at the same time protecting them in the event of riding over a pothole; are the going in the right direction; etc. etc. However, it doesn’t take much effort to say “Good Morning” or even just “Morning”.

It did annoy me that I got no response from them. I will accept the weak possibility that they might not have heard me. That’s okay – next time I’ll shout my greetings at them, and hope that they ride into a clump of stinging nettles.

As you know, I love dogs. And therefore have no shame in admitting that when I meet a dog (a dog that is friendly and comes up to me and says hello) I talk to it in the most ridiculous two-tone voice, with which I ask it questions and then answer them for it.
For example, this morning on my walk I saw a dog walker approach me. He had a West Highland Terrier with him, and this dog came running up to me and jumped up with its tail wagging. So, the silly voiced questions started:

(In a deep voice) “Hello, you’re a lovely dog aren’t you? (high voice) yes you are!”
(deep voice) “are you having a nice walk? (high voice) you are, aren’t you!”

I can’t explain why I do this, but I guess part of it is that dogs respond better to an excited tone of voice than a dull one. The other reason could be that I’m mental.

I like football, and I watch it on TV. But when my team (Arsenal) are playing, I go mental and scream and shout at the telly every time they miss a pass or waste an opportunity. I know they can’t hear me, but still I do it. The air in my lounge was every colour of the rainbow due to the colourful language I was using.
It’s not clever to swear, but somehow “Oh do try a bit harder chaps – that really isn’t good enough” doesn’t really convey the sentiment enough.

Anyway, that’s it for today’s blog – I’m off out.