Mr.William always uses his Loaf?

Dear and discerning Reader,

I hope you are not 'fracked' by austerity, in these times when we are all 'in it together' with PM Dave 'Camera-on' and his buds. Certainly, Ed 'Stop calling me Wallace & Gromit' Miliband had plenty to be 'fracked' off about, when the Mail disgustingly dissed his dear, dead dad. The phrase, "I wouldn't go there if I were you." was surely invented for moments like these. No wonder the 'Hacked Off' guys get so cheesed, Gromit?

Anyway, two questions, Reader. I get confused. Is 'fracking' a new swear word? For example, a ‘fracking’ fracas? It's just that I hear it used everywhere and peeps seem to get very heated when they say it. Maybe talking about it will keep us warm in an eco friendly way, without smashing the place up for shale gas? Secondly, how can we all be 'in it together', if Mr Cameron bakes his own bread, while most of us 'knead dough'? Case 'proven'?

Well, back at my ranch, I always use my 'loaf', metaphorically and literally. Ya gotta work smart and not waste your food or time. Vital resources are too precious to blow. Mind you, I had a slice of misfortune recently.  I was bemoaning the way food has become more artificial and synthetic, when I accidentally popped a ready meal into the oven in its plastic tray. Result? Molten magma mush! 

At least, my wines are all 'corkers'. Yes, no screw tops in my 'cellar'. I jest for the sake of a jolly jape. You should always remember that my poetic licence is fully up to date and I won't let the facts get in the way of a good story. Firstly, my 'cellar' is my kitchen shelf and, secondly, I can't wait for a cork job. It's a quick screw for me. Ooh, er? Also, I tend to squeeze the quality/price ratio: yep, whatever's cheap and isn't actually vinegar.

Any rate, Reader, I do try to 'make do and mend', sometimes too literally for my own good. I recently decided to darn my socks and needed pins and needles. I went to the 'pin' lady at the wool shop. She works for 'pin' money? Boom, boom! Well, I took them home and immediately lost sight of the sharp objects until I sat on them during a scary movie. It certainly made me jump. I nearly had another 'wikileak'.

When I did get round to the darn darning, I got pins and needles in my legs. Yes, both ways. I pricked myself silly and my legs zoned out of circulation as I hunched for hours like Rumpelstiltskin on speed. Ironically, he made straw into golden 'dough'.

 'Yes, pins are small and can be dangerous. They tell me they can bring down a lion. I 'roared' when I heard that. 

Hey, ho! That was that for the ol' DIY. Next time, for two pins, I would enlist a professional. So, when my trousers needed shortened to let me see my shoes, I engaged the 'pin' lady. Regrettably, being so ticklish when she measured my inside leg, (It's in your own minds!), she overdid it and I got a pair of rather fetching shorts back. I saw the funny side, as long as the general populous don't see my backside, if I ever sport them in public. Yes, I can laugh at myself, even though I'm a world famous GOG, grumpy ol' geezer, but I bashed my funny bone today and, trust me, I didn't laugh!

So, how am I generally? Thanks for asking. As I sit here in my 'sweltered' accommodation, (The 'warder' has stoked the furnace up to volcanic setting again.), I have been using my 'loaf' and realise some things about myself. Yep, sometimes my head hurts, especially when it is exasperated by my nostalgia/neuralgia. Both can be a real pain in the neck and elsewhere. I think nostalgia's not what it used to be. What? You wait till you're nearly 90 and you'll see that the only thing you're nostalgic for is the ability to remember what day it is and why you are standing in the corridor in your undercrackers with no recollection of preceding events.

Mind you, I now see that I am also like my old clock. Many miles on the dial, but still very regular and a good timekeeper. Also my ticker is sound, but my movement is dodgy, rusty and my clacker is clapped out. My doodah doesn't always swing, but then it gyrates wildly and peters out after 10 minutes. Yes, it's sort of my Dorian Gray 'picture in the attic'. If it ever ticks its last and goes to the knackers' yard, my matinee idol status will be revoked.

In the meantime, I will be like my parrot and be a 'trill' seeker. I talk to it all the time, sharing my plans and thoughts. For some reason, it wildly squawks, "Don't do it, Mr. Peeps!" Everyone's a critic? I just tell it to shut its beak and throw a duvet over the cage. I knew I should have got a tortoise. They don't talk back and I can outrun them. At least, with my hearing, I can't always hear the parrot. My son-in-law has taught it naughty words, so maybe it's a good thing I can tune them both out from time to time. Mind you, recently I was listening to the Prom concerts. The pianoforte can sound beautiful, but it's a pity if you only hear the forte and no piano.

My daughter took me to my doc, Ivor Nancer, about my hearing. I told him it was hampering my ability to 'tickle the ivories'. He gave me a quizzical, old-fashioned look, which made me think we were definitely not on the same aural wavelength. Which reminds me, my vicar is confusing me again. When he does his sermon, he has us all join in the page-turning Olympics to follow his references. It can be farcical with my hearing, as I regularly call out in a stage whisper, "Where the bally heck are we and could he hold his blinking horses?" Well, his talk was from the 'Sermon on the Mount', but he gave me such a withering look that I didn't like his 'beatitude'!

Anyway, I must go as I hear they have started a 'postcode' lottery. It might be cheaper than the National one, but I hear that you literally have to take your chances. Irony is not dead, just a little rusty? Also, I have to visit a young friend who's had twins. I remember one of their names is Sher, so I call them Sher and Sher-alike. Ha!

Au revoir, Reader, and live life to the full, 'cos unless you're being reincarnated as a mollusc or Simon Cowell or whatever, you only get one go. Make the most of it!

Yours short on dough, yet proving I can use my loaf,

The Blogging GOGFather

PS. When I write, I'm a 'dictator'. No, it's not my arthritis necessitating an amanuensis. It's just that I never lose control of the 'plot'.

Mr William is 'Cooking on Gas' & is 'on fire'!

Mr William is 'Cooking on Gas' & is 'on fire'!

 Dear & hopefully summery, yet chilled Reader,

Are you having a good summer? Has June been bursting out all over or was she a busted flush? Does June feel embarrassed once a year by all this intrusive attention? In 'summery', are you having an odd moment in the sun or are you like the gardener who hedges his bets and takes a chance on the weather? Yes, sometimes it's all trowel and error. 

I love blooming April, May, June & Julie, sorry July. Mother Nature seems to ask her horticultural Muses to brighten up the world with colour. It's so beautiful & tranquil in my garden. Did I tell you about my invention for the colder months? Well, it's light boxes for the terrace. Yep, you turn a handle on the contraption and beautiful flower images are displayed in rotation all year round.  The idea is not quite ready for Dragons' Den, as all I've got so far is a broken handle. Hey ho! So much to do, so much time on my hands!

Anyway,  it was so hot last week that I carried out my heavy gas BBQ. I think I sizzled my ribs and I was clean outta gas. I was pooped & the grub was poop! When it comes to cooking, I'm more Gordon Bennett or James Corden & less Cordon Bleu or Gordon Ramsey. For me the 'steaks' are high 'cos I often miss the extermination dates. I'm kinda playing Russian roulette. Sometimes I microwave things for the conventional oven time. Oops! Wadda mistake-a ta make-a! Your curtains smelling like smoked kippers doesn't exactly give the impression of the domestic goddess, unless she appreciates the burnt offerings?

By the way, how do you get clingfilm outta your choppers. The daughter gave me a pie to reheat/nuke in the oven. How was I to remember to take the bally film off? Says she told me twice and gave me a note in copper-plate handwriting, but I know nothing of which she speaks. Anyway, I got confused and the beef bollocknese (or Dobbin perhaps?) got infused with plastic. I just thought it was one of her experimental sauces, with the emphasis on the mental. I liked it, but she is showing great reluctance to send any more 'Red Cross' parcels and mumbles stuff like, "What a merchant banker! A real asset!" What's she on about? She says I need an ear trumpet. Do I blow it or what? As if I would blow my own trumpet? Reminds me. I saw an ad for 'hidden hearing'. Where do they hide it? Where?! Surely not? Anyway, the son-in-law says I already talk outta there.

Yes, I'm a singleton/widower who's playing with fire and getting his fingers burnt & not just in the kitchen. Did I tell you I'm really hot? Yes, really. No, not that way, unless an octogenarian matinee idol is your type and then I'm yer man. No, whether it's the weather, my medication(They still put Bromide in my tea, you know), or my metabolics, the fact is I am always overheated. What with my red face and strawberry nose, my son-in-law might have a point when he says I need hosing down on a daily basis. Any rate, they say a heat-wave is coming, so I'll climb into an ice-cube bath for the duration, like I did in India up the Kybber Pass during the war. I might get a numb bum, but at least I'll be a 'cool' dude again.

I mentioned above the constant battle to avoid food waste, especially now that food banks are being set up. I give in what I can, in fact it usually is cans, as they keep well. Let's hope a tin of beans here and there will add up to a hill of beans? In the 'Big Society', we are 'all in it together'. That was my political, satirical, ironic section, reader. If you ask me, our glorious leaders will need to work really hard to convince us that the rich peeps and companies are paying their dues. Otherwise, we are not in it together and food banks will join 'bad' banks as a growth area. My little idea for punishing greedy bank executives is that they 'spend' their bank holidays taking over from bin men & other manual workers. Then they can get their dirty hands a little dirtier, if only for a day or two!

Anyhoo, I try to get out and about. Yes, I'm the best driver in the country. Sadly not in town, though, as I get a bit erotic when there are other cars about. The family want to take for a hol abroad, half board at Faulty Towers or something. Firstly, I might be fully 'bored' if they go, 'cos they cramp my playboy style. Secondly I don't want to get that deep vein tombola again on 'Squeezy-Air'. Also I get air sickness. Did I ever tell you my mother used to get morning sickness with me? Yes, it was for 10 years after the birth. Ha! On the bright side, I could do with a break from the same ol',same ol' and I would spend my time in the pool until I got wrinkles on my wrinkles. What's more, I might have a holiday romance as long as the lady's guide dog doesn't get in the way?

Well, I must go and pack for this hol. Anyway, things are getting a bit hot round here. A lady friend of mine, the Honourable Angela Party-Blower, a local socialite, reckons we should paint the town red. I'd need a big brush? Ha! Fun as she is, I don't want to end up with an OAP ASBO. She's a bit too steamy, not to mention bonkers, even for me.

Talking of things bonkers, have you ever seen those 'before and after' TV slimmer shows, where larger ladies want to sport their size zero bikinis again? Yep, they take a deeply unflattering photo of them in their garden,love handles and cellulite highlighted and no make-up. Then they whisk them off to sunny climes, starve and route march them a bit. After this they bring them back a few pounds lighter, but very unsubtly give them a car wash tan, a millionaire 'Pretty Woman' make-over and present them in glamorous garb with a trumpet voluntary! I'm happy for them, but if someone spent all that on me, I'd be so keen to look good, I would come back looking like a bean pole. Hey ho! Reminds me. Good luck to Andy Murray at Wimbledon! He's defo 'on fire'.

Final thoughts, when the first drawing board was being invented and failed, what did they go back to? My friend, Harper's bizarre. When my cousin left this moral curl, Harper asked if he had died of anything serious. You couldn't make it up, but I just did. Also, when selling a house, you want someone with 'piles', of dosh, in their pouch. Ouch! Finally, when I tell peeps I'm from Norn Irn -Northern Ireland, they ask which part? All of me, of course! Ha! 

Remember readers, enjoy your life to the full! I certainly do. They can't touch ya for it, can they? It's not as if 'they' watch everything you do, is it? Sorry, what's that you say? In that case, bear in mind that my poetic license is valid and fully up to date!

Yours always fiery and spicy, yet full of hot air,

The Blogging GogFather (Your sunny Irish GoG, grumpy ol' geezer)

PS As my ol' friend told me recently, "Ever since my wife sold the conjuring set, the magic has gone out of our marriage."

Mr.William is the 'Man with the Golden Pun'?

Mr. William is the 'Man with the Golden Pun'?

Dear shiny and no doubt 'good as gold' Reader,

Yours truly, the extremely old Mister Peeps, is clearly a man with the ol' Midas touch. Yep, everything I touch turns to gold and what's more, they can't 'touch' ya for it; at least not on my planet, which my son-in-law says is in the Zanussi quadrant and is populated with space cadets like me! Charming?!

My golden touch, you ask? Well, I could be wrong, but my James Bond matinee idol good looks and my liquid gold voice (Together with my innate modesty) have opened up so many doors to untold treasures that I feel I must be a 'golden boy'. Still not convinced? You want proof? It's simple, even for my remaining 2 brain cells. By the way, who says alcohol kills off the mental wotsits of the elderly? Try me? 2+2=? Easy! It's ¥*#€$. 

Now let's move on ! The proof of my golden powers was demonstrated when I shook my dentist's hand, clearly a golden handshake, and he has now written to offer me a golden crown! It was gonna be a bridge, but that woulda been too far. Ha! Yes, my dentist, Phil McAvity and his lovely assistant, Miss Ima Brick-Privy, have clearly recognized my regal bearing (and fat wallet, according to my ever vigilant daughter) and want to coronate me for my lifetime of achievement, as I cruise through my golden years. Funnily enough, the son-in-law that reckons this diary would languish in obscurity without his 'input' as he calls it, says he has wanted to 'crown' me for years. See! He's obviously not as stupid as he looks. 

Anyway, I got this letter about the 'golden' tooth and I read it twice, rang my daughter and she was rather sceptical. Nothing new there? She said if they were still doing golden teeth, she was Genghis Khan. Always thought she leant a little to the right, but I'd no idea it had reached Maggie Thatcher proportions. Even Genghis baulked at extracting a 'poll tax' from his enslaved minions! I jest. Respects to the Baroness' family on her death and to the 'Iron Lady' who became our first female PM! My daughter is not into politics since that nice Mr. Blair took us into war with Iraq and Dave 'Camera-on' told us we are all 'in it together'. Yep, Dave's in a millionaire yacht with the other richies and the rest of us are sinking fast in our 'Titanic' disaster of a double-dip depressed economy. Pity that Brown sold off our family silver in the form of our gold bars for a bargain basement price. Should have gone for a 'Cash 4 Gold' type outfit and he might have saved the country's shirt?

Rant over. Yes, my daughter said it couldn't be a gold tooth and would come and read the letter. Well, when she and the dozy twonk husband rolled up, I had 'mislaid' the bally thing! I was sure it was in my coat pocket, so I had a 'raincoat' check and nada. Oops! This led to scurrilous comments along the lines that I had misread the letter. Needless to say, I stood my corner, but with a bit of 'horse trading' we agreed that if I was wrong, they could whip my behind with a riding crop. I've never won anything, but I know a sure fire bet when I see one, so no risk of getting my ass whooped. Was I right? I'll keep you in suspenders till the end.

Another metal object I had to get my teeth into this week was my blinking dishwasher, which was leaking more water than the Titanic just before it dived to the bottom of the Atlantic. This is exactly where I felt like chucking the bally thing. You see, I knew there was something amiss, when it started moaning and shrieking like a banshee on the spin cycle. I tried to calm it down with my best talking counseling by telling it to 'pull itself together or it was toast'! (Surely some mixed metaphors are appropriate?), but to no avail. It had a complete breakdown, unlike me. I just had a meltdown! Mind you, I'm rarely depressed. My psycho, sorry psyche won't let me.

Any road, the engineer rolled up with his big spanner and proceeded to wrench my heart out by declaring the appliance 'knackered' (A technical term, I think?) and out of warranty. Well, I could have done with a rub down with his oily rag, 'cos the whole kerfuffle was going to cost me a gold ransom. Where do you get hold of an alchemist these days to change my dingy base metal stuff into gold sovereigns? Son-in-law said he would 'goggle' it and mumbled something about ol' geezers and 'terminally confused dot com'. Do you know what he's rabbiting on about? 

Anyway, I mined my remaining gold reserves and came up with the shekels for a new auto-dish scrubber. Tell you what though, blooming thing appeared with a sign on it, 'Take care! Danger of Flooding!' I nearly had a 'wikileak' and manned my lifeboat. Had I bought a dishwasher or Noah's Ark #2? Thankfully  I gingerly put my toe in the water and there has been no shipwreck since. Like me, the dishwasher has been a diamond geezer, rather than just a geyser!

Meanwhile, after weathering recent storms, I have a pot of gold at the end of my rainbow. Yes, my favourite restaurant is putting on a 'fashion' show soon. I'm not after a new mini skirt or bikini myself, but I'm up for watching nice ladies going down the aisle in them and not in the matrimonial sense. Thing is, I'll have to persuade my daughter to accompany me, so that they don't get the outrageous idea that I'm only there to William 'Peep' at the models' shapely forms. As if?

By the by,  did I tell you my dear departed wife and I got to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary before she had to go before me to be with our Lord. She was a ruby beyond price and I miss her every day. Until I see her again, I will follow my rainbow and hope my crock of gold is not just a crock.
In the meantime, I have to now 'fess up'. The new tooth will not be golden. I must have read the letter with rose

-tinted specs? Trouble is, I now have to lie low, 'cos the rellies want to whack my posterior 'pound of flesh', as per the Shylock deal above. I'm off out now. Don't tell them you've seen me! Chat soon? Bye!

Yours soon to be rosy-cheeked, yet relishing his golden years,

The blogging GogFather (An equal opportunities grumpy ol' git)