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.

Vamoose en Vacances

‘Going down the dump, Mike?’ ‘ No I’m packing for our holiday .’ Where you off?’ ‘France .’ ‘ Tres bon. Have a good time. How long you going for?’ ‘Deux ans . ’ ‘I’ll keep an eye on the garden for you.’ ‘Thanks. Help yourself to the tomatoes. Just like the Labour Party they should be turning red soon.’ ‘I can’t eat tomatoes, they repeat on me.’ ‘What was that you said?’ ‘I said I can’t eat tomatoes, they repeat on me.’ ‘I’ll grow Jerusalem Artichokes next time. They’ll blow you away.’ ‘ Well I hope you don’t get blown away as they said ce matin on the shipping forecast while I was listening to the cricket that gales were due for Monday. ‘ ‘ That’s Lundy Joe. We aren’t going there.’ ‘ Shame Mike. It’s beautiful this time of year

Boris to Boggis

Since the Beeb have put paid to the Met the weather in the South East has definitely deteriorated, possibly a conspiracy brought on by the Remainians of which I am one. Am I in Denial? No I am in the blue blue grass of Kent.

As ever thoughts arise sitting on the garden swing during a freak spot of sunshine keeping an eye on my granddaughter playing with her toys. Will there be a coup de grace for Boris or shall I cut the grass when time for her morning snooze arrives?' Can you give me three minutes to boil you an egg ?' shouts the wife. I say 'Go' as a plane flies overhead en route to City Airport. I say 'Three minutes is up' as the next plane traverses the greying Gravesham skies. 'Are up' says my granddaughter.

The planes will be lower, louder and more frequent after Boris reverts to Boggis and casts his sights from Europe to Tory leader. The deafening clamour will increase tenfold if The Battle for Britain and our allies is lost and he builds his island not in the sun but in the Thames, drowning out the plaintive cries against the second crossing which is the third runway of these parts.

Kent Being a sort of car park already for Operation Stack, a further storey for Ebbsfleet & Paramount won't make a lot of difference will be the underlying strategy.

'Underground, overground, frack it for free, so incredibly, utterly devious are we. Let's muddy the waters so that we can be clear, we peddle in despondency, distrust and despair.'

Like Fantastic Mr Fox (Pictured) I tell one and all that it'll be fine even though I'm not so sure myself.

Loquation loquation loquation -a moving cover story.

From Prunus (pictured) to Eucalyptus (Same picture) the magpies (Specks in same picture) are leaving the nest before laying. Unusually no jokes are uttered about you not having gone to Specsavers as the joyous couple are only visible to those cognitive in black and white to paraphrase a bit of green baize memorabilia .

There lies the plot above the lower raised bed giving me an opportunity for Verity, gravity and sincerity - as near as makes no matter, dark or otherwise. Am I round the corner of the picture yet? Almost.
Perambulating attached to the granddaughter's pram opens up a new world if you are brave enough to take it on. Kerbs and way over the edge parking are more noticeable. Maybe like the prams the cars are bigger and owners think that there will be less chance of a scratch as a result of pavement rage than from the more mobile engaged mirror image thoughtless drivers speeding in residential areas.

Even parked cars, in newly built off-the-road driveways because of curbs on parking, seem to jut out more than they used to. I'm not just talking about the big-assed Renaults they used to make. Without a word of a lie one not quite sensibly parked van owner on my usual route had pre-laid a carpet out to cut it out on the pavement ahead (It is the relatively dry South East).

Perhaps he was advertising his wares to the people across the road who are either waiting for the Council to take away their 3-piece suite or for the temperature to rise before making themselves comfortable. Perhaps he chose to not notice us or maybe he didn't notice us. I checked for oncoming vehicles. To avoid a pile-up I had to perform a two wheel wheelie (honestly!) I couldn't bring myself to say ('really!') to get past.

Despite being on the wagon I proceeded carefully just in case he was using his carpet grippers as a Stinger device to deter pushy parents. I chose my words carefully. 'If that were a red carpet I would of course have gone straight over it.' I said. 'I wish I had a pound for every time I heard that one' was his reply. 'Not that I could tell as I'm colour blind.' He added. He was too young and his carpet was too small for me to offer him half a crown so he could clean it.

With 1001 things to do I wasn't in a position to continue with further unappreciated aisle rolling jocularity. I returned to four wheel stability hoping that the small static charges generated by his carpet would increase exponentially with the Cruella De Vil lookalike traffic warden dressed in magpie black and white edging ever closer in his direction.

Okay the point got moved but it was still well made.

Pastwords

There's safety in numbers so I've included them in my passwords to ensure they become as safe as houses making them difficult to break into. The age old problem is that at my age I have difficulty in remembering them. I have been told not to be singular but to use Variations i.e. a safe combination that I can lock on to. There's an Enigma going on here somewhere. But

As the recent Brit Aboard Rocket Launch found, locking is not always straight forward without the manual. Luckily the assembled seed sower bench mark wheelie thingy, item HLT164 (pictured) had one to follow. Or was it HLT264? Sitting in the dock are some Irish Brown Envelope seeds. Nothing Untoward, it was the daughter's Christmas Past Present. All Organic which will please the mother figure and includes favourites such as Bowland's Beauty Broad Bean (BBBB), Winter Squash Blue Kuri (WSBK) & French Unfolding Curly Kale (*^"!).

Harder to spot is the camouflaged sachet giving item HJT964 its lifetime wood treatment hue which may like my old Auntie Whatsername develop a more olive brown and velvety silver colour over time. She too had no worries of fading or peeling no matter what the weather pattern. She never became an item, but she remains to this day my most memorable name.

I'm Late with my Earlies but “Short summers lightly have a forward spring.”

I'm talking of course about a potato plant not a Plantagenet, though hardly a Duke of York (pictured, the slimier Prince) with low resistance to late blight on foliage and tubers not to mention common scab and potato leafroll virus. My GM selected variety bought from some bloke under a car park were Richard the Thirds. (That's why the Princes are legging it in the picture)

The Former despite the taunt of being labelled scabs were tempting because of their high iron content and electromagnetic properties feared by copper hating slugs. They were summarily dismissed on a seasonal basis because of their tendency of climbing up to the top of the trench mid-March and coming back down to earth up again. For the uninitiated, planting potatoes in shallow trenches will ensure that the potatoes, shielded from bright sunlight, will be tender, sweet and white, just like the non-Shakespearean Richard.

For the initiated, no need to relay my Richard the Thirds unlike my second earlies as being blemish free within my soil as the trench was topped with the previous year's organic sunny and cherlocked compost used only for my record breaking eggs Benedict cucumber batch, rhubarb crowns and gooseberry April fool.

If you wish to view my In-laws' film of hot potato growing techniques go to MeTube 'The Out-law Jersey Royals'. I say this of course at an election approaching time of big talk worth much less than 'diddlysquat laced with feather moss and mustard root', which we have learned to take with a pinch of salt or 10lb of beef jerky.

For the inebriated reading this content on a need to forget basis in the wake of the lost March hour I need to reiterate that the only reason that I have not as yet owned up to my recent discovery in my Gravesend garden is that I had to wait until Richard III was safely reinterred with a fitting, dignified and memorable ceremony before I could announce, as they say at election time that I have found Princess Pocahontas.

Pocahontas then will be next in line to the right royal succession of copycat finds anticipated. One hundred years behind Richard III in real time, will the two years of deathly hallows time be enough for the great British public to cope with another BBC repeat of graves not really ending?

It was bad enough for their reporter we heard doing a Jeremy Clarkson without the physical to his producer on the phone when he was stuck in the Three Daws public house having not eaten only to be rescued by the dying whale, ironically a Bottlenose not a Humpback, who gave up the ghost at Gravesend to put him in the limelight in 2006.

Pocahontas reappeared adjacent to the plot, now a raised bed where I have exhumed my legumes over the years. Like the Old Dartfordians who kept their eyes peeled for subsequent sightings of Whale pods I expected her, being from Virginia, to emerge from the potato patch. But of course like The Princess and the Pea she too had not lain undisturbed in the raised bed.

I have a qualification in Science and lots of plasticine left over from when the kids were small. Using the average contents of a box of matches it was easy to reconstruct her face. It was like two peas in a pod. The face was staring me in the face. Like one of the matches it was striking. It was uncanny - it didn't look like what it said on the tin.

The memories came flooding back. Sort of. I could see it now from the set of cigarette cards I once owned viz. ' Famous Beauties of 1937'. I didn't buy them, I found them on a bus. There she was in blue, purple and grey transfixed in my two mucky hands. I stuck a magpie feather in the back of her head. It was her, definitely - an exact match - Pocahontas!

Or was it Helen of Troy, The Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra, Messalina, Queen Guinevere, Dantes Beatrice, Joan of Arc, Lucrezia Borgia, Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots, Isabella de Bourbon, Lady Castlemaine, Louise de la Valliere, Nell Gwyn, Diana Vernon, Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, Catherine the Great, Madame du Barry, Marie Antoinette, Mrs Fitzherbert or Georgina Duchess of Devonshire?

Tess has passed away

Sadness reigns in our house though memories help mask the grief. She was born at, and all but died at our house with twelve short years in between.

It wasn't sudden. All that know a little knew she was on borrowed time. She kept going - right up to the last few days. Only last weekend she walked her usual couple of miles walk without complaint up and down Happy Valley with me and her two much loved midwives as companions. How I'll miss that little glance back every few yards to make sure we were keeping up. It was as if she didn't want us to know.

She knew; and so did we. We still went to the veterinary as anyone would do, as we couldn't know for sure, even though we did. They knew. We gave her a day's grace. She deserved more but compassion wouldn't - couldn't allow.

A last car trip with us to Canterbury, not a pilgrimage - more a treat down memory lane. She loved car journeys. So expectant, pleased even with the dullest of destinations. She loved our three year old granddaughter, and not just as a source of scraps. Our granddaughter loved her back just as much. A last rite for all of us. Her final save for a few minutes were spent in that car rather than in the waiting room, relaxed but dying in the familiar, warm and blanketed passenger side foot-well with the missus's right foot as a head rest.

So trusting to the last even in that veterinary's car park. She was too weak to show her usual reluctance to enter the place. She knew. We were reluctant too. She was resolved to it. We had to be too. So was the veterinary who was empathetic and considerate. We thank him for that.

Our other granddaughter will notice her absence as she crawls about in our house on her mission impossible looking for a Tess. How sad no.3 granddaughter due in June won't find Tess returning the looks in her direction.

What she gave us was immeasurable. I hope we gave her something besides her low protein food in return. She is lying now near her mother under the apple tree in our garden, not far from Ginger the cat who she used to love but far enough away in deference to Ginge who didn't always appreciate the attention.

Cliff walks and Cliffe walks will be different. Pubs won't clear as we arrive with the missus having forgotten about a pocketed pooh bag. Don't be harsh. That's the same lady who rearranged Tess' diet and hidden pill to appear as a treat and to keep her on good form just like it says on that tin with the marrowbone jelly.

Enough already. Just a final thank you Tess. You were much appreciated.

For Two Jays I could steam open the Big Birdwatch envelope

I mean how accurate is the survey anyway? What about its integrity? What about my integrity? Would my misinformation skew the results for DA11? Or just 0SP?

It's not as if I'm proposing to include the heron (pictured) in my results. It is plain to see that it comes close enough to the definition of a near neighbour to be mentioned in my dispatches, though admittedly not in the year let alone the hour of my discontent.

Two long tailed tits did grace us with their presence within the chosen hour but the Jays which are in fact a more common sight turned up a day late. The wonderful missus who has more integrity in her little finger than I do in my what until a recent collar bone break was a bowling arm refuses to put out peanuts as bird food arguing that they are an important source of protein for the poor in Southern India.

I cannot check the veracity of the peanut source as we do not have any packets in the house for reference. I might have to ask Simon Barnes or the RSPB as to the voracity of the birds in question for peanuts.

The RSPB asked whether we see other animals such as badgers or grass snakes etc. in our gardens (though foxes are not included in the etcetera). Only the grey squirrel like our rather elderly dog who's just crapped on the Sky+ box got a tick from our garden.

So besides, not in descending order, the half dozen house sparrows, four pigeons, four blue tits, three starlings, two blackbirds, two collared doves, and two magpies in our pear tree (honest), there would be no mention of the reliable robin. Another victim of the collar bone break as I could have been out winter digging fetching up a feast of worms and frightening off the other species, the like of which possibly distorted last year's data.

Eagle eyed twitchers would have sussed me out if I'd included the waxwings (pictured) as they appeared in a previous blog around March 2013.

I would have been far from wise to have included the owl (pictured) which I use as a bird scarer to further skew the 0SP figures. Furthermore I was not outside tucking in to one of my turn her hand to anything wife's homemade Cornish pasties to include the dozen seagulls that flew overhead during the hour long survey which according to Natures Boldest Thieves on BBC One last night would have descended in order to relieve me of my treat. Thank goodness the programme didn't include starry gazy pie for bait as St Ives Harbour would have been a sight for sore eyes at low tide looking like one of those landfill sites.

Notice how calm I was when I mentioned the dog's mess which usually gets a bad press when it is stepped on. Actually it was the omnipresent missus who found it. It wasn't just because I thought she had stated the obvious in saying 'There's crap on the telly' that I didn't react.

I’ve seen naturalists orgasm as they pulled apart badger crap. I’ve been on field trips where the guide has tried to persuade us of the significance to the universe of cow pats. My mum used to go out on the main road with a spade to collect the ‘manure’ that the milkman’s horse used to leave on the road while it was still steaming. Even modern day TV gardeners wax lyrical about it.

I own a T-shirt with all the various bird droppings emblazoned across it. I’ve heard people celebrate their good fortune when a seagull crapped all over them. In contrast, people of the same persuasion go bonkers if they step on some dog shit while walking on a coastal path in Cornwall even though they are guana white with bird shit. They threaten all sorts, though they always claim their bile is directed towards the owners rather than the dogs themselves. I’m not so sure.

At a wildlife centre near Tonbridge they had badgers. People used to moan about the pungent smell of their shit but to my knowledge the owner never got a single letter about their droppings. Their smell could be a sort of defence mechanism. Crows and magpies usually don’t go near dead badgers that have been knocked over by fast drivers. It’s not the best sort of defence mechanism I agree, as it seems the badger needs to be dead before it comes into play.

Because of the desperate smell of their crap, the owner of the wildlife centre used to study the stomach contents of the badgers to investigate their feeding habits. He would set up a tape recorder by their sets at night to play Des O’Connor tapes, returning in the morning to pick through what the badgers had thrown up.


My mate’s grandfather was a Cornish miner. The seagulls used to drive them crazy when they came up to the surface at dinner time to eat their pasties. So my mate says, his granddad used to alternate throwing a bit of pasty up to the most annoying seagull with a piece of carbide which was used to fuel his miners’ lamp.

Water drips onto the lump of calcium carbide which then gives off the inflammable gas acetylene for the lamp to function. If water did that, you could imagine the effect of the stomach contents of the gull on the stuff. According to my mate the unfortunate seagull got about 20 yards away before it exploded. The other gulls got the message drekkly and went off to annoy the emmets.

As Lucy Cooke's equally rigorous experiments have shown, over the years the gulls have developed a taste for cream teas, Cornish ice cream and pretend home made pasties. I hear that they are plaguing the coronary unit of Treliske Hospital at Truro these days. That's the price of ignoring flotsam and jetsam me ansome.

It's no mystery that it is a mystery.

Where is this? Who is it by? This picture is one of My grey mysteries. It's not signed but on the back of the framing is written not Roger Rabbit but Lemeunier. My initial research has caused confusion as I thought the initial written there was an A not an H. Somebody out there knows, but it is getting to the right person and at the moment it and a few other puzzles are getting to me.

Why for instance has the ECB not taken up my suggestion of offering the same deal to all Cricket Clubs as the British Heart Foundation has for communities about part funding defibrillators? Have they not said that they have the wellbeing of grassroot cricketers at heart?

Why for instance has Warburtons not snapped up the idea of sponsoring the idea with a campaign about encouraging healthy as well as tasty cricket teas from their side of the Pennines? I'm sure Michael Vaughan and Yorkshire tea would cooperate from their side. Between them they must have the resources to meet up over an egg or cheese sandwich and a village cup of tea.

Talking about Blow Egg. Why hasn't BBC Snooker taken up my suggestion of organising a Celebrity Blow Egg as part of Snooker's contribution to the next Sports Relief?

The final mystery comes to mind from last Sunday's walk starting at Cobham Churchyard where Ivo Bligh of Lord Darnley of Ashes fame resides in his rededicated grave thanks to The Cricket Society. At nearby's Trotiscliffe equivalent yard is the grave of the artist Graham Sutherland. Why have people in the art world ignored my attempts to get them to investigate the ins and outs of following in the Cricket Society's footsteps?

The mystery is not beyond a solution if you read French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners .It's ten years since that Boxing Day Tsunami when my appeals to Cricket to ask for help on that day went unheard. I am just as ineffective now as I was then, though in the end Cricket came good and was indeed generous.

I know that it is who you know not what you know and as Manuel I know nothing so it's up to you if you know somebody who is somebody perhaps they know somebody who can help.

Fleet of Foot, the Caterpillar has legged it with Arthropologies

It turns out that the caterpillar is a sort of velocipedes (Pictured). I should have seen through my bifocals that there were two sides to the story. The bespoke caterpillar true to its predetermined life cycle has got on the bike and legged it.

The process as I'm sure you know is termed 'Imprinting'. What you may not know as is the case with me is where the green velodrone is now. I have done my research and I have consulted my three year old granddaughter to ask about the journey of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

She suggested that I went up the Apple and Pairs (She can't spell yet) and to be careful that I didn't knock over the three wise men on their way to the crib in the breakfast room. I was really pleased as when I put them in the front porch on Christmas Day she said 'They are only statues Grandpa'. Having heard that, it may be difficult for you to work out who is the Magi and who is the Minor.

Just like the three star travellers that I stepped over respectfully I looked for a sign. Latin was a language around at the time and the only answer I got right from today's Radio 4's Brain of Britain was 'Agent Orange'. I forget the question. There staring me and you now (Study the picture)in the face was the word 'feria' which is the Latin for Wednesday.

Tomorrow is the Feast of the Epiphany so by Wednesday the gold, frankincense and myrrh should be well out of the way. The chances are then that I'll find it in the dreadful clementine box. Sorry!

Digesting News of a Happy Chrysalis

Clearing out the old seed packets, pods and catalogues amongst the conservatory plants this lucky caterpillar (see imago)was itself cleared of all charges of tucking into the aforementioned plants. It was about to take its chances amongst the local bird population (see picture)when I noticed that it had holed the paper viking boat in which it had become embedded in route to being encased.

As with most newspapers you can see the spin if you look closely. Shame it hadn't wrapped itself up in the editorial forked tongue section - it could have turned it into a silk purse.

Time to go to get The Sun with the holidays coming up. The last two European camp sites that we have been to no longer appear on their listings. I know we left an impression but I didn't think we overstepped the Plimsoll Line.

Challenge of the Fallenge (el flange in brackets)

Like Cookie I needed a success. Neither of us have been flushed with it for ages. Bad for him good for me that we hadn't been in the runs recently.

It is the season of Lord's a leaping and pundits a pontificating putting us both under pressure, him to handle the travelling press and not to break down in front of them as a failed captain, me to replace the failed capstan between the handle and the Gubbins in the toilet cistern which broke down with a press too far.

It was the first bit of do it myself that I'd done since breaking my collar bone on a far flung cricket field in September. The ambulance took a while to arrive. Though not connected to the collar bone I resolved to campaign to place a defibrillator in every cricket pavilion in the country. I am at the very early stages of contacting The British Heart Foundation, The England and Wales Cricket Board and Warburtons.The latter who to their credit already support the BHF may see an opportunity from their side of the Pennines of turning even the tastiest of cricket teas into healthy ones.(See picture 2)

Only the BHF have got back in touch so far. They e-mailed, praising my efforts. I replied saying that as yet I hadn't done anything. 'All I have done is fall over on a cricket field'. A couple of days after I had written that, alas, tragic events befell another who was also just playing the game he loved. It is not the first time I'd wished that I hadn't opened my e-pen. My book French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners has a predilection for putting the mockers on, as if retweeting a commentator's curse, blindly hammering in without the benefit of hindsight the tail of the donkey where it will hurt the most.

The painful memory is about to resurface as the tenth anniversary of that Wave approaches, though as with the falls my pain is minuscule compared to that felt by others.

For the record what I intend to do is to apply for funding from the BHF to get a defibrillator for my cricket club. Raising the £400 will only take a Quiz Night. Finding out the pitfalls and whether the club is eligible under the BHF's scheme may take more time. Wouldn't it be nice if the BHF's scheme becomes the ECB's scheme perhaps with some financial support from Warburtons leaving the BHF to spend more of its funds elsewhere.

Cookie this morning seemed close to the state of the flapvalve washer I removed from the flushing mechanism of the cistern. See picture 3

More frayed at the edges than in tatters I'm afraid, unlike the Gubbins of the ECB I took the decision to replace it. It wasn't as clear cut as it appears in the picture. Okay the capstan was broken. As the ECB has found out tinkering and supergluing doesn't work and in the end I had to find a replacement. The challenge of the fallenge, so called because the flapvalve washer doesn't rhyme, was to clone it as all its other features were perfect to do the job viz. to get the cistern to function effectively with the lightest of touches. KP made the same point about coaches in his recent book

Unlike KP things don't get thrown away in our house. My memory is poor but I follow a pattern. It would be in the old bread bin with all the other odd bits awaiting their day. I was on a roll. There it was-the same piece of plastic I had used before to do exactly the same job that I had done so many years ago. I can't remember how many.

The fallenge like Cookie was still easily recognizable as its former self. In effect I replaced like with like. An exact replacement.

In fairness to the ECB cloning is not available at the time of writing and a replacement is a replacement. "When the floodgates open" said Cookie "it should be good." "But floodgates locked for too long are very hard to force apart" said Richard Hobson in The Times today.

All this talk of valves, blockages and collapsing should act as a salient reminder to the Gubbins at the ECB that Sudden Cardiac Arrest (SCA) is a leading cause of premature death. However they can be reassured that with immediate treatment lives can be saved. Seconds count however, and the ambulance service is unlikely to arrive quickly enough at any cricket ground to resuscitate most victims.

In similar circumstances we all feel like Azpilicueta and Fabregas at last night's game against Derby County. They just wanted to get the ambulance people as quickly as possible to their injured colleague Zouma, happily later 'given the all-clear'. The cricketers playing with me when I fell over felt the same and did the same-some going up to the main road to direct the ambulance to the club. I'm grateful for their help and care, as I am to all those who in some way have assisted in my recovery.

About 1 in 1000 of the population of the UK suffers SCA each year, about 60,000 cases annually. In England, the Ambulance Service attempt resuscitation in 25,000 cases per year but at present only a small proportion survive. According to the ECB 844,000 people were playing cricket in this country in 2014.

Doing the maths should persuade the ECB that to place an Automated External Defibrillator (AED) at every cricket club is a worthwhile and an achievable aim. Many SCA victims can be saved if persons nearby recognise what has happened, summon the ambulance services immediately, perform basic resuscitation, including chest compressions and use an AED to help restore the heart's normal rhythm. The critical factor is the speed with which the shock is given.

Mourinho was told, according to Matt Hughes of The Times that the stewards bringing on the stretcher were not allowed to run. That's what I thought I could still do on a cricket field. Run. Run after a ball in the field. My wife always worried seeing me at my age running after a ball. She was concerned that I would suffer a heart attack. Luckily I just tripped and broke my collar bone. If it had been a heart attack the chances are that with there being no AED at the club at which we were playing I would be on the wrong side of the stats.

Like Mourinho I too am frustrated. I can see a problem but I can only get to it at walking speed. The ECB is allowed to run towards its solution.

Last week I went to see The War of the Worlds , (See Picture 1) at the O2. The Artilleryman sang in a Brave New World that in order to defeat the Martians with their fighting machines, their Heat Rays and their Red Weed we'd play each other at Cricket and then beat them at their own game on our green grass with machines that we build (Picture 1 again with a bit of poetic license).


A game of cricket featured also on Grayson Perry's Comfort Blanket at The National Portrait Gallery in London. It was given blanket coverage as the game represents the nature of our country's identity. Grayson Perry feels though that our identity is not a constant. It adapts as we change. He says as I found out we feel like we are the same person we were years before, but we are not.

The recent ECB survey shows that cricket is a changing game that needs to adapt to participants with busy modern lifestyles. OMG is this the end of the cricketing world as I and many of the 844,000 know it?

Not at all as "The ECB is committed to help sustain cricket at a local level by investing in facilities and pitches, encouraging clubs to be fully representative of their local communities and offering maximum support to umpires, coaches, scorers and other volunteers who give up their time to support our grassroots game.“

It sounds as if their hearts are in the right place. But you, Cookie and I know that the proof of the pudding is in the eating.

Death of a sparrow

The thud was a familiar one though a rarity of late. A sickening blow for Jack. Like Silva at Lord's yesterday according to Aggers Jack should have taken better avoiding action. The ball ballooned at least 30 yards away from Silva. Jack fell below the sill. (Pictured) Like the England fielders I went to express sympathy, to check all was okay and took an additional 'hydration break', in my case coffee, in their's surely Harrogate Spring Water now the official water of England cricket, while first aid was applied in Jack's case by the missus, in Silva's by the lime green vested twelfth and thirteenth men.

Helmeted Silva, no tail ender survived to face the rest of the barrage just outside Sir Geoffery's comfort zone. Jack struggled but could not reach his (Reflected in picture.) where he would be safe from namesake hawks. Maybe because of the Window clutter Jack's radar failed him. Tale-enders then for Jack. (pictured) Like so many others mentioned in 'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' from Amazon UK it was I that did a cock-robin on the sparrow. Like Aggers I'm prone to the commentator's curse. I'd remarked that sparrows were making a come back. In 2003 when the book was written sparrows were scarce.

"The missus explained that if the poison chemicals that we pump out don’t get the sparrows themselves, they kill off the food the sparrows eat, like bugs and caterpillars and so the sparrows cop it. It’s a bit of a Hobson’s. If there’s no food, they don’t eat and they die. If they eat the poisoned insects they’re dead meat. They haven’t adapted like our town foxes who take away the dead meat from the rubbish we put out. (No obvious comments please, leave that to me)."

I still feel that I put the mockers on the sparrow like Gove has on 'To Kill a Mockingbird' and like Gravesham Council has put on the foxes with their new Wheelie bin approach to recycling.

What comes round goes round. 99-1 at 'Nutrition Break'

The pleasant gentleman, a barrister on a day out of court, who was sitting next to me pointed out that the person sitting in front of us was Tony Francis of ITV Sports coverage and Heart of The Country fame. I should have recognised him from his voice. Reassuring, informative, interesting. Is he still on air? If not he should be. He'd show some of the present day accursed World Cup commentators that being a broadcaster helps when broadcasting.

I saw only two other celebrities. David Gower returning to the JP Morgan ( Not the Irish one who plays for England)Media Centre from his on-field duties looking resplendent in Blazer and Slacks together with a clone far enough down the cricketing scale of recognition (CSR)to remain unrecognised by me.

I tweeted to TMS that if Blower's crane was described as now being vertical Anderson and Broad would be joining Sachithra Senanayake to have their actions checked. I didn't get a response being even lower down the CRS than Gower's clone.

My conscience - a sort of all encompassing barrage of messages emanating from some deep rooted JP Morgan internal social media centre - was telling me not to miss our Cricket Club Selection Meeting scheduled for 7 that evening. I figured that as Sri Lanka had lost only 3 wickets by the 'Mini replenishment' break I'd had full value from my £10 over 65 ticket.

Thanks to the fast train I was able to watch the last 10 overs on TV. I'm almost glad that we didn't do it. I would have had to explain that I was almost there. I hope the pleasant gentleman barrister stayed. He would have appreciated the drama of the final over with the judgement of the the third umpire adhering to the firm set of ethics exemplified by Cricket, Rumpole, David Gower and Tony Francis.

The missus showed me her latest Dry Point Etching (pictured) of daffodils competing for the limelight. She asked me for a title for the work. 'I'm Narcissus' was my suggestion. That reminds me to watch 'Kill Bill Vol 2' to watch Uma Thurman forcing her way out of her coffin as I have a feeling that Suarez will hammer a second to Balotelli's first nail into England's coffin on Thursday.

Each to their own

Past Dreams of Cricketing Reality

This was written in 2006. Admittedly it was an account of a dream reported in French and Spanish Cricket now to be found as French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners on Amazon. But the game was set in Sri Lanka. Scary or what? The book has already put the mockers on a number of celebs and institutions. I'm afraid to read it again. Are you? Well you should have read it in the first place. Read on:-
We were all out for 51. I didn’t face a ball, but unlike the two previous wickets to fall I didn’t turn my back until we all had to walk back to the pavilion. The writing was on the wall after the first two overs. They were 41-1. The only wicket to fall was where I caught one of their openers first ball at the deepest of deep fine legs.

The captain who’d been fiddling with his ear since the end of the second over came over and tossed me the ball. I dropped it. The batsman who was going to face laughed out loud. I’ve never sledged anybody in my life not even on the iciest of conditions. I didn’t intend to start now. The wicketkeeper was that waiter that I’d introduced to the club.

I walked past the batsman with disdain. ‘Remember that bloke who was stumped off a wide when you played for the Shrimpers? I asked him. He nodded. ‘Well he had a fat ass like this one and we can’t afford another over.’ I went back to my mark and bowled wide of it. In his attempt to reach it and still hit it out of the ground the batsman with the fat ass toppled over and was stumped.
I bowled the next bloke first ball. ‘You aint going to face another ball.’ I told the non-striker who’d got most of the runs.

Just to prove the point I knocked the middle stump of their number five out of the ground. The next ball didn’t leave my hand. He was half way up the wicket before I reached the stumps. I stopped and hovered with the ball just over the bails. ‘Cheats won’t prosper.’ I said. ‘Take this as a warning.’ He went up to talk to the new batsman. I let the umpire know and went back to my mark.

This time the batsman facing set off before I bowled. Unfortunately for him not only did it miss the wicket but this time it was me that had overstepped the mark. The wicketkeeper who was now standing back ran him out. The non striker had heeded the warning; this time he hadn’t even followed up and they didn’t cross. ‘Still here then?’ I said hoping he was a bigger arse than the one I’d had stumped. He was.

I set the trap. I moved square leg slightly behind making it three behind on the leg side. I saw him wink at his own umpire at square leg. He suspected another run out on a no ball. He had every intention of not being run out. Even I was getting irritated by my final field adjustments. Once again he set off way before I got there with his tunnel vision looking only toward the leg side fielders. ‘I’ve warned you once!’

I could have said as I flicked the bail off.’ Why don’t you learn to play within the laws.’ All I said was ‘Howzat’. The umpire nodded in that Batistuta self righteous way as if the judgement of Solomon had just been delivered. Of course nothing had been delivered, so we were back on track with four balls to go and four wickets to fall. In circumstances like that you can’t leave things to chance, so I had two bowled and two caught and bowled.