We Don't Need No Education

Kids today are certainly receiving a top notch education! According to this article, writing fuck off as an answer to an English essay is worth at least 2 points for correct spelling ('tis not exactly hard to learn as it's graffitied on nearly every wall in the UK) and conveying meaning (hmmm, is this actually the meaning we want children to convey?).

It's ridiculous but what's even more ridiculous is that the essay title, to which the student responded with an obscenity, was: Describe the room you're sitting in.

I know it was a long time ago since I sat my GCSE's but I'm sure not much has changed since then. I don't think students sit their exams at the Zoo or in a spaceship or Alton Towers. So therefore, asking them to describe the room they're sitting in is a bit lame.

The room I am sitting in is approximately 50ft by 35ft. The walls are white. There is a clock on the wall. There are 60 desks but only 57 chairs. There are 60 children all wearing the same uniform.

You can't really blame the kid for writing fuck off. I think I would've too.

Bonnie's Hungry

Looks like I've no choice but to pursue a career in tree-felling as the lovely Mels has been royally shafted by Britain's sorry excuse for a postal service. I did think about getting a job in the sorting office but it seems Mel will kick my gremliney ass if I do.

I can't write this post because Bonnie dog is whining: Hannah get up off your fat lazy-hoor ass and make me some goddam dinner.

Honestly, she's got such a foul mouth and bulshy manner. I wonder where she learnt that from?

Is It Your Birthday?

This post is in reply to the previous post's comments. Mel! It took me a while to figure out what Bons your unclie meant. I thought you were suggesting I gave Bonnie some unclie but now I realise you meant Bob's your uncle!! Were you at that green butter?

D@ve, my reply to your comment might seem a bit random but I was referring to Crocodile Dundee hypnotising the bull with his hand. Incidentally, I heard a story last night where some fellow was mugged on holiday and he tried the Crocodile Dundee bull-hypnotising trick on his attacker but, unsurprisingly, to no avail.

And finally, anonymous, of course I haven't forgot your birthday (I am now racking my brains trying to think who's birthday it is in a few weeks!). Where's the party?

Anybody Know A Dog Hypnotiser?

Bert got a phone call from Ernie today. Bert said "Hey, what's up Ernie?"

Ernie said "There's two of your dirty scunging devil dogs standing here on the Dreen road"

I know. They look like butter wouldn't melt but the truth is they're two wee feckers who'd run away in a flash. There are a number of reasons why we disapprove of such activity:

1. The farmer might shoot them.

2. They might kill farmers' sheep.

3. They might get run over on the road.

4. Paddy is stupid and might get his head stuck in a bucket all night.

5. Rosie is an old bitcher now and she's wearing herself out.

But they don't understand all this and it's in their blood to scunge.

Now that the carers come into to see Pearlie they use this as an excuse to slip out the door. Any sort of commotion or chaos that goes on you'll be guaranteed they have taken advantage of the situation. The only thing we haven't tried is getting someone in to hypnotise them. But it may be our only hope...

Dirt Bird's Charms

Brummy Steve and Dirt Bird
Originally uploaded by hootchinhannah

Here is a picture of Dirt Bird and Brummy Steve. This was the morning after my leaving party, the one that was so good I didn't actually leave. I love this picture. This is quite often how Dirt Bird looks. Twirling her fingers through her hair, eyes shut, mouth open...no wonder Steve is besotted.

The Legend Of The Dreen

Around these parts there are many myths and legends. They include headless horsemen, highway men and The Mouth Of Hell. Galgorm Castle holds a story about a nobleman who outwitted The Divil Himself. The nobleman was promised great riches (and possibly ever-lasting life but I don't really remember) in exchange for his soul. The Divil Himself would come to claim his reward when a candle had burned down but the clever nobleman never let the candle burn down. He blew it out and hid it in an old dusty book. If I'd known it was so easy to get one over on the Divil I'd have sold my soul for a magic carpet years ago. The nobleman's plan was flawed however because he did not account for the possibility that one of his maid's might find it and, thinking it was a bit dark, light it until it burned down. The Divil came back and claimed his soul and the nobleman's ghost now haunts the castle grounds forever.

The scariest legend about these parts is much closer to home though. It's a Dreen legend specifically located in the attic of this house. When I was younger and I came to visit Bert's parents I used to hover by the attic stairs. Up those stairs were great treasures. Bert's childhood toys. Rocking horses, toy cars, diggers, soldiers. All of them longing to be played with. I never could though. The reason, Bert told me, was because the Squashy Tomato Face Man lived up those stairs and he wasn't particuarly a huge fan of children. He was a bit mean and grumpy because of his unfortunate squashy tomato face. He must've been ridiculed and bullied as a child and chose to live as a hermit. I couldn't find any pictures of him on the web but if you can imagine a tall skinny man with a squashy tomato for a face and a folorn vibe about him, that;s your guy.

Dead Bird Season

A number of weeks ago I started to notice a lot of dead birds. I'd see them lying at the side of the road on my way to work. One day I saw 3 different dead birds. I couldn't tell you what sort of birds they were 'cos I'm not an ornithologist but there was a black one with a speckled chest and a big one that was a fawny (or is it fauny Mels?) colour and I can't remember what the other one was.

I mentioned this to Dirt Bird (purely coincidental that it's dead bird season and her name is Dirt Bird) and she thought it sounded ominous. I wondered how they were dying. Maybe bigger birds were killing them or they fell out of trees. The wicked Holly Cat caught a babby robin last week. She didn't kill it but she left it in a state of shock.

Then it was all quiet on the dead bird front.I thought the season was over until this morning I heard a small thud off the window. I looked out to see a tiny wee bird lying on the ground. It probably died instantly from a broken neck. Poor wee thing. When will the carnage end?

Locked Oot

This morning I waited outside the office for an hour. I have no keys and The Boss was nowhere to be seen. I called him and said:

Well, having a busy morning I take it?

He replied:

Ah fuck Ah forgot all aboot ye.

I am clearly a valuable asset to his company.

But who cares? It's the weekend!! Hurrah for the day of Fri!

Ken Boone or Ken Boone?

It's a tough contest between Bert and I over who is the laziest. Rather than washing the chopping board I turned it over only to find that Bert had beaten me to it. He ranks high on the lazometre.

A certain Mr. Salt Face has asked me some questions:

If you were a clown what would your name be?

My name would be Hairy Head Hannah and my clown wig would be blue.

If you could wake up anywhere where would it be?

I'd wake up in a meercat colony with meercats nibbling my ears.

What's your personal theme song?

I'd like to say Wonder Woman but I don't wear satin tights. After that it would be the Brookside theme.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

Probably residing in some random country getting drunk with the locals.

What's your favourite pasta shape?

Either the bows or the twirly ones. Them tube ones are the worst.

So there you go Salt Face. I am impressed with your question-asking skills although suspect it may have been computer-generated. You are, after all, the boy who asks questions like Do you prefer Def Leppard or Iron Maiden?, Do you prefer Paul Daniels or Cliff Richards, Do you prefer Ken Boone or Ken Boone?

As always my answers are Def Leppard or Iron Maiden depending on which day of the week it is and what colour pants I'm wearing, Cliff Richards because he's Cliff Richards and who the hell is Ken Boone?

Good Times With Mel

I had planned to go out for a couple of drinks on Friday night and come home at a sensible hour so I could be up early for my trip to the 'Dam with Mel. As it turned out I came home at 2 in the morning, steaming drunk and all sensibilities chucked out the window. Luckily when I woke up on Saturday morning I wasn't hungover...because I was still drunk. I didn't actually know what I had packed until I got to my hotel.

The sun was shining when I arrived in Holland and Mels was waiting for me as planned. We drank coffee, smoked and chatted. I was still drunk and Mels was sleep deprived. We did well considering. The next few days were spent chilling, eating disgusting amounts of sugar in many beautiful forms (chocolate, waffles, jamin pick-a-mix), laughing and the occasional walking around in circles ('tis one of my favourite hobbies). All in all an excellent trip. Good times to add to the list of Good Times With Mel. May there be many more.

Full Circle

At 6 O'Clock they came and took you away. I only cried one tear and it fell into a puddle. They mingled and a new being was created. A being that was soft yet strong, cruel but kind, brave but scared. It said yes when it meant no and no when it meant yes. Cried when it was happy and laughed when it was sad. It was blind but saw eveything, could hear but heard nothing. It was tortured and so it tortured. But only itself, until one day it split back into two. The puddle lay on the ground and the tear rolled back up my face and into my eye. At 6 O'Clock you came back.

The Orrs Take A Spin In The Van

There are just some people in this world who get theselves into situations. Bert is one such person. Many moons ago I was visiting my dad in stoke. Bert was due to pick me up at Belfast International Airport but, of course, didn't he go to Belfast City Airport. So there I waited at International wondering where the hll Bert was and there bert waited at City Airport wondering where I was. While he was there an announcement was made over the intercom for a Mr. Orr to make his way to reception. So off Bert went fearing the worst and thinking the reason I wasn't there was beacause of some horrific plane crash.

So off Bert went and was met by a man wearing a suit. This man asked Bert if he was Mr. Orr to which Bert said yes and then he preceded to ramble at Bert about something totally unrelated to plane crashes. At this point Bert twigged that he wasn't the Mr.Orr this gentleman was looking for.

With still no sign of me Bert came to the logical conclusion that he was at the wrong airport (these were the days before everyone had mobile phones). Bert's ma Pearlie had come along with him for the ride and off they raced to Belfast International. It was between the two airports that Bert took a corner too fast and the van turned 180 degrees in the middle of the road. Pearlie remarked, That was a nice wee spin you took me on.

So ever since this fateful day Bert gets a little panicked when he has to do an airport run. You can hardly blame him.

The Woodwind Party

The party last week was pretty sophisticated compared to most of our shindigs. Not a single drop of blood fell from anybody's head the whole night although a couple of people may have suffered some adverse effects from the buns I made. The saxophone was brought out along with the claro to see if we had any potential jazz musicians amongst us. I think the general consensus was that we didn't. The Milky Bar Kid told Nelly he'd never been to a woodwind party before slyly whispering to Dirt Bird It's like at special school when they get the instruments out to play. Not very P.C. Milky Bar Boy but funny all the same.

Mrs. Banjo agreed that the jazz workshop session was pretty bad but where was Mr. Banjo to serenade us? Hovering over the sink looking a greener shade of pale. Actually, music was a bit of an issue the whole night. Ploppy Pants was playing bouncer at the stereo and kept switching off my music to put on his old-man-diddly-dee music. I had to set Dirt Bird on him but he couldn't hear her over the stereo.

But that was all last weekend and I can't remember too much anymore other than the highlight of my week was meeting someone called Rusty purely for the fact I think that Rusty is a great name to say. I have also discovered that using the word 'horrendous' to describe a 50 year-old chiropodist is not a good idea as he is likely to threaten you with the broomstick he's holding. I guess I just have that effect on people.