First off, there won’t be a Sunday Roast tomorrow and probably not next week, either. I need to take a step back and cut a few things at the minute … and the Roast is one. I shall return, though.
Secondly, I have another short story online. Sweet Revenge got an honourable mention in the Darker Times Monthly Competition for September and is available on the Darker Times Fiction website by clicking the link.
Link to Sweet Revenge (Via Darker Times Fiction).
Cheers.
Nick
Hello, and welcome to a bright sunny day, as it was the other morning. Although, not according to my new phone.
That’s a screen shot of the weather report which said it was foggy. In fact, I had the same every day for a week, even when the weather was bright. I’m not up on all these technical things, it took me half hour setting it up to get past Language = English. Therefore, I’m sure something is going wrong when calibrating these weather settings. You see, whatever I’ve done, my smart new phone now believes it exists in Victorian London.
Mannequins, dolls, they freak me out. Ever since Doctor Who.
Plastic dolls, I hate them. Pure evil. I mean, who could not be scared by this?
Brrrr. So, imagine my horror when I saw the new adverts for Swedish flat-pack furniture store, Ikea.
Arrggghhh! What are the Scandinavians trying to do, freak me out? This doesn’t belong in a furniture ad, it should be in a horror film.
Paolo Di Canio, say what you like about him: Total fascist, or the lesser charge of simply being obnoxious. Whatever you decide, I think he had a raw deal at the hands of Sunderland Football Club’s incompetent owners.
So we have the scenario a few months ago. Sunderland in huge trouble. They sack their previous manager and bring in a guy (Di Canio) who has had modest success. An unpopular decision with many but over the past few months, the Sunderland board allow him to sell their best player and buy a dozen or so new ones which were to his liking and style of play. Then, when things are going wrong after five games, the idiotic board sack the man they lavished all this cash on, leaving them with the prospect of a new manager having to work with a load of players he doesn’t want.
Football chairmen … Most should stick to playing this.
Still, not a lot of sympathy for Paolo. He doesn’t seem a very nice person.
I watch the news about the surgeon who lost his entire family in a house fire … and I want to cry. I then hear the grieving man draws comfort from his faith and religion … and I want to scream.
So they have brought back Prisoner and renamed it Wentworth. I have to admit, I used to watch a few of those Cell Block H’s late at night. Vinegar Tits and the Freak … right?
However, it wasn’t my favourite Aussie soap. If you wanted the bizarre, who remembers this?
Yes, Sons and Daughters, the show where I think in five years, every character had fathered, given birth or married every other member of the cast. Confusing? I needed to write the permutations on an A1 flip chart to keep track. Talk about ridiculous. I do miss it, though.
It could be you …
Remember the slogan when the National Lottery first launched?
Yes, the magic finger pointing to the lucky winner. Well, Lotto is being given a facelift and launched as a new game next week. I’ve had a look and it seems to me … same game, new double the price of a ticket, and not only that, less money for some of the higher paying prizes, too. Still, for three numbers, you now get £25 instead of £10. Hmmmm … somebody will be rich as a result of this redeveloped prize fund, and it won’t be the people buying the tickets.
Note to my lottery syndicate members … We need to talk.
I actually wrote this on a Sunday for once, about half hour before posting. I wonder what I should do for the rest of the day. Shall I check the weather on my phone and see if it’s worth going out?
Partly sunny. At least it’s not fog.
Cheers.
Nick
I spent a few days last week taking David on a holiday to Llandudno. You all know David, don’t you? He’s my autistic son who I write about in Living with David posts. Well, I’d promised him a stay in a hotel and you know me, what could possibly happen?
First thing David wanted to do was take me up the Great Orme Tramway. I believe it’s the only functioning one of its kind in the country and yes, it was a good experience, until time to go down. You see, there is a connection where you get off one tram and embark on the other which travels on the road. Not a problem, until I saw this history board in the exhibition.
What! Tragedy? You mean people have actually died on this? Nobody blooming told me that, and I still had half the journey to complete.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggghhhhh!
Thankfully, we reached the bottom in one piece, but some of my stomach contents remained at the top.
Why, why would anybody do that?
Yes, I know what’s a good idea, tow a mini version of my own house around with me and do as much work as if I hadn’t left home. I mean, it’s so much better to return to after a day’s sightseeing than a nice comfy room like this with clean towels and my bed made each day.
Never understood camping or pulling a caravan.
This was David’s request for day two. It’s a lovely railway which goes through Snowdonia and sounded excellent. Well, it did until I saw the train we were going on.
Still, there were some nice views.
Yes, she did have a lovely backside, and those in the other train taking pictures obviously thought so too, but that’s not really what I meant.
There, that was the kind of stunning view I was referring to. Phew! That was taken at Porthmadog. And the scenery elsewhere is the only good thing to be said about Porthmadog.
Welcome? This has to be the most hideous and unwelcoming thing I have ever seen outside a hotel. Weird, or what?
I know there is always the chance of communication problems in Wales, especially if the natives speak local, but only I could have a misunderstanding when both myself and proprietor of an eating establishment talk English.
It was a nice little cafe, but we only wanted a drink, despite being offered the full menu. Therefore, I gave my order. A simple tea for me, and a can of coke for David.
The waitress turns to David. ‘And what would you like?’
‘The coke’s for him,’ I reply.
She looks puzzled. ‘So he’s not having a drink?’
My turn to be bemused. ‘Yes, he wants a Coca Cola.’
She tries to work this out. ‘So, you want a tea, a cola, and a carrot cake?’
What? How the bloody hell can asking for a can of coke be construed as requesting carrot cake?’
Next time I’ll write it down.
The breakfast at Brewer’s Fayre is described as all you can eat. As much as you like. And that seems to be the case … unless you ask for mushrooms.
Every day, I said, ‘Loads of mushrooms. Give me two, three portions.’ I even said on the last day, ‘If you can’t fit them on the plate, bring them in a separate bowl.
This is what I got each day.
Grrrr. Since when does seven mushrooms constitute all you can eat? Discrimination against mushroom lovers, that’s what I think.
Went into Rhyl and bought six books for a tenner. Yeah, as if I need more books to read. I then gave David a choice. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘Go to Wilkinson.’
He’s easily pleased. Still, he directed me as he is more familiar with the town from his time at college. However, I was a bit dumfounded when I tried to get in.
There is no door. What the hell is the point of a frontage with a store sign if you can’t bleeding well get in?
The answer is, you have to go a couple of hundred yards round the corner to a main entrance on the high street. This picture was the rear of the building. But why have it appear as though it is a front?
The Welsh try to confuse me at times.
Arrived back after a longer than anticipated journey where traffic kept slowing to 30mph. And we all know the reason, don’t we.
Yes, lorries taking two hours to overtake another lorry thus hogging the middle lane and restricting the amount of vehicles which can pass.
Arrgghhh! Come the revolution, they will be exiled to the near lane, along with those irritating caravans.
Cheers.
Nick
Last Saturday, I had a night where I did something for me and nobody else. Yes, don’t faint. I went to the dog racing.
Never been before and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Well, I would have if I’d have done better, but you know my luck.
Let’s begin, shall we. You have fourteen races and I chose my winner for each. Should be simple, but after five races my track record was … Last, last, last, last and disqualified.
Now how, you may ask, can a bloody greyhound get disqualified? Easy, if it’s mine, and especially if despite being in the lead, my dog decides to pick a fight with the one in second place as the race approaches its conclusion.
Still, it was a good night and here is a shot of the action.
You can’t see anything? But what do you expect, it’s a greyhound race. They’re quick. Well, apart from my dogs who went by the name of Pedigree Chum. It did get better, I’m thankful to say. Let’s face it, it had to. By the end of the night and despite having another two lasts, I did achieve a winner and five second places.
Coming in second. Story of my life.
No, not Adam Ant, I actually like him. The poncy prince I’m referring to is the current hundredth or so in line to the throne.
Prince Andrew was strolling around Buckingham Palace recently when he was pounced on by security who through he was an intruder. Instead of complying with officers doing their job, the prince uttered the classic, “Don’t you know who I am?”
No, Andrew, or they wouldn’t have bloody held you at gunpoint.
Apparently he gave the officers a right dressing down and is now grateful for having received an apology. What he should be grateful for is having trained staff on the ball in pinpointing a total stranger. Come on, since when has Andrew done anything remotely connected with royalty and no, A Royal It’s a Knockout, doesn’t count.
He spends so much time jetting about from one golf tournament to the next, it’s no wonder the guards didn’t recognise him. They probably forgot what he looked like.
Next time, Andrew should remember some people do a difficult job rather than acting like a pompous prick.
It’s always a nightmare trying to collect my from school. The place is situated in a narrow road and due to the nature of the school, dozens of coaches and taxis arrive twice a day to drop off and collect the kids. Therefore, with six weeks holiday recently, you’d have thought that the ideal time to conduct any roadworks.
Not so, South Staffs Water.
There we have it, how to make an already difficult problem ten times worse. So, South Staffs … ten out of ten for making improvements, but minus two thousand for planning.
Oh no. No, no, no no, no!
I saw this the other day.
It’s September, for Christ’s sake, and the Co-op have selection boxes and other Christmas goodies on the shelves.
I wouldn’t mind, but they’ll have gone off by December.
Went on a ghost hunt on Friday at Warwick Castle. I’d not been on one this year and thought, if I’m going to an event this year, do a big one.
It was good. We had moving objects, voices and all sorts. Although I was disturbed by one criticism of myself. I’m probably not the only person who could flirt with a ghost, thank you. I bet there are many more. Look, it’s not exactly necrophilia, I just like to get into the spirit.
Still, I said hello to a few famous faces but can’t explain the dark shadow to the left of Winston Churchill’s shoulder. And no, it’s not my thumb, unless parts of my body have become transparent and not only that, the shadow was on the next photo taken from a totally different angle.
Love these ghost hunts, though going to bed at 5am is pretty rough for me these days.
Above is also from the ghost night and my pathetic attempt to hide the fact I ate all the chocolate biscuits.
Two weeks running. First the dogs, now ghosts and I have to admit to really enjoying ghost nights, especially when volunteering to sit in cupboards. There’s no spiritual or investigative reason for doing so. I just like sitting in cupboards.
Cheers.
Nick
Another dip into the archives this week and more material from my lost Myspace blogs (Thanks, Myspace). I’ve also been having a think on how long I actually want to do these roasts and is it time for a break. Still, for now, this was what I was doing three and four years ago.
Hello all and welcome to this weeks Sunday Roast as I sit in my bedroom and wonder … What the hell was that noise which sounded like huge chunks of rubble falling down the cavity between the plasterboard and outer brickwork? Disturbing, I’ll say. As a result of that, if this roast ends abruptly, then you’ll know my house has collapsed.
I think the noise may have resulted due to some small animal inside the body of the building. I have a loft above me where I have piled all my clutter of the last few years. I really must get up there one day and start a good old clear out. However, I am a little apprehensive about what I may find up as I’m sure I used to have a cat.
Now once again, history repeats. Only yesterday, I heard something grinding in the walls. Trouble is, the house is in a block of three. Rodents can get in anywhere. I know they’re not in the house, but I’m afraid … I may have to venture to check if the poison is still intact.
Dare I enter the loft of doom?
Okay, while up the loft, I found this jigsaw. It reminded me of another piece which was in a roast about the same time as the last.
While out shopping this week, I spent ages in a novelty shop looking at a Magic Eye book. You know, the books which are full of optical illusion pictures that you have to focus on to see the hidden images.
I could have bought the entire shop, it was so good. It also had loads of mind baffling jigsaws which would have ended up scattered around the house when I got frustrated with them. I remember one of these scenes I did once, it was all bloody green! Mind you it wasn’t as bad as that Sahara Desert one I attempted as a kid. Hours trying to piece the bloody bits together before my mom came in shouting, ‘Will you put the cornflakes back in the box.’
I was walking around a shop this week and they were playing the song Up Up and Away (in a beautiful balloon) by 5th Dimension.
Now I never realised how much I hated that song until I heard it after many years. It gave me horrendous flashbacks to the sort of light entertainment radio programs I had to endure at home on a Sunday when I was a kid before being hurled kicking and screaming to Church. Arrrggghh!
The other one I hated from that time was Leaving on a Jet Plane. Now I can see a theme starting here. I reckon it was from an early age of being force fed these atrocious songs which resulted in my fear of flying.
Only I could be traumatised by middle of the road Pop.
And it is true, I really do hate flying. I know the odds but believe me with my luck, if I climb aboard a plane, it will crash. It’s why I don’t travel abroad. Yes, I could go by water but even then, I bet an plane would hit the boat.
Street entertainers, why do they do it? Nobody likes them and we all cross the road to avoid having to encounter them. It’s the same as clowns. Bad enough being a clown, but what type of person paints his face and goes onto the high street and accosts children with funny shaped balloons and asks if they want to play with his rubber sausage? I wont really say what sort but in the UK, we have a register for them.
Then you get those folk who think it’s highly hilarious to paint their body and remain motionless all day. What the hell induces folk to dip themselves in a gigantic tin of Dulux, then stand still for six hours?
Entertaining? It’s as much fun as watching paint dry.
That’s all for this week’s re-runs. I’m thinking of taking a break from roasting. May be here next week, maybe not. We’ll see.
Cheers.
Nick
As reported earlier in the year, Shooting Ghosts, another short story of mine, got an honourable mention in the Darker Times Monthly Competition for April. It is available on the Darker Times website but now also in Darker Times Anthology: Volume 4.
You can buy a copy of Darker Times Anthology: Volume 4, by clicking this link.
Cheers.
Nick
I’ve spoken a bit about 2013 being the year from hell. Still no resolution on the David situation but hopefully, things happening soon. I will explain the full story once all is resolved but basically, he’s been living in this assessment centre since June. Work permitting, I bring him home at least once a week and also take him out on day trips. This week, it was an old local favourite – Dudley Zoo.
There you go, the flamingos, which are usually the first thing I see on my visits. However, not this time.
I’ve been going to the zoo all my life and on this occasion, I was surprised to see the famous chairlift, working. Wow! It had been closed for years and do you know, in nearly fifty years, even as a kid, I’d never been on.
Cue the big kid to take a ride … then come straight back down again.
Okay, we would have come straight back down again had it not been for jobsworth regulations.
As I approached the top, I asked the operator if we could simply remain in our chairs. No, was the reply. We had to get out, walk around, and queue the other side.
Why? The chair only went ten feet around a bend and you were ready to descend again. Arrrggghh! And there was nobody else waiting, either.
I didn’t get a photo of the top, but it’s identical to the the station at the bottom.
See, how difficult would it have been to let us stay in our seats and simply go round the corner?
Stupid regulations. God knows what reason there was for it but if somebody says health and safety, I shall hit them with a flamingo.
Watching the sea lions, I heard a female voice behind me mocking the noise coming from the enclosure as whoever it was, approached.
‘Listen to them,’ she said. ‘ They sound like bloody seagulls.’
That’s because they are seagulls, dear. They were flying around trying to steal the fish.
I see Errol Damelin, founder of loan shark rip-off firm, Wonga, is getting divorced from his wife, Julie. My heart bleeds. Can’t feel any sympathy for somebody who makes his fortune on the back of the misery of others. It’s theft, nothing short of it how Wonga and hundreds of companies like it, operate. They will argue it’s all legal. I reckon that makes it more obscene.
Julie should, by all accounts, get a £15million pound payout from his stake in the company. What she doesn’t realise, she’ll have to repay £21million after 30 days.
I was playing around on Google Maps the other day and decided to look at something on Street View.
It’s brilliant the way you can land on the street and I have on occasion, slipped into street view and gone for a five mile walk.
What? I took in the scenery and it gave my finger some exercise. What you frowning for?
However, dropping into street view can be a little hairy sometimes, especially if you are less than accurate where you place yourself. A slip of an inch, and you could find yourself in all sorts of trouble. Take last week, for instance, when I wanted to look at a road near the M6 motorway. I miscalculated and …
Yikes!!!!!
Hope nobody ever invents a teleport and puts me in charge of landings.
I came across a good one the other day.
You know on foodstuffs, there are often allergy notices. For instance – This product may contain nuts. Well, look at what I found this week.
Okay, simple box of a dozen eggs. Free range, too. However, if you look a little closer at the warning inside of the box.
Yes, apparently, it contains egg.
WTF? Of course it contains egg, they’re bloody eggs!!! What did you expect it to contain, peanut butter? It’s an egg. If I buy a carton of eggs, I don’t envisage getting anything else. The people who make up these guidelines – talk about jobsworth. Being that fussy over rules and regulations, they should working as an operator on the chairlift at Dudley Zoo.
Cheers.
Nick
Of course, not a Myspace status because my old Myspace site has gone. Thanks, Timberlake and co. I reported that in my blog the other week. So, one way or another, my old blogs will need to see the light of day again. They will not remain buried in cyber-hell. Therefore, another reminisce is in order and a reprint of some of the classic roasts of old.
I don’t know what it is, but some shops must see me coming. They think I’m the ideal person to pile their rubbish items onto. Take the case of the pack of seven pairs of socks I bought from Matalan last week. Nice, they were, until I tried them on and found the heels halfway up the back of my calves. Now I’m a size 11 and these were actually supposed to cover 8 to 11. However, I think it was more like a 15 or 16. I gave them to my son, David who is an infeasible size 14, and they don’t even fit him. I reckon they were designed for a clown and they should have been sent to the costume shop instead. That’s right, because clowns really do have giant feet, don’t they?
And a 2013 footnote (sorry … bad pun). I recently bought another pair of socks from the same store. 8 to 11 again. Hmmm, my youngest son is wearing these on his size 7 feet, now.
And yes, it was also Matalan.
Why is it that when I go to any clothing retailer, they seem to have every size of jeans conceivable … apart from mine.
I’m a 34/34 (Width/Leg) and no matter how hard I try, my size is never there. Does this mean that it is the most popular and I am basically generic?
And another footnote. Matalan still have no jeans in my size.
I got into an argument at a petrol station the other day when some impatient bastard tried telling me to hurry up. I can’t help it. I’m OCD. I have to get the litres on the dial exactly on the .00. You see, 51.00 litres – Great. 50.99 or 51.01 … No no no no noooo! Can’t be doing with that.
I had the last laugh on this one, though as the guy moaned so much about how long I was taking, it distracted me and I went over by .02 of a litre … so I had to start slowly again until I rounded off at the next one.
Awkward – Me?
Crikey. I filled up today and this time it was me moaning about somebody taking too long. Oh well.
This was my tale that week regarding a trip to the dentist.
Oh well, another week over and I made the mistake of checking the calender. No!
I have to go to the Dentist tomorrow. It’s only for a routine check up but I just know there will be treatment to be had.
I never had a problem with the dentist before but in recent years as I get older, I find it increasingly traumatic. I lie there tensed up and just want to get out of the place. I think it’s because I no longer trust my dentist. You see, he is the same both Ex-Wife and Myself used to see when we were married, and still do, only separately now. I don’t know if he’s heard some untrue nonsense or if he has just taken her side, but I certainly seem to get rough treatment these days. The fact he is called Mr Carver is equally disturbing.
The thing that gets me at Dentists is the numbness after the anesthetic. I hate it. The first thing I want to do when I got home is have a drink, even though I know it will be the ritual of drinking sideways in case it runs down my face. I remember a time when I had both sides frozen. Now that was fun.
So, tomorrow, if I have to have the needle, I will endure a dribbling mouth and then try to use lip balm without realising I’m actually applying it to my cheeks. Still, at least after a few hours, I can have a cup of soup which tastes of chicken and dental residue
Perhaps I shouldn’t open that big block of toffee, though.
Back to 2013 … and I checked the calendar. Wednesday 28 August. 0830. Guess where I’m going?
Cheers.
Nick
I thought I’d comment this week on things I’d seen on TV, whether they be programmes or news articles. With that in mind, this is something I saw on a satellite channel so inconsequential, I cannot even recall which one it was.
Pop boy, Justin Bieber was in the papers yet again this week. Photos have emerged of him last Thanksgiving where he serenaded his grandmother, stark naked, bar a guitar in front of his manhood.
I was shocked by the pictures. Justin Bieber can play the guitar???
Actually, there is something disturbing about a 19-year-old being naked in front of his grandmother. Weird, or what?
No, Justin, that’s not what we meant by wearing nothing but a g-string.
I watched pot luck game show, Deal or No Deal this week and was fortunate enough to see the first male winner of the top prize in eight years. Seemed a nice lad, only eighteen. However … did you see his ears?
Yes, that’s him, sporting this bizarre craze of having ear stretchers.
WTF?
Why … why would anybody want to do that?
Having massive rings put in your earlobes which over time, stretch them into a massive imitation polo mint.
I can never understand tattoos, but this goes further.
Are people that desperate to have somewhere to store their coat hangers? At least that guy off Deal or No Deal can now afford to buy a wardrobe.
I happened to tune in the other day and caught a celebrity edition of the show. Now … you may have got an inkling over these blogs, I’m not too fond of celebrities and all the rubbish which surrounds them and the media insistence that we should be obsessed with their lives. However, on this celebrity Deal, I was pleasantly surprised to learn just how nice Olly Murs is.
Okay, I wouldn’t know any of his songs if he screamed them down my ear, and I will probably never listen to him, but he seems a pretty decent sort.
Talking of TV shows, can anybody explain the bloody rules of Take on The Twisters, because I’d really like to know. Arrrggh!
I miss the beginning every time and never get the explanation of the rules (if they even do so). I understand the questions bit, but what the hell is that with these bleeding circles? I can see I’m going to have to look it up on Wikipedia as it is currently making me very angry every time I see it.
Okay, there really wasn’t any other heading I could put to tell of the incident where Labour leader, Ed Milliband was pelted with eggs the other day.
He was doing a walkabout when suddenly, this guy lobbed the fowl articles at him. Still, no harm was done and Ed seemed to take the yoke in good humour. I still think the man who flung them was a bit of a prat, though. If you’re going to commit a crime, don’t wear a high visibility jacket when doing it.
I bet he wouldn’t have been so brave had it been John Prescott in town. Funniest moment of the 2001 election campaign was when some guy pelted Prescott only for the minister to show his former boxing prowess and give the offending idiot a damn good right hook.
I can’t recall if either were ever charged, though the thrower should have faced prosecution for being in possession of the worst mullet hairstyle this side of the 1980s.
See you all next week.
Cheers.
Nick
As some will know, before antonynbritt.com, I was a prolific user of Myspace. Now when I say Myspace, I don’t mean the second-rate music streaming service they have now. I’m referring to the days when Myspace gave you what was equal to a ready made website. Here, you could customise it to your desires, fill it with photographs and most important … post blogs.
I was a regular user from 2006 to 2010, a time when I posted over 400 blogs, gaining 100,000 page views and thousands of comments. I regularly topped the Myspace blog charts for the UK but Myspace was more than a blogging platform to me, it was a community.
You had groups, a network of friends, all which formed an integral part of the online family.
Unfortunately, these are now gone.
What happened was the incompetent mismanagement at the hands of the owners – Rupert Murdoch’s News Corporation. People left in millions, departing to the more friendly Facebook as Myspace committed suicide. Groups were shut down, users had their profiles forcibly changed and the entire site became a pain to use. My once, pastel blue customised blog was now a generic white with no scope for formatting, the same as everybody else. Not that it mattered. Nobody was still around to read it, anyway.
I continued blogging on Myspace until September 2011. By then, the company was in the hands of pop star Justin Timberlake, a man intent on inflicting masses of streamed music of the banal kind he produces. He was not interested in blogs, nor cared that millions worldwide once lived within the Myspace community.
Users were unimportant … so he killed them.
After setting up this site, I still stepped back for a visit at least once a week, but it was hard seeing the neglect. Pages taking an age to navigate, and much content lost. You could tell the owners didn’t give a damn.
First to go were many of the photos on my blogs, thus rendering the text useless when referring to the pics. At some point last year, all the lovely comments I had received over the years, vanished. Then, in June 2013, Timberlake and co desecrated the grave.
A new Myspace had been launched, but most of the old users still wanted the classic Myspace. They were not interested in the music streaming site Timberlake was forcing on them. If they had wanted it, they would have gone to a half decent one. Still, on June 13, it was reported the entire classic Myspace had gone. Millions of blogs and photos – lost. Also, emails and comments, many of whom were from people now dead, were wiped.
Do they still exist? It was reported that new Myspace were asking users to vote if they wanted them back. How condescending. Complaints flooded in their thousands but the more vociferous ones resulted in simply having their new profiles removed.
What is sad is that I met so many good friends on there. Some have found me, but many will be gone forever. I can think of a number of lovely people from Myspace who have since died. While their blogs were still visible, my friends were so alive. Now, Myspace has trod on and killed them all over again.
Thank you, Timberlake and Myspace. You have pissed on the graves of millions.
Shame on you.
Nick
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Antony N Britt - Author 