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)

Mr. William feels that it's a 'dog's life'!

Dear optimistic and doggedly determined reader, 

Are you waiting with a lolling tongue and a wet nose for spring to have sprung? My pooch and I are enthusiastically wagging our tails awaiting that joyous moment with bated, hot breath and big round eyes. They say dogs and their owners take on each other's traits over time. Well, he does sniff around every visitor's undercarriage with great vigour, but there's no way I'm going to lick my own 'crown jewels' any time soon, even if it were physically possible. Some things are a bridge too far. He smells of 'Kennel no.5', whereas I prefer 'Midnight in Bognor'. 

Mind you, my canine friend and I make a great team. Yep, he kips all day, except when he barks wildly at every passing tinker, while I do everything else. He seems to like the arrangement, because he's never uttered a word of complaint. I, however, wish he would reply to my correspondence, rather than just eat it and sometimes answer the 'dog and bone' (phone), instead of chewing the cord. Yes, it surely is a dog's life.

Anyway, there are times when I wish someone would toss me a bone. Just a tiny, chewed up, shrivelled one would do. No derogatory comments please! You see, I am one of life's keen tryers. My son-in-law says I'm trying, very trying. Will he ever grow up? Ironically, the cheeky so and so says I have reverted to being a naughty schoolboy. Tosh! Sadly he has confiscated my catapult and marbles, just because I put some tacks on his chair. It's not fair! At least the twerp has a pain in the butt now, as well as being one.

Anyhow, can I tell you about some of my exploits recently? For an ol' codger, I do get around, not in the Tiger Woods sense. I flit like a butterfly in my mind, but unlike Mohammed Ali, I don't sting like a bee, although I'm more tortoise than hare on my pins. By the way, have you heard of the butterfly effect, where a small action like the beating of a butterfly's wings in one place can start a massive chain of events throughout the world? Well, I have cause to know this, 'cos my butterfly mind sometimes allows me to forego inhibitions and say and do some rash things. What about the time I told a very large chap to 'take the weight off', when I offered him a seat? Whoops! If looks could kill, yours truly would be chatting to you posthumously from cyber heaven!

Any rate, everything's rush, rush. I have to get my proverbial skates on. Everyone wants a piece of me and there's slim pickin's left. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind, but as above, not much left. I' m skating on thin ice anyway at my grand age of 88. As I said to my medic, Doc. Mia Heads-Dunne, there are 3 people in my relationship- I, myself and my memory. Thing is they only have a passing acquaintance. The doc asked me when this started. I was wreathed in confusion and asked when what started. Wait till you're an octogenarian gal or geezer!

Talking of having too many miles on my dial, I got the old' 'prostrate' (sic?- gladly not- too obscure?) checked last month. When I saw the specialist, a doctor Ima Gunnar-Finishyoff (Russian, I think?) again today, she quipped that she couldn't find her stethoscope after my examination last time. I squirmed on my seat, literally, until she let me in on the joke. Peeps are always doing that to me. I love a good joke like the next bloke, but I don't want to be the ' butt' of the jape, either figuratively or otherwise!

Another 'hairy' moment was the bargain 'full wax' at the local spa. I went in hirsute and came out without my 'hair suit' Chilly round the Trossachs! In any case, I jest. Did you hear about my dodgy hearing? Ad today in press about an aid that doesn't go in the ear and is fully concealed. Where does it go, then? No, dear reader, I already talk outta there, so that wouldn't work!
Was I telling you before about my early rising? (It's in your own minds!) Yep, I have to get up really early in case an emergency arises, like a trouser crisis. Yesterday I tried on 5 pairs before I got one to fasten over my continental shelf. Looks like I'll have to brace myself for braces again and go all 'Wall Street' or else there'll be another devastating crash of trouser round ankles!

My daughter must have noticed my overly proud tum, as she squashed my midriff into the dinner table last Sunday. She's clearly kick-starting my diet by dropping a hint and stirring the pot, in this case, my pot! Although I did think bread and water was a little extreme. I exaggerate, slightly! Mind you, I know it's hard to help people change. At the moment, I have a dilemma with my walking stick. It has a mind of its own. It's like a boomerang, wooden and when you cast it aside, it always comes back and nuts you over the back of the noggin. I don't know whether to welcome it back or chide it. Yes, it's the old carrot and 'stick' debate?

Anyway, my daughter wants to help with my shopping prob. She suggests I write a list and stick to it. I explained my tried and tested method. (I must be the 'test dummy'!) I go in without a list and meander down the aisles, where all the ladies I fancy regularly appear. It makes for an exciting trip, but I come home with duplicates of what's already in the larder, ergo my expanding waistline! Did you hear that sugar is in everything now? That's the latest food 'scare'. My 'beef' is with people who get on their high 'horse' about everything. Boom, boom! Please yourselves! Any road, if you panicked about every 'scare' you wouldn't get up in the morning or you would turn to drink. Guess which one I've done? Hit the bottle? Wouldn't consider it! Might spill it. I jest. Caveat imbiber? Or should that be 'Caveat tardy Bieber'?

What's happening on the home front, Mr. Peeps, you ask? Well, I'm still washing my dishes before I put them into the dishwasher? Is it just me? Also, I got a coffee machine for 'instant' coffee that's not instant. I'm full of 'beans' now? The express espresso lifts the depresso, but my cappuccinos are crapachinos. I must wake up and smell the coffee there!

I like modern gizmos, but I miss my youth. For instance, today's music is mostly bally banjos and gyrating bodies and that's at the pensioners' tea dance. Yes, I used to cut a fine figure on the dance floor, admittedly mostly by standing on ladies' bunions, whilst swaying gently to swing bands. Now, I get too dizzy for all that and have to stay static, which is what most of the music sounds like these days!

Any hoo, I've got to run, or shuffle in my case. You see, as a young dude I went out with 2 twins separately on the same night, but inevitably they told each other and their boyfriends next day. Well, it was like a Benny Hill sketch when they all ambushed me. They chased me for 2 miles until I dived into a passing taxi. They shouted that that was not 'fare'. Ha! The good old' days when I could run. Now there are two of my 'ladies' at the door and I forget what story I've told each of them. Yikes! What will I do? They look menacing. Ah well, that's me in the 'dog house' again!

Yours doggedly yet lapping happily at the bowl of life,

The blogging GogFather (Your friendly, local grumpy ol' geezer)