Early Alliteration

When I was around 13 or 14 I made the schoolboy error of referring to my Grandmother as Grannyguts. Worse, I did it in front of my father.

After asking me to repeat myself to be sure he hadn't misheard, he proceeded to berate me before giving me a smart tap or two to the top of my head.

Naturally I tried to explain myself, rather feebly as it happens, by saying that it "just sort of slipped out like that". That was true. It was in fact totally unrehearsed and I had absolutely no idea what made me say it.

Now I know better. Over the years, I have developed more than a fondness for alliteration. My rude reference to my Grandmother was simply the start.

Poor old Gran. I quite often gave her a hard time, bringing her to the edge of apoplexy. "Tea is more addictive than cannabis" I once told her, urging her to see if she could do without a cuppa for a few days.

It is entirely possible that I was a young pain in the arse.

Not the News

I watch the news on tv most days. The BBC is still the best although increasingly I am beginning to wonder.

The quality of the reporting is still as good as ever. But this need to involve the viewer is what I don't like.

We are regularly invited to post our comments on the Facebook wall or comment via Twitter.

Totally unnecessary in my book. I am not interested in listening to what a few faceless people have to say.

I'm there for the news. Not for the views.

Laugh? Not me.

Every time I see Ricky Gervais on the television he is laughing.

Not just a teeny weeny chuckle. Or even a modest titter.

Instead good old Ricky opens his shoulders and shakes hysterically as he emits a high pitched and excessively lengthy whining guffaw.

It is quite horrible to watch. It annoys me intensely. I can't bear it.

Just thought I would share that with you.

Neoptism is alive and well...

Just noted today that Gillingham's reserve team had one Jake Hessenthaler named as a substitute this week.

Unusual name Hessenthaler. Just happens to be the manager's surname as well.

Last season, the incumbent (or should that be incompetent) manager Mark Stimpson had a young Charlie Stimpson on the books.

Across the Thames Estuary at Southend F.C. Blair Sturrock is in the team. His father Paul is the manager.

I doubt nepotism is confined to this part of south east England. After all, this is football. Should we be surprised?

The 23 Hour Day

I try to live a full and varied life. But things are conspiring against me. At best, each day is 23 hours long.

The lost 60 minutes is taken up by a variety of things that serve no enjoyable purpose whatsoever.

First it's the various operations that involve oral hygiene. My dental hygienist has me flossing, interdenting, brushing and more. It adds up to a good 10 minutes each morning.

Next comes the telephone wittering. Have you noticed how as we get older, people we speak to on the phone take forever to come to the point, they throw in random irrelevances and then start to repeat themselves for emphasis? A good 15 minutes if you are unlucky, which I frequently am.

Of course, no day is complete without having to make a telephone call to a machine spouting options before having to wait, wait and wait longer still before you are connected to a real voice. A charitable 20 minutes.

That leaves 15 minutes which can be taken up by sifting through spam emails offering me viagra, lasting friendships with Russian prostitutes, a win on the lottery and the opportunity to become a millionaire by transferring the illgotten gains of an African Prince or Diplomat through my bank account.

Should I be lucky enough to have saved a few moments of my lost hour, I can always repel doorstep sales people who ignore the large "bugger off" sign on the front door, I can join the queue at the Post Office or I can sit at some temporary traffic lights which blight the roads of South Oxfordshire.

Alternatively I could lighten up a bit, but where's the fun in that?

X-Ray Vision

If you phone the x-ray department of the local hospital for an appointment at the moment, one of two things happen. The line is engaged or an answerphone tells you that there is no-one available to take your call, you can't leave a message so please try later.

I did try later. Around 40 times over 2 days. Judging by the fact that the phone was engaged around 50% of the time, I was not alone in doing this.

Finally I rang the main switchboard only to be told by a harassed and unhelpful lady that the department was a bit hectic and the people who answer the phone also do the x-rays and if I wanted to make a complaint I should write in.

I've got my "what good will that do" hat on at the moment. However I remain decidedly grouchy that I have paid for numerous phone calls to hear the same answerphone message.

The hospital must be aware of this. Not just the cost to me and to countless others but also the time wasted and the inconvenience. Yet it does nothing.

Why can't I leave a message? Why can't they announce a good time to call?

It's another of life's little mysteries I shall almost certainly never solve.

Those Silky Soccer Skills

Go to a college reunion and meet people you haven't seen for 40 years?

I must confess to a little trepidation. Would we have anything in common? Would we have anything to talk about?

Happily it all went very well. Enormously enjoyable.

One of the bonuses has been the circulation of old photographs.

Today I received images of myself playing football against another London college. There I am, a George Best almost lookalike, demonstrating those silky skills long abandoned.

Whilst it was an enormous pleasure to look at old forgotten faces on the field of play, it also shows what a fragile thing my memory is.

I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of the event. Were it not for the fact that the photos prove otherwise, I would have confidently said that it never happened.

Makes me wonder what else I did at college!