dscn0706dscn0708This morning finds me in reflective mood, humbled by the thoughts of having so much, even as I write the folk dearest to me sleep, resting, even Kippy sprawled out in front of the fire. My friends list on FB, each picture a smile and a warming memory of a long road

Enough, enough I say, can we be done with this festive piffle and get on with something a tad more relevant and fitting to the currant Global situation, such as the drastic drop in Giraffe numbers or the Russian and Syrian Government’s bomb blindness. Aleppo at all cost, and what a cost, these people are converting live rounds into empty cases, houses into empty shells and peoples lives into the turmoil of survival.

To push all this hurt aside and think of how many Budgies you can get on an average 9inch skewer is no easy task, but it has to be done, I only wish I was in a position to do something helpful and constructive, but I’am not, maybe this writing is my bucket of sand and makes the pill easier to swallow.

Swallow! Where? On the lawn, eating the crochet hoops. In the time it’s took me to write that line, it makes me think, makes me think of how many tears have fallen down the child’s grubby cheek, or, what is the average size of a flock of Budgerigars.

Earlier I said “I only wish I was in a position to do something helpful and constructive”. Well, I’am in a fantastic position as it happens. I intend to let the warmth of Christmas melt the tuf inner core of ignorant oblivion and become more obsequious.

If by some remote chance you are still reading this ask yourself but one question, and that question is, does Donald Trump wipe is own arse, or has he got a designated monkey butler.

By the way, you can get 4 Budgies on a skewer, but don’t over cook them pop pickers.

Coffee time, bis gleich.


Dropallog (Scandanavian for Rudolph.)

It was the perfect picture, the little thatched cottage covered in a blanket of snow and the surrounding landscape whiter than an English Man on a Costa Playa on day one of his package holiday. At last, the big day was here, cooling mince pies, golden pastry enveloping the molten contents released their festive aroma into the interior. The fairy lights on the Norwegian Spruce omitted a warming glow that married the crackling of the log fire.

Bugs chuckled as he took a sip of his Calvados, the image of a rosy cheeked choir boy just about to hit the high notes of All for the wings of a Dove having the Vicars hand fondling under his cassock.

With his vessel charged Bugs stood by the small window staring, as if mesmerized by the falling flakes, the tranquillity of the moment had allowed the Bugs to slip into Christmas  past mode. Joyous fun drinking 15 litres of Gun Fire before breakfast with the now sadly departed Jimmy Mac. A wide smile crossed his face as the internal slide show ran it’s course.

BUT WHAT’S THAT? Alerted, as if by a B&B breakfast gong, the Bugs struggled to control the rising tide of discruntlement. It was as if someone had done it with a deliberate precision, it was equivalent to a zit on the Mona Lisa’s face or a sly wink and a smile on The Scream

There, yes there, smack bang in the middle of the lawn, it’s warmth now melting the pure snow and encircling itself in a brown puddle was the most unfestive sight.

All thoughts of little Robin’s wearing bobble hats and casually flung over the shoulder scarves were washed away by the sight of the biggest Raindeer turd this side of Helsinki.

Santa, yes, that’s the one, Santa the bastard Clause, never even cleaned it up. He didn’t bring festive joy and good cheer, he just swooped in here, used my front lawn as a crap house and bogged off. Fat twat.

Anyway the moral of this festive jape is simple. Don’t give Dunallog to many mince pies

Bis Gleich.img_0441