Chef Wanted - Apply Within

In the crowded restaurant on a busy Sunday lunch, the chef of the local pub decides to throw his dummy out.

We've all been there, we've asked a waitress what the soup of the day is and they've replied with "I'll just go and ask the chef". What most people don't bargain for is an irate raging monster of a chef stampeding out of the kitchen with a knife in both hands bellowing "It's packet soup and it's fuckin' shit".

Those were his exact words I kid you not!

Further more, neither do you expect the chef to then threaten to "stab the fuckin' lot of you, staff and management included", with the occasional "I'll punch your lights out" thrown in for good measure.

It's no surprise really that the chap no longer has a job.

Whilst the landlord was telling me the story of the traumatic events, I for some reason couldn't stop laughing hysterically.

"It's packet soup and it's fuckin' shit."

If you want to get yourself fired you'd have to go a long way to beat that one.

Birthdays, Weddings and No Guitars

I apologise for the lack of posts lately but I've been a bit busy. Friday night was Matt's 40th birthday party in the local pub where we organised some live music. The singer guitarist took quite a bit of finding because we specifically wanted somebody who could play some Led Zeppelin stuff. I was supposed to be getting on stage so to speak with my guitar to play Babe I'm Gonna Leave You whilst the singer sang the lyrics and Andy bonged his bongo but I ended up drinking too much beer, and realising I probably couldn't play due to not even being able to see straight I suffered from the dreaded stage fright. It didn't help having a few critical people in the crowd who were musicians themselves. I regretted it the next morning though (Both the lack of guitar playing and all the alcohol). The guy is coming back to play in September and I here by announce to the world I WILL DEFINITELY PLAY MY GUITAR. Oh yes I will...... bring your ear plugs!






Loz never turned up so I thought I'd make him a virtual party goer.

I went to a wedding on Sunday and spent the day trying to capture the event in a reportage style of photography. Out of about eighty photos I probably took ten that I was really happy with. Anyway I'll post two or three over the next couple of days and let everyone else be the judge and I hope it doesn't bore you senseless like this latest post probably has.

Tenby

We've all been to Tenby in Pembrokeshire, Wales, spelt Dinbych-y-pysgod in Welsh. I'm not too clued up on my Welsh language but roughly translated I should imagine it means, the bitch is a piss god, what ever one of those is.

The reason for going, apart from why the hell shouldn't we go, was because Matt has just come back from Florida after taking his helicopter pilots license and he's also the big four zero later on this week.



We stopped at a campsite called Meadow Farm which was no more than a ten minute walk into town and sported some stunning views of the bay. It cost £7 per night per person and came with some toilets and a shower.


A mass gathering of jangly tents.

Friday night was spent drinking around the tents until the early hours. At around 10 o'clock it was decided to have a barbecue so Neil and Gaz headed into town to find a Spar shop to buy some burgers, sausages, kebabs etc. Ten minutes later we had a phone call to say that the shop was shut so they'd bring back some fish and chips. After a full hour and fifteen minutes they arrived back. Whether the vinegar had got up Gaz's nose or something I'm not sure but he sounded decidedly slurred! He stuck to his story all weekend though that he never found a pub, there was simple a large queue in the chippy.

Saturday morning was a full on fat laden feast of sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms and eggs, all washed down with cups of tea, or in Gaz's case, a can of Carling.





After breakfast we had a ride out to Pembroke Castle for a bit of culture.




From left to right - Neil, Ellie, Matt, Loz, me, Gaz and Cara.


It's a modern day Viking!






Seemed like a good idea at the time!



From the castle it was back to Tenby for a mooch round town to find a pub.


Tenby sea front.


Matt and Ellie.


▲Whilst we all popped to the pub, Neil did a vanishing act. Unbeknown to us he was accosting a little lad's spade to do a bit of sand writing.▼

It says - Mat, and underneath, 40th. I'm not sure who wrote 'smells'.

Back at the campsite and a couple of beers later it was time to impress the quiet campers with our skills at stunt riding.


That's me.... Who needs a surfboard?


Neil looking very stylish.


Loz trying to get some blood to his head.


Seven people on a bike... no problem.


That's Neil at the back attempting some grass skiing.


Gaz demonstrating some superb balance.


Well it was bound to end up in tears. Not much damage apart from a broken indicator.


Before any more damage to bikes was done it was decided to start building human pyramids.


Saturday night. Loz doing his finest Kenny Rogers impression. Either that or he's in pain.

We all went for a curry late on in the evening. Gaz, fuelled by alcohol excelled himself at the curry house and should be proudly entered in our book of fine dining experiences. That's one for another day!

We all left to ride home at different times on Sunday morning. Loz, Neil and Dean left at 9.30 and took a route back up the west coast to Aberystwyth then cut across inland to home. Matt, Ellie and myself left at 10 and headed up through Abergavenny, Hereford and Worcester. The A4013 between Hereford and Worcester is a fantastic road for bikes. Gaz and Cara.... well I have no idea. When I left, Gaz was refusing to get out of his pit.

All in all a fantastic weekend. Roll on the next one!

Comment of the weekend goes to Ellie for suggesting we all "put ourselves on her face"..... Don't ask!

Drunken display of the weekend without doubt goes to Gaz..... a sterling performance!

Winner of Saturday nights farting competition is still awaiting the votes.

Luigi

The beer's flowing and I'm with a crowd of mates telling a joke about a wealthy Italian guy who's taken his lad to Harrods.

""I wanta suita for my Luigi with tha bigga tha fukina heada." he tells the female sales assistant as he repeatedly clouts poor Luigi round the head....."

""I wanta suita for my Luigi with tha bigga (clout clout) tha (clout) fukina (clout clout clout) heada (clout clout).""

I'm making impressive clouting actions by slapping my one hand forwards and backwards across my other hand. The joke's going well. Everybody is laughing.

"The assistant kits Luigi out in one of the shops finest suits."

""The suita, it'sa notta googa and a nota bada, it'll do for my Luigi with his bigga tha fukina heada (clout clout clout clout clout clout clout clout).""

Everyone's roaring with laughter. I continue enthusiastically.

""I wanta some shoesa for my Luigi with his bigga tha fukina heada (clout clout clout clout clout clout clout clout).""

More fits of laughter.

"The assistant is more than a little alarmed by this stage and so decides to take action."

""Look mister, I don't know what country you're from but over here in England we don't go round repeatedly smacking our kids around the head for no apparent reason.""

All my mates are eagerly awaiting the next chapter of the story. Still laughing hysterically.

""I tell you a story about my Luigi with tha bigga (clout clout) tha (clout) fukina (clout clout clout) heada (clout clout)." The Italian continues...."

""In Roma I havea the most beautifula wife. She has the most beautifula face in tha whole of Roma (I'm running my hands down my cheeks). And her boobies (I'm pretending to be cupping large breasts), the most beautiful boobies in tha whole of Roma, oh the boobies (more cupping gestures). (I'm now kissing the tips of my thumb and two fingers. you know the ones, the one normally used to pick your nose and the other normally used for giving people the bird).""

I'm dramatically building up to the punchline.

""Anda down belowa, (making upside down triangle gestures) the mosta beautiful in the whole worlda, tha most perfect, tha most tighta..... until Luigi come alonga with his bigga tha fukina heada (clout clout clout clout clout clout clout clout).""

Everyone's doubled over laughing. But wait, what's this? They're not looking at me. They're looking over my shoulder. This tells me they weren't actually laughing at my joke. In fact it transpired later on that everyone had already heard it. Have you ever had that feeling where you just know you've gone and put your foot in it? I slowly turn my head around and peer out of 99.9% closed eyes. It doesn't hide the truth. It doesn't hide the fact that there's a little old lady sat along side her little old husband drinking two cups of tea looking like they are in serious need of some smelling salts.

PS Sorry about my dreadful Italian accent.

Not A Good Weekend

This is how I spent my bank holiday Sunday.... sat under a motorway bridge southbound on the M40, two and a half miles away from junction 9. Let me explain.

My mate Duncan's wife is away for two weeks. In the middle of her being away Duncan was supposed to be driving down to spend the weekend with her.

That was until he decided to break his foot at work last Wednesday.

Obviously poor Duncan was distraught at the thought of not being able to drive down to spend the weekend with his wife, so me being me took pity on him and offered to drive him there. Two hours there, two hours back, no problem.

Sunday afternoon at three o'clock I set out to pick him back up. One and a half hours into my journey in the outside lane of the motorway there's suddenly a big bang (actually it was more like a boooofff (pronounced like you'd say "beef" in French)), swiftly followed by clouds of smoke and strange rattling noises like that of a box of spanners. My engine seems to have suffered a catastrophic failure. This is verified on the hard shoulder by an oil slick underneath the car.

An hour later the nice chap from Green Flag arrives to collect the debris.



Two hours later I'm back home. Mr Green Flag is unloading the car as I'm reversing my bike out of the garage.

"Now that's what you call a proper form of transport." he pipes up.

"Yes and it's taking me straight to the pub! See ya."
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.
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I was sort of hoping I'd only blown the turbo on it but upon investigation things are a lot more terminal than that. Looking on the bright side, I've had it years and it owes me nothing. If anyone fancies putting a new engine in it, you can buy it off me for peanuts. It's an A4 1.8 turbo sport (petrol) and it has a 220 bhp superchip fitted.

This week I'm car hunting. I can feel an S type Jag coming on (now that I'm getting old).

By the way, the next time someone asks me what's the most I've ever done for a friend, I can now say I drove (well would have if the car had made it) for eight hours covering 440 miles over two days on a bank holiday weekend just so my mate could get a shag!

Brunstrom: Too Far This Time?

Richard Brunstrom, the biker hating "zero tolerance" Chief Constable of North Wales Police seems to have been upsetting biker folk again.

In its latest anti-speed campaign, North Wales Police have revealed photographs, one of which was a decapitated biker. The photo shows the man’s head with his eyes still open lying on a grass verge. The photo was shown to journalists and local authority representatives at a meeting to promote road safety.

Brunstrom said: “We did it to serve a purpose. The images are there to make an impact today.” He also stated that the biker was travelling at excessive speed. This I suppose is fair enough, but disturbingly, Brunstrom said that the family of the dead man was not aware the image was being used in the campaign!

How lovely to know your dead son's/husband's/brother's/sister's/dad's decapitated head photo is being shown around to God only knows who without your knowledge. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if it doesn't end up splashed all over the internet at some stage.

I avoid political, ethical and personal issues like the plague on here but Brunstrom, I think you've gone too far this time.