Fratelli d'Italia

I was watching the rugby this afternoon and so enjoyed the Italian national anthem that I had to share it with you. It's such a jolly song.

Uncle Alex 01

For some time now, no doubt inspired by my wisdom, people from all walks of life have been writing to me with their problems. Answering the letters is turning into a full time job and in the interest of expanding public knowledge, I will from time to time include a selection of the letters and my reply. I will call this new public service 'Uncle Alex.' Here's a very recent letter.

"Deer Uncle Alex

I am the 13 years old father of a bouncy baby girl (you may have heard of us) and I wonder if you could help? The bloody kid will never sleep, cries all the time and this is interfering with my homework and what my mam calls my 'quality time.' To go one further the bloody kid has puked on my Nintendo and the bloody thing is useless now. Do you think I can get my mam to claim for a new one from the social, whatever that is?

Me and Slapper (her name has been changed to protect her identity) are very much in love and I try everything I can to keep her happy including helping her with her homework, but the trouble is she's fifteen and I haven't got a clue about it. My teacher says that I've got to get on with my own maths before I can help her. It's not bloody fair.

I'm also struggling to make ends meet with the pocket money that my mam gets for me from the social. Have you seen the price of nappies? Fuck me, after I have bought my sherbet dips and chewing gum, I don't have enough left to buy the nappies and the kids biscuits. Have you seen the price of that shit? Mam said she's sure 'the social' will help, whatever that is, so that's ok.

I'm still not too sure what me and Slapper did to make this baby but one day it was just there. Fuck. Innit. Still, this weirdo from a newspaper, whatever that is, took pictures of me and the baby and said I would be famous, and on telly, so that will show my arsehole teachers.

Troubled teenager, 13 years 2 months."

Dear troubled teenager

It strikes me that you probably have too many demands made of your quality time so I'd get the hell out of there and leave them to get on with it. You'll soon find another Slapper.

Uncle Alex

If you have any problems that you'd like to share with me you can contact me at the following adress help.me.uncle@gmail.com . I look forward to being of service.

Pictures to cheer you up

To blog or not to blog

Blogging's a funny thing. For me, it's become a bit addictive. There's a certain challenge in producing something every day. Something a bit different, something that might have broad appeal, something more than a picture of a turnip or a piece of bloody cheese. (Stop it, or you'll have to stay after class - Ed) It's quite an interesting mental challenge. (And that's not your first problem - Ed)

For the three years 05, 06, and 07, whilst it increased every year I wrote less than a post a day but in 2008 that increased to over a post a day. I'm not sure why, but I suspect that it has something to do with my disillusionment (is that better Barbara?) with the bloggers that I follow and in particular those that have found a book deal. It seems that as soon as a book deal gets waived before their noses they pay less attention to their loyal fans, no doubt because of the pressure put upon them by their new found publisher. I don't think that's right. If someone gives you the courtesy of looking at your stuff regularly then you owe them something.

Having said that it must be hard to write a book. Where the hell do you start?

I'm reading Sepulchre by Kate Mosse at the moment and not only is there a lot of it (739 pages) but the amount of research is humongous. It would drive me nuts. I'd get to Chapter two and then say WTF, I need a drink.

For me the best source of ideas come from life. Some of the fascinating characters that I've come across in my life have such interesting stories to tell. We all know them. Take our English next door neighbour. After three years in the British Army he spent fifteen years in the French Foreign Legion and fought 'behind the lines' in Gulf War 1. As befits somebody who lived this extraordinary camouflaged life, nobody in the village knew he lived here. Not even the village busybody. It wasn't until he said hello to us one day that we knew about him, even though he lives not more than 50 metres away.

I realised that he had a fascinating story to tell, and I was quite prepared to put the work in to create a draft for him, but could I get him to tell all? He had various reasons why he didn't want to tell but the one that resonated the most, as he stared with eyes fixed into the distance, was when he said, "you wouldn't want to know. You wouldn't want to know."

Happy days

Jan received two Valentine cards today. The other was from a very dear gay friend. I wonder if she's now a gay icon?

How not to impress your date

No sound necessary

Blonde goes back to work after 30 years

If you're under 30 you might not understand this.

This is the question

Is the annual shag getting closer or further away? Answers below please. (What do you think you smooth talking bastard? - Jan)

On top of old smokey

Along with about 30 other hardy souls we took the dogs for a walk up a mountain yesterday. Most people would call it a hill but believe me as I dragged my unfit body up this monster it definitely felt like a mountain. My mate Bryan does the recce for these walks and I'm going to have to have a word with him.

La Tour de Guet de La Liquiere is a fire watch tower perched high above the surrounding countryside near Calvisson, so high that you can just see Mont Ventoux in the distance (just to the right of Jan's head above). Given that it would take over an hour to drive on a motorway to Ventoux you can imagine how high we were. Still it was a good walk and Max and Minnie had a great time with the other dogs and Minnie had a particularly good time with her friend Arri. Arri was looking to be more than just 'good friends' and, typically for a female, she told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn't in the mood. Not much changes really.

Marital bliss

To celebrate my 1500 th post I offer you this little heartwarming love story.

A man and a woman who had never met before, but who were both married to other people, found themselves assigned to the same sleeping room on a transcontinental train.

Though initially embarrassed and uneasy over sharing a room, they were both very tired and fell asleep quickly, he in the upper berth and she in the lower.

At 1:00 AM, the man leaned down and gently woke the woman saying,.......... 'Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to reach into the closet to get me a second blanket? I'm awfully cold.'

'I have a better idea,' she replied 'Just for tonight,...... let's pretend that we're married.'

'Wow!...................... That's a great idea!', he exclaimed.

'OK,' she replied. ............'Get your own fucking blanket.'

What to do now?

Ouch. The lads came out for tennis yesterday and William and I were thumped. Despite a glorious, warm, sunny day we (the good guys) lost both sets. We couldn't do anything right or, more to the point, whatever we did they did something better. I can't remember the last time we lost both sets. We occasionally lose one, but never two. It didn't help that I only won one service game. I tried everything, but whatever I did the ball came back with that bit extra. Good on them I say. They wanted it more than we did. We just didn't concentrate enough. At one point, during a point, I caught William checking his racquet and wondering what tension to have his strings at. Still, it was a nice day, we didn't start until 11.00, enough time for the sun to get up and warm the place up a bit.

The thought did occur to me at one time that now that I'm much older and fatter maybe I should take up a much more genteel sport. When all said and done your heart is only good for so many beats. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer, that's like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it harder and faster. If you want to live longer I think you should take a nap or at the most do something that involves a gentle stroll in the country. A sport more suited to men of more advanced years. An older man's sport. Maybe, something like golf? (You might get a rise out of them this time - Ed)

They cost what?

It all started when I got my eyes checked a few months back. My regular supplier of lenses told me that the lenses I was using were discontinued and were now called x. I took their word for it and mentioned this to the opthalmologist. With a flick of her hand she dismissed the change and said they're all the same, just repackaged.

Anyway, when I saw an advert for new lenses in an inflight magazine I was encouraged to try them out. So I did, and they're great. Which then got me thinking about how much we take for granted and the profits that some companies make. I have always banged on about supermarkets, never mind banks. When Tesco first made a billion pounds profit my first thought was we must be paying too much for our food. Lots of commentators were praising them for their business acumen, which is no doubt correct, but nobody stopped to say, 'hang on, they're making this much profit from what we pay them, and what we pay might just be a bit too much.'

So it is with my contact lenses. If I want to stay with my previous lenses it will cost 135 Euros for 6 months supply. The new ones from Daysoft will cost 84 Euros. That's a hell of a saving and I don't suppose that Daysoft are giving them away.

What a good effort

Good heavens, I'm put to shame. A 56 years old woman has just swum the Atlantic.

 Me, I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. I really do need to be more active. I wonder if my bike still works? (The one with the big wheel at the front? - Ed) I'll dig it out tomorrow. But in the meantime it's back to watching the football on television. With the weather as it has been recently, it's the nearest I'm getting to exercise at the moment!

Anyway, there I was sweating away whilst watching West Ham this afternoon on the television, hoping that they'd beat Manchester United, when I mischievously said to Jan, who's been working her way through the freezer recently, "tell me my beloved, what little delicacy are you warming up for us this evening?"

Jan, whose vicious put downs have improved enormously since she met me said, "I'm not warming anything up, it's poule au pot, a peasant dish. Should be right up your street!"

Grief, where's that gentle, respectful, perfumed English rose that I met so many years ago?

That's better

Elie wasn't at the bar today because, after the floods, he was drying out all the electrical stuff in his other shop. Still, the rosé tasted very good and, because neither of us has been drinking for a few weeks, it slipped down nicely. We met up with the usual suspects, Bryan and Peter, and after a couple of hours of gentle sipping we wended our happy ways back home. Back home to watch the rugby on television.

First up today was England v Italy. Now, as patriotic as I am to my fatherland, I do have a sneaking desire for Italy to beat England. It was not to be. In fact a poor game all round.

Ireland beat France in the next much more interesting and exciting match.