_Paul_And_Land_

More Nonsense From _Paul_And_Land_

Month: November, 2013

Words

Gangs of young men wearing industrial helmets and jackets to increase their visibility. Drinking foaming pints of pints of foaming alcohol. All working, it would seem, on re-hashing a Temple to Capitalism. Accents and dialects from many a place: Geordie-City-Land, Mancunia, Scotland-Land and Liverpule. All these chaps here and not there, so who’s there? Probably chaps from here. And probably wearing industrial helmets and jackets to increase their visibility. And drinking foaming pints of pints of foaming alcohol. All away from their families and homes to rehash the Temples to Capitalism. This is strange.

But these ‘ere young blokes use a bit of saucy language, a bit of the Old English, a little bit colourful. Raucous. Fruity even. But you hear it on the BBC everyday, after the wood-shed, coal-shed, tool-shed or whatever shed it is. A lot of saucy language goes on in sheds. Hammers and thumbs. Bugger, damn and blast!! Little lads and dads making cupboards and cabinets and flat packed, flat pack furniture and a little lad and dad relationship. The kind that should exist where little lads and dads make cupboards and cabinets and flat packed, flat pack furniture. Then dad hits his thumb with a hammer and, like the young men in their industrial helmets and jackets to increase their visibility, dad’s words get a bit industrial.

Don’t write a letter home, servant to Mr Gove, a few fruity words are part of our language. We just need to know when. And that is when little lads and dads with hammers is fundamental. Maybe you should have a wee think on that when the Temples to Capitalism are being rehashed by gangs of young men wearing industrial helmets and jackets to increase their visibility. Drinking foaming pints of pints of foaming alcohol. Gangs of young men who should be there and not here. And the gangs of young men wearing industrial helmets and jackets to increase their visibility. Drinking foaming pints of pints of foaming alcohol. Who should be here and not there. When they’re not there, they’re here. And when they’re not here they’re there. And they’re not in sheds, those little lads, making cupboards and cabinets and flat packed, flat pack furniture and a little lad and dad relationship because those dads are too busy rehashing Temples to Capitalism.

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Bacon

Just the other fortnight, a number of chaps from these here parts were chatting about these ‘ere parts and those there parts. Chaps, so it were told, think about things of a frisky nature every ten seconds. Indeed, their minds drift off into thoughts of a both racy and saucy and frankly naughty bit of “Hello Matron” that frequently. Shocking, eh? Every time you’re in the bank or the greengrocers or Mr Anwar’s Convenience Store on the local precinct and there’s ten chaps in there at the same, there’s an orgy going on. What a thought and who’d have thought it? Every ten seconds. It’s a wonder that Britain became an industrial powerhouse with wool-mills and steel-mills and Mrs-mills and Sir John-mills and coal mines but not mills with all that uncontrolled lasciviousness going on all the time. And no cold showers. At all.

Maybe, just possibly and probably, that’s why the ball-juggling ball-jugglers on the slow train to There I or There II or all stations on the line juggle with their bits and parts and particulars. They’re getting their selection of ten seconds worth and enjoying every one in ten seconds worth. Let’s not go there. Ever. Ever. Please!

But what, and yes what, fills the other nine seconds? Albion Rovers, perchance, and setting the tappets on the car. Could even be the cost of haddock in Lowestoft. Who are we to speculate. Terry’s Chocolate Orange. The Missus’s Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Not that the Missus has a Cherry’s Tocolate Noranj or any kind of Chocolate: The Movie because, allegedly, all the Missus thinks about is diet food and diet dinner and Paul Hollywood sandwiches and Kevin, Francis and Richard McBacon. In a McBaconburger. With Fries and Salad to go-go. Are you going to a go-go? (Robinson, Smokey, research by Wendell)

Hang on, what’s this? Sexism in the principality of _Paul_And_Land_? Mais non, mon cher. Wendell would have no truck with that. Read on.

Yes, it seems that the ladies think a lot about the grubbins, which is, is it not, rather more life sustaining than that bloke over there juggling his downstairs and thinking about… Well yes. But in the same way that Mr Tickle-Tackle is thinking about something that’s not there whether it be some Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute so is the Missus as she flicks through the ready meals. Low-Fat, Low-Cal, Low-Salt, Low everything because she wants to be just like the Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute. That’s what they tell her to do. So she does. Heston and Ten Years Younger and Gok One take a bow. Gits. And dreams of pulling Kevin McBacon in Salford. Or Castleford. Or up-town Billericay. No. Not even in the Club Going For A Go-Go, Workington. Danny Dyer maybe. Stop!!!

But that is her dream. Low everything and thoughts of Kevin McBacon and thinking that she needs to look like some Page Three Beauty, some TV celebrity or some local lady of repute, disrepute or ill-repute. And she eats Low everything and drinks colonic irrigation to achieve that media loveliness. And her dinner dissolves to low-food, even no-food. Tissues and cotton-wool. And a cadaver. Was Danny Dyer or a McBacon or a ball-juggler worth so much? No.

What? Pardon!

Wandering around, as we do in the bright sun-lit uplands of upland _Paul_And_Land_ we sometimes bump into things that we didn’t want to bump into in the bright sun-lit uplands of upland _Paul_And_Land_. Sometimes this could be a motorcycle gang hell-bent on motorcycle ganging. Other times it could be a pizza box hell-bent on pizza boxing or Morris Dancers or soggy pie crust. Pizza boxing. In the blue corner, an Iceland value number wearing spangley shorts and in the red corner, a Red Hot Belly Buster packed with jalapenos and chillies and Tabasco sauce. Pants around ankles. Over to you Kent Walton. He did wrestling but let’s not loose the thread of this thread.

Any road, tootling around the bright sun-lit uplands of upland _Paul_And_Land_ we came across a shop. Which as we know can also be a Shoppe but only if it has lace curtains and cream teas and freshly laundered tea-cakes and table-cloths. But this wasn’t a shop with lace curtains and cream teas and freshly laundered tea-cakes and table-cloths. No it was a Booke Shoppe. Not a Booke Shoppe where you can get 15/2 on the favourite at Uttoxeter. Or Market Rasen. Even Ayr. No, it was a Booke Shoppe with Bookes. And bloody Kindles. And people tutting at a crying weans. Blood and snot, children in a Booke Shoppe. How dare they? Don’t let the blighters read, they might get ideas. And concepts. And notions. And Stuff.

Returning to Kindlers; we know that some of _Paul_And_Land_’s favouritist people use these here Kindlers. And very nice they are. Specially the scented ones: Vanilla, Strooberry, Jasmine or Ylang Ylang. And they’re ever so useful if there’s a power cut. Rather sooty though. Which reminds us that buggering WordPress have done something that’s fluffed up responses. Damn and blast.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. As soon as Kyle, who sounds like he should be called Ranjit or Asif or Hanif, gets it sorted. Lovely. Time for a snooze and Pizza for tea.

Tango To Go

Still no news of the lost Pickled Egg. It will turn up. At some point. Alternatively it may not. Pickled Eggs are like that, set them loose and the next thing you know they’re throwing parties. Inundation with Piccalilli, Ploughman’s Pickle, Pan Yan and all manner of things Brown and Yellow and Orange. Yes Orange. Indeed Orange. Like satsumas and tangerines and oranges and clementines and David “sodding” Dickenson and that Nigel Fartage and any other number of antiques like Tim bloody Wonnacott’s trousers or hat or vest. Why do our colonial cousins talk about vests when they mean waistcoats. A vest is a vest, as worn by vest wearers like the much respected Mr Lyle Scott. And proper underpants.

Where were we? Nigel Fartage. How come he’s orange or tangerine or clementine? And why, dear-heart, does he appear on the telly so much? That’s a question. We know this because there’s a question mark after it. Spanish people, being all Spanish like Liquorice, put an upside down question mark at the beginning of a question. Put that on the curriculum, Mr Gove, being able to question. Upside down, back to front, inside out. Whatever. Blimey, we’re all over the place today.

Yes, Nigel Porridge and his tan. And his position on the BBC Dancing With Dancers ubiquity. We don’t like to be critical but it does get on your Thrupenny Bits a bit, doesn’t it. If there’s an opinion to be sought, he’s there, like a bad thrupenny bit. With his pint and a fag. And a stone of spuds, please. Por favor. Merci. And Zeig Heil Nige. Ooops, contentious.

Let’s get back on even keel, shall we? Like Carol Voldermort and Nickelarse Parsons and Vicars and Archie Bishop, that there David Dickenson is wrapping himself around the notion of escaping poverty. Flog all your stuff. Your 500 foot colour TV, your stash of gold, your soul, your grandma’s vase, the few pieces of worth in your life.

It’s all there, at your local pawnbrokers.

Well it is according to David and then along come his antique pals and buy this ‘ere stuff. Off we go to an auction in Sleaford or Peterborough or Exeter or Chiswick. And lives are sold. Bang. And people clap. Thank you Tim, Paul, David, whoever you are. Another life capitalised.

Ismism!

Poking around in the dusty filing cabinets that make up the dusty filing cabinet bit of _Paul_And_Land_ can be quite invigorating. Just the other day, a Toffee Crisp came to light and a pair of socks. Still no sign of that Pickled Egg lost during the bombing in the 1940s. Some North-eastern city of which little of the old city now exists and parts, 60 years in the future, still show the deep scars of a lack of unity and crazy people obsessed with world domination. But it’s going to be all cultural. Which is most excellent. And brilliant. Because it is a very pleasant place with a funny accent. The BBC (yes them again) portray this city as a crime-ridden ghetto. They’re wrong again. Go there, see if you can if you can find that durned pickled egg.

Talking of car-parking, which we weren’t but that’s the way of dusty filing cabinets in the dusty filing cabinet section of _Paul_And_Land_. Why are there a zillion disabled parking places at ASDA and TESCO and Council Car Parks? There’s a thing. There aren’t a zillion disabled people in any place. Honest. But it seems that there is with all them there parking places. So what happens is that undisabled people get a bit miffy and start using disabled parking places when they’re not disabled because they’re undisabled. And they grumble and grizzle and get miffy about disabled people getting all the perks. Yes, people who can’t walk or can’t see stuff or who struggle with things getting all the perks. That’s how governments work. Some people need extra consideration, extra help, extra thought, like what ATOS don’t.

And then there was a BIG Geordie skinhead. It’s a North-eastern city is Geordie-City-Land, y’see the connection? And the BIG Geordie skinhead was on his pheletone probably talking to another BIG Geordie skinhead from Geordie-City-Land. With tattoos and sideburns and tight Levi Strauss trousers and big boots and more tattoos. And an accent from Geordie-City-Land possibly with tattoos. Who can say? But, and unlike the three chaps refitting a shop for Mr Sainsbury who struggled to put together a sentence without riffling through the dictionary of expletive, the betattooed and closely cropped BIG Geordie was using nice words. His naughtiest expression was “Clumsy Clot”. Don’t go judging Dictionaries by their covers: North-eastern cities, disabled parking places and BIG Geordie tattoos can surprise.

Play Nicely.

So those boffins and nascent dance champions at the BBC tell us all the news. And when _Paul_And_Land_ awakes from slumbers in the middle of the night and hits the ‘ON’ button, this is what they get. All the news. Well supposedly all the news. The Asian Business Report, some colonial cousin informing us of the damage wrought by a “Twister” in upstate wherever and the troubles caused by a capacious Canadian. Errr, this is the BBC? That’s what the logo says.

As we know, it says India Rubber on bus tyres but it doesn’t mean that’s where they’re going. Unless you’re in Mumbai. Or Kolkotha. Or Chennai. Or Jaipur. They used to have different names. So did Beijing. But buses in Beijing don’t go to India. Or maybe they do, with silks and spices and other stuff to feed our historic burgeoning economy. And Marco Polo mints.

But, yes but, those boffins and nascent dance champions at the BBC have moved on. New words abound; Selfies, Twerking and The African Footballer of the Year. Indeed, The African Footballer of the Year. The BBC African Footballer of the Year. Twerking, no doubt. And taking Selfies.

And then, shock, horror, and other things associated with shock and horror, our nascent dance champion and her sidekick and sideflick and soft shoe shuffler and “from Len, a ten” former dance champion who wasn’t, pipe up to start wittering about Alice in Wonderland. Some new, old pictures have been found complete with the word (persons of a sensitive nature may wish to sit down at this point and waft themselves with a copy of The Graunida or Alan Rusbridger or something equally left leaning liberal) Golliwog.

Yup, golliwog.

A suitably suitable discussion ensues about acceptability and stuff and things. Strangely, The BBC African Footballer of the Year receives no mention. But (and persons of a sensitive nature may wish to sit down again at this point and waft themselves with a copy of The Graunida or Alan Rusbridger or something equally left leaning liberal) they show a sniff of respect to a black man who talks of mature democracies and respect and the importance of sensitivity and maturity. Indeed, then we cut to some more guff on selfies and twerking and Canadian capaciousness.

Imperialism and mint imperials. Marco Polo Mints, Mint Imperials and thoughts of Spangles, Topics and Tutti Fruittis force the older Elders of _Paul_And_Land_ to consider breakfast. Women in suits, with briefcases and conference folders and respectable shoes. Scarves and matching accessories. Tasteful. Until the sausages are served and all facades are destroyed. All notions of mature democracies and respect and the importance of sensitivity and maturity are gone. Utterly smashed into a thousand tiny pieces.

_Paul_And_Land_ retreats. Chased by a bear. A hypocritical bear. No doubt twerking and taking selfies and dancing. Everyone dances including bears. Thank you Brucie. There are no bonuses. Not in this game.

More Daily Express

When they’re not finding Bulgarians and Romanians guilty of all crimes on Planet Earth or finding a new cure for arthiritis, the common cold, excess gas or boils, the Daily Express turns it’s critical gaze, inevitably, on the greatest cause of all known ills, young people.  Loafing around in their Levi Strauss trousers, singing songs by Tommy Steele and Brenda Lee, drinking sugary soft drinks and generally belching in the face of society is what they get up to.  “Bring back conscription” and “show ’em the Birch” is the ol’ Daily Expresseseses idea.  Then again, that’s the Daily Expresseseseses answer to everything including  arthiritis, the common cold, excess gas, boils and “Creeping Eruption”.   It’s a thing, “Creeping Eruption”, look it up and this will make a tad more sense.  Honestly.

The more avid readers of this ‘ere thing, _Paul_And_Land_, will already know of young @raiphsays.  Indeed, if you don’t you should.  Young raiph is a chirpy wee fellow from some place North of the border down Mexico way who doesn’t spend his days loafing around in Levi Strauss trousers, singing songs by Tommy Steele and Brenda Lee, drinking sugary soft drinks and generally belching in the face of society.  No, he plays foopball with his pal Kurt.  They use jerseys for goalposts.  But they don’t go to the park because there’s too much dog poo.  And dog poo, as you know because you’ve read about it, causes “Creeping Eruption”.  We don’t just make this stuff up, you know, we actually sit and think about it.  And not in Levi Strauss trousers.  Or the Daily Express.

See, back in the day, we had goal-keepers and game-keepers and park-keepers who looked after parks.  They had sticks with a nail on the end and a hat with “Park Keeper” written on it and, generally, a jacket with patches on the elbows.  They cleaned up dog poo or chased dogs off with their sticks and kept parks nice and clean and tidy and safe for young people like raiph.  Yes, jerseys could be thrown on the grass without fear of contracting “Creeping Eruption”.  And foopball could be played with no concern for ending up smelling like a Jack Russell’s bum hole.  But Councils, in their infinite wisdom and stinginess, thought that goal-keepers and game-keepers and park-keepers were surplus to requirement and could be replaced with a tractor that sprayed grass and dog poo all over the shop.  Or shoppe if you’re a fan of Chaucer.  Not good if you want to make a classic save at foopball.

Y’see these Councils haven’t worked out that some things aren’t surplus to requirement but that they actually contribute to well-seasoned young people who don’t spend their days loafing around in Levi Strauss trousers, singing songs by Tommy Steele and Brenda Lee, drinking sugary soft drinks and generally belching in the face of society.  And riding motor-scooters.  But these Councils still cut and cut and cut and cut until there’s nothing but skeletons and bones and problems that can’t be fixed with Sellotape.  Deep, deep problems in places like Haringey and Doncaster and Liverpool all because they thought they could fix things with Sellotape.  or even without Sellotape.  Lives lost, lives destroyed, innocence shattered.  Maybe the Daily Express should have a little cogitate, a few thought processes.  “Bring back conscription” and “show ’em the Birch” isn’t the answer.  Goal-keepers and game-keepers and park-keepers who look after parks and the welfare of us all possibly is.  Possibly.  And at least young raiph and his pal Kurt will be saif tu pla foopball.

Snails

Well, yes well, what a to do and other such stuff. Avid readers will have noted that the scribblings from this place we call _Paul_And_Land_ have been focusing on trains and buses and shops and things associated with trains and buses and shops and stuff. There are other things in the world apart from trains and buses and shops. Allegedly, at least. Cucumber, for example, and biros and carpet and little baby sparrows and sombreros and a lot of other stuff. And there’s houses.

Hmm, houses, there’s a thing. Not that cucumber and biros and carpet and little baby sparrows and sombreros aren’t a thing, it’s just that houses are quite an important thing. Houses give you somewhere to live, somewhere to exist, somewhere to be safe. Not even in _Paul_And_Land_ can someone live and exist and be safe in a sombrero. It would be nice, walking about wearing a sombrero that turns into a house, but no. Not going to happen. Unless you’re a snail. But you’re not. There’s a notion we shouldn’t give to any politician though: Sombrero-houses. They’d be setting up All Party Think Tanks and Research Projects with Special Advisers and Sombrero-House Experts, quicker than you can say All Party Think Tanks and Research Projects with Special Advisers and Sombrero-House Experts. So we’d best keep it to ourselves.

Talking of snails, which we were at some point, honest. They’re lucky little blighters carrying their own little houses around on their backs. Very lucky. Very, very lucky. Unless they get eaten by a blackbird. Or an errant French person. Or someone called Giles or Princess Something or Devereux or someone saying, “This is a cheeky little Chablis I picked up in Monte, dahling. It goes so frightfully well with the escargot, don’t you think?”

Yes, what? Went off a tangent there. Snails. Little houses on their backs which are rather safe-ish unless any of the above are in the general vicinity. And, you know, that’s what our little houses should be like. Safe. But for some people they’re not. Oh no. They’re very scared in their houses. Not because of blackbirds. Or errant French people. Or someone called Giles or Princess Something or Devereux or someone saying, “This is a cheeky little Chablis I picked up in Monte, dahling. It goes so frightfully well with the escargot, don’t you think?” But because someone treats them badly. Beats them up, rapes them, murders them or just plain fucks them around. Badly.

So how would it be if all those All Party Think Tank bods and Research Projects Projectors and Special Advisers and Sombrero-House Experts started looking at these ‘ere things. We could help them, point them in the right direction so to speak, give ’em a wee nudge or a smack up the bracket. Here’s a starter for ten: every year, in Scotland, (yes, just in Scotland. Not somewhere else, not all of Britain, not all of Europe, just Scotland) 40,000 mums, daughters, aunties, grandmas, sisters, and generally women get a smack up the bracket. Or worse. And that’s not a slur on Scotland-land, it happens everywhere. Everywhere. Even in Macclesfield and in places where people say, “This is a cheeky little Chablis I picked up in Monte, dahling. It goes so frightfully well with the escargot, don’t you think?”

Snails, bloody snails. Let’s stay on the bloody subject of the subject of snails but not on their sombreros. Or houses. Or biros. But on their parts. Downstairs. They don’t have any, or is that slugs or worms? Pigeons don’t have men’s bits. It’s true, have a look on that there Wicked Pedia Inter Web thing. To return to snails or indeed slugs or worms because one or some or even all of them don’t have parts, they can’t get messed up by someone doing something in the name of some higher snail or slug or worm. And yet, some folks, that’s human folks, think it’s clever to chop other humans’ bits about. All for some higher being. Allegedly. Hello, did someone make a connection there: Snails and Slugs and Worms don’t do it yet Humans do. Let’s have a little chat about civilisation here, shall we?

Yes, a little chat. Maybe those All Party Think Tank bods and Research Projects Projectors and Special Advisers and Sombrero-House Experts ought to have a listen in. Yes, that lot.

McDog Poo

Such was the excitement at Home Town, that Home Town II was bound to follow hard on it’s heels. Or softly. You pays your money, you takes your choice. Or not, so it would seem. News of yet more closures abound in this dark and depressing corner of _Paul_And_Land_ with the dark and depressing news […]

Hello!

Here’s a thing. Without doubt. A thing.

A Thing

A Thing