The Trump Card

Foul and scurrilous rumours have been circulating the galaxy about Timelord's place of birth.

Some have even suggested he may have been found one night in Pickles field somewhere in that alien enclave called Woodcroft by an ex soldier turned rate collector and his daughter going to pick up an extra pint of milk.

It seems that birthers as they are called are not satisfied with their falsehoods about the President of the USA but question how your blogger could claim to be born in Burnley when he only has eight fingers and two thumbs. Could it be he emerged one day from a coal hole at the bottom of Booth Road Stacksteads, near the house where he took his first bath in a tin tub before a roaring front room fire.

So here it is. His birth certificate. Clearly showing Bank Hall Hospital, sadly now closed, in Burnley.

But what is this. A search of the hospital records deposited at the Lancashire Records office reveals that records for the relevant year have mysteriously disappeared. Could it be that Donald Trump has more tricks up his sleeve? Have wikileaks been at work? Is Timelord the heir to the throne of Gallifray?

Who really knows?

Wedding Bells

I have left Jeeves to sort out the cat and iron the shirts before we head off tomorrow to the charming village of Chutley Wootley. It's somewhere to the far north of here I think he said.

It's not every day one is invited to the wedding of a daughter of a man of the cloth. And when that man is good old Basher Banningham Banningham the reply in the affirmative left chez nous faster than Charlie's Darling was out of the starting blocks in the 230 at Sandown last week. Basher is a legend in Chutley Wootley. They say he speaks the local lingo now like a native and is partial to the ale brewed in those parts. His thundering oration at the wedding breakfast has been eagerly awaited in those parts for weeks.

His daughters are gems. Basher says the men of the village have even been known to fight amongst themselves over whether Sarah is a diamond and Amy a ruby or Amy is a sapphire and Sarah a pearl.

It's a rum thing but my dear friend Madeline Bassett will hitch her fetlocks to some prince guy tomorrow in London. Matrimony must be catching. Along came the invite but even Jeeves could not find a way of making us appear at Westminster Abbey tomorrow and Chutley Wootley on Saturday what with the state of the roads between the two and steam trains be known to disappear from the tracks never to arrive in those northern parts. I almost heard a sigh of relief on the telephone when I conveyed the news to Aunt Dahlia that I was already tied up.

Barmy Fungy Phipps is a man with an eye for the sporting chance. He told me that so much of the folding stuff has been placed on the Royal Wedding running in the Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer Handicap Chase at Fontwell tomorrow at 530 that the bookies refused to take his bet. So he has speculated a bundle on Madeline being 20 minutes late up the aisle.

So after an hour's banter at the Drones with Barmy and Tubby Prosser our combined brains agreed an each way wager on Madeline and Sarah both being 20 minutes late to the starting post so to speak.

 For once there was nothing in Jeeves form book to help.

Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner!

Yesterday was that great coming together of St Georges Day, the birthday of William Shakespeare and the birthday of FLN.

We toyed with the idea of a visit to Villa Park in his honour to see the home team play Stoke but I think the flash backs might have proved too sharp. And the thought of Stoke and their muscular approach to the beautiful game sort of sealed the decision.

So we went off to Stratford to enjoy the sunshine and the river. Falstaff himself might have marveled at the queue outside the fish and chip shop. Last time we were there we enjoyed the "sonnet sleuth" a handout with a series of word puzzles based on Shakespeare's sonnets which were linked to buildings and sites throughout the town.

So I thought I might take up the idea and move it on a touch. My title comes from All's Well That End's Well and could be just the caption for my photo. Can you not just see that mischievous grin peering over the gravy as he tries to hide the content of his pie from the reindeer mistress??

Can you think of another? Not necessarily Shakespearean of course. But how about:

"He hath eaten me out of house and home"

which is about Falstaff himself from Henry IV part II. Or more likely here a reference to the English Blogger, who having stripped the Rosary Road  fridge and larder bare compelled our hero, against his better judgement, of course, to quench his hunger at the match with a succulent pie!

So I promise a pie of your choice to the best caption suggestion and in the meantime will make sure I eat  a steak and kidney myself, preferably the Hollands variety, before I am that much older.

Strengthening Medicine....

...is wot Tigger's like. Or more precisely they like extract of malt!

I know a few people right now who could do with some strengthening medicine. I read the story again this week how Jesus struggled in the Garden of Gethsemane and an angel came and strengthened him. I wonder what he did - or said - or may be he did and said nothing but was just there.

I have a friend who longs to see an angel. But until such time as the angel turns up and dispenses his strengthening medicine I can only offer my own home brewed recipe. It relies on a generous dollop of ear, concentrate of brown eye and absence of tongue and tripe.

And for afters there is always extract of malt.

Beware the return of the Sallywufter

There are stories long lost in the annals of the Shire about the rule of the Sallywinder. White haired and well proportioned she wielded her rolling pin like the staff of Gandalf the white wizard.

Hobbits came from miles around to taste her meat pies, her fruit pies, cakes, trifles and, ah yes, her ginger biscuits. No one could withstand her at the card table and her sling shot with a piece of coke smote the fiercest Orc.  Saruman himself cowered in his lair before her.

Years have gone by in the times of Middle Earth. Legend had it the Sallywinder left behind a shaker of magical powers, the possession of which at the time of the birth of a future generation, would usher in the rule of the Sallywufter.

And now the word has passed through the kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan of the pending birth of one who will unleash the power of the shaker and the appearance of the Sallywufter. It is said she slays her foes with her hot iron and overpowers her adversaries with the dust of the earth and the power of her bleach.

And so Sauron sends out his agents to seek the shaker to destroy it. For he knows he cannot withstand the rule of the Sallywufter.

The love of my life.....

I returned from an afternoon out with Teapot yesterday  and picked up my radio along with a steaming cup full of Yorkshire's finest. Switching on I was immediately taken into Weekend's Woman's Hour. Now there is a programme where Timelord's ears venture as into a far flung galaxy.

I cam in on  a conversation between mothers about their sons. My ears were at their sharpest. Mothers' Day again.

One of the speakers was Miriam Stoppard She described her son as the love of her life.

What more can be said.

Except the anguish I felt today when I read of the killing of  Police Constable Ronan Kerr in Ireland, and thinking of his mother who has not long been widowed. My heart goes out to her.