Pride

I was watching Carys Matthews (formerly of Catatonia) on BBC Breakfast this morning and she was talking about how proud she was to be Welsh and have such amazing artisans of literature as Dylan Thomas. This got me thinking about how, as an English chap, I don’t appear to have any one to be proud of. Sure there’s Shakespeare and there’s Thomas Hardy and the like but nothing really in the last 50 years or so. Some might argue and say that Betjamin could qualify for this but really, in my eyes at least, there have been no national figure heads to rally behind since Churchill.

Now, I know some people would say “What about her-wot-died-in’t-tunnel?” but I don’t count the Royals, bunch of cash sucking leeches that they are. Furthermore, there are those who would suggest the likes of Thatcher or Wilson, and they would be wrong too. To me it seems we have sacrificed our culture of pride for the culture of celebrity. The worshipping and pedestal placing of vacuous nobodies whom we raise to great heights only to then plunge into the depths of scandal and dismay.

So where am I going with this? Well I thought it might be interesting to see who you hold a lot of pride for. What achievements for civilization your countrymen have made that you see as valuable to both the arts and science. Who do you revere as the epitome of your country’s people, the figurehead that makes you proud to be who you are and where you are from.

Bee: Poem per day 2 of 7

Bee II: The Return of the Bee: A really crap poem by Stegzy Gnomepants

Bee!
I can see!
You at my window
Trying to flee?
Maybe?
Bee!
You can’t get free
The window was shut
By me
Free(zing)

No!
You will not go
You’re black and stiff
Or moving slow
Ly

Bee!
You’re dead I see!
No honey you’ll make
For me
or thee

Cold!
I have been told
Has killed the bee
Now in mould
Once so bold

Bee!
Vacuumed by me
I am sorry
You died.

Edit– Tomorrow’s poem will be about rhubarb as suggested by cujosmurf

Poem per day 1 of 7

Week of poetry

They’re looking for a poet
In this country of mine
To be the laureate
That would be fine

Sadly my poetic skills
Are not shit hot
So my application
They will not have got

So this weeks entrys
In true Gnomepantic form
Will be in verse
And a break from the norm

But I ask you reader
This poll to complete
The first entry of which
Makes tomorrow’s entry a treat

Edit The winner is stephmog with “bees”.

Cockleshell Bay

I do like to be beside the seaside.

I do like to be beside the sea. When walking along the promenade freezing to death in the cold sea air deafend by the incessant BOM BOM BOM BOM of the dodgems in the dodgy gyppo travelling fairground, then avoiding the dive bombing seagulls while trying not to wretch at the stench of stale piss and fish and chips.

The seaside. It’s fantastic isn’t it? So what I like to do is pretend that it is the 1950’s and the golden age of British Seaside holidays. I roll up my trouserleg, don a knotted hanky and try to imagine the hard, vomit encrusted wall is a deckchair and that there are no such things as wasps or small children.

Pickled Eggs Parsnips and Marmite

Marmite, Parsnips, Aubergines and Eggs. All belong in a box labelled “DANGER: HAZARDOUS TO HEALTH” and locked in a lead lined vault built into Rockall and forgotten about until the world ends.

Eggs especially. I’ve never been fond of eggs. I’ve always been suspicious about something that comes out of a chickens bottom.

Ah! You say, “Ah! But you like cake! Cake has egg! So does mayonnaise and pancakes” ah!! says I, “Ah! But I can’t see or taste the foul things!”

I mean really what you are eating when you eat an egg is chicken menses. Would you? Could you? Ewww. Dirty. Dirty and why would anyone want to pickle the fuckers? When I worked in the Health and Safety Executive I used to sit opposite a lovely girl called Claire. She was Irish and as any Englishman worth his salt will tell you Irish girls are stunning and Claire was no exception. But Claire had a serious fault. One thing that resulted in previously entranced males running a mile. Claire loved Pickled eggs. She also loved Pickled walnuts, pickled cabbage, pickled onions and even pickled pickles. But not just the pickled items.

SHE WOULD DRINK THE FUCKING VINEGAR!

The office would smell. Claire had this odour of pickling vinegar which she tried to disguise with a variety of fragrances but to no avail. Seriously! And so pickled things are also on my no list .

And then I get asked “What is it about Marmite and Parsnips that you despise so?” Well let me tell you. Marmite is nasty. Imagine eating ear wax. That really is as close to the flavour of Marmite as you can get. Ear wax. Ear wax with a bit of salt. Dirty dirty dirty. Not only that but Marmite is a yeast extract. A diet rich in yeast can encourage infections such as thrush, athletes foot, brain worms and even galloping knob rot. Everything about the foul stuff is wrong.

Make your own Marmite

Obtain as much ear wax as you can.
Add salt.

But what about parsnips?

Well Parsnips are deceitful animals. Nasty little fuckers sitting on your Sunday dinner plate masquerading as Roast potatoes. Imagine so looking forward to a crisp and crunchy roast potato so much that you can almost feel your teeth chatter at the thought of the crunchy bits. Then imagine the shock of biting into one of the fuckers only to find out its a fucking parsnip! Yeah well I wasn’t impressed. It put me off my dinner that day. Dirty, horrid, icky. But that’s not all, for along with Parsnips there’s fucking OLIVES. How people can eat olives I don’t know. Such people are the same people that turn their nose up at me eating lard, pork fat or bacon rind. It’s the same thing! Except in vegetarian format. Olives are the deceitful brethren of Parsnips. Why? Well imagine eating the most delicious salad you’ve ever eaten and you espy what you think is a grape. Grapes and Salad is very 1970s and quite vogue at the moment. But beware! So you’re eating this salad. It is a very tasty salad and you decide to leave the grape until the last bite, because you love grapes and the way to eat things is to always leave the best bit to last so you can enjoy and savour the food.

Then you bite into the “grape”. Only it’s not a fucking grape is it? NO! It’s a fucking OLIVE! Where you were expecting sweetness and juice you get bitterness and grease. There is only one thing worse than Marmite, olives and parsnips and that is Marmite basted parsnips in an Olive jus.

Oh and maybe liquorice.

I say chaps!

So there you are, you American types reading this in the comfort of your log built cattle ranch wearing your Stetson hat and worrying away at your Colt45 while I’m sat here in cold and rainy England (where the rain never stops (no..seriously it never stops. Endless perpetual precipitation 24/7/12/365. Ask anyone that lives here) with my bowler hat (with sleeves) and umbrella from my office over looking Parliament square1 and I think to myself in my Queens English accent “Good grief! You chaps over there must be jolly well fed up with those confounded indians firing arrows at your house day after day.”.

And then my thoughts turn to stephmog idling away her days in the rural splendour of remotest Wales with her nearest neighbour, a sheep called Milly, while coal miners go about their business singing “Men of Harlech” and talking about Aled Jones and rugby (The game. Not the place. It’s kind of like American Football only without the girly safety equipment.Rugby, the place, is an entirely different matter). I then think of the lovely storm1jet2 with all those delightful miniture clay pipe smoking men in green hats. I think of the likes of zelest and think4yrself rushing about to get to their IKEA saunas (though not together but possibly) before the ice on the icehole freezes back over and I think ofbillzy in his shell suit and crazy permed hairdo and I think “How many more damn stereotypes can I squeeze into one post?”

Of course the answer is probably as infinite as the stars. But what I really think is how do people see the UK. More specifically how do international people see our regional differences?


1 – In Britain it is compulsory to have offices that overlook the Houses of Parliament. Ask anyone here if you don’t believe me!

Teeth

I upgraded J River Media centre to version 12. I love it. It makes Windows Media Fuckerupper seem like something cobbled together by a group of sixth form A’level Computer Programmers.

Mrs Owen was caught on Webcam on Friday acting suspicious. Who the chap the pocket bound hands is we have no idea. Probably some local scally.

Picture