First Great Waste!

Ok, a moment here to reflect on the perils of our nation's policy of privatisation. When it all properly began, under the leadership of Queen Maggie (who probably would've also swatted a fly on live tv!), I think I was a bit too young to understand the implications for our future. Too many people believed it would be an improvement, create better services and more jobs and the majority ruled. Or the minority. I don't have the figures and it doesn't much matter now.
Although there is an OF for all of these sectors, as in OFCOM, OFSTED etc, who is there to monitor their monitoring capabilities? I suspect that somewhere close to central government, there's a room full of suits, sitting around a table being conducted by some whiskey-drenched King Arthur figure, just making it up as they go along...
As Monty Python famously once said, I wish to register a complaint.
Five days of doing very little in a sunny, yet fairly moist, Devon were followed by a few more in Wiltshire, still doing very little, but drinking more and therefore even more justified. When it came to leaving yesterday, I arrived at Westbury train station in plenty of time with my heavily laden bike and, most importantly, my tickets. This is key-- I had tickets. I was told to make my way to the rear of the train to load my bicycle on, only to then be told that I would actually have to take it into the vestibule between the carriages, as the train was too long for the platform and I was therefore unable to access the bike hold. Needless to say, I was none too impressed. I could move it at Pewsey, I was told. "Pewsey? But this train doesn't stop at Pewsey, does it?", I queried. "Oh no", said the member of staff. "You're right. Reading then". Great, I thought. Why couldn't they just load up the passengers and then move the train forward 20 or 30 feet so that the bike can get on? Oh no, can't do that, that's against regulations. Rubbish. How hard could it be? Can't do that? Can't be bothered, more like. So there I was, in this vestibule, holding on to bike so that it didn't fall over, partially blocking other passengers from reaching the toilet and all the time, I was thinking surely, this must be a health and safety issue... surely... in this day and age when there is such a maddening obsession with such matters, something was not right. And I was getting stared at. And I wanted to sit down. Christ, I'd bloody well paid for a ticket and reservation and wasn't even being allowed to use it! Furthermore, why would they issue me with a reservation for my bike if, as they surely must've, they had known about the limitations of the platform at Westbury? To make matters worse, when the train pulled in to Reading station, the door opened and a British Transport Police officer, in tandem with the conductor, proceeded to tell me that I was not allowed to have my bicycle there, that I'd have to move it. "I know!", I cried and started my own tirade, health and safety, blah blah blah, outrageous, blah blah blah before being escorted to the end of the train with my wheels. Then, to add injury to insult, as I was securing the bike, the train began to set off and I was thrust forward, cutting my hand and bumping my shin. Doesn't sound like much, I know, but by then it was more than enough to bring my blood to boiling point.
Needless to say, I will be writing to the company in question and I will demand compensation. First Great Western? First Great Shite more like!

My comput-illiteracy knows no bounds...

Well, it beats me. I was just trying to show my friend Greg how to become a follower of sebsays, but for a fleeting moment I completely forgot that I don't have a clue what I'm doing when it comes to computers and web stuff and lo, I seem to have successfully managed to become a follower of my own blog. On the face of it, that would seem rather desperate. So, just for the record, it's not at all how it seems... Honest...

Wet and Windy Wednesday

17th June--


Morning Klaus!
Day 5 in the Big Bottrill house. Still haven't been evicted.
With grey skies and a mild temperature, I decided to climb upon my trusty steed and do a spot of pedaling. I started off, downhill, in pursuit of a little red bus (an actual bus, not a children's book), free-wheeling at a greater speed than he was, happily veering around bends and enjoying the rapid nature of the road's undulations. Suddenly, the bus stopped. Thankfully, my brakes are sufficient and so did I, just. The bus began to reverse to allow an on-coming car to pass. Now, I don't have reverse on my bike, so a quick dismount was required. Country lane cycling is full of pros, but there are one or two very annoying cons. One such con, though not particularly annoying, is the passing of horses (that's going past them, not their death- that would be annoying!). Being a city boy, I was happy to be told by one of the riders what to do-- "Could you stop please, this one's only a baby"-- and she still bolted. The horse, not the rider...
By now, the wind was getting pretty hasty and the clouds... well, there are no clouds today, just one big mass of grey, getting very heavy, with one or two drops falling.
This part of the country is pretty hilly (literally; pretty and hilly), so I was climbing some steep lanes and hurtling down the other side. Unsure of which way I was going, but not lost, I wound up passing through the tiny hamlet (blink and you've missed it) of Sheldon, before going through the beautiful woods and back in to Blackborough.
Within five minutes of getting back to the BB house, the rain had arrived with a vengeance.
Impeccable timing, even if I do say so myself.

Celebrity Encounters

The other day, I took a trip to my local Rymans to purchase some cd sleeves. As the thick set, bald headed man in front of me at the checkout turned to walk out of the shop, I realised who he was. Phil, from EastEnders. I paid for my stuff and outside, as I was unlocking my bike, I noticed that Phil was sitting in his car, right in front of me. As he pulled away, so did I and, not really meaning to, I followed him down the road. Across the roundabout and the down the hill, I was still right up his backside (ooh, no, not pretty) and I could see him checking his rear view mirror. A short while later, as he roared off fearing that he was being followed, I turned in to the park and went in to my gym via the back gate. As I came through in to the car park, there was Phil, coming towards me in his big Audi (or Saab or Mercedes or whatever it was) and he stopped. I proceeded to lock my bike up, all the time realising that Phil was not budging from the confines of his tank, clearly worried that I was intent on pouncing with my autograph book. I wasn't. Ha! You mean nothing to me Phil, nothing, you hear me?
About a mile up the road, Minty was sitting alone in Costa Coffee, learning his lines...

Introduction

Hello and welcome to my brand new blog. Yes, that's right, me... blogging. No, I never thought it would happen either, but as with so many things in life, never say never. Which in itself is quite an odd thing to say because there, you've already said it twice and straight away, people are questioning whether or not they can take you seriously... Hmmm, I digress.
I have set this blog up (actually, there I go again-- another lie-- it was my lovely friend Helen who set me up) in order to share my thoughts and musings on anything from the plight of the bumblebee (see what I did there?) to the ever-growing trend for the re-emergence of retro pop bands and their massive nationwide tours, twenty years after splitting up, in the middle of the worst recession in living memory. And all because they're passionate about their music.
Now then, question: where does the word blog originate from? And, as a verb, is the past tense simply blogged? I'm thinking blagged...