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Welcome to the THIRD full issue of this new e-magazine produced for fellow OFaBOF’s

AS The modern world is too busy… The news happens so often… And when it does it’s bad, or worse. We can remember when… Well, anything you want us to recall… 1966 soccer, dinosaurs, hot summers?

SO Now we are well into a second half century, and reflection on events is our lot as we no longer make things happen, discovering “happy happenings” is a blessing.

BUT Hard to find in the plethora of frequently repeated multi-media news. Thus, I hope you enjoy my selection in this positive albeit sideways look at the human condition in 2008. Dave Hambidge

Where a wandering mouse leads one News you may have missed Picture with attitude Your driving; me mad Showcase time with Jack and Gill

I have been a confirmed bitter beer imbiber for many years, ignoring the decade during which I was totally abstinent of alcohol, by choice and not for medical reasons. There are so many good pints to be had, without resorting to gnats piss lager. BUT, I have to declare a penchant for Pilsener Urquel lager, particularly if someone else is buying!

Reilly’s life was dramatised in an early 1990’s TV mini-serieswith Sam Neil playing the lead role. And merely a century earlier he was/may have been/is rumoured to have been the inspiration for The Gadfly novel, also available free on line.

This libation originated in the eponymous Pilsen region of what is now the Czech Republic and whose civic websiteis an eye catching virtual ramble. Born not far away in 1884 was Edward Benes, future President of the combined Czechoslovakia from 1935 to 1948 including ‘in exile in UK’ during WW2. In 1942 he planned the execution of Reinhard Heydrich, then Nazi SS tyrant ruling in Prague. The success of that plan lead to dreadful reprisals including the obliteration of the occupants and buildings of Lidice and Lezaky. Uumph?

Still following this mouse trail? Good. Dmitri Shostakovich wrote a music suite called The Gadfly in 1955 for a Soviet film version of the 1890’s book, and the romance sequence from lovely music was used in the beeb tv series. A very tempting sample can be sniffed here.

Whilst in England ‘for the duration’ Benes had as British Liaison officer one R.H. Bruce Lockart, a fascinating Scottish poly-career character whose biography is available in full online.

Which is quite fascinating because one of Reilly’s colleagues in 1918 was Fanny Kaplan. Her attempted assassination of Vladimir Lenin, then a powerful figure in the nascent communist party revolution led to his death some 6 years later.

Now, pay attention, we meet a truly awesome gent, Reilly Ace of Spies. Actually known as Sidney Reilly/Sigmund Rosenbloom, his ‘obit’ in wiki is well worth a gander as he was the model for James Bond. (Piccy in next column is of Reilly doing a passable pose as Bond!)

And her own execution on 3 September 1918, just 90 years ago yesterday. Now, very few of you knew all that!

N NE EW WS SY YO OU UM MA AY YH HA AV VE EM MIIS SS SE ED D IIN N TTH HE E LLA AS STT FFE EW WD DA AY YS SW WH HIILLS STT D DO OIIN NG GO OTTH HE ER RS STTU UFFFF The common theme in this selection is the simple daftness of human behaviour. First to Spain to witness a more bizarre festival where the village babies in Castrillo de Murcia are protected from devilish harm by demons leaping over them. Honest, follow the link and see! Up to Hagen in Germany where the judiciary have banned a young man from driving after he was found pissed in charge of his motorised wheelchair, for the SECOND time! Turn left for Scotland where the annual haggis eating record went to Willie Robertson. I am delighted to note that women are permitted to trough with the lads.

Then across the big pond to USofA for three of the best, or is it worst? Number one, Hoschton where nearly 4000 scarecrows are being assembled for a world record bid. So popular is the event that making them is now a punishment for minor offences. Our second is from Dallas and the, to me, amazing finding that fitting chronically school truant teenagers with GPS transmitters “vastly” improved their school attendance. How? But if it works, why not? Thirdly, and finally in this week’s synopsis of Yankie weird, to The Big Apple. (By the way, does anyone know what flavour it is?) Anyway, a deli called, well, Delicatessen actually is getting pissed off with disgruntled neighbours urinating on their glass roof. The unusual rain managed to knock out the eateries air-conditioning. Reminiscent of “… don’t rain on my parade…!” Thence in Oz-land, where the locals are setting up for yabby racing in Windorah. (For the hard of knowing, a yabby is a type of crayfish, and the race is over one metre.)

(But she opted for the coke, not the Tennants lager, a decision I can applaud.)

A further turn to the left and down bank to The Land of my Fathers, Wales, where Beijing Olympic mania has prompted proposals for sheepdog trials to be included in London 2012. Not even our Boris could swing that one!

If you didn’t already know, people the world over are quite barking!

YOUR DRIVING; ME MAD We all know that the risk of winning Lotto is nothing compared to the near certainty of being exposed to fatal actions by some other driving self-abuser, hereinafter referred to as SODS. Every time we venture forth onto the highway we play Russian roulette, ignoring the fact that only one chamber is empty. Our society, quite understandably, becomes enraged over the murder of less than 30 children each year, and tolerates if not ignores the death or serious injury of the same number of adults or children every six hours on the roads. php?objectId=60899

Human factors contribute to nearly all these accidents, so why do we allow the SODS to get away with, literally, murder? Who are they; what do they do; what effects does a near miss with death have on the survivors? Each of the potentially homicidal SODS is, of course, unique, at least in the sight of their god and their mother. However, there is mileage in some of the stereotypes that our society produces. In no particular order of lethality:

This is obviously a recruiting poster for a navy. BUT can you guess when this foxy looking lady was posing and for which nations armed services? (Answer at end of e-mag.)

HER. Female, age impossible to guesstimate, chemical blonde, supposedly in command of a fast car or 4x4 off road, on pavement, kid, shopping and sports kit transporter; applying lippy, singing along to a DAB station. YOUNG HIM’S. Two to Four school truants, in a fast hatchback, sitting facing to the rear, according to their baseball caps, enough body piercing ornaments to start a metal recycling facility, hoping to pull, but prepared to settle for a few pints of gnats piss lager and a pack of porky scratchings.

OLDER HIM’S. Middle aged, pot bellied, follicularly challenged, piloting an executive saloon, mission vital to the nations economy and his bank balance, speaking and gesticulating to his mopho headset whilst following instructions from the onboard navigating computer. HIM TRUCKER, looking down his nose at everyone else on the highway, mopho in one hand, fag in the other, steering using either elbow, swapping hands to drink from an everlasting coffee cup. In brief, biased précis, most SODS are male, who sin by;  Intruding into your safe braking zone,  tail gating and trying to push you off the road,  gap filling in front into your braking area,  keeping 2 chevrons apart on the specially signed surfaces, but get so close otherwise that you can’t see their number plate in your rear view mirror,  doing blind corner overtaking,  queue jumping in convoys,  lane wandering on the rare occasions that motorway traffic is moving,  letting you guess their intentions by not showing lights or signals,  treble parking to nip out (to shop, school, ATM, whatever),  using the cursed mopho to microwave their brain,  or an electric shaver, and not just on the face,  styling or brushing hair, including passengers,  cleaning teeth, ears, noses and all other orifices whilst driving. So, in slightly longer, hopefully more evidence based summary, most SODS are males who conduct themselves without any care or consideration for other road users. Seemingly oblivious to the effect of their psychopathic behaviour on those around them, who are left;   

Afeared for their own health and safety because the inevitable disability or death of self or loved ones in the accident, With righteous anger at such poor driving skills and their totally selfish actions In despair at having to resuscitate them and catch some socially embarrassing disease.

Why do the male SODS do it? How about this for a grand theory? They are powerless, impotent, tiny cogs in massive impersonal machine called “The” Company, “The” family, “The” society. Their only direct evidence of individual ability and worth comes from driving a car; cocooned from outside world, safe and cherished by something that tolerates all your ideas, opinions or actions. (Just watch them when the car won’t go!) They become reversible anti-social deviants when they climb into this womb for adults. And the female SODS? Who knows, I’m only a man. Who said I knew anything about what happens in a women’s head, and since when was I allowed to express an opinion on such matters, Heh? But, far more importantly, why do we, the other road users, the readers of this diatribe, who by definition are not SODS, allow them to carry on getting away with it? We must create an environment where “SODS off the roads” is not just an expletive bellowed out of the car window, but a campaign slogan with a real target. Achieved by; 1. The authorities applying the existing driving regulations by having a three or four month blitz, not a token few days over the end of calendar year season of enforced jollity. 2. The Courts and Probation Service being creative with due punishments; community service working for bereaved relatives of fatal RTA’s, serving hot drinks in hospital accident departments or trauma wards. ASBO’s with teeth. A few life sentences in prison for manslaughter due to dangerous driving. 3. Public naming and shaming by photographs in newspapers or roadside posters; bringing back the stocks. 4. Making one senior government minister responsible for coordinating all road safety policies, with a Life Peerage for a 25% reduction in the dead and injured statistics sustained over 2-3 years, and banishment to Political Outer Space for failing to deliver. In the mean time, kiss your nearest and dearest “goodbye” before each car trip, you never know; and don’t act like one of the SODS, I might be on the road in front of you.

JACK AND GILL IN 2008 PART THREE Gill and Lil left T'Both driven by Lou to the rail depot. The girls drank and had a good feed as the train took the strain to Leeds. They hit the sale stores and checked all floors for handbags, hats and weeds. Getting a very good deal on some fresh ganja!

Next morning at lunch, Lil phoned her partner and set Lou off to seek the answer. The girls relaxed with a sauna and rub then rehydrated at the nearest pub. By evening Lou had located Gill's man even the registration number of his van. He sent Lou a text, with Jack details upon which he left to them to act out on.

That night they disco'd, drank and doped, flirting with lads and avoiding a grope. Gill got maudling and started dawdling when it came to buying her share. "Hey up," said Lil, "what's the care, your face is a vision of gloom, what has created such doom?"

The very next day, on the train journey home Gill sat and fondled her telephone. She called Jack's mobile and waited for a reply. When he did, she rang off, feeling very shy! Jack redialled the missing call hoping against the odds that it was Gill and not some double-glazing bods. "I'm Gill, is that Jack, how are you doing?" "Totally fine as it's your number I'm viewing!"

Gill grabbed Lil and pulled her in so she could hear above the din. "I've met a man, well more a lad but he makes my soul feel very glad! He's rather short and got a limp In fact he looks like a trainee pimp!" Lil screeched with laughter "What are you after?"

They talked and chatted till the line went dead caused by power cables passing overhead. "Well," said Lil, "how did he seem?" "Very pleased and rather keen to meet again and talk some more?" "Behind his or your front door?" "We shall have to wait and see, just at the moment I need a tea!"

“His smile is sweet and his teeth are neat whilst his hands look firm and strong. God I desire them inside my thong!" "Good," said Lil, "what is his name and do you think that he is game?" "His name is Jack, he does the lights, he can fiddle my beams any old night!�

Jack meanwhile was in a dreadful dilemma, what should he do about ruddy Gemma? Her mother considered him quite a dish and had even made Gemma learn to fish to be able to support and encourage her man, which she did quite often on the floor of his van! Jack and Gemma made the most of life but was she the one to become his wife?

"Great," said Lil, "so why the pout, why not get him and try him out?" "I will, Lil, but that is the riddle, however hard I dodge and fiddle the company won't give me his name, rank or number!" "Never fear, I know who will get you out of lumber, and find the details of this heart throb. Lou will soon be on the job!"

After nights of worry and days inert, Jack new the decision would hurt. He dillied and shallied, doubting his mind but knowing that he would never find another girl like Gill. As the delay was making him ill, Jack decided to see his GP and ask him for a steadying pill.

Jack had to wait to see the quack and opted to see the nurse instead. He'd not been there for so very long they thought that he was dead! He briefly explained the symptoms he had, and she wrote them down on a pad. "Jack," she said, patting his knee "it is very plain to me go and dump Gemma, and be so nice then she won't put your goolies in a vice!" Jack knew the advice from the nurse was quite right. He ventured to Gemma's feeling so bright, planning to tell her and walk away free and get ready to sit Gill on his knee. But, at the sight of her mother he gave a full shudder and collapsed to the floor by their shit coloured front door. An emergency medic arrived just as her mother revived the lad on his back by giving him a smack that fractured his sternum and pierced his lung requiring a chest drain with water sealed bung. Jack was admitted to ITU wondering what else he could do? Jack lay in bed connected by pipes to machines that went bleep and burp. He was visited by Gemma every day and still could not a farewell say. The physio's made him breathe deeply then cough and spit, but weakly. Jack recovered and started to walk but he knew that he had to talk. Jack asked the staff for moral advice and they sent a plain but really nice Catholic nun called Yvette to help him not to fret. After discussion the answer was clear finish with Gemma, the horny dear, and take the risk that Gill would require Jack to fill all her dreams and desires.

If you can’t wait till next week Go to Jack and Gill in 2008

AND NOW FOR THE BORING STUFF Please copy any of this material as you like. But play fair and acknowledge the source. Failure to so do will result in you having bad dreams from guilt And me getting right pissed off. New issues will appear about weekly, please bookmark for a return. Any comments or suggestions can be left on the website/blog you have arrived at.



Over Fifty and Boring Old Fart Delight, 3  

The third fully functioning, free to all ,emag that offers a positive sideways view of the human condition.