It's dangerous living in the country

Farmers and estate owners round our way rear thousands of pheasants every year so they can die happy in the knowledge that they have given a little pleasure to some country folk and a few city types.

I believe these specimens get together in small to medium sized groups – shooting parties, I think they are called.

“Hi, honey, I’m home. Bought you these two dead birds full of shot. Get Delia’s book out, there’s a love.”

As you have probably gathered, I’m not a shooting, fishing, hunting type. Can’t see the point when you can get a decent four-bird roast from Aldi for a few squid – and it won’t be full of lead.

Now try crossing the road.

I guess that’s the legacy of an early-years upbringing in a large city.

If a pheasant manages to avoid the shotgun, there’s still no guarantee it will see the day out.

For when one has seen several of his/ her mates shot out of the air it triggers some in-built defence mechanism that means their inner self shouts “Run, don’t fly”.

Looking at that theory from a basic point of view, it’s pretty sound.

Unless, of course, Mr, or Mrs, Pheasant has to cross a road.

! would love to know how many brace of pheasants are shot each season compared with the number hit by vehicles.

I have struck at least two or three a year. Add that to the odd deer, rabbit and hare that I’ve “been in collision with” (old journalistic habits die hard) and you’ll see how dangerous it really is in the country.

Which leads me to pose this question – why do pheasants cross the road just as you get within a couple of metres of them?

Why do they then insist on turning back as they are three-quarters of the way across or, as happened to me recently, try to outrun a car over a small humpback bridge?

All they have to do is wait for a car to pass, then cross safely.

Simples.

The care home Easy Rider

Mil and Fil, who had the distinction of a first mention in IDGOM yesterday, live in a nice residential care home.

Although the fees are slowly strangling their rapidly dwindling assets, it’s the right place for them to live, providing comfort and care for them and peace of mind for the family.

When Mil told us she could no longer cope with looking after the two of them in their small Essex cottage, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I visited around a dozen homes in specific areas – near to them, near to us or near to my sister-in-law.

When we’d whittled the shortlist down to four, Mil and Fil did two to four week trials at each place before choosing the winner, where they have now lived for almost three and a half years.

But it could have been oh so different. One of the places we visited during the investigation stage, which we thought seemed very nice but Mil and Fil dismissed, was later to become the subject of a BBC Panorama programme on abuse by staff in care homes.

The lesson is clear – if you find yourselves having to consider residential care, do the leg work and then involve your loved one/ ones in the decision-making process.

They may be old but they’re still on the ball.

Always respect care home residents – looks can be very deceiving and while the body may be slowing down, the mind stays focussed for longer than most of us think.

Take John (name changed to protect his family) – he is physically challenged now but gets around the care home on his motorised wheelchair.

He’s crashed two or three times now and has even received a warning from the staff about taking care, especially cornering.

If only they knew that the clear liquid in the glass in the cup-holder on John’s wheelchair armrest wasn’t water.

I'm finally going potty

I have rejected the idea of becoming a fully paid-up member of the Community Speedwatch Brigade, despite the obvious draw of a free reflective jacket.

I am now set on a mission to become……Pothole Man.

I’ve been moaning, which is so unlike me, about the state of the road near our house for ages.

There are so many potholes that I’m surprised that those nice people from Top Gear haven’t been in touch with the Parish Council to see if they can use The Street (yep, that’s our imaginatively named road) for their  Star in a Reasonably Priced Car feature.

The Street would certainly present more of a challenge to drivers than the track they use in deepest Surrey.

Would you like to see my collection of pothole photos?

Anyway, I digress. Although I have a degree in moaning about the potholes, I’ve never actually done anything about them i.e. let the Highways Agency, via the county council, know about them. 

But not any longer. Pothole Man had been born.

Coming home from seeing Mil and Fil (mother-in-law and father-in-law) at the weekend, we hit a pothole – and ten metres later it became apparent a puncture had resulted. All was resolved in surprisingly quick time by the AA and 12 hours later I had ventured into the local town to purchase a shiny new tyre.

I am in the process of trying to get the costs we incurred back from the county council. This has been made slightly easier by the fact that the pothole in question had been reported to the council three days earlier.

For the council’s website has a snazzy colour-coded pothole reporting feature that highlights those it has been informed about (including when and the severity of the named pothole) those on a list ready to be repaired and those repaired recently.

I decided to check The Street – and not a single indentation is listed.

So, have camera, have ruler and, most importantly as I don’t get out much, have time.

It’s not going to be pretty.

Massive, brand new numbers of money

Despite the considerable risk of shooting myself in the foot, I have to ask - don’t you hate the way TV presenters of all hues are butchering the English language?

“There’s a huge amount of foreign players coming into the Premier League” said one rather dopey sports guy.

Amount? What, tonnes of them? If you ask moi, that amounts to a distinct lack of basic knowledge of our wonderful tongue. If you can count them, it’s numbers. If you weigh them, it’s amount.

And how about the breakfast TV competition that promises viewers a chance to win “a massive £25,000” in a competition?

Let me get that straight – the £25,000 they are offering is much bigger than comparable sums of £25,000? How can it be massive? Does it weigh more than the average £25,000?

Then there’s the brand new car, waiting to be won in another TV competition.

What’s this brand all about? If it’s new, it’s new. Come on peoples, get a grip.

Told you I don’t get out much.

Fifty shades of grey

I have not read the book (I'd rather put red hot pokers down my finger nails. Hang on a minute - I don't need to read it) and I don't believe my dear wife has either, but this prose, purportedly written by Pam Ayres, must be shared. Enjoy.

The missus bought a Paperback, down Shepton Mallet way,

I had a look inside her bag;...t'was "Fifty Shades of Grey".

Well I just left her to it, and at ten I went to bed.

An hour later she appeared; the sight filled me with dread.

In her left hand she held a rope; and in her right a whip!

She threw them down upon the floor, and then began to strip.

Well fifty years or so ago; I might have had a peek;

But Mabel hasn't weathered well; she's eighty four next week!!

Watching Mabel bump and grind; could not have been much grimmer.

And things then went from bad to worse; she toppled off her Zimmer!

She struggled back upon her feet; a couple minutes later;

She put her teeth back in and said "I am a dominator!!"

Now if you knew our Mabel, you'd see just why I spluttered,

I'd spent two months in traction for the last complaint I'd uttered.

She stood there nude and naked, bent forward just a bit

I went to hold her, sensual like and stood on her left tit!

Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out; my God what had I done!

She moaned and groaned then shouted out: "Step on the other one!!"

Well readers, I can tell no more; of what occurred that day.

Suffice to say my jet black hair, turned fifty shades of grey!

I feel strangely alienated

I like Fridays. It’s food shopping day, which gives me a chance to mingle down at the supermarket with the populace of my local town.

I like Tesco. But I also like Aldi. That’s beginning to sound like a TV advertisement so I should add that Lidl isn’t bad either.

I started using the local Aldi in 2006, soon after it opened. Those were exciting times, selecting the fruit and veg while listening to an array of foreign languages, mainly Portuguese, Polish and Lithuanian.

The car park was full of foreign-registered cars and I felt quite special in my UK-plated motor.

Oh how the times have changed. Aldi now has mother and toddler parking spaces (more about those in an upcoming rant), wines that cost more than £3.50, filet steak and more English-speaking customers than you can shake a stick at.

The car park is reminiscent of a private school driveway at kicking out time – Audis, Mercs, four-wheel drives of varying shades and sizes and personalised number plates.

It’s just not the same anymore. My sartorial elegance used to blend in nicely with the other loose-fitting fleeces, jogging bottoms and trainers with the laces fashionably untied. Now I feel strangely alienated.

I really don’t want to start having to dress smartly to go shopping. That just won’t do.

The need to speed

Stop or I'll shoot.

My dear wife is always looking for new distractions to help me fill my time while she slaves away, earning the monthly salary that is keeping me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.

Her latest suggestion came as a result of an advertisement she spotted in this month’s parish magazine. “Here you go,” she said. “The village is looking for people to volunteer for the Community Speedwatch.”

You know the sort – busybodies with too much time on their hands and an overwhelming feeling of self-importance.

Now I don’t really know why she thought of me but I am truly grateful, for it sounds right up my street.

As I pondered the idea it reminded me of a story from ages ago about some residents of a West Yorkshire village who were asked to take to the streets armed with a hairdryer in an attempt to prevent motorists speeding.

Anyway, I digress. I know our Speedwatch team uses a proper speed gun to deter people from speeding through our sleepy village. And as I assume you get a proper uniform, a Taser and the right of arrest and detention, not just a reflective vest (yellow is SO yesterday) my application is on the way.

Wish me luck.

So right and then so wrong

Here’s a conundrum for you – how can a long-established organisation get things so right one minute and then so wrong the next?

As you will know if you have been following my blog since the early days, last week, I am partial to a walk in the woods, or golf course as it is known in some circles.

I must be the only person who, on a sunny day, can do 18 holes and return to the clubhouse eight hours later paler than when I started.

Not much vitamin D to be had if you spend your time hacking around the canopy of some of this country’s, and indeed other’s, finest foliage.

I mention this simply because of the news that the BBC’s long-standing relationship with the Open Championship is coming to an end, with Sky “winning” the rights to live coverage from 2017 in a deal believed to be worth at least £75m.

Getting it so wrong - the R&A, St. Andrews....

The R&A says this will mean more money can be pumped into the sport at grass roots level.

What I don’t get is the timing of the decision to switch broadcaster when the sport is in so much trouble – some observers say golf lost around 20,000 active players last year.

It’s thought that last year’s Open final round was watched by five million BBC’ers while Sky is reckoned to be able to attract just a fraction of that figure. That doesn’t sound like badly-needed increased exposure to attract entrants at grass-roots level.

Yet the same organisation made a sensible judgement barely six months ago.

Remember September 18: that important vote in Scotland? No, not the independence referendum - the R&A voting to accept female members for the first time in its 260-year history.

...after getting it so right

The 2,400 all-male membership had been urged by the R&A committee to "do what's right for golf" in the postal vote, and they responded by voting "overwhelmingly" to back the change, with 85% of those who bothered to participate voting in favour of women becoming members.

Hopefully some of the longer-established golf clubs will follow their master’s lead and allow players into their clubhouse to spend their money on some après-golf without having to wear collar and tie.

It’s bonkers to think I can pay £60 to watch a football match and get a beer whilst wearing an open-necked shirt and £35 to play a round of golf but have to take a full change of clothes in order to get a beer.

So, there’s still a long way to go.

Time to batten down the hatches

Weather Update - bit of snow falls on Suffolk. Chaos ensues

It’s lucky that, as a rule, I don’t get out much as I probably wouldn’t be able to drive out of the village today.
We’ve had snow and that probably means we’re cut off from the civilised world, and Thetford.
The local hospital A&E is undoubtedly packed with people who have slipped and stumbled in their heels or no-tread-on-sole fashion trainers on the 1cm of the white stuff that has fallen overnight. Wear suitable footwear? Moi?
Schools are undoubtedly closed as Health and Safety dictates that no child must be subjected to such inhumane treatment as getting cold and wet. God forbid they should get a hurty cheek from a game of what used to be popular in the olden days – a snowball fight!
And scores of local employers will have endured “I can’t get into work today ‘cos of snow drifts” phone calls. After all, there are some people out there who have still to finish watching their Sopranos box set.
Goodness only knows what will happen if we get proper snowfall.
Right, I’m off to walk to the village shop to stock up on a few essential items – cigarettes, brandy, scratch cards, that sort of thing. I may be stuck at home for hours. Now, where’s that box set?

Top stuff, that Top Gear

There they were last night, three little boys playing with their toys.

They form a typical boys’ gang, with constituent parts that are so far removed from each other that they shouldn’t really get on.

First there’s Jeremy – the brash, over-confident leader of the pack.

You imagine he would be the first to shout “Fight” when a fracas breaks out in the school ground/ TV studio.

And also the first to melt into the background in case he becomes involved or, more to the point, hurt.

Then there’s Richard – the human version of Shrek’s Donkey, pogoing behind Jezza shouting “Pick me, pick me”.

He may be the smallest of the litter but he’s up for anything. He’ll rarely be top dog in the gang but he loves the aura that radiates from the leader.

And finally there’s James – sensible, boring and practical. We ALL had a James in our gang.

He’d be the one saying: “I really don’t think we should be attempting a new land speed record down Everest Street using a Beano annual as a seat on a single roller skate” as you looked for the next school summer holiday challenge.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you have to admire the three amigos.

Getting paid barrow-loads of money to prat around with your best chums, visit exotic parts of the world, upset the locals and have a jolly good time while you’re at it is quite inspiring.

The closest thing to the Utopia of being a member of Jezza’s Gang is to be a professional footballer. They get paid container-loads of money for doing something they like – only without the fun.

And to think I used to say being a journalist was better than having a real job.

I REALLY must get out more.