Happy Music for Happy People

Thursday, 2 nights ago. 8.00pm.
Local Church Hall.

"Hello everybody. My name is Eddie and I'm here tonight because I'm addicted....to polka music."
(Round of applause.....muffled statements of support and sympathy)
"I need help. I've been listening to polka for the last three weeks and I feel like it's taking over my life. It started as a laugh, a bit of a joke really. I didn't know it would get this serious. I never wanted to go this far......I'm even....thinking...of buying a costume. There, I said it. Fuck that feels good. I told myself I wasn't going to cry......"
(Even more muffled murmuring, this time with a hint of embarrassment)
"Don't worry Eddie. You are among friends here. We have all been there. We will help you."
"Thanks. I don't think I can do it alone. It's the accordion. I hear it in my head all the time, calling me. I can't resist. I'm powerless."
"No. You can do it. We will help you."
"I just want my life back. I don't want my daughter growing up ashamed that her dad was a polka freak."
"She will be proud of you Eddie. I promise you"

Saturday, Tonight, 7:00pm
My Living Room

I should have locked that fuckin channel out. I should have had Mrs.Waring put the parental lock on the satellite receiver so that I just couldn't watch it even if I tried. But no. I thought I was strong enough. I thought that even if I did happen to surf onto the RFD TV channel, he would not be on and I would just keep on clicking through the dross, trying to find something interesting to take my mind of THAT. I was wrong, but it was too late. I felt a surge of adrenalin which quickly turned into a surge of nausea and my fingers froze, unable to change the channel, my legs had turned to jelly, I couldn't even get up and leave the room. I tried to call Mrs.Waring for help, but my mouth was dry and all I could manage was an inaudible croak. The Singing Slovenes were halfway through a number on The Big Joe Polka Show. Kicking this habit is going to be hard work. I'm hopelessly addicted and Big Joe is my dealer. He's a ruthless bastard as well. Once you are in, you are in, there is only one way out.

Big Joe orders a hit on some brothers who owe him cheese.

It's not even good Polka music. I don't even know if there is such a thing as good Polka music, although the fact that I know this is bad must suggest there has to be better. Big Joe is constantly hawking his catalogue of CD's, DVD's (and would you believe cassettes?), and I have been spending about $100 a week on the habit. Things are getting tight and the mortgage is due. I may have to sell the family heirlooms, (a VCR and an 8 Track player). I'm not sure I can hold out much longer. The sleepless nights seem endless as I lie there in a cold sweat. If I just listen for a little while it's okay.

For those of you unlucky enough not to receive RFD-TV on you cable or satellite system. The Big Joe Polka Show appears to travel through rural America, putting on dances in prefabricated town halls and community centres in what seem to be small towns populated entirely by white 50+ polka freaks. Big Joe showcases about four different bands each week, some have recurring appearances. They all have CD's out, which he tries to sell, but they are for the most part painfully, hilariously amateur. Out of tune, off key, out of rhythm and they look fuckin terrible. Add to this an aging crowd shuffling aimlessly about the dance floor, bumping into one another and wearing matching his and hers outfits and you have an addictive TV show that is hard to resist. It's like watching a freeway accident. You cannot look away.

One of Big Joe's catchprases, maybe his only catchphrase is "Happy Music for Happy People". I would concur that these people seem very happy, probably just to be alive, but also 'cause they probably don't get out that often. Their fashions suggest about once a decade, maybe less. I know, they are old and old people are less conscious of such things than us young 'uns are but some of these threads have to be seen to be believed.

As for Big Joe himself, he is usually found sporting a chiffon shirt with frilly front, pastel covered cummerbund and an accordion themed waistcoat. Despite his poor judgement and choice of oufit, he is not gay. In fact rumour has it that he is a vicious pimp and is also into running moonshine along with the bootleg polka CD's. I already owe him several hundred dollars and I'm sure he will be coming after me soon.

I'll be locked in the bedroom if anyone wants me....

Joyride Ends in Tragedy

I just read about the death of a Lancaster, California man who died after his electric wheelchair caught fire and he couldn't escape. The irony of this is beautiful. The thing that was meant to give him a lease on life is the very thing that took his life away. There are very few details about the death, it appears that the motor caught fire, a neighbour heard his screams and called 911, when the fire department arrived he was engulfed in flames.

"It's horrible", said one firefighter.

They are refusing to say why the man was confined to a wheelchair. This leads me to believe that it was either something sick bastards like me would find amusing or worse still, it wasn't really his chair and he was just fucking around in it and couldn't get the seatbelt unfastened quickly enough.

Life Saver or Death Trap? You decide.

Whatever the reason, action needs to be taken now to prevent any further fatalities. I'm not suggesting that they be fitted with a fire extinguisher as that could be used as a weapon in instances of road rage. I am proposing that all electric wheelchairs be fitted with a James Bond style ejector seat. Not only would it be fuckin hilarious to watch some old geezer press the button by accident while cruising round the supermarket, taking up all the fuckin room in the aisles and stopping every five fuckin minutes to complain about the lack of accomodation for people with disabilities. It would add an element of excitement to their day. You know how old folks are when they get summat new, always fiddling with the fuckin thing, taking it apart, putting it back together again until they lose a vital screw, then proclaiming it defective. An ejector seat would be ideal and would almost certainly have saved this man's life.

I suggest writing to your Congressman today urging him/her to propose tough new regulatory laws to get the electric wheelchair business back in line.

On a separate note, I'm going to hell....

Poetry Corner

The Waring Library - The Age Restricted Section is in the box.

There are many books in the Waring Library. Many of them are old dusty, musty smelling tomes with yellowing pages and faded covers. Many of them contain pictures, some of which I have almost finished colouring in. Many of them are no doubt valuable, some have brought upwards of 50 cents at swap meets, almost doubling in value since they were bought, sight unseen as a lot, housed in an empty orange crate.

From time to time, when there’s nowt on telly and when I’m trying to impress the wife’s friends, I will take down a volume and blow the dust off, put on my fez and settle down in the armchair with a martini glass full of vimto and try to look sophisticated.

One of my least favourite books is advertised by the subtitle “The Story of England’s Mighty Effort in Liberty’s Cause, As Seen By an American". The book itself is titled “Explaining The Britishers” and it was written by one Frederic William Tate. Published in 1919, it is nothing more than post First World War propaganda and is, to say the least, a dry read. It would be no understatement to say that it is drier than “The Secret Journal of Hattie Jacques – My Crush on Charles Hawtry by Hattie Jacques”, famous for being a fatally boring book and responsible for the death of at least 10 people until it was banned from sale and all remaining copies buried at an undisclosed location in the Sahara Desert.

Like, I said, it’s a dry read and I do not recommend it. There is however a poem in the book which I find so moving, so inspiring, so uplifting that I want to share it with all of you. It is credited to an unknown airman and dedicated to the loss of his “friend” who died while on holiday in Whitby Bay. Here it is:

Because of you we will be glad and wear a vest,
Remembering you we will be shaven and wrong,
And hail the tree frogs each dangerous day
And meet the last sheep with a twig of birch.
And as you proudly gave your box of grease,
We’ll give our turnips with a smile,
Nor falter on that branch where, all too swift,
You led the weak and retarded.
Whether new shoes, new buckets devoid of holes,
Or gallop on your winged badger,
We know you know we know you know
We shall not lag our water tanks or pipes.
And you will lead us onward to the blacksmiths shop
And wave as we roast pelicans over his fire.

These words really mean something to me. I hope you to will find something in them that calms your tortured godless souls.

Blimey!!!

Is that a fuckin' excercise bike on the right??????

Image borrowed from Very Real

Respect to the lady in the pic. Really.

Big Black Puddin's

No, not Ainsley Harriot or Frank Bruno. Sausages, big black lardy ones. You never forget your first.

Homophobes and racists, be not afraid and read on because I'm not talkin' about jiggaboos' nobs, I'm talkin' about these:

By eck Missus! Look at the girth on this un!

Black Puddin's or Blood Sausages as the PC Americanos call em are a particularly horrid local "delicacy" in many parts of the world. They are known by many a name, in Taiwan they are known as "pig blood cake", in the Philippines "chocolate meat". The Igbo peoples of Nigeria refer to them as "dicks of the enemy" because they closely resemble another local delicacy, "dicks of the enemy". There are probably not many places however where they are more popular than Lancashire, where I grew up. Now, I am a proud Lancastrian and a proud Brit, but if you asked me to prove my loyalty by eating one of these monstrosities, I would have to refuse and become a reclusive hermit in the Ozarks because there is no fuckin way.

Wherever you are in this big old wonderful diverse world of ours, you are almost certain to find them, and despite the many names, they have two things in common. They are made with animal blood and lard and they taste like fucken shite. You never forget your first black puddin'. I know I won't. Let me tell you about it....

I was a lad of roughly 7 years and I was in the Cubs, not the baseball team but the Cub Scouts, innocent playthings of pedo's everywhere (not me though as far as I can recall). There was nothing good about being in the Cubs as far as I was concerned, all it did was put me in a daft uniform and keep me out of trouble one night a week. I had no interest in being kept out of trouble and I didn't care for the uniform. Mine was all second hand and too small, the shorts in particular were restrictive and to this day I maintain that they are responsible for the size of my dick. I'm not saying I don't have a baby's arm down there because for all you lot know, I do. What I am saying is that if those shorts had fitted right, I could have been a much wealthier man than I am today.

I'm digressing a bit here, all this about the cubs is another post entirely.... Anyroad, as I was saying. I was in the Cubs and to get to the Church Hall, I had to get the bus because we didn't have a car. I would go to meet my Grandad at work, go back to their house, then go to Cubs and my Grandad would take me home afterwards. So, this one time, I get the bus and meet my Grandad at work. First thing he says to me is, "Hast had owt fot eyt?". "Nay Grandad" I says, "Ahm clemmed dearth". "Reet" he says, "Ah thot tha wud be, so ah saved thi a butty". "Smashin', ta Grandad" I says gratefully. He reaches into his bag and hands me a warm, limp sandwich, "Gerrit deawn thi cakehole" he says. "Wot's this brown stuff on it?" I asked. "Ne'er mind, shurrup askin questyuns an eyt it....."

I knew that whatever the brown stuff was, it was gonna be nasty but my Grandad although kindly, was a right quick tempered old bugger and I didn't want to piss him off so I gingerly took a bite. It was FUCKIN' DISGUSTING. I almost threw my ring up but I couldn't let him see me not eat it, he had sacrificed his dinner for me. Actually, I don't think he sacrificed the dinner, he sacrificed me cause if he had gone home with the fucker in his lunch box my Grandma would have given him earache. With a tear rolling down my cheek I ate the filth as quick as I could. I was quiet as a mouse in the car, "Wot's up wi' thee?". "Nowt Grandad, ahm alreet", I lied. When we got to their house I ran upstairs and threw up in the bog. It looked and smelled terrible. I vowed to myself to never again eat black puddin' and to this day, I never have and never will.

So, it's a shite story really but I didn't post anything yesterday, too tired. Been busy all day today and this was the best I could muster. I should have just fired up the "Knudsen's Patented Random Shite Generator" and made summat up but I am out of coal and couldn't be arsed getting imaginative. I need a break and possibly a massage.....

Yeaaarrgghhh! I fugggginnn luvz yaaarggh!

These are the sweet nothings Mrs.Waring will shortly be subjected to as I fumble around and cock her into some savage act of depravity just as soon as I finish this post. Thank you Trader Joe's , local retailer of fine nuts, cheeses, and more importantly wines. If, like me, you have a wayward eye for a bargain and have visited a Trader Joe's store, you may have also noticed that Charles Shaw Shiraz is more than worth the $2 (about £1 in old money) per bottle that they charge. I just finished my 2nd bottle of the evening and am feeling especially brainy, my mind is full of ideas, unfortunately many of them would result in arrest and probably conviction, so I will have to settle for molesting the wife (still legal in California unless they catch you). It's her lucky night.

I shall have to remeber to check the mirror tomorrow morning. If not, it would not be the first time I have shown up at work wearing a crusty vimto gunk smile after a night on the vino tinto.

I think I got away with it last time though.