Triple tagged by ankle bitters and reports of a local crime wave

I found myself physiologically under attack for 2 solid days, from 3 ankle biters last weekend. On Saturday I had to be on best behaviour as two of Mrs B’s three God Children made an appearance. Since I was banned from taking refuse with the cats it was only a matter of time before I blotted my copy book. I thought I had done quite well and we were into injury time when I made the older of the children cry. “How?” I hear you ask, probably expecting me to admitting to tripping her or stealing her sweets. Nothing so complicated, all I did was beat her at the poxy game that she whined about wanting to play all day. Well, it was “The Game of Life” and I was just attempting to teach her the cruelties that exist out there. It’s always a bit unnerving when you have a suspicion that the six year old that you are dealing with is probably actually brighter then you (At least my spelling is certainly more creative then hers). Still she did make the fundamental mistake of allowing me to be banker, so she had lost before she had begun. I’m not saying I indulged in any bank misappropriations in order to win, I’ll just say it’s nice to know the money was there if I needed it.
As for her younger sister, what makes anyone think that I want to spend my meal times watching her fail to eat any of her food, while she splashed it around our dining room like Jackson Pollock in full swing. Just the thought of it makes me want to go and have a lie down……. And that was just Saturday.
What is it with ankle bitters? You do your best to ignore them and stay out of their way, only to find yourself being hunted down.I thought I was going to need Rabies shots after this unprovoked attack...
Sunday brought a whole new child and proved to be moderately more bearable for me. Phoebe lives in a world of make believe and kept trying to take Mrs B along for the ride. Mrs B doesn’t really do make believe, I guess living with me is more then enough for the sanest of people. I could visibly see her wilt under the onslaught. Thankfully Mitch paid us a visit on Sunday night and restored a bit of spirit to the Black family household, even the cats reappeared from whatever dimension they had taken vanished into ….

Bishop's Stortford crime wave hits new record
It was a good weekend for anyone who has McG in there fantasy food theft league; he had a bumper weekend gaining a hat-rick of successful food raids. Using the distraction of guests he managed to knock the lid off of the Wok and finish off the left overs from lunch. In the evening he lapped down a couple of dishes of Olive oil* and Balsamic vinegar. I ask you what cat in their right state of mind eats Olive oil and balsamic vinegar.Has anyone seen this master criminal
The hat-rick was achieved when he made a successful raid on Mischief’s food bowl. Mrs B gets an assist on this one as she let him out of his eating cell before checking that Mischief’s food had been removed from the planet, it soon was.....

* On the plus side he now has very sleek fur, but does insist that we now call him Luigi. I see he has added a Vespa and some tight fitting shirts to his Christmas list.
Unlike Mcavity the Mystery Cat"known as the hidden paw", McG should be known as the "red paw" as he is nearly always caught "Red handed" at the scene of his crimes.

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it. You can also tune into the up-to-date version BlackLOG.

More trials and tribulations as our trip to Thailand concludes

After last times fun at the airport I'm sure you will be delighted to hear that we did make it to Thailand......

Suntan
I always find it interesting that when in sunny parts of the world, anyone without much of a suntan looks like they must be new arrivals. After over a week and a half I still looked like I wouldn't be arriving until a week next Thursday.

Fellow Hotel guests
The usual bunch of sock and sandal wearing Brits, a couple of miserable Germans (the original Sour Krauts), hoards of little Thai people who arrive at the pool at about 7 in the morning, stay for about an hour and then vanish for the rest of the day. Then there was Gavin. I never actually spoke to Gavin, I just happen to know that he was called Gavin because that is what was emblazoned on the only shirt he wore. It was a rather fetching polyester number in grey and blue with red piping. The shirt also informed me that Gavin worked for a well-known photo processing company and served as a warning to give Gavin a wide birth. I duly obliged.

Fake paradise
With any purchase in Thailand you are never sure what you are going get, other than there is a 99.9% chance that it will be fake. This ranges from the obvious CDs, DVDs and fashion items (don’t worry, this does not apply to me) to the less obvious. I speak of fake bridges and rivers. Our day trip to Kanchanaburi and the famous bridge on the river Kwai proved this. Not only did the bamboo and wooden bridge of David Lean’s film no longer exist, but we were over fifty years too late. (In my defence, I couldn’t get Mrs B out of bed.) The river was actually called the Mae Klong during the war and not re-named Kwai until the mid sixties. Sir Alec Guinness must be spinning in his pint glass..According to my made up statistics there is
only a .1% chance that this is not a fake sign.
Thai language
As anyone who knows me will testify, I am more than capable of crucifying the English language, let alone a foreign tongue. Sadly my attempts to master the Thai dialect sank my linguistic inabilities to new depths. At one point I found myself meowing at bewildered Thai’s with an accent that even McG would have been proud of. Judging by some of the looks I got from the locals, you would have thought I had said “Your great uncle’s pet elephant has left his nostril hairs all over my fridge” or more alarmingly “If you want to have access to my bank account, just leave your grandmother’s left shoe under the Water buffalo wearing the green pyjamas”. I eventually reverted to my normal tactics of speaking to foreigners very slowly in English at high decibels and with a funny accent. (Always works for me, although Mrs B gets that glazed over expression that reads, “God I wish I was anywhere but here”.) For the last few days of the holiday I attempted to play it safe, sticking with “hello”, “thank you” , “That gorilla looks like it might be related to you!” and “Has your wife not heard of Immac?”.

Thai massage
It was very noticeable that when Mrs B and I booked a massage, Mrs B quickly selected the slightly more attractive of the two (but when you are comparing the back end of a hippo with the back end of a rhino it doesn’t make a lot of difference). Part way through the massage I regretted accusing my masseuse's uncle’s elephant of shedding in my fridge. I must admit the left shoe proved very useful for keeping away the legions of cats that followed us around, sadly I never did find a home for the damned Water Buffalo which had to be abandoned at the airport. I believe it did OK, with the Green Pyjamas it looked like a slightly slimmer than usual American tourist and was adopted by a well to do Thai family ..... Mrs B's Masseuse was much sexier than mine
Thai taxi drivers
Despite my aversion to taxi drivers, Mrs B and I found ourselves having to use the local scrapheap-challenge offerings that passed for motor vehicles for hire. The first taxi we used appeared OK on the face of it - a little too many dials on the inside and additional skirting on the outside for my liking, but it had working seat belts, air-conditioning and the engine had a throaty roar (which quickly became an annoying humm when sitting in the back of the car for more than 30 seconds). The driver even quoted a decent rate to take us back to our hotel, so we did not even bother attempting to barter. The next taxi we took was a whole different ball game; the driver quoted a ridiculously high amount for the same trip, so I set about beating him down. Just as I got him to the amount I was willing to pay, Mrs B chimed in with a counter-bid. This caused confusion for both me and the taxi driver and resulted in a bidding war which ended with us paying more than his original asking price. To make things worse, when we got into the taxi it looked like we had found out where the first taxi had obtained all his extra dials from - this car had been stripped of everything - except a few seats and a steering wheel. I would love to know if he was still building the car or had stolen it a couple of nights before and was in the process of stripping it down.Magical Mystery Tour - It's always much more fun when
the taxi driver can't see where he is going.....
Thai Glue
Mrs B and I (at huge expense - something like £1.50) invested in a beach bag, which promptly broke within a day. Since I was determined to extend the bag’s life to the end of the holiday, I purchased a Thai version of superglue. The picture on the packaging showed a huge elephant glued upside down to the underside of a palm leaf - now you don’t get much more reassurance than that. I certainly can’t complain about the sticking power of the product. I was, however, a little disturbed when the tissue that I used to wipe up some of the excess glue started to smoke. I can assure you, any plans of experimenting with the product by attempting to stick my fingers together went out the window after that.

The Thai toilet incident
Mrs B censored the true horror of this story. All I can say is - think of the worst loo in Scotland (as portrayed in the film “Trainspotting”), take away the flushing mechanism and toilet paper - then you might just start to get the picture. I will either face years of therapy to get over the incident or alternatively blank it from my mind. I think I’ll choose the latter. Far cheaper and I certainly never intend to revisit that toilet even under hypnotic conditions.

Thai Brides
It is with a morbid fascination that we saw so many old English Guys (many sixty plus) wandering around hand in hand with young Thai girls. At one stage we were considering bringing back a Thai Bride kitten for McG (at 9 years of age it puts him in the correct age bracket) but then remembered that we have had him neutered, so it would probably have been more cruel than anything.....Ting Tong - I'm sure she is just
very close to her favourite uncle
That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it or to anyone you don't particularly like and would like to see suffer. You can also tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.

The Accidental holiday featuring the stress diet

Looking forward to a relaxing holiday
Mrs B and I accidentally booked a trip to Thailand (well not exactly true, but it is reminiscent of a fantastic line in the Film “Withnail and I”,when Withnail (played by Richard E Grant) exclaims “We’ve come on Holiday by mistake”). What we did was realised the problems of booking a late deal to the Far East. Booked one Saturday to leave the following Saturday, chances of getting any inoculations(1) from our local doctors, zilch, cost of inoculations from private clinics, more then the cost of the holiday itself.

(1) The cats were not impressed that we missed out, they still get their annual jabs. I pointed out to them that it gives Mischief the opportunity to bite the vet, while McG gets to fill the surgery with his fur. It always looks like a dozen cats have been shaved in there,after one of his visits but miraculously he still seems to leave with more fur then he started. All Jesus could do was fill a few baskets with uneaten bread and fish, while McG could probably fill the Albert Hall (you don’t get to read about that in the Bible now, do you).
Today I will be mostly eating Vet.....
I looked on this holiday as an opportunity to lose some weight, very quickly and with very little effort. In order to maximise the effects of this "Thai diet" I had planned to eat at the airport(2). While Mrs B had busily filled her suitcase with summer clothes, I opted for cases full of DVD’s, cause by my reckoning, after eating at the airport I would be bed bound for 5-6 days. I then expected to emerge for just enough time to eat some of the local delicacies before returning to my sick bed for the rest of the holiday.

(2) A recent report had indicated that eating at airports is like staying in hospitals, extremely bad for your health
I remained disappointingly healthy, despite some reckless eating
The stress diet
My carefully planned Thai diet failed to materialize. I had complimented my eating at the airport by eating on the plane and at some of the dodgiest looking road side restaurants that Thailand had to offer. Despite all this effort I remained as fit and healthy as anyone with an aversion to vegetables, fruit and exercise has a right to. I now had to pin my hopes on weight loss through stress. If the stress at the start of the holiday was anything to go by I would have the worlds top super models begging for my secret.

Level 1 stress - mother arrived to look after the cats, spends most of the day standing in the way saying “Can I help?”. "Yes! Get out of the bloody way…."

Level 2 stress - now running short of time to get to Heathrow.

Level 3 stress - car takes the opportunity to lift our spirits by winking at us with the low tyre pressure warning light (indicating a possible flat).

Level 4 stress - M25 grinds to an inevitable standstill.

Back to level 3 stress - as we found no tyre problems when we reach our parking destination.

Return to level 4 stress - as we attempted to pick up our tickets. We could not find anyone prepared to admit to having heard of the “Diamond departure pick up your discount tickets here you cheapskates desk”.

Level 5 stress - time ticking away, find a desk with a slightly different name but with no one minding it, a little note saying “popped to IKEA, back next month.” Eeeekkkkkk. I laughingly suggest to Mrs B that we are probably expected to pick up the tickets from Gatwick.

Level 6 Stress - Mrs B opened the covering letter, given to us by the travel agent (not much better then Estate agents really, they just don’t get huge commissions for doing very little for you except inconvenience you at every opportunity) - huge alarm bells start to ring – Pickup point "Gatwick !!!!!!!" Stress levels reached breaking point, hearts stop and a sickening feeling started to build. If this had been the 'Enterprise' you would have heard 'Scottie' proclaiming “she can’na take it Captain, she’s breaking up”. Stress levels beyond measure.

The woman eventually returned from Ikea with just a badge saying “I spent 4 days in an Ikea queue and all I got was this bloody badge, so what’s your problem?” She picked up the crumpled heap of human devastation that was the Blacks and said. “It’s OK, your travel agent wrote the wrong Airport and pickup desk name (3), easy done, here are your tickets, now bugger off.” (You know where you stand on a package holiday, none of this customer service malarkey).

(3) This just goes to prove it does not always pay to read the instructions. Just ask anyone who has ever attempted to assemble flat pack furniture. You feel so much better as long as you put it together, without referring to the instruction sheet. You then don't have to worry about the missing 'flange angle screw retainer' that is always missing, along with the most vital instruction on the sheet. This leaves you guilt free to combine the additional screws (that don't acutely belong in the box) with one part hammer, two parts brute force and a good sprinkling of four letter words, to complete the task. OK, it will always stand at an odd, best to refer to it as a rakish, angle. What do you expect? This is after all flat pack furniture you have purchased. Like Fast Food, Airfix model kits and Internet Brides, it was never going to look like the glossy picture that enticed you to make the purchase in the first place.

We finally made it to Bangkok and just had one final hurdle, the journey to our hotel. Now the brochure quoted a transfer time of 2.5 hours, the travel agent 3, Kuoni Holiday Itinerary got it up to 3.5 and the tour guide who met us at the airport quoted 4. About 6 hours later we reached our destination Cha Am.

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it or to anyone you don't particularly like and would like to see suffer. You can also tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.
The hotel swimming pool,Cha Am

Shed-Wars, not a case of snakes on a plane but neighbours in your face

Our shed building project has been put back after complaints from the neighbours, thankfully not the nice ones but the ones that we have managed 5 conversations with in 10 years. 3 of them have been over the shed and have taken place in the last couple of weeks. (At this rate we will be at Christmas card swapping status by about 2056).

Our first conversation with them set such a high standard that we were unable to repeat the exercise for some three or four years. To be fair it is her not him (Dave) who is the problem. I’m confident that on his own Dave would be a very nice and worthwhile addition to the neighbourhood. We would probably invite him around for BBQ’s and drinks but, attached as he is to Margaret (1), he has more chance of becoming POTUS than getting an invite around to ours.

(1) I think Margaret is her name but as we’ve only been living next door for 10 years so it would be understandable if I’ve got it wrong.


The scene was as follows. It was about ten years ago and we had just moved into our new house. The neighbours moved in a week later so Mrs B and I decided to pop around and introduce ourselves. We knock on the door and wait, a short pause and the door opens a crack, just enough for us to see a couple of eyes peering out at us.

Me & Mrs B – “Hi, we are your next door neighbours and thought it would be nice to introduce ourselves.”

Slight Pause

Margaret – “I think you need to talk to Dave.”

Door slams in our faces – Perhaps she miss heard us and thought we said that we were mass murderers looking for our next victim or even worse Jehovah’s looking for a chat…..

Mrs B (hair slight array from the force of the door) – “That went well!”

Me – “Yes, nice to know the new neighbours are friendly.”

This was followed by a slow trudge back home, which made Napoleons’ retreat from Moscow look like a picnic in the park. (If anyone happens to run into Tchaikovsky let him know that if he is ever looking to top his 1812 overture he should pop around to ours for tea and I can give him some details of a real war…..)

Now I can’t remember all the conversations we have had over the years. I did manage to borrow a wheelbarrow once, which I suspect will remain the high point of the relationship. When the shed project got underway, I had the courtesy to let them know that we would be putting up a shed and asked permission to go onto their property to fix the guttering. The only comment from Dave at the time was “The guttering had better not overhang our property”. I assured him it wouldn’t.

About six weeks later Mitch (chief architect and builder, when he is not nursing a hangover) and I received a summons to attend a hearing next door. Apparently, they were not happy about the shed. As we entered the house, the lovely Margaret verbally assaulted us with a selection of comments screamed at high volume. I can’t remember them all but the highlights were :-

“You’re just an East End wide boy” - naturally I assumed she was talking to Mitch.

“You don’t care about any one, you just march in and do whatever you want” - Was I suddenly George Bush? Is Michael Moore about to make a documentary about me? I don’t think so…..

- “It looks like something put up after the war, some prefabricated rubbish, you know what I mean, having been dragged up in the East End” - Oh gods, she was talking about me (2) and as for poor Mitch, this was his pride and joy she was dragging through the mud.

(2) While I have to admit to having purchased a house in Leytonstone (3), I was twenty and did not know any better. It hardly constitutes being an East End guttersnipe and I did sell it after a couple of years for a huge profit of about £3.35p. You live and learn…. I quietly put her straight on the East End bit - after all, my sister would never forgive me. She, being the posh one in the family, would never accept being related to a cockney, even a fake one.

(3) How did they know my life history? It turns out that my mother, the traitor (4), had been blabbing and divulging snippets of my life to Dave in cosy little chats over the fence during one of her cat sitting visits…..

(4) Is it ethically wrong to have your own mother shot for consorting with the enemy. I guess I should give her the benefit of the doubt and judge that it was before actual hostilities had been broken out. However I will closely monitoring her future conduct……

“You think you’re so much better than us” -Well yes, I don’t just scream at people and slam the door in their face. (Although I could certainly learn to make exceptions for certain people in the neighbourhood.…..)

I decided not to react and instead asked her what the problem was: “Dave, tell him” - came the silky and smooth response, that peeled off layers of our facial skin. (Remind me to let Mrs B know that there is no need to invest in expensive exfoliation treatments, when she can just nip next door for a friendly chat with Margaret…..)

Apparently, our shed was blocking their light. Not direct light mind you but reflected light, reflected off our own wall (I feel so betrayed. Imagine finding out that parts of your own home have been consorting with the enemy. I can see that I will have to put our wall "on report" along side my mother).

Putting it all into perspective the shed was no more then a foot above the existing fence. As Mitch and I stood in their kitchen, on a dull day without any lights on, we could clearly see the vitriol being poured on us. I was having trouble keeping a straight face especially when Mitch said that we had no “ Reference datum ” to work on. If looks could kill I would have been finishing the shed off on my own. “I’m not talking to you!!” Margaret screeched in that friendly tone of hers, somehow managing to increase the decibels and menace in her voice to even more breathtaking levels. Perhaps someone should notify the Guinness book of records.

The next request was to lower the shed. Why did we need it so high? Apparently, her cousin had a shed that he "happily" ducked to get into and if it was good enough for him, surely it was good enough for us. Mitch and I retreated from the onslaught before we collapsed laughing.
Who would have thought that these would turn out to be the foundations for a War?
I returned later on a solo suicide mission and offered to put up some wood facing on the side of the shed to match the fence, this was surprisingly well received and I almost got away without further abuse. Unfortunately, Margaret then asked me if the water butt was going to be returned to the back of the shed. This was a bit confusing as there never had been a water butt there. It suddenly dawned on me she meant the compost bin. I made the mistake of telling her this. I thought my ear drums were going to burst as her shrieks reached new highs that even dogs would have had difficulty picking up. I tried to explain that the compost bin had been there for over eight years and had never caused her any trouble, but by this time she was heading for meltdown, all she could do was babble about snakes living in compost bins. Apparently, she was not just afraid of snakes but allergic to them to boot.Once Dave had managed to cool her down, risking life and limbs as he manually untwisted her undergarments, Margaret demanded to know if I was intending to keep anything dangerous in there. I assured her that Mrs B had been banned from taking unsupervised trips to the shed. Margaret was clearly not amused; although I’m sure I saw a slight smirk break across Dave’s face.

I was very tempted to put a note through their letterbox asking if any one has seen my pet Boa Constrictor which had escaped, while Mrs B was more for the direct approach and wanted to put some grass snakes in her garden, especially when she heard that Margaret had called our fat cat fat. The damned cheek of the woman, as if her own daughters don’t strain the scales and shop in the over sized section for the less than petite.

Wrap up – what has happened since
Shortly after these events, Mitch emigrated to Canada. Although he has never admitted it, I firmly believe that his shed building pride took a severe battering during the war. To date he has never designed or built another shed.

Dave never even made the short list for POTUS. I believe the thought of having Margaret as first lady was even too much for the American public.

Please note that no snakes were actually harmed during the creation of this Blog, although McG may have eaten a couple of earthworms during the foundation-digging phase of the project.

And finally, no peace treaty has ever been signed, so officially the shed war continues…….

Mitch and I prepare an assault ladder to take on the dastardly Margaret, turns out we would have been better off using ear muffs


McG not as innocent as he looks.

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it or anyone you don't particularly like and would like to see suffer. You can also tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.

The one with the Country Fair

Mrs B decided we should take a trip to Hatfield House (birth place of McG, for fans of the little porker) to attend a Country Fair, this did not sound totally unreasonable at the time so I obediently tagged along. Things were not going to badly, I spent a small fortune on some sausages (but nothing that our overdraft couldn’t handle), until an accident of location saw us eating lunch next to where the Sheep judging was taking place (aside 1)

The first sheep came out and strutted confidently into the centre of the arena, to the announcement from the compare that it was part of the lesser shaggy four footed rare woolly mountain something or other category. Said sheep was fully inspected and after some deliberation and heated discussion between the judges awarded first Prize? I can tell you I wish I’d put money on that result.The clear winner in the well hung category

The second category had more of a contested feel about it and comprised three, yes count them three sheep. Two black & white and just a plain white one, I can only presume that this category was the “Daz sheep challenge” category as the white sheep waltzed off with first prize.McG attempting his ginger sheep impression, in truth he makes a more realistic pig

All three sheep were led from the ring, only to return a few moments late under a new category, (I’m sure the white one was now wearing a wig), this new category was obviously not the bad wig category as the result was reversed.Mischief, the black sheep of the family

Things were getting way too exciting for Mrs B and myself so we made our excuses and left before any non sheep animals turned in the arena covered in cotton wool or the judges were forced to make a difficult decision over a category with no actual entries.
Top tip :- if you are going to attempt to pass your animal off as a sheep, at least make an effort and apply some Cotton Wool.

Still it could have been worse; we might have been at a Craft Fair. Very much like a Country Fair except the strangely dressed country folk (farmers I believe they are called, who are eager to show the results of some weird interbreeding programs), are replaced by some extremely untalented people. These talently challenged individuals sit around a marquee trying to embarrass other people, (who should know better than to have attended the event in the first place) into spending their hard earn cash on hand crafted dross. This stuff is so bad that even the shopping channel would struggle to flog to its most drunken viewers. Otherwise sensible people, who attend these events (so clearly not that sensible), seem to lose control over their wallets and return home with rubbish that your average dustbin men would refuse to take away. Once the hypnotic effect of the Craft Fair has worn off the only option left to them is to take the purchased item to a Car Boot sale (at this point there is a real danger of them getting dragged into the even more sleazy world, that of the ebay user)(aside 2)

Midlife crises continued.
Following previous revelations of my midlife crises I have discovered that I am not the only person who has entered the dangerous world that is open top motoring. Just in case there are others of you out there risking your very lives going topless at the drop of a switch, here are some survival tips for you. Use ear muffs, blankets, flying goggles, ski gloves, long johns and spray your entire body (including the crotch area) with deep heat. This can get you through most journeys of up to a mile or so. i.e. your local Tesco’s, as long as you don’t purchase anything from the frozen section. If you don't have enough self control to keep out of the freezer isle then you might need to set fire to the blankets on the return journey. If you are very lucky you might just make it home with some of your extremities still attached. I now know why Captain Scott did not take an open top car to the pole, or if he did then Oats probably borrowed it to nip to the local supermarket, which would at least explains one mystery ….

Well done, you have survived another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also be lacking a life. If you tune into the BlackLOG on Monday morning I will be revealing just how stupid I can be.......
























(1)I felt slight pangs of guilt as I tucked into my minty lamb baguette (Like a sandwich with the ability to bite back, if you don’t eat them carefully you can end up with lacerations of the gums, equivalent of chomping your way through a barbed wire fence, boy those French like to make us suffer).
Wwwwooouuuullldd yyyyouuu lllliiikkkeee mmmooorrreee mmmiiiinnt sssaauuuccee

(Return to text)



































(2)If you or anyone else you know have experienced addiction problems covered in this weeks blog please contact the writers of East Enders, don’t expect a reply or to even have your story feature in an episode it’s just the East Enders story lines are so depressing the writers could do with a good laugh.(Return to text)

Avoiding Guy Fawkes

I managed to avoid this years celebration of the "Gunpowder Plot" (aside 1), as I took Mrs B and some friends up to the Cambridge Corn Exchange(aside 2) to see "Athlete"(aside 3). Another triumph and at just £16 pounds a ticket, quite the bargain. The only problem was, the room was so hot my sweat was sweating; it was certainly apt when they sang "It's hot in here, must be something in the atmosphere". The only downer on the night was that while talking to Mrs B, waiting for the band, I discovered that she had discarded my Lycra keep fit shorts (black with a luminescent pink stripe down either side, hmmm, very nice). Now I'm the first to admit that they were hardly flattering and they certainly clung to all the wrong bits, but that's not the point. I've had them since my early 20's and they are about the only item of clothing that I could still get into, from those long distant days (Lycra is forgiving like that, although members of our local gym might not agree) other then my cloth cap.(aside 4)



That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it. Why not tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.


























(1) What was all that about, Guy Fawkes born into a Protestant family leading a Catholic rebellion to overthrow a Catholic king James 1st, because he was not Catholic enough for their tastes, very strange. If my history is correct he turned out to be the last true Catholic king (although Charles II converted on his death bed, but 16 seconds of catholic rule hardly counts and besides I suspect he was just hedging his bets. After siring so many illegitimate children he was probably running out of women so though he might expand his horizons and try and lure other dress wearing members of society into his bedchamber, it was a straight choice between conversion to Catholicism and having a crack at a priest or attempting to seduce a kilt wearing Jock), so that went well then. (Return to text)






































(2) A poorly named building if I'm any judge, I brought along a bushel of corn, but could I find one person willing to exchange it, could I heck. This never happened on the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop, you could take along a box of dead frogs and get something for them, even if it was just someones half eaten gob stopper (that takes me back, Keith "Cheggers" Chegwin saying to some poor little sod "Jamie, someone from your school has offered not to beat you up again next week, if you give him yours and Julia's dinner money, it sounds like a fair swap to me, although you will be missing out on the delights of turkey twizzlers". As MaggiePhilbinlegs it into the distance, offering to swap not only her husband but her job on the show for a short stint presenting Tomorrow's World. (Return to text)















































(3) After two great albums and supporting U2 in the summer, I predict great things from them, so expect to hear about their demise shortly. Other great favourites of mine have included, The Icicle works, Love & Money (a demised incarnation of Friends Again before demising themselves) and the Big Dish. The Beatles can count themselves lucky that they had disbanded before I got into them, although John Lennon may not consider himself that lucky as he was shot shortly after I decided I preferred him to Paul McCartney. If only I had got into Westlife, Boyzown and Take That before they were allowed to trashed the music scene. (Return to text)























































(4) Another Item of clothing that is strongly disapproved off by certain members of the Black household, but since I was wearing it when I first met Mrs B (I suspect If I had been wearing the Lycra shorts along with the cloth cap at that first meeting, Mrs B would not be Mrs B) it is safe on historical grounds, besides I've taken to hiding it when not in use.(Return to text)

The Halloween Blog

Saturday was party night as Mrs B and I went over to Windsor to see my sister and her tribe. The kids were all setup to play Halloween party games so it was only polite that I should join in, unfortunately after I thrashed them at eating the donut off the string game, I was banned from further competition - so much for teaching under 10's the concept of defeat. It was just as well though as I did not fancy half drowning myself in an effort to eat health food. (I thought apples were for eating, not bathing with). My sister then decided to play around with the formula for the flour and sweet game, with the type of meddling that would not appear out of place amongst the constant changes that are happening with the qualifying format for Formula 1. Instead of having one flour mound with a sweet in the middle and 4 half-crazed kids (Looking like over indulgent coke addicts ready to snort the white lines down the middle of a road) carving great swathes out of the flour in an effort to force one of the others into toppling the sweet from its lofty position. This version has the great advantage of taking only minutes, my sister, bless her, had the bright idea of spinning it out. So out came 4 flour mounds, one for each kid (note none for me), along with instructions to take it in turns cutting away at their own flour heap, the winner being the child that has the last sweet still in place. What my sister had failed to take into account is the ability for small kids to shave minute particles of flour on each go, particularly when their bedtime is looming. As you can imagine, this version took hours and everyone, including the kids, had lost interest in the result, long before the end.

Having been out celebrating Halloween on Saturday night I completely forgot that Monday was actually the night that all the little tykes around our way chose to come visiting, threatening grievous bodily harm on anyone foolish enough not to supply them with enough sugar to keep them climbing the walls of their parents’ house for a good week or so. In general, I’m all for it, the more E numbers you can get into the little buggers the less opportunities and inclination their parents will have to produce more of the little ASBO candidates for future years. Moreover, it’s a particularly good excuse to stock pile enough sweets to see me through to Christmas. Unfortunately, this year I found myself alone in the house (Mrs B taking the sensible precaution of working extra late) with an empty candy jar and two missing cats. It was like a scene out of a bad Zombie movie (Before any one says, all Zombie movies are bad, I recommend you see "Shaun of the Dead") as out of control little people wondered aimlessly around the streets.

I tried the trick of hiding under the kitchen table with the house lights out, but the constant knocking and cackling (plus the discovery that the cats had got there first and were in no mood to share this particular bolt hole) eventually drove me out of the house and off to the health club for a circuit session (aside 1). My body has still not got over it. Next year I shall try a different tack and invest in a pair of finest quality earmuffs while I hunker down and attempt to eat my own body weight in sweets. This just leaves the problem of avoiding the very same bunch of snotty nosed Stepford children, for the next week, only they are now hyper on candy and demanding £20 for the Guy (aside 2)
, well that's inflation for you.
If you think this might be you, please come and collect your broom ASAP

Air-hockey disaster
Shock news, Mrs B finally beat me at Air-Hockey, on the table I bought for her last Christmas, how ungrateful can you get. While Mrs B has undoubtedly improved her skills over the course of the year, I felt robbed, especially when seconds after she declared it illegal to hit an airborne puck she scored from this very manoeuver and conveniently forgot about her new rule. To make matters worse, a short time later one of Mrs B’s shots leapt over the side of the table deflected off a chair and into my goal. Clearly, this was not going to be my day. All that was left to do was sulk for 24 hours and work out how to get rid of the damn thing, just as Mrs B has taken a real shine to it. I think my best bet is to leave the back doors open one night and claim the table legged it….

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it. Why not tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.
























(1) Foolishly I still had the roof down on the Mini, which meant I could not afford to stop and was forced to roar out of the garage leaving in my wake a mixture of enraged toddlers clutching their bags of swag and fearful parents counting up the number of sleepless nights their little treasures were collecting towards. (Return to text)

You have got to hope that they look after their second set of teeth a bit better........






























(2) Which will probably turn out to be some poor trussed up neighbor, who neither had the sweets or sense to get out while he still could. There but for the grace of a fast getaway car, could have been me. (Return to text)

Braving the West End - again

After the disaster that was the Man behind the Iron Mask, I'm back on the road to redemption, and I'm confident that I would have made it all the way to salvation if Rob Lowe had not drenched me in spittle (Mrs B got very jealous of my 'Rob gob' experience). I had managed to secure front row tickets (aside 1) for "A Few Good Men" which is the best play that I have ever seen (not counting Mrs B playing a goat(aside 2), or when she got praised for her excellent Welsh accent whilst performing as a Liverpool bus conductress. Her heart went out of acting at this point , which was the Tadworth Local Amateur Dramatic & Local Luvies Society's and, I truly believe, the world's loss).

Rob Lowe in the Tom Cruise part was excellent, but could have played the roll a little dryer for my taste. Even Karen Macdonald (Steve's ex Mrs from Coronation Street) produced a fine performance, equal to Demi Moore herself (without having to resort to hanging around with people half her age, although If Keira Knightley wishes to hang around with people twice her age, there will be no complaints from me, I am after all still attempting to find, and possibly fight, my Mid Life Crises), while the male prison guard out of "Bad Girls" did a very creditable Jack Nicholson impression. An excellent evening all round, despite being mugged in broad daylight by an NCP car park, I thought I was renting a space, not purchasing the whole damned place.

I had also hoped to bring you a report from the ICE bar in London (aside 3), but I was not up to two muggings in one day, £12 to get in with a maximum stay of 45 mins (aside 5) so we went to the Apple store instead. What an experience that was, hundreds of homeless twenty year old somethings wondering aimlessly round the place with their lap tops and ipods, fantastic. Now here's an idea, stop wasting all your money on electrical goods and alcohol and start saving for a deposit for a home.

-----Tune in next week for more BlackLOG Historical---

There is a "so to speak" live BlackLOG available, which gives a more current picture of events in the Black household.....
































(1)The jury is out on front row seats at the Theatre. On the one hand, you are right in the thick of it, facial expressions, tears, sweat and spittle (I have been assured by an amdram type (not Mrs B, I might add) that if you don't produce spittle while speaking on stage you ain't getting the diction right) can all be clearly seen, heard and unfortunately felt. Theatres could go a long way to improving the plight of their front row guests if they provided towels and waterproofs. I certainly would not attempt seats in the front row of any really energetic musicals, well not without a bar of soap and a rubber ducky.(Return to text)
Mrs B was amazed that when ever she was in the front row, no matter how much she drank, the jug never seemed to empty....









































(2) I believe it was a draw, but Mrs B went down 4:1 in the replay. You don't often get second chances against goats, uncompromising little devils when they want to be... (Return to text)
Not exactly goats, unfortunatly I don't have any picures of goats so these will have to do











































(3) I can't help but think the owners have missed a trick, from what I have heard all you get is plain ice walls, they should have taken a leaf out of the Hard Rock Cafes books, but instead of having rock memorabilia on the walls they could have had frozen celebrities (aside 4) actually in them. Now that would be cool. (Return to text)

Mrs B tries out for the Icewall....






















































(4) No, not just any old celebrity that they happen to come across. I'm talking about the ones who have signed up for cryogenics. Although on second thoughts, they could use anyone who freezes on stage more than twice - a sort of "three strikes and you're in the ice wall" policy. (Return to text)

Not wanting to miss out, our friend Mitch attempts to join Mrs B attaching himself to the Icewall







































(5) If I had paid that sort of money to go in, I would have demanded the right to stay there until I had frozen to death. (Return to text)
Mr B and I getting ready for a visit to the IceBar

Featuring midlife crisis & a West End Theatre disaster

Midlife crisis
Having reached forty I decided it was time to indulge myself and show some outward signs of a midlife crisis (other than writing a Blog). The first obvious thing to do was rush out and get a Mini Cooper convertible. Despite driving in a period that you need a secured bank loan to just pass a petrol station let alone stop and put any liquid gold into the car, it has been great fun. Even driving with the roof down in temperatures (Aside 1) that are less than appropriate and will probably result in moving my midlife crisis back to my early twenties, has not been enough to dampen my spirit.

West End Theatre disaster
I treated Mrs B to a night out at a West End Theatre (Man behind the Iron Mask), in the mistaken belief that if the show has made it to the West End it can’t be that bad. I now know that this is simply not true, how could I have guessed that the writer had put up £500,000 pounds of his own money to honour the dying wish of his wife that the show should have a run in the West End (Aside 2) I can only surmise that either she wanted him to go broke, making it harder for him to find a replacement for her or was suffering from some dreadful wasting disease that impaired her judgment (apparently she saw the potential that the show had. Those must have been some powerful drugs she was on when she read his script; I bet most of the audience could have done with some to null the pain). It felt like we had been trapped in a timeshare sales conference and the only way to make it out alive was to sign up for every one of the hard to shift properties on their books. Following what felt like the purchase of 64 weeks of strictly non-transferable accommodation, we were released onto the London streets, stripped of all dignity and lacking compassion for dying old ladies with judgement issues.

Breaking News
McG caught a mouse, which, for those of you who have followed his life story will be aware, is somewhat of a miracle. It would not have surprised me if it had been frozen and wrapped in a Tescos’ shopping bag, but fair play to him (Aside 3) he gets the credit for his first kill in nine years. I felt pretty bad swiping it off him, but it was worth it when I presented it to Mrs B who gave me an extra helping of cream and a rub behind the ears, although it took weeks to get rid of the taste from my mouth.......


---------------------------End of the BlackLOG - Historical-------------------































(1) I have seen a number of brass monkeys kicking spherical objects along the road, all of whom have refused lifts unless I put the roof up.

No brass monkeys here, although some people can't believe that
I have the balls to wear the hat and goggles
- All I will say is "They keep me warm!"

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(2) Run is not really the appropriate term; It was more of a stumble to be honest.

Mrs B attempts a run worthy of "Man Behind the Iron Mask"....

(3) Without forensic evidence proving that it had been handled by a number of other animals of a feline persuasion, indicating McG had got it on the "cat market".

McG & Mischief - Rare photo of them sitting together,they
normaly get on as well as Celtic & Rangers fans........

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