1966.

What a year that was. England won The World Cup. Or did they?

I don’t actually know because I swanned off to Singapore in support of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, hard though it was. I mean, who in their right mind would choose to do this? The Tropics, eh what. Servants and all that rubbish. But the heat was a bit dire. And the children were frightfully boring, especially the baby. Dear of him. He couldn’t speak a word of English by the time I got him foisted back onto poor old me. He still has a bit of trouble with English despite being 54 years old now. But he is a Singapore Citizen. Such a pity he didn’t join the Singapore Army. He would probably be a General by now.

But then I didn’t choose. I just did as I was told. I went and then I came back. Coming back was the bad bit. I will certainly never recover.

The Table.

Sorry, I have gotten a bit carried away. Words you see.

I found this table in a shed somewhere many years ago. I don’t know if it is Oak or Mahogany or if I really care. It is round and actually has signs in the wood of my children doing their Homework. I gave it to my Number One Son once upon a time. But fortunately he didn’t want it so he gave it back to me.

Five decades on the feet have been chewed nearly into indistinction. Every dog I have ever owned had a chew at them. Although funnily enough never O’Connor. Not that I would have minded if he had. I was past caring about this little shit by then. Come and chew the table feet for Christ’s sake, instead of digging up my lovely garden.

It never colours you see. Put a hot cup on it and the mark is brief and then gone tomorrow. There actually isn’t anything anyone could do to spoil this table.

It is normally covered in family rubbish. But just for today it wasn’t. And such a pleasure that was to see.

Glen Bogle.

Oh Joy. In the middle of watching any old rubbish I somehow managed to trip over Monarch of The Glen. That’s Big Eric, by the way. The actual Monarch of The Glen. He eventually did a bit too much rutting. But then don’t they all.

All frightfully Scottish of course, but of much delight to me. My love of Scotland started in Glasgow, grimey old City, but it was real. Real people who were proud to be Glaswegians. Even if they were a a few bob short of a shilling on a Saturday Night.

My love spread outwards and upwards after that. And so began my passion for The Highlands and history as well if you like. Shit, they haven’t half got some history.

I am an Irish Mitchell, but my Clan MacDonnell has the largest grave at Culloden. It is really, really big. Twice the size of the Campbell Traitors. Good one, eh what. Or is it?

There is obviously not a lot to be said for The Mitchells beyond honour and glory, which is possibly why the females of the Clan survived for as long as I have. Honour and glory are all very well, but I would rather have stab them in the back when they weren’t watching. Horses for courses, I say. Better still, don’t take me on in the first place.

But if you want a bit of the glory take a passing glance at The Highlands. And not necessarily Fort William, although I did once nearly climb Ben Nevis. I packed my hand in when I ran out of oxygen half way up.

Coming back down was far harder than going up. I sat there and looked down. And nearly died of terror.

This is my testimony to Scotland. I wish that I lived there, but the price of any sort of hovel got beyond me. Which is why I live in a hovel in Brittany.. All Celts you see.

Monarch of The Glen can be found on Best Series. me.

A Bit Awful.

I am going through another dark side of the night. I do this from time to time, but I largely don’t talk about it.

Maybe perhaps I should.

I have never been one to talk about this shit. I am your ultimate coper. So I pull the duvet over my head and sleep too much. And then come back fighting again.

Tis Full Moon again shortly. But there you go. In the meantime you will have to forgive me.

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The Republic of Great Britain.

Don’t do it.  Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.  Not that I’ve got anything against Republics.  I have lived in one of those for a very long and it has been very good to me over the years.  But when a country bumps off it’s entire Royal Family wholesale there isn’t very much else to do so France had to pull itself together eventually.

 However, you wouldn’t have believed some of the Presidents I have seen, literally I mean.  But I won’t go into that because it all could be a bit Libellous and I don’t want to get thrown out.

And never forget Charles the First.  Cromwell wasn’t a good idea.  It didn’t go well, what with Witch Finders an all.  Cromwell nearly went to America you know.  I’ve always thought it was a pity that he didn’t.  Instead he stayed to save England and made a right mess of of it, only to bring back Charles the Second who was a right pillock due to him not being brought up to be King and possibly drinking a bit too much.

Meanwhile, America made a right mess of itself anyway.

My advice is stick with the distinct possibility of King Charles the Third, but not just yet.  He might seem to be a bit loopy but he isn’t entirely stupid.  Although I have heard that he might call himself something else, not wanting to be a candidate for head toppling or seen as drinking too much of The Duchy of Cornwall’s rhubarb wine.

In the meantime.  Long Live The Queen.  The women were always better at it.

Covid Vaccine?

I have finally been offered a Covid Jab by E-Mail as being over 75 years old.  But it’s all in French so God knows what it actually says, although there is no mention of Which Jab or Where.  These wouldn’t be a problem for me as Astra Zeneca is the same in English as is Vannes or any other large Town around here.

My first thought was O’Connor Eccles Lang.  What could go wrong with that?  Unless they notice that something isn’t quite right when he turns up.  But then he isn’t half daft either.  He might be a rotten, little pisser but he knows what a tin of dog food looks like even before I open the cupboard door.  And he knows what a syringe with a needle is as well.  And he definitely doesn’t like those.  I would be hard pushed to get him vaccinated against Rabies  should I ever need to, which I probably won’t.  No Rabies around here and The Bats all look harmless, at least I hope they are.  Not that I see a lot of them as I rarely go out at night to take a look at the nearest street light these days where they tend to congregate when looking for mosquitoes, for which I remain forever grateful.  I don’t do well with mosquito bites.  But I haven’t had one of those for years.  This leads me to suspect that The Bat Colonies have increased.  Jolly good show I say.  Anyway, I shall worry about Rabies if I ever have to.  And No, I have never been tempted to Eat A Bat.

And another thing of course.  This could be an E-Mail Scam so I’m not clicking on The Link anyway.  How can you tell these days?  My E-Mail Address is plastered all over The Internet, thanks to some arsehole who thought he could embarrass me when I didn’t agree with his demented ideas.  I don’t do embarrassment which he failed to realise.

So that’s me and O’Connor safe from The Vaccine, at least for now.

More Kindling.

Now it is the turn of The Hortensia. Hydrangea for the uneducated. I planted all of mine from cuttings when I thought it was possible to control these things. Wrong. The more you hack them back the higher they grow. Robin Dominic has just cut them all down to about twelve inches, again They’ll all be back up to the top of a six foot wall by the year after next.

Unfortunately this year it has exposed the utter devastation of O’Connor’s attempts to conquer New Zealand when he thought we couldn’t see what he was up to, which we couldn’t. What an horrible mess. Rotten Little Shit.

However there are now huge piles of already half dead, six foot long pieces and since it will take no longer to cut them into stove sized bits than it would to put them in the Trailer and take them to The Tip, we might as well get on with it to some sort of financial benefit. Pennies and Pounds come to mind. Ever my guiding principle. I have survived for many a long year on that premise.

The Never Pluming Plum Tree is again in great bloom and yet again I live in hope. It had better watch it’s socks because that will be for the chop next year if it doesn’t. Unfortunately my Robin Bird has taken to sitting at the top of this wretched Tree and trills away beautifully as he waits for me to feed his now quite fat face, so I might have to rethink that one. “No Robin, you can’t cut that one down. You don’t really want to disaccommodate your Spiritual Brother, do you. Rhetorical Question. Robin’s reply will not be fit to publish.

Meanwhile, Lann Georges travels on unaffected by time. How very lucky I was to shipwreck up here.

O’Connor.

Courtesy of Myster. I couldn’t have done that. I shall buy a frame shortly and then hang it on my kitchen wall. Ever to be remembered as the worst dog that I have ever owned, but also the funniest and the sweetest. Get your head around that if you can. Excuse me, must mop up another Pee. Meanwhile O’Connor is out digging up the garden again. My friend Rob in New Zealand is watching out for O’Connor’s arrival.

My Avatar is not really relevant, although it does look a bit like me in my hay days, although I was probably marginally better looking and I had much more hair, sadly now diminishing along with everything else, other than my brain of course.

Forgetting things is only really funny to me. If only everyone thought so. But this lies in your own hands. If you laugh then everyone else will. And does it really matter anyway?

However, this is a Thank You to Myster who had the time and patience to do this and made me feel as though my Blog is worth reading. There are others on The UK Justice Forum who have been kind to me, being a Moderator as I am, but always from the most unlikely corners.

Alice has been dead for two years now, but still missed by me. He was a kind man. But he wasn’t alone.

Sorry, I got a bit morbid there for a minute. Probably Full Moon coming up again. I don’t do well at Full Moon, but it always passes. And The Moon is such a glorious thing, especially at it’s most high. And tomorrow will be another day.

Covid.

Covid.
Now I didn’t know that thousands of people die every year from Flu.  In fact, not having caught Flu myself for many a long decade, I didn’t even know  that people were still catching it.

So when the news of Covid broke last March I went into the statutory decline and threw the duvet over my head while contemplating being dead in a fortnight.  Not funny.  I don’t want to die just yet.  Besides, I’m not giving up my British State Pension until I’ve had my money’s worth. And Yes, I was seriously worried.  But I kept on waking up which meant that I wasn’t dead and had to deal with this fear.

Don’t go out unless you have to and wear a mask if you do.  This mask business wasn’t a problem for me as I’ve seen photos of people wearing them to guard against Pollution.  What could be the difference?  Not a lot, I thought.  But since Pollution is non existent around here I don’t really know.  And so is Covid, so I don’t have much idea about that either?  This could be due to everyone obeying The Rules.  Don’t knock it, I say.

Nearly a year later everything staggers on, although the kissing had to stop, obviously.  I do miss that a bit as it was such a part of our daily lives.  Instinctive actually, after thirty years.  I wonder sometimes if it will ever return.  But if that is all that is missing then there isn’t much to worry about.

God knows what is going on out in the real World.  Somewhere to The East of Lann Georges where I haven’t ventured for a very long time and almost certainly won’t if and when I ever can.

I read Leg Iron’s Blog a lot because he seems to be the only person who actually knows what they are talking about and doesn’t change his mind every ten minutes.

d
O’Connor as ever lightens my days and gets me out of bed in the morning.  What a very funny little soul he is, although what I find so amusing about his penchants remain a mystery.  You try laughing when you’ve just stood in a pile of poop.  But what else is there to do.  Rien de tout, that’s what.
So from me to you, Have a Happy Covid.

Wood Burners.

Wood Burners.

Wood Burners are Good.

They keep these old stone built houses slightly above freezing in Winter and cooking on top of them is fun, especially when you think of all of the gas and electricity that you are saving.  Also very easy to kick start in the morning if you know what you are doing, which I now do.  Rake the ashes and Voila.

However, it is a bit like living in a warm Woodshed what with wood chipping and such all over the floor.  In fact it has crossed my mind recently that this might be easier since you wouldn’t have to cart piles of wood indoors every day and be forever sweeping up.

And then my mind turned to Ye Olde Dirt Floors.  Not such an awful idea, eh what.  The detritus gets walked into the dirt and vanishes and no muddy footprints or dog’s paws either.  Not sure about the dog shit, but who cares.  You likely wouldn’t notice.  What with the House Cow and the House Goat living under the stairs to The Seed Loft.  Just keep them chained to the wall, otherwise they might wander about a bit in the night.  Who needs a Cow giving you a kiss at O’Crack Sparrow Tweet.   The Hooks are still there.  I couldn’t bring myself to remove them.   And besides, I was a bit worried about the wall falling down.

Come Spring you contact The Dirt Floor Man who delivers a ton of earth.  No idea how much but I bet it was cheaper than having all those very expensive Floor Tiles laid.

Then you throw a Cheese and Wine Party for the neighbours who do a bit of Breton Dancing.  And how’s your father, you have got a new, clean dirt floor. All stamped down and ready to go. To be reciprocated all around the Village of course.  Resulting hangovers nothwithstanding.

Breton Dancing is something else.  Really hot foot stuff when you are young.  But it does involve a lot of hanging on to each others arms, which means that you don’t actually fall over no matter how pissed you get.
There are Dances for Chances and some of it is quite beautiful and tells a story.  The footwork alone is incredible.  I don’t know what it means, but I learned how to do it because it is lovely.  And it made me feel good.