Some Enchanted Evening

I'd read the script, I'd got the Haribos in the Trick or Treat scary bowl that I'd bought at ASDA's or is ASDAs? I'd put the scary bug (see video)) in position to reciprocate; whether for redress or resignedly I'm not sure.

There was a slight delay while I texted Radio 5 Live to complain about them asking listeners to get in touch with them about the tricks they had played when there had been no treats. They hadn't got much response. I wrote 'Good to hear that Radio 5 Live listeners are more responsible than the presenters. If our sweets run out before 7 and somebody throws a brick through the window I'll be in touch.' I signed it as Anonymous as you never know if any Radio 4 listeners had tuned in during the pm programme.

By the time I'd written it they'd had many similar texts and became all defensive. They ought to know better than anybody that it's a politically correct world out there especially tonight with all that witch hunting going on.

Somebody must have been bussing in the Trick or Treaters. It was as if the pretend scabs I had put on my forehead had brought in flying pickets from both near and far. I had to drive to the garage to get more confectionery. These had to be bagged as unlike the originals they weren't in packets. I didn't want to spread disease and pestilence amongst the young despite the evening's evidence that like the home made jelly beans they were already well set.

I felt like an errant husband on an errand to buy garage flowers on the wife's birthday after a night on the tiles - on a serious mission of omission after an emission. (Please, it could have been worse. The Rogering Thesaurus comes out with discharge, release, outpouring, outrush, leak, excretion, secretion, ejection - the sort of words with post Weinstein hindsight that should have been describing past goings on by dicks and cheaters at Party Conferences.

The youngsters had obviously been around. One young fella on setting the bug through its routine said 'They had one of those in the Care Home' not only proving that ASDA isn't ageist but also reminding me that I'd met most of the residents the previous Saturday en route to the surgery for the Flu jab.

It was like that scene in the film Witness where a trickle of Amish became a flood though they were on their way to a barn not to a surgery and were moving rather more quickly than my generation who were hoping not to die before they get older nor fade away in a hospital corridor or in a queuing ambulance while suffering from whatever as yet unknown strain of Christmas flu is served up putting a further very well known strain on the NHS.

'You don't think people are trying to put us down do you? Just because we are still getting around.' I said to the missus. She didn't hear as her competitive nature had her sprinting past a group of ninety somethings to beat the queue. 'What did you say?' She shouted. 'Baby Boomers or not' I bellowed 'I'm off to ASDAs or is it ASDA's? to get my jab there. It may be a fiver but somebody needs to make a stand to stop this degenerational divide they want to exaggerate.'

She disappeared into the surgery. A few minutes later she came back out and said 'Can you get us a bottle of Prosecco while you're there?' 'Is that to celebrate your victory?' I posed. 'No, I think I might have a few symptoms later and I'll need to keep up my fluid intake.'

Trowels and Tribulations

It all went silent in the back of our car. Our son's friend's face had gone the colour of a sheet - a fly sheet. We were on our way to Dover to catch the Ferry to Calais en route to a camping holiday in the Dordoyne in 2002 or was it 2003?

Unusually I was putting my foot down as we were a little late in leaving. The kid's dad, with his interest in trench warfare, had decided that his son had needed some detailed instructions in how to use a trowel to divert any rainfall from his tent to neighbouring French pitches. 'I've checked his bag.' shouted his mum in her inside out spotted pyjamas 'He's got everything he needs'.

The trowel (pictured) was positioned in the boy's bag so he could reach for it in the dead of a French night in case there was a need of running repairs. The lad had already been reading 'The Great Escape' and had watched the film twice for visual reinforcement. He remembered his mum saying that any Tom Dick or Harry could manage the underground in Paris.

We had just tooted in support of the protesters objecting to the transportation of live sheep to France in conditions that Southern Rail passengers would die for when the missus asked the youngsters to get their passports ready. The silence of the lambs practising their bleating French best became deafening at that moment.

'Merde' is the translation of the only youthful utterance, repeated by the missus a dozen times as the teenager held on to his comfie rag that his dad had thoughtfully wrapped around the trowel.

The good news is that on receiving the phone call from the missus his mum didn't have time to change her pyjamas thereby scaring the sheep to make their own great escape from the docks and cutting the price of a lamb bhuna main meal by half in the Dover Indian restaurants.

Furthermore his dad was happy to have been able to bring a spirit level so that son fils could ensure a slope of three degrees incline. With le pere (sic) being somewhat more of a Francophile than he was earlier that morning he explained that he didn't want the water draining away at a speed that would disturb the French campers from their slumbers.

Unknown to us the mum slipped in a spare gas canister for the gas bbq and some torch batteries into his bag as she knew that the boys would be up all night fishing by the campsite lake.

With passports on view we waved bye-bye to Dad and the sleeping mum, sailed through British customs. With P&O ferries being like London buses we made up the time lost after wishing our boy's breakfast bon voyage as he threw it up as near as you can without actually reaching the toilet block.

With not even a sniff of Brexit in the offing we were unceremoniously siphoned off to a side garage by a Dwane or a Douane, according to his label who pointed to the boot. Without a word of a lie, this being a truelle story, Dwane carefully took out the trowel, the batteries, the gas canister, the jump leads that the dad had returned to me the day before together with a dead sheep and laid them out on a tarpaulin on the ground, adjusting the bbq using the spirit level until it was perfectly horizontal.

I turned to the missus and said "Which one of us will it sound better coming from when we say 'Je ne parle pas beaucoup de francais?'." In near perfect English he said 'You are very much in luck monsieur. If it wasn't for the fact that it is Bastille day with our Marine Le Pens full I would not be sending ewe on your way so quickly.'

Looking rather sheepish we drove off and stopped at the nearest Fresh Aire. 'It's okay' said our boy 'I've got some McDonald's vouchers.' I drove off listening to TMS with Jonathan Agneau on Long Wave and the boys tucking into to Giant Baby Bels. 'What are you eating?' I asked the missus.' Lambs Tongues biscuits' was the answer as she dunked one in the coffee.

I didn't reply and just concentrated on driving on the right. 'Cat got your tongue?' She asked.

Listening to the Cricket

I like listening to the Cricket but listening to the Crickets (one of which is pictured) in this part of the South of France must be like having acute tinnitus. I could never j'accuse TMS of ear bashing but this Cigala Balmy Army in such numbers fans the most extreme of crunching radio crackling not heard since the days when a radio was known as a wireless and the din excused as Continental interference.

People who are not of my generation will be banzjacked as they will be used to picking up the cricket wirelessly and after umpteen overs of spin from both ends in the traditional blame game will be realising that the main players will have long since packed up their kitbags at Lord's and left us to it. Their lingering legacy of porky pies won't end but will exacerbate our troubles and more worryingly Maybung back THE Troubles.

The camp rep , a woman - not an observation on my part, joined us sur terrace for an informal yet informative chat. Her experienced eye Homaired in on a seagull perched on the Van der Post's next door’s caravan with its Steely eye spanning for a change of breakfast from the usual croissants or pain au chocolate. ‘Not like the St Ives ones I hope.' I ventured, ready to disappear into the interior. ‘Worse' was the reply from a respected representative of the holiday industry.

She suggested that the oiseaux de Mer or the bloody oiseaux de Merde as she classified them are likely to dive and fly under the shade of the koolabob canopy raiding any tasty morsels on offer such as a piece of the large Babybel (pictured) that you couldn't buy even in pre-Brexit Britain.

Mind you a Herculean effort on its part would be required because of the juxtaposition of our plot being close to a precipitous grassy bank leading to the next level of static, we hope, caravanic campers. It would be on a par with the manoeuvres portrayed by 617 squadron in pulling out after their dam busting bomb runs during WWII.

If it failed to negotiate the steep rise a catastrophic chain of events like you see unfolding in Aircraft Investigation on Discovery Channel could well follow involving us in propping up the banks, so that those at a higher level won't dump or offload or quantitatively ease their bullshit on to us remainers from a great height. ‘Not to worry’ offered my helpful lady wife ‘We can always organise a referendum to leave Eurocamp’.

‘If it succeeds’ said the courier amusingly ‘it will fly off with the gull equivalent of crowing to announce its success in taking your tasty aforementioned ‘moelleux & genereux’ piece of fromage ‘Riche en Cacium'. ( translated by the French makers as ‘rich in Cacium’). I must say that this in itself is a bit riche coming from a packet that is otherwise entirely made up of French and German. Except for the cheesy name itself of course .

‘If it does succeed it had better not shriek Tory Tory Tory or it will get a response that will live in infamy.’ I said seriously.

Fleet of foot after a bad smell

Changing the goal posts is a commonly used technique to gain an advantage over those in opposition. The trouble is that opponents will usually notice the change. A more subtle approach is required.

It has been bugging me why it is that 2nd half substitutes warm up at half time rather than listen to the manager's talk in the changing room. If they are likely to come on shouldn't they be in attendance to pick up the pearls of wisdom on offer? Unless of course they think the manager is being bugged, and to double bluff the home team they won't be playing to the party line.

For the last two home games, though without the accompaniment of 'Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain' from the garbled tannoy system, Ebbsfleet United have turned on the sprinklers during the HT interval (2nd match pictured) thereby enabling the opposition's subs to be showered by some 'Next to the Thames water'.

Perhaps the theory is that it is better to warm up without recourse to the manager's hair dryer. In both cases the technique worked, more so in the second game, with the opposing teams playing like raw sewage in the 2nd half.

I did hear one of their fans say 'We have paid hundreds of millions of pounds for this shower and all we get is s#*t.' I thought he was referring to his team but he was actually commenting on some breaking news on his phone, having long since given up on watching his side who leaked 5 goals in the second half to lose 8-0.

Before I get Trump junior complaining about more unacceptable leaks from another fine tuned machine let me tell him not to shed loads of tears or jerk off about the unfit outfit as they will be fine about the fine, being about two week's worth of their annual profits, according to reports. Seem to remember a similar sort of thing in football.

Don't worry Trumpy boy if you come up against a Mexican brick wall in your attempts to close your faking news floodgates. You like the Mexicans can get over that. Just tweet as they fly over in Mexican waves. Meanwhile look through the archives. See if you can locate the Plumbers. You'll find them under 'Watergate'.

Thank goodness for the intransigence of goalposts.

Railing over the Power of a Tourniquet

More letters or will it be emails of complaint? First to an airline for a cancelled flight. That was last June. Their customer service employs a great technique. They are charming. Disarmingly so. The last guy I spoke to said that he would email me the confirmation of our conversation. He did.

He also said that it would be 21 days before they paid up. No surprise there as every subsequent contact I make seems to evoke the 21 day delay clause. I'd have saluted them if I hadn't been gunning for them. You have to give them credit which I suppose is what I have done as it is my money. I'll need to go back to my emails and as with Santa's Claus start counting the days.

'To be forewarned is to be forearmed they say.' Or that was what my missus said they say. I don't understand the relevance unless it means that I have been wrestling with the problem for 5 months and all I've got is a forearm jab for my efforts. It's lucky I don't let them get under my skin or get needled easily.

No arm (sic) trying another email she added. Two things come to mind. Tony 'ancock's 'A pint? A pint? That's almost an armful' and Armless-my son's Steiff teddy bear. Bought at a charity shop so it didn't cost an arm and a leg, for some empathy to help the 18 month-old start using his arm after an injury as it was a bit steiff (sick) and he was a bit grizzly. It worked. As a reward for the bear we wrote to 'Jim'll Fix it' (vomit). Luckily for all of us we heard nothing back. Thank goodness we didn't send a letter of complaint to the BBC.

To pour the wrong sort of salt onto the wound the train from the airport after the return flight (which wasn't really a return as such as the outward flight had been cancelled and we travelled out on Eurostar) was delayed, though not by as much as the delay in getting our fare back and then only in vouchers. We haven't used them yet. As with us when we phoned up they've been put on hold.

Somebody had told us that we had been barking up the wrong tree (pictured). 'You want to use Twitter'. So I sent them a tweet like the bird did in the right left tree in the picture (Unseen, as with my book 'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' downloadable from Amazon).

So do I just use Twitter for the current complaint? Will it save me a lot of hassle? How many characters are you allowed these days? No sod it. I want to give them #apieceofmymind in exchange for the total absence of the peace of mind they promised me by taking out their insurance. That absence has not made my heart grow fonder.

The personal assurances or guarantee I thought I'd been given turned out to be more of a tourniquet - a constricting device used to control venous and arterial circulation to an extremity (a customer) for a period of time (usually 21 days), which reflects the contempt in which they hold their customers; maybe not a total eclipse but certainly a restricted love flow from the heart of what is laughingly known as the organisation.

A feeling in my GUT-What's in a name?

Where are you from? To give the answer 'Kent' promotes a sort of respect that you have done okay. To reply 'Gravesend' induces a flicker of sympathy hidden only in the faces of the Gemma Artertons of this world. (Brilliant actor is the implication as she hails from these parts).

According to Press reports a Whatshisname from the Tory B Council is proposing a name change to Gravesend Upon Thames (GUT). You don't think the record temperatures are getting to him do you? The town like the Royal family it seems needs a fillip, historically having been full of 'loathsome people' commensurate with being referred to as the 'armpit of Kent'.

Voting figures do much to counter such suggestions as with Gravesham being part of the blue blue grass of Kent in Parliamentary terms. 'Pelham' has been for me a sort of sanctuary with the ward continuing to be held by Labour and with moi and my future wife living in the road in our early days in Gravesend. The house (She was upstairs, I was downstairs but not in an Upstairs Downstairs sort of way) is now an old folks home which if you like things going full circle is where we could end up.

I'm not sure what the fees are. Not on a par I hope to those being charged to the family of a ninety year old neighbour who has been daft enough to save rather than go on lots of cruises and own his own house. He couldn't stay put as he couldn't get up the stairs to go to the loo.

Over £1100 a week it costs. Yes-a week. No exclamation mark needed. I used to give him a lift to the polling station coincidentally negating my vote. Did either of us vote for the position he is in now? Sir Richard Acland would turn in his Grave.

I am no stranger to such town and county prejudice coming from Camborne in Cornwall. Although having a hill that you can go both up and down it was always looked down upon by many Illogan (post Demelza) residents. At least I can stare with pride at my 'I love Camborne' car sticker gazumped by Cameron & Osborne once again thanks to Brexit as I fill up with pricier petrol.

I have been over on the ferry to Tilbury on 5 occasions since this time last year. Once to go on the 'Cruise to Nowhere' aboard the Marco Polo. Three times to take on board what was on offer during Estuary16 and once to suss out The Worlds End as a possible venue to meet my Essex cousins saving them and us the Dartford Crossing experience.

A clear view of Gravesend was there for all to see, except of course for those with second tunnel vision. If you were not part of any of these epic occasions download Countryfile from Sunday the 9th October and your eyes will be opened.

We couldn't return from 'The Cruise to Nowhere' on the ferry as it was undergoing essential maintenance. Instead of a freebie thanks to the bus pass ( A satisfying sigh of relief can be heard from Sir Richard) we had to pay £60 for a taxi. There were six of us so it was bearable. If we sound like skinflints you could be right as we booked through Groupon. Be careful though as we Theresa May be people who are just about making do.

The taxi driver from Essex was befuddled. He thought those who lived across the river were snobs. The conversations during the journey must have put him right on this. The fact that he didn't get a tip could like the ferry be taken either way. It couldn't have been his Estuary English as with my Cornish accent who am I to talk?

A relative of Gemma Arterton took us around the Port of London Authority as part of Estuary16. The two couples who accompanied us on the 'Cruise to Nowhere' each have a family member working for the PLA. If you've watched that Countryfile episode you'll know and appreciate what they do and the extent to which they do it.

Look carefully at the photograph. See where the pilot boat is? See the flag above at half mast? Well just have a think about that if you are into name calling or name dropping. RIP.

Precious moments for John Smith, a Silversmith and a Shoesmith

Having not dug up any gems from the garden before, early potatoes excepted, I came across this silver ring (pictured) where I thought Pocahontas was buried (See 5 posts ago). No detectorist me-just an onlooker on the lookout for finds. Most previous dugouts ended up in the dustbin of historical mediocrity known as the leaning compost heap. (Pictured)

You know the sort of bits and pieces I mean - clay pipes, 1980s Starwars figures, old crocs, toy alligators etc. Like the compost bin itself the list is growing as are my runner beans (pictured). Maybe It'll get to pieces of eight.

Now I reckon, having carried out basic research in the three days traditionally allowed in archaeology, that this slightly pitted unhallmarked object is from the Viking era. I would have photographed it next to a pound coin except I keep giving those to the shoe fairy (Replacing the Milk Tooth fairy snatched in the early seventies) who puts them into my granddaughter's size 2 shoes. Thankfully she shows no signs of being an Imelda Marcos or a Loads of Money entrepreneur so I did find a spare 20p coin in my pocket for getting it, like I do, in proportion.

As a footnote there is hard evidence. (Pictured) It was discovered by my daughter when she was six. She was foraging amongst the raspberry canes (Descendants pictured) which are adjacent to the potato patch. She came across an impression of a sole short long left left footprint. A modern child's size five and a half.

Allowing for coastal erosion, Thames clay shrinkage and hardening times, Dalton's Weekly Law of Partial Pressures and inflation as measured by The Footsie one hundred, the ring is more likely to have been dropped by a young damsel fleeing the viking fleet. It is possible that she had nicked the ring back from their Danegeld.

The ring therefore is in all probability a spillage from the pillage of the village people rather than having been a hand me down from Princess Pocahontas while she was having a final farewell smoke in one of those clay pipes with the last of her baccy before she cast off more than her mortal coil somewhere between Gravesend and Northfleet. In either case it is not Treasure Trove, Your Majesty.

If you have arrived at this point and have not given up the will to live then I would suggest you download 'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' from Amazon as there lie a few more gems for you to find, me ansome. It may not be Pokemon but it will take you to places you'd rather not be and my book to the top of the Cricket Book Ratings.