LOOK YOU ~ a rolling scrapbook of life, the universe and nearly everything...

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Updated: 11/08/2013

for a taste of life on the wild side of my square mile, click...

400 Smiles A Day
Updated: 08/06/2013

                                                                                        Design: Yosida

                                                                 ♫♫♫ TO SELF                            
It seems that the artist Leonardo da Vinci kept a notebook, Notes to Self, a list of “things to do today”: buy paper; charcoal; chalk ... describe tongue of woodpecker and jaw of crocodile...
     These are my Notes to Self, a daily record of the things that make me smile and which brighten up my day no end, whether read in a newspaper, seen on TV, heard on the radio, told in the pub, spotted in the supermarket, a good joke, a great story, a funny cartoon, a film clip, an eye-catching picture, a memorable song, something startling that nevertheless generates a spontaneous smile, curiosities spotted along my walks through the Towy Valley...
     This is a snapshot of life beyond the blue horizon...

                                                                               ...and everyday a doolally smile of the day
PS: The shortest distance between two people is a smile ...
Contact Me
Tuesday, March 31st, 2015

< < < That end of month feeling > > >

Headline of the day (spotted on the Sky News  website)

                 Man Killed By Mother-In-Law’s Gravestone

The headstone topples as the 74-year-old man helps his wife tie a cross around her mother’s grave for Easter

Best summed up by this online comment...

kerridge:  Comedian Les Dawson warned us about them. We thought he was joking.

Headline of the month

     Russell Brand voted world’s fourth most important thinker

Ah, a misprint, I thought, and that actually he had been voted the world’s fourth most important tinker (an unskilful mender, a bungler).

But no. And to prove it, a bonus headline:

     Russell Brand wants to create his own currency

Hm, perhaps the change will do him good.

Letter of the day

“The TV news warned me that its report on a Green party political meeting contained flashing images. It didn’t alert me to the fact that it may contain nuts.”
Michael Tarrant of Welling, Kent, in a missive to the Daily Mail.

Puzzle of the day

                                                           “Name me some fish that start and end with the same letter.”
                                              “Um: trout ... grayling ... turbot ... hagfish ... liverpool ---”
                                              “Yes, it’s a place.”

Tweet of the day

  @eurocrat: Man tries to burn EU flag ― which won’t burn due to EU fire safety rules.

How totally and absolutely wonderful. There’s a film of the man, believed to be a member of the right-wing group Bolton North West Infidels ― exceedingly hilarious ― link below. But is it all a wind-up? You just never know these days:
Burn, baby, burn --- D’oh!

Spell-cheque corner: ‘kerridge’, the online user name apropos the Les Dawson comment at the very top, came up as ‘cartridge’ ― hm, kerridge had better watch his back when mother-in-law is about.

Also, ‘eurocrat’, the other tweet user name, just above, came up as ‘autocrat’; followed closely by ‘euro rat’.

Monday, March 30th

                 Hay there, you with the paintbrush in your hand...

Here’s a news story that set me off on a smiley lateral trail...

Haystacks painting is officially declared a newly discovered Monet -
but why did the Impressionist paint over his signature?

♫♫♫  Monet, Monet, Monet, must be phoney, in a rich man’s world

An oil-painting titled ‘A Haystack in the Evening Sun’ by French Impressionist Claude Monet had not previously been authenticated because the work is largely unknown and the artist’s signature is covered by paint.

However, researchers at the University of Jyväskylä in Finland uncovered the signature using a hyperspectral camera.

The special camera studied the painting’s elemental composition by measuring X-ray fluorescence [if you say so, Chief]. That allowed them to ‘see’ below the surface, and analyse the materials used to create the work.

It also revealed the date of the work’s creation ― 1891.

So there you go. Oh, and I enjoyed this online comment...

Steve O. Smith, London: My guess is Monet wanted future art gurus to find his signature, much like a needle in a haystack.

Ho, ho, ho ― as they say.

Anyway, I share all the above because, just the other day, I spotted something exceedingly eye-catching along my early-morning walk through the Towy Valley. It made me smile ― so I took a picture of it.

And seeing Monet’s haystack brought it all back.


But who needs a hyperspectral Walter Dorwin Teague Beau Brownie?

A round-bale hay rack feeder

Because there are only sheep on the field they had eaten the bale from below ― cattle and horses would have attacked it from above as well ― so the sheep had created a curious mushroom-style hay sculpture.

It just made me smile. And, whisper it, I think I would prefer ‘A Hay Mushroom in the Morning Sun’ to ‘A Haystack in the Evening Sun’, on my wall.

Actually, it reminds me of Spike Milligan telling his young children about those foolish people with more money than sense spending millions upon millions on van Goghs, Picassos, Turners, Monets, et al.

All you have to do, Spike told the kids, is stop and look around because van Goghs, Picassos, Turners and Monets are everywhere, all of the time: the flowers, the trees, the clouds, the silly ‘Hay Mushrooms in the Morning Sun’ ― and on and on.

And of course, the compositions are changing on a daily basis.


Sunday, March 29th

A man of letters

FOLLOWING a Guardian  newspaper campaign, the Supreme Court says letters by Prince Charles to the government can be published.

This is how Rod Liddle in The Sunday Times  reads between the lines:

Charles’s heir mail is an open secret

Have you received a letter from Prince Charles yet? Apparently he scribbles off more than a thousand every year, all full of his fascinating observations about alternative medicine, modern architecture, Islam and so on and so on.

If you haven’t received one so far maybe your hydrangeas have ― why not ask them, to check? They may have forgotten to reply.

Now the Supreme Court says we can read the ones he sent to ministers.

I might change my opinion of Chazza if there’s one that reads: “Don’t invade Iraq, you deranged bastards!” or “Immigration ― are you certain only a total of 17 Polish people will arrive in Britain over the next 10 years? It seems a lowish estimate to me, frankly.”

And I particularly enjoyed this letter in the Telegraph, followed by a brief thread on the comment board...

Nosy parkers  

SIR – As a child I was taught that the two gravest sins were showing off and reading other people’s private letters (“Prince’s ‘black spider memos’ to ministers will be made public”).
     It seems that both are now obligatory.
Luke Grant, Pensax, Worcestershire

Geoffrey Woollard:  On the subject of Charles Windsor’s letters to ministers, I remember being advised many years ago never to say anything that I was not prepared to put into writing and never to write anything that I was not prepared to put into the public domain. Someone should have given that same advice to Charles Windsor.

Peddytheviking:  Morning Geoffrey --- Ah, but who would bell the cat?

Gizzee:  “But who would bell the cat?” You never cease to amaze, Peddy. I keep going to Wiki to find out what you are on about --- and I learn that the fable concerns a group of mice who debate plans to nullify the threat of a marauding cat.

One of them proposes placing a bell around its neck so that they are warned of its approach. The plan is applauded by the others, until one mouse asks who will volunteer to place the bell on the cat. All of them make excuses.

The story is used to teach the wisdom of evaluating a plan not only on how desirable the outcome would be, but also on how it can be executed. It provides a moral lesson about the fundamental difference between ideas and their feasibility, and how this affects the value of a given plan.

I must say, I do like that. The aforementioned “Don’t invade Iraq, you deranged bastards
!” springs instantly to mind.

Oh, and is there a mouse out there prepared to place a bell around the neck of one Vladimir Putin?

Saturday, March 28th

BACK on August 8 last year I chuckled at some unusual and amusing vehicle number plates spotted along my drive through time and dusty trail.

The one featured above is a local registration ― I declared back in August that I would be a bit nervous coming up behind this vehicle on a motorway because I’d probably drop off to sleep, and that despite the YELL bit. The power of the subliminal message, etc, etc.

Also, back in the 1970s there was former glamour model and actress Fiona Richmond’s famous Jaguar E-Type bearing the glorious number plate FU2 ― unsurprisingly, and rather unsportingly, the registration number was duly withdrawn and is no longer available on the DVLA database.

A clutch of letters in The Times  reminded me of the above...

That is the question

Sir, The Times Diary spotted a car with the registration “NOT 2B” outside Westminster Abbey at the memorial service  for Lord Attenborough.
     This car is often parked on a street in Chelsea next to (presumably) the owner’s other car, which has the registration plate “2 BE”. Could the owner be an actor who was “overlooked” by the great director?
Alex Dobson, London SW4

Love on a plate

Sir, In competition with “2 BE” and “NOT 2B” seen adorning a brace of cars in Chelsea, my tennis club in Edgbaston used to boast a couple with “LOV 15” and “15 LOV”.
Ian Merriman, Warwick

Sir, In my Kentish village (Penshurst) in the Sixties one man had a car with the registration number “TIT”. His next-door neighbour’s was “TAT”.
Peter Morris, Winchet Hill, Kent

Truth to tell, I was rather disappointed that next-door’s car wasn’t “P3 SUN”.

Mind you, that particular number would not have existed back then ― but today, someone, somewhere, must be the proud owner of that stand-out number plate.

Solitaire Day
(Friday, March 27th)

Bluebell ahoy!
27/03/2015                              20/03/2014

Spring has now properly sprung

ROLL UP, ROLL UP, it’s the day that announces the arrival of Spring Proper: I spot my first bluebell of the season as it prepares for its grand Opening Day. Yes, good old Solitaire.

To revisit my annual spring lecture of joy unbounded:

Over the past 16 years I’ve kept a record of the appearance of the first welcome bluebell of the season ― excepting 2001, the year when Foot & Mouth struck and the countryside was out of bounds.

Along my springtime early-morning walks I divert through the local bluebell woods. I pass one particularly secluded and sheltered south-facing spot in Castle Woods, a real suntrap, a spot where a solitary bluebell always but always appears a couple of days ahead of her brothers and sisters, and a week or so ahead of her cousins and the rest of the family ― which is why I call ‘her’ Solitaire.

As a rule of thumb, her appearance varies between March 18 and March 30 ― excepting the occasional wayward year.

Spring 2006 was really cold, dry and late, and the bluebell did not appear until April 8; in 2008, with its unusually mild and wet winter and spring, Solitaire appeared, astonishingly, on February 28.

So this year, March 27, is typically average. Which is a bit of a surprise.

The curious thing about 2014’s weather (or should it be climate?) was that the seasons appeared to be running a full month and more ahead of schedule, as if Mother Nature had forgotten to turn her Spring clock forward (which of course in our human world happens this weekend).

Through December and early January of this year the weather remained remarkably mild. Then on the morning of January 19, there was a keen frost, far and away the coldest day of the winter thus far.

The morning was so picture perfect I took a stroll through the bluebell wood that was basking in the early-morning sunshine.

Then a flash of colour on the brown, leaf-strewn woodland floor caught my eye ... it was a bluebell shoot. And over there another ... and another...

Spring 2015 bustin’ out all over --- but on January 19?

Over the month or so leading up to the bluebells bursting into bloom the woodland floor slowly morphs into a lush carpet of greenery, in its way as beautiful as the bluebells themselves.

But making an appearance on January 19? And a good few inches tall at that. Astonishing.

The weather then suddenly changed gear. The January air lost its unnatural warmth and it became chilly and quite cold (but nothing to compare with what was happening in North America, obviously).

And our weather remained coldish through February, indeed there was much snow in parts of the country, but not here in West Wales. Well, apart from the high ground.

The chill remained until the beginning of March. All the while I kept a particular watch on the bluebell shoots, which unsurprisingly, had come to a full stop ... then, some three weeks ago, they sprung into life.

And today, Solitaire arrived, along with her bridesmaids, the delightful little wood anemones springing up all over the shop.

Most intriguingly, though, nature has seemingly adjusted that curious wayward month and is back on course. At least for now.

Thursday, March 26th



STROLLING past the window of Heavenly, Llandeilo’s celebrated Yum-Yum emporium: “Exquisite desserts, luxurious chocolates, luscious ice cream” ― shades of 25th November 2014 ― yet another display caught my eye.


Having your cake and eating it
Qu’ils mangent de la brioche

It wasn’t so much the Fifty Shades of Cake that captured my imagination, but rather the Grim Reaper lurking in the background ― and highlighted above, alongside 50 SOC.

After all, many more men die while on the, um, 50 Shades job, than are dreamt of in our imaginations.

As a doctor once told me, we only hear of the high profile ones: the bigwig who died of a stroke of bad luck in the back of the car atop a local mountain while doing 50 Shafts of Naughty with his secretary in the back seat; the politician who came to a sudden and sticky end while relaxing at a, er, massage parlour in Cardiff...

Whatever, on a much more agreeable note...

Gary Myers was walking along the beach ― a bottle in the sand caught his eye. Curiosity got the better of him. He picked it up and opened it. Out popped a genie. And of course, said genie offered Gary the standard three wishes.

Oh yes, please...

Gary’s first wish was to live for ever and die suddenly i.e. enjoy good health into a grand old age, and when the time comes, to simply plop off his perch without any fuss or bother to his loved ones. Poof! Done, said the genie, but refused to let on at what age that would happen. Fair enough, said Gary.

Next, he wished for a nice lottery win. Not an obscene jackpot with its inherent hassle, just enough to recoup the money the politicians and the bankers had siphoned from his savings and pension plans and which would thus enable him to live a comfortable rest of his life. Poof! Buy a ticket later and your wish will be my command, confirmed the genie.

Finally, Garry wished that ― and this would trump the other two wishes ― that he was suddenly irresistible to each and every woman he met … Poof! And Gary Myers turned into a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.

Gary Myers? Well, he was the British actor who played the original and most recognisable of the tough James Bond-style figures who undertook daunting ‘raids’ to surreptitiously deliver a box of chocolates to the woman of his dreams. “And all because the lady loves Milk Tray”

Gary starred in 11 of the ads between 1968 and 1984, and was credited with doing his own stunts.

So who else but Gary walking along the beach, minding his own business...

A Hearse, a Hearse...

Long stay parking

“JOE BLOGGS stays for five minutes over time in a car park and gets a ticket. King Richard III stays more than 500 years and gets a state funeral. As they say: there’s one law for them and another for us.” Derek Kay of Barton-on-Sea, Hampshire, in a letter to the Daily Mail.

And on that note, the remains of Richard III were reburied today in a solemn ceremony at Leicester Cathedral.

However, and given that we don’t know with absolute certainty whether it really is Richard III in that coffin, shouldn’t his final resting place be named ‘The tomb of the known unknown’?

Or perhaps that should read ‘The tomb of the unknown known’.

Incidentally, Leicester City Football Club are currently bottom of the English Premier League and look doomed to be relegated. But I did smile at another letter in the Daily Mail,  from a
Rory Munro of Quorn, an upmarket village in Leicestershire:

Ashes to dust

“Richard III’s remains will be buried in Leicester today. Shouldn’t they be burying Leicester City football team with him?”

Remember to click here for a quick Heavenly nibble of last November’s Chocolate Whisperer ... enjoy...


Wednesday, March 25th

  “I couldn’t help noticing how Churchillian Ed Balls [Labour Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer] looked alongside Labour leader Ed Miliband giving his Budget response,” wrote David Sunderland of Leeds in a letter to the Daily Mail.  “No, not the statesman, the car insurance nodding dog.”

Hm, yes, that definitely made me smile. However, curiosity got the better of me, so off chuffed Ivor the Search Engine  to look for evidence...



  10 of the most brilliant customer service exchanges ever seen on Twitter

A look at the funniest exchanges between customers and companies seen on Twitter

As a Twitter exchange between a disgruntled customer and Tesco is widely shared online, we take a look at some other recent social media masterclasses.

I was particularly taken by the Telegraph’s  bronze medal award:

3. Sainsbury’s

Marty Lawrence @TeaAndCopy
I tried to buy some battered fish from @sainsburys but it didn’t have a bar cod

Sainsbury’s @sainsburys
@TeaAndCopy: Were there no other packs in the plaice, or was that the sole one on the shelf? Floundering for an explanation
! David
10:41 AM – 10 Jan 2014

Marty Lawrence
@sainsburys: I tried dropping you a line but this whole situation is giving me a haddock. What are you going to do about it? Let minnow.

@TeaAndCopy: If I’m herring you right, you’re looking to eel our relationship. I’ll tell the store to find the shelf & fillet. David
10:58 AM – 10 Jan 2014

Marty Lawrence
@sainsburys: I don’t think it’s necessary to scale the shelves, David. There’s no point doing it for the halibut. You might pull a mussel.

@TeaAndCopy: I feel that some fin should be done to sort it trout. You shouldn’t have that hassle when trying to spend a few squid. David
11:14 AM – 10 Jan 2014

To follow the wonderfully silly exchange to its conclusion, here’s the link:

And it goes on ....

However, it finishes in this witty fashion:

Marty Lawrence
@sainsburys: Thank you. This has probably been the finnacle of my tweeting career. Carp diem, David.

Tuesday, March 24th

Believe nothing you hear – and only half what you see

The sun it shineth not on the just
And also not on the unjust fella:
But chiefly not on the just, because
The unjust holdeth the just’s umbrella.
With apologies to Charles Synge Christopher Bowen,
1st Baron Bowen QC, PC (1835-1894), English judge

What on earth is all the above about, you may well ask.

Well, fear not, all is explained, compliments of this newspaper report:

Photoshop disaster over a disappearing umbrella in Burma

Burmese government erases parasol from official photograph, possibly because it is considered ‘embarrassing’ for a man to hold a parasol for a woman

Deputy Minister Su Su Hlaing is shaded by an aide as she touches down in Kawthaung, southern Burma, but why has her umbrella been Photoshopped out?

Ridicule is raining down on government spin doctors in Burma after they released a publicity shot in which a parasol had been photoshopped out. But a telling shadow gave away their dastardly intervention.

The picture in question showed Su Su Hlaing disembarking from a plane at Kawthaung airport.

It was posted on the Ministry of Information’s official Facebook page in an apparent attempt to boost the minister’s profile.

However, internet users almost immediately spotted a glaring mistake. An umbrella-shaped shadow around the minister’s toes suggested she had been standing in the shade of a parasol, yet there was no parasol to be seen in the photograph.

Oh dear, there isn’t a day that passes which doesn’t endorse the absolute doolallyness of humanity; and perfectly explains why the planet is currently spinning out of control on the shady side of the universe.

Er, how do you spell that?

My opening shot yesterday was of Kiera Phyo (pronounced Pew), Tearfund’s Youth & Emerging Generation Director, amusingly quoting her young daughter.

Incidentally, Ivor the Search Engine  did attempt to establish where the surname ‘Phyo’ originates, without much success (the Far East looks the likeliest source, though).

However, the lady’s Christian name, Kiera, did prompt this:

  “I’m a spelling error.” Keira Knightley, 29, English actress.

Keira continues:  “I was meant to be named ‘Kiera’’ after a Russian ice skater who was on the TV one day. My dad fancied her and picked her name for me. But it was my mum who went to register my birth and she is crap at spelling.”


Monday, March 23rd

“How was your day?” I asked my young daughter as I tucked her in for the night. “I don’t know,” she sighed, “my brain battery has run out.”
Kiera Phyo (pronounced Pew), Tearfund’s Youth & Emerging Generation Director, quotes her 3-year-old daughter on today’s Radio 2 early-morning Pause For Thought spot.

How wonderful. And I know the feeling. Out of the mouths of babes oft times come gems, eh?

Sexy Nations Rugby Championship

Rugby’s ‘Super Saturday’ continues to make headlines with news from the BBC that it attracted record rugby viewing figures; also, record online traffic for its website.

My favourite headline, though, was spotted in today’s Western Mail:

Carlsberg don’t do Six Nations weekends ... but if they did
it would probably be something like the one just gone

Rhyme and reason

Also last Saturday, I did my bit for World Poetry Day. I came up with this sort-of-pathetic effort:

               Wales are red,
               French are blue,
               England is white, but might turned to, hmm, might?
               And Ireland is green, time for a quick preen.

I did think of finishing that last line thus:

               And Ireland is green and should always be seen.

Whatever, I got my initial inspiration from a World Poetry tweet I enjoyed:

               Roses are red,
               Violets are blue,
               Sugar is sweet,
               But I can’t have any because I’ve got type-2 diabetes.

I also spotted this one on a comment board...

               Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you.
               But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar is lumpy and so is your head.

Buttfantasies: I prefer “the sugar bowl’s empty, just like your head”.

Yes, I think I go along with the amendment.

Meanwhile, back with World Poetry tweets...

               Dead Italian chef
               Here today, gone tomato.
               He ran out of thyme.

               “I wandered lonely as a cloud.”
               Really Wordsworth? This is Britain, no cloud is ever lonely

Finally, this was the tweet that captured my imagination, if only for its delightful sillyness...

TittyBiscuits @dawneywawney
               O’ pointy birds,
               Oh pointy, pointy,
               Anoint my head,
               Anointy, nointy.


Actually, I added that anonymous author bit at the end; weeeeell, it just seemed to yell out for it.


Sunday, March 22nd

                    From a warm-up routine ... to a cool-down one

I AM still recovering after yesterday’s ‘Super Saturday’ of rugby. I mean, all those glorious tries as first Wales, then Ireland, and finally England, furiously set about building up their points advantage over the opposition.

So today, what else but...

Saturday, March 21st

Rock the Shamrock

‘SUPER SATURDAY’:  Today, the Six Nations Rugby Union 2015 championship came to a thrilling conclusion, with four teams all retaining a hope of winning the title: France, Wales, Ireland and England.

Also, today is World Poetry Day.

Now I am no poet, and boyoboyo do I know it ― but mother never bred a jibber...

Rugby poetry in motion and emotion

               Wales are red,
               French are blue,
               England is white, but might turned to, hmm, might?
               And Ireland is green, time for a quick preen.

Yep, following an extraordinary day of action and high drama, well done Ireland, deserved champions.

By the way, yesterday was of course the eclipse, and apropos Vanessa Feltz and her ‘The dilemma is in the ditty’ challenge, I said this:

Is this the way to Amarillo?  No, but the A40 will take you to Llandeilo ― and there you will find a pillo and a willo, but not quite a total eclipso...

In celebration of World Poetry Day, I liked this spotted on ‘The Glitter on Twitter’:

               THE EXPLOSION...
               NEVER put a minto
               into Vimto.
               That’s how dinosaurs
               became extincto.

Very funny. And also this…

               Total eclipse
               I don’t care
               look everybody
               the sun’s not there
               I didn’t bother
               to save my eye
               watched it later
               saw it on Sky.

Excellent. And exceedingly smiley.

Friday, March 20th

WHERE was Moses when the light went out? In the dark...

Telegraph View:  Our ancestors feared the solar eclipse. But one latter-day
African tribe have a powerful and moral lesson to draw from it

Our ancestors would be far less enthused. The ancient Greeks thought an eclipse was a sign that the gods were angry. The Vikings insisted that wolves had devoured the sun. The Vietnamese blamed its disappearance on a giant, hungry frog.

And the Batammaliba people, in Benin and Togo, still believe that it is the moon and sun fighting and that the only way to make them stop is to cease all human conflict. Their science may be slightly off but, in these often dark times, the sentiment is appreciated.

Yes indeed. The world could do with a lot fewer fracas (fracases? --- fracais?). Mind you, I initially read the Batammaliba people of Africa as the Batmobile people (now they  would have sorted out Jeremy ‘Thumper’ Clarkson, Andrew ‘Pleb’ Mitchell, et al).

Whatever, I enjoyed this in the comment section under the above Telegraph View...

Fathersuperior:  In the eighties I think it was (I forget the year, and I am too lazy to check my old diaries), I was in the Bushveld during a solar eclipse.
     As the day began to darken, all the birds ceased their singing and their crying and their squawking and their hooting and their gobbling, and a complete hush fell across the land. Not an animal or bird made a sound.
     I felt the darkness of an eclipse, for the first time, as I had never before felt it in a town or city. I felt the relief felt by the wild creatures as the eclipse passed and the light returned ― and every living creature gave loud thanks.

That’s a wonderfully elegant account of a total eclipse. But as always online, there’s someone hiding in the bush waiting in ambush...

Pressreport: And did all the shootings stop in the Townships?

Ah well.

My eclipse day began listening to Vanessa Feltz and her early morning Radio 2 show. The dilemma is in the ditty  spot invited listeners to answer the question posed in the title of the song ‘Is This The Way To Amarillo?’.

Vanessa enlightened us that it’s a song written by Neil Sedaka and a Howard Greenfield, referring to Amarillo in Texas. It’s about a man travelling to Amarillo to find his girlfriend.

The reason that Amarillo was chosen for the song was because it was the only place name that Sedaka could think of that rhymed with “pillow” (“Every night I’ve been hugging my pillow”) and “willow” (“I’ve been weeping like a willow”).

The song was originally to be titled, ‘Is This the Way to Pensacola’, referring to Pensacola in Florida, but Sedaka felt that Amarillo worked better than Pensacola.

Anyway, before setting out on my morning walk and hopefully experiencing a partial eclipse, this was my answer to the dilemma in the ditty:

♫♥♫♥♫♥♫:  Is this the way to Amarillo? No, but the A40 will take you to Llandeilo ― to those in faraway places with strange sounding, um --- say Lan-deilo ― and there you will find a pillo and a willo, but not quite a total eclipso.

So how was the eclipso for me?

Well, here in the Towy Valley it was indeed but a partial eclipse. It was a frosty start with a significant mist hanging over the fields. Now if the eclipse had been an hour earlier I’d have been able to watch the sun through the mist without the need for any sort of protection.

But the mist slowly cleared to deliver a picture perfect morning.

By the time the eclipse was at its maximum, for this corner of the planet that is, the light had indeed dimmed slightly ― but the temperature had dropped significantly ... and a gentle mist again descended all around. It was quite eerie. And very beautiful.

The only way I could watch the eclipse ― I had no special glasses or other equipment ― was via the reflection in the oxbow lakes where the shadows of the trees diluted the glare...

The only curious creature behaviour I noted were a host of geese on the lakes, which took off and flew about making an awful lot of noise ― my guess was that it was the dramatic drop in temperature rather than the dimming of the light that had confused them.

All in all though, it was just another “oh what a beautiful morning” in the Towy Valley. Indeed, if I were a song writer I would have penned an eclipso calypso.

Thursday, March 19th

TIME to share some smiley words and curious images spotted by readers of The Daily Telegraph:

It’s don’t do this...

Spitting image
Spotted in Turkey by David Hicks


And don’t do that...

Unless you’re a German tourist ― then you’re welcome
Spotted at a hotel in Tenerife by Anonymous

Mind you, while I can sort of understand the towels, I am truly intrigued regarding the story behind the spitting image. Whatever, a brace of DT letters...

Raise the roof

SIR – I recently noticed a builder’s sign on scaffolding erected next to a church. The building company’s motto was: “Taking the lead”. I’m not sure I’d be so blatant.
Peter Roberts, Crickhowell, Brecknockshire

Devil of an act to follow

SIR – Your report that the Church of England synod has voted to delete references to the devil reminds me
of the old rhyme:
                              We don’t believe in the devil now,
                              The devil’s dead and gone.
                              But thoughtful people would like to know
                              Who carries the business on?
Alison Wilson, Sanderstead, Surrey

Who carries the business on? Politicians and bankers and spivs in general?

Wednesday, March 18th

BETTER late than never: a thread of letters spotted in The Daily Telegraph...

Kindly meant

SIR – Many years ago our eight-year-old son made a Mother’s Day card for my wife. Deciding to add a verse of poetry, he took my volume of John Betjeman’s Collected Poems and copied out the first stanza of the first poem.
     The card reads:

                                She died in the upstairs bedroom
                                By the light of the ev’ning star
                               That shone through the plate glass window
                                From over Leamington Spa.

Alan Biddle, Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire

What a card!

SIR – When he was a boy, my son sent me a Mothering Sunday card with these words on the front: “You have been just like a mother to me.”
     I am his birth mother.
Carole Peet, Chislehurst, Kent

SIR – In 1975 I received a beautiful handmade card from my six-year-old daughter. She had written: “Thank you for being such a lovely mummy, and I know you will try even harder next year.”
Jane Cox, Mansel Lacy, Herefordshire

Maternal servitude

SIR – When my eldest daughter was about 10 years old, she gave me a Mothering Sunday card in which she had written: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
     Although I was rather taken aback, I can see where she was coming from.
Margaret Moore, Melksham, Wiltshire

Miss you Miss

SIR – On her retirement as head teacher of a primary school my wife received a card in which a seven-year-old boy had written: “May you rest in peace.”
Alfred Archer, Bearsted, Kent

Rear-view mirror

Last Sunday’s Look You  enjoyed the letter from George Wake apropos the soldiers at the Falklands calling the locals “Bennies” because of the woolly hats they wore, and that service chiefs forbade its use. The troops then renamed the hats “stills”, as in still Bennies.

Well, there was a marvellous follow-up letter in The Times:

Barmy army

Sir, Further to George Wake’s letter on nicknames and political correctness, during National Service in the 1950s I was told that those holding commissions in the Army were called “Brown Jobs”. The Army strongly objected to the practice, and reluctantly the other two services agreed.
     The next day the RAF sent out a standing order stating that “In future no Army Officer should be called a Brown Job.” This was followed, a little later, by one from the Navy saying: “In future all Brown Jobs will be called Army Officers.”
Professor John Murrell, Cambridge

How funny. However, I was intrigued by that expression “Brown Jobs”, my instant thought being that those holding commissions were generally regarded as right little “shits” ― but Ivor the Search Engine  put me  right and came up with this, compliments of Urban Dictionary:

“Brown Jobs”: Someone who wears a khaki uniform ― e.g. army ― as opposed to a “Blue Job” which refers in Britain to naval or air force personnel.

Every day a day at school.

  Tuesday, March 17th
  “Back in the 1980s, when my wife was very upset because our black labrador seemed to be dying, our Australian vet quite bluntly said that if we had wanted a long-living pet we should have bought an elephant...” Mervyn Brett of Upper Clatford, Hampshire, in a letter to The Times.

“I get an urge, like a pregnant elephant, to go away and give birth to a book.”
Stephen Fry, English curiosity, regularly spotted floating by as a permanent fixture of the passing parade.

Mention of elephants takes me back many moons to the Crazy Horsepower Saloon, Asterisk Bar...

Dai Version (so called because when Dai tells a tale he always leads us along the scenic route):  “Do you know why elephants have phenomenal memories?”

Me:  “Remind me, Dai, I’ve forgotten.”

Dai Version:  “Well, an elephant has the longest-known gestational period of any creature, lasting up to 680 days ― so if you only had sex once every two years or so you’d have a bloody good memory too.”

Me: I know, I know, I suffer from a very bad memory ― but sadly not because I enjoy sex every day.

Recalling that exchange with Dai Version reminds me of John F. Kennedy
s whispered aside to British PM Harold Macmillan, that if he did not have sex every day he suffered punishing headaches and went “all to pieces”.

Some parting thoughts:

“I started to realise that being impolite saves an awful lot of time and costs you nothing.”  Jeremy Clarkson, back in March 2013.

Oh dear, I think there are hidden costs, Jeremy. Meanwhile, on a Bottom Gear theme, a brace of letters spotted in the Daily Mail...

  “An even better road safety method than the 20mph limits being imposed [in busy, built-up areas across the UK] would be a man with a red flag walking in front of all vehicles...”
G Hill of Weston-super-Mare, Somerset.

“Any connection between the driverless cars now being tested and the 20mph speed limits?”
Terry Cousins of Skegness, Lincolnshire.


“There are two types of dangerous drivers: those over 70 who travel under 20, and those under 20 who travel over 70.” The late Welsh historian John Davies. And a slice of wisdom recently endorsed here in South Wales when a crowd of teenagers were killed in a horrendous road accident. RIP.

Monday, March 16th

I spy, with my naughty little eye...

Natarsha Belling of Australia’s Channel 10 News enlightens the viewer
[Can you see what it is yet?]

  “THE day must come when you wave goodbye to the big monsters.” Jeremy Clarkson, suspended presenter on the BBC2 motoring show Top Gear, likening himself to a dinosaur that nature had made a mistake in inventing.

And that was about the only comment and clue Clarkson shared with us in his weekend columns in the Sun  and Sunday Times. Obviously, he is keeping his powder dry until this curious tale-of-the-sort-of-expected reaches some sort of official conclusion.

Snakes and ladders

Apropos the Jeremy Clarkson v Danny Cohen battle (Cohen is the BBC’s director of television and the fellow who suspended Clarkson), Jezza likens himself to a dinosaur that was a bit of an evolutionary snake rather than a ladder ― back down you go, sunshine ― but hey, T-Rex is still the talk of the town millions of years later.

And I guess we’ll still be talking about Clarkson long after people have grown weary of saying “Danny who?”.

I was particularly looking forward to Clarkson’s Sunday Times  column for the low-down, but as the investigation into the incident is just getting under way I do understand his reluctance to share with us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

By the way, remember daughter Emily’s amusing tweet? “Oh God, BBC please take him back ― he’s started cooking.”

Well, this is how her dad’s Sunday Times  column was headed and got under way...

When a fat man gets suspended there’s only one thing to do ― get cooking

We read often about active and busy people who die the day after they retire because they simply can’t cope with the concept of relaxation. So as I seem to have a bit of time on my hands at the moment, I thought it would be a good idea to take up some kind of hobby.

I began by watching daytime television, and soon I felt myself starting to slip away. So I turned over to the news and it was all about a not very interesting fat man who had been suspended from his not very important job. But watching the fat man made me hungry and that’s when the penny dropped: I’d take up cooking.

Oh dear,
“a not very interesting fat man who had been suspended from his not very important job”: nothing like a typical slice of Clarkson self-deprecation to get the show on the road.

Whatever, and as you would expect, he writes amusingly about getting into cooking ... and arrives here:

And what is the origin of cooking? I think it’s almost certainly sinister because, let’s face it, nobody accidentally stumbled on the recipe for bread...

He then goes from a bullet-hard and completely tasteless seed ― to an equally tasteless and inedible powder ― then someone decided it would be a good idea to add water to make a paste
“which is still a long way from yummy. Undaunted, however, our early-days Marco Pierre White then thought, ‘Hmm, I’m onto something here...’.”

All that made me smile XL. Marco Pierre White has been dubbed the first celebrity chef of the modern era; indeed I am sure it was one of his early television appearance that, many moons back, I happened upon one idle lunchtime while zapping through the channels.


Marco was talking to camera about the food he served in his restaurant and he was discussing at length the bread he would offer up to his diners. All the bread was baked in-house, and he emphasised that he paid as much attention to it as he did every other dish on offer.

“You see,” he explained, “bread is the very first thing that most people taste when they arrive here for a meal, and if the bread tastes heavenly and moreish ― well, you’ve already got them on your side.”

I have never forgotten that quote. Indeed, I often mention it in conversation, especially to women who enjoy cooking. And without exception, they smile knowingly.

Bread is clearly the food equivalent of those first ten seconds when we meet a stranger and we decide whether that person is dolphin or shark, pussycat or polecat, sparrow or sparrow hawk, union or separation, Boris Johnson or Alex Salmond...

Finally, back to Jeremy’s column: following his comments in the Sun  newspaper on Saturday, that the time may have come for him to leave Top Gear, was he hinting at a possible new career as a restaurant critic? This is what he wrote at the end of his column:

“My new hobby is called ‘going out to restaurants and letting people who know
                       what they’re doing cook my food’.

Well blow me (Can you see what it is yet?)

Oh yes, the photograph on today’s welcome mat. Did you notice something unusual? This is the headline that accompanied the picture:

‘Once you see it you can’t unsee it’: News flash as TV news host
Natarsha Belling’s ‘phallic’ neckline sparks social media storm

Natarsha Belling wore the demure green jacket on Australia’s Channel 10 news show.

The fascination appears to stem from the fact it’s hard to spot until it’s pointed out ― and then it can’t be ‘unseen’...

And they’re spot on. How strange. And exceedingly smiley.

Perhaps Jeremy Clarkson should wear some sort of male equivalent article of clothing, which would allow folk to point excitedly at him and shout: “Just look at that twat!

Sunday, March 15th

A letter spotted in The Times:

Benny, not beanie

Sir, The report on Trevor Phillips’s “conversion” from political correctness reminded me of a story about British forces in the Falklands in 1982.
     On seeing the locals wearing woolly hats, the soldiers called them “Bennies” ― after Benny, the Crossroads character who wore a similar hat [a simple-minded bumbling semi-rustic handyman, pictured here in his “Benny”]---

   The nickname was deemed inappropriate by service chiefs, who forbade its use. The troops then renamed the hats “stills”, as in still Bennies.
George Wake, Swalwell, Tyne and Wear

And that reminds me of the great Australian rugby union player John Eales, who captained his country through the 1990s ― the most successful captain in the history of Australian rugby.

Although a forward he was also the team’s goal kicker, and hugely successful at it.

However, his team mates called him “Nobody”. One of them was once asked why they called their captain, this immensely talented, modest and much liked individual, Nobody. The player smiled: “Nobody’s perfect.”

Talking of political correctness:

“I am a broad church. I don’t exclude anyone or any food.”

When I first read that I automatically thought it was Charlotte Church, having put on a bit of weight of late. Actually, it turns out that it was author and food writer Nigella Lawson. Mind you, quite what she means I have no idea.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Eales’, as in John Eales the Australian rugby player, came up as ‘Eagles’, which is wonderfully ironic because John was the team’s main lineout jumper, and he was noted for soaring like an eagle to claim the ball.

Saturday, March 14th

“I want a steak. A jumbo steak. Just chop off its horns,
wipe its arse and fry it, baby.”
Jeremy Clarkson, allegedly.


Yes, the famous ‘roadkill’ cow incident filmed during a Top Gear US roadtrip special in 2007. Jeremy Clarkson, pictured above with Richard Hammond, tied a dead cow to the roof of his Camaro.
     The segment, which happened when producers challenged the Top Gear presenters to produce a dinner of roadkill during a road trip, prompted dozens of complaints.
     “Viewers are well aware of the type of humour on Top Gear and this was very typical,” the BBC said. “However, no offence was intended. And no animals were harmed during the filming – no, hang on...
     Actually, I may have made up those final 11 words.

Yes, it’s the tale of the week...


Jeremy Clarkson likes steak

Who would have thought that a man’s love of a juicy steak would drive him to punch a colleague for it. Allegedly.

The BBC presenter said he wanted an 8oz sirloin, with fondant potatoes, pan-fried wild mushrooms, grilled cherry tomatoes and peppercorn sauce. When his producer, Oisin Tymon, said the hotel kitchen was closed, a “fracas” ensued. This involved fists. It results in Clarkson being suspended and Top Gear being off air.

Indeed, the more we learn of the incident, especially from those guests present at the hotel and who witnessed the fracas, things don’t look good for Clarkson.

Also, if the shemozzle went on for about 30 minutes or so and was actually witnessed, not just by guests but by members of the production team, then someone must have filmed it. And what about CCTV footage from the hotel? Watch this space, as they say.

What is more, it now seems that it was Clarkson himself who initiated the BBC investigation which prompted his suspension, after he informed BBC bosses of the alleged “fracas”.

Perhaps he sensed the video ambush lying in wait around the next corner or two. It’s going to be interesting reading Clarkson’s column in this weekend’s Sunday Times.

Anyway, yesterday’s Telegraph  Letters page was preoccupied with what will replace Top Gear on telly this coming Sunday.

For example...

Sheila Sillick: “Why doesn’t the BBC employ James Martin [a TV celebrity chef] to present Top Gear? He knows a bit about cars and, if the worse came to the worst, could cook his own steak and chips.”

Vincent Hearne: “The Beeb could fill the slots available with programmes about cars and motoring-related news. This would make a very welcome change from the barmy antics of three elderly buffoons who really should know better.”

Tom Briers: “I suggest the BBC transmit the remaining Top Gear programmes with an empty chair in place of Jeremy Clarkson.”

As it happens,
MATT, the Telegraph’s  resident cartoonist, had a similar train of thought:

Very witty. But what would I suggest?

So what’s cookin’ in Clarkson’s absence?

What about the film Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?

(Incidentally, why did  the chef who triggered the probable demise of Top Gear leg it off home with such VIP guests on board? Should he not have been there to offer up a hot leg of lamb on a silver platter? Talk about the law of unintended consequences.)

However, remembering Clarkson’s daughter Emily’s tweet “Oh God, BBC please take him back. He’s started cooking”, perhaps the Corporation will stick with a food-related programme:

                                                                       The Crumble In The BBC Jungle

                                                                       Top Gear Kitchen Nightmares

                                                                       An Unsavoury Taste of Britain

                                                                       Floyd on Fracas (in red wine)

                                                                       The Great British **** Off...

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Camaro’, the American car with the cow strapped to its roof in the Top Gear scene featured on today’s welcome mat, came up as ‘Cameron’. Hm, David Cameron with a dead skunk plonked on his head has a certain attraction.

Friday, March 13th

'Will you walk into my parlour?' said a wandering spider from Ipanema...

A CURIOUS clickbait headline tickled my Lol² gene:

Spider that can give men four-hour erections found in Tesco bananas

Swansea mum finds nest of deadly Brazilian Wandering Spiders in bunch of bananas

My goodness, a love bite to die for.

Yes but no but yes but wait ... if a nip from these particular spiders are as deadly as they say, can we be sure that some clever dick somewhere hasn’t confused an erection with rigor mortis?


Thursday, March 12th

“Driving most supercars is like trying to manhandle a cow up a back staircase ― but this one is like smearing honey on to Keira Knightley.” Jeremy Clarkson on cars ― and women ― and manuka honey.

Yes, this is the third day on the trot that the Clarkson shemozzle has tickled the old Look You smileometer.

Anyway, Clarkson was today said to be “intensely relaxed” over his suspension apropos the fracas with Oisin Tymon, the Top Gear producer, as BBC bosses were criticised for their “sheer incompetence” in their handling of the row.

Yes it is dragging on a bit. But I am not complaining, you understand.

The presenter is being threatened with the sack following an apparent “dust-up” (or was it “handbags and pushing"?) after being offered a “cold meat platter” (or was it “a cheese platter, soup or some other bar snack”?) instead of a steak, at the luxury Simonstone Hall Hotel in North Yorkshire, and all because the chef had gone home.

It seems Fawlty Towers is alive and well ― but may have gone to bed for the night.

But what of this seldom heard word ‘fracas’? You sense that it sits comfortably alongside ‘pleb’. Whatever, I spotted this in the Mirror  newspaper:

What is a ‘fracas’?

‘Fracas’ has French roots but it is originally from the Italian ‘fracassare’, to cause uproar.

Its first noted use in English was in 1727, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The writer Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote in a letter: “A ... violent fracas took place between the infantry-colonel and his lady.”

If you speak British English, you pronounce it “frah-car”, but Americans tend to pronounce it “fray-cuss”.

Neil Taylor, managing partner of The Writer, a language consultancy business, says use of the word peaked in 1945, and has dropped off since then. “It’s a nicely non-specific word,” he says, “although you do get the sense of something physical ― without anything being confirmed.”

And then this visual aid:

Thank you Mirror, exceedingly interesting. Mind you, I would actually switch ‘tussle’ and ‘fracas’ because ‘fracas’ hints at a verbal disturbance, perhaps handbags at a push, whereas ‘tussle’ suggests a physical struggle.

Thought-provoking though.

But my smile of the day goes to a photograph spotted in the Telegraph...

An event, organized by Legoland Windsor Resort, must
either be a masterpiece of timing or a PR disaster


Pint-sized versions of TV’s Top Gear presenters (from left): Little Hammond - Oliver Cater, 10; Little Clarkson - Luc Hutter, 11; Little Stig; and Little May - Mackenzie Batey-Gray, 11 ... conduct a special test drive at the resort in Berkshire, as the popular destination reopens its Lego City Driving School for the 2015 season.


Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Little Hammond and Little May are uncanny. Sadly, Stig remains a mystery ... very clever.

Wednesday, March 11th

The Jezza is dead --- long live the Jezza
(With apologies to the ghost of Charles VII of France)

I HAVEN’T stopped smiling since yesterday.

Honestly, I can’t remember when I followed the news with such (misplaced?) enthusiasm, whether it be on the wireless, the telly or indeed the interweb (especially so the best of Twitter).

13.50: Jeremy Clarkson has left his home in London, telling reporters: “I’m off to the Job Centre.”

Meanwhile, Jeremy’s daughter Emily attempts a different approach, with mega irony given what had triggered the fracas in the first place:

  @EmClarkson1: “Oh God, BBC please take him back ... He’s started cooking.” Gosh, talk about a chip and a chop off the old cooking block.

Thumper and Fracas: The Rumble in the BBC Jungle

Reports from the front line suggest that Jeremy ‘Thumper’ Clarkson is being investigated for allegedly ‘smacking’ producer Oisin ‘Fracas’ Tymon in the face after being told there was no hot food after a day’s filming.

I was intrigued to learn that Oisin Tymon, 36, was, in a previous telly life, a producer on BBC TV’s The One Show.

Ah, got it in One: it must have been he who insisted that the presenters on that show communicate with the audience in baby talk.

No wonder Clarkson went bananas if the producer spoke to him in such a manner.

Now if Clarkson did indeed ‘thump’ him ― something the presenter denies ― then he should instead have deployed ‘The Mary Berry Smack’. That’s ‘smack’ not ‘snack’. Jeremy should have stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden butter pat and then given Tymon ― clearly a very naughty little boy ― a short, sharp slap across the legs.

Problem solved. However...

Freedom to fracas

As I write, half-a-million-plus supporters have signed
a petition demanding he is reinstated by the BBC

Top Marmite

As half the world’s population high-fives and cracks open the champagne at news of Clarkson’s suspension, the other half shakes its head in disbelief and ponders why the BBC does not possess the insight and wit to put its most experienced and worldly-wise producers and staff in charge of its gold reserve, a very loose cannon called Jeremy Clarkson.

The programme’s suspension could have huge ramifications for the BBC’s commercial arm, BBC Worldwide, which broadcasts the series to 214 territories with a record global audience of 350 million viewers, generating an estimated £150m a year according to many.

I mean, those figures? Goodness me. Quite clearly Jezza is top-drawer entertainment, whatever your view of his antics.

It now seems that the second greatest truth in the history of humanity ― “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad” ― has been marginally paraphrased: “Whom the gods would destroy, they first put on the BBC’s payroll.”

Still, today has been a laugh a minute. Sometimes two.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Oisin’, as in Oisin ‘Fracas’ Tymon, came up as ‘Oilskin’ (with ‘Poisoning’, curiously, 6th on the list of suggestions), and ‘Tymon’ came up as ‘Tyson’.
     Goodness, Jeremy ‘Thumper’ Clarkson could have smacked someone called Oilskin ‘Fracas’ Tyson. 

PS: As a point of interest, Oisin is an Oirish name ― Oisin Tymon is an Irishman ― it is pronounced uh-sheen 
or o-sheen,  and means ‘little deer’. Oh dear, best not go there...


Tuesday, March 10th

   BBC suspends Jeremy Clarkson from Top Gear after ‘fracas’

Corporation confirms it has suspended Top Gear’s outspoken host after a row with a show producer and says the show will not be broadcast this Sunday

LOL². Yep, the first thing I did was laugh out loud when I read the above.

There is no news yet of precisely what happened, but you just knew that any statement issued by the BBC regarding a Jeremy Clarkson suspension would include the word “fracas”. It’s what he does.

Oh yes, late afternoon I checked his Twitter account, just in case. Nothing. Incidentally, shouldn’t his Twitter profile now read “I am a suspended  presenter on the BBC2 motoring show Top Gear”?

And of course, these days at the BBC, it never rains but it f****** pours...

      John Inverdale apologises for X-rated on-air gaffe

BBC Radio 5 Live presenter left red-faced for inadvertently referring to “rose-c***ed” glasses during Cheltenham Horse Racing Festival coverage

How peculiar, I thought. Why would he say “rose-cocked” glasses. And why would the clickbait headline asterisk the word “cocked”?

Curiosity got the better of me ... a report, compliments of The Guardian  ― but first...

Looking at the world through...

During an interview with the former jockey John Francome and current rider Lizzie Kelly, John Inverdale made the unfortunate gaffe while reflecting on racing days gone by.

Francome said: “You get wet, you’re mucking out and it’s hard work ... but through all of that it’s a way of life that most of them wouldn’t swap, a lot of people go off and do other things and then come back to it.”

To which Inverdale replied: “This is looking at it through rose-cunted … er, rose-tinted glasses from the past ... [I] apologise there for a slip of the tongue ― but Lizzy, your love of the sport just shines through.”

A BBC spokesman said later in the day: “It was a slip of the tongue and John apologised immediately afterwards.”

It is not the first time Inverdale has been guilty of an on-air faux pas in recent times, most memorably when criticising Marion Bartoli’s looks before the 2013 Wimbledon final. Inverdale said then that Bartoli was “never going to be a looker”.

Now sometimes you can understand a slip of the tongue involving naughty words, especially so when they sound similar to an innocent word you meant to say.

But how on earth can you confuse “rose-tinted” and “rose-you-know-what”?

Ah, but hang on: did John Inverdale get caught between a *ock and a hard place when his thinking process got tripped up somewhere between rose-coloured and rose-tinted and ended up saying rose-you-know-what?

Probably. But he’s a professional earning big money. What a tosser.

Talking of Twitter and tossers, a couple of quotes that tickled my smileometer:

Tweetie Pie Corner

   “I must say there is nothing like Twitter to remind you of the sea of ignorance, filth, racism, hatred and utter banality that’s out there.” Respect MP George Galloway after being “assailed” by a barrage of insults.

He was lucky he was only “assailed”. He could have had contact with John Asterisk Inverdale. Or even worse, Jeremy Fracas Clarkson.

However, this is the one I really liked:

“Twitter is where people come to miss the point and then get angry about it.” Comedian Ricky Gervais.

However, there are  Twitter exceptions which challenge the golden rule. Back with the Jeremy Clarkson incident: by the end of the evening, the story has progressed from ‘fracas’ to allegedly ‘hitting out at a producer’ to a full-blown ‘punch-up’.

The world awaits news of the Rumble in the BBC Jungle.

Whatever, the last laugh goes to comedian David Baddiel:

  @Baddiel: So Jeremy Clarkson has been suspended following “a Fracas”. Who makes
                                 them, Citroen?

PS: Apparently there’s an online petition gathering Stig-like momentum (to the background music of The Carpenters): “Freedom to fracas”


Monday, March 9th
                                 Yah boo sucks

BRITISH broadcasters have announced that they intend to go ahead with plans for three televised leaders’ debates during the general election campaign, and that despite Prime Minister David Cameron saying he will only partake in one before campaigning proper begins.

BBC, ITV, Sky and Channel 4 have all said they will continue with the debates as originally planned on the 2nd, 16th and 30th April, even if this means effectively “empty-chairing” the Prime Minister.

The planned final debate between David Cameron and Ed Miliband will be a sort of Spittoon-fight at the K. O. Corral  affair.

And on that note, I enjoyed the following ‘picture-cartoon’ in yesterday’s Sunday Times...

Pause for thought

Mind you, are we Brits so stupid that we need to watch a televised debate in order to assess what the Conservatives and Labour, David Cameron and Ed Miliband, are all about? Do the years from 1997 to 2015 mean nothing to our powers of observation and reasoning?

Incidentally, I smiled at this letter in The Daily Telegraph:

Word perfect

SIR – I give due warning that if I hear one more politician use the term empty-chair as a verb, I will broken-nose him.
Michael Stanford, London SE23

Anyway, bearing in mind that Sky, the BBC, Channel 4 and ITV have invited the leaders of the Conservatives, Labour, Liberal Democrats, UKIP, the SNP, the Green Party of England and Plaid Cymru of Wales to take part in two debates lasting two hours each during the election campaign, I enjoyed this:

“A little bit of conservatism, married with a little bit of socialism, married with a little bit of f****** Ukip and a little bit of Green and a little bit of Liberal Democrats, add a dash of SNP and a splash of Plaid Cymru ― would be kind of perfect.”
Rock’s wild man Noel Gallagher offers his recipe for good government. Well, with asterisked reservations about Nigel Farage and Ukip, obviously.

Actually, I inserted the “add a dash of SNP and a splash of Plaid Cymru” because Noel Gallagher’s recipe would then perfectly balance the invitations issued by the TV organisations.

“If they were destinations, David Cameron is Monaco and Miliband’s the Moon.”
 ITV political news editor Tom Bradby.

Hm, and I guess Nick Clegg is Morecambe, Nigel Farage is Mecca and Alex Salmond is Comet McNought ― oops! ― Comet McNaught...

Finally, and to neatly bring this political broadcast to an end, another brace of letters from the Telegraph:

Wave of support

SIR – While the Palace of Westminster is being rebuilt, perhaps the Members of Parliament could be accommodated in one of the soon-to-be-completed aircraft carriers [which, it seems, will be bereft of actual aircraft].
Richard Brooks, Farnham, Surrey

MPs take flight  

SIR – What a marvellous idea from Richard Brooks that MPs should be housed in an aircraft carrier.
     I suggest pointing it in the direction of Bermuda and giving it a hefty push...
Ian Beck, Dearham, Cumbria

Sunday, March 8th

“I have been here before ... but when or how I cannot tell...”
                                                                                       Sudden Light, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

Spotted on the Great Wall of China by Dennis Tricker
[the picture clues are mostly obvious – but I am foxed by the box tied up with a cute bow (gift shops?)

THE above, compliments of the Telegraph’s  Sign Language gallery ― and the following from its Letters page:

Climb every mountain

SIR – In an Austrian hotel favoured by climbers and hikers, a notice on the reception desk read: “Guests are requested not to perambulate the bedroom corridors during the hours of repose in the boots of ascension.”
John Carter, Shortlands, Kent

I think that translates as: “Will you kindly stop climbing all over the bedroom corridor walls after midnight when everyone is abed.”

“Art is the objectification of feeling, and the subjectification of nature.”
Susan Langer (1895-1985), American philosopher of mind and of art, Mind (1967).

I think that translates as: “Art is about being all touchy-feely, and then getting your hands all over Honey Rider and Pussy Galore ― but definitely not Rosa Klebb.”

I may, of course, be wrong, but I doubt anyone down at the Asterisk Bar c/o the Crazy Horsepower Saloon, will pull me up on it.

Oh yes, remember this smashing quote I recently fell for hook, line and sinker?

“I need to laugh more and drink more glasses of champagne ― even when there is nothing to celebrate.” Actress Celia Imrie, 62, contemplating her next 20 years.

Well now, Celia’s been at it again:

“I’m thrilled if I’m whistled at. Of course I am. People have become so moany, I mean, I’m not mad about being called love or dear, but I quite like darling. And really, lighten up everyone. There’s enough horribleness in the world.”

I’m beginning to like Celia Imrie, big time. Mind you, I’m not sure she’d be too happy with people climbing all over the bedroom corridor walls after midnight when she’s gone to bed.

But there again, I may well be wrong.

Saturday, March 7th


One for the road?

TIME for a quick return visit to Vanessa Feltz and her early morning Radio 2 show, in particular, ‘The dilemma is in the ditty’ spot, where she invites listeners to answer the question posed within a popular song.

Yesterday morning, Friday, the song was The Chair, sung by George Strait ― a country ditty released in 1985, indeed a song I had never heard before, or more likely a ditty that had never had cause to register in my subliminal jukebox.

And the line?:  ♫♫♫  “Well, thank you, could I drink you a buy? Oh, listen to me, what I mean is, can I buy you a drink?”

Now it’s a rather unconventional sort of line to find in the lyrics of a song. I mean, you can’t somehow spot the jolly little ball bouncing along over the words ― so I slept on it overnight...

This morning I awoke with a smile. In my dreams the question “Can I buy you a drink?” had brought to mind the fellow who, sitting at a bar, enjoying a drink, struck up a light-hearted conversation with the pretty girl sat next to him.

He looked down at her skin-tight, PVC trousers, nodded and smiled: “How does one get into one of those?”

“Darling,” she replied, “you can start by buying me a large gin and tonic.”

Yep, definitely one for the Look You smileometer. Incidentally, if like me you find that the song The Chair  doesn’t exactly ring any bells, there’s a link coming up down below...

How much is that shaggy doggy tail in the window?

Apropos nothing in particular, here’s just a brief thread spotted on a Telegraph  comment board this very day...

Gizzee: I laughed out loud when I heard a senior police officer refer to dogging sites as ‘Public Sex Environments’.

Handsome Jack: Public Sex Environments? That would certainly look well on one of those signposts they put up to help tourists find their way about.

Anneallan: Imagine designing the pictograph for the brown heritage sign.

Naomi Onions: There is a dogging site near here
[south of the border, down Cornwall way, methinks].
     I didn’t realise until I pulled into the place in my car as I thought it would be a pretty spot to eat my lunch. A man stood behind a bush and watched me work my way through a cheese sandwich and a bottle of apple juice.
     I wish the story was funnier than that.

How funny. That final sentence, just eight words long, compliments of Naomi Onions, makes her post wonderfully amusing.

Funny little things amuse funny little minds.

Anyway, here’s the aforementioned YouTube link apropos the question “Can I buy you a drink?”:

                                                                             George Straight [to the point?]: The Chair


Friday, March 6th

The tale of Weasley Weasel and Woody Woodpecker

ONE of the more startling pictures of the week was that captured by photographer Martin Le-May in a London park, of a juvenile weasel hitching a ride on the back of a flying woodpecker.

The disquieting look displayed by the woodpecker suggested that the weasel was doing more than hitching a ride, indeed it was a struggle for life itself on the part of the bird, especially so remembering that a weasel will kill its prey with a quick bite to the neck.

The Twitterati went into imaginative mode with loads of exceedingly funny photoshopped images compliments of Martin’s photo. Perhaps the wittiest, definitely the most ironic, was the one of Vladimir Putin riding the weasel that was clinging to the woodpecker...

(that’s Woody’s heart not his beak)

Don’t knock it ― unless youre Harrison Ford preparing to crash land

Nipped in the buddy

The above meme (#weaselpecker) reminded me of something from the TV series Star Trek: Voyager, where Commander Chakotay is telling Captain Janeway the tale of the scorpion and the fox, a traditional Native American parable.

A scorpion was walking along the bank of a river, wondering how to get to the other side. Suddenly, he saw a fox. He asked the fox to take him on his back across the river. The fox said, “No. If I do that, you’ll sting me, and I’ll drown.”

The scorpion assured him: “If I do that, we’ll both drown.”

The fox thought about it ... and being of a gracious nature finally agreed. So the scorpion climbed up on his back, and the fox began to swim. But halfway across the river, the scorpion stung him.

As poison filled his veins, the fox turned to the scorpion and said, “Why did you do that? Now you’ll drown, too.”

“I couldn’t help it,” said the scorpion. “It’s my nature.”

For the scorpion read Vladimir Putin.

Thursday, March 5th

“YOU could not stand five minutes with that man beneath a shed while it rained, but you must be convinced you had been standing with the greatest man you had ever yet seen.” Dr Samuel Johnson’s remark on Edmund Burke, related in one of Hester Thrale’s anecdotes, is rather wonderful.

Talking of standing beneath a shed while it rained ― I don’t believe it. It’s coming up to Shed of the Year time yet again. Where has the time gone?

Shed heaven

The competition is sponsored by garden woodcare firm Cuprinol. The company’s latest survey of 1,500 shed owners revealed that they average 1.7 hours a week ― nearly four whole days a year ― in their shack. [I know that’s an average, but it strikes me as being pretty low. Whatever...]

The average value of shed contents is £450 but almost three quarters ― 71 per cent ― are hoarding useless items in their sheds.

And almost a third ― 32 per cent ― admit their shed is so messy that they can barely get in through the door.

A Cuprinol spokesman said: “It’s clear from this year’s report that the nation are still fanatical about their sheds. We really do hope it will inspire those who are hoarding useless items to clear out their sheds and show them some love.

“Whatever you use your shed for, the annual Shed of the Year  competition celebrates the best of British sheds.”

Cuprinol really does get some mileage out of this fun competition because the media goes overboard in its coverage. And I can understand why.

As ever, some exceptionally eye-catching sheds nominated thus far. Personally, I tend to like the off-beat, the eccentric, the humorous ― a shed that really has had loads of TLC showered upon it.

However, of the pictures I perused on Mail Online, the one that caught my eye ― pretty much all down to its supercalifragilisticexpialidocious gloriousness ― is this ...

I can see clearly now...

Terry’s Treehouse in Gloucestershire

Actually, this one looks less a shed, more a summer tree-house; indeed it probably needed planning permission.

Be that as it may, I can easily imagine myself sitting up there with Honey Rider or Pussy Galore ― definitely not Rosa Klebb ― some champagne and lots of laughter, on a glorious summer late afternoon/early evening.


A brace of online comments also caught my eye. The first, the ‘best’ rated comment on the website by a country mile, at least when I paid a visit...

Miko Hills, Singapore:  Listen ladies, do you want to know the secret to a happy marriage? Well, keeping your man well fed and giving him a bit of rumpy pumpy every now and again are important.

But the big winner is to let him have his man cave, his little nook in the house, it doesn’t have to be a shed a room will do, which is his own space, that he is master over, that is his private domain, which he can retreat to when he wants and which you don’t try to decorate or tidy or organise or whatever.

You’ll be happy too, you get to be mistress of all the rest of the house and you don’t have him moping around and making the place look untidy. It’s a win-win situation.

There were loads of responses to Miko Hills’ post, and not a single negative one. Yes of course, it helps that what he rather elegantly says makes sense. True, a few ladies wanted their own shed, but that’s different.

This comment summed up the responses...

UK Expat: You’re a wise man, Miko Hills.

Hear, hear.

I also enjoyed this...

Nom DePlume, Melbourne:  I watched an old British movie in the middle of the night once. No idea what it was, but I remember it involved feuding neighbours.

The wives would have raucous arguments over the fence, while the men would retire to their respective garden sheds.

The sheds were side by side, flush against the fence, and unbeknownst to their wives, they had made a cubby hole between the two structures so the two guys could secretly share a beer every evening. I never forgot it.

Isn’t that wonderful? I wonder what the film was. (I did dispatch Ivor the Search Engine  to seek out the film, but the information given was not enough.)

Incidentally, going back to Miko Hills, I’ve observed that where a husband and wife have plenty of space in their daily lives ― farmers, for example, doing things on their own, excepting hectic pinch points ― they do appear to be much happier because of it.

Oh yes, speaking as someone who lives on his own, my home is my shed, my man cave.

And talking of man cave:

           Are these the most ‘manly’ jobs in Britain?

A new survey has revealed the 10 manliest jobs, which include marine engineer, soldier, butcher, blacksmith, tree surgeon...

I did not click. Why? Well: tree surgeon? A proper manly job description would be lumberjack.

                    ♫♫♫  Oh, I’m a lumberjack, and I’m okay, I sleep all night and I work all day...!


Wednesday, March 4th

A little something for the weekend?

“PEOPLE look at me as if I were a naughty weekend.” Louis Jourdan, who has died aged 93, was a French actor whose best-known work was undertaken in post-war Hollywood, where his matinee-idol good looks led to him being typecast as a suave man-about-town.

Smashing quote. And how very French to use the expression “a naughty weekend” rather than “a dirty weekend”.

      Alcohol makes you look more attractive, scientists claim

Gosh, yes, I well remember the routine after a night on the tiles and a few drinks too many, and ending up in bed with Honey Rider ― or was it Pussy Galore? ― and waking up the following morning with Rosa Klebb.

Aye, when drink strides in through the door, quality control flies out the window.

Incidentally, apropos the clickbait that alcohol makes you look more attractive, I enjoyed the cleverness of this online comment...

                 Upset:  “Beauty lies in the eyes of the beer holder.”

Cock and bull time

  Yesterday’s tale of The Big Small Penis Party just keeps getting bigger and bigger. The Telegraph  has faithfully remained on topic...

         Study on penises reveals the average size ... and it’s smaller than you think

A study of more than 15,000 men finds the average penis size is just over 5 inches, experts say

It’s a finding that could bring relief to millions of men.

Although six inches has long been the accepted “norm” for the length of a manhood, the average is actually almost a full inch smaller, research reveals.

Analysis of 17 studies involving more than 15,500 men revealed that the average length of an erect penis is 5.16 inches (13.12 centimetres) and 3.6 inches (9.16cm) when flaccid.

! And there we were down at the Crazy Horsepower convinced that a small  penis was 5 inches. What a relief. As to what precisely has caused that dramatic shrinkage ... another ice age looming, as opposed to global warming?

Incidentally, do you suppose it was a host of bouncing Bond girls, including Honey Rider and Pussy Galore, who carried out the studies?

I also mentioned yesterday the Wú ài-Front underpants I’d bought which are cursed with having a tiny stable door, which in turn makes it a struggle to get old Champion the Wonder Stallion out and to lead it to water for a quick pee.

Having then discovered that they were made in China, I postulated that in the Far East they must have little Mini Coopers which are perfect for nipping in and out of traffic.

Well blow me ― I really must stop using that throwaway line of surprise ― I read this, again in the latest Telegraph piece:

One study in 2013 suggested that penis length and girth was greatest in sub-Saharan Africans, intermediate in Caucasians and smallest in East Asians.

So I was right. The Chinese are proud owners of nippy Mini Coopers, perfect for The Intercourse Job.

And what is more, I really am an intermediate Caucasian, what with my sporty TR3 from back in the day.

Everything fits like a condom.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Wú ài’, my understanding of the ‘Y’ in Y-Fronts, in Chinese, came up as ‘Woo air’. Damn, nearly
‘Woo air, Missus’.


Tuesday, March 3rd
                                        Spot the member

YESTERDAY I smiled at the picture of the England football fan who dropped his pants and exposed himself while attempting to distract an Italian player taking a penalty. Without success.

Well, one thing leads to another. I spotted this clickbait in the Telegraph...

   The Big Small Penis Party: tackling a male body-image taboo

Last year, Antony Smith wrote a poem about his small penis. Now, he is organising an event to help other men come to terms with their intimate body anxieties

Well, I couldn’t resist the invite to click...

And which side does young Sir dress on?

“There’s been little information on how penis size impacts on men, on their mental health”

Antony Smith is a poet. He is also, by his own admission, a man with a small penis.

Last year, he wrote a poem about his predicament, which attracted a surprising amount of attention online. “I have a tiny cock,” it begins, “like a little crooked finger. Everybody else’s dick is inevitably bigger.”

Smith, 48, is also the founder of the Small Penis Support Group and the group’s first public event, The Big Small Penis Party, will take place in London this coming Saturday, March 7. Smith describes it as “the first ever conference for the celebration and acceptance of small penises everywhere”.

Why is all of this so important to you?

“The story of how this came about is a very personal one. I spent years suffering from anxiety because of my penis. I always worried about size and that’s an unhealthy thing to deal with.

“We live in a world with billboards full of photoshopped penises. Then there’s the internet and porn. I think it’s difficult to fully realise what’s real. So much of what we see these days is fantasy.”

What do you want to change with the Big Small Penis Party?

“Penises will always be a talking point, particularly for men. And there’ll always be jokes. A lot of men say, ‘he must have a small dick because he’s driving a Ferrari or whatever’...”

Quick question, do you drive? If so, what car?

“I can’t stand driving. I don’t have a car...”

It was quite a, er, lengthy piece ― so I’ll cut to the chase and pick out a few choice smileometer comments...

Alan Douglas:  Is this, to put it kindly, making a mountain out of a molehill?

Mister Completely:  My father’s advice: “Get yourself a woman with small hands.”

Craig King:  Hard to understand what all the fuss is about. Every penis gives pleasure to somebody, leave it at that.

garthrod:  “We live in a world with billboards full of photoshopped penises” ... probably not the same world that most of us in the UK inhabit, then...

Sculptor471:  ...in David Niven’s autobiography he described filming a ‘Pink Panther’ skiing scene that left him so cold that his penis had shrunk to the size of an acorn ― and it was revived with a gentle bathing in brandy by his concerned friends...

Who needs brandy when you’ve got friends like that?

Anyway, what is my point of view?

  My instant reaction when I saw the ‘Big Small Penis Party’, was to wonder why the hell we need yet another bog standard political party ― I mean, we have more than enough of ‘em, all stuffed to the brim with annoying little pricks.

Then I read all about it ... but here’s a strange thing...

I recently bought a pack of Y-Front-style underpants on a BOGOF offer. Always a bit of a gamble, but the fitting is fine, yet the stable door is tiny and it really is a struggle to get the old stallion out.

Now I am not boasting (even though these days I do drive a small car); in fact, mega moons ago a girlfriend, an entertainingly funny barmaid, reassured me that I was par for the course, indeed quite sporty.

“And anyway,” she added with a smile, “it isn’t the length of the barrel but the power of the shot.” And taking proper aim, obviously.

So I had a closer look at said underpants ... and noted that they are ‘Made in China’.

Hm, I can only presume that in China they have little Mini Coopers which are perfect for nipping in and out of traffic. So they must be happy with a cat-flap for a stable door.

On the other hand, the Italians swish about with their Ferraris and Lamborghinis, so their underpants probably have double doors that open automatically.

As for we Brits, my friendly neighbourhood barmaid revealed that we flash about in Austin-Healey ‘Frog-eyed’ Sprites, MGBs, TRs, Austin-Healey 3000s, and yes, the occasional E-Type ― and all with hard tops when conditions demand.

And being that I once owned a TR3, what you would describe as a typically average sized British sports car ― well, I guess that sums me up. Par for the intercourse.

PS: The photograph the Telegraph  deployed to highlight its piece about small penises (as reproduced at the top) shows a measuring tape suggesting a corpora cavernosum  (posh word for a private dick) struggling just short of 5 inches.
“Not so fast, Mr P Dick.”

Whisper it, but the consensus down at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon is, that if a thimble of blood short of 5 inches represents what a small penis looks like ― well no bloody wonder the country is turning gay having to put up with such shortcomings, anticlimaxes and disappointments.


Monday, March 2nd

LAST Friday I told of my encounter with the horses and the football found on the Towy Valley field, and I mentioned in passing that I once remembered a cartoon from back in the day, of a footballer in full kit, standing, looking at the camera, arms folded across his chest, with one foot resting on the ball.

The ball had been erased from the image ― and it was headed ‘Irish Spot the Ball’.

It came to mind with the latest news that the World Cup due to be held in the killer heat of Qatar in the summer of 2022 will now be played in November-December, with the final a week or so before Christmas.

Unsurprisingly, there is the mother of all brouhahas.

So I had an idea, especially given all the dodgy rumours surrounding the whys and wherefores of Fifa awarding the tournament to Qatar in the first place...

Fifa Xmas special

Spot Santa’s golden ball
(That's Sepp Blatter to you and me)

Anyway, as it happens I dispatched Ivor the Search Engine  in search of that original cartoon, the ‘Irish Spot the Ball’ one ― without success.

But Ivor did spot something in the Mirror  newspaper that was new to me. It’s a report from the European Cup of 2012 and dated June 25.

Spot the balls: England fan drops his pants and flashed Italy
penalty taker in shoot-out [WARNING: contains nudity]

Spot the prick: England fan flashes Alessandro Diamanti in a bid to put him
off his penalty ... it didn’t work and Italy won the quarter-final

As Admiral Nelson said, England expects that every man will do his duty, but one man went above and beyond in his attempts to help the Three Lions beat Italy last night.

Things were starting to look grim for Roy’s boys [Roy Hodgson, England’s manager] when Alessandro Diamanti stepped up to the spot and the watching fans knew that if he scored, it was all over and England would be out.

One supporter directly behind the goal then decided it was time for drastic measures, so dropped his shorts and pants to flash his, er, tackle, at Diamante in the hope of putting him off.

Flash Harry was wearing an England goalkeeper replica kit and a red and white St Georges cross wig. His accomplice was dressed in the same get-up, and appears in the photo to be trying to join in the fun, but has clearly mistimed his run...

PS: Surely, that amusing Mirror headline, ‘WARNING: contains nudity’, should have read:

                                   ‘WARNING: contains nudity and nuts’

Happy St David’s Day 2015


WHAT was it actress Celia Imrie said? “I need to laugh more and drink more glasses of champagne ― even when there is nothing to celebrate.”

Well, I am far from famished on the smiles and laughter front. But perhaps I should drink more champagne, and as it happens ― ta-dah! ― I do have a bottle in the fridge.

And I’m sure St David would smile and nod and bless the notion. I mean, a glass, or two, or three, or four ― maybe more ― in celebration of life, the universe and everything...

What is there not to like.

(I am reminded of a Spike Milligan telly sketch, where he was leading an organised tour of a museum or some such like, and at every point of interest, there, hidden away out of sight, would be a glass with some whisky in it; Spike would smile with surprise and down in one gulp before addressing his audience. By the end of the tour he was totally pissed. Magic.)

So here’s lookin’ at you. Iechyd da! Cheers!


                                                                   Previously on Look You...
Smile of the day 2015: Feb
Smile of the day 2015: Jan
Smile of the day 2014: Dec
Smile of the day 2014: Nov
Smile of the day 2014: Oct
Smile of the day 2014: Sep
Smile of the day 2014: Aug
                                                                   Smile of the day 2014: Jul
Smile of the day 2014: Jun
                                                                   Smile of the day 2014: May
Smile of the day 2014: Apr              Smile of the day 2013: Dec
Smile of the day 2014: Mar              Smile of the day 2013: Nov
                                                                   Smile of the day 2014: Feb              Smile of the day 2013: Oct
 Smile of the day 2014: Jan           Smile of the day 2013: Sep
                                                                                                                                       Smile of the day 2013: Aug
Smile of the day 2013: Jul
Smile of the day 2013: Jun
Smile of the day 2013: May
Smile of the day 2013: Apr
Smile of the day 2013: Mar
Smile of the day 2013: Feb

                                                                                                                                       Smile of the day 2013: Jan
                                                                                                                                       Smile of the day 2012d (Oct-Dec)

Previous 2012 smiles: Smile of the day 2012 (Jan-Mar) .. Smile of the day 2012 (Apr-Jun) .. Smile of the day 2012c (Jul-Sep) .. Smile of the day 2012d (Oct-Dec)
Previous 2011 smiles:  Smile of the Day 2011 (Jan-Jun) .. Smile of the Day 2011 (Jul-Sep) .. Smile of the day 2011 (Oct-Dec)

 Previously: Smile of the Day 2010
Home   2010 (Jan to Jun)   2009   2008   March to May '07   June to Aug '07   Sep to Dec '07


You are here, way out west,
at Llandeilo

aka Llandampness
aka Dodgy City



Previously on LOOK YOU......

Smile of the day 2015: Feb
Smile of the day 2015: Jan
Smile of the day 2014: Dec
Smile of the day 2014: Nov
Smile of the day 2014: Oct
Smile of the day 2014: Sep
Smile of the day 2014: Aug
Smile of the day 2014: Jul
Smile of the day 2014: Jun
Smile of the day 2014: May
Smile of the day 2014: Apr
Smile of the day 2014: Mar
Smile of the day 2014: Feb
Smile of the day 2014: Jan
Smile of the day 2013: Dec
Smile of the day 2013: Nov
Smile of the day 2013: Oct
Smile of the day 2013: Sep
Smile of the day 2013: Aug
Smile of the day 2013: Jul
Smile of the day 2013: Jun
Smile of the day 2013: May

Smile of the day 2013: Apr
Smile of the day 2013: Mar
Smile of the day 2013: Feb

Smile of the day 2013: Jan
Smile of the day 2012d (Oct-Dec)
Smile of the day 2012c (Jul-Sep)
Smile of the day 2012 (Apr-Jun)
Smile of the day 2012 (Jan-Mar)

Smile of the day 2011 (Oct-Dec)
Smile of the Day 2011 (Jul-Sep)
Smile of the Day 2011 (Jan-Jun)

Smile of the Day 2010
2010 (Jan to Jun)

Sep to Dec '07

June to Aug '07
March to May '07

As it was in the beginning:

Postcards from my Square Mile @
Updated: 11/08/2013

Here's lookin' at you @
400 Smiles A Day
Updated: 08/06/2013

What A Gas @
400 Smiles A Day
Updated: 17/05/2009

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