Three flat pheasant, dead deer, departed dolphin

by Vince Nolan

As titles go, you have to agree it’s a bit of a belter. No, not a lunch menu in a fancy fusion restaurant either. The Current Mrs Nolan and I were once again undertaking missionary work in Devon which at any given time is teeming with wildlife but on this particular weekend it was teeming with death. We have never witnessed so much road kill (apart from the dolphin) which was washed up on the beach at Westward Ho. All very sad to see. I think the increased roadkill is down to a certain arrogance which some of our creatures seem to have developed post-Covid and avian flu epidemics. By way of example check out the above picture what I took recently. This is a hotel in Tewkesbury. The stuffed Eagle Owl is there to frighten away the pigeons in order to prevent them making a mess down the building. This pigeon did not appear to have received the memo. Alternatively he may have misinterpreted what a bird of “pray” was, it being a Sunday.

Which reminds me, we went on a sponsored camping trip run by a charity to “Save the Dolphin.” It was a waste of time for all in tents and porpoises.

I don’t know about you but our computer spellchecker annoys me on so many levels. In the first instance it is American so cannot speak English as good as what we does. In the second, it insists it is right with occasionally embarrassing outcomes for my email recipients. Funnily enough, I used to work as a spellchecker but they fried me for no raisin. Anyway, I was just reading that the bloke who invented it has died. Restoration in peace or may he restaurant in peanut I always say.

So a spellchecker walks into a bar. The bartender asks him what he would like to drink:

“I’ll have a bear, bare, bra, boar, oh forget it.” He slumps into his seat defeated and deflated. The bartender says: “Hey, hey, hey, why the log fence.”

Saw this the other day. An interesting optical illusion or trompe l’oeile as the French would say. Spell check that!

Just been reading about Welsh Governments’ new source of funding: The Woodland Investment Grant or TWIG which I think is rather neat.

I have written before about the overuse of the word actually in everything we hear, read and watch these days. I am heartily fed up of this meaningless word being inserted at every opportunity whilst the numpty who has delivered it is busy thinking up the next word to add to their now meaningless sentence. I have therefore adopted the word Alsatian (other words are available) which I now substitute every time I hear somebody say actually. It works every time Alsatian and mightily pees them off. Their usual reaction is “that doesn’t make sense.” My response, “Exactly, Alsatian.”

I formed a small queue with another lost soul at the supermarket pharmacy counter the other day, (I know, living the dream), when an older lady said to me: “We don’t usually queue this way.” I said: “We do today Alsatian.” I took her “usually” to mean she was a regular which goes some way to explain why I’ve been unable to see a doctor for three years and forgotten the art of queuing. And another thing, queue sounds like “q” followed by 4 silent letters, but maybe they’re just waiting their turn?

I have also been looking at typical Welsh occupational names like Dai the Death or Pat the Box (undertakers), John the Bed, Jones the Baker etc and I really liked this one: “All postmen round our way are known as Vincent.” “Why?” says I. “Simple mate. Vincent Van Gogh!” (Red Van).

At times She Who Must Be Obeyed is hard to follow. She was talking the other day about wealth and hell being. This was quickly followed up with a guy who reminded her of Michael Hosselhaff as opposed to David Hasselhoff, one assumes. The good news is that she is now finding relaxation through yogurt, sorry yoga. However she is having intensive physiotherapy but the two are not related Alsatian. The other month we were invited to a Chinese New Year Party and a Burns Night Celebration on the same night. Apparently it was a Chinese Burns Night.

Despite what you may think, I have no wish to offend any parents out there who may read this rubbish. However, we were in our local pub the other evening, The Trappist Monk and witnessed a father with his son. The lad was about 7 years old. There was no discussion or interaction between them whatsoever. The father kicked off proceedings on a phone call. He then produced headphones for his son to plug into a computer game and then ignored him further. Not content with this, father of the year then produced a paperback version of Agatha Christies’ Murder on the Orient Express and commenced reading it. It may be none of my business but nothing annoys me more than people not understanding or caring that these are the precious times with their little ones which will never return. Talk to them has always been my mantra, so I did. I told Dad who had murdered whom in his book which freed up more time for him to converse with his son, Alsatian!

A man decided to become a Trappist monk, which of course involved taking a vow of silence (see above). The Abbot reassured him that he would be able to speak with him every ten years. Ten years went by. The Abbot asked him: “Do you have any words for me my son?” “Yes” said the monk. “I don’t like the food here.” The Abbot gave him a blessing and sent him on his way.

Another ten years went by. The Abbot asked once again: “Do you have any words for me my son?” “Yes. My bed’s too lumpy.” The Abbot again gave him a blessing and sent him on his way. A further ten years went by. The Abbot asked: “Do you have any words for me my son?” “Yes. I want to leave the monastery.” The Abbot replied: “Well I’m not surprised. You’ve done nothing but complain ever since you got here.”