It's doing the rounds

As requested by writerwench, I'm posting this questionnairette here:

"If you comment on this post:

1. I’ll respond with something random about you.
2. I’ll challenge you to try something.
3. I’ll pick a colour that I associate with you.
4. I’ll tell you something I like about you.
5. I’ll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I’ll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I’ll ask you something I’ve always wanted to ask you.
8. If I do this for you, it would be appreciated if you posted this on yours.

NB Those who have already posted this are excused from No.8."
Joe Slavko outdoors


I appear to be afflicted with something which must be sciatica – a shooting pain where the legs join whatever that largish bone with two holes in it is called. Whenever I walk at a reasonable speed, even over long distances, there’s no problem but, when I’m down to window-browsing or shoplifting velocity, I ache uncomfortably. Time, probably, to pay another visit to the doctor. Of course, he’ll say there’s no real cure except time, paracetamol, and, perhaps, rest, but at least I can get him to refer me to some specialist. Of course, he in turn will say the same and maybe poke a little, but the upside is that he’ll be saying and poking courtesy of BUPA. I’m now paying more than £60 a month to that outfit, and I want to get my money’s worth.

Talking of shoplifting, I’m nearly out of Gillette razor blades. I’ll prevail upon my professional thief friend, Nicky "Fingers", to go to the supermarket next week and nick me 20 of the things. I refuse, on principle, to pay the ridiculous prices they currently charge for what’s no more than a sliver of metal set in plastic. The supermarkets expect a certain amount of thievery, anyhow – they call such losses “shrinkage” and actually factor them into their prices. This being the case, I would be failing in my duty not to oblige their accounting departments.

Ho, hum …….
Joe Slavko outdoors

My Guestbook

While busy doing nothing, I've just discovered that Livejournal has a Guest Book option and have therefore set one up. There's not really any point in doing so, as people who genuinely have something to say will presumably just add their bons mots as a regular comment, anyway. (And if they haven't, they won't.) Then again, many of us have an "inner Kilroy" which sometimes needs to be exorcized. So if you're one of the afflicted, here's your chance to assuage your frustrations and declare to the world that - if only for one brief moment - you were "here".

Joe Slavko outdoors

New Year

Every other arsehole seems to be jumping on this sort of “blogging” bandwagon now, so, given that it’s a new year, I suppose I should, too. Only for as long as they keep the service, free, though - I wouldn’t pay good money for it – and only for as long as it doesn’t get boring. For me, that is; I couldn’t give a fuck what it does for anyone else.

Anyhow, I spent New Year’s Eve in and around my brother’s place at Cadmore End, just outside Marlow. To help get through the evening, I cooked an organic free-range chicken, purchased on Tuesday from an apparently equally organic (and maybe free-range, himself) butcher in West Wycombe. The meal was accompanied by Chablis, Chardonnay, innumerable gin and tonics, and what I was informed (though not by Churchill himself) was Churchill’s favourite brand of Champagne. The combination was almost enough to dull the effects of the crappy television and the national disgrace that constituted London’s £l million worth of fireworks (most of it spent on the conceptualisation and administration, presumably, because I’ve produced more spectacular results myself from a box of Brock’s bought down at the newsagent). Whatever, bed followed the chimes at around 12.30 pm.

As for today, it was the usual shitty 1st of January aftermath. First thing, I chased a grouse out of my brother’s front garden lest the cat be tempted. Minutes later, sounds of gunshots were heard from the neighbouring field. Possibly the two events were related. Whatever, after this, and after breakfast, I took a combination of trains and tubes home. Not uneventful. Several people who really ought to have been wandering around drunk last night or in the early hours of this morning had decided, instead, to put it off until this lunch time. And there seemed to be a general consensus amongst them that the best place in which to get raucous afterwards was my carriage. Various “You’re my pal” and “Are you fuckin' lookin' at me?” conversations were initiated.

God, I hate this fucking time of year when the decorations are still up but it’s perfectly, absolutely evident that all the celebrations are well and truly over.