The Night of the Moth or its the taking part not the winning that matters.

Last night (I think) was the last night of Moth Night, Moth Night you see is in fact a three night event due to the inability of moths to understand the concept of Moth Night.  Turning up two days later confused and complaining about street lights looking like the moon and saying back in the old days a moth could fly all the way to Hartlepool and never ever see a tilly lamp.  

Anyway I must admit I sort of gave up a bit last night because quite frankly I cant tell one moth from another, but I do know there are loads of them from big critters that swoop down and steal sheep in the dark to feast on later, to little Micro Moths that can hide inside a pin head.  And they all have odd names so if you don’t actually know the name of a single moth then it is all rather pointless pointing and saying OOOooo look a moth, and there is another sort of brown marbled moth and another brown moth and oooo look another brown sort of moth. Hang on I’m sure a moth just swooped down and stole a sheep from the field next door. . . . .

I also discovered that there was a little competition going on for who saw the rarest moth, well it was not going to be me I cant tell a common everyday (night) one from a rare one so all I knew is I saw a lot of moths. I had rigged up a cunning lure using the Fly Zap so that they would be attracted to it but not zapped. . . . OK I admit one did get zapped by accident, silly thing.  When I last looked at the web site the rarest moth was something I had never heard of something like a Patagonian dwarf leaping moth which is only seen once every twenty five years. Now I know everyone is generally honest and can be trusted (which is why the masses voted for the nice Mr Corbyn on mass, folk trust him he does what he says) but in certain situations folk might just lie a little bit in order to win. In the same way athletes are not really cheating they are just assisting their inner winning abilities to win with some fancy drug. . . but it is not cheating (honest).  So I did wonder if maybe someone might just be tempted to say Guess which moth I saw it was a Patagonian dwarf leaping moth. . . . Would folk do that surely not. . . . . I am not looking at moths tonight so they can do what ever they do knowing some idiot with a camera is not going to chase them about trying to take a photo in the dark. . . . . . Now what kind of fool would do something like that only to find out that the nice brown-ish moth is in fact the commonest moth in Britain and there are 348 million of them just in Shropshire?    

The origins of well known sayings. A new occasional informative series of posts

Ah yes I knew I had taken a picture of a rookish sort of bird ages ago while at the beach

In order to keep my diary(Yes I think it has sort of drifted from that a bit) and blog lively and interesting, I have decided to add yet another occasional little themed series of posts to it, explaining the meanings of some of those rather bizarre sayings that have become associated with the English language.  Many of them originate from that chap Shakespeare who I’m sure will be sniggering away in the afterlife knowing that he has confused at least Half the worlds population. I mean who has not heard someone at a party quote . . . . An Ass your yoghurt eyes drool in Hell. . .  And we all nod knowingly and agree while thinking WHAT does it mean? Nobody admitting they don’t know either because they think everyone will call them an IDIOT.

So today I will start by explaining one of those sayings that used to be said loads, but has like many sayings gone out of favour.

Yes we start with. . . . TOO Many Rooks spoil the Moth. . . . 

At first glance it looks like complete nonsense but when looked at in the rational light of day (another one of those sayings) does in fact make more sense that it might appear to.  You see Rooks are much larger than a Moth and although they have a mutually beneficial relationship in the world of nature, Rooks can also lead to the downfall of many a moth. Rooks as we all know are the rouges of the bird kingdom, stealing stuff drinking and having wild parties into the night taking illegal substances. Now for a Rook that’s fine they are large enough to handle a few drinks and dodgy drugs, but their mates the Moths are small, one drink and a few puffs of dope and they are away with the fairies (yet another saying to be dealt with later). The moths then get confused and fly about erratically confusing every single light in the world with the Moon, going round in every decreasing circles until they burn up on something hot such as a street light or a security light or similar. Those that don’t then fall prey to Bats, Spiders and Rabbits that find them strangely addictive (well we all know why that is). 

So what this saying is actually telling us as humans, is that some of us are Rooks and some of us are Moths and one or two of us are either Bats, Spiders or Rabbits. I think it is worth giving this some thought and you can always let me know which one you think you are. I have had a long think myself and because of my grumpy unsociable nature combined to the fact I do not drink or take substances of a dodgy nature, but do like Fish and Chips by the seaside I must be more of a seagull. . . . Sadly I can’t remember any well know Seagull sayings right now but give me time I will come up with one yet.     

The as yet unknown Insect People of Saturn . . . . . Keep Watching the SKIES (sorry EYES)

The Ghost Writer has been in his grey office today pondering the strange world of IT, now before you all say hang on that got nothing to do with unknown things, that is not entirely true. You see he is going ga ga (as in loony, not the singer . . . .as I have said before) and so quite frankly has not got a clue what he is doing, so he spends most of his life in a state of unknown.  He is much happier like that, sometimes it is best not to know.

You are all no doubt all aware that in the last couple of days I have had close encounters with Vampire Moths and tonight I almost came  face to face with a large pale coloured spider. I say almost because it ran off and hid when I sneaked in to grab the camera. I have learnt I need to photograph everything or folk say things like O yes how big did you SAY; it stood four feet high and snarled at you……. Well if I wave a photo at them they go O MY GOD ITS HUGE KILL IT……. However the spider ran off so no picture only an artist’s impression . . . . . OK I may have got carried away a bit, but I have a theory.

Well all this insect activity made me think HANG ON maybe all these insects are just acting like pre-invasion scouts testing the lay of the land working out if us humans taste good before they (the Insect People of Saturn) attack us.  This now appears very likely to me because the small scouts (almost certainly nano robots) insects will be telling the main battle fleet in space that our main defences consist of nasty smelling aerosol sprays that are as good as useless, sticky strips of paper that catch the odd fly and scented candles which appear to choke the humans and for some reason even most humans can't understand clear plastic bags full of water hanging outside windows.  Yes it appears the insects may not only think we are weak and feeble but with rather tasty blood but also mad.

I have no plans to hang plastic bags full of water outside my windows. . . . No one is going to call me mad. Although it will make an interesting backdrop in the popular Steven Spielberg movie The Invaders from Saturn . . . . Based on a popular blog by Rob Z Tobor.

Volume Five . . . The life of a Professional Blogger

The Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor

Volume Five

(The Untold Story of Unknown Things)

Here we are at the start of volume five of the Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor (that’s me), written exclusively for me by the Ghost Writer who as I have pointed out previously is incredibly cheap. Mainly because he is completely ribbish (sorry rubbish . . . . point made me thinks).

Previously I have told you tales of life as I progressed through my academic years, but things are changing this year, the Headmaster has thrown me out of school for bad publicity and the fact I have not mentioned school in ages.  This means that I have entered the world of work, something I know that we all like to avoid if we can or so the Ghost Writer tells me. As a YOUNG chap, the world is my ouster (sorry oyster) a stupid saying particularly as one of my PC’s  definitions of Oyster is . . . . .  any shellfish similar to an edible oyster, e.g. a pearl oyster . . . . . . . Well that’s silly and a distraction.

So I have looked in some detail at work and have noticed several times on the radio and television, in both news and currant or is it current (silly Ghost Writer) affairs programmes that they sometimes get folk on to talk about this and that and they say they are Professional Bloggers. Well as I am already a fairly active blogger in fact I seem to more active than some of those so called Professional Bloggers so I suspect I will make loads of money.   

However this means that my blog will now have to specialize on something specific, so that when the very nice men at the BBC need a professional expert to tell them things of a professional nature about stuff they will say. . . . . Quick get that Rob Z Tobor bloke we need an expert we need a professional Blogger. . . . .  So I have decided to become an expert on all things unknown because if there is one thing no one has yet cornered the market in it is Unknown things. Luckily it can remain a diary because most of my future is unknown and so all those as yet unknown events will fit nicely into the plot. I only say plot just in case the very nice Steven Spielberg has made the films of volume one to four and is reading the script of volume five. Something that may or may not happen; it is in fact an unknown event. . .HAH HA HAH AHh ah ah ha hahah ah ha ha ha haahah hah ahh ah ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha which is exactly what this year's diary is all about.  

Ooooo I saw another one of those Vampire Moths today and got a picture of it that I think proves the point. If you are thinking . . . . these Vampire Moths are Unknown to me then you have not read volume four, but luckily volume five will deal with lots of unknown things such as Vampire Moths, Zombies, Space, Aliens and Mr Jones the Alien Hunter.

It all sounds dead exciting . . . . . .

Hang on while on the subject of unknown things. . . . . As a Professional Blogger, just where does all this money come from? 

We have reached the END again . . . . (Volume Four)

We have reached the end of Volume Four of the Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor and all I can say is it has not gone well.  Many of the main characters have vanished and it has sort of metamorphosed into me rambling even more than ever.

Ironically while on the subject of metamorphosed I was attacked only a few minutes ago by a Vampire Moth which was trying to suck the blood out of my hand. Luckily my hand was slightly protected by a sweet sticky coating, the result of eating gooey cake. This gave me time to take the moth outside and put him on a solar light to confuse him, allowing me time to get back in and lock the patio door before he turned up with all his mates. No one wants to be attacked by Vampire Moths.

Anyway as I have said already this is the END of, The Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor (volume four) and so I thought I should go and hunt for the ant that brought about the end of volume one, two and three, again I did not find it so I am now sat on the patio pondering the grand finale . . . .  Ooooooo guess what a small ant has wandered across the patio and it appears to have found a small red button saying DO NOT PRESS. This sounds very very very familiar, ants are curious creatures so I think he is going to try and press the button  . . . . . . ..

OH No he is not going to get away with it this time I will stop him by putting my foot on the button so he can't press it. . . . . AH DAMN I think I may have been a bit enthusiastic doing that . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .