Barwick Green

Helen spilled her guts on the first date from the agency, blurting out - amongst other things - that her son was a result of one of her eggs being made fertile by a sperm-donor.

"Baggage", said her date, after the first course.

"What did you call me?!" she quickly responded.

"No - I merely meant that you come with baggage, that's all. Calm down, dear, and enjoy the rest of your life".

The next episode of The Archers can be heard at 7.02 pm, tomorrow evening.

(The Earl of Portland is the one on the right, and looks a bit like me in the mornings.)

Talking of mornings and exercise, take a look at this: 

http://www.liveleak.com/ll_embed?f=bd6b41971375

Now look what you made me do

I was sitting in the kitchen this morning, drinking my second cup of coffee, when - for reasons unknown - I shoved my own thumb painfully into my left eye.

When H.I. asked what I had done and how I had come to do it, I suggested that she had somehow telepathically got into my head and forced me to punish myself for something I had done to her in the recent past.

She liked that idea, and began staring at me every now and then with a malevolent look in her eyes, whilst doing the washing-up.

A little later, I farted, then I blamed it on her - "You made me do that," I said.

I remember when it was quite common for certain people - sometimes dads - to say, "Now look what you made me do!" whenever they made some sort of mistake or cock-up.

They never gave anyone else credit for their triumphs, though.

Dollie and Doris

 Dollie the Collie knows that something is around...

... and Doris the Deer knows as well.  The next picture is of clear, green grass.

Me, me, me

I just found this rare photo of me, aged 21. H.I. says that I look like I am hardly there at all, and I think that she is probably right.

I avoided having my photo taken at all in those days, which is why this one is so rare. When I went to get a picture taken for a passport, it was in a proper studio, as it had to be then. The photographer kept taking it and re-taking it, because I refused to smile. I was very similar to the Ayatollah Khomeini in that respect - he also thought that having a stupid and meaningless grin on your face in public was undignified and disrespectful. These days, of course, the UK Passport Office will reject any photo with a hint of a smile, so I was way ahead of my time.

It takes some people absolutely ages to properly come into this world, and I think that I was one of those. It took Green-Eyes about 4 years to be properly born, but now she is here, she is here fully-formed and she is here to stay.

Having completely arrived sometime around middle-age, I have spent the rest of the time trying to escape. This explains the drink, drugs and obsession with Harry Potter films. Some people are understandably a little frightened of the world, and I probably fall into that category as well. I don't think that this is an altogether bad thing, because anyone who I have ever met who is not frightened at all is either unjustifiably confident and unselfconscious, or a little stupid.

It took me years to understand that - on occasion - I can be a bit intimidating when trying to defend myself against what I perceive to be external threats, but that realisation was just another part of 'getting here'. Anyone who really knows me, knows that I am completely harmless - except for my big mouth. Green-Eyes worked this out years ago, when she was about 6.

I hardly resemble this picture at all these days, but a little while ago, drunk woman on the street stopped me and said, "You're Brian May aren't you?!" I told her that my name was Germaine Greer.

Germaine Greer

Brian May

M.. M.. Me!

Miriam Margoyles

New life

In the tradition of week-long medieval marriages, the wedding of the century finally came to a close last night with a good party.

Loads of people who couldn't make it to the actual ceremony turned up, as well as everyone who could, and we all dressed in the same clothes as we wore last Saturday - including the photographer. I didn't even wash my shirt.

Nomatter how much I wash my neck before donning a white shirt, I always find a dirty mark running around the inside of the collar after about 10 minutes wear. Some people just cannot stay clean, and it seems I am one of them. I heard of a wealthy person who wore a brand-new, white shirt every day of the week and I understand why, but I am not one of them.

There was a Christian woman giving a holier-than-thou talk on the radio last week, and she scathingly  said that all the money which used to be saved up by couples starting a new life together was now spent on one day of wedding celebrations, the average being about £20,000.

Modern weddings, she said, were an end in themselves - the vows being just a garnish on a grand pile of showy ceremonial flim-flam, and usually the weddings ended in acrimonious divorce a year or so later. Wouldn't be better, she added, if we all tightened our belts in these times of austerity and concentrated on God instead of Hello! magazine? Well actually, no it wouldn't, you bloody puritanical  spoil-sport.

H.I.'s daughter has been planning this event in her head for over 40 years now and she already has two loving, grown-up children, so what better time to blow a load of money you haven't got and celebrate in style, surrounded by all the nearest and dearest who have stuck by you through years of struggle and hardship since childhood?

Weddings are always fairly easy to enjoy, but I can honestly say that I have never enjoyed one so much as this one - for many different reasons. I have never been to one at which the vows have been said with such sincerity and affection, and the response from the congregation has been so heartfelt. People talk lightly about being surrounded by love, but in all three events since last Saturday, this was a reality.

Anyway, I got up with a bit of a hangover at about midday today - nothing unusual about that. Life goes on. (I know. just another excuse to put up the picture of Green-Eyes, the bride's daughter.)

Health and Efficiency - 2

Although the above photo is a rather blatant attempt to awake Jim Froggatt from his 10-day afternoon nap (or forty wanks winks, as he calls it) - mentioning UKIP didn't do it - I do find that it brings back some fond mammaries memories of endless summers and childhood holidays by the beach.

I guess that - unlike Jim - I would have been a child when this photo was taken, and I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about the sort of upbringing I had. My parents used to take me to an aunt in Brighton for two weeks of the year, so even then my annual holidays were city-based.

One 1960s summer, I stood on the sea-front and watched the first wave of motorbikes roar into town, carrying hundreds of Rockers and their girlfriends. About half an hour later, the air was filled with the thin, blue smoke of two-stroke engines as the Mods turned up on 500cc scooters, and they all parked up on opposite sides of the stony beach to discuss battle-plans.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in ritual violence, with bottles being thrown, heads being kicked in and limited numbers of police doing their best to intervene to prevent it. I never did understand why they hated each other so much, and neither did they. It did teach me a lesson though - even youths in sharp suits and narrow ties can be as vicious as the old Teds in leathers who made my trips into Woking so terrifying in the late 1950s.

For various reasons, we have not been out of the country (except for necessary trips to Germany) since visiting friends in the mountains near Malaga a few years ago, but I am now desperate to go to a hot country again, possibly because of the weather and other climate here for the last few years.

I had always thought of Malaga in the same way as I thought of Torremolinos - packed full of ex-pat Brits escaping the law as well as the rain. In fact, Malaga is a charming little town, with ancient bars selling the famous wine from gigantic oak barrels, and a proper promenade fringed with tasteful parks and palms.

Our friends were at the recent wedding, and they told us that they were just about to buy a flat in the old part of town, which we are welcome to stay in when we come. Great - I can't wait.

When we were last driving through Malaga, all the city busses looked vaguely familiar to me, and I found out why.

When the City of Bath got rid of the diesel busses to make way for the quieter and cleaner gas-powered ones, they sold the entire fleet to Malaga. I wonder what they used before then, and who they sold them to?

UKIP

If you ever want to know if a fellow blogger is still alive, or still shows any interest in life at all, then there are a few tricks you can employ to get them to come out of their shell.

For instance, yesterday's post was a sure-fire way to get a reaction from Sarah T, who could not resist tearing herself away from the book-launch to respond positively to the suggestive photo in it.

If I ever want to find out if the Hattatts are still alive, then I just mention Venice or Iford Manor, as I am sure they have a piece of software that scans for the mere mention of either, and sets of an alarm when it finds one.

Cro does not normally go silent, but if he does, all you need do is mention any sort of food whatsoever, and he'll start virtually salivating.

Heron - I have just discovered - becomes extremely verbal on the subject of mangoes if prompted, so I am keeping that one up my sleeve for any time he becomes uncharacteristically shy.

John cannot resist commenting on anything which hints at dog-shit, but that's the Welsh for you.

It is too early to know what rattles Jim's cage, but since he - by his own admission - needs more day to day attention than most of us, and hasn't put up any Mantovani for a few days, I am going to try this blog title, just to see if my intuition is correct.