Symptoms

I knew it!!! His reach is insidious!!! He'll be proselytizing about strange sexual techniques next. He must be stopped.

Foxy wrote: "...they spend their time taking it in turns writing a column for the local rag. Every week having the same content, repeats of an inept Coalition Government that we've already read about ..." Well, of course they do that type of thing. Political shysters realise they have no real function (apart from gorging themselves in the expenses trough), have no real influence so can't really affect change, so they spend most of their time fashioning 'caring credentials' via the local media.

I mentioned earlier that I'd post details of the saved dobbin ... I've scanned the bit from Howard Pease book about Cauliflower (a lovely name for a horse):

Eggs wrote about rugby: "... and the forward doesn't say a word; accepts the ref's interpretation (right or wrong) and gets back on with the game." Perhaps it has something to do with the sporting tradition of rugby being based on a form of Athenian Code of Conduct; in other words, a sport played by 'gentlemen' (a term I use in the broadest sense). Modern football, on the other hand, has evolved into a disgusting pantomime full of grotesques gorging themselves on the riches on offer - so it's hardy suprising when behaviour often borders of the criminal, the violent, the theatrical, the greedy and the vile. Oh, and I love to watch both games. Pardew's head action can't be described as a head-butt ... it was too lame. A real 'Glasgow handshake' would have seen the other fella drop like a sack of tatties. 'Percy' Pardew can't even get a nutting right.

He'd be smudged on some cheapo phone, the image posted to some trouble-making website, the boss cop would make some false statement about how the Peelers good work at reducing crime figures had been undermined by the action of one rogue bizzie, sacks him.

First we had McMaggs strangely attracted to the Jockos, now we have McRobinson. Pints of 'heavy' all roond, Jimmy.

Come on GGG ... don't get your hosiery tangled. You know fine well that anyone with barrow loads of cash will ALWAYS make 'prudent' tax planning arrrangements for themselves; things like, offshore accounts, trusts, dodgy books, tame auditors, companies registered in Delaware or Éire, and so on. It really doesn't matter what the UK Tax requirements are, these folks are unlikely to pay what they owe under the rules, They'll always try to avoid paying. Oh, and they still seem to like it in Blighty, or reside in ever increasing hordes ... don't believe it when they bleat how awful the tax regime is. The don't pay their whack! Often when firms go the the wall it means that they've been badly run or have poor, short-sighted management. Often, they're run by crooks who'll trade even when they know they're stuffed with the results that countless thousands of customers have been stiffed out of deposits and goods.

A great photo. Interesting that there's one black guy in a sea of white faces. Trying to date the snap is difficult but a couple of the guys are wearing berets which were quite common in the late 50s early 60s ... lots of military surplus was used for work clothing at the time; I also have a clear memory of working blokes with 'turned-over' wellies ... safety boots weren't mandatory then. I'm still in contact with the 'top spark' so will email the snap to him this weekend to see if he knows anything ... he's over 80 now.

I read the topic title and thought it would be an interesting ornithological subject ... something like a rare dickie spotted in Bedders. Poo.

I think the scene might have been in the film 28 Days Later (about Blighty after a zombie plague) where there was a huge barbed-wire topped barracade across a motorway - one side zombies, the other side plague free. Anyway, I reckon if the Jockos follow 'Tubs' Salmon and declare UDI then we should erect something similar on the A1 at Berwick. Just another thought ... who thinks everybody in Blighty should have a vote on the 'Jocko question', and maybe the wording of the proposal should be: 'Should the Scots be allowed to stay in the Union?' I reckon there'd be a majority to chuck 'em out.

As a student in London, in the late 60s early 70s, my favourite weekend tipple was a pint of Broon (available in the Student Union bar) with an added crushed tab of Mandrax stirred-in. The Uni's quack used to prescribe 'mandies' freely if you told him you were having trouble getting to sleep, bottles and bottles of the 'pinkies' were given out by him. Ah, happy days ... very, very, very, very happy days.

This Bailey bridge formed a road (not rail) crossing for euclids (huge lorries) to allow them to shift coal from Acorn Bank opencast* to the sorting/screening site at Bebside. The Bebside site also housed a big railhead which allowed onward transportation of coal across the UK rail network. There was also a Bailey bridge into the screening site, over the main road at Bebside (next to Jackie Reed's garage for his coach company, Service Coaches). The euclid way was paved for it whole length with compacted grey spoil (a bit like modern day 'scalping's) taken from the mine hole; this surface had to be continuously rolled by a massive towed roller and sprayed to keep the dust down. *the opencast site was operated by the civil engineering company Costain and so the whole operation was know locally as 'Costain's'.

No, no, no Maggs ... it'd be just like Mal offering to take me to a match at that mackem dark place. I need to preserve what brain cells I have left so can't risk exposing them to the CBS or the mackemstuff.

Dr ... do a search of this Forum. We've discussed the opencast, its bridges, vehicles, draglines, and so on, so you may find stuff of interest. Also try searching for Costains.

Rum and Black was another favourite. A pal of mine from Ashington, a lad called Cookie (another nickname preventing successful searching-out today) used to drink pints of the stuff. Once, when camping in Keswick with a load of pals during the Summer hols (1969) he drank so much of the stuff that he passed-out, I found him the next morning lying on ground in the tent STUCK to the groundsheet by dried purple vomit. Ambulance called, whipped off to Keswick hospital, belly pumped, stuff injected by the quacks, me watching. He made a good recovery and was out drinking with us that night in the Wool Pack pub ... oh, and that was the night of the moon landing. Happy days.

I'll arrange to vector the RAF training flights away from the Blyth Valley and suggest they make an attack sortie over the Theatre Royal early in March; perhaps they'll succeed in silencing the Cramlington Budgie Strangler once and for all, thus saving Sym's delicate lugs.

Cuthbert born 634, croaked 687 Bede born 672, croaked 735. Apologies for the spelling mistake of croaked in post #34 ... it's good to keep these things correct, especially for our younger viewers shackled to text spelling.

Bede was only 15 when Cuthbert croked and he lived for another 48 years. Tony Robinson's latest telly show, Walking Through History, explained what happened as he walked from ChillyJockoland, across the border, into Northumberland, and over to Lindisfarne.

First they came for the .... Then they came for GGG .... With apologies to Martin Niemöller.

The Blyth Valley resembles narrow sections of the River Volga where it passes through Nizhny Vovgorod - so the RAF use it for practice bombing runs. Obviously, Ivan doesn't have any wind turbines as he relies on giant coal fired power stations for his lekky, so to make the practice runs accurate the RAF didn't want the veggie/sandal brigade sticking-up windmills.

I see the Government's news manipulating team came up with the latest wheeze to placate the 'great unwashed' of the soft southern floodplain huggers ... yep, they wheeled out those two parasitic wasters (bald Willy Horseface and 'Ginger' Hewitt) to hump sandbags. So that's alright then!

Reports in the paper today that another bunch of boiled Rød Pølse suckers have plans to top another giraffe.

I say burn more coal and sod the grandkids and the Thames floodplain huggers.

Currently re-reading Howard Pease's History of the Northumberland Hussars (I posted about my Grandad and his horse Ned a couple of times earlier in this thread). In post #6 I mentioned Ned and his dobbin mates were all left behind in Frogland to meet a dubious fate, anyway, Pease's history clearly states that only one Hussar's dobbin made it back to Northumberland and his former (before the War) owner. The lady continued to ride him for years afterwards. I'll post the dobbin's details later ... a true war horse! Back to watching the second half - Spurs 1 - 0 up against the Toon.

I reckon this baby tapir will be next on their hit list: