Hey, it's Saturday mornin' and it does appear The usual weekend grey clouds may just clear, So might we get some summer time at long last And break this hell spell of two weeks of overcast?
Yay, by mid morn the sun is hot, the sky is blue, Hooray, text friends and unshroud the barbecue, Truck down to the market for saussies and steaks, What a difference one warm welcome weekend makes.
Let's pick up two dozen Pilsners to add to the outlay Plus some champagne to toast this rare fair Saturday, Load up the Ford and enjoy the warm homewards drive, Looking forward to munchin' luncheon when friends arrive.
By high noon, though the heat's backed off a little Today actually promises to be all beers and vittles, But by one it's nigh time this chef starts his cook up- Your genial host is flying, frying, trying not to look up.
For theres been a sudden change to al fresco dining, Friends and family took to whining and indoor wining, Like clockwork banks of midday grey clouds roll back in, All the fair weather friends who'd stood out stroll back in.
So, the one and (l)only chef winds up left out in the drizzle; It bites, being left out standing, watching our hot party fizzle, Seeing our guests take a rain check now feels downright rude- Leaving my spouse and I with a house full of cold comfort food.
'Prick me with a fork, I'm f f f flipping well done.'
'When you're feeling tired and lonely You see people going home,/ Don't be sad, good times are had Beneath the paper sun.' Traffic, 'Paper Sun.'
Crystal Palace fans, welcome to the new year, Nothing here to cheer about now I sadly fear, The price of last years FA Cup win runs mighty steep, Our priceless Captain has been sold off- cheap Without a replacement full-back being enlisted; Our Chairman Steve Parish remains tight fisted, The only money you can try to prise out of his hand Is earmarked for Steve Parish's grandiose grandstand.
Now our team hasn't the players we desperately need To stave off looming relegation, much less succeed, For yesterdays heroes the good 'ol days are ending, Once Stevie's won his one FA Cup he's cutting spending.
It all went to Hell after that Sunderland loss, It all kicked off with our aggrieved Austrian boss, Ollie G heaved his toys out of the pram- JP says he's off to f- Foresty Nottingham, JP thinks he does deserve a big fat raise But he ain't scored in a month o' Saturdays, Someone has turned JP's big bald head- Our Frenchman couldn't score at Club Med.
So, let's enjoy our fading days of trophy winning glory, Then for us poor Palace fans- back to the same ol' sad story, So, last year was our biggest and brightest year of 'em all? So we trust Steve and the clubs tight owners to think small.
(Sorry, another football/soccer lament, and it pains me to write it- but hey, I'm a giver, and you can share my pain.) Cast of characters: Steve Parish, Chairman and cheapskate of the club. Oliver Glasner, current manager. From hero to zero in one rant-filled week. JP Mateta, semi-legendary striker who has proved to have feet of clay. Or concrete when it comes to him running and trying to put a football in the net.
‘Normal service has been resumed- and what a shit show it’s becoming.’
'I think I'm going down to the well tonight And I'm gonna drink till I get my fill, And I hope when I get old I don't sit 'round thinking about it But I probably will, Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture A little of those glory days, Yeah they'll pass you by Like the wink of a young girl's eye, Glory days.' Bruce Springsteen, 'Glory Days.'
The streets of old Edinburgh are an architectural delight, But keep your wits about you if you step out at night.
'Twas on a dark and cold cobbled Bruntsfield lane- After a light spot of traditional cold hard Edinburgh rain- Typical depressing and spirit dampening to tourists weather- That this pedestrian and a motor vehicle had a coming together.
True, it was a dark end to a gloomy grey winters day, But on a zebra crossing don't bipeds have right of way?
(Now I admit I said some things I do somewhat regret But being near kneecapped in an alley did leave me upset, And if I am to be completely honest in the telling of my tale Officer, we had been in The Canny Man- but just the one ale.)
But then Officer, I'm not the clod likely to be arrested; In Scotland, has a pedestrian ever been breath-tested?
Anyhoo... It was a dopey driver in a white Audi A3 Who almost turned out to be the bloody death of me, This idiot twit decided to commit to a three point turn, A move that would cause three travellers much concern.
As Audi Man sawed maniacally at his steering wheel I heard old stone gutters bashing in new Teutonic steel.
As his maneuverings blocked the narrow road A black VW slid into the alley and jerkily slowed, Now the Audi and the Volkswagen sat nose to nose The question of who would/should back down arose?
Would the Audi dude back up (into the parking meter) Thus giving more work to his backed-up panel beater?
The Audi guy was the first to put his car in First So the VW's geriatric pilot grumblingly reversed, Not giving his reversing mirror a backwards glance Or this poor passing pedestrian half a sporting chance.
He backed up just as I was crossing the street! Luckily I was quick to react and light on my feet.
Still, this dumbkopf of a driver bumped my knee- hard, I called him a retard I advised him to have some regard For any of his fellow folk who wish to pass safely behind, But my bellowings only partially permeated his tiny mind.
He heard my shouts of warning but it was as I feared, He saw not the cause, as 'round about he dimly peered.
No, my sage driving advice it appears Fell on ancient aging failing fading ears, This too long-in-the-tooth Golf driving guy Can add two deaf ears to at least one blind eye.
For the next few days my poor knee was bruised and tender, But not as sore as my foot where I kicked in his frikkin' fender.
'How to put a decent boot into a VW Hatchback.*
*For our American readers- in the USA what is a car’s trunk is called a boot in the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa. Also a fender is called a mudguard in most of these countries. And what we call a panel beater is, in American terms, a skilled worker who straightens up a car’s mangled metal panels in a Body Shop. And a zebra crossing is an American crosswalk! Another case of the Kings English somewhere somehow getting lost in translation.
'My story is much too sad to be told, But practically everything leaves me totally cold, I get no kick from champagne, Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all, So tell me, why should it be true That I get a kick out of you?' I get a kick, though it's clear to see You obviously do not adore me, Yet I get a kick, You give me a boot, I get a kick out of you.' Frank Sinatra, 'I Get A Kick Out Of You.'
(A rare bad trip I encountered on my travels in Scotland.)
Fear And Loathing On the Lothian Line.
When we booked our family breakfast who'd have thought The passage to the Indian restaurant would be so fraught?
Our happy family was enjoying the ride on the 23 bus Until a newly embarking passenger took offence to us, He was a bellicose loud-mouthed non too articulate chap Whose views were a vile pile of risible racist bullcrap.
Sometimes taking the bus is no transport of delight, Like when a new passenger enters from the Right.
He kept spouting on, shouting on about 'bloody immigration,' And was bullish about keeping up his one way conversation, Here was a loud proud white Scot whose idea of genteel debate Was a unrestrained scream stream of invective, odium and hate.
The bus moved oh so slowly up to the Royal Mile... This journey was becoming all a bit of a trial.
His bloodshot eyeballs held a crazy shine Thanks to his breakfast of cheap red wine, And then his belligerent eyes set on mine own Just as I foolishly peeped up from my iPhone.
Upon hearing the edge of hysteria rise in his voice Engaging in an exchange of views wasn't a wise choice.
And so now that he thought he had a captive audience He ratcheted ratshitted up his crass arrant nonsense, My daughter caught my eye and ear with a discreet cough And saved me from suicidely telling him where to get off.
So next stop I, my daughter and the family swiftly debused Leaving our garrulous Great Orator momentarily nonplussed.
As the bus pulled away we stood safely on the footpath Happy to hear the foul fading sounds of anger and wrath, To deal with this asshole asinine nonsense would be purest folly, We saw no need to ride with a drunkard who's off his freaking trolley.
Unfortunately the 23 bus was now a route we'd be boycotting, Who needs to meet a character straight out of 'Trainspotting?'
Just down the road was Edinburgh University, seat of Learning, Well, my lesson in Scottish subculture had left my ears burning, We stood betwixt the Uni and George Herriot's Private School With me ruefully ruminating over some drooling drunken fool.
To have disembarked- here- seemed both sad and ironic, There's no making sense of the dumb, drunk and moronic.
So we called an Uber and went on to our breakfast destination, And I realised our wee bus trip had added to my Life's education- Sometimes a hot-headed father can learn from his quiet daughter- Not to go toe to toe with a dipso whose argument doesn't hold water.
Nope, why try talking sense with a dipshit who raves and rants? A dope who's blissfully ignorant of the fact he's pissed his pants?
‘Public transport? More like a public convenience’
'Another one rides the bus, Another one rides the bus, And another comes on and another comes on Another one rides the bus, Hey, he's gonna sit by you, another one rides the bus.' Weird Al Yankovic, 'Another One Rides The Bus.'
Straight From The Asses Mouth.
So Crystal Palace would slay play lowly Macclesfield,
Palace, winners of both FA Cup and Community Shield,
Setting off on the easy first leg of another amazing Cup run,
Any betting man knew this Macclesfield game was all but won.
I should have known the Gods of Chance favour the mismatched;
Stupidly I cockily counted my chickens before they had hatched.
Yes, with my Palace you can bet nothing goes according to plan,
There's a perverse streak that humbles this proud Palace man,
Yep, my Palace lost- to a team deep down in the sixth tier,
If only the mere sporting loss caused me to shed a tear,
But reviewing the account that I had at William Hill*
Was the blow that made my eyes fill, then bitterly spill.
*A UK betting firm that cheerfully takes your wages wager.
(Macclesfield 2, Pathetic Palace 1. Palace make FA Cup history, this time for all the wrong reasons! Well, you have to laugh hysterically through the tears.)
'Well I went to my brother to ask for a loan 'cause I'm busted, I hate to beg like a dog without a bone but I'm busted, My brother said 'There ain't a thing I can do My wife and my kids are all down with the flu And I was just thinking about calling on you 'Cause I'm busted too." Nazareth, 'Busted.'
It was a holiday jaunt we'll all long remember, Our short haul to the Scottish seaside in mid-December.
We set off on the charabanc to bonny Portobello, The trip gave us sea and spray, and just a hint of snow.
We laughed and froze frolicked, made castles in the sand, Faces of white, bright cheeks cheery cherry red, blue of hand.
I tippy-toed out to the shoreline thinking to dip in my toes, A rogue wave sloshed over my plimsolls and those toes froze.
That chill sea put a dampener on all thoughts of splashes As did the looming boomings of thunder and lightning flashes.
We watched in awe as the North Sea storm took form, Could we find, in Portobello, some warm port in a storm?
So we repaired to a beachfront cafe for fish and chips, Sorrowfully contemplating the buses hour long return trip.
Outside the warm fuggy cafe we all put it to the vote... One decided one could comfortably spare a twenty pound note.
So a most urgent call to Edinburgh Cabs was made; Said "we'd be the mob chillin' beside the amusement arcade."
Outside the arcade we stood, idly spinning our wheels, Me in my sandy sodden sneakers, really cooling my heels.
In my frozen hand I tracked the cabbie on the iPhone, This Portobello beach trip had left me chilled to the bone.
I was fast losing faith in the long promised early arrival, Would our cabbies glacier-like pace put paid to our survival?
Then the taxi appeared out of the gloom- oh, how we waved! In my cold heart I felt hope bloom- hallelujah, we had been saved!
I asked our cabbie to set the heater to full bore, It took us till Morningside before we all started to thaw.
Aye, I've seen Portobello through a veil of salt sea rime, My hot tip is- dip your toes in at Portobello come summertime.
'I'm walking on sunshine, wooah, I'm walking on sunshine wooah, I'm walking on sunshine, wooah, And don't it feel good!' Katrina And The Waves, 'Walking On Sunshine.' (Yes, I've used this song before but who can't smile along at such wild and sunny optimism?')
This day I sadly sat down at my escritoire To pen a farewell to a 50's French movie star.
So I say goodbye to ma petit cheri Brigitte Bardot, Slighter, svelter than the top-heavier Miss Monroe.
I recall those pics of her sun-tanning at Saint Moritz In a bikini so brief it barely covered her untanned bits.
But what cemented this boyhood crush that never quits? Watching BB in a double feature flick at the ol' flea pit Ritz.*
Ooh, how that pretty pout inflamed this callow young fellow, Lust just at the time a lad's interest in the lasses began to show.
'Twas all a poor besotted boy could do but admire her from afar... Now, in memory of my first blushing crush, sweet Brigitte, 'au revoir.'
*I can recall those two old films still; 'Viva Maria' and 'Shalako.'
'Brigitte tanning on the beach left me all hot and bothered.'
'What a perfectly apt movie title to be displayed.'
'It happened one summer, it happened one time, It happened forever, for a short time, A place for a moment, an end to dream, Forever I loved you, forever it seemed.' The Motels, 'Suddenly Last Summer.'
(Suggested by Lyle Lovett's song 'Church.' Thanks to Randy Dafoe at Mostly Music Covers for inspiring this silly ditzy little end of year post.)
Preacher, Give It A Blessed Rest.
For our preacher his Christmas service is a winner- A captive congregation for our tedious tale spinner.
Oh preacher man, tell your tale apace, Pare back the pithy parables in this case, Forget thy long platitudes to the devout, The time is nigh to get the platters out.
Preacher, there is no need to waffle on- Soon time for Christmas dinner will be gone.
Preacher, listen to your Christmas choir- It's well past time to ease up on the hellfire, Thy dry sermonising must have run its course? This long-suffering congregant could eat a horse.
It's high time to get stuck into the Christmas feast So let's serve up this goose that's been greased.
Preacher, Lord knows 'tis time you wrapped it up, It's high time to zip the lip and raise high a cup, Long-winded preacher man, know thy place, Sermonise with God speed- and then say grace.
Preacher, if you don't wish your congregation to grow thinner Say 'praise the Lord, and lets tuck into our Christmas dinner.'
'Me? I'm the special guest for Xmas dinner?'
Lyle Lovett, 'Church.' 'I went to church last Sunday So I could sing and pray But something quite unusual Happened on that day'
'You know that preacher kept on preaching He told us I have one more thing to say, Children before you think of leaving You better think about the judgement day.'
'And the preacher he kept on preaching, Long is the struggle, hard is the fight, And I prayed Lord please forgive me Then I stood up with all my might I sang'
'To the Lord praises be- It's time for dinner now let's go eat We've got some beans and some good cornbread And I've listened to what the preacher said Now it's time to the Lord let praises be, It's time for dinner now let's go eat.' (Theres many many more verses in Lyle's song but as the preacher should have learned, sometimes less is more.)
Well hi there folks, back home I've kind of arrived, Weary, bleary, red-eyed, zombified, sleep deprived.
So, sorry folks, I'm still soooooo jet-lagged, My lightly migrained brain has dragged, flagged, I'm still so fu- fogged up in my time travelled mind, My drained brain is running well and truly behind, Speaking of which, I've flown o'er three wide oceans... Brain clogged? Body ain't going through the motions.
Those three long slow sleepless flights passed without remark From me, dumbly wide awake through daylight and deepest dark.
So though back home I will (can) make few comments Since this wrecked wracked brain cain't talk sense, For someone who has gone 50 full hours sleep-free Friends, you'll hear precious little online from me, I cain't punch a key board- Lord, I can barely speak, My plan is to fall into bed and sleep for a full week.
'This long distance flying is something I can't wrap my head around.'
(I'm in pieces, bits and pieces) Time goes by and goes so slow It just doesn't seem true Only just a few days ago You said you'd love me, never leave me blue. (I'm in pieces, bits and pieces) Whoa Nothing seems to ever go right (I'm in pieces, bits and pieces) 'Cause night is day and day is night.
The Dave Clark Five, 'Bits And Pieces.' (Thanks Dave at A Sound Day- this mornings post of yours gave me the perfect song lyrics.)
Dear friends/readers, I'll be absent from WordPress from 23 November till December 13. I'm taking a complete break for that time so I won't be posting or commenting on this or any of the other sites I befoul frequent. Sorry, but a rare and precious opportunity to catch up with my far flung family is in the offing, so I'm off! Scotland is calling, and I'm happy to go, even though I'm trading our late Spring/Early Summer for frikkin' late Fall and Chrrrrist-it's-cold Winter. Don't we all need a decent break from posting sometimes anyway? So I'm going to be completely hands off and unresponsive for that time. Thanks, I'll/we'll catch up later.
'Who's the ugly bastard snoring in seat 13D?'
'727, take me to heaven, 727 take me home.' The Box Tops, '727.'
'I can see clearly now, the rain has gone, Look all around, there's nothing but blue skies, Look straight ahead, nothing but blue skies.' Johnny Nash, 'I Can See Clearly now.'
Obbverse 
