I’m flicking through virtual tv channels, and being reminded of my advancing years by the sheer amount of sport that is on during the summer. It’s everywhere.

Oh yes, I can still amble in a leisurely fashion around the countryside thumping a little white ball that doesn’t move towards a hole in the ground, but I mean real sport. Lung-bursting stuff that requires you to break out of a hobble now and again. The comradeship of team-mates.

Inevitably the mind wanders to tours. The start of the summer was when one would disappear on a football tour, and in my case the best ones were to the Channel Islands. Guernsey was a particular favourite, described by one local on my first trip as consisting of twenty-five thousand alcoholics clinging to a rock.

Early August and thoughts would turn to the annual cricket pilgrimage to North Devon. Because you were away for a whole week, rather than just a long weekend, the cricket tour had to be carefully negotiated. One can just about survive a couple of days of constant drinking inconvenienced by actually having to go and play a couple of football matches on Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. A week of that would kill anyone.

So the mornings on cricket tour were spent, weather permitting, playing tennis and golf. Weather didn’t always permit, and then invariably I would end up in Bod’s car touring the locality. I say Bod’s car. On a couple of occasions at least that meant a beaten up and filthy blue transit with an armchair thrown in the back.

Bod was a builder, you see, and a cricket fanatic. He employed a couple of the younger lads in the side during the summer so they could spend most of their working day bowling at him in the back garden (or often, in inclement weather, the front room!) of the house they were working in.

He was also a diabolical driver. You know the sort, always rushing from one jam to the next. Everytime I think of him I am reminded of one miserable morning when we decided to negotiate the narrow lanes of the West Country in pursuit of some beauty spot that now escapes me. Vic and Bully won the toss to sit in the front of the Transit, and I reluctantly took my place in the armchair in the back, and yes, it was on castors!

An hour into the magical mystery tour and I was dizzy, having been catapulted into the internal panels of this infernal vehicle as Bod threw it around harepin bends with real gusto. I turned the bloody armchair upside down and planted it at the back of the vehicle and took up a position kneeling behind the front bench seat.

That was a big mistake. As we squealed around the next bend I, like the other three occupants, was mortified to see a small family car heading directly towards us, also at lunatic speed, and with a split second before impact I implored our Lord and maker to look kindly upon us at that moment, or words to that effect.

What happened then remains a mystery, and all four of the occupants of the blue peril are as one in their recollection. We all, to a man, braced for impact. Somehow, and to this day we could not explain how, the two vehicles slid alongside each other, wheels locked, and as the cockpit of the car passed the drivers window I can still see Bod muttering ‘Good morning Madam, nice day’ at an equally startled saloon driver.

Then we were past. ‘Something wrong lads?’ Bod was one of the funniest men I ever knew, but his humour was not immediately appreciated at this precise moment. Without a word of a lie if Bully had stuck his left arm out of the passenger window he would have been hitting the hedgerow on the left of the van. Similarly if Bod had signalled right from his window he would have suffered a similar fate, so how on earth we made no contact that morning is beyond comprehension.

What is beyond doubt is that five people escaped an early appointment with a higher authority that morning, and at least four of them were left to chuckle heartily at the memory. I hope the poor lass travelling in the opposite direction wasn’t too traumatised by the event, or her morning greeting from a lunatic builder.

Tags: builder, cricket, Devon, football, Guernsey, sport, tours

Adge is on his soapbox. That’s not an unusual occurrence in the Grot, and more often than not we’ll just let him jabber on until he runs out of blather. This time he seems to be onto something interesting though.

‘Orchestra my arse.’

‘Sorry, Adge?’

‘Orchestra in Bristol’ he continues. ‘They reckon the answer to all the little herberts thieving, carjacking, and shooting up is to have a bloody orchestra in Bristol. They reckon in Venezuela it has saved loads of kids from a life of crime. Now I know parts of Bristol might as well be a third world country, but any bugger can see that kids in Venezuela are lured into a life of crime out of necessity. Little shitbags in Brizzle do it to fund their nastier little habits.’

I’m unaware of the story (I looked it up later here) but anybody with children, or in my case grandchildren, would take a natural interest in such things. Don’t we all fear the way our youngsters appear to be targets for the most despicable scum in society these days.

I know that gangs and drug-dealers are not new. There were always a minority of kids who were gullible, or naive, or just plain mischievous who got involved down the years. What is worrying these days is that that minority appears to be growing, fuelled by direct action by lowlife actually in and around our schools.

So I cannot say I disagree with Adge. Like most angry old farts I think a lack of discipline, both at school and in the home, is largely to blame. Parents without values are bringing up kids without values, and those kids can influence those around them by their wit or their bullying. We are too lenient with them as a society. Asbo’s don’t do the same job as a spell in a borstal where large numbers of kids have discovered they were not all that clever, or as ‘hard as nails’.

The way things are going, however, I wouldn’t completely poo-poo this idea. If it does give a new outlet for the energies of a few hundred potential troublemakers, then that is a few hundred less for parents, grandparents, teachers, policemen, and the courts to worry about.

I do understand Adge’s concern about the likely success of the scheme in Bristol, but we owe it to the kids to try something, don’t we? If we are to encourage them down the straight and narrow we need to provide attractive options along the way. This might, and I stress might, be one.

Tags: discipline, gangs, orchestra, parents, soapbox

I’m in that stage between good and bad, up and down. You know what I mean, don’t you?

I’m puzzled. Why do people blitz everybody else’s websites with spam when it is blatantly obvious that a filter is at work that gets rid of it all.

My first job every morning is to pop into the filter to hit that one button that deletes everything that has been incarcerated behind the scenes in the last twenty-four hours. People and bots (programmed by people) have wasted their time writing and sending stuff that will never see the light of day.

You, my loyal reader, are missing nothing. If I wanted to find porn I know much better sites than these halfwits are peddling. I reckon as well that if you really need viagra you will already have a supply. I stick some on my golf club shafts but they remain annoyingly flexible!

Oh well, time to hit the sack. Tomorrow morning I’ll get up, make a lovely cup of tea, and hit that one button again before getting on with my tour of the sites I look at every morning. I wonder how many hours of concerted effort that one button press will render wasted?

Tags: bots, filter, spam, tea, viagra

What a week. I am given a rare opportunity to park my ample arse on a chair for an evening and enjoy the fruits of a full week’s labours. Allow me to bore you to tears for ten minutes as I explain why I have not endured a pain in the khyber.

The replacement of the element in the oven is a job I have always managed to cock up. One of the leads always slips behind the rear inner panel of the oven and I end up having to strip the back off the cooker to complete what should be a five minute job. This week the replacement turns up on time, in itself a novelty, and I somehow accomplish the five minute task successfully.

I’m on a roll. I decide as I will spend a lot of time here in the coming weeks, and a good chunk of it needs to be spent keeping an eye on the management while she recuperates, I should finally install the wireless router that has sat in the cupboard for a year waiting for me to pluck up courage. I know this is a difficult job for the untrained. Everybody has told me so.

I read the blurb, follow the instructions, and in no time flat my antique Apple Wallstreet powerbook is hooked up to the net in the kitchen. Surely it will all turn to rodent droppings when I try to get a PC laptop working in the front room? No, an ounce of common sense goes a long way it would seem. I am smug git numero uno for a night as I trawl ebay for the new ibook that will be the perfect accompaniment to my new wireless network.

Only the ibook at the right price doesn’t appear. What does appear is a beautiful flat panel imac at a silly price. I don’t need it. My mini is fully operational and the hard drive only half-full. I have been fighting a desperate battle with my inner self not to buy a new desktop for a while now. The beast bites deep into my resolve. I half-heartedly bid in the dying seconds, fully expecting to be gazumped in the last minute flurry of activity that usually sees my bargain evaporate in a puff of smoke. ‘Congratulations, you are the winner’. Well, bugger me sideways.

Now comes the next problem. The same ‘everybody’ who insisted that I wouldn’t get the wireless set-up sorted now assures me that transferring all of my files, particularly my music files, will be beyond me. Twenty minutes of carefully worded searches on the Apple discussions, and a couple of hours with a firewire cable and my ipod sees a successful transfer completed.

Now I’m not used to things falling into place like this for a day, never mind a whole week. I know that just around the corner somewhere is that natural disaster, or incompetent arsehole, that will bring my run to an end. Just for tonight though, allow me to sit back, arrogant, all-conquering, unbearable, and soak up the full extent of smugness that only a couple of glasses of vino will allow.

What was the point of going wireless again? Perhaps the management will forgive me for spending an evening in the executive suite spare room, just for tonight?

Oh, and ‘everybody’. What do you know, eh?

Tags: accomplish, Apple, Ebay, smugness, wireless

Sunday morning. The most relaxing day of the week, right?

Not when your oven decides to blow up before the roast dinner has been cooked. If you are under eighteen it’s time to get back to Facebook now and read no further.

Bastard.

Bollocks.

Hellfire and damnation (ok, you can read that one…)

Curry’s have the element, hooray.

For 24 hour delivery only, boo.

I have to fork out thirty quid not to have my roast beef today. Fate, you are a son of a bitch. Trust me though, you will not get the better of me.

Apologies for not writing sooner, but I am sure you will have worked out that Mrs Blazing has finally returned home this week, and I have been doing my best ‘Florence Nightingale’ impersonation.

Consequently nothing has really got on my goat - no wait. Yes, one thing has, actually.

Do you use ebay? Friends and acquaintances seem to have polarised opinions about the place. I fully understand both sides of the argument.

I have just treated myself to another computer. One of those shiny big flat panel all in one jobs made by the company that absolutely does not sell cider fruit. Now there is a very good side to this, and a very bad side to this.

A big plus is the price. Sometimes a deal is just too good to turn down, even given the dangers inherent in buying expensive equipment on the web. To be fair I have, down the years, made dozens of purchases on the site and have yet to buy a pup, or be ripped off.

Having said that, my good deal is still a few hundred pounds. That is a few hundred pounds that left my account, via PayPal, and found itself in the sellers account within minutes of the auction closing on Tuesday. It is Friday, and still no shipment.

Now if this was the service I was getting from a shop I would have given them merry hell by now, but you can’t do that to an individual, can you? You have a need to see your purchase arrive in one piece and preferably without a horses head attached.

So a careful exchange of emails takes place to reschedule the delivery address to where I will be next week. Presumably the seller has to work himself, and I am being ‘unreasonable’ in expecting him to send it before the weekend. Perhaps his wife is not too well either?

For pities sake though can you not just tell me that. My few hundred pounds deserves more than just monosyllabic responses. It’s called communication.

I spos it culd’ve bin wurs, if you catch my drift?

Tags: communication, Ebay, emails, service

It would appear I have another week without Mrs Blazing. I have little time to share the things that are getting my Farmers agitated, but I have to say the fuel price protest is getting a little close to home.

Don’t get me wrong. Over £1.20 per litre is an obscene charge. I have read elsewhere that the Americans are up in arms about paying around half of our fuel prices. Well spend less on food then!

I do have good cause to object though when I call into the Grot for a much-deserved pint of 2L, only to be told by Ossie that ‘it’s off’.

‘Why?’

‘The delivery vehicle was late today because of the protest on the motorway. The beer hasn’t had time to settle. I’m sorry Blazing, but you know I won’t serve the 2’s until it is in perfect nick’.

I am incensed. What the hell is this Government doing? For goodness sake give the hauliers the rebate they would get elsewhere, and let me get back to my bloody beer.

‘Better give me a Guinness then Ossie’.

‘Course, in the greater scheme of things, we should be forgetting the pub and driving out there to show solidarity with these lorry drivers’. Adge is warming to the debate. I cannot spend the night chewing the fat with him. I need to get home and do a bit of supper.

‘So how much are you paying for your petrol then Adge?’, I enquire.

“Got to shop around, the petrol at the Ridge is more expensive than the diesel at the supermarkets.’

‘So you still want to follow the lorries to Cardiff?’

‘Can’t afford to, Blazing. They can pass their costs on but….’ Adge stops in mid-flow as a dim light ignites in his brain. I shouldn’t do this to him, but I miss my real beer, and I’m hungry.

Good luck to the hauliers, but better luck to the private motorist who wants to visit his wife in hospital, take the grandkids to camp, or just simply drive to work to earn the mortgage. What was your inflation target Mr Chancellor?

Tags: chancellor, Fuel, Government, protest, pub

“Evening stranger. Where have you been? Is the missus home yet?”

Ossie is a friendly face at the end of a hard week, and the beer he serves is now a necessity. I have withdrawal symptoms.

I tell him the tale of the trouble and strife having to endure a second operation because the first one hasn’t gone according to plan. We are a bit more hopeful this time around but a part of her needs to wake up a bit smartish.

“Was it the doctor’s fault?” enquires Ossie.

How would we know? To be fair he has been really communicative throughout the whole process, which is both welcome and a worry. I don’t recall top surgeons being like this in the past. What is he covering up?

“I think they have been encouraged to be a bit more like that these days. I know when my the mother out-law was in, not that long ago, the big man couldn’t chat to us enough. Surprised me then too.”

I suppose I am a suspicious bugger by nature. A few pints of 2’s later my mind is sufficiently appeased for me to enjoy a rare unbroken night in the land of nod.

It is a worrying situation though when your publican is more trustworthy than your average highly paid professional, don’t you think?

Tags: doctor, Operation, publican

Blindly, I sign up for another website. I upload my ‘user image’, and am asked to share with the world at large my height, weight, date of birth, sex, inside leg measurement, favourite colour, and a whole raft of personal details.

Very shortly, I read, blogs like this will be able to utilise the latest offerings from Facebook, MySpace, Google, and doubtless other far dodgier providers in order that we too can play at ’social networking’ hosting and information gathering.

If this is to be the future I am baffled. It seems to me that this ‘next big thing’ in cyberspace is not universally desired, but is being foisted upon us by the harvesters of personal data. The vast majority of people I know who have signed up to something like this are now at the very least attempting to restrict the access to this information.

I look at the sheer volume of spam that rolls in to my numerous email accounts and wonder just who is sharing my details already, and with whom?

I cannot imagine incorporating any of these new programmes on my humble blog, but will I be forced to because of the access it will give me to a vast untapped readership?

For me I know the answer will be no. I’m happy writing for both of you and if another handful pop along in the future that will be a bonus! I’ve no doubt though that there are plenty out there who will grasp the opportunity to connect with ever greater numbers of unsuspecting ‘punters’.

Am I wrong to worry about the Orwellian way in which the web appears to be developing?

Miserable old git.

Tags: information gathering, Personal details, social networking, spam

For the second day running the most viewed page on the BBC website is ‘Great Tits Cope Well With Warming’. It will come as no surprise to most of you, I’m sure. The depths to which some individuals and organisations will plunge to get hits knows no bounds. I suppose I was hoping that the BBC would be immune from these cheap gimmicky titles, but no.

Anyway, the topic for discussion today is beer, or more specifically how do you like it to be served?

My days as a cricketer have left me with a hangover (well, several actually). I do like to have a four or eight pint jug of the stuff within reach.

Is that strange, do you think?

Tags: BBC, big jugs, cricket, great tits