Fast Women

Ex F1 driver Riccardo Patrese takes his wife round the Jerez circuit in a Honda Civic Type-R... a little too quickly! Hilarious!!

After a blogging break of a month we're back and with a lot of catch-up posts to do. First, in salute of what must be the most melodic language in the world, here is a clip of Riccardo Patrese driving his wife around a circuit...... and what is there not to love about those Italian girls? My grandfather once said to me 'avoid fast women and slow horses.' I am reconsidering his advice.

A Bad Thing

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A bad thing happened last night. It happened in a bad place, just before bedtime. It came out of nowhere and completely knocked me for six. I wasn’t ready for it, I very much doubt anyone can be but it shook me to the core. While I am not one to inspect my working parts on an overly frequent basis I do happen upon the occasional spot check. Such was the instance last evening. And while I have, and I think regular readers will concur, greeted all the disappointments and indignities of middle age with sanguine equanimity I simply wasn’t prepared for what greeted me as I peered down below; a grey pubic hair. I stared at it with the same beguiling fascination that I did so many years ago when the first hair appeared. That one I welcomed with a smile, not so this aged imposter. Before it could exact any further damage on my ego I lunged for the snips and off it came.

Unfortunately, and I would caution that you will all experience this at some point in your lives, grey hairs are like ants; where there is one there are more of the little bastards. Closer inspection yielded more to be harvested. It was at this point when my workmanlike enthusiasm rather got the better of good judgement. I am now shall we say, somewhat more aerodynamic than was the case when I woke up in the morning. Vanity is never an endearing trait, much less so in the middle aged but I yield to no man in my defence of an Englishman’s God-given birthright to defend his pride and dignity with a pair of nail scissors. The tough truth though, as we all know, is that it is what it is. The experience has been similar to the six stages of grief; shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance all wrapped up in a 24 hour bundle. When your turn comes, perhaps you will handle it with more maturity than have I. Good luck chaps, stay strong.

Time Out

So, home a tad late to a warm welcome from the dogs and Shepherds Pie, ‘it’s in the oven.’ With 48 hours to go until the election, and the servers of the Social Media companies smokin’ as they go into Warp Factor 5 overdrive with a digital frenzy being unleashed by political supporters of all sides, I’m taking a time-out for a moment to share my all-time favourite ad. 

Found on Facebook

Nobody warned me that as a young officer in the Royal Artillery I would be obliged to do early morning equitation lessons while on the Young Officers Course at Larkhill. I wasn't very good. The thing is, my horse, an evil offspring of Beelzebub called Paddy, figured that out very quickly. I spent more time off the recalcitrant beast than on it and haven't boarded one since. I don't feel that has been any kind of a loss in my life. Nick Bull, the unfortunate rider on a retired race horse called Shamrock in the clip above, well passenger rather than rider really, may currently be experiencing the same emotions.  

Opportunity!

An old colleague and friend of mine has two tickets in a corporate box for England v Ireland on Saturday in Dublin. He paid £350 each but didn't realise when he bought them many months ago that it was going to be on the same day as his wedding.

 

If you, or anyone you know, would be interested in taking his place please get in touch.

 

It's at the Registry Office in Winchester at 4:30pm. The brides name is Nicola; she's 5'7'', about 9 stone (57kg), is very easy on the eye, has her own income and is a rather good cook.

 

All Hands To Station

So, Mrs Flashbang has deserted us and is currently somewhere between Cumbria and Northumbria cycling a coast to coast route. That's my girl. Now, that leaves us with something of a change of regime domestically but nothing dramatic, we've been here before and discipline and routine are the order of the day. Stuff gets done. That is, right up until we arrive at this place for food and drink replenishment.

and this is a baby one in comparison to some

For most men, the supermarket trip is an elite participant sport for which they have had little or no training since young childhood, when they were dragged around by their short tempered mothers who never understood the importance of a quick sugar rush at 9am in the morning. Actually, watching badly behaved children is pretty good entertainment up and down the aisles. Take care though not to become obsessively distracted less you be mown down by a pensioner on a high speed mission on his mobility scooter to get to aisle 14 where the girl with the discount sticker gun is busy reducing the price of the tea cakes with raisins. In fact, the supermarket is alive with threats to the unwary. They include, but are not limited to, the wandering Wildebeest I described in Fat Delusional Birds and the unplanned 'just bumped into,' meeting with people you'd rather not stand and talk about nothing to for 20 minutes.

Sorry about the quality but it's a funny clip nonetheless

Then we have the wretched bloody store managers who think it's clever to play grocery hide-and-seek by moving entire rows of condiments and ingredients every six weeks to the nether reaches of the store, the check out assistant who takes the instruction to 'greet the customer,' as a personal lifestyle choice and questions you on 'your day,' as would the Gestapo and of course the moment when you realise that you didn't bring 8 'bags for life,' like the Missus told you to and you're now going to shell out for 8 flimsy plastic bags while attracting looks of contempt and disdain from the queues left and right of you who stare at you as if you're either a complete fool or are personally responsible for the deaths of baby seals and dolphins across the world.

This map becomes inverted though when women shop in supermarkets. Men lose any natural GPS in those places.

Let's face it, rather like childbirth, men are simply not designed for supermarkets. Too much nonsense, distractions, frippery and all out marketing psychological warfare which attempts to get us to do things we don't want to do. That simply reminds most men of their marriages. Most blokes could get by with no more than 30 basic ingredients, and that includes all the home hygiene kit, go home and knock up a pretty spectacular dinner. All of which could all fit in a much smaller retailing space than the modern iteration many of which are built on the scale of American nuclear powered aircraft carriers. We could call it a corner shop. Women though are made for supermarkets. Their normal mode of operations when shopping, say for clothes, becomes inverted when they walk through the doors of a supermarket. They hit the fruit and veg aisle with the sense of purpose of a Russian tank commander storming Berlin and go through the place like a freight train. Woe betide anyone who gets in their way, especially dazed men feeling their way around what for them, is alien space. That I fear, would mostly be me