Root Oot

Tags

Captain English cricket team, Joe Root, Oval cricket

Photo by Naparazzi, Jan 2014;  (Wikipedia)

 

 

Poor Joe Root,

he got a ‘peach’ and now he’s oot.

Someone’s * tweeted he’s not the ticket

and will be the shortest reigned captain in English cricket.

 

• someone called Adrian Murray ?? on Twitter

Might not be true – he (Joe) may redeem himself yet.

Crowd-surfing

Tags

crowdsurfing, Jagdschloss Grunewald, rock concerts

(Jagdschloss Grunewald- image from Medieval Karl@ WordPress)

 

Crowd-surfing

didn’t begin at

rock concerts.

Rugby Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Greig Laidlaw, rugby, Six Nations

(Photo by Clement Bucco-Lechat.

25/10/14  USO- Gloucester Rugby)

 

Greig Laidlaw,

there’s nae point in greetin’ fur yer Maw.

If it hudnae been fur yer injury,

ye might hae led yer lads tae victory.

Six Nations Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Finn Russell, Six Nations, Twickenham

Finn Russell,

never heed the English muscle.

Shadow Ford at Twickenham ‘the morra.’

Can thirty four years of history be reversed? ‘Nae borra!’

Sunday Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Sir Mo Farah, Usada

(Photo by Tim Hipps,

US Army IMCOM Public Affairs

21/8/16 cropped)

 

 

Sir Mo Farah,

referring to Usada*,

you appear to be clean.

But as for some coaches- it remains to be seen!

 

*US Anti-Doping agency

Dialogue by clerihews

Tags

clerihew, David Beckham, EC Bentley, Matthew Francis, Royal Box

Since there was some discussion as to what the rules of

a clerihew should be, I consulted my friend, Matthew Francis

on the matter- of course, by clerihew:

Matthew,

talking about the clerihew…

must you only have a name in the first line,

or, is having more than that, in your opinion, fine?

I received this reply:

Candia Dixon-Stuart,

devotees of the clerihew art,

disagree, gently,

on the principles of E. C. Bentley.

So, feeling a sense of liberation, I give you today’s:

(David Beckham in the Royal Box, 28/6/14

by Brian Minkoff- London Pixels)

David Beckham, aka ‘Becks,’

you seemed a model for your sex,

but your alleged obsession to receive a gong,

may taint your after-shave with a lingering pong.

Fishing For Compliments

Tags

chat-up line, fishing flies, Izaak Walton

Inspired by the phrase : ‘A Chat- Up Line’

With apologies to Izaak Walton…

 

Some Booby Nymphs met two Woolly Buggers,

who threw out some Gold Nugget lures to them,

thinking they were Pale Evening Emergers,

ready for the Down ‘n Dirty Fiery.

Hey, Damsel Wiggle Nymphs! Rise to our bait!

Black Suspender Nymphs-you with the Pearl Butts!

 

But the Kick Ass damsels merely replied:

You think you are Irresistible Adams;

we are not interested in tackle.

We are not attracted by Double Humpy.

We don’t want to get into Deep Water

and especially not with Green-Arsed Wickhams.

Rat-faced McDougal there could lose Half Stone.

He wouldn’t know a Sofa Pillow from

his Tup’s Indispensible and talks Tosh.

I’d clearly prefer a Green Highlander

to a Flash Charlie with a Zonker.

You haven’t got a Grey Ghost of a Chance.

My boyfriend ain’t no Leckford Professor

but you are a Moose Turd compared to him.

I’m a Redhead Buzzer and my pal here

will confirm that I am called Red Diva,

so there’s no use in saying, Baby Doll,

do you fancy a Whisky then in Bradford?

You are out of your depth- we’re World Class Flies.

 

But the Spin Doctor, full of Blue Charm, said:

No, I’d have to be on Chartreuse Poppers

to take on a Little Devil like you.

My mate here is a Black Bullet Conehead,

so you’d better shut your Grizzly Hot Lips.

You might be a Beaded Belly temptress,

but, up close, I see you are wearing Spandex.

I will get my Missionary elsewhere

and doubtless before Moonlight Shadows fall.

 

Good luck, Dirty Egg-Sucking Dogs!

Cast off!  We don’t need no Psycho Princes!

 

 

 

 

Metete En El Carro, Chamo!*

Tags

Caracas, cascaras, Cedula Id card, cowbell post, De Sousa, disambiguation, Eguie Castrillo, hip-hop, jam blocks, Maiquetia airport, One Direction, Sabian cymbal, Salsa, snare drum, Stars and Stripes, timbales, timpani, Tito Puente, Tower of David, windsurfer

(* get in the car, my friend!)

The secretary at Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil had typed a label

and was sticking it on an envelope.  It read:

Hugo de Sousa

19 Chavez Road

Ciudad Zamora…

As her brother was a keen windsurfer, she had read some

of his magazines and thought she recognised the name.

However, she rationalised that it must be a case for

disambiguation.  De Sousa was a fairly common name.  There

was a Portuguese footballer so-named and a bandmaster who

had written The Stars and Stripes and so, this must be yet another

of the tribe.

But, Dear Reader, you remember who Hugo is, don’t you?

Yes, he is/was the blood nephew of Great-Aunt Augusta,

whereas Gus was only an adopted nephew.

Snod had supplied the address, glad that Hugo had sent him

new contact details after his eviction from The Tower of David,

some months previously.  The squatter had been able to rescue

his timbales, cowbell post and other percussive instruments,

without any of them sustaining damage.  He would put the tools

of his trade in storage, as Mr Poskett had written to assure

him that the school had plenty of timpani and snare drums.

Hugo was to receive the largest portion from Great Aunt Augusta’s

will. Gus had paved the way for him to come over to St Birinus’ in order

to take up a temporary teaching post.  The school would sponsor him,

but Gus would stand guarantor.  Virginia, from the School Office, had

spent quite a bit of time researching work visas, restrictive foreign

exchange currency controls and Cedula ID cards.  She was becoming

familiar with the girl on the end of the phone at The British Embassy,

Caracas. She received advice to the effect that Hugo should not take

more than 10,000 dollars out of the country, unless he declared it to

customs officials.  He would need to remain calm as his flights may be

cancelled at short notice, or the price might increase rapidly.  He should

pay for his flights in pounds sterling- the school would help with this-

and he should be discreet lest someone find out that he was going to

inherit some money.  Kidnapping was a serious hazard.  An armoured

car was the recommended transportation to Maiquetia Airport.

Until 1983, a child born to a British mother and a foreign father outside

the UK, had no claim to British citizenship.  But, if Hugo registered and

paid £540, things might be arranged, eventually.  Actually, the

extortionate admin. fee had been abolished, as of 2010, Virginia was

told subsequently.  She now understood it to be £80.

The Willoughby twins, Castor and Pollux, were becoming excited.  They

had been listening to Eguie Castrillo and Tito Puente, when most of the

rest of the class had been listening to One Direction.  A new percussion

teacher was good news.  They were keen to learn some Salsa, whereas

the other boys thought that was something to pour over salad.  They

unwrapped their hickory timbale sticks, took out their mambo bells,

Sabian cymbals and cascaras and plagued their parents for jam blocks

and mounted tambourines.

Hugo and hip-hop were going to receive a wonderful welcome.

Woy Woy?

Tags

Banjo Paterson, billabong, Bluntschli, bogan, Djokovic, hoon, Kim Sears, Mcdonalds, Melbourne Park, Norman Brookes, NSW, Orange, Paul Hogan, poms, Pretty Beach NSW, quokka soccer, Rod Laver, roo, rutting stags, Sergius, swagman, terpsichorean, The Briars Homestead, Thomas the Tank Engine, Tony Wilding, Woy Woy

 

Woy Woy- not an exophoric reference to a Chinese conceptual artist, but

a heartfelt expression of anguish as to the reason you not been reading my

posts, possums.  A girl just has to swan off to Pretty Beach etc and suddenly

all her readers droine away.

Well, I have been amassing verbal deloights for your delectation. I am now

attuned to the twangs of the Aussie lingo. A two year old approached me in

a play park in Orange, in a perfectly innocent, trusting way, not noted in

British kids since the Sixties, and proffered his Thomas the Tank Engine

toi, before revoking his intention and pronouncing very definitely, That’s

moine!

I was then privy to an eavesdropping from a sheila who was

discussing her boyfriend as she walked down the street in Mornington, Victoria:

It’s not that koind of relationship.

Everyone is moaning about the unusually bad summer here, with all the roine.

They should read the weather reported for the UK in The Doily Moil. Even the

commentary from Melbourne Park was punctuated with strangulated

phonological approval when players hit it on a doime.

As well as the accentual points, the idiomatic phrases are ripper too. Goodness

knows what That was right in the honey hole for him! means literally, though

the sentiment is not lost in translation. It would sit well in Kim Sears’ ‘potty’

mouth.

Even Mcdonalds has an advertising slogan here which doesn’t sound remotely

American: More bang for your buck. It sounds like something Banjo Paterson’s

terpsichorean swagman could have uttered by a billabong, or an ejaculation

by Paul Hogan, who might brandish a roo in a bap and pronounce emphatically:

Now that’s a burger!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No, Candia didn’t enter the hallowed grounds in Melbourne, but watched

Andy’s defeat on television, like the rest of you poms, whingeing or otherwise.

And, by the sound of the current meteorological reports, you have plenty to

whinge about.

He and Djokovic went at it like rutting stags, but the control of language by

the Serb reflected his greater mental restraint and focus.

(Now who does this remind me of?)

On this occasion, Sergius conquered Bluntschli.

How interesting was it for Candia today to stand on ground which reputedly

was once the tennis courts on which the first non-Briton to win Wimbledon

practised.  Norman Brookes even won The Davis Cup in the USA, with Tony

Wilding and yet he warmed up on what was once a cattle station on this

Victorian peninsula.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today the sacred spot is struggling lawn in front of The Briars Homestead,

whose grounds are now a Nature Conservancy Centre. I expect the expletive

was unheard of in this gracious residence, once upon a colonial toime. I doubt

Sir Norman was a cashed up bogan in pocket, or personal behaviour. Some of

the latter day sporting, or unsporting, hoons need to cease vocalising in the

parlance of those who indulge in activities such as quokka soccer. Return to

the days of Rod Laver and his self-disciplined behaviour and all will be foine.

Far From the Maddening Crowd

Tags

Airey's Inlet, Bass strait, Bunurong, Creed mcTaggart, Cuillins, David Rastovich, eudyptula minor, fairy penguin, fulmar, grippin' the lip, Howard Hughes surfboard, Koolin, Lew Brown, Loyd Grosman, mutton-bird, Namibia, one piece leash, painting zebras, passeggiata, Phillip Island, Port Phillip Winery, rip curl, Rip Van Winkle, Roll out the Barrel, shearwater, Sojourn, St Kilda, stabmag.com, Sumatra, Surf Beach, Teahupo'o pizza, The Nobbies, Tracks-the Surfers' bible, ultimate gypsy, wallaby

You would think that The Nobbies would be an excellent place to get

away from Joe Public, but even with a howling gale blasting in from

The Bass Strait, there is the eternal shrill whine of children whose decibel

level outperforms the crashing waves and predatory shearwaters. Once

placated by a cuddly toy penguin, however, the juveniles are generally

benign, unlike their adult counterparts who simply will not obey rangers’

instructions and whose attention span seems limited to one advance

by a single cohort of fairy bands of brothers before they have to stand up,

blocking others’ views and flashing away at the shy bird-life which is

trying to avoid the unwanted attention of a sea eagle, or a fox, but which

ends up mating under spotlights, beneath the boardwalks, to a perpetual

infantile commentary:

What are they doing?  Oh, look!  A threesome!

Eudyptula minor is a cutie and its nightly parade reminded me of a

Mediterranean passeggiata, except that those on the fringes do not

usually get picked off – or do they?

The whole ambience recalls accounts of the fulmar-dependent,

indigeneous people of St Kilda.  No doubt the mutton-bird eating

Bunurong would have had heaps in common with the original

inhabitants of the Scottish archipelago, although the Bunurong

had not been planted on their terrain, but were the supplanted.

Mind you, the Koolin people sounds rather like the Cuillins, don’t

you think?

I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t savour a short-arsed shearwater,

or whatever the mutton-bird is.  I preferred the duck confit at Port

Phillip Winery, the previous day.

Those of you who have been questioning whether I have morphed

into a fully-formed Sheila yet, might be better employed rating my

surf babe status.  Forget The Husband.  The only thing he surfs is

the internet.  As for Rip Curl experiences, he is more into those of the

Rip van Winkle variety.  Or Lip Curl, when he comes across snippets of

his fame being promoted over this site.  (He can be as desultory as

that lone wallaby that hopped across the dusky beach last night,

silhouetted against a giant red full moon.)  Just trying to divert

attention, I’d say.

We stayed over at Surf Beach in a house on stilts, all weather

boarding and corrugation.  The walls were decorated with a Howard

Hughes, Airey’s Inlet finned surfboard, bearing the endorsement:

Awesome.

I felt like Loyd Grosman- remember the guy who used to traipse

through people’s houses trying to guess what kind of a person lived

therein?  He actually only got the job because someone mistakenly

thought he was a journalist.  I felt a bit of a fraud myself.  But now

that I’ve heard of stabmag.com, I feel that I have some beach cred.

I might even get The Husband some Board Shorts.  Apparently, Life

is better in them.  The guys in the adverts seem to prove the point.

Maybe I could tether one of these Adonises to my side with the

World’s Strongest Leash, a one piece leash technology.  Might just

keep The Husband from wandering off towards the wine aisle in

any supermarket.

Even the reading matter was connected to the ocean and Night

Surfing was the only novel on view.  The blurb confided that it was

about a wave that arcs so high it drops down the sun, stars and

moon from the sky and turns day to pitch.  Hannah is a drop-out

who wants to learn to walk on water and Jake has been a dustman,

or re-cycling engineer, from Liverpool, but he dreams of surfing the

night.  Presumably he has had a shower first.  He has demons of his

own.  Let’s hope that Hannah exorcises them.

Right, enough of those barbed comments, as prickly as the fins on the

surfboards.

I did enjoy leafing through Tracks: the Surfers’ Bible– the next best

thing to a Teahupo’o pizza delivery, apparently.

You see, I had never heard of grippin’ the lip; surfing in Namibia- I

thought it was all desert dunes.  I thought Roll out the Barrel was a

1940s song by Lew Brown and nothing to do with tides and waves.

Painting zebras on a wall sounded artistic to me, something like

decorative murals on a kindergarten reception hall.

Hoovering through the slob sounded like clearing up after the

kindergarten kids had gone home.  And I had never heard of

films such as Sojourn, a surf film about Sumatra, with David

Rastovich.  I really must have been up a gum tree!

Oh, wait a minute!  It’s hovering through the slob.  It’s all this

being on the road.  I’m turning into an ultimate gypsy like Creed

McTaggart.  That’s a different creed from the one I know back

home and which I can recite by heart on Sunday mornings.

Okay, so he’s known for his sunglasses and criticised for faux

surf celebrity; I’m known for my hats and…

I’m morphing into something.  It’s Travel.  It broadens the mind,

as well as the behind.