Shaky Shaky

Mrs Funk sighed luxuriously, half asleep.

‘Well the earth certainly moved then darling’

Then the earthquake struck…

Does anyone find it a bit wrong that they name the source of a phenomenon that makes you shake around like a shiteing dog, the ‘Epicentre’?

I AM going to hell!

Breaking News

… from our roving reporter.

Apparently, a recent break in at Shipley Police Station, in which a large quantity of sanitary equipment was stolen from the  bathrooms, has left police baffled.

A spokesperson was heard to comment ‘I can honestly say, we have nothing to go on’

Cheers Claire!

Burn, Funky, Burn!

Just a quick note to secure my place in the fiery pits of hell:

My mate just rang me from Bridgend.  His car’s broken down and he needs a tow.  I’ll have to take my own rope though – you can’t get one for love or money down there!

Ba Dum Ching!

Getting Ones Derrier Kicked

Apologies for the problems that some may have noticed with the site last week…

Hopefully they are all now resolved – it got to the point where I couldn’t even log in myself, meaning that my magnum opus on the subject of Valentines Day will now have to wait until next year, as it probably wouldn’t make much sense now. Ho hum…

Nothing much to report really. I could wax lyrical about my recent encounter with a self described ‘International Master Spy’ cum scrap metal dealer – whom I and a couple of other members of the Sunday drinking crowd aided with his impossible pub quiz. But, well, I do believe he has ’00′ rating, and wouldn’t want to get my arse kicked.

Observing the younger bar staff members at the Kings spending their time in the online cornucopia that is World of Warcraft has inspired me to dust off ‘Malintent’, my trusty Gnome Warlock and get stuck back in – I have once again started logging on for an hour before I set off to work. Frustration set in this morning however, when I really really really had to set off, leaving poor Malintent stuck in the caverns of Ulduman, knowing full well that as soon as I log back in (tonight if Mrs Funk allows), if I don’t get stuck straight into battle he is going to get his arse kicked hard!

If I hadn’t left, I personally would have got my arsed kicked at work. As it was, I was 10 minutes late due to traffic, my phone was ringing and I already had 10 emails in place to deal with.

War Child

I have been pointed in the direction of this site, which is collecting stories from British Bloggers about things that have happened in their lives, for possible future publication in a charity book called ‘You’re Not The Only One’.

All proceeds from the sale of the book will be donated to the War Child charity.

In an effort to get myself immortalised in the mind of the general public, I have submitted my recent story ‘Psssh‘. I’m sure regular readers will agree that this is an admirable choice.

And please, regardless of whether my entry is accepted for publication or not, don’t hesitate to purchase a copy when it becomes available. I’ll keep you updated.

‘Old Heatonian – Charity is my middle name’

Progress (of sorts)

Not that much to talk about so far this week…

Training at the gym is coming on in leaps and bounds – I have now managed to run the full mile on the treadmill at least, although it was a particularly knackering feat, but my goal is in sight.

I was amazed though to discover that a young lady who frequents the Kings has recently completed her own feat for Sport Relief, which frankly puts my own meagre ambitions into perpective.  She managed to run 50 miles, row 50 miles and cyle 50 miles over an eight hour period.  Albeit, this event took place at the University gym, but when you consider it is taking me the best part of quarter of an hour at the moment to complete my mile, I am suitably humbled by her.

Well done Jodie!

Parents Lie

Travelling home from work last night was a particularly nightmarish experience…

Having left my customers office at 3.45pm, I was looking forward to getting back to the village at a reasonable time for once – after all, Sheffield is only about 65 miles away. However, after queing for what seemed like an eternity to pay for my car parking, it then took me around three quarters of an hour to leave the grounds of the car park. Progress on the main road was hampered somewhat by the diversion signs guiding people around a collapsed sewer, and the predilection of new mothers to assume that the baby buggy they are pushing through the traffic confers some form of magical invincibility to the trauma of a double decker bus ploughing through them, didn’t really help. Total journey time to the motorway (around 5 miles) clocked in around the hour and three quarter mark, making my eventual time of arrival in the village around 6.45pm.

I wasn’t happy.

Which brings me to the subject of todays post.
While travelling, I was subjected to a longer than usual dose of drivetime radio, on which the prevalent subject of discussion for the evening was the lies parents tell young children about the death of their much cherished pets.

I was quite lucky in this respect. My dog Trixie died at a ripe old age, at a time when I was old enough to understand that she had died. My Mum & Dad were honest about what was happening, so didn’t have to lie. But my heart went out to the guy who rang in, saying that his mother had told him that his Border Collie, Sam, had gone for a job as a Police Dog, and how thereafter he often wanted to call in to the police station to see how he was doing, only to be told that Sam would be on undercover duties and therefore not available. It was 10 years later when his mum admitted that Sam had in fact been ploughed half a mile down the road by a number 57 bus. The poor guys voice was trembling with emotion as he related the tale.

Then there was the bloke whose rabbit died. His parents just replaced it, telling their son that rabbits were like Dr Who, and magically regenerated when they got to a certain age, thus explaining why his albino rabbit was now black and tan with lop ears. And the girl who had a white budgie one day, and a blue one the next. Her parents, rather than admitting that they had accidentally hoovered up the poor bird, told her that it now had its winter coat on!

All lies – told in good faith to protect the young from the absolute truth of death. But how do you feel when you find out the truth?

So, has this ever happened to you? Did your parents lie to you? Or, more importantly, are you a parent who has told similar lies to your offspring, and feel it’s time to get it all off your chest. Go on, you’ll sleep easier at night…

Click ‘Comments’ and tell us your tale of woe.

Gym Tales

2 visits to the gym this weekend have convinced me of one thing…

My recent estimate of stamina and fitness levels may just have been slightly optimistic, as I behold my own Everest with the awe that must surely have overcome Edmund Hillary on that day in 1953 when he first set eyes on the mountain.

I have no Sherpa Tenzing on board to encourage me with words of sage wisdom, so armed only with a weak will, I failed miserably in my vow to ‘knock the beer on the head’ over the weekend.

Induction night on Friday saw me fail to adequately complete any of the ‘Fitness Tests’ devised by my evil taskmaster, although I was encouraged minutely by his statement that I did better than he expected, given my lifestyle and sedentary career.

Sunday morning though saw some progress, as I managed to complete 1.5km on the treadmill through a combination of ‘fast walking’ and ‘easy jogging’ (when I daringly cranked up the speed to 7.5kmh, just to see what it was like).  This falls far short of my original intention to try and run 3 miles on Sport Relief day though, and I thank the stars for my (surely subconscious) ineptitude in selecting the desired distance to run on the day when I signed up on the Sport Relief website.

It’s early days though, and I am encouraged by the fact that I have been joined in ‘Team Heatonian’ by the lovely Natalie from the Kings, and ‘Oirish’ Tina.

Next visit to the gym will be Wednesday evening.

I can’t bloody wait!

A Beadle for Friday

Jeremy beadles Funeral arrangements have been released there will be a family service followed by a small finger buffet

Discussion Group

I was discussing the demise of Jeremy Beadle with Art Danfunkel yesterday…

He proposed the theory that we may have fated his death somehow by (among other things of course) making jokes about the poor guys gimpy withered hand in the Kings on Sunday.  With this in mind, we would like to invite all members of the group who were involved in that conversation to meet up again to discuss Manchester United in some depth.

That includes Herbie, who MUST wear his mexican sombrero, as we are working on the premise that a new career direction has landed him the job as Angel of Death and the hat is part of his divine uniform.

If that is not the case, well, it DID suit him!