Read the whole shameful tale HERE
The Trophy Rats Of Bradford
My take on the northern giant rat invasion of 2010
This one is from Saturday Night Live, me I'm looking down the barrel of Saturday Night Home-Alone.
As a self professed fan of both Blackberries and humorious run-ins with the public [fishing and eating] I really liked this tale told at the River Daze Blog
Recent conversation between a certain grizzled blogger and a local metropark employee. The setting, an intersection along one of the more remote loop trails, whereat the smaller trail, rather overgrown, sports a sign which says:
DO NOT ENTER - TRAIL RESTING.
Metropark Employee (MPE): That trail is closed to the public.
Grizzle Blogger (GB): I don't blame you. Can't have the unwashed masses traipsing willy-nilly all over their park.
GB: All that tramping about. I can see how a path would become exhausted.
MPE: Uh, well anyway, you can't go in there.
GB: Wouldn't dream of it. But I presume it was all right to exit?
GB: The sign says "Do Not Enter." It says nothing about exiting. MORE
Great photography too
Pic credit to google images
Pic credit to google images
I was sitting on a bench eating a sorbet - a woman, with the belligerent tone of the holiday maker, demanded
BHM: "Where'dja get the ice cream"
Not 'Say Honey' or 'Excuse me' just "Where'dja get the ice cream" [face like a slapped arse]
I, on the other hand, was able to remember my manners [just]
SBW: One block, turn right and it's the fudge store.
BHM: Oh tell me that's a fake accent
SBW: Of course it is ma'am, I just put it on for the tourists
It's the small things that make this life bearable, dear reader.
Keep on keeping on
Yawn, it's that time again. Another numpty has tried to cast themselves as a defender and guardian of all that's fluffy, cute [and delicious].The utterly meaningless Leona Lewis, (or 'The Butcher of Hallelujah' as music lovers know her) was, it's reported, enjoying a breath of fresh air between shops in LA when she saw a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with the rabbit on a lead. She asked him what the was planning to do with it.
Being hungry and homeless he gave the only logical answer '... probably eat it.' Appalled, not by his suffering but, by the idea of one of Disney's little creaures being dinner, she offered him $100 for it. Being poor not stupid he accepted.
That most trustworthy of news sources 'a friend' is quoted as teling whover passes for a reporter these days that the bunny-wunny is now living in Ms Lewis' garden where she fondly imagaines it to be safe from any culinary adventures.
Rumors that Ms Lewis is completely ignorant [of Cats, Dogs, Bob Cats, and Coyotes] are yet to be proved.
Question "Who are these people?" on second thoughts ...GROAN we're surrounded. Modern Life is, as they say, Rubbish
If I may be permitted to explain, this is not a slur on the eating habits, character or lifestyle choices of the good citizens of Leeds. It's a history lesson.
The first recorded use of a tracking animal other than a dog in the UK was 'Slut' a pig owned and trained by A baronet from hampshire called Sir Henry Mildmay. His pal Charles Darwin said "Sluts sent was exceedingly good, and she was more useful than a dog"
OK more trivia than history. The book this fact is taken from looks a lot of fun 'The Keen Shots Miscellany' by Peter Holt
All papers sat and passed. Off back down south.
Before we laugh we should spare a thought for brave Nicole
This is a salutary lesson in how far a man's obbsessions will take him.
It's a brave man who'll admit his mistakes.
It's a daft man who'd take his girlfriend on an experimental snow camping trip!
Or as Nelson Muntz would say Ha Ha!
I feel so uncharitble, but I can't stop laughing.
PS thanks to Andy at upnorthica who found this one.
Am I psychic? Or are the public just extremely predicable?
One day a week I spend at home with The littlest Bushwacker; generally we drop Bushwacker Jnr. off at school and make our way home via the bakery, or weather permitting we take a walk in the park. As my fly cast is still in its embryonic stage I'm trying to get as much practise in as possible so I take my fly rod with me and practise on one of the ponds. Half an hour once a week isn't much but its better than no practise at all.
I use a short leader tied to to a feather from that pheasant. I don't need a hook, I don't use a hook. I knew this was going to happen, and this morning it did.
While I was happily thrashing at the surface of the water a black Labrador bounded up scaring TLB into hiding behind my legs. Ever one for instilling confidence (tempered by realism) into the kids I said 'you're all right honey, that's a friendly dog'. Then looking around the pond to its approaching owner I added 'It's the owner I'm frightened of'.
I was going to describe the woman as having a face like a Bulldog sucking on a Wasp, a face only a mother could love. When my own mother used to see faces like that she'd tell me and BoB 'stop pulling that face, the wind'll change and you'll be stuck like that'. The wind is obviously changeable on Blackheath.
I could feel her rage before she pulled up alongside me, her eyes ablaze with indignation as she shouted "this is not a fishing pond" to which I replied "I'm not fishing" I let a pause hang in the air while she gulped like a feeding Carp before adding, "this is casting practice". Spying her chance to feel justified she waded in a little deeper "you're leaving hooks in there, there's Ducks in there, and you're leaving hooks in there!" she went to turn away in a huff, no doubt intending to report me to the park maintenance guys, further round the pond, who were busy using a small John Deer thingy to drive the six or seven feet between individual pieces of rubbish.
Restraint, Respect, Control - whoever has the slowest heartbeat wins....
"Madam, maybe you'd like to take a look at this" by this time I'd hauled in the line and was presenting her with the end of the leader, "And if there's a hook on it you can report me, and if there isn't a hook you can apologise".
She muttered "I apologise"
Her withdrawal was made all the less dignified by my laughter.
I know, I know, no points for fishing in a barrel, but you've got to make your own entertainment. Such is suburban life.
Thanks for reading
photo credit (some very good pix)