Good morning, and what a fine one it is .I’ve Not wrote for a while, don’t want to flood the market with my brilliance.
I’ve just popped back inside ready to put the kettle on.
But Bugs, pray tell, what have you been up to at this strange hour?
Well I’ll come clean, yes you’ve guessed correctly, I’ve been looking at Uranus.
Sitting outside reading the story book of the heavens really does help to put things into perspective. The Summer Triangle slipping away to the west while The Hunter and his winter entourage rise in the east. The Dog Star approaches, bringing it’s chill.
Sat outside with all these mythical characters, beasts and places of foreboding while meteors scratch the inky black with their sudden streaks of silver gives us the opportunity to climb on the carousel of memories.
Day dream a little, make a point of drifting, get on the motorway, floor it, feel the dangerous thrill of speed, then as you hit the red line, chill.
Nah, much safer to do it over a bowl…….. of washing up that is, know what I’am sayin.
Anyway the Gaffer’s just got up, best brew up. Bye for now.


The track across the corn field firmed by invisible boots and baked hard by the seasons Sun, a dusty corridor through the golden swathe of dancing corn.
The passage from one world to another, to walk it’s length was to escape the authoritative grasp of school with it’s restrictive rules and regulations, it’s do’s and don’ts, you will learn this language, this is your religion.
Every skipping step took me closer to my world of fascination, singing birds, Linnets, Reed Buntings and Skylark, Gorse and Hawthorn bushes lined the old, now unused canal, a remnant of the area’s mining past.
The wooden towers of the old swing bridge stand witness to the bygone era.
The old Nook pit, workplace of my forebears, had scared the landscape but with the passage of time nature had reclaimed it, turning it into the playground of my childhood.
Snipe, Lapwing, Concker trees and rope swings, I was myself.
We were allowed to roam the fields without any fear or knowledge of anything untoward, although, mind you, the area was wrought with danger, old mine workings and two marl holes to name but a few.
We were not little Angels by no means, we skated on frozen ponds, swam during  the heat of summer in the marl hole and climbed down pit shafts using rusty cables.
We camped out, starting with an overnighter in Picnic’s back garden, progressing to a full weekend, and then, the full 6 week School holiday on top of the pig hill, only returning home to replen the food supply.
Times such as these will never return,  we’ve had them and that’s that, or is it.
When the Summer Sun warms my brow and all I can hear is natures orchestra, I can go there, to the summer warmth of childhood.autunno

Bugs on Sunday.

Good morning everyone, Bugs here.
Well what a response I had from yesterday’s post, it was so refreshing to see so many of you running about trying to be nice to  people, myself included, but I do think that
Mrs Chestadraws of Howard County, Maryland went a touch OTT by digging up her husband and tonguing his skull.
Much more pleasing was the response of Mrs Niffimuf.
Mrs Niffimuf of the Pines retirement home in Alburquerque just had to show all the residents her tits.
It’s certainly relaxing watching tits and if you are really observant and lucky you might get to see a pecker pop up between them, Wood Pecker that is.
Today, a’r Jack’s taking me to Chorley horse show, I find it most relaxing.
It’s a monthly opportunity for local folk to dress their best, groom their horses and in a way show off a little, and why not.
I personally shall use the time to relax, and even seek inspiration for my future ramblings.

Next time on Bugsy’s Blog we’ll touch on the sensitive and controversial subject of eating babies, yes you read correctly, eating babies, without mustard would you believe.
Just to think that this day and age people still eat babies, ohne zenf, sans mutard.
What ever you get up to today enjoy it. This is Bugs Bruton heading for the kettle,
stand down stand easy, bye.

Sunshine Saturday.

Good morning one and all, firstly I would like to thank everyone for the kind words of encouragement, thank you.
No I’am not an insomniac, I just enjoy the silence and lack of distraction that this hour offers.

Well here it is, not just another day but Saturday, the gateway to your weekend. I still believe that such a thing exists, I make it exist, your time is special time and with a little more thought and planing it could become a magical memory.


Surprise someone close, surprise yourself, get out there and make a difference, even if it’s only a little one, no need to go mad, just a slight adjustment from the norm that’s all.

What ever your choice I hope you enjoy it, let me know how you get on.
It’s time for me to have that long awaited brew and prepare to practice what I preach.
Bye for now. Stand easy.



Hiya, nice to WordPress meet you.

My name is Mick, although most call me Bugs, l’am 58 years of age and live in a small thatched cottage here in rural England.

I was rendered disabled 7 years ago by a brain hemorrhage, knocked me about a bit.

My entire existence revoles round keeping occupied and active, wether it be Birds, Moths, cooking, Star gazing  or this, writting. I pass the time of day in endless ways helped by my beloved partner of 24 years Jackie.

We live together on the fringe of society  surrounded by all we love. We have in a way over the years built our own piece of shangri-la.

During the comming weeks I’ll be writing short stories  and articles on a wide range of subjects that will help  you to use your time constructively and enjoyably.

Until the next time, take care. Bye.

Touching Cloth.

Blue sky, white fluffy clouds and a gentle breeze that caused the bunting to flutter. The smell of freshly baked cakes and mow’n grass reached the Vicars nostrils as he surveyed this quintessential scene of life in rural England. THE VILLAGE FETE.
The weather was warm and summery and regarding their dress sense a lot of the younger women threw caution to the wind , see through chiffon skirts and revealing unbuttoned cheese cloth shirts were the order of the day.
Children played freely, running and screaming amidst the adults, loving the day.

The Vicar was young and loved his trusted position within this wonderful community.
After indulging his senses of pride and happiness he used his handkerchief to mop his brow of the light perspiration caused by the summer sun, or was it caused by the sight of the village librarian and her slightly over exposed tanned skin, enhanced in beauty by a fortnight in Spain. She was a true pearl.

The Vicar turned his back on the jovial gathering to face the quaint stone Church, he entered through the arched oak doors into the cool interior of Gods house. He walked slowly along the Isle, laid-back like, letting the finger tips of his right hand ride over the smooth back’s of the empty pews. He felt alive and blessed, he had it all, his newly wedded wife, his own Parish, he lived in a world of total satisfaction, he was in control of his inner self.

Half way along the Isle, the privacy of his thoughts were disturbed by the soft click of a closing door. The sounds of the fete were instantly muted, he was cocooned in the echoing silence.
He froze on the spot, a trickle of sweat ran down his spine and he felt the goose bumps rise.  “Hello Vicar”. He recognized the voice instantly.

He turned slowly to face the voice, there she stood, only 10 feet from him, framed by the closed oak doors. The Liberian, and she was steaming hot.

The Vicar backed off one small step at a time, his gaze fixed on the slowly advancing Liberian. His progress was suddenly halted by the large stone font, he reached backwards with his trembling hands feeling the fonts familiar form, the scene of so many happy family memories, crying babies and proud parents.

The Liberian was very soon toe to toe with the  Vicar. She placed her hands gently on his now slightly heaving chest and let her fingers climb his rib cage and found his nipples, now sticking out as she tormented them with a delicate squeeze.

To prevent loosing his balance the Vicar released the font and placed his hands on the Liberians hips. Nice hips, a bit bony he thought and found himself exploring further enjoying the softness of chiffon and buttocks.
His pulse quickened as his fingers scrambled underneath the flimsy skirt and found bare flesh and the satin smooth texture of her knickers. She leaned forward  and licked his lips with her tongue whilst she stroked his swelling groin. Feeling the slight resistance of elastic he pushed his hand inside the panties to feel and fondle the forbidden fruit of her femininity.
He wanted more, desires of lust now controlled his every action. His fingers now searched frantically for her wetness……..”Holy shit! What the fuck?” screamed the Vicar as his clammy palm wrapped around the throbbing shaft.
The couple glared into each others eye’s, the Vicar felt rage and disgust rise from the pit of his stomach, quickly, he grasped hold of the Liberians testicles and squeezed for all he was worth. The Liberian let out a scream filled with pain. “Bastaaaaaard”.

The scream was so frighteningly intense it caused Mrs Pettigrew, the Majors wife, to drop the cup of tea she had been holding ready to give to the Vicar. It fell to the floor, shattering and spilling it’s contents in a dark stain across the cold stone.
Three pairs of eye’s flicked around the scene, Mrs Pettigrew cupped a hand to her mouth.”Vicar!” She gasped, horrified by what she had seen. She composed herself with a brisk rub down of her garment and turned to face the exit. She wanted to return to the sanity of the Village fete, she took one step, then another, she wanted to run but she remained calm, her pace quickened slightly as she passed the once pillars of her world, she spared the scene a momentary glance and then decided to run.

Her attempt to run was cut short by a heavy blow to her head, sending her sprawling to the floor. The red liquid of life leaked from her wound, the stained glass window reflected on it’s surface, silence prevailed, the scene seemed to freeze.

The large oak doors opened, and there, framed within a scene of idyllic  bliss stood the Vicar’s wife. The assailant let the gold candelabrum fall to the floor, the metallic sound filling everyone’s ears.

Jesus hung on his Crucifix, the silent witness.