Non-allergic-rhinitis

“And another thing...” Non-allergic-rhinitisBy Vince Nolan

A snappy title, I think you will agree. In previous scribblings I penned the immortal line: “Spring will have sprung when your nose don’t run.” Having whetted your appetites with that I have now composed a whole first stanza: “Spring will have sprung when your nose don’t run and your teeth stop chattering too. When you don’t need your vest to fly the nest and the grey skies have turned blue.” I typed the first line of this into a search engine in case I had unknowingly plagiarised somebody else’s work. It came back with “Non-allergic-rhinitis,” hence the title. To tell the truth, my nose does run in Spring but that’s hay fever for you.

I was at my tonsorial teasers recently, having a first professional haircut in many months, when my stylist (get me) told me a story about one of her clients. Apparently this guy was around 80 years of age and had refused all attempts to have himself vaccinated. He claimed that this was because he remembered the horrendous Thalidomide scandal of the late 50’s, early 60’s and did not want to pass on anything to the next generation that had not been medically proven to be safe. Bearing this in mind, my stylist asked him, at the top of her voice, if this meant that he was still sexually active and whether he had a partner of child-bearing age. Not sure of his answers but we seem to have come a long way since being asked if we had booked our holidays yet.

Staying with relationships, our local church holds regular husband’s marriage wellbeing meetings. At the last session, the priest asked Giuseppe, who was approaching his 50th wedding anniversary, to take a few minutes and share some insight into how he had managed to stay married to the same woman all these years. Giuseppe replied to the assembled husbands: “Well, I’ve tried to treat her nice, spend the money on her, but best of all is, I took her to Italy for the 25th anniversary!” The priest responded: “Giuseppe, you are an amazing inspiration to all the husbands here! Please tell us what you are planning for your wife for your 50th anniversary?” Giuseppe proudly replied: “I’m gonna go pick her up.”

I was reading the other day about Cyberchondria which is online hypochondria. We have all done it, just to obtain a Google diagnosis (other search engines are available). I haven’t seen a Doctor for over a year because there are too many genuinely ill people in the queue ahead of me so I have had no other choice. Anyway, I woke up this morning

Saw this on a poster the other day from Choose Love who nobly sell essential items to support refugees. “If you have more than you need, build a longer table, not feeling all peaceful and calm so I Googled my symptoms. Now I am convinced I might be dead. of hysterical laughter from the rest of us and quite a bit of yelping and haemorrhaging on his part. a higher wall.” Of course, at Hypochondriacs Anonymous the first step is admitting you don’t have a problem. My doctor refuses to post my diagnosis on social media...he says my disease is untweetable... and I have just found out I am colour blind. The diagnosis came completely out of the mauve. Many light years ago when I was playing rugby, my mate Dazza usually sat next to me in the dressing room before a match. This was because he and I could never take the pre-match team talk very seriously. Some players need strong words of encouragement. We preferred quiet. Today you might say we were “in the zone” but in truth, we were thinking about a post-match pint or three after we had thrashed the latest opposition. The biggest issue we had was that both of us used to start giggling and the slightest thing would set us off. This was infectious (in a non-disease sort of way) and in the end, most of the team would be corpsed much to the chagrin of our Captain. Anyway, this one particular Saturday, Dazza was complaining about a wart on his finger. Now he is a big bloke so I told him to go to the Doctors or man-up. He took the latter option and went to the first aid kit, removed the scissors and cut the wart off to gales One of the most unusual pre-match warm-ups I have ever witnessed with Dazza looking like some demented Scotsman doing an unorthodox highland fling whilst shouting obscenities and bleeding heavily. Can’t see Alun Wyn Jones cutting off warts before taking the field, but you never know. Fast forward to current times and I have just finished reading a very entertaining book written by Jeremy Vine which catalogues some of the hysterical stories listeners to his radio programme have phoned in with. “Michael” also had a troublesome wart on his finger. Trips to the Doctor had not helped. He decided one evening to remove it himself. Knowing that this would hurt a tad he got quite drunk, took his gun, aimed very carefully at the wart and blew his finger clean off. It got worse for “Michael.” Neighbours called the police because of the gunshot. He was then arrested for having an unlicensed firearm and ammunition. He was subsequently fined and now has a great deal of difficulty when buying gloves. Not wishing to involve myself in politics but the recent Conservative candidate for the Cardiff North constituency was Joel Williams, pictured here. I have since found out he appeared on Big Brother. More like little brother if you ask me. They say when policemen are getting younger you are getting older but politicians? Staying with politics, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were walking through Bath recently (I really spoil that woman), when a bloke, much older than me, approached us, shouted “Zeig Heil” and proceeded to do the Nazi salute. For a millisecond I felt that British compunction to salute back so as not to hurt his feelings. Don’t worry, this soon passed but left me wondering if I attract them? Auf Wiedersehen. and a minimum of ten were required or the visit was off. I engaged four old-timers who were in the bar (could have been the aforementioned ones from the Taff Vale) and asked them whether they fancied having a brewery tour and free beer for the afternoon. Fearing some kind of honey trap, they took some convincing that my offer was genuine. Cautiously, they agreed to join us. Picture the scene, 5pm on a sunny weekday evening at the side entrance to the Brewery on Caroline Street where four pensioners who could barely stand were seen hanging onto a lamppost, for support, rather than illumination. An afternoon they would never…… remember. A drunk who smelled like a brewery got on a bus and sat down next to a priest. The drunk’s shirt was stained, his face was full of bright red lipstick and he had a half-empty bottle of wine sticking out of his pocket. He opened his newspaper and Yard) to ensure that we had properly warmed up since we didn’t want to pull any drinking muscles. Unfortunately, only six of us turned up and a minimum of ten were required or the visit was off. I engaged four old-timers who were in the bar (could have been the aforementioned ones from the Taff Vale) and asked them whether they fancied having a brewery tour and free beer for the afternoon. Fearing some kind of honey trap, they took some convincing that my offer was genuine. Cautiously, they agreed to join us. Picture the scene, 5pm on a sunny weekday evening at the side entrance to the Brewery on Caroline Street where four pensioners who could barely stand were seen hanging onto a lamppost, for support, rather than illumination. An afternoon they would never…… remember. A drunk who smelled like a brewery got on a bus and sat down next to a priest. The drunk's shirt was stained, his face was full of bright red lipstick and he had a halfempty bottle of wine sticking out of his pocket. He opened his newspaper and started reading. A couple of minutes later, he asked the priest, "Father, what causes arthritis?" "Mister, it's caused by loose living, being with cheap, wicked women, too much alcohol, and contempt for your fellow man," the priest replied. "Imagine that," the drunk muttered. He returned to reading his paper. The priest, thinking about what he had said, turned to the man and apologised: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?" "I don't have arthritis, Father," the drunk said, "but I just read in the paper that the Pope does." Staying with the drink, there has always been much snobbery attached to wine. Indeed, people make a living from it, but I am making a stand because of the lockdowns. I’m giving up wine, every day, all month. No wait, that’s not it. I’m giving up. Wine every day all month! Two people out on a first date. “Do you like Merlot Tammy?” “Yes, but you don’t pronounce the “t.” “Oh, Ok.” Looks at waiter: “Two Merlots for me and Ammy.” Our friend Dr H has trained her dog Daisy to bring her a bottle of red wine. No surprise really, she’s a Bordeaux collie. I was sat with She Who Must Be Obeyed the other day whilst Yard) to ensure that we had properly warmed up since we didn’t want to pull any drinking muscles. Unfortunately, only six of us turned up and a minimum of ten were required or the visit was off. I engaged four old-timers who were in the bar (could have been the aforementioned ones from the Taff Vale) and asked them whether they fancied having a brewery tour and free beer for the afternoon. Fearing some kind of honey trap, they took some convincing that my offer was genuine. Cautiously, they agreed to join us. Picture the scene, 5pm on a sunny weekday evening at the side entrance to the Brewery on Caroline Street where four pensioners who could barely stand were seen hanging onto a lamppost, for support, rather than illumination. An afternoon they would never…… remember. A drunk who smelled like a brewery got on a bus and sat down next to a priest. The drunk's shirt was stained, his face was full of bright red lipstick and he had a halfempty bottle of wine sticking out of his pocket. He opened his newspaper and started reading. A couple of minutes later, he asked the priest, "Father, what causes arthritis?" "Mister, it's caused by loose living, being with cheap, wicked women, too much alcohol, and contempt for your fellow man," the priest replied. "Imagine that," the drunk muttered. He returned to reading his paper. The priest, thinking about what he had said, turned to the man and apologised: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?" "I don't have arthritis, Father," the drunk said, "but I just read in the paper that the Pope does." Staying with the drink, there has always been How long have you had arthritis?” “I don’t have arthritis, Father,” the drunk said, “but I just read in the paper that the Pope does.” Staying with the drink, there has always been much snobbery attached to wine. Indeed, people make a living from it, but I am making a stand because of the lockdowns. I’m giving up wine, every day, all month. No wait, that’s not it. I’m giving up. Wine every day all month! Two people out on a first date. “Do you like Merlot Tammy?” “Yes, but you don’t pronounce the “t.” “Oh, Ok.” Looks at waiter: “Two Merlots for me and Ammy.” Our friend Dr H has trained her dog Daisy to bring her a bottle of red wine. No surprise really, she’s a Bordeaux collie. I was sat with She Who Must Be Obeyed the other day whilst she sipped a glass of wine and she said, “I love you so much, you know. I don’t know how I could ever live without you.” I said, “Is that you or the wine talking?” She said, “It’s me talking to the wine.” Finally, a blessing for the drink: God, in his goodness, sent the grapes, to cheer both great and small. Little fools will drink too much and great fools none at all. My round. Staying with Irish drink, I bought four cans of Guinness the other day, purely for medicinal purposes you understand. I was in the process of removing the plastic ties holding them together when the can I was holding exploded in my hand. A loud bang and I was wearing the contents which travelled up the ceiling, across the fl oor, over the worktop and onto the desk. Note the can in the picture has not been opened (in the conventional way) and still has the widget inside. It could have been quite nasty given how sharp the tin was. By a spooky coincidence, Guinness was founded in 1759 which was exactly the time it tried to shift me nearer to my maker. I drank the other three cans for health and safety reasons. I have discovered that there are only 3 shops I really need during lockdown: Specsavers, Boots and Greggs. My life is just specs and drugs and sausage rolls. I don’t know about you, but I have had enough of this lockdown malarkey. We don’t have to home school or anything like that but when the highlight of the week was taking the car for an MOT then it’s serious, particularly as we both went along for the excitement. Here’s one, what about skew-whiff? A phrase we often hear. Apparently, it comes from the 18th Century weaving industry when something not straight was referred to as skew weft (from the warp and weft). Of course, this should not be confused with the related catawampus (look it up, I had to). A good friend and neighbour of ours, let’s call her Dr H, for that is her name, is walking out with Dr R who is no stranger to TV and radio presenting. We recently walked past their front door where a note was pinned. It said: “Please leave parcel at foot of door. Live Radio Programme Being Recorded.” Not to be outdone we rushed home and I penned the following note: “Please Talking of walls, I have no wish to mention the former US President ever again but, in his defence, he came nowhere near to holding the Presidential record for issuing pardons. In the early years of the US, some acts of treason, piracy and rebellion were forgiven. My favourite involved a man called George Wilson who was jointly convicted of stealing mail at gunpoint and was sentenced to death by hanging. He refused a pardon in 1833 from President Andrew Jackson and was executed after the Supreme Court ruled he could turn it down if he wanted to. No pleasing some folk. Continuing the rope theme: Soap on a rope Pope on a rope I once owned one of the chewed pencils which Shakespeare used to write his famous works. He used to chew on it so much that I couldn’t tell whether it was 2B or not 2B. Staying with the Bard, in days gone by, in order to attract women, I used to use this quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act III, Scene IV, line 82: “Hello.” I was reading about a court case where the accused was described as “having murderous intent.” I was quite disappointed to learn that this had nothing to do with camping. Finally, sad news, my friend David has lost his ID. Now he is just Dav. Hasta La Vista Chums conservatory is so big that we couldn’t pinpoint it but because it sounded like our next door neighbour was messing about in his garden. A few hours later a sparrow introduced itself to us which must have fl own in when the patio doors were open. Being man, the hunter, I used my instinctive tracking and trapping skills and picked the little guy up and released him back into the wild. No harm done………………..well, until next door’s cat got him. Staying with hunting, if I were illegally hunting for mushrooms, would I have questionable morels? Also, what do you call a deer who has lost both eyes in a hunting accident? No eye deer. I have decided that when Trump dies, I will give his eulogy. I will say: “He is today how he was as President……….wearing make-up and lying in front of us. Amen.” I was recently asked by the son of a good friend of mine if I would write a urology for his Dad’s funeral. I didn’t have the heart to say eulogy but I knew what he meant. Anyway, here is what I wrote: My favourite Mike tale, (he was affectionately known as Gaddafi because of his likeness to the former Libyan leader), involved a trip to Paris to watch Wales play France. We had developed a 20 year relationship with a French side and played them home and away on French international weekends. On this particular trip (Mike’s fi rst), we did it in the old-fashioned way, a bus to Dover, ferry crossing and then on to Paris. I was sitting next to him. At Dover, a uniformed Customs Offi cer came onto our bus and said: “Just hold up your passports guys and I will come along and count them and you.” Mike turned to me and said “I didn’t know we needed a passport and I haven’t got one.” I said “oh spiffi ng” or words to that effect. Then, in a scene reminiscent of a World War 2 prisoner of war escape story, Mike ducked down into the footwell next to me and I piled his coat and mine on top of him. I told him not to move, whilst we were both reduced to laughing uncontrollably. The Customs guy walked the bus, did the count, missed Mike and we were on the ferry. There was no Customs inspection in France as we had already been inspected and we were off to Paris. We repeated the people smuggling exercise on the way back. Quite what would have happened if Customs had found Colonel Gaddafi stowing away on a St. Peter’s Rugby Club bus is anybody’s guess but it would certainly have caused a major diplomatic incident. Just to be clear: Did you hear about the urologist who was eaten by a bear? He was a meteorologist (meaty urologist, oh please yourselves). The Leader of the Opposition and I were sitting in our socially distanced local, The Funky Furlough, when a lady close by to us asked the Bar Manager if the toilets were still upstairs. He of course confi rmed that they were but I thought this to be a very stupid question. I would have said something like: “I don’t know when madam was last with us but we moved them out to the car park many months ago as a direct consequence of Covid19.” Perhaps this is why I do not run a pub. A wife sent her husband a romantic text message. She wrote: “If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.” Her husband texted back: “ I’m in the toilet, please advise.” Happy New Year Dear Reader, the Year of the Ox. Apparently this year is going to be lucky with the Ox representing diligence, persistence and honesty. Not for going to be Trump’s year then is it? I know I have written about sell-buy dates before but a recent trip to my local supermarket on a Friday revealed almost no perishables that would make the following Monday. In fact I had some doubt whether they would make it to the car for the journey home. What is going on because it’s nothing to do with EU supply issues? Closer inspection of the packaging revealed countries of origin for fruit and veg like Tanzania and Argentina. So these comestibles are cultivated in exotic climes, picked, packaged, taken to the port or airport, distributed around UK warehouses then delivered to the shops and put on the shelves with one day left on the sell-buy date. It takes an inordinate amount of skill to supply goods “just-in-time” with 24 hours to spare. Waste levels must be astronomical. Staying with food, I have been doing some research into what is no longer manufactured in the UK. The list is endless but here is a small sample: Pringles (Belgium), Smarties (Canada), Colman’s English Mustard (Germany), Terrys Chocolate Orange (France) and HP (Houses of Parliament) Sauce (The Netherlands). Staggering. Here’s one for you: “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “Little old lady.” “Little old lady who?” “I had no idea you could yodel.” I am a man of a certain age so my tolerance threshold does not work as well as it used to particularly when being asked to embrace new for the first time the other day and the unique three word location I was looking for was “You Are Lost!” Design fault or user error? Talking of intolerance, I am led to believe that the term heckler originated from the textile trade, where to heckle was to tease or comb-out flax or hemp fibres. The modern meaning was coined in Dundee in the early 19th century. As the hecklers toiled in the factory, one of the team would read out the days’ news and the others would butt in with constant interruptions and a stream of “furious debate.” With this in mind I have collated some quality put-downs which comics have used to deal with modern day hecklers: “What size of shoe does your mouth take?” “This is what comes from drinking on an empty head.” “I know where you were when they were handing the brains out………getting an extra helping of mouth.” “Do you know, if you wore soundproof trousers no one would hear a word you’re saying.” “Is that your real face or are you still celebrating Halloween?” “Your bus leaves in 10 minutes... Be under it.” “Well, it’s a night out for him.. and a night off for his family.” “I need you like Van Gogh needed stereo.” I walked into our local bar, The Moaning Monet and saw Van Gogh sitting at the end on a bar stool. I shouted “Hey Vince do you want a drink?” He shouted back: “No thanks, I’ve already got one ear.” Adios Amigos one day leS on the sell-buy date. It takes an inordinate amount of skill to supply goods “justin-@me” with 24 hours to spare. Waste levels must be astronomical. Staying with food, I have been doing some research into what is no longer manufactured in the UK. The list is endless but here is a small sample: Pringles (Belgium), Smar@es (Canada), Colman’s English Mustard ( Germany), Terrys Chocolate Orange (France) and HP (Houses of Parliament) Sauce (The Netherlands). Staggering. Here’s one for you: “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “LiKle old lady.” “LiKle old lady who?” “I had no idea you could yodel.” I am a man of a certain age so my tolerance threshold does work as well as it used to par@cularly when being asked to embrace new technology. I was therefore heartened when She Who Must Be Obeyed suggested I download a new app called What3Words. This is a naviga@on aid which divides the World into 3 metre squares and gives each square a unique combina@on of three words. I s@ll drive about a lot for business, believe it or not and I was assured that this system would be much more accurate than using our sat nav. I used it for the first @me the other day and the unique three word loca@on I was looking for was “You Are Lost!” Design fault or user error? I recently had a great Zoom call with Mark Dacey (on the leS) who is the dynamic CEO of Neath Port Talbot Group of Colleges. It does not need me to suggest the uncanny resemblance he has to actor Ricky Tomlinson or vice versa. I know I have wriKen about sell-buy dates before but a recent trip to my local supermarket on a Friday revealed almost no perishables that would make the following Monday. In fact I had some doubt whether they would make it to the car for the journey home. What is going on because it’s nothing to do with EU supply issues? Closer inspec@on of the packaging revealed countries of origin for fruit and veg like Tanzania and Argen@na. So these comes@bles are cul@vated in exo@c climes, picked, packaged, taken to the port or airport, distributed around UK warehouses then delivered to the shops and put on the shelves with Ricky Tomlinson CARDIFF TIMES 11