Due to having 2 teenagers who play rugby I am quite a regular at our local A+E department.
Now when I say local, I mean a 50 minute drive away sort of local. one of the down sides to living in the country I guess.
Now normally I wouldn’t have taken him for a swollen hand and the fact that he wasn’t screaming in agony led me to believe that it wasn’t that serious and would just sort itself out in a day or two but, we had not taken him on a separate occasion and since then he has lived with a deformed finger which bends to the left.
Also, Rhys very rarely gets hurt unlike our oldest Zach who during his rugby years spent much of his time walking around like a mummy, bandages from head to foot, slings, crutches and finger splints, half of which he didn’t really need. (although the time he was air lifted from the pitch.. I’ll give him that one)

Anyway, off we went to A+E about 7.30 after work last Monday.
As you are probably aware, a visit to A+E is probably on par with being as boring as sitting through a 2 hour lecture on crop rotation in the 14th century.
Luckily for me though, our 50 minute away local A+E department offer comment slips in which you can provide them with either constructive criticism, gestures of thanks or do what I like to call
‘ slag them right off constructively’

I must confess that I actually look forward to one of my children hurting themselves so I can write these letters of advice. I convince myself that I am providing a service to the community by doing so.
I’m sure these letters just get ignored but I hope if nothing less that whoever reads them at least has a laugh.

Cleverly, these cards are quite small and seem to have a covering of wax on them which stops most biros writing on them so be sure you pack a pencil with a sharp tip.
You need to write awfully small and you must use the back in order to fit in more than 2 sentences.
So whilst everyone else is sitting there bored out of their minds, I’m sitting there writing and laughing to myself. My wife and child sit far away from me and pretend I’m not with them.
Another way of entertaining myself is to write ‘SNIPER’ on a piece of paper and stick over the CCTV bit on the signs in the x-ray department which ridiculously say ‘STRICTLY NO ENTRY, OFFICIAL PERSONEL ONLY, CCTV MONITORED AREA’

Here is my note…..

When I was in the war, I was taken P.O.W in Korea. It was a truly horrific experience of which I never thought I would be subject to again.
There were 127 of us in total and we were kept in dirty accommodation below ground where there was not a single breath of fresh air. There was a window but as part of the mental torture it had frosted glass and was kept locked shut. The food had no nutritional value and water was scarce. There was a water dispenser however, but it was empty and there were no cups n in which we could have drunk some anyway.
We wasn’t chained up but the chairs provided were designed to cause back problems so standing or lying in filth were our only options.
We were told constantly by our captives that we could go home soon but they kept us there for years.
Inside the dirty cell that we all suffered by passing around our germs and diseases, this was probably because of the lack of fresh air and medical attention that we were given.
6 long years we suffered this torment, 6 long gruelling years that we wished for some form of stimulation to keep us from going insane.

I speak for all of us when I say, we would have given a limb to of had something to read. Just one single magazine, or perhaps a radio to soften the sounds of the vomiting inmates.
In the cell next to ours there was a television, but cruelly it had no sound.
Many times we tried to escape but in order to do this we needed to pass two of our captors who sat behind a bullet proof window and a ‘sniper’ monitored corridor.

Eventually we were freed and let back out into the world slightly more ill than when we went in.

I would just like to thank you for your fantastic job of reconstructing this horrifying ordeal for me to such great detail.
+*+*+*+*+*+*+* hospital, I salute you.


Anniversary show down.

Every man has women trouble, even Wyatt Earp did, and he had a gun and a cool moustache…

Perched 0ver the dirty, whiskey stained bar, Wyatt gained the attention of the old bar keep by chucking a bullet at the back of his bald head.
Wyatt twiddled his moustache and demanded a shot of black tequila, a dark brown drink 80% proof and 20% dirt.
He stared intently at the shot glass for a moment before raising it to his nose to reminisce over its familiar stench.
He sniffed slowly allowing its vapour in turn to singe his nostril hair, burn his throat and lungs before entering his ulcer ridden stomach, filling it with acid and producing a loud gurgling burp.
This was the closest he had come to drinking in 34 months but he knew that today would be the day he would drink; for outside the saloon awaited him the one fight he knew he couldn’t win.
Wyatt, the fastest draw this side of the equator, killer of 2000 men, a once feared bounty hunter and then a notorious law-man in Dodge City.
Wyatt knocked back the drink, took a deep breath and made way to the door.
The sun was bright as he entered the street and the dusty air from a passing carriage made it difficult to see.
As the dust cleared and the silhouette came into view, Wyatt for the first time in a long time felt fear, such fear that his hands trembled.
The sun reappeared from behind a passing cloud, shedding light onto the silhouette and exposing his wife’s angry face.
Wyatt faced the fact that he was just about to publicly have the shit kicked out of him by a woman.

Lying on the dusty road, his balls now resembling mashed potato, Wyatt wished he had paid attention to the several reminders his wife had given him to purchase an anniversary card.


Mr Crisp

There is a man about town whom I do not yet know.
We have never been introduced nor have we ever had a conversation. I don’t recall ever saying hello or even nodding politely in his direction, I find this strange because I see him every single time I leave the house or drive up the high street. I must confess I am not much of a party animal and I don’t have many hobbies, so the only time I really venture out of my house is either to go to work or to visit one of 3 local shops. It does not matter which shop I choose to go to at any particular time, which ever one I go to he will be there. I know very little about this man apart from he only has one set of clothes and has a great big, grey fisherman’s beard, the type I would grow If only my wife would let me. Oh, did I mention that he LOVES crisps? Cheese and onion are his favourite, followed closely by salt and vinegar and always ‘Walkers’ When you see him he will either be standing outside the newsagent or express store eating crisps or sitting on the bench out side the supermarket… eating crisps. If he is not outside a shop, you can bet your life he will be on an in between journey to or from one.

Now I love crisps. Crisps are my most favourite thing in the world, then my wife and kids, family, dogs, salami and so on. Now I reckon I would stand in good stead to beat this guy in a no holds bared crisp eating contest but Not only is it awkward to challenge someone you don’t know to such a duel, I would probably put on 3 stone in weight and would have to buy loads more trousers to fit. Mr Crisp is skinny, no matter how many crisps he eats he stays the same weight and wears the same trousers held up by a thin brown belt and that’s just not fair. People refer to Mr Crisp as ‘the tramp man’ but rumour has it he lives in town in a big house and isn’t short of a few quid. This could be speculation of course, he could just be a tramp. Saying that, he does buy an awful lot of crisps and they are always ‘Walkers’ not some supermarket own brand like we poor folk buy.

I wonder what his house actually does look like? Going on his appearance, I would say it’s pretty run down and shabby, Rotten window frames, leaky guttering and an overgrown lawn littered with crisp packets…. A cellar full of decapitated dolls and eyeless pictures of the queen with ‘SLUT’ graffitied across them. Oh, so this is how rumours start is it? The truth is, I have no idea what Mr Crisps house looks like. As far as I know its a mansion with turrets and flags and of course a drawbridge, because any house with turrets and flags would look ridiculous without a drawbridge. But I do wonder how this man winded up this way, in fact I have pondered on it quite a lot. I imagine him 20 years ago, a hardened war machine who once ate Rambo for breakfast, shit him out and then pissed on him whilst bad mouthing his mum. ‘After the army  a soldier he remained, infiltrating enemy camps single handedly, snapping necks with a flex of his pecs. Travelling alone around the globe, his only comforter, his trusty blade stained with blood from the men he had slayed. Expolsions and gunfire, pain and fear, screams and tears, living on the edge of life and death. His brain sparking a thousand times faster than yours or mine, he was a machine underneath, he won every time. Then one day he retired and moved into town, no sign of this monster now, accept a small rugged frown. No longer at war his brain sparking slower, unable to adjust, no one he can trust, his blade now unused and covered in rust. An internal yearning for the life he once knew, no one left to challenge him, not even a few. So he feeds this monster to keep it at bay, crisps crisps crisps, every day.’

I cant really see the face behind the beard. perhaps he isn’t the war going type. Perhaps he was a farmer who fell desperately in love with his animal feed supplier. Evon her name was, she had long red hair and massive tits but after many years of flirtatious banter and sexual inuendos she broke his heart when she slept with his Adrian his farm hand. After this, Mr crisp sold his farm and vowed to never eat another mouthful of food… accept crisps, because he loved crisps.    


The literary agent

It has been a while since my last blog entry.
I would like to say this is due to ‘writers block’ but that sounds far too professional for my caliber of writing.
Up until a couple of years ago I wanted to write for a living, but I gave up once I learned that every publishing company on the face of the earth have too much on to take another author at that present time but wished me luck in my search.
Those who bothered to reply to my letters did so with cautiously kind words.
As kind and cautious as their responses were, I knew what they were politely saying…
One of the kind responders informed me that the way forward was to find myself a literalary agent which turned out to be one of life’s impossibilities.

You see, literallarary agents are lifeforms of the planet Lit and although very similar to humans they do have very distinguishing differences.
The planet Lit itself is similar to earth, but everything is built from books. houses, roads, everything.
It doesn’t rain on Lit, nor does the sun shine to brightly thus giving the residents a perfect reading light and apt reading temperature.
On Lit the sea holds no water, instead of water it contains trillions of shredded pieces of rejected manuscripts.
Where as here on earth we might go to the sea for some reflection or peace and quiet or just to stare out at its vast beauty and calming effects, On Lit the liraralary agents gather there each weekend to empty their paper shredders and roll around naked amongst each other in joyous self gratifying romps covered in tipex.

Every year one of their vagina shaped rocket ships come down to earth and abduct hundreds of orphans who are then used as slaves back on the planet Lit.
These orphans will spend their lives writing apologetic letters of refusal which are then sent out daily in the millions.
Even people who briefly considered being an author one day but never got round to sending a manuscript off will receive one.
The postman on Lit is the same as a postman on earth except they don’t ride bikes and are giant flying robots with the capability of delivering daily the same volume of letters as her royal majesty’s post office fleet in slough.

Agents daily routine consists mainly of paper shredding but they also spend a lot of their time writing the rules on how to submit a manuscript.
The human slaves do a good job edit these rules so they appear friendly, a bit like the inland revenue advert ‘tax does’t need to be taxing’
With out the edit or in the agents own words would read…
We will only read it if there is NO spelling mistakes, bad grammar and show evidence that you have read a book before you attempted to write one.
There is absolutly no way I spent my teen years swatting it in the library whilst you smoked cigarettes in the school bog to spend my time trying to disipher your writings because YOU never learned to spell!

Basically, it doesn’t matter how great your imagination is, it doesn’t matter if you have the ability to make people laugh.
It doesn’t even matter if your stories can change peoples lives or give comfort to those who seek it.

BUT, litrerary agents are not authors so why is that? I hear you wonder.
Apart from reading too much, what qualifies them to judge if your work is what people want to read?
I have come to the conclusion that many (including my own) are rejected because litralarily agents have no sense of humour.
Didn’t that lady who wrote Harry Potter try for years before someone deemed her work suitable for publication?
But she did get published eventually which means there is at least one out there with the ability to give us what we want.
I guess I will along with many others, be discovered after my death.

To bring closure to this rant I shall end with an ‘epiloge’ (didn’t think I knew what that meant did you literarys.)
Despite my negativity to literary agents, it doesn’t go for all of them, especially the clever guy or gal who will one day publish my stories.
That’s right, some of them are ok and behind the glasses, lack of personality and green slime they could one day be trained to be of more use to the rest of us… like a speed bump.




When I was in primary school I visited what I remember as, the most epic and brilliant place in the world, ever.
A castle with walls a thousand feet tall. Within these walls were houses made from poo and straw, chain mail that you could touch and hold, a gift shop which sold tiny models of cannons which I would imagine were used there years ago.
For effect there were pretend heads on spikes, gallows and stocks. A village within a castle, which held a million tales of the past.
Mount Fitchet castle! Continue reading Misadventure


It’s God’s word…

It’s the most wonderful tiiiiiime of the yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaar…

Families all around the globe will be sitting around the Christmas dinner table to tuck in to a delicious turkey.
All together, we sit in happiness as we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and eat our finest meal of the year.
At some point during the lavish feast of overpriced bird and pig wrapped in pig, two lucky fellows will get to make a wish by snapping the wish bone.
I have done it, you have probably done it, but have we ever wondered why we do it?
Is it superstition, myth, an old wives tale or is it written in the scriptures?
Well, I shall tell you, because I found out.

As we know, there is no such thing as magic, only deception and trickery.
Very few have witnessed a miracle either, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t happen.
When God created the world, he did it from his own vision and then he made it so.
He made the sun rise so the flowers could bask in its sunlight which created beauty.
He made the rain fall so the crops could grow and feed us.
He caused the wind to blow and spread the trees seeds around the globe, covering it with forests which gave homes to the animals.
He created us with love and beauty, and gave the world to us to thrive on.

And whilst he did all this he said unto the world that if the ‘y’ shaped bone located in a chicken’s bumhole were broken by two small fingers, he would grant a wish.

This is the truth.