The Good Old Colonial Times

An exchange of letters at the beginning of colonial times in Africa.

No joke this. On Sky news at the weekend.

They were rabbiting on about archivers and historians sniffing through tons and I mean tons, of papers in the vaults of the British Library (what a place that is!), and they came across an exchange of letters between two blokes.

This is 1800 and voetsack, yia sailing ship or whatever – between the UK and some backwater in Africa.

So the bloke in Africa writes – Dear James, sorry to tell you that your brother/cousin (or whatever), George, has died. I will be sending his body to the UK for burial. Regards, Harry.

Next letter is a reply. – Dear Harry, many thanks but there seems to be a mistake. Upon opening the temporary coffin, we discovered a large crocodile. Best regards, James.

Some time later – Dear James, no mistake, George is in crocodile. Kindest regards, Harry.

And I kid you not. The whole Sky team were pissing with laughter.

Monkey man and old Itchy

Monkey man and old Itchy

In my career in the construction industry I had the displeasure of employing some of the biggest idiots who had been created by parents who should have been spayed at birth.

One was named Martin – an Irishman. I suffered the fool for two months before sacking the twat. In that time it would take me two months to actually write down his daily disasters. Of average height and blue eyes that constantly blinked in time with his absorbance of instructions- to no avail, he was white as white with dark hair. Not on his back but just about everywhere else.

He claimed to be a fully qualified plasterer. His brain was plastered. The idiot still now and then tries to friend me on FB!

Moving on quickly – before I threw the idiot out, we  (me and the other lads), pulled a stunt on him.

On the way home from work we would pass a knocking car park. All legal. Tarts in vans flashing flesh for cash.

We all chipped in and at the height of summer with Martin only in shorts and covered in glass wool fibres, was duly kicked out the firm waggon, given the 100 and told to get laid.

After wandering among the various vans of whores, he picks one. Gets in and gives us a wave as she drives off into the sunset. Not really – drove 100 meters away and soon enough, to our wicked delight, the passion wagon is bouncing away for an amazing 3 minutes.

He told us – she was going mad – not with passion but itching all over…hah hah

Finally – through the grape vine, I heard he wandered around Munich from one daft job to another and actually booked a two week holiday to Kenya. Which included one week at a beach resort in Mombasa and one week safari.

I have been there and all over the place are HUGE signs saying ‘Don’t feed or tease the monkeys’.

So what does our plasterer do? He has been in the hotel maybe 15 minutes.

Waves a bun at a monkey. It dutifully rocks up. He grabs it by the tail and swings it around!

Well, those of you not from Africa – will not understand that this is not a good idea. (That is a lot of nots.)

Of course – the tribe reacted and next thing you know – he covered not in glass fibres – but very angry monkeys. One sinks some rather long fangs into his right calf.

Cutting to the chase – our hero is rushed to hospital and spends the whole two weeks on crutches with puss and goo dripping out his leg. Flies back to Ireland and was lucky not to have his leg removed due to blood poisoning.

Thick as a brick – he recovered and a few months ago wrote that he went back and climbed Kilimanjaro. Big deal. An eight year old girl did that last week.

But – hey – ask Lady D about the time she did pole dancing in front of that mountain.

I have a Girlfriend called Jay

Weird Wonders

Started work as usual today. Usually work always starts before being finished. I have never met anyone who finishes a job before they have started.

When I was dreaming of a career – I decided that with my 5 o’ levels I could start at the top. My first job in the construction industry did start at the top. I was given a shovel and told to dig a hole.

Meanwhile – back in the weird and wonderful world of TGK…

With the blessing of the heavens weeping all over poor little me, I found the perfect excuse to skive off. So, I tootle back home after picking up some graze and beer and after parking up as parking down only happens in sink holes. Or – you can go down and park up in an underground car park.

I open the letter box. Inside is a strange note from DHL. Sorry we missed you etc – collect your parcel tomorrow at your local post office.

Blank. Totally blank (my mind). I have no recollection I ordered anything. Panic attack, maybe Jay’s ex has traced my address and sent a bomb! Or maybe Mugabe has sent an assassin?

Well puzzled, I struggled up the staircase with 50 bottles of beer bending my back. To relieve the weight – at each floor I drank ten. By the time I reached the third floor I could barely find my front door even though it was right in front of me. Now I panicked – did I have enough beers to last the night or should I fall down the steps and go and buy some more?

Luckily common sense prevailed and after falling off the toilet and having a little kip on the cool tiled floor, I turned the PC on.

AND there it was! It seems I HAD ordered something – cost a bloody fortune. 15 Euros. Three tins of BRUT deo, all Jays faults. She just luuurves her brute smelling of BRUT (less the 33).

However – there was something else. A weird notice that I have received three pounds from a very dodgy Russian name living in Cypress. It turns out that my sadly ignored blogspot still has a donation site for beers for me! Nice huh.

Finally – before I go on the lash and chase skirt -

I bought a new can of roll baccy today. It has all sorts off nasty pictures of dead and dying people due to smoking the stuff. This can said it could cause a heart attack. Bloody right – nearly had one trying to get the lid off!