That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
SEXYBEAUTY Is there anything worse than a fool who misquotes poetry? Well probably. But, it should have gone:
Come with Khayyám tum tetum tetum tetum,
Some strip of herbage strown….
Rattle tattle tat..
Where name of slave and sultan scarce is known,
Something something something
Then it goes
Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough,
A flask of wine, a book of verse and thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Anyhoo, I was trying to show off to Olivia in a poetic educated romantic way, but I thought it was Fitzgerald wrote it. Or at least translated it loosely from the Persian of the apocryphal Omar Khayyám.
I’ve got a cracking edition, which after much searching, must now I realise, be in the possession of a previous Mrs Maroon. Women, they’re all poison! I may have commitment issues, but enough of that, and it had a verse on the frontispiece, which went something like,
These pearls in ancient Persian (Gulf or seas or something) were laid,
Each as perfect as something or other
Khayyám pluck’d them from their sandy bed,
Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.
D’ya get it? There’s no mention of your fellow, what’s his name? Kahlil Gibran.
I hope that clears it up for you.
Caroline, if you’re reading this, I want that fucking book back.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
SafeTinspector: Giant of a man.
Last night, washed out of all hope (no James Bond on the TV) I took myself off to a quiet part of the Hall and checked in to the virtual world. It is something of an addiction now. There, in the comments, my faith in the world was restored anew. While such as he walk the earth, the West will not fail. It cannot.
I reproduce it here for us without apology.
“In the US we celebrate by drinking a concoction made mostly of bourbon and pickle brine called "chesapeke bell"
Its traditional to sprinkle crushed garlic cloves and grated nutmeg atop the drink, quaff it in one go and then attempt to out the names of all those to whom you wish good luck.
You can repeat the process as many times as you are able before getting too pissed* to stand, and can enlist the help of a trusted friend to continue imbibing until you are no longer able to operate your esophagus.
I'll tell you all that I barked each and every one of your psuedonymous names to the walls, which led my 'helper' to think I was nearly done, as it made no sence to hear tell of 'gorillas the bearded one, readheaded m'roon,' etc, etc.
After I pantomimed that I still had more in me, we finished the whole jar of brine together.
Good times, what?
*in honor of the UK majority on this blog, I'm using the UK definition of pissed, which is more drunk than angry.”
SafeTinspector Homepage 12.26.05 - 6:14 pm #
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Lets face it; we are by far the best, most erudite, funniest, quickest, cleverest most crackerjack lot on the Net today. Who compares? Exactly. So it’s happy Christmas to us, we deserve it.
Going up to town this afternoon. I always do this. There are tremendous bargains to be had on Christmas Eve from the overstressed staff (with a bit of bargaining). All shops will be heaving in a panic ridden jumble sale frenzy, which I shall sail through in an invisible bubble of calm. The best tip, is to dress in your best clothes and walk slowly, taking time to examine your purchases. The staff responds to this kind of behaviour and will totally ignore the drowning proles around you for just ten minutes of peace in your company. Trust me, always works.
Sexy Beauty. I still haven’t done it but I shall.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
YEP! It’s Tuesday Roundup.
Lets start with the ladies.
LindyK has had a haircut! What else she had done? Matching collar and cuffs? We want Pictures! You want to show us, you know you do, you love it.
Flame haired poet and sex guru Ms Redhead, continues her advice column over at Mr G Bananas’.
Talking of poetry, nah, stuff it! NO! Update! (3:40GMT) : OLIVIA-POET is back!
“Underneath the bough, a book of verse, a loaf of bread, a flask of wine and thou, beside me singing in the Wilderness, and Wilderness is Paradise enow”
(one of Fitzgerald’s)
Fatmammycat is enjoying the best sex of her life right now, with some hazel-eyed, big-footed clod. What do we know of him? What are his intentions? What does his father do? Exactament. We know nothing: other than, he is distracting her from her vocation. Has he no soul? If he loves her, he must give her her freedom to soar like the blithe spirit she is. A big walloper and flipper feet isn’t everything FMC.
But in truth, I have no opinion on the matter. I wish them well. Just hope it doesn’t end in tears, that’s all.
..-.--.CALLING MUFFY. MAROON CALLING MUFFY. COME IN PLEASE, OVER...---..-..--
This picture is a young LAD! That’s right Muffy, a BOY, ohh Muffy!(If that doesn’t draw her out, we’re fucked).
Yes, talking of poetry, the illustrious Mynah Bird posted some verse again to illustrate a point and the besotted GB was too busy with new friends to appreciate it.
A commenter called Desargues has turned up, all classics and maths and cufflinks. Frightening, but a welcome intellect I‘m sure. GB’s taken a shine to him and calls him Des! Be still my beating heart! Watch him! We must check his bona fides.
And on that subject, there’s a new link to that schmeby fellow. I’m not at all sure what to make of him either, but welcome to my humble hearth. You’ve just this minute missed high tea, but there’s some whisky on the dresser.
Binty McShae is feeling desperately homesick. Well, we all do at this time. To add to his woes I must tell him that Roy ‘Keano’ Keane has signed for Celtic. But, the Bhoys could only draw with Inverness Caley, whereas the Teddy Berrs pressed home the advantage by beating Killie and have drawn an easy-peasy team (Villarreal) in Europe with Hugh Dallas to referee (if he has no “brethren” duties that night). So it’s not all bad. Chin up.
Snippet from Jokemail to cheer us up ferchristsakes.;
You Know You've Had Too Much Holiday Cheer When....
1.( of 21) You notice your tie sticking out of your fly.
The ANTI-Barney is shagging goats so maybe he DID go to Bray Boys after all.
I haven’t mentioned Andraste the Rabbit Girl because I derive pleasure from winding her up. I’m sick in the head.
Brewski says he’s still squeezing the juice. I believe him.
Kim the bearded Scotsman says he used to cavort round pastoral England wearing an animal skin to further our knowledge. I’m sure that was why.
Doctor Evil has come back! Hurrah and God bless us every one!
And finally Safety Inspector ’s mother said hello. I cant help wishing I hadn’t mentioned all that stuff about masturbating in the shower. Jesus, and worse, now I’m thinking about it.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Church of England is now so gay that there’s talk of two naked marines forming a spit roast with the padre at this year’s Christmas Drumhead Service in Basra.
Imagine if the situation was reversed and the Muslim occupying forces here held one of their Ramadan goat slaughtering ceremonies in your local Arndale Centre drinking blood and everything.
The Foreign Office used to be the best in the world. They were expert at subjugating people without them noticing. Now with all the secondary modern and grammar school boys in charge and worse, those hysterical women with something to prove, the union jack is reviled the world over. It will take more than handing out a few toffees to the kids to smooth this over.
And talking about marines, just when did they turn into the King’s Own Butterballs? That video of them fighting naked was a shocker. Flabby coca-cola bellies rippling as they fought like girls. What ever happened to the wiry Jocks of the 51st Highland Division, who would run you through with a bayonet nice as ninepence and as sweetly as telling you the time?
My God and no mistake.
The Iraqis must hate our guts.
Friday, December 16, 2005
“Garn! Daisy durst haff a coff on ‘er as would rattle the delft ! She do!”
“Aye, ‘erin been French kissen’ them badgers I fancies”
“Nay, not my Daisy, her teats iss mine an mine alone!”
“Them badgers iss laffin at yew, I reckons”
“Well’in, we’ll sees whose laffin come spring whenen ol’ Maroon comes a’callin’”
The tongs oiled, train booked, all set and rarin’ to go! For it’s off to Gloucestershire for me in the new year.
I shall be participating in the Great Badger Kill. Shed no tears for them. They must be killed for their own good.
The whole county down there is awash with bovine tuberculosis and while the transfer mechanism is a little hazy it must be them. Who else could it be?
We will pull the stripy devils coughing and wheezing from their lairs or “SETTS” using the aforementioned long-tong pincers (clamped to their snouts) and then humanely dispatch them with many kicks and punches. It’s a fair fight.
I know what you're thinking, it could be the feckless husbandry of the yokels. Well, £90 000 000 of our money in compensation, says no.
You townies just don’t understand; it’s The Country Way. Get over it
X-Ray Update: Just in, this from the radiographer. The little chap, Bertie Badger (6) above, has suffered a broken paw as can be seen from the x-ray plate below. His injuries were sustained when clumsy oaf Rolf Harris trod on him during filming. We wish him well, poor little feller.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
waiting for the windshield on the freeway…
Poetry Update: somewhat peeved that there’s been no feedback re my haikus. OK they’re only seventeen syllables long (that’s the Jap rules apparently) but I put my guts into them and a welcome kind word, even some gentle criticism oh never mind.
Thanks to Fatmammycat we now have pictures of the office pest. See below.
Must have him transferred forthwith, if only for the benefit of the collective. The steady state must be restored.
Shopping duty this evening. We hates it. It’s not the chore; it’s the fucked off look on everyone’s ill-mannered face that’s the killer. These cunts should spend some time in the east, a la Muff Diver, where life is cheap and they might not be so fucking tornfaced.
And all you parents out there, Slap Your Children! They’ll thank you for it. Spoilt little ratbags. In fact, why are you dragging them round the store in the first place you twats!?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Household Hints 37
Fairy light maintenance
A standard set of 12 multicoloured Pifco lights will last a lifetime with the proper care, so avoid fairy light misery by following these handy but rigid rules.
1. After Christmas each year take down your lights gracefully from the tree with joy in your heart.
2. Remove each bulb with a smile and set aside in their coloured order. A strip of duct tape or other proprietary adhesive ribbon will assist. Keep a couple of festive mince pies back for this little task!
3. Using a number 4 camel hair brush, lightly grease each socket with a household dilution of three parts virgin olive oil to one part WD40
4. Gently wrap the cord around a soft wood former. Your handyman will be happy to make this for you. Be sure to specify white pine from a sustainable forest. A Christmas carol makes short work of this winding chore
5. Place the wrapped cord in an EMPTY biscuit tin, Rover Family Assortment or my personal favourite, Walkers Luxury Shortbread Compendium are best.
6. Test each bulb individually with a Megger and continuity tester PRIOR to placing adjacent to the neat coil of bulb holders in the biscuit tin.
7. Finally, pack the airspace with silica gel or other desiccant and tape up the tin with more duct tape. I like to decorate mine with snowflake patterns cut out of paper doilies and old Christmas cards.
8. Place the tin in the warmest part of the airing cupboard. Your housekeeper will show you where the airing cupboard is and which is the warmest part.
9. Test your lights every six weeks throughout the year.
10. Have a happy Christmas, but remember, fairy lights are a silent killer.
Monday, December 12, 2005
We all deal with Mondays in our own way. With experience we have developed routines that serve us well till four-ish when we start to come round a bit. Some buckle down, low profile, don’t talk to me I’m having flashbacks from Saturday, some stare out the window till Tuesday, some share with TRUSTED confidants just how much of a tit they’ve been.
What no one wants, is any outward sign of enthusiasm or joy.
This is held universally to be such bad form. It requires no discussion. It’s a, a given (truly, an utterly hateful expression).
Imagine then the damage that a big wholehearted double knit Simon MacCorkindale type can wreak with his gigantic kinematic envelope and huge hands. Why doesn’t he find some other fucking calling? Go and feed the world the cunt? Sink the U-boats with a penknife and an empty Bovril tin anything in fact but get him the fuck away from me! I won’t be responsible I won‘t…what a fuckbag.
Roundup Update: That Hungbunny bloke has done a roundup and all it is, is a picture of a BIG TURD. See here. Is he jealous or coming the cunt?
Saturday, December 10, 2005
R R R Rewindd…
First, thanks to all the commenters, what a fine bunch.
Fatmammycat’s talk of oily girl sandwich action proved too much for Maroon’s depleted blood supply but after some PG Tips (no offence GB) and a Tunnoch’s Caramel Wafer I was able to continue…Only to find yet more of the same at Mr G Bananas’ excellent sexual health forum. I took the rest of the day off, stopping only to collect my Viagras and Spiderman outfit from the cleaners. Why they sell Viagra at the cleaners is a mystery to me as well.
Ms Redhead and I are back on the poetry trail. Hurrah! Such catharsis. High art. I think you should all visit Olivia's and leave your constructive remarks and or poetic efforts. It’s free! This means you as well LindyK.
And on that subject, she has been in Vegas, jammy wee midden.
Binty McShae is right! I will remove the offending line accordingly.
Jokemail’s drink related warnings are not funny but instead are frighteningly accurate.
Andraste has drunk 100 proof vodka. Pishaw and fiddlesticks, we DILUTE our drinks with such weak provender. We want pictures!
The ANTI-Barney has returned safe from Barca for which we should all give a moment’s thanks. Ryanair being what it is, he could’ve ended up in Egypt with electrodes on his tentacles, and no VB, we don’t mean in a good way.
Brewski has a bad back!…and liver...and lungs…cerebral cortex probably…his blood must be awash with allsorts…but still, he’s young and the recuperative powers of the human body must not be underestimated.
In most cases.
His Awakening to the Military Industrial Complex is proceeding apace and he hasn’t panicked, yet, but we should look for the signs and be there for him with a firm hand on the tiller and whatnot when he needs it.
justbreathe28. stole a toy penguin from some infants. Yeah I know, pretty fucking sick, and this in the week that John Lennon was shot as well.
In the back.
25 years ago.
Kim the bearded Scotsman could find nothing to do in Falkirk for 2 hours (frankly, I don’t believe him), he didn’t lift the cup at the awards and has yet to explain coherently to those who may be interested, what a goddamned gravatar is.
Safety Inspector has passed way beyond us now through his stargate portal. He can still communicate but the space/time distortion thing is strong. Is it me or has he grown a bigger beard? Old Albert documented this effect. We remain young while he gets older before our eyes, and your own father becomes your second cousin. Hey that’s what he said (SafeT) not me, it’s all very mathematical, you wouldn’t get it.
Bigger beards El-Barbudo! No, I shall not give beardy a hard time, he does not have far to look for his troubles; F**t Eater is back hovering.
God bless us and save us all!
Friday, December 09, 2005
to summon back the Fire Witch,
to the court of the Crimson King…
In the name! Two days now lost to work. Someone threw a spanner in the works, not literally, that would be criminally insane but a minor spanner, a spanner with a small “s” which meant that yesterday I was in the West of Scotland, [God preserve me from the ******** XXXXX ******* XXXXXXX ****** (no offence)], which was totally crap, and today I have been mopping up the credibility slops. Someone’s got to do it. Never mind if you can do polynomial regressions in your head, in this line if you can eat peas off the back of a fork, you are pushed to the front to smooth things over with the glaikit bastards. Sometimes I think it shows on my face even when I’m smiling that I couldn’t give a flying fig for their silly little problems.
Customers, I fucking hate ‘em. They spend a few bob and they think that entitles them to oh never mind it’s all shite anyway fucking stuff and nonsense It was their fucking fault.
The roundup’s going to be late and that’s a fact. Here’s an interim cartoon I stole from JokeMail. I’ll put the link in the roundup. I might just sit here and do it now. Fuck it all.
Update: fucking Blogger won’t let me post! This is the pits.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Ahh! The familiar desk, the good old swivel seat, the same moonfaced incompetents milling about like radio controlled robots.
Good to be back.
“Why Ack, you’re, you’re crying!”
“Tears of joy, Dick, tears of joy.”
Some days ago now in these pages (it seems like years), I rather dismissively advised Fatmammycat to buckle down and work her way through the Depths of Monday Hell.
Big mistake. It is obvious to me now, that she immediately slit open a rooster, smeared herself with the hot spilled entrails (viscera) and by Voodoo or somesuch, returned the curse to me tenfold with brass knobs on.
A lesson learned.
Anyway because of my superb globetrotting remedial work, it’s now safe again to fly off to your favourite Christmas destinations.
I’m positive it is. Yes. No I’m quite sure. Yes I’m certain.
Avoid older MD80s
And on that subject there is apparently talk of making us all work till we’re 68 or something. Having been born in Glasgow, this means I shall be dead for a year when my pension comes through. Good job I’m embezzling as fast as I can, what foresight I have.
I also did not realise that everyone in this Great Britain of ours drank like fishes. I thought it was only we downtrodden Scotch and the poorer Northerners that drank, not a bit of it. The affluent Southerners have joined the national pastime with such enthusiasm as to be almost off-putting. The women are the worst, with their lack of suitable winter clothing, their smoking and their ribald antics, trying to outdo each other as “laddettes”. A single chap with oats to sow would find very little stony ground down there and no mistake. I of course with an important position to think of, made my excuses and managed to avoid any unpleasantness (skin contact) with the eager young hussies.
I hope I don’t regret it.
It will have to be MIDWEEK Roundup now. It will follow tomorrow.
Late Update: Wednesday is Addiction Day! always.
Friday, December 02, 2005
She’s the girl who makes the thing that holds the ring that moves the spring that shifts the thingamabob.
It’s a ticklish sort of job putting the thing on the thingamabob, especially since it makes the engines ROAR. (or not, in this case)
My sincere apologies dear reader for abandoning the blog this week but I have an excuse.
This week I have been;
a) Mainly ill with an ague (avian bird poultry flu disease).
b) Drinking on St. Andrews night**, where I also got my photo taken by an IMPORTANT NEWSPAPER.*** He did look at me funny when he took down my name.
c) Visiting manufactories where they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Buckbeans all!
In fact, I am to be sent to another manufactory this evening, in ENGLAND of all places and will not return until Monday afternoon, at which point I shall be only too pleased to update you all.
I am to fly to Surrey which now has its own airport called Gatwick and then beetle up the Brighton Road to a drink-sodden suburb of the Great Metropolis crawling with lager louts enjoying the new relaxed drinking regs.
I can’t wait.
See you Monday.
** An unqualified success or utter disaster depending on your viewpoint. I asked more than once for blue vodka but still no joy.
*** The Oban Times.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
The ANTI-Barney and El-Barbudo are still whining on about American foreign policy and its military conduct. They should get badges made. Bahjess? Bahjess? We don’ need no stinkin’ bahjess. In fairness to them both, Barney has a gumboil and El B lives in Belgium. I don’t know which I’d prefer.
Fatmammycat warmed our cockles. A bit too much actually. Thank goodness for baggy chinos.
This week Brewski has been mainly into games consoles, microwaving inappropriate things and ingesting unlicensed chemicals. That’s why I like him, he’s so retro, like nineties for goodness sake. Cool.
The Americans have been too busy with family recriminations over Thanksgiving for much blogging but;
The Safety Inspector is asking some very dangerous questions.
Thirsty Doctor Evil is on an H S Thompsonesque roller. Again.
Andraste is drunk……again. I mean. Really, it’s too bad.
LindyK is considering prostituting her talents with Hallmark. Do it girl. Go Lindy go! Work it baby!
Ms Redhead is turning out to be a classy broad with a lot to say.
HA HA HA has had his GSOH surgically removed. His jacket’s on a fucking shaky nail, the fuckbag.
I have a duality issue with Kim the bearded Scotsman this week. He made an utter cod with that wifey over that Barbie thing and he called a blackboard a CHALKBOARD. That is a racist crime in my book. But, he could end up a Technical Director (designate) for Interbottle, so what the hey.
Mr G Bananas issued a cowardly custard, total non-threat to Angus Fartwell vicariously over at Hutton’s.
There are two FNGs this week; Binty McShae and justbreathe28.The 28 puzzles me.
AUTOCORRECT turns fuckbag into buckbean.
Pass the sickbag Alice.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Late breaking update : The picture above shows my Great Uncle Patrick Maroon working on his famous theory that Einstien stole and modified. This picture is always attributed to the great man himself but if you compare it to the one I posted before you can see there is no similarity at all.
Q E D Mr G. Bananas.
(with special thanks to Kim Ayres the Bearded Scotsman)
With Chef’s Selection of Seasonal Vegetables.
Twenty Major reminds us today that for all our modern affluence and 4x4 sophistication the best slap up dinner is still;
Black Forrest Gateaux
The Worst Coffee in The World.
All washed down with lashings of house red served in a glass urine flask.
What could be better?
The phoney concern from the underpaid and badly trained staff
“Everything OK for you sir?”
“Yeah, bring more wine”
“I’ll send the wine waiter”
“How would you like your steak sir?”
“Just wipe its arse and plate it up”
“Shall I let this breathe sir?”
“No, pour it out”
“Bring more rolls and butter”
“And English mustard”
“Yeah an’ more wine an’ all”
“And an ashtray”
The jolly japes with the napkins
“Look, party hats!”
Peering into an empty carafe like Nelson
“I see no ships/wine snicker snicker”
The final torture over the tip
“That’s enough isn’t it? The service wasn’t THAT good”
“Thank you sir, and will sir be dining alone again tomorrow night?”
Update: I've just thought of a new business idea called "Interbottle" * It's like interflora but will link up off-licences ** instead of florists. Noone can use this idea except me from now on. Claim staked at 12.28 GMT on 24 November 2005.
* the name may change **Liquor stores.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Start the Week with Dr Maroon !
Liver to sign for Glasgow Celtic FC!
In a shock move last night George Best’s Liver (22) resigned from the former Manchester United star claiming irreconcilable differences and a wish to end his playing days at the club he has supported since he was a spleen. Tight lipped Celtic boss Gordon Strachan was guarded in his comments saying only that the club were always on the lookout for match-winning offal.
“The Old Firm competition is so shite just now we could put out 11 men with consumption on dialysis and still beat the Huns” he added.
Morris Minor League.
Is there anything in this world more dejected looking at 4 in the morning in Newcastle town centre than eight clumsy men in full Morris gear with two unknown women in tow? I don’t think so. We were put out by Home Counties ‘B’ who had two openly gay members. Everyone knows they’re better at it than us, there’s no justice. Not only that, but at the “Round the Acorns” bit young Tommy was too busy looking at this piece on the panel and fetched Frank a beauty right on his hand with his wurzzel which made Frank drop his stick with a loud “fuck!” Our leader Sinkey (Sinclair) see picture, turned round and took an elbow in the eye for his trouble. Obviously it utterly fell apart from then on. It was a total fucking disgrace, truth be told. If it was a practice night we would have laughed but at the Regionals… We so wanted to beat the English in their own midden as well.
I don’t think Newcastle’s a good venue for it either, walking about like that’s asking for trouble, not that we were giving a damn by then. If you’re teamed up and carrying sticks, (bells and ribbons whether or not) it’s a foolhardy Geordie that’s going to have a go. Every pub and club let us in, which was fine. I think they thought we were a stag night or something and we even got an ironic cheer at Cinderella Rockerfellers!
100 years ago today
Today is the centenary of the publication of A. Einstein’s “Special Theory“.
In a nutshell;
Space is Time
Gravity is the thing
If you go fast you get younger and thinner
I don’t like MONDAYS:
7 Jobs that are worse than yours;
Internet Support Adviser
Salmon Head Slicer
Christian Book Stacker
Cheese Factory Hand
Phone Sex Line Operator
Strange but True
Albania Wednesday: A 68 year old Carmelite Nun who had been blind for 27 years, regained her sight after a picture of the Virgin Mary fell on her head.
Weekly Roundup to follow…………
Friday, November 18, 2005
With a Hey Nonny Nonny!
I must go away till Monday dear readers (we’ve reached the area quarterfinals) but I shall return with a bigger better bumper updated Cape to Rio.
I know, you must be pissing your pants in anticipation, but don’t succumb to drink this weekend unless as agreed you;
Take notes at 20-minute intervals during the session.
Keep stool, vomit, bile and diarrhoea samples, especially if you get two or more simultaneously.
Record hangover impressions, preferably with audio/video equipment.
In the meantime feel free to visit the excellent sites on offer via the handy links on the left.
FMC a note. Italians only appear to have bigger willies. A triumph of presentation over content.
SafeTinspector’s mad brain story autopilot-of-damned
Miss Redhead has discovered OLIVIA
See ya Monday.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
I wasn’t going to mention this but now I must. Andraste's spidery-hangover convinces me.
Everyone in this sector of the Blogosphere got ratarsed drunk at the weekend and suffered a cataclysmic hangover as a result.
Don’t believe me? Look around you.
I’m thinking Haloscan subliminal advertising.
Now some of us drink at the weekend anyway, but to take till Tuesday night to climb out of a hangover is exceptional even for me.
A curse of the scientific mind is not being able to take things at face value.
To us, coincidence doesn’t exist, it’s all causal.
We must be careful here. There are genuine coincidences.
Your friend buys an odd foreign car you’ve never heard of, yet for the rest of the day you keep seeing them. (that IS weird.)
Everyone at work thinks it’s Friday.
Mass hysteria? Maybe or maybe not. In any event we should register our findings without delay at Andraste’s site and look for a pattern. There could be money in it.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Black void…coal black…desolate chasms …bible black…hell-pits…some people…abyss…shouldn’t drink…well fuck them!
AND fuck my weird Celtic anti-drinking genes….
It’s time for Monday Morning Roundup!
Due to unusual sunspot activity, which triggered a mass self-destructive drinking spree we are a day late. My apologies to all
As always, all the gals were on top form.
Fatmammycat brought some welcome quality to the debate not to mention her red-hot cyber-pheromones, which linger tantalisingly…ahem…oh no...
And warmed we were, to our very vitals by the most glamorous Sexy Beauty entrancing us with her sensual blog talk.
Before I go on, our best wishes to LindyK and Doctor Evil who are having employment difficulties. Lindy, tell me please it was nothing to do with the questionnaire you filled in.
LindyK has also been having public virtual-sex with a correspondent called Ghost or Schmeby or George. It’s like watching an x-rated Jumping Jack Flash, that film with Whoopi Goldberg. Most enlightening.
Andraste Rabbit Girl had difficulty finding denims to fit her strange-shaped butt. Fascinating I’m sure.
Brewski is, well all we can say for sure, is that he is. Nice one Brew Boy.
Next up Jokemail’s parrot joke punch line:
"WELL???" demands the frantic guy, "THEN WHAT HAPPENED?"
"Damned if I know. I got a hard-on and fell off my perch."
The Anti- Barney is recovering from a four-day roller, so we won’t see him till Christ knows when. UPDATE, he has surfaced.
EL Barbudo has not shagged an elf yet, and denied thrice, his Scotchness.
Gorilla Bananas is conducting a puzzlingly asexual flirtation with a mad redheaded girl.
The SafeTinspector has published a disturbing skit about sex and violence and a short story about using a dead girl’s brain to land a plane. I KNOW! That’s what I thought.
And as we speak, 13:30. Kim Ayres is having a lonely miserable lunch on his own in wet Dollar, looking suspiciously at everyone that comes in the door. He is bound to get into a fight.
I’m having trouble with the first grid. I’ve checked my transposition and it’s OK, so I’m trying to check the original for a misprint but it’s pretty unlikely. Solutions SOON!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Silver horses run down moonbeams in your dark eyes.
As I write, (3.00pm Saturday) Maison Maroon is quiet as the cloister (except for the football commentary) as we go through our recovery procedures.
I have a theory (among many) that the crapulous state one enters while “in the horrors” is how it will be when one is old and feeble. If this IS the case, then I’m really in the shit.
We all have our strategies for hangovers, the pills, the comfort food, the keeping a low profile the next day. So far so good, what you can’t escape are the fucking flashbacks. Like a dying man, you see yourself from a distance, talking utter total and totally utter shite and bollocks and adopting mildly belligerent postures against the younger, happier, more carefree drinkers.
My picture today shows the villain of the piece.
Anyone, especially a thirsty Maroon can quaff pishy lager till the cows come home. All that happens is I get more intelligent, witty and charming. A couple of wee goldies though, and I become The King o the World.
Thus it was when I spotted the danger signs last night.
A young lady I’d seen somewhere before, caught my attention across the happy throng. She pointed at the door, then herself, clasped her hands as if in prayer then put them against her tilted head.
Aha! Universal sign language;
“Me go now home sleep”.
Points at ME (twice), door, sleep.
“What’s that doll?”
YOU, (points), COME (points at door, more urgent now) FUCKING HOME TOO YOU PRICK! (a complicated hand/facial combination).
For once in my life I took Mrs Maroon’s advice and here I am, trembling, to tell the tale. Another couple of drinks and I might have fallen over, scattering drinks in all directions, while still contriving to head butt the young lad at the end of the table who for some reason was starting to seriously get on my nerves. So far so good.
The plan as far as I’m aware, is to repeat everything yet again tonight (like a dog returning to its vomit).
Oh merciful Jove! Keep that mischievous little fucker Bacchus in tonight.
Ah fuck it, give us a drink!
Your cut-out-n-keep SUDOKU Grids.
Rather than numbers, the first grid uses the NINE unique letters in the phrase:
OLIVIA THE POET , namely,
O L I V A T H E P
The second grid uses the NINE letters from
V A P O R I S E D
First grid quick, second grid TRICKSY!
Solutions tomorrow in WEEKEND ROUND UP.
Ps sorry for JPEG file size, working on that.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
It is axiomatic that the maxim for the writer such as I is “Write about things you know.”
This means fluid mechanics, the countryside and despair. Which to choose for Mastermind? I did this yesterday in my lunch break. It’s true, it just sort of comes out.
Way above, my windswept anguish
sheer white trail, in azure blue
gorging air, Jet-A devouring
triple bypass, turbine true.
Anus hot, with noisy vapours
screeching marvel, of ground-based man
permission granted, no need for favours
you soar clean o’er, this troubled land.
Far ahead, on your flight level
come the swans, for winter’s rest
in frigid air, in vee formation
their compass set, on south southwest.
As they bank, make slight adjustments
your four mouths gape, feast on the flock
with not one swan, left in the heavens
the glutton flies, on to New York.
Through ice-like glass, in pressure cabin
Hiawatha, sips gimlet gin
she felt no bump, nor leery tremor
Just one white feather, sticks to the fin.
O Hiawatha, my hope flies with you
not up in club-class, but back in coach
where they look out, not on cirrus
but on long blood streaks, on fuselage.
Update : Blisterin’ Barnacles. Maroon buggers up again!
I wrote this for a very special poetry site but hesitated to send it thinking not to swamp that special place with my public yearnings. I was wrong. Things are developing there, and hence forth I believe it to be the best platform for my poetic muse.
I know that you too have poetry in your souls trying to germinate. When it sends out its roots, please, take it to this wonderful word-garden.
By our police state correspondent Ali Bi
The evidence is compelling. The dossier is growing. The net is closing. You’ll have to take our word for it. Get these villains out of circulation for ninety days and we might find more, maybe, perhaps something incriminating, God willing.
Our gut churning pictures this morning show two of the most dangerous violent con men operating in Britain today. On the right, Champagne socialist turned hanger and flogger, Charlie Clark. On no account should the public approach within earshot of this man.
Way out on the right : Anthony Blair. TV football pundit and master of vocal disguise. Experts warn he can turn on a phoney glottal stop like a tap in his sickening attempts to fool his thinning band of sycophants.
In a break with tradition the public are urged to have a go or face being locked up for looking funny.
The Met says: Point him out and we‘ll plug the bastard.
Monday, November 07, 2005
And now before we return to the hurley burley, we’ve time for a musical interlude.
These are excellent and are composed, played and improvised by The SafeTinspector.
The links are on his SafeTunes site and have descriptions.
AntiWaltz, What's Left, Week 2, Blind Jump Idle Hands
What I particularly like is knowing that at the other end of all the comments and photos and stuff there is a real person playing a piano. The titles are his. Start with Blind Jump.
Update: in case of download problems here’s the actual site. They play for me.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The androgynous but perfectly formed MUFF DIVER is leaving soon to carry out important work among the poor and ignorant for Medicines sans Frontier. How they undertake complicated medical procedures dressed like something from Macy’s Easter Parade is beyond me! The point is, Muffy’s departure date is the 9th (a school night) which means I propose that we all get drunk this afternoon and make a suitably emotional remark. In vino veritas and all that.
Because I’ve some residual booze in my blood stream, I will start.
“Muffy, from all of us I want you to take this top notch presentation box of shortbread, bottle of whisky, and artistic floral bouquet…you’re my…you’re my best fucking mate (FMC excepted) you are…sniff…takes out an onion…we’ll miss you something rotten…”
Now it’s time for Weekend Roundup, with this weeks guest presenter, Dr Carey the beardy Archbishop of Canterbury.
Gorilla Bananas is right! As keepers of the torch of knowledge, we bloggers have a duty…blah…blah
The Safety Inspector replied to a site commenter called “transience” thusly;
“Transience: Because they are all still nominally functional! Would you throw your Gramma in the incinerator before SHE died? (my apologies if your grandmother was killed in the holocaust) “
El Barbudo in a seemingly everlasting angst-ridden episode of site analysis is in clear and present danger of disappearing up his own ringpiece.
Andraste put razor blades and laxatives in her trick or treat candy. There’s always one isn’t there?
LindyK lost her pencil (a quiet week in Lake Woebegone)
Jokemail : 13. (of 30) “A common and enjoyable sexual practice for a man is to take his half-erect penis and slap it repeatedly on a woman's butt”
HA HA HA : “In a steel cage, two silent crouching clowns watched him with glittering, unblinking eyes.”
Doctor Evil did not go fishing this week but gave us ASSHATTERY, which he stole from Hungbunny, but possession IS nine tenths and all that.
Vaporise Barney must be punished for changing his name. His link will be altered to BARNEY THE BASTARD for seven days. I wonder if he will ever click “Edit-me” on his own site?
And Finally, Kim Ayres. Web designer? My hairy arse ! Lookit that award thing over there on the right, he is KAPUT!
We must keep MUFF in our thoughts.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
NO RAIN! Cue the Dvorak! Cue the birds and Woodland Folk!
As I write my journal, morning Barney, (you bastard) I am surrounded by the clatter of full prep for this evenings Fire. It has reached a good size now and I will check it for any good items that might polish up prior to ignition ( T minus 8:10:15 and counting). If the weather holds I will set a picket of boy scouts to stop the local toughs from setting it off early. They will have my permission to use lethal force. I might let one of them borrow the 410. I say early but in any case, it will all be over by 19:30 in time for Inspector Morse or Ant and Dec’s Wankathon. This might be a good thing since it offers the possibility of après Fawkes tinctures in the front bar. Hurrah!
Oho! I heard crockery rattling significantly there which means I may be required soon to help with the vol-au-vents (the most impractical snack invented) and the more important arrangements. In an episode of total asshattery I bought some cracking looking rockets and mortars, which, according to the labels are dangerous and will “light up the sky”!! Magic.
I always buy the fireworks for St Andrews Night after bonfire night, you get all the best ones then and they’re usually much cheaper. Hey, I’m Scotch for Christ’s sake.
This year we have acquired some very flash disposable glasses and plates that can all be burnt ! I am very pleased with them and I wondered if they would survive the dishwasher for future events, but apparently I’m “not on”. I hate waste me.
Full roundup and updates tomorrow…where’s that clipboard?
Friday, November 04, 2005
And the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all.
Am I alone in believing that we are now in the grip of the longest sustained period of crap weather since records began? And why do kids wear their darkest clothes and put out their lights to go cycling on these dark evenings? Garn.
To warm us up here is some artwork from Grace Slick to celebrate her 66th birthday. Spot a theme?
Beatles brought out some slushy love song, I can’t remember which now, the Jefferson Airplane countered with “(Don’t you want) Somebody to Love”
It starts off with Grace belting out;
When the truth is found to be lies
and all the joys within you dies
You don’t get a better opening than that.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Have fallen sloppy dead,
The author of the above words is one Grace Slick a rock singer and artist.
She turned 66 years old on Sunday past. Grace was held back by the lack of competent plastic surgery (see picture). She just had to write her songs and sing them with a rock band. She had only her talent to rely on. What a fucking nightmare!
God she was ugly !
I tug my beard at you
I wasn’t going to tell you this but yesterday in a loose moment over tea in the canteen I said “ I tug my beard at you”. I don’t have a beard and I compounded it by thinking
“did I say that out loud?” so that all who were involved in the initial conversation including me were thrown immediately into a puzzled silence. I normally get away with this kind of behaviour because I’m a doctor and quite senior and smarter than the average bear but you can see it’s wearing thin. I also laugh sometimes now when I'm working on the computer and therefore people know I’m not writing memos or caveats to service contracts. It’s like at home. If we’re in I don’t normally watch TV so if I’m not buggering about with beasts I’ll read a book or have a drink and keep out the way or someone will come in about something or whatever. But in this shitey weather noone’s moving so last night I was chuckling away to myself on the old web log and a woman can’t leave you at peace. If she can see what you’re up to and it’s ok with her then fair enough she’ll see to her own affairs but if you look like you might be enjoying yourself on your own well that’s a different story. The upshot is that the phone went and who was it but Mater. How are things Ack? Isn’t this weather awful? Heard any more about Namibia? You must give me your flight numbers Gillian’s mother was asking for you Your Father’s worried you might be stressed out (stressed out? my mother could out-snob Raine Spencer**) What’s up? Alison (Mrs Maroon) thought I should phone you’re on the computer so much Everything ok? Yes thank you splendid.
**Nothing but a McCorquodale before she jumped the broom with old Pop Spencer.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
The prodigies return tomorrow and it’s me that will be pleased to see them. Over the past couple of days, I’ve been signing off all kinds of stuff without really looking at it. Too busy with this.
My plan is as follows;
I will take the one I don’t like aside and with as much air of conspiracy as I can muster, I will close the door, look him in the eye and in a soft voice, because it’s only meant for the two of us, I will say. “I’ve been watching you. The department heads are saying good things about your progress.”
Let it sink in
“I think you are ready.”
“I want you to start with all the month end stuff (October). The quality returns, maintenance reports, production figures, usage levels that sort of thing, highlight the anomalies, make suggestions, don’t reinvent the wheel but do your best. The supervisors will help you. Just ask. Take those files with you. I’ll need it all back on Monday.”
That will give him the weekend as well.
“That gives you the weekend as well.”
Stand up…“OK then?”…hand on elbow…conspiratory nod…subtle thumbs up, as out the door he goes.
There’s one every minute.
The safety inspector has kindly updated us on the candy fish debate. here and here: Swedish Fish
And (and I’ve been itching to tell you all this) I’ve posted my first poem over at OLIVIA’S A1 poetry site. It’s only for proper poets. She hasn’t commented yet but I’m hopeful. Mynah Bird put me on the right bus with this one!
Monday, October 31, 2005
The Anti-Barney reminds us that it’s that time again. As the occupants of the big house, we have to let the village use the field for their ethnic rituals. This has always been a problem for us Maroons. Like all the best Scotch Families we are now probably 2/5 Irish and I don’t mean planters either. The Family, as Scotch as the bonnie purrrple heather, is riddled with Irish Sinn Fienners and American Fenians like worms in a cheese. We were forfeited in 47 and have never since bent the knee to the king, well not to them German-Hanover-Battenburg ones anyway.
Old Guido was probably a relative as well, on the distaff side, and to complicate matters considerably, my father still insists we celebrate St Andrew’s Night on the 30th with even more fireworks, gusto and extravagance - to “show them”.
So, when all the other kids were waving sparklers, putting jumping-jacks in peoples pockets, bangers in prams, and chanting Burn the Papists! like any other village across the country, I was forced to eat cold gruel and learn my Latin declensions, or so it seemed. My mother eventually allowed me to join in when I was 10 or 11, so long as I didn’t actually touch the grimy village kids, and kept my fingers crossed at the anti-catholic bits.
Back then, as the fire died down at about 11:30, we would throw in some potatoes, let them burn for 10 minutes then eat them, a grand end to a social evening. At highly organised events, like the scouts or whatever, if you got crisps and Irn Bru, you thought you were at a pretty sophisticated, flash bonfire.
TODAY, we as landlords, are expected to provide Bovril, baked tatties in foil with fillings no less, and maybe a nip for the dads with sugar free, organic fruit smoothies for the little Jocastas and Justins. The same, who are allowed to hold a sparkler if they’re wearing welding mitts, safety glasses and are standing in the sand pit.
And another thing, it was held on the FIFTH until midnight, no matter what fucking weekday it happened to fall on. “Fuck the school, I’m going out to the bonfire!” was what we muttered under our breaths.
Remember Remember, yeah well we fucking will. Garn!
Sunday, October 30, 2005
“She wants a swipe wi’ shite, that one!” A phrase familiar to those that have seen BBC TV’s Royle Family. It could also have been Hitchcock’s Golden Rule for his blond heroines.
I was mildly, only mildly irritated by LindyK’s offhand dismissal of my promotion of Tippy Hedren (see pictures) as top Hitchcock Heroine. She (Lindy) has not the benefit of manly testosterone washing about her system and therefore cannot hope to understand.
Tippy Hedren and Kim Novak (whoa down boy!) were every bit as ideal as saintly Grace for the escalating hellish circumstances so favoured by Hitchcock. But Hedren, or Tippy, as I like to call her, was more elegant and cool and yet worldly.
She was perfect.
Novak had the sex appeal but was too worldly; she would have coped with most situations straight off. Tippy would have to struggle a bit, while useless Grace would crumble and go to the gallows in innocent confusion. Git. And don’t tell me she didn’t get gassed and drive right into the fucking Med for a laugh, let’s face it, we’ve all done it.
Damn, the postscript! All this was leading to the fact that modern actors fucking can’t act. They have little if any presence or if they have, then they can’t act. For the past 6 visits we’ve watched utter shite at the local multiplex, walked out twice!
Update ! Here’s a quote from Kim, that’s NOVAK not Ayres but it could have come from either!
For every answer, I like to bring up a question. Maybe I'm related to Alfred Hitchcock or maybe I got to know him too well, but I think life should be that way. I don't think you want to give all the answers, but I think every answer you do give should bring up another question, and not all questions should be answered. Kim Novak
Saturday, October 29, 2005
We are our own harshest critics, we creative literary types, or so I thought.
In a moment of madness I allowed Mrs Maroon to view my musings, She thinks they’re fucking hilarious the cheeky bastard. It’s a fucking good job I’m thick skinned and she can cook. We’ll say no more on the matter. I mean fuck, I don’t have the time to draft and edit and all that shite. If fatmammycat’s dormant site had allowed non account holders in the first place, none of this would have happened, but too fucking bad. I’m a fighter not a quitter, we’re here for the long haul and that’s fucking that.
So I’m writing fuck all today, instead it’s Weekend Roundup !
Entertaining excerpts from the past week that I liked. As always the best bits are in the comments. We all know that. But these are from the postings.
From Jokemail on Friday : “When his .38-calibre revolver failed to fire at its intended victim during a hold-up in Long Beach, California, robber James Elliot did something that can only inspire wonder: he peered down the barrel and tried the trigger again. Happily for most concerned, this time it worked.”
From The Anti-Barney on Tuesday :“…deserve to be shot with balls of their own shite“.
Andraste (about me) : “…the fuckbag…Fuck 'im.”
Dr Evil Scientist PhD : “….I do link to that Maroon bastard”
From Annie on Thursday : "good news and bad news…There is obviously a reason why they call it death row,….”
From El Barbudo : all of Sunday’s dialogue with FE. Classic.
From SafeTinspector on Tuesday : ”…you swab up my regularly occurring two-liter semen-slick off the bed-spread." (you need to read it all)
From HA HA HA on Friday :“As he raised the gun, the door gave way and a full-grown clown tumbled into the kitchen,…” 3rd episode!
From Kim Ayres on Wednesday :“The Echelon Surveillance Network” Oh bollocks
From G Bananas on Friday : “...handed me an envelope containing some photographs...” hmmm
There’s lots more but I’m knackered. Anyway I replied to GB et al re airscrews in Thursdays comments. I will be back. GB’s email dont work neither!
Friday, October 28, 2005
Fatmammycat over at El B’s, reminds me of an incident that I witnessed in Montenegro. It was the year before all hell broke loose, and a former Mrs Maroon and I were enjoying a cracking cheap holiday.
We were sitting as you do, drinking fantastic wine, watching The World.
We hadn’t spoken for a while, not because we had run out of things to say, that came later, but because our faces had gone numb, when in walked the English Family Abroad.
I’m not embellishing this. Ma and Pa, mid thirties smartly dressed, as identical twins, with the Boy and Girl 10,11? also identically dressed but to a different colour scheme. All four were wearing the same white sun-hats; adult versions of the ones babies wear.
As they arranged their impedimenta, Mrs M remarked, in the cruel funny way that women do: “Christ look Ack, it’s the Fit Family!” alluding to the TV advert for Ski yoghurt.
In truth, they were actually an attractive group and initially behaved like normal human beings: “This is a lovely spot. Mmm, those ice creams look good. Who’s got the camera?”
The waiter arrived and before he could ask, Pop stands up with the menu in his hand and declares like Anthony to the Senate:
“Eh two BEER-OES (gives waiter the vics) and two KOAH-KAH KOALAS (as in the bear, gives waiter the vics again), PERLEASE.” Sits down.
“POR FAVOR” says Mater confusingly.
he didn’t say “my good man“, but it was there, and his voice had changed into Peter Sellars doing his Scoutmaster routine.
The dam burst, I had foolishly looked over at Mrs Maroon who was staring at them with her glass halfway to her gaping mouth*.
“Oh fuck off, they have got to be at it”
She said, in the cruel way that women do.
* beautiful full ruby lips
Thursday, October 27, 2005
…and when I opened the door, there she was, playing the trombone with…Oh hello again, we were just thinking about yesterday’s triumph.
A man can do it ! I am the living proof.
The secret is to cram your guts utterly with canapés and savouries and limit yourself to white wine and use this mantra :
don’t get drunk don’t get drunk don’t get drunk.
We got an export award yesterday and the very sensible minister from the Executive said how wonderful we all were (he was looking at me when he said it). Like the priest leaving the wedding, we relaxed when he went and the Saturnalia began.
Later, on my way out, I was disgusted to see Dicksplash with pastry flakes on his chin chatting up one of the prodigies (the good looking one). He’s such a ridiculous figure now and him a father again.
Mynah Bird says he can’t report his findings because of Haloscan. Well Mr Bird, I’ve heard them all mate. The dog ate it, it blew away in the wind, I caught dysentery and had no toilet paper; whatever. We will assume he’s with us. In fact, yes, I can feel his mischievous presence, he’s close, very close.
So it’s onward with the gas turbines. Don’t grumble, just skip the blue bits. HA HA HA asked about turboprops, and GB made a point, a salient one about propellers or airscrews as we call them.
I might split the posts from now on because it gets involved quite quickly and I want to do it justice.
Stop press: Alan Bennett at the Clyde Auditorium tonight, I wonder if I will spot the alabaster form of Audrey Hawtrey among the butchers and fishmongers.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Yesterday was lost to work again. Why oh why do my employers assume that I’m at their beck and call?
A small company soiree to attend tomorrow. That means wearing a suit and not getting drunk. I can do either but I’ve never managed both at the same time.
Last year, at a similar thing (drinks and finger buffet for 40) we ended up taking these two Swedes out for dinner.
That is, the technical director (designate), Dickless the finance director, and me. The two innocent Swedes were machine tool experts.
Regrettably, I was pissed before we left the office, and was lying like a bastard, claiming to have studied at Uppsala and done six months particle research at CERN. I don’t know why either but there it is.
Anyway, we were all having a drink it was a Wednesday, but it must have been a harder week than we thought, because we were guzzling it down three to every one of theirs. By half six we were rollicking, arguing, Mr Fuck and Mr Cunt were putting in the odd appearance and the two sober Swedes were totally ignored.
They saw which way the wind was blowing.
They said, “Look thanks, but we’re flying off early tomorrow so maybe we’ll call it a night.”
Finance director: “No no no fucking way, you’ll have a drink and some dinner before you go. Fucking Hell. Scottish hospitality”
Then, out of the blue, but in all seriousness, the technical director (designate) made an announcement to the table;
Technical director (designate): “Listen, Sven’s gay, maybe he wants to check out the scene or something.”
Sven: “I’m not gay, what makes you think I’m gay?”
Technical director (designate): “Aren’t you? Look it’s alright if you are”
Sven: “well I’m not, I’m married” Shows wedding ring.
Technical director (designate): “Any kids?”
Technical director (designate): “Look it’s alright if you are”
Escaping to the bar, I was joined by Sven, puzzled to the point of tears,
Sven: “Why does he think I’m gay? Look, I’m married.” (Shows wedding ring again)
Me: “Ignore him, he’s drunk. I‘m sorry.”
Sven: “Were you treated like this at Uppsala?”
Sven: “When you were studying there?”
Finance director: “When were you at Uppsala?”
Me: “In my ICI days.”
Finance director: “You never said.”
Me: “Never mind that, get back to the table and stop any more fucking damage.”
The Swedes left without glassing the technical director (designate) but they thought about it. He IS a hardy big bastard.
“He wasn’t gay you know. And what would it matter if he was?”
“Course he fucking was. Drink up and I’ll see what the special is.”