Joke 554

This was sent to me by my friend Pam.

Charles and Diana’s wedding commemorated on a 1981 British Crown (25 pence). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

1981 & 2005: Two Interesting Years

1981 

• Prince Charles got married
• Liverpool crowned football Champions of Europe
• Australia lost the Ashes
• The Pope died

2005 

• Prince Charles got married
• Liverpool crowned football Champions of Europe
• Australia lost the Ashes
• The Pope died

Lesson to be learned:

The next time Prince Charles gets married, someone should warn the Pope.

I Predict A Quiet

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What would cause you to protest or riot for something?

Apart from the false imprisonment of my children – and possibly my husband, if I was in a good mood – nothing.  I’m British: I don’t do apologetic complaint, never mind protest.  I write a strongly worded letter and feel much better for it.

I bumped into a riot once, by accident.  I can’t say I liked it.  As a teenager, I went to Manchester to audition for the Manchester Youth Theatre with a friend.  It was the time of the nationwide riots against something or other.  I can’t remember what, but I bet it had hatred for Mrs Thatcher at the heart of it.  We had a summer of exploding protests, when staid young men and women became screaming thugs for the afternoon.  We are seeing something similar at the moment in Bristol, because of Tesco.  It’s not quite the breaking of the unions or the poll tax, but a supermarket too close to your back yard is certainly a reason to lose all common sense, I’m sure.

We had been to the auditions and decided to visit the Arndale Centre for some retail therapy (or ‘shopping’, as it was called in Days of Yore when I wurra lass).  As we walked up somewhere, a screaming, running gang of young gentlemen ran down, straight at us.  I grabbed my friend’s hand and dragged him onto the nearest bus, going anywhere.  When we got to anywhere, we had to walk back again, to catch the train home.  No shopping.  What a wasted opportunity.

Trains and a long walk featured once again in my teens.  I went with different friends to Liverpool.  Plenty of shopping and no riots – Scouse youth being better behaved than Mancunian youth.  So much shopping was done, we were late for the train, asked which was ours, and jumped on it just as the doors closed.

I think I was in charge of the travel on that day as well, which explains why we ended up in Widnes instead of Runcorn.  We explained to the man in charge that we had been directed to the wrong train and he said well, in that case, he wouldn’t fine us, but we had to get off there and we couldn’t get on another train without buying a ticket.  Did I mention we had been shopping all afternoon?  We didn’t have the fare for one of us, never mind three.

Did I mention this was in Days of Yore when I wurra lass?  No mobile phones to call parents who didn’t own cars to not fetch us.

Fortunately – fortune being a relative term – Widnes is right next door to Runcorn.  All we had to do was walk home.  Loaded with shopping bags.  In heels.  A mere three hours or so.  I was ready to start a riot.

Green Day

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Today is St Patrick’s Day.  It had to be edited down to fit the 47-minute window after Idol, but as far as the taster that the audience had?  They loved it. 

I am of Irish descent; my Great-Great-Grandma Gavin came over to Liverpool during the Famine.  Perhaps that explains my love affair with food: it’s genetics rather than greed.

I have just realised that I never once heard of a Great-Great-Grandad Gavin.  Was he a naughty boy, not to be spoken of?  Or perhaps 4Gs was a naughty girl, if you know what I mean?

My Mum could be tart sometimes and she was once asked by an official who heard her accent if she was Irish:

Mum: I’m from the capital of Ireland.

Official: Dublin?

Mum: Liverpool.

*

That reminds me of a time before I was married to the Hub and he had not yet been trained to speak respectfully of women (he was seventeen, like today).  He was bored on a night shift and was using one of those old telex machines – or it may have been ticker tape – to chat to a bored young South African in Bloemfontein.

Pre-Hub: What are the tarts like there?

BYSAIB: Err…the creams are okay but the crusts are a bit soft.

*

I never usually remember to celebrate St Patrick’s Day, but I am technically English.  Ain’t that the luck of the Irish?

*

In case you are wondering about that first paragraph, today’s WordPress prompt was to Grab the nearest book (or website) to you right now. Jump to paragraph 3, second Sentence. Write it in a post.  I closed my eyes, thrust my hand into my book box*, and pulled out a copy of Gleeful!  A Totally Unofficial Guide To The Hit TV Series ‘Glee’ by Amy Rickman.  I’m not ashamed to say I won it in a competition; a competition for which I purchased a stamp and wrote on a postcard.  That’s right, I’m a Gleek.  Which makes me sound a bit Welsh, as well.  Reminds me of that old joke about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Welshman…that’s right: I’m a joke.

*If you’d like to read a poem about a box – and whyever would you not? – go to my new poetry site at I’m Not a Verse.

The Laughing Housewife And A Cast Of Minions Proudly Presents: Who-He?

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Something that keeps coming up lately is back history: when I’m new to a blog I like to know something about the writer, such as age, family, hair colour, bank details.  The usual stuff.  Many blogs have running gags or themes; many writers have history that it’s necessary to know in order to fully enjoy what I’m reading so, prompted by Cin (not ‘sin’; I’m a good girl, I am.  Cin left a comment the other day about just this thing), here’s the story so far. 

Once done, I’m going to have a bash at making another blog page where this info will be stored.  Wish me luck and if you never hear from me again, know that technology finally killed me and I love you all, each and every one of my dear readers (that’s you, Tory Boy; and Robert).

The Laughing Housewife

That’s me.  In my late forties at the moment (how did that happen?).  Born in the capital of Ireland (Liverpool); grew up in Wallasey and Runcorn.  Emigrated most reluctantly with my family to South Africa at age eighteen.  You can read all about that at my other blog South Africa – A Love/Hate Story.  Don’t expect funny though; I wasn’t a laughing teenager.  It’s mostly poetry and angst and angst-ridden poetry: you think Spiderman was miserable?  Meet me.

I lived there fourteen years and came back to the UK in 1996.  I’ve got a degree in Literature from the Open University.  I’m married to:

The Hub

He’s from the capital of Crimeland (Wythenshawe, Manchester) but spent three years at my school in Runcorn, where we didn’t meet.  He lived in South Africa for eight years; had three years back in the UK; and then went back to South Africa in 1981.  We met in a car park in a tiny dorp in the middle of nowhere.  Ain’t life strange? 

We were engaged after three months and married three years later.  It’s lasted twenty-five years so far but I figure, if the three motif recurs, one of us will be free in eight years’ time.  Or even five, because we will have been together thirty-three years in 2008.  You maths wizards out there might be scratching your pencils right now but factor in that we married in the middle of a year and that you really don’t need to care about this stuff, and just take my word for it.

We fight a lot.  Squabble, really.  All day long.  Who said what to whom about when and why and where.  Stupid stuff, but we are both easily irritated; and irritating.  I hang onto him because he fixes the computer and even does it without moaning if it wasn’t me who broke it.  He moans a lot.  What I really love about him, though, is his ability to put down the toilet seat and replace the toilet roll.  Things like that matter after twenty-eight years.  He is forever leaving love notes for me and being romantic, but I try not to mind.  I must have not minded it at least twice, because we have two children:

Tory Boy

Born in Johannesburg, he is the first fruit of my loins and Conservative Prime Minister-in-Waiting.  Currently in his last year at Lancaster University, where he’s studying Politics & Philosophy.  That’s kind of our fault: the Hub was telling him while he was still in my womb that he was going to university.  The Hub and I are great believers in getting an education and thinking for yourself and all that junk. 

Tory Boy spent his whole life listening to his parents argue about politics and issues of the day and who put the toilet roll tube in the wrong recycling box, so I suppose a career in politics was inevitable, given his megalomaniac tendencies: the first thing he’s going to do when he takes over the world is send all the teachers to Antarctica and put the toilet roll tube wherever he feels like.  There should have been a swear word-well in that last sentence [put the toilet roll tube wherever he swear word-well feels like] but he’s scared of his father and respects his mother so there isn’t.  He’s also a good big brother to:

Spud Bud

Like Princess Diana, I, too, have an heir and spare.  He was born in Alberton, South Africa and cost us a fortune because we didn’t have medical aid at that point and it wasn’t a natural birth.  It would have been cheaper to adopt.  Still, we decided to hang on to him.  Well, he’s family.  He worked out as a good deal in the end because he’s on a full bursary at an excellent grammar school here in Stockport, where we now reside.

Stockport

Features a lot.  As does the Viaduct, the railway station and the Stockport Express.  

Toby & Molly

Our dogs and the cutest Yorkies on the planet.  We have a fish tank and thirteen fish, four shrimp and two butterfly loaches.  Until recently, we also had gerbils.

Also, you will find that a lot of dead pet references tend to appear in this blog.  Pay attention because I may set a test at any time.  We have three cats and seven gerbils buried in our garden (my brother says we are on the RSPCA’s hit list).  We loved them all, but the Hub is daftly ridiculous about animals.

Neighbours

There are only two that I mention with any frequency:

The Boy Nik

An ex-addict who isn’t really a boy but talks and acts like one, and who I first met when he knocked on my door just before one Christmas to ask me to phone the nearest prison so he could visit his mate; and who has never stopped knocking since, for a hammer, a bin bag, a spade…umm, I’ve just made a connection here.  I’ll get back to you on this one.

Next Door

Housewife whose husband works away and who spends all her time hammering nails into our shared wall.  I think she’s building a secret extension in my lounge.

A Few Important Facts

Necessary for comprehension.

• Maltesers – probably the single-most important influence in my life.  No Maltesers for Christmas sets the tone for the following excruciating (for my family) year.
• The hub has severe CFS/ME and a host of other ailments which means he spends all his time in pain and a lot of time unable to do stuff; and by ‘stuff’ I mean if he takes a shower then that’s it for his day. 
• As a result of his illness he hasn’t been able to work for many years.  He became ill when I had a baby and six-year old on my hands.  Before he learned to manage his CFS he would spend weeks in bed, unable to get up, so we ended up on benefits once our money ran out.  It’s one of the reasons I got my degree, so I could go back to work once the boys were old enough.  That plan didn’t work out so well because I graduated at the height of the recession.  Timing is everything.
• Christmas and Maltesers must be done to excess; everything else is showing off.
• We live in a council house on a council estate.  Expect a lot of posts about crime.
• Poetry – I write it.  Deal with it.  Or ignore it, if you like: this is the internet, after all; how would I know whether you read my poems or not?
• I’m not soppy.  Mush embarrasses me.  What can I say?  I’m British.  I’m so un-soppy that I even have a special category – ‘Feeling Sentimental’ (see right under ‘Category Cloud’) – for days when the hormones take over and a nice thought bursts out.
• I make up words.  Did you spot the one under ‘Toby & Molly’?  I figure if Shakespeare could do it, so could I.  Pity I don’t have my own theatre in which to try them out, but them’s the breaks. 
• My motto: you can never have too many Maltesers (the roof of your mouth is raw from eating seven boxes on Christmas Day?  Suck it up, you wimp!)



And Finally…God

I’m a Christian – I know, incredible, isn’t it?  I wouldn’t have believed it if I’d been reading me, either.  I have a strong and enduring faith, but that’s not what this blog is about.  This blog is about poking fun at life: if something funny happens in church, you’ll hear about it; but otherwise, no preaching.

On the strong and enduring faith bit: the Hub reckons if it was that strong I wouldn’t have married what he calls an ‘agnostic’ and I call ‘a rabid atheist’.  The Hub is really annoying sometimes.  We have learned not to argue about religion (much), but everything else is on the table.  Unless he feels like winding me up and we fall out over the monarchy (he’s against it) and I swear I really am killing or leaving him this time.

Happy reading!

Well That’s A Relief; Now What?

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Good news, sort of: there is no sign of cancer in the Hub (though they didn’t look at his soul; I don’t think they have a camera for that).  They biopsied a polyp but they tell us that’s routine.  However, if no news is good news, it’s still no news; there’s no explanation yet for the Hub’s anaemia.  He will be called back for a discussion at some point and he just has to keep taking the iron tablets. 

It was a long day yesterday.  The Hub was to be given a sedative and had to be accompanied home afterwards; I don’t drive so we had to get a taxi to the hospital: two buses and a fair bit of walking are two buses and a fair bit of walking too much for the Hub at the moment.  He’s not breathing well – a combination of the anaemia and a chest infection; his pallor gives the word ‘grey’ a bad name; he is in more pain than usual because he had to come off the anti-inflammatories; and he has the ongoing CFS/ME, of course.  He is one sorry little puppy.  He’s so unwell, we haven’t had an argument in days; never thought there’d be a day when I missed his pig-headed shouty view of the world; but I do. 

 

Still, enough about him.  I had a horrible day too, but nobody wipes my brow.  While I waited for him, I had to read two books and the paper, drink tea, eat crisps and chocolate and sit on a chair deemed too cruel for use by the Spanish Inquisition.  That was a long three-and-a-half-hours.  Well, it would have been, if I hadn’t had two books, the paper and lots of snacks to keep me going.  Why don’t hospitals add a library or a tv room or something for family & friends?  Even a comfortable chair would help.  But no, it’s all spend the money on the patients; look after the patients; make the patients comfortable while they wait two hours for their procedure. 

We arrived twenty minutes early, so that bit was our fault.  They took him in early and made him wait over two hours, so that was their fault.  They prodded and questioned before the Big Probe and gave him paper boxers to wear under a girly gown.  You check in your dignity along with your valuables when you go into hospital; luckily for the Hub, he’s used to that, appearing in my blog every day.  He said they pumped him full of air and he lay in a ward at some point, having a fart-off with the other testees.  He swears he did one four minutes-long.  At last I have competition!  

 

Pardon my vulgarity; I was not brought up that way, as Rizzo would say that Sandra Dee would say.  Of Irish Catholic descent, I come from what my mother called the capital of Ireland, Liverpool; and we are a refined lot.  We always say ‘please’ when we ask for your wallet and jewellery; and we never steal your tyres without resting your car on even piles of bricks.   

 

It must be the Mancunian rubbing off on me after all these years, though I don’t think it does take years: Tarik the taxi driver, who told us he hasn’t been here that long, had a fund of horror stories to share about his life in Levenshulme; most of which seemed to involve being on his break and eating pizzas and kebabs while he watched young men knock out their drug addict girlfriends and youths insult grannies and generally behave in an anti-social but all-too Mancunian manner. 

The taxi driver going home was Stockport-born and bred, but he talked just as much.  So much, in fact, that he forgot to turn on his meter until we were halfway home, and had to ask us how much he should charge.  I gave him a decent tip.  I wouldn’t have normally, what with being Scouse and knowing the value of a penny; but my husband had just been told he was cancer-free and I was in the mood to celebrate.  Now, if I can just rile the Hub so he yells at me, we’ll all be happy. 

* 

The prompt for this week’s We Write Poems is What’s for dinner?  I haven’t been in the mood to write poetry this week, so I dug up some old ones on the same theme. 

A Recipe For Torture 

Starter: 

Too many cooks
Not enough broth 

Main Course: 

Four planes
Dead thousands
One paralysed nation 

Stir until hatred reaches a peak. 

Desserts: 

One concrete cell
One bucket of water
Two bare feet
A dash of electricity 

Throw together and watch carefully
as your suspect surges the walls.
Look on in satisfaction.
Extract information.
Discard waste. 

Please note: No guarantees can be given that
following this recipe will produce the desired results. 

  

* 

Recipe for Contentment  

Ingredients: food,
good film, children home, husband,
dog.  Mix well.  Relax. 

* 

How To Bake A Cake  

With care and good scales
or you’ll fail.
You’ll burn it;
flop it; scrape
it off the
plate and pop
it in the bin,
   to your children’s accompanying wails. 

  

Tilly Enchanted

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Now that the contents of my kitchen are spread around the house like an oil slick, with every room – including all three bedrooms – doubling as a cupboard/larder/cook’s depository, I have nothing to do except recover from a week’s worth of cleaning.  I can’t believe how much dust there is in the world.  I can’t believe how much of that dust is in my house: I sliced through one dust bunny to find thirteen rings.  The grime was behind the fridge, the washing machine, the dishwasher, the microwave…I don’t know whether to clean more often or just throw away my appliances.   I discovered my lost cd player under a seal of grease and dirt.  I don’t want it to happen again so I have decided to give up cooking; my friend Becky says the simplest solutions are the best.   

The weatherman having promised today was the last warm day of the year, I took the dogs for a walk along the Mersey – though famous for Liverpool it starts in Stockport, about five minutes from my house.  It was wonderful: bumble bees buzzed in the sunlight; butterflies tangoed around my shoulder; a weasel winked as it crossed my path, then crossed back again; a blackbird gave me a command performance; a squirrel scolded the dogs; and berries in the bushes bobbed in the breeze.  As I tripped amongst the fly clouds hovering over the dog turds and flattened slugs, and avoided slipping on a mouse corpse, I felt like Stockport’s own Disney princess.  It’s quite possible that feeling will continue through the night because I’ve lost a tin of peas and my mattress is looking rather lumpy. 

  

View from a footbridge

 

My kitchen refurb began at precisely fifteen hundred hours this p.m. and ended at precisely fifteen-twenty hours.  Three men came in, laid protective floor covering, ripped out the counters and cupboards, and left.  The council promised my refurb would start on Wednesday 22nd September, and they didn’t let me down.  What they didn’t say was that they’d be working in twenty-minute increments.  It’s going to be a long, long month. 

Note the famous Stockport viaduct in the background and the famous Stockport rubbish in the trees

 

Writer’s Island Prompt Number 9

I Don’t Recall

I never had a flirty day in Frodsham
with an owner of the red album.
I did not visit the Everyman;
never got free tickets;
could not have attended
the last-night cast party
or met the beautiful half-Greek
love child of a boxing legend.
I don’t recall a walk to school;
a white December day;
a shocked discussion;
a cute boy in a trendy coat.

No mad man.
No bullets.
Imagine:
no John Lennon.
I can’t.

*

The prompt was ‘Imagine’. I imagine many of the Islanders will immediately hear the Lennon song, just as I did. I thought about the funny ways music and musicians touch our lives though we never meet, and remembered moments from my own life that would not have happened if Lennon had never existed.

The visit to the Everyman in Liverpool was to see a play about Lennon’s life.