So that was 2010??

That’s it then. 2010 is over. Gone. Kaput. Was it a good one for you? Personally it was ok, I suppose. I did not take up smoking again, I kept up my weekday abstinence from alcohol, and I kept losing weight until I reached a target. I got a promotion, sort of, although sometimes I wonder why I bothered. And I watched my granddaughter grow up a little bit more.

On the down side we had to have our dog put to sleep a couple of days before Christmas. She had been a part of our family for 16 years and it came as a bit of a shock.

What of 2011?

I have started reviewing books for another blog. They should start being posted in January, provided Mark likes them. So pop over to “Walker of Worlds” and have a look.

I am looking forward to more camping in 2011. I know, you can’t believe the change in me, can you? Only a short while ago I was dead against that sort of thing. Nothing short of a hotel with room service for me! What happened was that aliens came down and replaced me with a pod person, a la "Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. My real body is probably being anally probed somewhere out there in the vast universe. rest assured, I am, probably, not enjoying it!

Mrs Giant68 is probably hoping that I will get around to building her new kitchen and bathroom. I did promise her that about 6 months ago! Amazing that as the kids have left home I end up spending a shed load of cash. When no.1 daughter left I bought and built a conservatory. Then mini Giant68 left and I am going to end up spending a reasonable fortune on the kitchen and bathroom. Personally I think that we should downgrade to an apartment. Unfortunately Mrs Giant68 doesn’t want to so I’m stuck.

I am also hoping that I can get together with my mate Steve, him of Spanish holiday fame, and play cribbage a little more often than I managed in 2010. Cribbage is something that he introduced to me some years ago. I hate playing cards but for some reason crib is a game that I enjoy. Probably due to the rule we have that it cannot be played unless there are copious quantities of alcohol involved.

I am not going to make any resolutions, why bother? They would only be broken within the 1st 24 hours. And if they aren’t, then they weren’t worth making in the first place.

Happy New Year!

Giant68

We wish you a merry Christmas…

“It’s Christmas time

There’s no need to be afraid”

First lines from a famous song. Well, I’m afraid, there is a need to be afraid. It is the second time of the year that young people feel that they can go out and beg for money with menaces. Obviously, the first attempt to get you part with your hard earned dosh is at the beginning of November. A time when we celebrate the failure of some bloke to blow up the British parliament.

This time it’s Christmas. A time when the gormless chav adolescents feel they can knock on my door, and yours, sing the first few words of “We wish you a merry Christmas…”and then hold their hand out for cash.

Well, let me inform you now that “We wish you a merry Christmas” is NOT a Christmas carol! If you want money from me I want a proper carol. It could be “Oh Come All Ye Faithfull”, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”, “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”, you get the idea. There are quite a few to chose from. And I want a full verse and a chorus. Not just the first line. If you want to get a shiny penny from me you’ve got to work for it.

Have a nice Christmas. I wish you all you wish yourself.

Oh, and a happy New Year!

Giant68 x

Strictly Health and Safety

Mrs Giant68 does like to settle down in front of the telly on a Saturday and Sunday evening with a glass of wine and Strictly Come Dancing. Nothing like a bit of Brucie and “dead behind the eyes” Daly. Now,I wouldn’t go out of my way to watch it, but it is on and I will peek at it over the top of my laptop or my book and it is, somewhat, entertaining. But I find something very strange about it all.

I have been trained in Health and Safety by the company I work for. I can carry out risk assessments and create safe systems of work, and I know most of the regulations. I Can’t see how they can get away with what they do on the dance floor.

Firstly, lifts. Now the manual handling regulations state that you can not lift anything heavier than 25kg. And even then you have to lift properly, legs bent, back straight etc. Well, I didn’t see any of the lifts carried out in the proscribed way. And the dancers, while slim (apart from Ann Widdecombe) are, certainly, heavier than 25kg.

Tonight the professional dancers were standing on chairs. How dare they. Do they not realise that chairs are meant for sitting on. If you want to work at height you must use equipment that is designed for that purpose. If they fell off they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, so to speak.

The investigation would have to carried out. Photos would have to taken and, ultimately the dancer involved would have to be sacked.

And you have to admit that there are a certain amount of distractions on the floor. How can anyone concentrate on what they are doing when Ola Jordan is dancing in one of her skimpy outfits! The risks are tremendous! I am surprised that there are no accidents. The Health and Safety officer for the BBC must be a nervous wreck on a Saturday evening, and I don’t envy him.

Machismo vs. Metrosexual

 

What is it with men and women at the moment? There seems to be a propensity for the slightly effeminate look for the men, and women seem to like it.

I find it a little bit odd that the male of the species seems to be gravitating to this androgynous look (go on, get your dictionaries out!) Can you imagine any of these metrosexuals putting a shelf up, or taking the bins down?

Please don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the metrosexuals, I do like a drop of the old moisturiser at times, but I just don’t understand what women see in them. In the days of the caveman, the man would be the hunter gatherer while the woman would stay at home and look after the family, after being clubbed over the head and dragged to the cave, of course. Therefore the woman would want a strong, healthy man. His mighty muscles and rippling thews proclaiming that he was a good hunter who could feed a family by dragging a diplodocus through the primordial jungle back to the cave. Once there he could hack into steaks that would  fit over the fire that he built and lit with his feet while he was butchering the dinosaur. (And the first bbq was born, all Neanderthal man needed was a cold beer and his mates!).

Throughout history real men have fought battles, first with fists, clubs, axes, swords and working their way through various small arms. Now I know that there are still a few macho men around, but they all seem to be in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban, while the effete creatures left at home are scoring with the girls. All the while starring in the hit films of the day and making a pot of money, just look at Robert Pattinson, I wouldn’t put him up against a strong wind!

Whatever happened to the macho film stars of yesterday? OK, maybe not a good argument as most of them turned out be gay, but you know what I mean.

I reckon these women will regret it in few years time when they need a jar opening or a shelf put up. Oh, and it’s bin night!

The Zombie War is on its way…

There is a new TV series just started on FX channel. “Walking Dead”. It’s a standard story of a plague turning almost everyone into the walking dead. Now programs and films of this nature have been around for 30 odd years, ever since Romero decided to start making zombie films. They all follow the same format, as I have already said, and this is what I can’t understand. The hero is always damn lucky to survive the first five minutes. Surely people watch TV and go to the cinema, even read books? They should understand that when the zombies come after you you need to have your wits about you. Oh! and some weapons.

In this latest TV show the hero wakes in hospital after having been shot chasing criminals. The hospital is empty and trashed. Surely that would start alarm bells ringing? First job would be to find clothes and something to fight with. No, not this guy. He stumbles around the building in the ubiquitous backless hospital gown. At least when he spies the zombies he won’t crap in his trousers.

I have a plan. I know exactly what I would do when the zombie/alien/whatever invasion happens. I’m not going to tell you what it is as that might lessen my chances of survival. And survive I will!

Hide from the zombies, don’t trust the alien leader who tells you he has come in peace, and let the vampire bite you. Yes, you read that right. Let the vampire bite you. I reckon it could be fun as a vampire. Turning into a bat at will and flying away, seducing innocent maidens, sleeping through the day, burning up in sunlight… ok some of it, probably, isn’t going to be fun but I have never been much of a sun worshipper.

Obviously, I can’t post any pictures of me this time as vampires cast no shadows or images. Now if anyone knows where I can find any innocent maidens…? I bet it was a lot easier in Draculas time.

And there will be fire from the sky…

My friend Steve is an arsonist. I’m sure that in a previous life that was how he spent his time. A pyromaniac. I have never seen anyone so keen to use lighter fluid on a bbq. The Steve method of lighting a charcoal bbq is this:

1. Lay a sheet of tin foil in the bottom of the bbq. (good idea this. makes cleaning the bbq much easier)

2. Break up ½ dozen fire lighters.

3. Lay in the charcoal.

4. Add more firelighters.

5. Spray liberally with lighter fluid.

6. light.

7. Spray more lighter fluid.

8. Clutch at face moaning about the fact that you no longer have eyebrows.

It was useful when the kids were younger as they would be round at the pool. They would know when the bbq was lit by the sudden conflagration that would rise to the sky.

We had some good food from Steves bbq, though. We sat outside the house in Spain, full of good food, full of good booze and full of contentment. And now that the winter evenings are here, and the temperature is starting to fall drastically, I miss the summer evenings in Spain. Even though it was only for a couple of weeks. Or maybe because it was only a couple of weeks.

Adios.

Back to Spain…

There is a game that the Spaniards in Torrevieja play. And I have to learn to play it.

Now, if you remember we went to Spain in the summer and stayed at  our friends house in Torrevieja. You’ve read the blog about that, I know you have. You will also remember that we were frequenting Joses bar, the surly bartender.

Me and Steve like to play a game of cribbage or two, and most days in Spain this is what we would do. After lunch we would take a walk down to Joses and have a couple of cervesas, a plate of tapas and play cards.

Generally, after an hour or so, three or four old Spaniards would turn up, looking like they had stepped off of the set of The Sopranos. You wouldn’t want to upset them, that’s for sure. They would have a coffee and something in a small glass and break out a deck of cards. They then proceeded to play this card game, which we eventually found out was called Mus. After a few days of watching them while we played crib we started to show a more open interest. And they showed a little interest in our game. To be completely honest, neither of us understood much of the rules or what they were saying to us. I would imagine that they were saying something along the lines of “You stupid English will never be able play this game. It is for real men only. Now p*ss off and leave us to real mens pastimes!”

They did seem to hold cribbage in some contempt. But in the end we parted as friends with a promise that we would go home and learn to play Mus and return next year to play them at their own game.

Unfortunately this is a strange card game. Devised by the Basques and, like them, devilishly complicated. If you play it one area of the country you play by one set of rules. Play it somewhere else and a different set of rules apply. If it is raining you play with no aces, if it is Tuesday aces are high… Well that is the way it seems.

They have given us a bag of metal discs that are used for betting during the game, so that no money is involved. But I bet when we play them it will be Euros rather than metal discs! I bet they are rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of fleecing a couple of naive Englishmen. They will be living off of that story for months.

But at least Jose started to warm to us and we were almost his best friends by the end of the holiday.

We have bought a deck of the Spanish cards, a strange deck that when you play Mus you remove the jokers, 8s and 9s. The scoring is strange, with Aces and Kings scoring the same while collecting a hand worth 31 is worse than scoring 30. I am bewildered by the whole thing.

I have never tasted lobster. I wouldn’t know what to do with one if it fell on my head. But we all decided that, as we had seen fresh lobster on the fish counter in Carrefoure, we would all like to try it. So Harry and Ann, on their way back from a day trip to somewhere, and their daughter Amy and boyfriend Jeremy, brought back a couple of lobsters. Not quite as fresh as the ones we had already seen, these were dead. All we had to do was chop it up and eat it.

Steve lit the barbeque.

And Sarah and myself laid into a pair of crustaceans. We were drunk. I had to look up on the internet what to cut, what to remove and what to eat. And, to be honest, it really wasn’t worth the effort. Next time I will buy one that has already had its innards removed, cleaned and laid on a plate. No matter what i have to pay for it.

In the next installment: the cycle rides, nicking stones and what happened to Steves eyebrows.