Burns Night - Wahey!

Haggis? Check.
Neeps? Check.
Tatties? Check.
Whisky? Check (although some may have 'evaporated' last night. Ahem.)

Burns Night 2 (The Return of) booked for Sunday so the young Shotlets can have a go? Check.

(To be fair Shotlet 1 loves the stuff and Shotlet 2 at 15 months is about ready for the noble haggis experience).

And now I give you the revised bit of Rabbie Burns...

TAE A FART -

Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous win'
The neeps 'n' tatties 'n' mushy peas
Stert workin' like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin' wi' the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place
Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae
A'bodys gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
It's like a bullet oot a rifle
Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try an' stop the leakin' air
Shify yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it disnae reek
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almichty it fairly reeks
Hope a huvnae s**t ma breeks
Tae the bog a better scurry
Aw whit the hell, it's no ma worry
A'body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or twa are nearly bokin
A'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile
Wis him! A shout wi' accusin glower
Alas too late, he's jist keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome ony mair
Where e'er ye be let yer wind gang free
Sounds like jist the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party
Ower the sake o' wan wee farty

Rabbie Burns

(First seen on arrse.co.uk)

Ooh Me Knees

Still nothing from the wonderful scab-lifters - no results through from the hospital after a couple of months. Hope that mean's it's not leprosy, then.

"I know", sez I, "I will ring my GPs and chase the results of the knee juice extraction". Cunning plan, hey? Naaah.

After about six attempts to get through to the relevant department at the hospital, I finally get told to go back to the GP and ask them to contact the hospital as I can't possibly, as the former owner of said juices, tell them to send the frigging results through that should have been done as a priority in November.

So, to lessen the load on my gristly bits in the meantime, it's the great 2008 Lose The Lard Campaign.

As an admitted fat blerk, who has had little time for exercise for the last few years (very young spawn and working 6-7 days per week leave little time for the great outdoors) I have gone up to an estimated 15 1/2 - 16 Stone. At pretty much bang on 6'0" that makes me Mr Blobby.

Now my best fighting weight is about 14 stone, maybe a smidge less as I will never get to the 'recommended' weight as I am rather wide... and before everyone goes "oh yeah, big-boned are you lardy? You'll be blaming your glands next" I hark back to the Medical form I had to get signed off by the Doc before the Army would let me jump out of a hairyplane at Netheravon.....

..."According to this chart you're overweight Mr Shot"

"What do you want me to cut off, then?"

"Fair enough (signs form)"

(Before the days of BMI's admittedly)

So, I am facing Walkers Withdrawal Symptoms.

'Elfy Eating and all that malarkey. Actually not too much of a problem as I do cook prettily healthily, but Confit du Canard looks like it's off the menu.

Cutting down on the booze - I'll now have to face 9pm sober on a daily basis. Grim.

Fruit. Nooooo not the fruit!

All this is not helped by my hyper-metabolism equipped wife and spawn who eat like a pack of starving wolverines while remaining irritatingly slim. Or the fact that I spend most of the day either driving or sat at a desk polishing my trousers.

Time to start getting up early again...

Doesn't time fly

Hardly had a second to post the normal bollocks what with the festive whirl, constant partygoing and all that.

Naaaah. Lazy.

However, please check out the following link as a matter of some urgency and give something back. It is just unbelieveable how fast this has and is growing. MDN I salute you (while remaining fully clothed).

http://www.arrse.co.uk/cpgn2/Forums/viewtopic/t=84166.html

The worrying thing is that I may have volunteered to jump out of working aircraft in a French Maid costume. Damn that Captain Morgan. Damn him I say.

Happy Bloody Thursday

Crap job, no money, debt, tomcat regularly pissing on the kitchen floor where you step in it when you switch the kettle on, OCD afflicted spouse, attacked by albatrosses on a regular basis?





(Not all of the above may apply)





I just had to look at this work of genius on B3TA to make me a happy fluffy bunny.

Linky thang: http://www.b3ta.com/challenge/animal_suicides/

Oh yeah, click on der piccie to make it work. You know you want to.

And another one. Making a slow day at work bearable.

The Tax Man

Now I'm normally fairly switched on with my admin and paperwork. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. More of a complete lie, actually. Lets start again.

I am a paperwork mong. I admit it. I have the short term memory of a goldfish and a briefcase that doubles as a black hole. However I am also a very accomplished liar when it comes to generating righteous indignation at call center employees, hence I usually get away with forgetting to send them bits of paper on time. Top tip, folks - ALL banks and utilities lose loads of your personal and confidential stuff all the time so they'll believe you often as not.

Anyway, I get my tax coding for the year, and notice I'm being taxed as if I still receive private medical and all sorts of stuff as if I was still with a decent employer. So I do a bit of digging, and find out that I've been overcharged for about 4 years. SO I should be getting a few pennies back from the talon-like grip of the taxman. And finally to the point...

A Wish List

1. Lee Enfield. SMLE/Jungle Carbine/No 4/Sporter in order of preference. No real reason, just what I like. I saw a very clean SMLE when I was on holiday in North Yorks, manufactured about 1916 methinks (no magazine cutoff, which I think dates it to about then, where is Henry when you need him?) for £200 shiny pounds. Gimme. Add a bayonet from fleabay so at least if I miss something fluffy, I can still fix the pointy thing on and charge. Think instant kebab.

2. Centre-Fire .22 of some description (whenever the new regs for Muntjac permitted calibres are published). Foxy and Munty both.

3. Generic Deer rifle. Too many to choose from. And then we enter the .243/.308/7mm debate and to be honest given that I am a poor person the amount of deer action I am likely to see probably makes this a poor choice.

4. Black Powder Rifle. Because it'd be rude not to. A flintlock along the lines of a Baker would be rather nice. All I need is a French General 800 yards away and a bit of patience...

5. Add a .44 Remington Navy Model because we still can. Actually, I'll have a nice flintlock duelling pistol as well.

5. Martini - action rifle. Look, I just like them, OK? It's what I learned on as a nipper. This one might be in a slightly more impressive calibre. Can you still get .577-450?

6. Completely pointless shotgun. FAC Franchi SPAS or Mossberg for extreme bunny blatting, a Hushpower for the remaining extremely nervous Flopsies the next day, Pump Action Remmy for the day I ever go fowling etc etc.

Suggestions?

Happy Birthday Sir (I'm not a Sir, I'm a Ma'am!)

A tribute to Her. She who must be ignored. The Obergruppenfuhrer (Domestic). My little spitting cobra (thanks Basil). The missus. The ball & chain. The Doris. Etcetera.

She's put up with a lot, poor lass. (Okay, being Welsh was always a disadvantage). But she's had to endure sorry enjoy being with me for 14 years, 6 of those being legally binding.

Not once has she casually enquired the whereabouts of the keys to the gun cabinet, even after seeing my death in service benefits.

She's put up with me doing various silly things, has eaten almost without complaint everything I've shot/caught and dished up (sorry about the piece of shot, but if you hadn't had seconds you'd have missed it), hasn't laughed too much when I've injured myself in stupid ways, and only complains when my Early Morning Jalfrezi Sourced Trumpet Solo wakes the baby. Well, actually, there a few more complaints or moments when the look of bemused scorn/incomprehension turn to full-on scary, but if I put too many examples I may be found in the early hours kipping on the garden furniture with mysterious groin trauma.

So, Happy Birthday Boss.

I'm even baking a cake (YES I AM CONFIDENT IN MY MASCULINITY, I JUST LIKE WEARING A NICE PINNY AT TIMES).

Now can I go shooting? Or out on my (repaired since last stupid crash) bike? Pretty please? No, that's OK, I like stripping paint.

One is not amused

And other Victorian sayings. I feel like I have returned to the days of crinolines, carbide lamps, annoying whales for fun and profit, child exploitation, colonialism, random prossie-slicing, a gentleman's right to carry firearms and other 'olde worlde' malarkey.

Why? Because apparently I might have Gout.

Nice Orthopod Scablifter from A&E phones me on Sunday morning to say that they had had 'some results back'. 'How am I feeling?' Fine thanks, much better than yesterday, I respond, a jolly happy chappy who can walk pretty normally and has just made breakfast for four plus livestock. Lovely stuff in those happy pills, thankyou so very much.

(Surprised tones) 'Well we think you've got gout, and you should get yourself down to your GP on Monday so he can prescribe....err did you say it feels OK? How many of the painkillers have you used? None? Oh.... OK, never mind, go and see him in a few days when the results from the sample we drew out of your knee will be back. You're sure it feels better already??

So I relay this to my beloved, and immediately get a bollocking for being a drunken idiot who has ruined my health with years of alcohol abuse etc etc. I whimper in true Alpha-Male stylee that the full results haven't come back yet and then beat a hasty retreat. (Note, the downing of a copious amount of whisky the night before did not help my case. The fact that I was up 2 hours earlier than her, and had cooked her and the spawn breakfast before she had even made it out of the scratcher, and crucially this included episode VI of the great 'introduce Junior to porridge' battle, was not deemed admissable in evidence).

So, off I scuttle to the GP the next morning, expecting to be told that I was Mr Creosote's younger brother, that my legs were going to drop off and I'd be admitted to Ye Olde Syphilitic & Drunkards Ward that day.

Results? No. Prodding of knee? No. "Lay off the red wine & rich food and you'll be OK" Yes. Urgent prescription of anti-gout meds? No. Although I should avoid pate. Well, bugger me, that's life not worth living, then.

And nothing on my medical records so far... until I go to the Annual Fireworks Mayhem tonight. Sort of like the Somme, but with prettier colours.