The power of blogs

I just want to say cheers, thanks, ta very muchly, and all that sort of thing. Thanks to your astonishing generosity we've already raised (We think) the £1000 needed to save Merys's funding. I'm feeling very proud of everyone who pitched in and helped.

Just goes to show, don't it?

THANK YOU

Now don't let it go to your heads.

Thank you

Just a quick ta very much, thank you, molto bene grazi, merci bien, obrigado, to all those of you who have contributed so far to the 'Save Merys' campaign.

Not out of the woods yet, but all donations have been very gratefully accepted. For those that have already helped; you may now all share a very warm fuzzy feeling. You have earned it. Thank you.

For you casual visitors and newcomers who don't know Merys, get over to her blog, read her story and give a few pennies if you can. You can then reward yourself by knowing that you have just helped save someone's career. Ta.

Sponsor a Doctor

Right, all hands to the pumps, your assistance is solicited, desired, demanded and begged. My blogging friend Merys needs your help in a matter of some urgency.

Vital funding has been withheld, and in order to get next years funding towards becoming a Doctor, and saving lives etc, she needs £1000 to get her grant back. All those wishing to assist, a tenner, a pound, some pennies, any spare change you can spare. We have two weeks to make the funding deadline, so click this link or visit Merys’ blog now. Not next week, not tomorrow but NOW, please. Donate via PayPal.

All of those bloggers who link to and occasionally read my rabid nonsense are being requested to assist in this campaign. We have two weeks, no more.

Only £1000 to sponsor a new doctor? Sounds like a bloody good deal to me. You never know when you’ll need one.

Church Social

I’m not a religious man. It would be more accurate to say that I am irreverent verging on the sacrilegious. In short, I do not care for religions of whatever kidney because I believe organised religion has more to do with tribalism than a true belief in God. To me, priests and churches are more part of the problem rather than anything to do with the solution. I make no exemptions. The same for all my Satanist readers, yes, both of you.

Notwithstanding, one of our neighbours, a nice old chap, arrived at my back door two weeks ago with an invitation to the local Church spaghetti supper. “Ah.” Said I “You do realise that Mrs S and I aren’t exactly churchgoing folks?”
“No problem. Terry doesn’t next door, and we haven’t seen your landlady since she got divorced.” He replied without irony. With that said I accepted the invitation and discussed the matter with Mrs S.
“It’s how you get to know the neighbours.” She shrugged, as if this is something I should have known all along.
“Okay, I’m good with that.” I made the tea, there didn’t seem to be much more to add. Besides, Mrs S knows the set of my moral compass, and is quite happy to join in the ridicule.

Last Friday night we were greeted by our neighbours at the Anglican Church hall and ushered to two trestle tables set up in a magnolia painted church hall with four foot square sound deadening panels hanging from the ceiling. At one side a large servery hatch was open, and four people were busily decanting cooked spaghetti into a large catering three sectioned food warmer already full of Bolognese sauce and Garlic bread.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and was getting a bit crotchety because I get a bit irritable after 10 hours without food or drink. Especially when I felt Mrs S was shunting me from pillar to post without a chance to get any refreshment. Two steaming mugs of coffee later I was my old self, chatting to the others on my table, Mrs S on my right hand talking to our other new neighbours. I was lucky and got the irreverent faction, headed by an American lady from Carmel, California, who held court at my end of the table. We sang a silly song about spaghetti to the tune of Funiculi, funicula or Aus Italien by Strauss.

The local vicar, a young guy in his late twenties who looked more like some code crunchers I used to know who all had some form of Goatee beard, ‘entertained’ us by murdering a couple of tunes. Then he did a draw based on a pack of cards to see which tables got served first to much heckling and cheering. Our table was fourth I think. We got up and stood in line for a pile of home made linguini and Bolognese with a generous wedge of garlic bread. Good solid tucker which was woofed down by all, even those who had elected for a Caesar salad option.

The vicar and his singing partner then launched into some hymns and I took to watching the people around us, singing and clapping along to some of the more militaristic lyrics, “Onward Christian Soldiers” and the like. Although they did a “Christianised” version of “Lean on me” which was a bit cringe making. Nevertheless, I cast my eyes around and watched the true believers clapping and singing their hearts out. “They really believe don’t they?” Observed my wife. I nodded agreement before turning my attention back to a ribald anecdote about an absent minded millionaire living in California. As the tale teller reached the dénouement of her tale I looked around watching the unguarded devotion in people’s eyes as the vicar and his partner sang ever more loudly (and slightly off-key). Last time I saw the expressions thereon it was hardcore fans at a rock concert. Before that, chanting fans at Villa Park, Birmingham (So I was an Aston Villa supporter once - I’m much better now).

Before now I’d never properly understood what kind of motivation sits behind the eyes of zealots. Friday night was a revelation in that respect.

Friday night also brought new friends into our lives. I was promised an ‘interesting’ Halloween and have decided to join in the fun in my own idiosyncratic way. Could be fun this coming weekend for Samhain.

There will now be a short commercial break

This is because the TV has gone (No great loss) and my Internet account lapses tomorrow on the 26th (Dis-aster!). Mrs S, the dog and I are going travelling for a while, maybe the rest of our lives. Then again, perhaps not.

I shall still write and post, possibly much more than previously, but things will be a bit sporadic for the next two weeks.

My beat oppo’s Colin and Asif turned up on my doorstep this evening and presented me with a going away card, a bottle of Whiskey and an invitation to have yet another last drink with them. How could I refuse? So I didn’t. I can refuse everything but temptation.

We spent the best part of an hour swapping our version of ‘war stories’ over a couple of pints in my local hostelry. Especially the one where Colin had caught two girls lapping it up so to speak, on the top deck of one of our multi-storey car parks. Never caught any boys like that; yet, anyway. It’s only a matter of time before they do.

I recounted the tale about finding the ‘passion wagon’ of white van man at the bottom of a car park, which gave us all a chuckle as he’s rather one of our ‘regulars’. Makes you wonder what part of the anatomy does the heavy thinking doesn’t it?

Anyway; God bless ‘em both. They’re a couple of good ‘uns. There may even be scope for another last beer with the lads before I move on. Wife willing that is.

Last beer with the lads

The floodwaters are receding, I’ve handed my kit in. My life on the streets is over. I’m going back to being my own man again; a little bit tougher, with an even more jaundiced view of humanity, but still the same grumpy old bear as before.

Met Merys of “I am not a drain on society” for coffee on Sunday spending a good hour chewing the fat, venting a little spleen, and generally setting the world to rights. Our conversation kept on getting interrupted by calls from her mother. Merys, you are right, your Mum does have issues that only she can resolve. Anyway, Merys told me that I should keep blogging, and so I shall. God knows about what, perhaps whatever scrolls my particular knurd on the day. The blog is my sanity reinforcement device and helps me put things in perspective, so a brain dump it will remain.

As to the subject line; leaving any job is always a happy / sad occasion and I was feeling a bit strange about it all weekend. Colin and Asif arranged to meet me at my local and invited one of the others who had just left, 666. 666 had found the job too stressful, and after a year on the streets finally called it a day. Not that I blame her, without the blog to keep me sane, I’d have folded in six months.

The guys were pretty good to me and wouldn’t let me put my hand in my pocket to pay for a round of drinks. Bless ‘em. We spent a couple of hours setting the world to rights and ended on handshakes and hugs (Why not?) I wiped away a manly tear. I shall miss them greatly, but not the job.

Today I spend my first day as a free man watching the rain fall and inspecting my copy of my book which just arrived in the post and looks better than I anticipated. It reads well too. I’ll be using Lulu again.

Anyway, lots to do as we’re moving out of this little town for pastures new and I’ll end with a joke;

I say I say! What do you do about visiting NuLabour politicians investigating the floodwaters?

I don’t know, what do you do about visiting NuLabour politicians investigating the floodwaters?

Keep your foot on the back of their head until the bubbles stop breaking!

I thank you.