Reply With QuoteOur dog is resident on the rug in front of the log burner, he isn't called Colin and rarely has wind, but it has been windy outside.
We call our elder dog Grunter Gass. Not as homage to the German author, but because of the same problem you have.Originally Posted by TheFlyingBanana
Well not you, your dog I mean.
Although he tells me he is currently writing a book. He's going to call it ' The Poo at House Corner.'
Our dog is resident on the rug in front of the log burner, he isn't called Colin and rarely has wind, but it has been windy outside.
Our cat, well I say ours she used to live with a family a few doors away but she likes us more so moved in, isn't called Colin either she's called Charlotte Bagamule or Maio, anyway she's not in front of our non existent fire but sat next to me watching the TV.
Got caught out in a downpour. My boots are soaked through. Misery.
My first wife had a Siamese cat that suffered from epilepsy
The wife or the cat? and was either called Colin?
The cat
Shame the wife hadn't been so afflicted - might have kept her otherwise occupied instead of shagging all and sundry
She was called Coline though
Last edited by Velorum; 27th March 2016 at 01:04. Reason: spelling
I'm torn between Chicken and Cock Flavoured Soups. Decisions, decisions.
Ours is a greyhound.
Depending on how the whimsy takes me, I have a number of names for him:
The Gashound
Der Windhund (that actually is their German name!)
Dr Strangehound
Sir Whiffalot
Twisted Direfarter
Lord Stench
Weapon of Ass Destruction
Longhead Skunkworks
The Gaseous Anomaly
Stinkhound
So clever my foot fell off.
I asked the wife to make me some cheese on toast but she refused.I'm torn between Chicken and Cock Flavoured Soups. Decisions, decisions.
I said I had to send a cow to Africa. I asked Royal mail but they came up with some Bull story about restricted items.
Last edited by Fords; 27th March 2016 at 09:05.
The clock changes have all gone very smoothly this time, but I can't go in the shed because there's a hailstorm.
I have one of these:
alongside the bed. It receives a time signal by wizardry or similar, and automatically accounts for the twice-yearly changes.
The problem is that it makes a loud rapid ticking noise when it changes. Which isn't so bad in the Spring, when it advances by an hour, but in the Autumn it isn't capable of moving the hands back by an hour, so it has to advance them by eleven hours.
It does this at 2am, and in the dead of night it's like a machine gun going off.
There used to be two stray cats living in our garden. We called them Colin and Ian. We have since moved house and took the cats with us. Colin is still called Colin but Ian is now called Jasper.
Colin suits him too much to change it.
Interesting
Do you and your wife/husband/civil partner also change your names when you move to a new address?
I do hope so, I quite like the idea
A lady called Sue who lives near York used to do my clothing alterations.
She has two dogs, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier called Bert and a poodle cross called Trev(or).
Sue's retired now, and Bert and Trev don't seem interested in carrying on the business.
Which is a bit of a pity because in my case it mostly only involves letting out waistbands.
My pal Dave tells me there is a Polish lady in Northallerton who does alterations, so I might try her.
I don't know if she has any dogs but they'll probably be called Piotr or Wojtek. If they are male, that is.
^ A lady called Mary used to do mine. My trousers always appeared to be exactly the same when she gave them back again, which she called invisible repairs.
Now I take them to a man who wears blue Crocs. I don't know his name but he always attaches the removed fabric as proof.
Last edited by bonzo697; 27th March 2016 at 19:25.
The other day I followed my wife to the lady who would do my alterations if I had any (well she does my wife's). She is Portuguese and I dont know her name nor if she has a dog or two. But I just thought I could do the TZ community a service and check on her footwear when I pass by next time. I shall duly update this thread once I have had the time to find out.
^^^ We also need to know if she numbers her bins.
By happy coincidence an alterations tailor has moved into one of the shops on the ground floor of our building. I'll see if I can nab a photo of him when he's back to work on Tuesday but I don't think he has either any numbered bins or welcome swastikas. Or an assistant called Colin (or Eugene).
The pub I'm in, Bananarama have come on. Robert de Niro's Waiting. I've absolutely no problem with this.
My alterations, damage repair ( ie crotch blow outs) and suits are done by Jim, splendid chap. There're a couple of dogs in his office. I'm not at liberty to disclose their names.
There was a time when I went to pubs fairly often. But those pubs don't exist anymore.
Someone who lies about the little things will lie about the big things too.
Don't have the cock, it's fowl.
Cheers..
Jase
Mem sahib has just reminded me that Trev's predecessor at Sue's garment alterations was a lurcher called Colin.
Also, sincerely apologies if I have mentioned this previously, but my good lady's mother and her aunt, Edna and Elsie respectively, had a culture shock one day before the war when, on a day off from their jobs as machinists at the factory (Robinson's of Chesterfield) they went to visit their cousin Eugene.
On entering his house at 10.30am they found Eugene, still in his dressing gown (author's note: the use of the word 'still' is meant to infer that dressing gowns were normal breakfast-time attire in Chesterfield in 1938), and eating Marmite on toast.
Such was the shock that Edna could not shake off the image and, as late as 2012, would disclose to me 'Imagine, half past ten and still not dressed'.
Edit: the chief censor has reminded me that 'Eugene and his mam owned a pony and trap' Top that.
Last edited by grey; 27th March 2016 at 22:32.
^^^^and to think that amongst some of my colleagues I'm showing off when I say that I'm *always* dressed for lunch
Mater, who hailed from Mansfield (or Shirebrook to be precise - birthplace of that great English thespian Jason Statham) always used to point out that the day a virgin got married in Chesterfield church the spire would straighten.
In my mind, it had never occured to me to bother to differentiate between Chesterfield and Mansfield
We were married at Chesterfield register office in 1971. I looked towards the church but bugger all happened.
I whispered to the (now) Mrs grey 'Am I the first man you slept with?' She looked at me a some length and grinned. She said 'You know, I knew your face looked familiar, duck'.
PS. Shirebrook sucks. It makes Staveley look like Rome.
Last edited by grey; 27th March 2016 at 22:55.
Mansfield is best viewed in your mirror, whilst speeding towards Chesterfield.
There is only one suitable response to that bombshell; I'd like you to meet our neighbour.
He was in this getup at 4:30 this afternoon whilst the MoselleMaiden was tending to the balcony.
Last edited by Carlton-Browne; 16th January 2020 at 18:55.
It's snowing in South Staffs and my slippers are slightly damp from getting the coal in.
70mph winds down here in the Deep South, with horizontal rain.
Edited to add that as a result it's looking like a day indoors. Can anybody recommend a wine to accompany Sultana Bran for breakfast?
Last edited by Backward point; 28th March 2016 at 07:32.
Same here and by the sound of it roof tiles and God knows what else flying off buildings at random. Foolishly, I promised Mrs freshly pressed orange and warm almond croissants for breakfast in our local patisserie, so now I'm trying to order home delivery for two wetsuits and hard hats before she is ready to go.
I think wellingtons may be appropriate attire for walking the dog this morning, I worked in Mansfield for a few months in the early 90s, I'm not sure I've ever really recovered.
Back in the days when I was a drinker I used to drink brown and bitter. In one pub they sold Manns Brown and Mansfield Bitter, so I would ask for a pint of Manns and Mansfield, instead of brown and bitter.
Last edited by bonzo697; 28th March 2016 at 09:33.
In the Double Top pub at Inkersall near Chesterfield they used to sell Milkmaid milk stout. Which was nice.
But I could never respond enthusiastically to the suggestion to 'Try a Roundheads Brown', from the same brewery.
I've decided to delay the dog walk this morning on account of the inclement weather. In the meantime we are having a coffee to strengthen our resolve before attempting to get the kids to tidy their rooms, as their cousins were over for the day yesterday.
I am mentally preparing myself for the horror.
So clever my foot fell off.
Idle Monday mornings just aren't the same when the rest of the world isn't at work
I'm not back at work until Wednesday, however I seem to be on scrambled eggs on toast duty again.
Due to the high gusts of wind last night part of our neighbors fence came down, I say neighbors they are on the south west quadrant of the crossroad and we are on the south east quadrant with a public highway between us.
Anyway our neighbors on the opposite quadrant of the crossroad, Dave and Chris, thats Christine not Christopher (Brighton Bernard is the only suspect character we are aware of in the village) are away until Wednesday leaving there property unsecured, I wonder should I buy them a dog to manage this short term exposure?
My preference was always to sup on a Milkmaid, but I believe gulping down a Roundhead was more popular in some parts of Blackpool.
Last edited by bonzo697; 28th March 2016 at 11:02.
I think its a sign of the times, watching the television it seems more and more blokes are into Roundhead, they say ''what you've never had you never miss'' as maxim I'm happy enough to stick with the odd glass of red or a whiskey.
Photos of Mrs freshly-pressed requested.
With all the faffing with clock changes yesterday, I forgot to mention that I don't like Easter Eggs.
Just to clarify thing for me, does 'popular in some parts of Blackpool' mean the same as 'taking the bus to Penge' as Jack Whitehall's dad puts it?
Last edited by grey; 28th March 2016 at 12:21.
Thinking of the routes around Crystal Palace, presumably the bus to Penge goes down Anerley Road?
Then take a right at the lights.
That phrase, lightly modified, has promise.
Just discovered that Dick Emery was his real name. I had assumed it was a joke.
It was similar to dangling your rod in Barry, which was which was always a popular pastime in South Wales.
Last edited by bonzo697; 28th March 2016 at 13:13.
Chesterfield professed to be ruggedly hetero, as per the last line of the old local joke:
Disheveled schoolgirl to teacher, 'No miss, I am Rose Hill'.
But that was before Clod Hall Lane!
I once got lost up Rose Hill-East.
Last edited by bonzo697; 28th March 2016 at 14:53.
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