Somebody said they wanted to see me reading one of my stories.

So, here I am, reading one of my stories. Please be careful what you wish for.

Do you want Drut'syla with that?

Last night I had a Drut'syla with my dinner. Now, my sybarite yeomen, you may now believe that this means I washed down the vitals with a large glass of fermented camels milk or that I enjoyed a side order of a filo parcel containing the highly spiced sweetmeats from a rare arctic mountain lion, but alas, you would be wrong.

Were this this the 1970's, at this point invite you to provide the answer on a postcard with the tantalising promise of a chance to win an empty gin bottle autographed by the Chuckle Brothers.

Sadly, times have moved on and such is society's clamour for instant gratification, the postcard is now longer viewed as an effective form of communication and the gin bottle was long since recycled. (see Note 1)

So, to keep you firmly focused on the matter in hand, I need to inform you that a Drut'syla is in fact a a storyteller from the Yiddish tradition.

Shonaleigh Cumbers is the aforementioned Drut'syla (See Note 2).

Last night, the Oundle Festival of Literature migrated to the outskirts of the town, to the banks of the River Nene, to provide us with 'Stories to Dine For'. The event actually served two purposes, one was the festival, the other was to have a nose around the Oundle Mill. (See Note 3)

The Oundle Mill has obviously been refurbished to a high standard. The food was OK too.

However, what I really enjoyed was the story telling. The best way to describe the stories themselves is Arabian Nights Tales with a bit of an edge. Given the derivation of the Arabian Nights Tales and that the Jewish tradition of the Drut'syla mixed into the complex nature of Middle Eastern politics it does seem rather an odd mix.

Not that it detracted from the stories. Having someone as obviously skilled and practiced as Shonaleigh deliver them was somehow nostalgic. That might seem an obscure way to describe it, but I think that is absolutely ages that somebody told me a story. The last time I remember having somebody tell me a story I must have been a child. Before bed, my father used to tell me stories of Coco the Clown and his mystical magical powers.

The atmosphere of Oundle Mill mixed with the story telling had an alchemy all of its own. The experience was really wonderful. I'm not sure that I needed the meal, it kind of got in the way, reduced the time for the stories and made it a late night for the middle of the working week. (see Note 4)

I am perhaps being a little picky about it because I get a touch grumpy when I don't get my sleep.

It was a great evening. The stories were enthralling and the atmosphere of the Mill added to the occasion.

It is just such a shame that the oral story telling tradition seems to be dying out. Shonaleigh believes there are only two other Drut'syla out there and so that particular story telling tradition is dying out.

Perhaps storytelling is something that Literary Festivals could look to encourage?

Note 1 : And such are the prices charged at The Oundle Mill for drinks, I can no longer afford to provide a substitute prize.

Note 2 : Not to be confused with an unfortunate fungal infection caught by rolling in damp lambswool with Albanian peasant girls.

Note 3 : The Oundle Mill seems to have been undergoing refurbishment for years. The sign at the entrance has been announcing an ever slipping opening date, but now it is open for business.

Note 4 : I get up just after 5:00 each morning, so as I type this I look a bit like a panda due to lack of sleep.

Much Ado About Pansies

It is possible that some of you may have been on expedition to the wilds of Manchester studying aboriginal termites. With your access to to civilisation, the internet, my blog and modern plumbing limited, you may not have realised that the Oundle Festival of Literature is going on.

For the Festival, there was a competition to write a piece for a Shakespeare event loosely based on 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' or 'The Tempest'. I produced a piece based on a joke I saw on Judy's site. The links to anything remotely like Shakespeare were tenuous in the extreme. However, for reasons best known to the judges, they selected it to be performed.

I did promise that I would share the piece after the event had been completed. So, for those of you with any interest, please read on...

Much Ado about Pansies.

Lizzie and I were in the Rose and Thistle discussing our Greek holiday plans when, like the anti-hero from that Carly Simon song, ‘he’ walked in. Lizzie stopped talking mid-sentence, pupils dilating as she checked him out checking his immaculately tousled hair in the mirror.

He moved like a dancer across the room. A tight, white, T-shirt emphasised his tan and his muscular torso. The even tighter trousers causing Lizzie’s mouth to drop open – although his assets had surely been bolstered by a strategically placed sock. As he joined a crowded table, I knew that there would be no further discussions of sun kissed Greek beeches that night. Lizzie was a girl on a mission.

I’d been here before. Lizzie has the physical assets allowing her for one night to have almost any man she wants while I am usually left with his mate who can make one night feel like half a lifetime.

I watched as she sashayed to the ladies toilet. While nearly every man in the pub dribbled their beer, he remained stubbornly aloof. Half an hour later, she tried the predatory sashay with stumble and apologetic fumbling to remove spilt beer. That didn’t work either.

I mocked her efforts and told her she didn’t have a chance. Lizzie glared at me.

“I have £10 that says you can’t do any better!” She snapped.

Although I don’t have her love of bedroom gymnastics, she knew that I couldn’t resist a bet.

Over the next few weeks, I discovered his name, Patrick and that he worked in the same building as Lizzie and I. It didn’t take long to discover his routine and engineer meetings in the lift and the coffee shop. I even took to going for walks in the park where he went jogging at lunchtime, but my softly, softly approach drew the same blanks as Lizzie and her headlong assaults.

By the time we went on holiday, it looked as if neither of us would win that £10.
Once in Greece, Lizzie soon forgot about Patrick. Her attentions soon fell on an olive skinned tour guide who was more susceptible to her charms.

Unfortunately, this meant we had to sign up for all of his tours.

I can only get excited about old ruins for so long. On yet another trek through the remains of some ancient temple, I reached my limits. While the tour group bore the brunt of the sun, I took myself off into a wood, sitting on a log where I could watch the coach and sip at my bottle of water.

Suddenly I became aware that I wasn’t alone. This strange looking Greek guy was sat next to me. I tried to ignore him, but he was persistent. He thrust a bag of flowers in my hand. The bag was of the finest lace with this fantastic spider’s web design. He called them ‘Love in Idleness’, but anyone could see they were just pansies. He made the most ludicrous claims for them. I firmly and politely declined, but when I turned to hand them back, he was gone. I looked around for him but it was as if he had become invisible, so I just dropped the flowers in their pretty lace pouch into my handbag.

When we returned from holiday, Lizzie seemed to have lost interest in our little bet, but I wasn’t going to give in.

A week or so later I was walking in the park and I came across Patrick, dozing on a bench in the sunshine and I remembered the flowers. I didn’t believe the strange Greek guy’s claims for a moment, but hey, it was worth a shot. I took the flowers in the bag and squeezed them so the juice dripped onto his eyelids.

Patrick stirred and woke. He looked straight at me and he looked at me like no man ever has. He asked me to sit with him, but I rushed away, shouting over my shoulder that I would be in the Rose and Thistle on Friday night and that he should meet me there and give me his best line.

On the Friday, Patrick walked in to the Rose and Thistle and checked himself in the mirror. Lizzie nudged me, but I had already spotted him. He looked around the bar, spotted us at the table and walked over with a slow bounce in his step. He was wearing his tightest trousers and it looked like he’d stuffed them with an extra sock.

Lizzie was beside herself, nudging me and whispering ‘He’s coming over! He’s coming over!” His dark eyes were fixed on me. I tried to stay calm and nonchalant by sipping at my vodka and Red Bull. Reaching our table, Patrick leaned down and looked deep into my soul.

Patrick paused for effect before purring “For £20, I will do anything you want.”

I looked at Lizzie. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was moving, but no words spilled out. Victory was mine!

I savoured the moment by memorising the sight of a totally flummoxed Lizzie and the amazing puce colour she was turning. Smiling, I reached into my purse and withdrew a crisp £20 note.

I took Patrick’s hand and slowly, seductively pressed the note into it.

“Patrick, you have made my night. Now...” I paused and licked my lips with the tip of my tongue “clean my flat."

...ooo000ooo...

I can only hope you feel it was worth the wait.

Shaken and Stirred

It seems that for the photographs on all of the Festival events, I will have to make do with pictures of the empty stage. It seems that performers don't like it when in mid-flow, some fat bald bloke jumps out of his seat and shouts 'CHEESE!".

Last night, I had the red carpet treatment for the first (And probably the only) public performance of my piece "Much Ado About Pansies". This took place at the Stahl Theatre in Oundle.

If truth be told, there were no paparazzi and no red carpet. I didn't even get a limo to drive me to the doors. The screaming fans had obviously been told the wrong date. So all in all, the new posh frock was a complete waste of money.

Shakespeare Unleashed was not.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that I actually enjoyed it. The director, singers and actors had obviously worked hard to make sure that they did justice to the words and music. The performances were superb.

Special mention must go to Heather Diggle who did a marvellous job delivering my piece with such impeccable timing that she managed to draw out the laughs from the packed auditorium.

All of the pieces were delivered well. I was particularly impressed by Greg Wilkinson who despite only being in the Fifth Form at Oundle School produced a series of excellent presentations. None more so than his performance of "Mine" by Hilary Spiers, which was a first rate piece written for the event.

I left the event with a real spring in my step. It was a good night. OK, so it was a bit uncomfortable in having to stand up and face the audience when they asked the writers to take a bow, but the memory of watching Heather take my piece and make it look so good will live with me for a lifetime.

Meritorious Practitioner of Murphy's Law

Somewhere in the string of blogs that I read (and sometimes comment upon) is a discussion that a group of us should get together and write our own wikipedia entry.

As everyone knows, it is terribly bad form to write your own entry on wikipedia, but if I did, then 'Meritorious Practitioner of Murphy's Law' is probably how I would describe myself.

Yesterday, was the day of my presentation at the Oundle Festival of Literature on the art of the blog.

Throughout my life, I have been plagued by what is called the 'live demonstration' - which is why I spent so long making sure that I would be able to access all the sites I needed, because part of the two hour slot was supposed to be a session to allow the participants to start up their own blogs. The mystical Murphy stalks me, so I know that I need to make sure I cover off all eventualities.

One of the classmates couldn't access their email, but I had prepared for that. I made sure we could get to gmail and they could set up an email account.

I had made sure we could get to all of the sites we needed to get to (well, except for one, the food pornographer site which was banned as porn - which it ain't).

This time, I thought I had Murphy licked. All the computers had been tested, all the access checked, my presentation loaded, the projector work - I had every base covered and Murphy would be frozen out of the equation and forced to go to the Literary Treasure Hunt.

WRONG!

Sadly, there was just one thing I couldn't have predicted or prepared for. Someone at Multiply decided that 8:00 am EST was a great time for site maintenance! So when we sat down at 1:00 pm GMT we were greeted with a message, albeit a polite message, that the Multiply was unavailable!

The little pixies at Multiply weren't going to hurry their maintenance either (see Note 1). So in the end we were forced to abandon the setting up of new blogs and the poor people (who had actually paid for the privilege) were forced to listen to me spout.

Thankfully, I had a lot of material and there were a lot of really good questions from the floor (some of which I could answer!) which allowed the session to last the full two hours.

I think it went well. I hope it went well. I guess the real test is to see who does their homework and what new blogs for the festival get connected to my festival Multiply blog.

Note 1 : This is because computer maintenance on overtime has to follow a set for. Management notice when you start work and hence qualify for overtime payments, when the computers go unavailable. The know when you finish the overtime, because the computers come back on.

Computer technicians aren't daft. They come in, switch the computers off, then go and fetch themselves a coffee and a doughnut while raking in payment at time and a half.

Stroking an old friend

When I was young, my father came home with a Hornby 'OO' train set. At the time, I was overjoyed. In those simpler times it was every boys dream to own a train set.

The reality of actually owning a train set proved to be anti-climax. Setting it up was fun enough, but I never actually got what my father enjoyed in the actually 'playing with' the thing. To me it seemed incredibly dull.

For those of you who are interested, the picture above is from the Nene Valley Railway site.

The reason I mention this is that I'm aware that life consists of 'Different Strokes for Different Folks' (See Note 1).

This is a little bit of a worry for me as I am well aware that my tastes may well differ from those of my audience when I come to do my talk. However difficult it is to believe, there could well be people there who would enjoy a good steam railway blog.

There are others who could be even more into their food than I am (see Note 2). One interesting blog that I have lost touch with was from the food pornographer. Imagine my delight in finding that not only the link still works, but the blog is still being updated.

Having re-discovered this site, this blog entry is now being cut short as I am salivating in my keyboard.

Bon appetite.

Note 1 : Please be careful out there. Going out and stroking complete strangers is not an advisable past-time. Sadly, like the days of young boys wishing to own train sets, the days when people appreciated a complete stranger stroking them on the omnibus are over. Today such actions are likely lead to a black eye and a restraining order.

Note 2 : This is even more improbable than finding people who would turn over their garden to a miniature steam railway as my waistline will attest.

Dancing to a Different Beat

I like to think I have a good sense of humour and that I can see the joke and laugh along with the best of them. Even after a few dried frog pills, my sense of humour remains intact and I can guffaw with the crowd. Occasionally, I find myself ploughing my own lone furrow when it comes to comedy. Sometimes I find the joke just too sad and tragic to join in.

A classic example is one of the running jokes in Dad’s Army. Whenever the platoon were called to attention, you get the crunch of the assembled Home Guard’s boots hitting the church hall floor in unison, followed, exactly half beat later, by the boots of Corporal Jack Jones. This got a laugh every time – except from me.

I always felt that the audience were laughing at the afflicted and that the humour was cruel and heartless. This isn’t because I have a particularly strong Political Correctness streak or that I never laugh at cruel and heartless jokes. It is because I felt for Corporal Jones and in a small way even envied him. Here was a guy that was always exactly half a beat late on the song score of life.

You see, my defoliated yeomen, I would kill to be exactly on a beat, be it half a beat late or not. I cannot carry a beat in a bucket, which makes me a hazard when it comes to dancing.

At junior school, when the playing fields were deemed unfit for outside games, the teachers decided that we would do Scottish Country Dancing. Out would come the school gramophone, on would go some Scottish music and the entire class would form up into sets and dance with grace, beauty and above all, timing - the entire class that is except for me. I would be blundering around to my own, totally random beat. I may not have had timing, but I tried to make up for it with enthusiasm. That, my syncopated yeomen, was a big mistake.

It didn’t take long for the sympathetic teachers to bandage up my classmates broken feet, retrieve lost teeth and stem the bleeding from numerous noses. Very sympathetically, they took me to one side and told me that I was ‘special’. That dancing was not for me. I was destined for higher things I should look after the record player, carve my name with a compass on the school piano – ANYTHING except try to dance. And so it began

In my youth, when disco was in full swing, I was banned from clubs from Minehead to Newbury. From Bournemouth to Oxford, bouncers were told on no account was I to be granted access to the dance floor.

I soon learned that if I wished to impress a young lady, I never asked them to dance. When I forgot myself and tried to strut my stuff the date usually ended up at the local casualty department with me applying a bag of frozen peas to some part of my soon to be ex-girlfriends anatomy while waiting for the X-ray machine to come free.

My wife is wise to my shortcomings in the gyratory arts. She knows not to drag me onto the dance floor until late in the night when I have consumed enough alcohol to temper my shortcomings. I must be the only person in the country whose dancing improves after copious amounts of the falling down juice. Even with alcohol dampening my natural instincts, when we take to the floor I am under strict instructions not to lift my feet more than half an inch from the floor and to keep my elbows welded to my sides at all times.

Of course, my wife has been known to abuse this knowledge to her own advantage. Some years ago, at some charity fundraiser, I was approached by a lady who I will call ‘A’ to avoid her any embarrassment. My wife and ‘A’ didn’t get on. Some weeks previously, ‘A’ had beaten my wife in the Mother’s Egg and Spoon race at the school sports day amid some claims cheating and the inappropriate use of Blu-Tac.

‘A’ asked me to dance. I politely declined.

“It’s OK, Simon.” My wife oozed. “Why don’t you and ‘A’ enjoy a quick Jive?”

“What?” I spluttered as visions of the headline ‘Bloodbath at charity event’ in the News of the World flashed before me eyes.

“Yes, dance with ‘A’!” My wife commanded with a set jaw and gritted teeth.

The steely determination in her eyes made me realise that I was stuck between a rock and several nights on the sofa. As I took the arm of ‘A’ and led her to the dance floor, I watched my wife leading those present who were dear to her to the safety of the bar.

It turned out that ‘A’ and her fellow dancers were lucky. Casualties were surprisingly light, probably due to the wine flowing freely during dinner and ‘A’ still being in good physical shape due to her training regime employed for the blue ribbon Egg and Spoon race.

As ‘A’ was loaded into the ambulance and the paramedics treated those who had failed to escape the floor in time, my wife looked on with a look of triumph and I vowed never to let her use me as an offensive weapon again.

At the weekend, I went to visit the location for my talk at Oundle Festival of Literature on the joy of blogs (See Note 1). During the post-reconnoitre pleasantries, Paula brought up the topic of salsa.

As Paula is a long standing resident of the town and the night of the fundraiser is still a subject of local gossip, I naturally took her to mean the spicy tomato dish and my thoughts started to wander to tortilla chips and chocolate chili.

Yet, she wasn’t. Despite everything, Paula was hoping that I would attend the Grevel Lindop event at the festival (See Note 2). Visions of my past misadventures flashed before my eyes. I imagined the headlines, remembered my restraining order and declined the invitation.

The poor woman must have thought me mad. I probably went a very strange colour and made my excuses and left. Forgive me Paula, I’m sorry that I rushed off like that. I hope that this blog entry goes a small way to make recompense for knocking the door off the hinges as I ran off.

Note 1 : For those of you who have somehow missed this earth shuddering event, it is on March 7^th in the Sir Peter Scott Building, Oundle School at 1:00pm. I promise I will not be dancing.

Note 2 : Grevel Lindop will be at the Festival on Friday 13 March, 7.30pm - 11.00pm at the 2 Acre Club in Oundle. Included in the event is a Salsa dancing lesson so bring along the partner of your choice and loosen those limbs.

Back to School

The date for my foray into presenting at the Oundle Festival of Literature is getting ever closer. As you know, I am doing a session on the blog on the 7th March at the St Peter Scott maths building at Oundle School.

With every passing day I am becoming more nervous, but today the nerves were that little bit worse because I had to go back to school. It is totally irrational, but whenever I walk into a school for whatever reason, I get nerves. Today was no exception.

Still, I steeled myself and approached the venue for the first time to sort out a few of the logistics.

It was probably a good idea to have had this little scouting raid as we did find a few issues with the access rights on the computers. According to the school's firewall, Multiply is a dating and relationships site and is therefore blocked. Hopefully we can get that sorted out, otherwise it will be a very short talk!

As Oundle School is not your average comprehensive, the facilities look good. There are certainly enough computers to go round and the room is light and airy. So, everything looks good - although I hope that I can rearrange the furniture a bit!

For those of you who may not know where the Sir Peter Scott building is, it is on the corner of Glapthorn Road and Milton road. I took the photograph above to help you get your bearings and because it enabled me to get a photograph from an angle I wouldn't normally get to see.

Size doesn't matter

Let's face it, that is one of the phrases that a man never wishes to confront. It is right up there with 'I see you as a brother I never had' and 'OK, just as long as you don't wake me and pull my nightie down afterwards.'

However, we are talking blogging here, so I should gently divert you back onto matters more cerebral.

The date for my big event at the Oundle Festival of Literature is fast approaching. Somehow I have to find a way of filling two hours without my audience realising that actually I am just an ordinary, boring, old sod. It could be that the secret is already out there as Alexander Mccall Smith has sold out, but so far I have only managed to rattle off a grand total of three ticket sales.

Look my castellated yeomen, it is no good waiting to see if the tickets get cheaper - there are no discounts! Get your bookings in now - the booking office telephone number is on the web site.

Despite the apparent lack of audience numbers, I have been continuing my preparations and the research and the pretty slides are coming along nicely.

Last night, my daughter persuaded me that I should give Twitter a try.

Before you click on that link, it needs a health warning. This Twitter thing is terribly addictive and has the ability to sidetrack you totally from real life.

To oversimplify matters, the principle is that you 'follow' people on the site and you see what they are up to in their daily life in the form of short, 140 character messages and you then have conversations start up rather like sending text messages on a mobile phone.

In my first foray into the world of Twitter was a strange and surreal experience.

I soon started to follow Richard Madeley, who's blog I highlighted in these very pages after I discovered it in the Times Top 100 blogs. Then, much to my amazement, he started to follow me! Just what a megastar of daytime TV is doing following me is a bit of a mystery, but there you go.

Taking the opportunity, I decided to ask the question that has been on my mind ever since I first read his blog 'Do you write your own blog?' to which he replied 'Yes'. So loads of congrats and kudos to the guy. It certainly adds another dimension to the character you see on the boob tube while devouring your afternoon buns.

Anyway, back to the topic in hand. One of the strange phenomenon of the world of Twitter is the number of famous people you can follow on the site. In the real world it would be called stalking, but on this site it seems you can do it all totally legally.

Imagine the response you would get if you sidled up to a celebrity in a restaurant and asked if they wrote their own blog? The restraining order would be the least of your worries.

This Twitter thing is amazing. Next time you find yourself at a loose end and don't know if you want to knit some breasts or try something new on the computer, give it a go.

Moments in the Limelight

That’s Entertainment!

I promised my patient yeomen a rather lighter subject matter in my next block – and here it is. There have been the odd mutterings that I really should blog about something other Vulture Funds. (Note 1) Well fret not my activated yeomen, for tonight I shall shake my magic staff and grant your wish.

For the next couple of weeks, our small town holds it’s Literary Festival. Last night was the open mike night for local writers, so I got my chance to step into the Limelight for my seven minutes of fame.

There is nothing I like more than an opportunity to get up onto my hind legs before a captive audience – so I pop along every year and treat those less fortunate to a specially commissioned piece of local interest that I have drummed out while under the influence of the dried frog pills.

This year, the event was compeered by the UK All Stars Slam Poet 2006, Rob Evans. There was a good selection of local writers and the standard was very high and the laughs many. (Note 2)

So, if my yeomen are suitably captive, I will share with you my contribution.

Reginald Molehusband Lives

Oundle is a quiet, almost sleepy market town. The modern world snakes past along the bypass leaving the town virtually untouched. While other places may embrace change, here in our delightful rural backwater, we doggy paddle around in eddies of the 1950s.

Yet a hidden menace has struck into the heart our community. Almost unnoticed, we have become a hotspot of a horrible virus. What makes this all the more heartbreaking is that most of us remain totally unaware of its presence while it has reached near epidemic proportions.

Sadly, those untouched by this debilitating disease treat sufferer's wrath and ire. I am here to implore you to treat the poor unfortunates with more sympathy.

When the virus was first identified in Surrey in the 1960s, the press labelled it Molehusband Syndrome. As it spread, the Government took firm action to stamp it out. To begin with there were public information films (Note 3). These films became television adverts. When society began to rebel against sufferers and baying mobs arrived to taunt the afflicted, the government enacted laws to test all seventeen year olds in attempt to isolate the cause. To tackle new infections they introduced wardens. The actions were generally successful and it dropped out of the media spotlight.

Sadly, Oundle's strain of Molehusband's Syndrome is a mutation, but worse, our populace seem sadly unaware they of their infection. I would hate to cause panic, but look at those around you. They could be carriers.

Now please, stop shuffling in your seats and trying to put some space between you and your neighbour. You! The lady at the back. Please put away that industrial sized vat of bleach.

Molehusband syndrome is easy to spot. Medical science has moved on and now it is fully treatable. There is a cure if you catch the signs early enough.

One of the earliest symptoms is the sudden urge to trade in your sensible and reliable little hatchback. Despite only travelling from the edge of town to school and occasionally organising shopping expeditions into Peterborough, sufferers find themselves drawn to 4 x4 dealerships. In the most extreme cases sufferers purchase vehicles the size of small industrial units.

If Molehusband Syndrome is allowed to continue unchecked, subtle psychological changes kick in. The brain starts to block out the presence of any vehicle smaller than there own. Sufferers drive through narrow gaps oblivious to oncoming traffic and causing other drivers to take evasive action.

The next time you find yourself forced to drive on the pavement in West Street, don't shout at the 4x4 driver that forced you off the road. Try and find your compassionate side. The poor unfortunate is suffering and requires a condescending smile and ironic wave.

That 4x4 driver will probably be suffering memory lapses. They can find themselves staring at the indicator stalk on the steering column for hours, totally unable to recall why it is there This shouldn't be confused with BMW and Mercedes drivers. Those believe they have an exemption from having to use indicators.

In the most severe cases, sufferers from Molehusband syndrome become convinced that there legs are incapable of supporting them for more than a few minutes at a time. Such is their confusion; you often find them inventing parking spaces where none exist, double parking or even leaving their car on the pavement to ensure that they can obtain their shopping before collapsing in an unsightly heap.

So, my fine citizens of Oundle, please treat the afflicted with care and understanding. The next time you feel the urge to yell at the inconsiderate driver of a 4x4, remember that they are simply ill. When you see their monster truck abandoned in the town – and if you can reach - leave them a sympathetic note under their windscreen wiper – along with the number of a good doctor.

From 14th June 2006, the industry standard Crozzy Standard has been applied to footnotes.

NOTE 1: Although I should point out that Roger Helmer MEP did respond to my blog of earlier this week and he left a comment on my mirror blog. I have responded to his comment by email. This may be a very strange dialogue – but it is a dialogue and nears the status of a debate. As people have pointed out, Roger Helmer did have the courtesy not only to respond but to state his view clearly and to take up a position on the topic – even if he is wrong. Click to return

NOTE 2: I had to ask several people to find out exactly what Slam Poetry was all about. I eventually discovered it was competitive poetry and then had several unfortunate visions of duels between poets where they beat eachother up with volumes of their collected works. I should know better than to mix beer with the dried from pills. Click to return

NOTE 3: It strikes me that many, especially my Merkin readers will be a little confused over all of this. You have to be a certain age to remember the public information films they used to show on the TV, but on of my favourites was one that taught people how to parallel park. Although the original film has been lost, you can still watch the video from the link in this news article (Yes, I know I used this link before). Click to return

Just a little test to see what happens I doubt anyone will notice this tucked away her. If they do, I’m sure they’ll keep it secret. You will, won’t you? You won’t be sorry.

TECHNORATI TAGS : Oundle ; Fiction ;Oundle Festival of Literatutre ;Slam Poetry; Molehusband ; 4x4; Dracula.