A story about a Bear in a Chair

The Bear is only about 10 inches in height by the way

Not a huge Monster Bear

But his chair is finished and he is a Happy Bear.

Once upon a time there was a Bear in a Chair

He/she was not just any Bear in a Chair

He/she was the ruler of the world

And a jolly good ruler he/she was too

The Bear in the Chair said that everyone must be nice to bears

And all the folk in the world cheered and were nice to bears

And then he/she said everyone in the world must be nice to everyone

And everyone in the World cheered and was nice to everyone

(This is quite obviously a fairy tale)

Then someone asked the wise bear what his/her name is

And the Bear in the Chair said. . . AH I can’t remember

Someone shouted Grizzly and the bear said. . . . No

Someone else shouted Vladimir and the Bear said. . . . No

Someone else said Aristotle and the bear said . . . . . No

Someone shouted Matilda and the bear said I can’t remember

Then the bear said

Hang on I have my name written on a piece of paper

Safely hidden away so that I cannot forget it

And the people of the world cheered and shouted

But what is it we need to know the name of the Bear in the Chair

And the bear said

Well this is answer to the Guess the Name of the Bear Competition

So I will not be allowed to tell anyone until after Saturday

When it will be revealed to the entire world

After the local village jumble sale

And the people of the world said

Well that’s not fair and spent the rest of time fighting and being rotten

You see folk are like that, the slightest thing and before you know it we are all at war

Well everyone except the Bear in the Chair

Who remains poised and dignified wondering who will guess the correct name?

And wondering why he/she has a slightly wonky chair.

A Day in the Life of a Blogger

I have been at the village hall Market today, it is a traditional Friday event so I do try to get to it each week to chat to the locals and catch up on what’s happening. When I say catch up on what’s happening I am not talking at a national or global level, I am referring to the state of folks tomatoes, lawns and whether anyone has seen a Zombie or heard the Banshee in the woods. To tell the truth as a sort of nice slightly reclusive middle class chap who has a fairly chilled life and owns his house and gets by OK; but with a fairly leftish view of politics it might be best not to get into national news and what’s happening as I feel I might be tied up and burnt as a heroic or witch. I mean I would not shoot the last wild Polar Bear in Britain just because it has destroyed your entire broad bean crop and scared (or is it scarred or maybe both) the cat. Which is the sort of thing that happens a bit round these parts and is why sadly I have to announce the news that the last wild Polar Bear in Britain had a bit of an accident the other day while stalking a rather healthy heard of Blight free Potatoes in the early morning sun.  No honestly there are folk around here well into their nineties who can handle a twelve bore rifle like John Wayne on acid. Luckily they don’t read my blog or I would be in trouble for sure. Just in case any of you do read this I would like to add it’s a lovely Polar Bear rug and will make a great centre piece for the harvest supper.

After my weekly pilgrimage to the village market and my now tradition Bacon and Sausage sandwich, Ah yes they sneak a sausage into it now for extra taste, I returned home to continue my DIY on the almost completed kitchen. OK I stopped for lunch and had a few cups of tea and a bit of chocolate cake at one point and, OOOOoooooo yes we did have a short visit by a rather good artist who was passing by from Dartmoor. OK it is not easy to pass by Shropshire from Dartmoor without some effort but she was off to the dentist. Maybe to some travelling 400 miles one way to see the dentist might seem  excessive, but not in Britain, not these days. Anyway she is a very good artist and quite well known in certain circles so I will not mention her name. 

Then after the DIY I have sat down to write a little something for the Blog (this), not as easy as it might appear because folk do not appear to like Poetry . . . OK they don’t like my poetry, and politics is not good either. I know folk sort of like witches and banshees but I write about them loads, and I cant tell you about the Polar Bear because of its unfortunate accident.  We do have Pine Martens near by and also the very rare dormouse a few miles away and luckily they don’t eat folks vegetables so they should be OK, although I am told Dormice are very very tasty in a sandwich with some bacon. HANG ON they told me it was a sausage DAMN, I’m sure there is (was) more than one of them.

The Pithlyiffion one of Naturer's Fantastic Beasts

The Pithlyiffion is a strange and wondrous beast indeed, one of the truly Fantastic beasts of history and one not to be trifled with (yes its one of those odd British sayings again) and one not to be put in a trifle either.  And its rather bizarre attributes were summed up in a poem by the great Samuel Taylor Coleridge that went as follows

Beware the Pithlyiffion, the strange and wondrous beast

Sitting high up in the Forrest trees

With its poisonous and deadly lick

And although it resembles some ancient mythical bird

It has a rather strange defensive trick

It falls to ground wrapped in its wings

Like a rather large house brick

Of course as you might expect of poems from the founder of the Romantic Movement, the poem goes on for at least half an hour and involves all sorts of things from seagulls and sailors to dancing with Victorian women in clearings in the woodland.  But the key points about the Pithlyiffion are well covered by this short extract.  You see the Pithlyiffion has a very poisonous lick indeed and although in general people recover, should you be unfortunate to be licked on a scratch or open wound then death is a distinct possibility. Some say that Coleridge had a pet Pithlyiffion and that it was to blame for his untimely death.

And as the poem says, despite the fact it has wings and does look like a bird its wings were made of an almost indestructible membrane which it would indeed wrap round its own body. In this way nothing could hurt it. It had no real enemies in nature, except the usual one mankind, who discovered that by boiling the beast for several hours it became an incredibly useful paste that could be used to seal the boilers of steam engines. What was unknown was that the Pithlyiffion only bred once every ten years and lived for almost two hundred years. So by 1873 with the loss of its breeding habitat in the wild the last Pithlyiffion died.  Unlike the Dodo which lent itself to being stuffed and displayed in a glass case, a popular Victorian pastime the Pithlyiffion once it died would turn to fine dust which would blow away in even the slightest of breezes. A fact that led to it becoming a creature of legend rather than fact. There are some who say the dust from the body of a dead  Pithlyiffion has substantial magic powers and that many of the legends of magic from mans history are the result of this, but we will probably never know for sure.  All we can say is that it must have been a truly fantastic Beast.       

Ferdinand Fleabite . . . . The A to Z of Slightly Strange Unknown Victorian Inventors and Explorers

Ferdinand Fleabite

A master locksmith and a man with a suspicious past, Ferdinand Fleabite suddenly came into money and rapidly became a well know figure at all the important parties, mixing with very cream of British society.  His invention was the now infamous Fleabite Fixer a device that allowed almost anyone to open even the most secure locks of the day.

It was a device that in the wrong hands would make it almost impossible to secure buildings or safes or anything that relied on a decent lock and key. However Ferdinand Fleabite was not a fool and knew that many large banks and organisations would pay large sums to avoid the device becoming readily available to a mass market. So he was able to make a deal that made him incredibly wealthy. But Mr Fleabite’s past meant he had friends that were keen to get hold of the Fleabite Fixer device and so Ferdinand Fleabite had several hundred of the devices made in Hong Kong which he sold in the small advertisements of the Exchange and Mart knowing that it was not read by the high fly bankers and businessmen of the time.

Unfortunately the authorities became suspicious when the Bank of England was easily broken into four times in a month and arrested Mr Fleabite for questioning. He escaped the very same night and fled to the United States where he slipped his Fleabite Fixer into the case of a young lad called Harry Houdini in order to get through customs.  It was only several years later when he accused Mr Houdini of using the Fleabite Fixer that he was recaptured by the authorities.  Although again he escaped the following evening and was thought to have fled to Hong Kong setting up a company making tap dancing novelty clockwork toys that were able to escape from a locked toy box tied into a sack and sealed in a tank full of water.

(Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them) or Harry Potter Returns from the Dead. . . . PART ONE

After the terrible death of Harry Potter and all the young wizards on Halloween and the subsequent closure of Hogwarts and its brief commercial success as a theme park it vanished from the minds of men and quietly became a ruin.  No one ventured to it as there was talk of terrible beasts and monsters that roamed it's corridors their footsteps echoing through the building.  It was a bad time to be a wizard and those few who survived those terrible events of Halloween were forced into the everyday world of muggles, something they hated, but as the old saying goes . . . . . needs must. . . . . (I know old sayings are silly we just don't know what the needs must do, but it’s a saying).

One such wizard was a Professor Brian Dumblecox who had managed to make a successful career in the sciences of us muggles and became a bit of a celebrity turning everyday objects into stuff that just confused folk using what he called Quantum Mechanics.  We all know he really meant Wizards Magic we are not stupid are we?.

One day Professor Brian Dumblecox’s young son called Higgs was rummaging about in a strange old bookshop only accessible by walking between the walls of M&S and W H Smiths when he came across a book called, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.  Having bought the book with his pocket money five pence Young Higgs returned home where his father Professor Brian Dumblecox looked and nodded in a knowing way and pointed to the map of the universe on the wall and said

Its time Master Higgs, you have discovered the bookshop.

Yes dad I DON'T know how I got there I was going to W H Smiths.

We live in a multi-dimensional world Master Higgs and you have entered the world of Wizards.

But you said it was Quantum Mechanics dad I watched you on the television.

No son that is just a cunning trick to confuse muggles, we are talking about the world of wizards and you now have to go and fulfil your destiny.

But I’M too young to go on X factor.

NOOOO Not X Factor

And I have only had three dancing lessons, I don’t think I’m good enough for Strictly yet.

O for Gods sake Master Higgs you have to go and restore the Great Harry Potter to Life, Back at Hogwarts where he will become Headmaster and make more films.

WOW like Frankenstein’s Monster with lighting and a bolt through his Neck.

Look son I'm getting angry if you don’t behave I’ll play one of my Albums.

Sorry Dad

Now here is a large Jug with a mummified cat in and a jar of ash from the Wizards Ring of Fire where Harry and the other wizards died you must go now and enter the ruins of Hogwarts where you will discover what you need to do.

With that Young Higgs set off on his intrepid journey with his new book and a ticket for the train, a large jug with a mummified cat and a jar of ash.

He took one last look at the house as he set off down the street his dad shouting after him. . .  AND beware the Wicker Man. . . .  Young Higgs gave him the thumbs up and thought to himself. . . Don’t stare at the vicars van. . . How odd.

TO BE CONTINUED 

PART TWO

Proof of the eccentricity of life in the Country and therefore Alien life by default

I was pondering about what to write about as life ticks by in an almost normal fashion at present. This is good but also rather bad as the very nice Steven Spielberg is hardly likely to rush to the rolling hills of Shropshire to make the film of ordinary life in the county even if we have a few Zombies roaming about and Aliens in the woods pursued by Mr Jones in the nude who is in turn pursued by the police as folk complain that Mr Jones is in the woods naked again.  And then there are the Lemmings of Petrograd, The Dark Creature of the Undergrowth, Esmeralda catapulting the goat in the general direction of the out of town supermarket, Freddie teaching his ferrets to do tricks, and the odd Banshee at night.

So you can see it is hard to find new and interesting stuff to write about although I did think I saw an Alien at the Commonwealth Games last night on the TV running in a race, but he did not really do very well so that can't be right. Unless a virus has afflicted the aliens and they are suffering like they did in the film the War of the Worlds (the old film not the newer rubbish one)

Anyway as I was saying I was pondering that there was nothing to write about when an advert in the local County Times came to my rescue, it is good when stuff like this happens because it shows that I don’t make this stuff up it all really happens out here in the sticks.  You see tomorrow is Tough Harry’s Fun Day in Churchstoke and they have all sorts of things going on, but one particular item caught my eye (no not like catching a ball).

Yes its true there will be DANCING SHEEP. . . . . .WHAT? . . . . . .  I have not seen dancing sheep before and until now did not know that sheep danced. I have no plans to go and see the dancing sheep I am just satisfied that just for once I have hard evidence of the bizarre events of life here, and besides I have a horrible feeling I might just end up disappointed if I go. . . . . . .. . . .

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Z is for The Zoot Suit Jazz Club and the Zambezi Zither Quartet

Link to Part Three

(Part Four)  

Boris was up early the following morning he needed to be in the office. Since the announcements of the official closure due to government cutbacks things had already started getting packed up, and fast.  He usually walked or used the bus most days but today he felt he was being watched, he got a flash of an elderly guy on the bus, then in a shop window, and then two old chaps on a park bench. He shrugged it off, after all he is a spy and spies are paranoid and they were all old, but he doubled back and took a taxi anyway. Once a spy always a spy.

 As he entered the department it was a shock, it was half empty and even as he looked around he saw his own desk being loaded up into a van. . . . Its like the last day of the closing down sale at Woolworths he said to one of the men sifting everything . . . . Sorry sir, yes sir but its orders from the top was the reply. Boris was angry he needed to find out what was going on. He made a few phone calls, but was told he was old school, field agents were not needed anymore it was all desk jobs now, monitoring social media and reading email, Boris was a dinosaur and was being pensioned off. It was a big pension and he should not rock the boat or else.

As evening fell Boris headed to the Zoot Suit Jazz Club alone, he was confused and very angry. He and Irene were a good team and he could not understand how she could be working for someone else. As he entered the half light of the old jazz club he heard a voice saying Well thank you Zelda and the Zodiacs that was a great song. . . . . we will have a sort break and then it will be tonight’s special guests The Zambezi Zither Quartet followed by our very own BLACK WIDOW AND THE SPIDER JAZZ BAND  

As Boris looked round the club he saw the old men he had seen in the morning, alarm bells rang in his head and in the gloom he checked his revolver. As he did so a voice behind said You don’t need that Boris . . . He turned, it was Irene  . . . . . . whats going on he said I thought we were a team. . . . . We are . . . let the general explain she said smiling.

Sorry Boris . . . you cracked things quicker than we thought, caught us on the hop. . . .We are intelligence Deep INTELLIGENCE; Irene says you are one of the best. we heard about the impending closure of your department months ago and she suggested we recruit you, we need some younger blood here we are now all very old field agents.  Another elderly man joined them, how did you work out the Link with the Zoot Suit Jazz Club and the spider so quickly. . . . Boris looked puzzled I DIDN'T it was the old guy; the strange one, he told me to listen to the live show on Jazz FM last night THAT IRENE did with her band. Irene now looked puzzled that’s not until next week Boris.  The General also confused asked Boris what he knew about the old man. . . I don’t know much, he had an old MATCHBOX and a spider said Boris And he did say he played piano in a bar in Berlin back in the days of the cold war. The two old men looked like they had seen a ghost  . . . . One then said Zackary . . Agent Z . .  but he’s dead, he was shot in October 1963. They say he had a story so big it would bring down the governments of several counties; but rumour has it he was sold out by his own side; a command from the very top.  As the two old men looked at one another Irene took Boris to a table and they sat and chatted until Irene joined her band singing long into the night, Boris finally able to relax.

Later in the early hours as Irene and Boris drove back to Boris’s home in a black Mercedes they pass an old man, he watches them as they drive past; then he bends down and carefully slides a small spider into an old matchbox. As he does so the owner of the Italian coffee shop opposite shouts across the road . . . Another Job done . . . . The old man nods and turns into the park and through the undergrowth to his forest shack deep in the Patagonian rain forests.

Back at Boris’s flat Boris says to Irene Is it true that female spiders eat the male. But Irene just smiles and says. . . This is a child friendly blog Boris.

THE END

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Y is for Why

Link to Part Two

(Part Three)

It had been a terrible week for Boris, of all the things that could happen the one thing he had not planned on was government cutbacks, and the decision to close his whole department. Why he thought as he sat on a bench in the park; why do this, the department is key to national security. His years of loyalty just dismissed in an instant by an admin man behind a fancy desk.

But why now, why when he was so close to revealing the true identity of The Spider, could it be coincidence. 

As he sat watching the evening sun reading the official papers explaining the closure, an old man sat on the bench and looked up into the oak tree branches above, where a small spider was spinning a strange and complex web. 

Boris looked across and thought, Why do I know his face? I have seen this chap before at the café. . . . . Don’t I know you said Boris . . . . The old man turned and said NO, but you must be Boris. Boris was a bit taken back and just said yes. . . . .  The old man then went on to say You are searching for someone, I think you need to listen to Jazz FM tonight to the show transmitted live from the Zoot Suit Jazz Club, it will help you a lot. Boris was about to ask questions like WHY, but before he could, the old man said . . . . that Spiders web is amazing . . . . . Boris looked up trying to work out why a spider’s web should look like a Seagull holding a saxophone.  Then as Boris turned the old man was gone like a ghost in the mist.

Later back at his flat he turns on the radio and tunes into Jazz FM and hears the following

Tonight we have the new up and coming star of the Jazz scene Miss Ie Ree Ni  Van-Dagraph who’s father was the saxophone player with the well known Dutch jazz band  The Seagulls.

Well Miss Ie Ree Ni I believe your Mother was apparently a well known double agent working for the Chinese military and MI6, you must have had an interesting childhood.

 Yes I must admit I learnt many skills over the years that have come in handy from time to time. . . . . and please call me Irene it is much easier.

I also have been told you were nicknamed The Spider by you parents which is where the name for your band came from. . . . . The Black Widow and the Spider Jazz Band.

Yes that’s true, although I don’t think my boss would approve really . . . but he tends to be too busy to listen to Jazz.

Would you like to say hello just in case he is listening?

Hello Boris sorry to hear about the department, can I keep the car . . . . .

So what’s the first song then

I thought we could start with   . . . . . Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz  . . . It’s a sort of in joke.

With that Boris turns off the radio and phones the florist. . . I need to send a rose urgently . . .  tonight . . .  to the Zoot Suit Jazz Club.

No problem sir comes the reply is there a message

Yes . . .  I will see you tomorrow at the Zoot Suit Jazz Club. I will be alone.

Link to Part  Four 

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X is for X Marks the Spot . . . . . . .

Link to Part One

Part Two

It was fast approaching summer, but for two days the rain had fallen relentlessly, folk scurried about with their heads down doing what they had to do paying no attention to the old man as he slowly walked up the street and into Big Bills Greasy Fur Ball Café. 

A waitress says hello and he replies It’s a terrible day, she says yes but is puzzled that his clothes are bone dry Can I get you something she asks.  . . . Bacon and Eggs and toast thanks . . . . But she is confused did you say X  . . .  No Eggs he says as he slowly slides open an old matchbox in front of him on the table.  As the waitress turns round she is confronted by two men . . . We are here for the X the shorter one says in a strong Russian accent. The waitress laughs and says you want X as well, do you want them fried, the Russian now confused says We want them in a plain brown paper bag  . . . . . . . . .  So a takeaway then, a fried x sandwich maybe said the waitress.  . . . The Russian still confused says to takeaway yes, we will wait by the door. 

As they wait impatiently looking at their watches, they fail to notice the Black Mercedes pull up, driven by Irene Van-Dagraph the singer from the night club; Boris sat in the back busy talking on his mobile.

As they get out the car into the constant heavy rain Irene turns to Boris and asks Do we know What this X is yet, he shakes his head, but gestures at the café window where the Russians are collecting a plain brown paper bag.  The Russians turn and head out leaving without paying, the waitress shouting Hang on you have not paid for those x yet.  But the Russians only get a few paces before several men surround them. Boris smiling and saying I think this time we have you. hand over the bag.

The Russians have no choice and Boris slowly opens the plain brown paper bag hoping to see X . . .   the secret which has brought two superpowers to the brink of war.  They all peer into the bag in anticipation of its contents, but as they do so the waitress arrives and shouts I hope they plan to pay for those egg sandwiches, Boris looks up and says Did you say X but the waitress laughs and says NO I said eggs, I don’t know what is up with everyone today and that’s for sure.

Boris looks into the bag at the Fried Egg Sandwiches and says DAMN that Spider, he has done it again.

Meanwhile the old man has eaten his breakfast and has decided to take a walk along the docks. Where a young navel cadet is shocked to see the periscope of what appears to be a Russian Nuclear submarine moving slowly in the water, the ripples of the tide forming a definite X marking its position.  X MARKS THE SPOT says the old man amusingly as the young cadet rushes past in panic.

I think folk are going to ask Y tomorrow . . . . . .HAH AH HA HAH hah a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha ha


And if you did not read yesterdays post then this is somewhat meaningless . . . . . NO its true you need to read yesterday first (AH DAMN you have just read all this) 

Link to Part Three

W is for a Web of Intrigue . . . . . or (Spius Thrillerum Suspensos)

(Part One)

Every child in the World has heard of the Tangerine Flea of New Guinea and it's amazing skills at fishing, but not so many are aware of the equally amazing Intrigue Spider of Patagonia (Spius Thrillerum Suspensos). Yes this little spider gets its name from its web, the so called Web of Intrigue. A web so complex that any critter foolish enough to succumb to the underlying plot will be sucked into it, only to find they are baffled and confused when they discover that the man in the raincoat is not the husband of the woman in the café. And that the old man watching the shop once played the piano in a bar in Berlin back in the days of the cold war. This of course is all just too much for a humble fly or beetle, and as they try and escape they find themselves just a side dish in the great scheme of things where Boris having agreed to a spy exchange walks slowly down a wet alley and climbs into a black Mercedes driven by Irene Van-Dagraph the singer in the night club.  Irene turning to Boris to say . . . . The Flies dead Boris, he had his brains sucked clean out. . . . Boris smiles and replies . . . That Spider is good, damn good, but one day someone is going to stamp on him hard. As the car vanishes into the mist a small spider can be seen spinning its web on a plain brown paper bag left discretely near the third window from the right on the old MI5 building, a small microphone protruding from the top.

Two young botanists from the local college stop and look intently at the bag and one says Gosh I’m sure that’s the amazing Intrigue Spider of Patagonia (Spius Thrillerum Suspensos). His friend looks startled and shouts . . . .  RUN . . . . . . But it is too late, they are bundled into the back of a white van which drives off into the night at speed.  The only witness an old man who tells the police that he once played the piano in a bar in Berlin back in the days of the cold war. . . . .

As the old man walks home he bends down and carefully puts a small spider into an old matchbox, and as he does so the owner of the Italian coffee shop opposite shouts across the road . . . You still have it then . . . . The old man nods and turns into the park and through the undergrowth to his forest shack deep in the Patagonian rain forests. 

Link to Part Two     

U is for the curse of the Unrequited Dove

Pigeon Fancies are a strange breed of person and will do almost anything to look after their feathered friends from chase Peregrine Falcons up the street with a pointy stick to singing sea shanties in their pigeon lofts at half past two in the morning in the cold wet rain. However it is very very rare to see a hardened pigeon fancier keeping  doves, because they live in fear of the curse of the Unrequited Dove. 

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O is for Obsessively Observing the Outstanding Odysseys of the Open Oceans.

As we know from yesterday’s story Poor old Captain Nigel Nash became haunted by the stories of Sir Napier Winky Knapsack and started to become bitter and twisted and would wake up in the middle of the night shouting . . . .  A Double Winky Burger with cheese and eyes sorry I mean fries. . . . . .  It was more that an old sea dog could take, and so he decided to return to his Ship the Nautilus and Venture out into the ocean to explore the great unknown.  With him this time was a young artist called Oswald Offwhite who was rather good at drawing large fish. It would not be unreasonable to say young Oswald was obsessed with the creatures of the ocean and his one big chance in life, a commission to paint the portrait of HRH the Queen was a disaster when the final work turned out to look the spitting image of a turbot. Yes the Queen was well known for spitting all over the place but it was never mentioned yet alone painted on a fifteen foot by seventeen foot portrait, even if folk said it was a remarkable likeness and made them feel like having a fish supper down by the old docks.

AH DAMN I got slightly distracted.

 Captain Nash and his crew sailed off into the sunset for many years having many many adventures fighting pirates and large monstrous beasts while young Oswald Offwhite obsessively drew the outstanding odysseys of the open oceans in minuet (sorry minute)  detail.  Many of these strange beasts had never been seen before and Oswald (known to the crew affectionately as Doris) would accurately record them in his works. The originals of his work are still a prized position of the Natural History Museum to this day.

Then on 15^th May in the year of thingya time ago they just happen to stumble upon the thought to be extinct Dinosaur  . . The Aardvarkasaurus Wrecks  . . . . so called because of the rumours of its destruction of many a ship. It was a huge sea creature but they were able to capture the beast and return to England, well I say England, Captain Nash actually arrived in Inverness. This was slightly wrong but it did mean they were able to net off a small part of Loch Ness for the Aardvarkasaurus which became a great tourist attraction making Captain Nash, Doris sorry Mr Oswald Offwhite and the crew of the Nautilus very famous.

However the Aardvarkasaurus escaped into the deep of Loch Ness and despite attempts to catch it, it had become wise to the ways of man and except for the occasional rumour of sightings has never been seen again for certain. . . . . . 

K is for Konfusing Kites (I know it's Sunday we dont do the A to Z on Sunday . . . . in May?)

As many of you know I live right on the edge of Wales these days just a stones throw away from the border in the Shropshire rolling hills (I have never seen them roll but I am told they do).  Many moons ago well a while back it was decided that the Red Kite should be reintroduced to Mid-Wales and so a breading (Breed . . . sorry Mr ESB I blame qwerty keyboards) program was started.  However few people know the tale of the confused kites.

You see back when this happened there was a lot of cross border activity between English and Welsh conservationists, which would normally be fine, but stuff can get confused in translation. Welsh conservationists like to speak Welsh, not the cursed imported tongue of the Heathen English Devil folk. But translating between English and Welsh can have all sorts of little subtle anomalies which can change things rather radically. So when the Welsh conservationists first asked their English counterparts if they minded sending a few kites over in some boxes; and the English said they had loads of spare ones and it was not a problem . . . .  they were very happy. However they were not so happy when a few days later a large box arrived full of Box Kites, well when I say not happy, Evans the Kite was as happy as Larry, he liked Box kites and spent many a happy day on the beach at Aberystwyth larking about. You can see how Evans the Kite got his name and got fired.

Of course the Welsh got rather upset and called the English Conservationists Heathen English Devil folk and said they wanted to breed kites and reintroduce then to the wild. But the English did not take kindly to being called Heathen English Devil folk so send another two boxes to the Welsh . . . . . . One said MALE and the other FEMALE, the Welsh got all excited again but when they opened the boxes they were full of Box Kites and a small note saying  . . . . GOOD LUCK . . .HA HAH AH HAH AH HA HAH HA HAH AH HAH AH Hah a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah ahah ah ah ah ahha ha hahaha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha.

It all got out of hand for a while and several unsuspecting English bird watches had their Welsh Hides burnt to the ground, but it was sorted in the end and now Red Kites have successfully reintroduced themselves to Wales. In fact they are so successful they are all over the DAMN place and just recently the Welsh Box Kite Association (Life President . . . Evans the Kite) complained they keep attacking their Box Kites in some sort of petty revenge for something that was not the fault of the Box Kites. Sadly box Kites still don’t breed in Wales and sightings are incredibly rare, partly due to vengeful Red Kites. 

Ooooooooooo yes I’m still having a few problems with that door. It is to put it bluntly Unhinged . . .HAH AH HA HAH AH HA HAH AH Hahh a hahah ah ah ha ha haha hahah ah ahha ha ha ha hah.   

Boxing Day, Sparrows and Wrens

We have arrived at the end of Boxing Day here in cyberspace, I am not sure if everyone has a Boxing Day or not, but I believe it is also known as St Stephens Day where some folk dress up in old clothes, shambolic fake straw hats and wave fake wrens at passer’s by, as you would expect the day after Christmas Day.  Anyway it got to be called Boxing day more recently after everyone started turning up at the recycling skips with all the boxes that all their Christmas presents were in, before they rush off to the sales to buy more stuff in boxes.

Strangely after Christmas day where everyone gives gifts to folk so that folk have loads of stuff and are pondering where to keep all the new stuff given as gifts, many people are compelled to think I know I will rush off to the sales and buy more stuff.  The very time when the masses don’t actually need more stuff, it is a strange ritual with its origins back in the early days of mans history when this time of year was tough for us in the northern hemisphere. However back in the Neolithic days boxes were thin on the ground and generally made of stone and sales were like hens teeth, AH apparently back then hens had teeth so that saying is rubbish.

Here at home it is tradition for the family to turn up and we eat food wave arms about wear demonic wrens hats (or dog hats if you cant find a wren hat) play games such as who killed the wren with the iron bat (sorry bar) in the Library and tell stories of much interest and wisdom and then eat more food.

I think everyone had a good time and I had planned to take pictures of them all for posterity only they all said NO and who is this posterity chap anyway. Sorry but that means it is pictures of an empty table instead (very exciting).

They have all gone home now and we have just said farewell to Santa who has also just left (no he really did, heading off in his sleigh in the direction of North), although he said he plans to turn up next year with a fresh supply of wrens. . . . . .

Talking of wrens I am getting a little annoyed by a sparrow hawk that keeps nicking the local sparrows, we have a good flock of sparrows here or we did until this critter turned up. Nature as I have said many times before is not nice I may be forced to make the Micro God of Sparrows and possibly Wrens too. 

      

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