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Corona quarantine diary
Автор темы: Mervyn Henderson

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Dragging my feet Mar 1

The thing about a Diary is that you have to keep feeding it, but I've had no time recently. I had a story about birds somewhere, but it seems to have got lost in the interim. Maybe I'll find it later on today.

Meanwhile, nothing much has happened over here, other than that they're still burning up the streets in Barcelona, apparently, but I admit I haven't seen the news much in the last week, or read the rag much either, too many other things to do.


Chris S
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Checking out the birds Mar 1

One of the first things I noticed when lockdown started, and I mean the lockdown-lockdown, back in March/April 2020, when we were only allowed out to go to the supermarket and walk the dog twenty or thirty times a day - and I think I mentioned this at the time, too – was that you could hear the birds much more clearly now that there was less shouting, fewer cars and less going on all around in general. Even now you can hear them much more clearly.

When I was a kid, our dad took us
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One of the first things I noticed when lockdown started, and I mean the lockdown-lockdown, back in March/April 2020, when we were only allowed out to go to the supermarket and walk the dog twenty or thirty times a day - and I think I mentioned this at the time, too – was that you could hear the birds much more clearly now that there was less shouting, fewer cars and less going on all around in general. Even now you can hear them much more clearly.

When I was a kid, our dad took us down to O’Cahan’s Rock in Limavady, which our Tom probably knows too from when he was Tom in Northern Ireland, before he changed his name to Tom in London, this would have been - to walk through the woods by the road into the town. He grew up in farmland right in the centre of Northern Ireland. My dad, I mean, not Tom in London, or rather, Tom in Northern Ireland, as he would have been at the time, although it could apply to Tom in London if he grew up in farmland too, except obviously he wasn’t in London at the time, nor would he have been called Tom in London then - or even if he didn’t, because in either case this would have been before he changed his name from Tom in Northern Ireland to Tom in London, which would have been after he became Tom in Italy – by “after” I mean the Tom in London part, whereas the Tom in Northern Ireland would have been before the Tom in Italy part, evidently, and also before the Tom in London part, as I’ve already said, and now I don’t know if you’re getting lost here, because I certainly am with all these different Toms in different places, and in fact it could be vastly more complicated, because for all we know there may well have been a Tom in Barrow-in-Furness at some point, a Tom in Weston-super-Mare, or even a Tom in Somewhere without any hyphens, Tom in Peterborough, maybe, or not - but anyway, if you consider that the British Isles are isolated, and Ireland’s even more isolated, and Northern Ireland more isolated still, and well, right in the centre of Northern Ireland around Lough Neagh, it doesn’t get much more countrified than that, you see, and so he knew quite a bit about flora and fauna, and he even knew their names in Latin. My dad, I mean again, not Tom in London, or rather, Tom in Northern Ireland as he was before that …

“So what’s this one, dad?”, I’d say, and he’d say “That’s Beechus beechus, son, but we call it a beech tree. And that one over there, see that one, it’s Oakus oakus, which is oak to you and me.” And then a bird would fly past, and he’d say “There goes Thrushus thrushus, but do you know what we call it, son? … no?, well, we just call it a thrush.” Once I heard a cooing sound, and I said “What’s that noise, dad?”, and he just smiled and said, “Oh, that’s Woodpigeonis woodpigeonis, Old Mr Woodpigeon, lad”.

He didn’t half know his stuff, my dad. But not only that – he even knew birdspeak, and he could tell what they were talking about, and he taught us that too. So the other morning I was up early, looking out at the birds and listening to their chat. I saw a couple of female doves (Dovus dovus) sitting on the eaves of the house to the right, and, do you know, I picked up on every single coo they uttered:

“ … so I told him, Margie, I told him straight, I said it wasn’t right, him taunting that poor canary in the cage in 5C down there all day long. He flew up there all smarmy and sat on the ledge looking in at it, flapping his wings and flying around a bit outside, saying ‘Bet you wish you could really use these, me old son, eh? Eh, John?’"

"Arthur Dove," I cooed to him, "Arthur, it’s not right you tormenting that poor bird. He’s our brother, that’s what he is, so you just cut it out, you hear, or there’ll be no lovey-dovey for you in the dovecot tonight with Doris Dove, I’m telling you now. But cooing’s my problem, Margie, really, I have to coo all the time to him, coo this and coo that and coo the other, it’s all cooing, so he never takes me seriously. I mean, it would be different if I could squawk at him or screech or something …”

“Oh, I know, Doris, I know. They’re all the same, these male birds, love. You know that Billy Blackbird, don’t you, yes, king of the bloody skies, well, he flutters down here this morning, asks if I’d heard him warbling, did I like his new warble, he says. Warble, I said? That was you earlier, was it, Billy? Warbling? Is that what you call it? And blackbirds don’t warble anyway. They kind of squawk, I told him. Know what he said? He says all hoity-toity, “Pardon me, madam, but I am not a blackbird. I am black, and I am a bird. I am a black bird, but not a blackbird. I am a raven. Billy Blackbird is a misnomer. Please address me henceforth as Billy the Raven.”

“Well. “Raven, is it? Raven? Raven mad, more like, Billy,” I said to him, I did, Doris. “And warbling? It wasn’t even warbling, that. More like werbling, that was, if you ask me. “And I don’t even think ravens warble neither, Billy,” I told him. "They squawk. A kind of nasty, raspy squawk, that’s what they do.” “But he wasn’t having none of it, Doris, oh no." “I am a raven, Mrs Dove,” he says. I warble, and I am a raven. Ravenus ravenus.”

“Well,” I told him, “in that case, you’d better go off and find yourself some nice fat worms to scoff, Billy, yes I did. I mean, really. Ravens!”

“Men. I don’t know, Margie, I really don’t. Arthur says he’s fed up being a dove. Says doves don’t get no respect. It’s like he’s having a midlife crisis or sumpfink …”

“Oh yes, Doris, quite right, my Fred’s just the same. He’s been hanging out with those bleeding crows lately. You know, the Woodside crowd. A bad lot they are, too. Always up to some mischief or other. He got roped in with them crows the other day because one of them said a kid had stamped his foot and chased them when they were trying to get at some pizza crusts on the ground. You know that park with the climbing bars in it? Yes, well, the next day this kid was sitting on a bench in front of it, playing with his little cars, and one of the crows, that Vernon bloke, the really nasty one, yes, he’s the worse of the lot, that Vernon, he flew down all silent on to the bars, and then a couple of minutes later his mate Barney flew down too, and sat on another bar, and then Fred and a few others flew down too, like, but they told Fred to stay at the back because he didn’t look scarey enough, you see, being a kind of peaceful dove, like, and the kid just sat there with his back to them, like, and after about fifteen minutes, like, the bars were covered with birds, hardly moving or squawking at all, and then the little boy turns round to find, like, a hundred crows, and Fred too, glaring at him all crowy, wiggling their heads and, like, fluffing up their wings all nasty, you know the way they do. Fred said you could have made a film out of it all, because he could actually, like, see the kid weeing himself down his little trousers as he ran off screaming. Barney even said they should fly after him, peck his eyes out, like, teach him a lesson, but Vernon said “No, there’ll be time for that. We’ll wait until he’s back in the house with the rest, like, and then we’ll break in, like, and peck them all to death … who’s that bloke over there, Doris …?”

“Which one, Margie? Oh, yes, that one over there in the window eating that orange. Looks like he’s listening to us and all. Cheeky git. Good job he can’t understand a coo we say ….”


[Edited at 2021-03-01 19:32 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-02 07:09 GMT]
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Chris S
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Message from the head Mar 2

Mervyn Henderson wrote:
The thing about a Diary is that you have to keep feeding it, but I've had no time recently.

You’re going to have to work harder, Henderson, if you want to hit a million hits on this thread before it’s all over. A mere 500,000 to date. Slacker. Now tuck that shirt in and pull your socks up. Do you want to be a failure all your life, boy?


Mervyn Henderson
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All over Mar 2

Thanks, Chris! You're so right. I've tucked my socks in and pulled my shirt up. All I have to do now is get out of bed, but it's so nice and warm in here.

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Corona Quarantine Diary 1st Anniversary Mar 2

On behalf of the site, I'm giving you the heads-up on an exciting new webinar on Monday 15 March to celebrate one year of Corona Lockdown Misery and Vague Hopes of Vaccination.

The webinar will feature guest contributions from posters you all know and love. See if you can guess who two of them are from the following talk titles!:


From Hong Kong: "Not so much necro as a way of life - one man's story".

From London: "Clampdown on outrageous grammar, def
... See more
On behalf of the site, I'm giving you the heads-up on an exciting new webinar on Monday 15 March to celebrate one year of Corona Lockdown Misery and Vague Hopes of Vaccination.

The webinar will feature guest contributions from posters you all know and love. See if you can guess who two of them are from the following talk titles!:


From Hong Kong: "Not so much necro as a way of life - one man's story".

From London: "Clampdown on outrageous grammar, defective punctuation and totally unwarranted capitalisation in 2021 - ratcheting up to Level Eight."


And it's cheap, too. In every sense of the word. I've agreed to act as treasurer for the event, so send me your 10 US dollar attendance fee by any means you can.



Note from management:

We have nothing to do with this, and indeed have no wish to have anything to do with it. Henry is lying down at the moment in a dark room with an icepack on his brow.

Please do not send the OP any money. If you feel you must send money, send it to us instead. We will invest it wisely. Remember that returns on investments may go down as well as up. This is not an offer of advice, an offer to buy, an offer to sell, or any other kind of offer.

If you do not wish to receive any publicity and/or offers and/or news of promotions from us and/or from our associates and/or their subsidiaries and/or the associates and/or subsidiaries of same, please refrain from not failing to not check the "No and/or all publicity" box below.

Simply reading the preceding paragraphs will cost you 100 US dollars. You do not have to pay anything yet, because we will automatically add it on to your next subscription. You can opt out of this payment by checking the box below, although by then it will be too late.

All rights reserved.

[Edited at 2021-03-02 10:56 GMT]
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FAQ: Refund of webinar fees Mar 2

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

10 US dollar attendance fee


Dear Sir,

Am I eligible for a refund if not satisfied with the content or when some characters are missing in the webinar, i.e. Kalle, Dalek_A, Boris, Uschi, Christine, Mutti and the Famous Former Kiel Neighbours? And will there be a printed version too, because printouts are becoming a preferred media again, as can be seen in one of the other threads, directed from Hongkong?


Mervyn Henderson
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Complaints Mar 2

Dear Mr Brombach,

Many thanks for your communication.

Kindly direct all issues of dissatisfaction, refunds and general complaints to our Special Claims Unit in Kiel, Germany, which coincidentally has been taken over by some old neighbours of yours. They will be delighted to help you with any enquiries, although you should note that hospitalisation is occasionally required subsequently.


Matthias Brombach
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Royal blues Mar 4

All over the news again, the Spanish royals. But it depends what you mean by royals. It’s a tricky area here, so I’ve thrown together a few FAQs:

Q: When is a royal a royal?
A: When the person concerned was and is to the manor born, and wishes to shoulder their way to the front of the queue, trampling on the little people and plebs as they do so. I mean, otherwise what’s the point of being a royal in the first place?

Q: When is a royal not a royal?
A:
... See more
All over the news again, the Spanish royals. But it depends what you mean by royals. It’s a tricky area here, so I’ve thrown together a few FAQs:

Q: When is a royal a royal?
A: When the person concerned was and is to the manor born, and wishes to shoulder their way to the front of the queue, trampling on the little people and plebs as they do so. I mean, otherwise what’s the point of being a royal in the first place?

Q: When is a royal not a royal?
A: When the person concerned was to the manor born, but is now just like any other citizen, albeit with a certain amount of leeway to shoulder their way to the front of the queue, trampling on the little people and plebs as they do so. I mean, otherwise what’s the point of not being a royal in the first place?

Q: Why is there a distinction between royals and not-quite royals anyway?
A: Felipe VI trimmed the official royal contingent down a little when he took up the throne following pa’s abdication due to age and the realisation that he must needs pass on the torch to the younger generation (and not, naturally because he’d been exposed as a serial philanderer, squanderer of public monies, commission-earner on Spanish business deals, and occasional big game hunter in Botswana). Felipe had to wheel out a bit of PR sharpish with dozens of royals all on freebies amid severe economic crisis up and down the land.

Q: Are all royals equal?
A: Of course they are. What a daft FAQ. But some royals are more equal than others (you knew that one was coming, didn’t you?).

Q: I’m sorry, I don’t understand those last two. How can you be a royal and not a royal at the same time, ride roughshod over all and sundry, but not be just as royal as the next royal?
A: Ah, that’s the clever bit, you see. There are only six “official” royals – the present king, his wife, their two daughters, and the king’s pa and ma. This is the royal household. Most of the rest still get to be called Royal Highness, but they are not really royals. I know it’s confusing. For further information, see www.quienesrealyquienno.com

I have a feeling King Felipe doesn’t sleep well at nights. I can just see him lying in bed on his side at 4 am, propped up on one elbow, listening to the owls hooting out there in the grounds of the Zarzuela Palace, next to Queen Letizia with her face mask and slices of cucumber on her eyes, miserably thinking “What a bloody family.”

What a bloody family indeed. They’re in the news yet again because former King Juan Carlos I’s two daughters, Cristina and Elena, were tracked down by some pesky journalists on a visit to dad in Abu Dhabi, and it transpires they used the occasion to get themselves vaccinated, along with dad and the former head of the Spanish secret service (??). Journalists. I mean, who needs journalists who don’t just report your walkabouts pressing the flesh in disaster zones, visiting hospitals, Spanish ham factories and wineries, but also insist on digging up your illicit junkets?

The royal household stayed schtoom on the matter, but one of the quasi-regal daughters felt obliged to explain herself. She said that they had done this to obtain one of those “health passports” (??) so that they could visit their dad regularly. They had been given the opportunity, and they took it. Simple as that. What’s not to understand?

Not everyone is dismayed, though. Partido Popular spokesman and mayor of Madrid, José Luis Martínez-Almeida, yesterday went so far as to say that, in stark comparison to the disgraceful vaccine queue-jumping by people in public posts here recently, by getting their shots in the United Arab Emirates the two gals had not deprived the Spanish people of any vaccines. Which is true. But then, a couple of vaccines cost a lot less than the trip, right, José Luis? … because:

Visit him “regularly”. Regularly, is it? It also transpires that the security for the two royals who aren’t actually royals came to 33,000 yucks for a few days. I think that was just the security. Travel and feeding troughs, one can only wonder about. What almost-royal’s going to dig into their own pocket for all that if the visits are going to be regular? People wonder, too, about the security and travel for visits by Cristina, who gets by as best she can toiling as interagency coordinator (??) for the Aga Khan Foundation’s Trust for Culture in Switzerland, to hubby Iñaki in prison in Spain for tax fraud and other sleaze. Incidentally, Iñaki had a big break recently – now that he's more or less done half of his 5-year bird, he’s been moved to a Basque prison near Vitoria, where the family’s from. Now he only has to sleep at the prison four or five nights a week, and has even found a job with a consultancy firm, specialising in employment, corporate issues and ... er ... taxation.


[Edited at 2021-03-04 06:51 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-04 07:42 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-04 08:46 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-04 08:48 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-04 11:51 GMT]
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Back... Mar 4

... for attending the webinar!

We "celebrated" it on 2 March 2020, the day the virus was confirmed to have reached the country.


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Police and sleaze Mar 7

One day a teacher gave her class of 12-year olds in an inner-city UK comprehensive half an hour to write an essay on what they thought about the police. Little Pete, a problem kid, spent his half hour scratching at his jotter, picking his nose, and doodling. The teacher read his piece after class. He had written only three words:

“Coppers, is barstids.”

Shocked, the teacher rang the local police station, and the following week a senior officer was sent there to give
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One day a teacher gave her class of 12-year olds in an inner-city UK comprehensive half an hour to write an essay on what they thought about the police. Little Pete, a problem kid, spent his half hour scratching at his jotter, picking his nose, and doodling. The teacher read his piece after class. He had written only three words:

“Coppers, is barstids.”

Shocked, the teacher rang the local police station, and the following week a senior officer was sent there to give her class a talk on how the police force was organised, how they trained police officers, and what they did, emphasising that the main function of the police is to assist and protect people. It seemed to have gone quite well, so the teacher asked her class to repeat the essay.

The teacher was pleased to note that this time little Pete sat there for the half hour kicking his heels under his chair, tongue out the side of his mouth, apparently reflecting. Again the teacher read his piece after class. This time he had written four words:

“Coppers, is cunning barstids.”

Cunning they can be, indeed. In which connection, quasi-surreal scenes the other day at the gates of Madrid’s Estremera prison, as journalists rushed to interview one of the Spanish police force’s most reviled but most cunning barstids, now a former policeman, but probably still a barstid and most definitely still cunning, released after just over three years paying his debt to society in the Big House for peccadilloes various. But now José Manuel Villarejo’s ready to talk, and what he has already said and still has to say about the state sewers goes all the way up the system, right up to the king and the former king, apparently. As he told those journalists, perhaps not lyrically, but certainly cryptically, “sewers don’t make shit – they clean it”.

I say quasi-surreal because of his appearance. He reminded me of one of the pirates Jack Sparrow used to buckle his swash with, complete with a black patch over his left eye, a cap, and a tracksuit top with the Spanish flag on it. The lower part of his face was, of course, obscured by a face mask, also with the Spanish flag on it, but we’d become used to seeing very little of Villarejo’s face anyway in recent years even before Covid-19, hurrying to and fro between courts and cars, pursued by journalists toting microphones, with a grandad cap pulled down over his brow and permanently holding a sheaf of papers, a briefcase or a clipboard up over the rest of his features.

And I say cunning, because he spent years recording conversations with people in high places who gave him his orders but who now disown him, and apparently they are about to pay for that. Even now he still faces a dozen charges, so it will be interesting to see how far it all goes.

For example, there’s his taped interviews (as a police officer) with the former king’s Northern European squeeze Corinna Larsen, who claims that Juan Carlos didn’t have a secret bank account in Switzerland (praise be, thank God for that, the monarchists breathe in relief) – oh no, he had dozens of accounts there, she said, and even a note-counter at the Palace (oh bugger, sigh the monarchists).

Then there’s Luis Bárcenas, also sent to jail for some imaginative accounting and moneyspinners as treasurer for the Partido Popular back in the day, distributing envelopes stuffed with cash to the party barons – the party began to worry that Luis might talk, and according to José Manuel they hired him (as a police officer) to spy on Luis via his chauffeur.

And apparently the chairman of one of Spain’s largest banks, now conveniently retired in a hurry, hired him (as a police officer) to spy on the competition.

Dreadful, isn’t it? But there’s more. Shortly after release, not many old lags have meetings with the state prosecutor, do they? But JM did. Enter Dolores Delgado, with whom he goes way back. They used to hang out all the time. So much so, in fact, that Dolores was also caught on tape referring to her colleague at the time, Fernando Grande-Marlaska, as a “poof”. Her colleague in Pedro Sánchez’s socialist government at the time, when she was Ministeress of Justice (yes, I know – you leave the Ministry of Justice under a socialist administration, and then, hey presto, they make you state prosecutor under the same administration, and apparently this is normal), and he was and still is Minister of the Interior. Bilbao-born Fernando has never denied his homosexuality, though, quite the contrary, taking an active part in gay rights demos and the like, and in fact he generously brushed off Dolores’ remarks as a mere nothing, an anecdote, pfff.

Well, I say Dolores, but when I first read about her, they said no one calls her that, because she prefers the diminutive Lola. A no-nonsense woman, Lola. Just you catch her in a photo where she isn’t smiling, and even the hair looks dangerous. To paraphrase the lyrics of The Kinks’ “Lola”, she walks like a woman but talks like a man. Unlike The Kinks’ “Lola”, I can just imagine her saying “Don’t fuck with me, boy” (albeit in a different verb context).

A nation awaits, all agog …


[Edited at 2021-03-07 10:35 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-07 11:03 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-07 11:05 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-07 11:06 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-03-07 15:33 GMT]
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Police and Thieves (oh, yeah) Mar 7

The "Police and sleaze" title last time might have been a little obscure, and O, one worries so, indeed, one worries so about whether one's zany puns will be understood. Plus, I omitted to clear it with the Punmaster-General beforehand (sorry, Thomas!!!), so just to make sure, here's the pun's root, "Police and Thieves", sung by a dead man before he was a dead man.

A great song to have in the background for making the beast with two backs (so I've been told ...), with that rising a
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The "Police and sleaze" title last time might have been a little obscure, and O, one worries so, indeed, one worries so about whether one's zany puns will be understood. Plus, I omitted to clear it with the Punmaster-General beforehand (sorry, Thomas!!!), so just to make sure, here's the pun's root, "Police and Thieves", sung by a dead man before he was a dead man.

A great song to have in the background for making the beast with two backs (so I've been told ...), with that rising and falling beat between the stern and stroppy bass and the ripping guitars and the boppy drums. Or something like that. I'm not a music describer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3A8uNG3GH4



[Edited at 2021-03-07 16:20 GMT]
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Ripping yarn Mar 8

In both senses. If your native language isn’t English, you might not understand why at first, but hopefully I can explain it:

Before I was instructed in the ways of the world, I used to wear the same clothes at home as I wore outside. But the Basques put an end to that, put me straight on the issue. No, no, you have to change to go out. And so I do. But – shhh, don’t tell anyone – at 7 am, when everyone’s in the land of nod, I nip down in my house clothes for the paper. Wh
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In both senses. If your native language isn’t English, you might not understand why at first, but hopefully I can explain it:

Before I was instructed in the ways of the world, I used to wear the same clothes at home as I wore outside. But the Basques put an end to that, put me straight on the issue. No, no, you have to change to go out. And so I do. But – shhh, don’t tell anyone – at 7 am, when everyone’s in the land of nod, I nip down in my house clothes for the paper. Why bother to change clothes for five minutes, only to change back five minutes later, right?

Unfortunately, this morning I looked down at my house trousers. A little hole in the knee. Bollocks. Not even two centimetres, but still a hole. A knee hole. Maybe it’s all the time I spend on my knees scrubbing and cleaning, and being servile and … well, we won’t go into any other kneeling activities, will we, because after all, children could be reading this. Children stealing your translations, maybe, using Google Translate and Kudoz …

Anyway, I thought, Oh bugger, I’ll have to change my trousers. But then I thought, Why would I do that, with all the ripped knees I see proudly on display all around me these days? What is this ripped thing? I asked the Basques once. Why do people rip the knees of their jeans? Oh no, I was told, people don’t rip them, silly. They buy them ready-ripped. Designers rip them, because they know how to rip them, and how much to rip them.

Are we going mad? Other people ripping my clothes for me? But I must say I realised it’s a more than convenient excuse for me. So, this morning, I converted my shame at going out with a very small rip in my blue house trousers into flaming pride because, instead of being scared people might see my little rip, I simply ripped that little rip a lot more to flaunt it at the newspaper kiosk. If you can’t beat them, join them. Get ripped, as bodybuilders say. And at least my original little rip was due to good old honest wear and tear, and at least I made the bigger rip myself. Why would you pay someone extra to rip it for you on who knows what criteria?
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expressisverbis
P.L.F.Persio
Chris S
Zibow Retailleau
Christel Zipfel
 

Chris S  Identity Verified
Великобритания
шведский => английский
+ ...
Imagine Mar 8

Imagine where you could have gone with this if your parents had named you Jack...

Mervyn Henderson
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Испания
Local time: 17:14
испанский => английский
+ ...
Автор темы
Jack Mar 8

Doh. It took me about five minutes. Really. I think I might have to pack in the post-prandial siestas, because surely the point is that you get up refreshed and sharp, but that definitely wasn't the case today. I even googled "Jack Henderson"! Mind you, there's a Jack Henderson who writes stories of suspense, so that got me thinking about crime. Then I googled Ripping Yarns, just in case the main character was called Jack, because I never saw all of that series. And then I started thinking about... See more
Doh. It took me about five minutes. Really. I think I might have to pack in the post-prandial siestas, because surely the point is that you get up refreshed and sharp, but that definitely wasn't the case today. I even googled "Jack Henderson"! Mind you, there's a Jack Henderson who writes stories of suspense, so that got me thinking about crime. Then I googled Ripping Yarns, just in case the main character was called Jack, because I never saw all of that series. And then I started thinking about "Jack" + "ripping", and it was a long old road, but I got there in the end.Collapse


Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
Zibow Retailleau
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Испания
Local time: 17:14
испанский => английский
+ ...
Автор темы
International Women's Day Mar 8

I was a little nervous about posting anything at all about this, quite sincerely. Dangerous territory. Think of all the replies you might get in response to a cry of "Happy International Women's Day!": "How dare you wish me one single, solitary happy day out of 365, and an even lower percentage rate every four years, you creep?" or "How dare you pander to these raving feminist troublemakers, you spineless, treacherous semi-man?"

Frightening, isn't it? So I'm going to go for some ser
... See more
I was a little nervous about posting anything at all about this, quite sincerely. Dangerous territory. Think of all the replies you might get in response to a cry of "Happy International Women's Day!": "How dare you wish me one single, solitary happy day out of 365, and an even lower percentage rate every four years, you creep?" or "How dare you pander to these raving feminist troublemakers, you spineless, treacherous semi-man?"

Frightening, isn't it? So I'm going to go for some serious, solemn, committed fence-sitting here, and wish everyone everywhere a splendid 8 March! And especially women. Not just 8 March, though. All year round, and every year. Leap years too.

Phew.







[Edited at 2021-03-08 17:42 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 
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