I wrote this piece in 1994. Now in 2015, when I find myself looking for a new puppy to replace our much beloved and recently departed Dikon, by the grace of God and St Francis, because I have been asked to republish some of my old country pieces, I find myself given a timely reminder into the state of 'puppy production', a jolt perhaps weneed more than ever now that this wretched industry has taken off - thanks to the Internet and all those whimsicalpuppy sites.
I was going to
tell you about puppy farming, Particularly if you're about to pop out
to the pet shop or answer an advertisement in your local paper for a puppy.
This was written when hare coursing was still legal in this country - buit although it has been outlawed it still continues in secret in many places in the UK and IRELAND. It is worth remembering this is what we have done to one of our most beautiful creatures and if they repeal the Hunting Bill who knows? Coursing may well return. What ever happens we MUST preserve this gentle, beautiful animal.
appears there aren't nearly so many hares about as there used to be.
flashback with Doctor Who mumbling very loudly about losing someone or other
while Rev’s wife shouts back tearfully saying it was the fault of the woman who
was about to give birth to her pregnancy padding in the street while the man
with small eyes who is meant to have murdered these children in the next door
garden to his makes his escape from Doctor Who who is ( that is Who is) driving
a car he is not allowed to drive while possibly fighting off a heart attack in
pursuit of somebody or other.
This is not and was not what is called a case of Pareidolia, that is seeing faces in things – the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, Mother Theresa in a bun, etc – this is and was a case of actually seeing a face that is a face and the face has just appeared in a painting on which I am working. Suddenly. Out of the blue. Out of the the everywhere.
I’ve just written about this on my Facebook page so forgive me, friends, for my repetition but I wanted this to reach a larger audience because I can evidence this and I can show you the photographs of the painting and you will be able to see the face for yourselves and judge, as some of my Friends have done, as to the disposition of the features and the extraordinary detail and character of the image.
THE DOG’S WHATEVERS
It was the moment every dog owner dreads – no, I have to
refine that. It was the moment every male dog owner dreads – the time when you
are told by your vet They have to come Off. The reason They had to come Off
apparently was because all that testosterone was making the boyo a little
aggressive. But then not really. The vet
might have found him a little aggressive because he sunk his canines into the
vet’s derriere when the vet shoved a thermometer up the boyo’s derriere and I
must say I can’t blame the boyo for that, having recently had one of those male
moments myself with a doctor - however.
The 2nd Viscount Stansgate was alas a political hyperbole. More famous for his insistence on being called Tony than for any worthwhile political notions, how he has handed in his dinner plate he is being lionised for his pantomime ambition to turn Labour into some sort of Eastern European socialist party. in fact possibly his greatest ambition would have been to see Britain turned into a satellite of the USSR. He was a deluded Leninist who seemed from his rhetoric to have been more consumed by hatred than by compassion, (he 'loathed' the EEU - his words - and had little time for Germany either) which is hardly a good base for true socialism, two of his earliest and most burning ambitions being to remove the Sovereign's head from postage stamps and to ban off shore radio stations.
I write of two clowns. One is called Paterson, the
other is called Kaye. Of these two comics, one has already earned immortality
through his work while because of his foolish recklessness the other is fast
gaining notoriety and with a bit of luck will soon hopefully be gone and long
ADVICE TO THE LOVELORN
of happiness is that it is not visible. It is not a material thing. It is an
intrinsic thing, an abstract, and as soon as people try to analyse it, it
becomes even more invisible.
CORONET AMONG THE GRASS
remember so very well when this delightfully funny book was written. Being
Clever Drawers, I should do, but I’ll resist making any Clever-Drawer-ish sort
of remarks here. All I will say that having just finished preparing this second
volume of my beloved wife and partner’s youthful autobiography to me it is
still as fresh and totally original as the day it was written. The one thing it
is not is one however, is one of the things it was claimed to be when it was
first published, that is brilliant.