For sheer value for money, cleaning ability and that all important 'manly odour', I recommend...
...Swarfega
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blithe__spirit
Over 90 days ago
Straight Male, 66
0 miles · Shropshire
Forum
I often heard my parents asking the very same question; this probably explains a lot about my lack of confidence.
My work mates also asked the same question: they realised they didn't know but unanimously agreed that it would be better for all if I buggered off back there.
I assumed that my wife believed I arrived riding on a white charger with tales of dragons freshly slain: in fact, when I recently asked her, she just looked puzzled and said she'd assumed 'I'd always been around- like Syphilis.'
The answer finally came from my aged Grandparents, who explained that I arrived with real roots: yes, they found me in a trailer load of turnips, fully formed and with an intellect completely in unison with the turnips.
So, at last I know: like slurry, foul smells and Big Macs....I originated in cattle fodder.
My work mates also asked the same question: they realised they didn't know but unanimously agreed that it would be better for all if I buggered off back there.
I assumed that my wife believed I arrived riding on a white charger with tales of dragons freshly slain: in fact, when I recently asked her, she just looked puzzled and said she'd assumed 'I'd always been around- like Syphilis.'
The answer finally came from my aged Grandparents, who explained that I arrived with real roots: yes, they found me in a trailer load of turnips, fully formed and with an intellect completely in unison with the turnips.
So, at last I know: like slurry, foul smells and Big Macs....I originated in cattle fodder.
I was just bimbling along and noticed this rather interesting thread: I thought I might clarify the initial question...
Do Huskies mush? Indeed they do, especially when hit by a Burberry- clad Inuit 'boy racer ' on a souped up Vauxhall Nova jet-ski. I'm reliably informed that this hardy breed of dog, which all of us love to imagine pulling an intrepid explorer across snow covered wilderness, is on the verge of extinction due to excessive cross breed ing with Pit Bulls. Yes, it appears that what was fashionable in the drug dealing meanstreets of Britain yesterday is fashionable in the wastes of Northern Canada today. Indeed, although there are no drugs to speak of, Polar Bear smuggling has reached epic proportions (the main difference being that they are harder to hide up your backside). The Pit Bull cross Husky was found to be not quite as good at hauling a sled but much better at ripping the throats out of Arctic wildlife. They could also be let out on their own to sort out the excess of those cute little baby seals while the men who previously wielded the clubs stayed at home and watched Northern Exposure on TV, free from the photographers who used to follow their every move. Indeed, times have changed in the frozen North: young Inuit men still hunt beaver, but these days it is a different kind to that hunted by their forefathers. Chav culture is now so endemic that there is a move to change the name of the native people from Inuit to ''Innit' and a decorated seal skin does not get as much street cred as a decorated foreskin. The Hudson Bay Trading Company has ceased trading furs and blankets but does a nice line in hoodies, white trainers and dangly earrings. Meanwhile, the good old Husky is becoming a thing of memory...
...but before it went, it did give its name to a rather nifty car, one of which I was was proud to own: the Hillman Husky. The Hillman Husky didn't go mush but a rather pathetic 'phut, phut', that is when its 1265cc engine could be persuaded to start at all. Mine was rather temperamental and I could never be sure to arrive anywhere on time. I remember taking the barmaid from the local on a day trip to Rhyl. For once the Husky went all the way: the rub was that the barmaid didn't.
Anyway, looks like Huskies of all kinds are doomed to the mush of history...
Of course, all of the above is absaloutely true...
Do Huskies mush? Indeed they do, especially when hit by a Burberry- clad Inuit 'boy racer ' on a souped up Vauxhall Nova jet-ski. I'm reliably informed that this hardy breed of dog, which all of us love to imagine pulling an intrepid explorer across snow covered wilderness, is on the verge of extinction due to excessive cross breed ing with Pit Bulls. Yes, it appears that what was fashionable in the drug dealing meanstreets of Britain yesterday is fashionable in the wastes of Northern Canada today. Indeed, although there are no drugs to speak of, Polar Bear smuggling has reached epic proportions (the main difference being that they are harder to hide up your backside). The Pit Bull cross Husky was found to be not quite as good at hauling a sled but much better at ripping the throats out of Arctic wildlife. They could also be let out on their own to sort out the excess of those cute little baby seals while the men who previously wielded the clubs stayed at home and watched Northern Exposure on TV, free from the photographers who used to follow their every move. Indeed, times have changed in the frozen North: young Inuit men still hunt beaver, but these days it is a different kind to that hunted by their forefathers. Chav culture is now so endemic that there is a move to change the name of the native people from Inuit to ''Innit' and a decorated seal skin does not get as much street cred as a decorated foreskin. The Hudson Bay Trading Company has ceased trading furs and blankets but does a nice line in hoodies, white trainers and dangly earrings. Meanwhile, the good old Husky is becoming a thing of memory...
...but before it went, it did give its name to a rather nifty car, one of which I was was proud to own: the Hillman Husky. The Hillman Husky didn't go mush but a rather pathetic 'phut, phut', that is when its 1265cc engine could be persuaded to start at all. Mine was rather temperamental and I could never be sure to arrive anywhere on time. I remember taking the barmaid from the local on a day trip to Rhyl. For once the Husky went all the way: the rub was that the barmaid didn't.
Anyway, looks like Huskies of all kinds are doomed to the mush of history...
Of course, all of the above is absaloutely true...
There appear to be several seperate points to note here.
I am not really a soccer fan, the other shaped ball being my passion, but I am enthralled by genius wherever I see it, or at least where my lowly intellect is able to recognise it.
I watched George Best and was mesmerised by his talent: I think we have to seperate off what he was like as a man, that is largely irrelevant to the enjoyment that he gave to so many. I can't help remembering that true genius is often accompanied by a tendency to self damage and instability: I think of Dylan Thomas, Van Gough, Hancock, Pollock, Buster Keaton , EA Poe,Brando, Friedeman Bach, Bobby Jones et al...the list is awfully long and supplemented by those who managed to hide their pain or were shielded by family etc genius does not necessarily, or indeed often, collate with 'niceness'. I admire decency, courage and humanity as much as I do genius. I therefore admire Nelson Mandela, Geldof, Mother Theresa and Ghandi for different reasons.
With regard to his 'squandering ' of this talent: I'm sure that is probably true, but then, it was his to squander. He was an alcoholic, something I would have found easy to deride until I became personally affected by it. Now perhaps I understand a little better and am perhaps not so keen to pass judgement.;let him who is without sin and all that....
With regard to the outpouring of grief: yes, it's probaby over the top, he was genuinely admired, gave pleasure to millions, and was blessed with a very special talent. I have heard people today moaning about the mourning of his passing who were bereft when pop stars, soap actors and Royal Family passed on: I fail to differentiate.
It's sad when anyone dies-even the most evil deserve to be mourned for what they might have been. I've been one of the most horrible buggers to have walked the earth, but I still hope that when I shuffle off this mortal coil there will be someone playing 'Flowers of the Forest' for me: not for me, or any talent I had (never been troubled with talent personally) but for the fact that I was here, was loved -albeit undeservedly-and like all of us.... 'could have been a contender'.
I am not really a soccer fan, the other shaped ball being my passion, but I am enthralled by genius wherever I see it, or at least where my lowly intellect is able to recognise it.
I watched George Best and was mesmerised by his talent: I think we have to seperate off what he was like as a man, that is largely irrelevant to the enjoyment that he gave to so many. I can't help remembering that true genius is often accompanied by a tendency to self damage and instability: I think of Dylan Thomas, Van Gough, Hancock, Pollock, Buster Keaton , EA Poe,Brando, Friedeman Bach, Bobby Jones et al...the list is awfully long and supplemented by those who managed to hide their pain or were shielded by family etc genius does not necessarily, or indeed often, collate with 'niceness'. I admire decency, courage and humanity as much as I do genius. I therefore admire Nelson Mandela, Geldof, Mother Theresa and Ghandi for different reasons.
With regard to his 'squandering ' of this talent: I'm sure that is probably true, but then, it was his to squander. He was an alcoholic, something I would have found easy to deride until I became personally affected by it. Now perhaps I understand a little better and am perhaps not so keen to pass judgement.;let him who is without sin and all that....
With regard to the outpouring of grief: yes, it's probaby over the top, he was genuinely admired, gave pleasure to millions, and was blessed with a very special talent. I have heard people today moaning about the mourning of his passing who were bereft when pop stars, soap actors and Royal Family passed on: I fail to differentiate.
It's sad when anyone dies-even the most evil deserve to be mourned for what they might have been. I've been one of the most horrible buggers to have walked the earth, but I still hope that when I shuffle off this mortal coil there will be someone playing 'Flowers of the Forest' for me: not for me, or any talent I had (never been troubled with talent personally) but for the fact that I was here, was loved -albeit undeservedly-and like all of us.... 'could have been a contender'.
Quote by markz
yeah but are you any good in bed :shock:
No Markz, absaloutely rubbish. It's not that I haven't tried, but , it's no use. I've tried Viagra: I developed a stiff foot which lasted for a week and caused me to trip over everything and led to my spending a night in casualty. I've tried porn but misread the catalogue, well, it was nice to watch snow White and the Seven Dwarves, even if their group hugs weren't what I was expecting. I've tried dogging. That was going quite well until my eager flashing of the interior light short -circuited something and set the car on fire. I've tried visiting prostitutes. They really were nice and gave me my money back saying that they hadn't laughed so much in years. I tried speed-dating but got a slow puncture im my cycle tyre and missed the whole ruddy event. I tried a penis enlarger: just as I got the thing up to vacuum I sneezed , broke the seal and the damned thing shot across the room and killed the cat. I tried a sex therapist: she was very kind and suggested I practice on something 'accomodating' and non human: well, the good thing was that I now know that my new Dyson is quite powerful. The bad thing was that I broke every blood vessel in my nether regions and had the only scarlet (very) dangly bits in the country.
So, I'll just have to live with it mate, but thanks for asking all the same.
Quote by North Star
The correct term for the three dots `...` at the end of a sentence is, the `elipsis`.
They`re used as a form of cliff-hanger - nb, three dots only. not two, not four - three!
Where is all this leading us? wait and see...
The dots `... `.....` in mid-sentence are called `bullets` but you knew that already. didn`t you?
Punctuation; examples:
Charles the Ist walked and talked half an hour after his head was cut off.
Charles the Ist walked and talked; half an hour after, his head was cut off.
(I should be charging for this!)
PS. There is at least, one typographical error in the above; can anyone see it?
Is this a challenge?
I can see a few things which may be construed as grammatically incorrect but do not necessarily detract from an interesting post.
For example:
The comma after 'is' in the first sentence is superfluous;
'The 1st' should really be 'The First' ;
The full-stop (period) after 'already' should be a comma or an elipsis or , in fact, require no punctuation at all;
The comma after 'at least ' is not required unless a comma is inserted after 'There is';
A colon , not a semicolon, would be appropriate after 'error in the above' as it amplifies and is directly dependant upon the preceding clause;
NB (Nota Bene) is usually written with capital letters.
There are other minor infringements which might upset the grammar snobs- indeed much of what I have written is open to ridicule and correction-but the point I wish to make is that a degree of unconformity is a blessing, not a curse. It is obviously important for basic grammar to be adopted if meaning is to be conveyed and confusion avoided (read Lynn Truss's 'Eats Shoots and Leaves' if you remain unconvinced). A good proof-reader will iron out most errors-and there are some very good 'proofies' who may well be looking in (hello my lovely, how are you?)-but I would argue that I would rather see a person write what they feel, even if a little grammatically challenged, than be put off writing by the grammar snobs. Some of the best American writers e.g Cormac McCarthy, use virtually no grammar or punctuation at all!! (try 'All The Pretty Horses';a book which inspired a film starring Penelope Cruz cannot be villified).
So, don't despair, write what you feel: the grammar can be fixed. What can't be fixed as easily is the feeling that reading and writing are somehow beyond one's ability and therefore for others.
Writing is about communication, not polarisation.
Not one line, but several that amount to one...
...In 'Hurt', Johnny Cash said:
'What have I become
My sweetest friend,
Everyone I know
Goes away, in the end.
You can have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.'
Oh how painfully true, how very, very true to me...
God forgive me...
BS
...In 'Hurt', Johnny Cash said:
'What have I become
My sweetest friend,
Everyone I know
Goes away, in the end.
You can have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.'
Oh how painfully true, how very, very true to me...
God forgive me...
BS
I know a little about prisons-and Ronnie had it spot -on.
I know a little about the 'working man'-and Ronnie had it spot on.
I know a little about the tension between classes-and Ronnie had it spot -on.
I would like to think I could string a few words together for effect-comic or otherwise-but I am an amateur compared to Ronnie; he had it spot- on
A master of observational comedy; I am a saddder man today for the news of his leaving us...
BS
I know a little about the 'working man'-and Ronnie had it spot on.
I know a little about the tension between classes-and Ronnie had it spot -on.
I would like to think I could string a few words together for effect-comic or otherwise-but I am an amateur compared to Ronnie; he had it spot- on
A master of observational comedy; I am a saddder man today for the news of his leaving us...
BS
Just re-read 'Cold Mountain' by Charles Frazier: just as good as first time and makes a mockery of the film.
'All the Pretty Horses', Cormac McCarthy-couldn't put it down-and the film was good too (Penelope Cruz was something of a bonus!!)
For brain fodder: 'Rings of Saturn', , guaranteed to make you think.
For brain candy, the Robert Crais books are excellent, real page turners. 'Demolition Angel' & 'Hostage' were particularly riveting, if not Booker material.
Currently reading 'Brazzaville Beach',William Boyd: wow, what a storyteller. 'Armadillo' is just as good.
'All the Pretty Horses', Cormac McCarthy-couldn't put it down-and the film was good too (Penelope Cruz was something of a bonus!!)
For brain fodder: 'Rings of Saturn', , guaranteed to make you think.
For brain candy, the Robert Crais books are excellent, real page turners. 'Demolition Angel' & 'Hostage' were particularly riveting, if not Booker material.
Currently reading 'Brazzaville Beach',William Boyd: wow, what a storyteller. 'Armadillo' is just as good.
(I've never said anything on here ,but, If you will permit a tongue-in- cheek observation from an impartial and chronically uninvolved observer on the sidelines? .......)
The town where I lived
Was swarming with rats
The Council decided
The need was for cats
They ferried them in
In lorries and vans
And all the good people
Approved of the plans
The streets were soon ratless
The people all cheered
But wondered a little
As kittens appeared
The noise was quite awful
So sleepless and tired
The Council decided
That dogs were required
So out of the kennels
The hounds were released
‘At last’, said the Council
We might get some peace.
But as they retired
And turned off their lights
A howling got started
That lasted six nights
‘Enough!’, said the Council,
‘The soft stuff is done
Employ from this instant
A man with a
And duly he came
With rifle and slugs
Proceeding to turn
The Afghans to rugs.
Retrieved the retrievers
And damned the Dalmations
Buggered the Boxers
And axed the Alsatians
And when it was done
In a voice very gruff
He said to the Council:
‘You’ve not paid enough’
And such was his anger
They muttered a prayer
And splattered their breeches
When he blasted the Mayor.
And day after day
He roamed unopposed
‘We’ll have to hire killers’
The Council supposed.
And early one morning
The gunmen arrived
And started a war
That no one survived.
Except for one fellow-
Town crier by trade-
Who opened his eyes
And carnage surveyed.
His joy at still living
Became somewhat less:
He’d spotted the rats
Enjoying the mess.
And clanging his bell
He pledged his adherence
To a new Council plan
Of non- interference.
The town where I lived
Was swarming with rats
The Council decided
The need was for cats
They ferried them in
In lorries and vans
And all the good people
Approved of the plans
The streets were soon ratless
The people all cheered
But wondered a little
As kittens appeared
The noise was quite awful
So sleepless and tired
The Council decided
That dogs were required
So out of the kennels
The hounds were released
‘At last’, said the Council
We might get some peace.
But as they retired
And turned off their lights
A howling got started
That lasted six nights
‘Enough!’, said the Council,
‘The soft stuff is done
Employ from this instant
A man with a
And duly he came
With rifle and slugs
Proceeding to turn
The Afghans to rugs.
Retrieved the retrievers
And damned the Dalmations
Buggered the Boxers
And axed the Alsatians
And when it was done
In a voice very gruff
He said to the Council:
‘You’ve not paid enough’
And such was his anger
They muttered a prayer
And splattered their breeches
When he blasted the Mayor.
And day after day
He roamed unopposed
‘We’ll have to hire killers’
The Council supposed.
And early one morning
The gunmen arrived
And started a war
That no one survived.
Except for one fellow-
Town crier by trade-
Who opened his eyes
And carnage surveyed.
His joy at still living
Became somewhat less:
He’d spotted the rats
Enjoying the mess.
And clanging his bell
He pledged his adherence
To a new Council plan
Of non- interference.
