Post 251. YEAH, BRACKETS GONE.

GOT FED UP WITH 'EM.

Among other things.

Aware that Google has a plethora of New Blog styles for the entrenched old blogger to adopt, I have (believe it or not) had another abortive shot at adding a new title to run alongside Watching the Detectives. I fell at the first stile. Domains and blog addresses and all that guff totally bemuse me. I was, as I have boringly reiterated ad infinitum, a working class elementary (formerly Poor Law school) schoolboy who, following a couple of relatively untaught war years in blitzed Portsmouth (above), moved twenty miles along the coast in 1941 at precisely the right time to sit and fail the eleven plus in unblitzed Bognor Regis. So it is pointless talking New Blog or anything computer clever to me. I still think of a default as a failure to act and a domain as land owned or governed.To the distinct disapproval of certain PC acquaintances, I also think the press-ganging of the word gay to describe homosexuals was a desecration of the English language that should have been referred to the European Court of Human Rights and all who sail in her.
Anyway, I have never aspired to be a clever clogs, abhor those who think they are and, unless one who really is comes along, shall probably be stuck with this blog format until I jack it in altogether or kick the bucket. Ne'er mind, eh. 

HOME.

Two of ours, Neil and Pauline, went on holiday this week. Cornwall. 

On the way their car overheated and, expelling steam from every mechanical orifice, they pulled off onto the motorway hard shoulder to park behind a similarly stricken motor home. 

Had the owners any water they could spare? 

Sorry. No. Right out. 

They phoned their breakdown service. 

Then the man from the motor home appeared with a container of water. He had emptied his toilet cistern. (Aren't some people gems?) 

Would they like to use this? They would. 

And, with profuse thanks, they were off again. 

Eventually, an anticipated three hour journey took them eight hours. 

As if that was not enough, the following day Neil pulled out onto the A390 in front of a car indicating it was going to turn into the road he was leaving. The car came straight on. 

Thank the gods nobody was killed. The oncoming driver suffered whiplash. Pauline was physically unhurt. Neil sustained a broken finger. 

Their car was a write off: they bought an updated version of the same make at the garage where their wrecked vehicle was taken. 

What a start to a holiday. 

Full report and the comments of friends on Nobby Barnden - Facebook. 

He's not a bad writer, either. 

Maybe one day he'll finish that book.
TELEVISION.

Nothing changes much. 

We still have photogenic young presenters showing picky publicity seekers how much they could buy, abroad or in the sticks, for the million quid they obtained when they sold their single bedroom flat in London. 

Maybe one in fifty ends up buying something: just don't hold your breath. 

I see these programmes as the property equivalent of daytime cookery and antiques shows; cheaply made rubbish for the elderly and retired. 

The Wright Stuff. Ol' Matthew's morning chat show still attracts enough regular and gotta-spare-week celebrities to adorn the panel alongside the customary line-up of book-pluggers and Channel 5 reality show unknowns. 

He still cuts off any phone-in who disagrees with him, unexpectedly transforms into Anne Diamond or Richard Madely whenever the fishing line beckons, and takes every opportunity to bitch about the BBC. 

Na-a-ah. Nothing changes much.

I may even be back at the end of the month.