December Starts Tomorrow

December starts tomorrow

That’s crept up pretty fast

What happened to the eleven months

Now nestled in the past?

December starts tomorrow

Three hundred and something days have fled

Since New Year’s Day was rung in

While I lay snug in bed.

December starts tomorrow

This year has passed me by

So many hopes and dreams unfilled

So next year I must TRY.

December starts tomorrow

Christmas in just over three weeks

And relatives are plentiful

As grannies squeeze your cheeks.

December starts tomorrow

With the opening of advent doors

And the sound of many children

Spitting cheap chocolate on to floors.

December starts tomorrow

Where has this whole year gone?

Thirty one days will fly by soon

And we’ll begin another one…


Which Came First – The Sprout Or The Golf Ball

So it’s monster sprouts this Christmas. That’s the fun and quirky story the news is running with today. And sprouts are the original Marmite. You either love them or hate them.

Personally I bloody love them. LOVE them.

So I am thrilled that this year, thanks to warm weather at some important sprout growing time they are huge. The size of golf balls. Because whenever you need to compare and contrast sizes it’s best to go with something sporty.

Lengths in football pitches is always a good one.

How long is a football pitch? I don’t know. But I am still happy to read sentences telling me something is as long as three football pitches as though it is a universal unit of measurement.

And it’s the same with golf balls. Lots of things are the same size as golf balls – hailstones, sprouts and lumps, for example. All the size of a golf ball. And we’re expected to know and understand this as, again, a standard unit of measurement.

Sky News, as they are prone to doing, also went to the trouble of getting in an expert to explain that larger sprouts can be cut in half to aid with cooking and that they can also be boiled or roasted this festive season.

As opposed to other festive seasons when… no, they could be cooked in exactly the same way.

And not content with dumbing down that aspect of the sprout, Sky News also seems to doubt our ability to judge the size of the sprout. The words “as big as a golf ball” aren’t enough to sell it.

So the story is accompanied by a picture of a sprout and a golf ball side by side. And you know what, they are the same size. I mean, we’re having to take them at their word that it’s a golf ball sized sprout and not a sprout sized golf ball but after they’ve gone to the trouble of getting in a sprout expert they’re not going to dupe us with the size.

No mention of the flatulence though. I assume that will also be bigger.

Can’t wait.

p p p Perplex A Penguin

I don’t understand the British Gas adverts.

Why is a penguin checking out how warm various thibgs around the house are?

For starters, it’s a penguin. How much do penguins understand or appreciate the workings of gas central heating? This one seems to immediately grasp the concept of radiators and taps. Neither of which, I’m fairly sure, occur naturally in the wild.

I say fairly sure, but you and I both know if radiators lived in the wild you’d know someone who would insist on an entirely organic radiator for their downstairs clockroom. And that person would be a sick.

Anyway, penguins. Would a penguin actually appreciate a heated home. Particularly one wearing an artic explorer style jacket which it cannot remove because it only has flippers and can’t work with the zip and other fastenings due to its lack of opposable thumbs.

Not to mention the fact that, as anyone with a mother will tell you, said penguin will not feel the benefit of said jacket if it continues to wear it around that (already established) warm  house.

Someone explain the penguin.


Enough Is Enough

For once this week

If it’s not too much to ask

I’d like getting home

To be a simple task.

I’d love if the bus journey now

Had no issues and simply just flowed

Because I’ve spent too long this week

Crawling along every road.

Monday and Tuesday provided large jams

And Wednesday no work to be had

Then Thursday provided a crash later on

Getting home late makes me sad.

So Friday I ask just one thing of you

No pressure, but come through for me

Just let me get home before seven o’clock

For a reasonably civilised tea!



Busted Driver

I’m going through a period in which I have, for the most part, the same bus driver every night.

As a result of this he’s become quite chatty and sociable and wotnot. As you would with a “regular” in any job. He knows where I get on, he knows where I get off. He knows things.

And that’s kind of the problem.

On Tuesday I had a blinding headache. Or, I should say, a normally blinding headache. It was a migraine which normally manifests itself as an aura. Which is a posh way of saying you lose most of your vision but in a really pretty way. But on Tuesday I got the full on pain treatment and associated sick feeling.


And, as is becoming more common, I spent fricking ages sitting in traffic. With a banging head and a churning stomach.

Carole, being the loving soul she is, offered to get me from Dewsbury. Which is not where I normally get off the bus.

Uh oh!

When I got off the driver asked me if I was going forward. I said “not tonight” but I can only assume the driver thought I said “I’m going to dance on the bodies of freshly killed kittens” because he made a face of sadness one would only normally make when faced with a dead kitten dance party. Certainly not the face you would pull when someone unexpectedly gets off a bus.

I got the bus tonight and it’s the same driver. And he seems incredibly pleased I’m going all the way home tonight. Which does also mean I am entirely committed to this regardless of traffic flow (or lack thereof).

But even worse than that is the fact that I have prepared a cover story in case he asks why I got off. For some reason, I don’t think the truth is good enough. So I have a story prepared about going to the Asda in Dewsbury to look at Christmas Food and meeting my girlfriend there.

Which, when you consider we live a five minute drive from a comparable sized Asda just sounds like complete bullshit.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t ask…