Dog Biscuits

How do you feel about eating dog biscuits? One of my friends, who was in the passenger seat of the car on the way to play tennis, and had clearly not had sufficient for breakfast, began tucking in to a bag of canine treats, thus denying Ronnie and Reggie (our 2 new puppies – well named it seems as both of them are thieves and Ronnie is a psychopath -). The dog biscuit nicker expressed particular liking for the bone shaped titbits. He told me he had developed the taste when he was a child being brought up in the Cheshire. Now my old pal Peachy Butterfield always claims that Cheshire is a misplaced Home County, but here is further evidence that he is wrong. With that level of deprivation, Cheshire must certainly be considered as “up north” where all Southerners know it is grim. But who was it? I hear you ask. I cannot reveal the name of the miscreant except to say; think not so boring accountant who featured in a recent episode of this column, and that Clive “Dog Biscuit” Slater might be looking a bit sheepish (dogish?) when reading this.

So there I was with That Nice Lady Decorator sitting on the balcony for a cheeky beer at the beautiful Anchor Bleu at Bosham one lunchtime with a view over the bay and all was well in my world, until a delivery van appeared (see before and after pictures below) and parked directly in our view.

A Lovely view of Bosham

A crap view of Boshan

Having made his delivery he promptly decided to eat his lunch in his van and enjoy my views of the incoming tide. I was going to remonstrate with him until I noticed that he was about 6 feet 6 inches tall, about 20 stone, scowling and had tattoos all over his arms, mostly involving death and violence to southerners. Then I thought, live and let live… or perhaps not remonstrate and stay alive. A first world problem I think, as is which currency exchange provider to choose when moving money to and from other currencies. This week I favour Currencies Direct.

Many of you will be aware of my invention of the GAWP (Getting Away With it old Persons) card. It has been suggested to me that I should produce it in two colours, enabling some latitude between a yellow and red card offence. A good idea which I will, of course, claim as my own when it comes to fruition.

Whilst we are on the subject of cards, I have begun to think that I would like to have a card that I could serve on the political correct youngsters who, in my GAWP opinion, are gradually exorcising humour, reason and historical respect from every aspect of life. I have said it before, that us 60 somethings have lived through the best 5 decades that there has ever been, the 60’s to the Noughties. Now the world of political correctness is closing in and I want to fight back. That Nice Lady Decorator has come up with a brilliant concept; the SPUNCK card.

In this instance SPUNCK would be an acronym for Supercilious Pretentious Unctuous Nauseating, Corbynite Kids. This is brilliant and I hope that I have the courage to produce such an item, even if I am too afraid of their collective sense of humour failure to find anything amusing, ever to serve one…

One final revelation, Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor last night recounted the story of his mum aged 83 who last week had used the word “bollocks” in a conversation with her vicar. When it was suggested that the correct word was testicles, she replied that she must be hanging with the wrong crowd…

Chris France