Taming the Thames
Part 2
http://www.med-living.com
So we got our 14-foot sailing dinghy to Havengore Creek in the early hours of the morning.
Havengore Creek taught me that that you can actually be f*cked by a swing bridge which doesn’t at 4 in the morning.
I kid you not.
To those of you who read the enthralling first part to this epic saga, and are back for episode two.
For those of you determined to read on, despite having read the first episode, I sincerely hope you recover with treatment. Time they say is a great healer.
Anyway, I digress.
We had sailed proudly into Havengore Creek, ready to continue on our journey in a fourteen-foot dinghy to Hullbridge in Essex.
I say sailed proudly, anyone is entitled to a little journalistic licence.
We were cold, tired, soaked to the skin and suffering from third degree burns from that joyous instrument of terror, the Primus Stove.
We had failed to heat the tin of curry, and had eaten it cold, heavily seasoned with a teasing sauce of agua de sea.
Apparently the Americans have devised a method of extracting information from terror suspects enjoying their free holiday in the Hotel Guantanamo Bay.
It’s called the water torture, and has caused questions as to its legality to be raised worldwide.
Has no one told them that five minutes with a Primus Stove can reduce a grown man to the status of a well done BBQ sausage.
And it’s legal.
I’m lost. Ah yes. The swing bridge that didn’t!
We dragged the dinghy through the Essex mud, it is thicker than an Essex girl I promise you, and probably smells worse too.
And there in front of us stood the Havengore swing bridge in all its glory.
And, oh joy, next to it, the bridge keeper’s lodge.
Easy, ring the bell, bridge keeper opens the bridge, and we can go back to dragging the boat towards our goal.
That was the theory.
Enter the buggeration factor.
Murphy’s law to those who have never been buggered.
The bridge keeper was obviously a lot more sensible than we were, the note on the door informed us that he was at home having his well deserved weekend off.
Nice thought, he signed it “Happy Sailing”
Bastard!
“No problem,” said my nautically challenged skipper. "We’ll step the mast.”
“Why do we want to step on the mast?”, I asked. “We want to get under the bridge, not climb onto it.”
“Git,” he said in his normal friendly tone. “Step the mast means take it down, remove it, lower it!”
“And how do we do that?”, I whimsically enquired.
“We unscrew it you jerk”
“With what?” I helpfully enquired.
He looked at me just like the wife does when I suggest starting a home repair. A look of aloof disdain teasingly tinted with just a hint of violence.
“With the screwdriver,” he advised.
By now his face had gone bright red and the veins were standing out on his neck as he prepared to belt me one.
I wondered if now was the time to point out that the screwdriver was buried deep in the mud of the Maplin Sands. Left where it fell as we dived out of the boat filled with blazing water.
The fate of the screwdriver appeared to seep into his memory as he quickly changed the subject and clambered up onto the bank.
If you remember, I did mention earlier that my geographically challenged skipper had charted our course taking us through War Department property.
We were smack bang in the middle of Her Britanic Majesty’s Atomic Weapons Research Establishment on Foulness Island.
Marked on the charts with a skull and crossbones bearing the legend “Keep Out.”
I joined him sitting shivering on the muddy bank as we decided what our next move would be.
In my case it was to find myself suddenly and violently lying on my back with my shipmate attempting to give me a tongue sandwich.
Funny what flashes through your mind at times like that, he didn’t look gay and he’s got dogs breath, were but two of them.
I opened my eyes to find myself staring at what must have inspired Conan Doyle to write the Hound of the Baskervilles.
This “thing” had one foot on my chest and its teeth but inches from my throat. And the bloody thing was salivating as it eyed its next din dins, me.
Then this voice screams out, “Don’t move for chrissake he’s new!”
Is he real?. Moving was near the bottom of my to do list. Controlling bowel movements was my number one priority, that and survival.
“War Department police,” the voice said, “And I’ve lost his handler.”
“Oh dear how careless to lose the doggie’s handler”, I said. Or words to that effect.
“Has it eaten,” I asked.
“This isn’t a time for joking, “ said the copper.
I’m sure they only recruit the brain dead. Twelve stone of teeth is about to give me a love bite, and he tells me to stop joking.
Suddenly a piercing whistle broke through the noise of my tears.
Enter one dog handler shaking almost as much as I was.
Fang looked lovingly at my throat, but backed off slowly, much to my relief.
“Had me a bit worried there,” said the handler.
“No worries,” I said, “It had me terrified."
Anyway once things had settled down, Mr Plod reveals that they had picked us up on their “sensors.”
“Is that like KY jelly?”, I asked.
“The sound sensors,” was the mirthless reply.
What followed for the next twenty minutes was two Ministry of Defence policemen, bored to %%%%, who have come across a sailing boat at 4am with two evil spies in it.
“No I don’t have a passport, identification, a camera or a police record.”
“Yes I am British”
“No I didn’t know I was trespassing.”
“No this is not camouflage cream covering my entire body, its mud.”
“Yes I did realise that the mud is wet.”
“I’m very sorry for upsetting your nice dog.”
“No I do not have a nervous tic, I’m shivering.”
“Yes it was silly to wear wet mud at night.”
And so it went on.
Eventually we managed to convince these idiots that they had not stopped a Russian invasioniary force of two from taking control of their “patch.”
“You’ll have to sign the official secrets act confirming all you have just told us.”
“Fine, where do we sign?” They had no idea.
It soon became clear that nobody had ever made it through the obstacles below the water line designed to sink boats like ours before.
And we did it at low tide too!
Anyway, our two new best friends took us back to their Police Station, known aptly as “The Coppers Rest,” and produced the official looking documents to sign.
Give them their due, they also filled a thermos flask with coffee for us to take with us, and gave us coffee and bickies while we were there.
So now we go back to our boat, faced with the problem of getting a twelve-foot mast under a five-foot clearance bridge!
But that's another story!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 08, 2008
Taming the Thames
Mike Samuels
I was asked recently if I was a “yachtie”. Me!
Me what sailed the squalls and tempests of the Regents Park boating lake reliving Swallows and Amazons.
Me that had the distinction of sailing my full rigged schooners so fast I beat the Isle of Wight ferry.
OK , I was rowing and the first I knew about the ferry was when his air horns nearly blasted me out of the water coz I was rowing right across its path!
Me what sailed from Old Leigh in Essex to Hullbridge in a 14’ dinghy.
A trip we’d planned to take 4 hours.
We cast off, ramming very few moored boats, and set our sails towards the setting sun.
Actually the sun was behind us, but it didn’t sound so good, and you couldn’t see it anyway as it disappeared after an hour as mist closed in.
So we headed towards our destination sailing serenely along the Essex coast.
Maybe 5 hours into our 2 hour journey I began to suspect that my seafaring mate was not the old sea dog he’d professed to be.
I was even more sure when he brought out his nautical map, an A to Z of London streets.
Give him his due, there was a blue line which said river Thames.
Then the rain started.
Not gentle little drops, but the sort of rain that fills a little dinghy in a matter of minutes…so we both sheltered snugly under a paper carrier bag.
We got wet!
By the time the rain had stopped, the skipper announced that we would not reach our destination in the time allotted, highly perceptive of him as it was now 9pm and we’d been sailing for seven hours!
So much for two hours.
I forgot to mention that my mate, the skipper, was employed by Fords as scheduler…no wonder they had difficulty in making cars on time!
I did start to wonder if things were as planned, when a passing tanker called us on their loud hailer, and asked if we needed help!
We thanked them and said no, as we merrily sailed through the waves at the tanker's stern.
Such fun as the water leapt over our little boat. I now know what a car feels like in a car wash.
We sailed on, soaking wet, and shortly afterwards, the tidal Thames did what it does best, and changed tide, going out just when we wanted it at its deepest to allow us to pàss over the mudflats and sail into Havengore Creek..
There is a notorious area at the mouth of the Thames called the Maplin Sands. Maplin Mud more like it. When the tide goes out, the mudflats appear.
And small boats which are caught out there tend to act in a strange way.
They sink.
Discretion being the better part of valor, we decided to drop anchor and wait for the tide to come back in.
Anchor?
Ever seen the wheels on a tractor? OK.
So we dropped the middle bit of a tractor wheel, which was tied to a length of string that he called rope, which was tied to the boat...and waited.
It worked, we stopped and, by way of celebration and relief, our intrepid skipper broke out the rations and we moored up to a mud flat.
Curry was on the menu which we cooked on a small primus stove.
Not an easy task as the boat was still half-full of water.
No problem said my intrepid sea dog friend.
We can get out of the dinghy and stand on the mud flat while we balance the primus stove on one of the two planks which served as seats.
Now I don’t know if you have ever used a primus stove, but they are lethal.
Never let yer granny near one unless she’s made a will.
The idea is that you put your saucepan full of food on a small ring on top of the stove.
Then you have to light the burner.
But in those days these contraptions from hell burnt paraffin.
No problem, just prime it.
So I started pumping this little lever to bring the paraffin up to the top and my mate had a match out to light the stuff as it appeared.
Now I know that sounds simple, but we were standing on thick mud in maybe 18 inches of water.
The boat was rocking as boats do in the gentle breeze.
But a gentle breeze in the Thames estuary is what you’d call a storm if you experienced the same force of the wind ashore.
Anyway, I’m priming, pumping and trying to hold this stove steady while Indiana Jones lights the paraffin.
Easy stuff, we got the flame going with no problem at all.
But, nobody told me to stop pumping.
The stringy bit was burning beautifully, and as I pumped furiously, the flame followed the paraffin down the stove, along the seat and into the bottom of the boat.
Did you know water catches fire?
Neither did I, but the water in our boat was soon ablaze.
I bet you also didn’t know, that burning paraffin spreads so nice and quickly in a sea breeze.
Try pouring petrol on a barbie, and you’ll get the idea!
After having spent hours bailing the water out of our little dinghy, we now stood on the mud like two demented idiots tossing water back into the boat as we battled to put the flames out.
Then the rain started again, and far from putting the flames out they just floated higher, even the skipper from hell started to panic as our one little sail joined in the fun and caught light as the flames crawled up the ropes that were laying in the bottom of the boat.
Eventually we managed to control the inferno, and as we made a coffee from cold water from his flask, we decided to sit it out and wait for the tide to come in.
Now I’m not saying I was sailing with a nutcase, but miles from shore and sitting in 18 inches of water the skipper remembers silly things.
Unimportant things like, we can’t sail into Havengore Creek, our next point on what was turning out to be an epic voyage, until the tide is at its highest because of obstacles in the water designed to hole little boats just like ours.
He had forgotten to tell me that we were entering Ministry of Defence waters and the channel we were heading for passed right slap bang through the middle of an atomic weapons research station
Waters which are top secret, and admittance is forbidden to the unauthorised, a category which includes lunatic sailors.
Waters full of anti-submarine obstacles designed to commit atrocities to steel hulls.
Now he tells me!
Our wooden hull stood no chance, it was a breeding ground for woodworm, and the burnt bits from our cookery lesson hadn’t helped.
No problem, says he. These shallow channels are a doddle at full tide. We just sit here and wait for the tide to reach its full level and sail in under the radar.
Radar???.
I realised he was worried when a look of horror passed over his face.
Worrying about the radar I asked.
Forget the radar says he, we may have a problem.
A bigger problem than the army and the radar, and the boat bloody sinking, I asked.
Yes says he.
By now I am starting to regret bunking off Sunday School when I was a kid, and wondering if knowing the first verse of The Lords Prayer guarantees redemption.
Do you reckon our anchor rope is 4 metres long, he asked.
No idea I said, wondering if he was gonna hang himself before we drowned.
That’s good he said, it’s a 4 metre tide.
Tied to what I asked?
Not tied, he corrected, tide. T-I-D-E.
Oooo tide, I said. So what does that mean.
Well anything short of a 4 metre rope and we’d be swept into the creek where all the obstacles are, and they’d rip the bottom out of our boat.
We both jumped over the side as panic set in, to measure the rope.
Now there is this phenomenon on the Maplin Sands, which means that if you stand in 18 inches of water at low tide, over mud flats...that 18 inches deepens rapidly as the tide starts to come in.
And mud flats are certainly not flat.
And not flat mud flats have bloody great trenches around them And these trenches fill with water quicker than any other part.
And at night the mud flats and these trenches full of water all look the same colour.
Anyway, as I said, we both jumped on to the mud around the little yacht to find out how long the rope was.
And disappeared!
We both surfaced at about the same time and swam back to the side of the boat.
Pulling our way round to the front of the boat, we tugged at the rope.
No slack. We had already run out of anchor rope.
No problem, back into the boat, float in on the tide, and try to push ourselves clear of the bottom tearing obstacles with the oars.
I say no problem.
Have you ever tried to climb back into a boat which is running with the tide, dragging its anchor whilst trying to stop your wellies floating off up the Thames?
A boat where the mooring rope is now so tight that the boat is trying to act like a champagne cork trying to escape from a bottle?
It ain’t easy I can assure you.
But it is possible once sheer panic sets in.
Back in the boat, soaking wet, bloody cold and in a state of terror we sat huddled, one each side of the dinghy, with oars in our hands.
Now you’ve heard the saying about a light in the wilderness, there is such a light.
It sits at the bridge keeper’s lodge which in turn sits beside the swing bride at the entrance to Havengore Creek.
There it was, our salvation.
Now lights at sea, or rather lights on land as viewed from the sea are very deceptive.
They move, and keep moving.
At least that was what we had begun to believe as we pulled the boat out of the third creek which had suddenly ended.
More an inlet than a river.
Eventually we found the right one and the tide carried us up to the low bridge.
I say low, it was less than 2 metres above the boat.
I was about to learn three valuable lessons.
Swing bridges don’t swing at night, and masts are higher than a swing bridge.
And you can’t sail under the radar, the police are waiting for you!
But that’s another story…
Mike Samuels
I was asked recently if I was a “yachtie”. Me!
Me what sailed the squalls and tempests of the Regents Park boating lake reliving Swallows and Amazons.
Me that had the distinction of sailing my full rigged schooners so fast I beat the Isle of Wight ferry.
OK , I was rowing and the first I knew about the ferry was when his air horns nearly blasted me out of the water coz I was rowing right across its path!
Me what sailed from Old Leigh in Essex to Hullbridge in a 14’ dinghy.
A trip we’d planned to take 4 hours.
We cast off, ramming very few moored boats, and set our sails towards the setting sun.
Actually the sun was behind us, but it didn’t sound so good, and you couldn’t see it anyway as it disappeared after an hour as mist closed in.
So we headed towards our destination sailing serenely along the Essex coast.
Maybe 5 hours into our 2 hour journey I began to suspect that my seafaring mate was not the old sea dog he’d professed to be.
I was even more sure when he brought out his nautical map, an A to Z of London streets.
Give him his due, there was a blue line which said river Thames.
Then the rain started.
Not gentle little drops, but the sort of rain that fills a little dinghy in a matter of minutes…so we both sheltered snugly under a paper carrier bag.
We got wet!
By the time the rain had stopped, the skipper announced that we would not reach our destination in the time allotted, highly perceptive of him as it was now 9pm and we’d been sailing for seven hours!
So much for two hours.
I forgot to mention that my mate, the skipper, was employed by Fords as scheduler…no wonder they had difficulty in making cars on time!
I did start to wonder if things were as planned, when a passing tanker called us on their loud hailer, and asked if we needed help!
We thanked them and said no, as we merrily sailed through the waves at the tanker's stern.
Such fun as the water leapt over our little boat. I now know what a car feels like in a car wash.
We sailed on, soaking wet, and shortly afterwards, the tidal Thames did what it does best, and changed tide, going out just when we wanted it at its deepest to allow us to pàss over the mudflats and sail into Havengore Creek..
There is a notorious area at the mouth of the Thames called the Maplin Sands. Maplin Mud more like it. When the tide goes out, the mudflats appear.
And small boats which are caught out there tend to act in a strange way.
They sink.
Discretion being the better part of valor, we decided to drop anchor and wait for the tide to come back in.
Anchor?
Ever seen the wheels on a tractor? OK.
So we dropped the middle bit of a tractor wheel, which was tied to a length of string that he called rope, which was tied to the boat...and waited.
It worked, we stopped and, by way of celebration and relief, our intrepid skipper broke out the rations and we moored up to a mud flat.
Curry was on the menu which we cooked on a small primus stove.
Not an easy task as the boat was still half-full of water.
No problem said my intrepid sea dog friend.
We can get out of the dinghy and stand on the mud flat while we balance the primus stove on one of the two planks which served as seats.
Now I don’t know if you have ever used a primus stove, but they are lethal.
Never let yer granny near one unless she’s made a will.
The idea is that you put your saucepan full of food on a small ring on top of the stove.
Then you have to light the burner.
But in those days these contraptions from hell burnt paraffin.
No problem, just prime it.
So I started pumping this little lever to bring the paraffin up to the top and my mate had a match out to light the stuff as it appeared.
Now I know that sounds simple, but we were standing on thick mud in maybe 18 inches of water.
The boat was rocking as boats do in the gentle breeze.
But a gentle breeze in the Thames estuary is what you’d call a storm if you experienced the same force of the wind ashore.
Anyway, I’m priming, pumping and trying to hold this stove steady while Indiana Jones lights the paraffin.
Easy stuff, we got the flame going with no problem at all.
But, nobody told me to stop pumping.
The stringy bit was burning beautifully, and as I pumped furiously, the flame followed the paraffin down the stove, along the seat and into the bottom of the boat.
Did you know water catches fire?
Neither did I, but the water in our boat was soon ablaze.
I bet you also didn’t know, that burning paraffin spreads so nice and quickly in a sea breeze.
Try pouring petrol on a barbie, and you’ll get the idea!
After having spent hours bailing the water out of our little dinghy, we now stood on the mud like two demented idiots tossing water back into the boat as we battled to put the flames out.
Then the rain started again, and far from putting the flames out they just floated higher, even the skipper from hell started to panic as our one little sail joined in the fun and caught light as the flames crawled up the ropes that were laying in the bottom of the boat.
Eventually we managed to control the inferno, and as we made a coffee from cold water from his flask, we decided to sit it out and wait for the tide to come in.
Now I’m not saying I was sailing with a nutcase, but miles from shore and sitting in 18 inches of water the skipper remembers silly things.
Unimportant things like, we can’t sail into Havengore Creek, our next point on what was turning out to be an epic voyage, until the tide is at its highest because of obstacles in the water designed to hole little boats just like ours.
He had forgotten to tell me that we were entering Ministry of Defence waters and the channel we were heading for passed right slap bang through the middle of an atomic weapons research station
Waters which are top secret, and admittance is forbidden to the unauthorised, a category which includes lunatic sailors.
Waters full of anti-submarine obstacles designed to commit atrocities to steel hulls.
Now he tells me!
Our wooden hull stood no chance, it was a breeding ground for woodworm, and the burnt bits from our cookery lesson hadn’t helped.
No problem, says he. These shallow channels are a doddle at full tide. We just sit here and wait for the tide to reach its full level and sail in under the radar.
Radar???.
I realised he was worried when a look of horror passed over his face.
Worrying about the radar I asked.
Forget the radar says he, we may have a problem.
A bigger problem than the army and the radar, and the boat bloody sinking, I asked.
Yes says he.
By now I am starting to regret bunking off Sunday School when I was a kid, and wondering if knowing the first verse of The Lords Prayer guarantees redemption.
Do you reckon our anchor rope is 4 metres long, he asked.
No idea I said, wondering if he was gonna hang himself before we drowned.
That’s good he said, it’s a 4 metre tide.
Tied to what I asked?
Not tied, he corrected, tide. T-I-D-E.
Oooo tide, I said. So what does that mean.
Well anything short of a 4 metre rope and we’d be swept into the creek where all the obstacles are, and they’d rip the bottom out of our boat.
We both jumped over the side as panic set in, to measure the rope.
Now there is this phenomenon on the Maplin Sands, which means that if you stand in 18 inches of water at low tide, over mud flats...that 18 inches deepens rapidly as the tide starts to come in.
And mud flats are certainly not flat.
And not flat mud flats have bloody great trenches around them And these trenches fill with water quicker than any other part.
And at night the mud flats and these trenches full of water all look the same colour.
Anyway, as I said, we both jumped on to the mud around the little yacht to find out how long the rope was.
And disappeared!
We both surfaced at about the same time and swam back to the side of the boat.
Pulling our way round to the front of the boat, we tugged at the rope.
No slack. We had already run out of anchor rope.
No problem, back into the boat, float in on the tide, and try to push ourselves clear of the bottom tearing obstacles with the oars.
I say no problem.
Have you ever tried to climb back into a boat which is running with the tide, dragging its anchor whilst trying to stop your wellies floating off up the Thames?
A boat where the mooring rope is now so tight that the boat is trying to act like a champagne cork trying to escape from a bottle?
It ain’t easy I can assure you.
But it is possible once sheer panic sets in.
Back in the boat, soaking wet, bloody cold and in a state of terror we sat huddled, one each side of the dinghy, with oars in our hands.
Now you’ve heard the saying about a light in the wilderness, there is such a light.
It sits at the bridge keeper’s lodge which in turn sits beside the swing bride at the entrance to Havengore Creek.
There it was, our salvation.
Now lights at sea, or rather lights on land as viewed from the sea are very deceptive.
They move, and keep moving.
At least that was what we had begun to believe as we pulled the boat out of the third creek which had suddenly ended.
More an inlet than a river.
Eventually we found the right one and the tide carried us up to the low bridge.
I say low, it was less than 2 metres above the boat.
I was about to learn three valuable lessons.
Swing bridges don’t swing at night, and masts are higher than a swing bridge.
And you can’t sail under the radar, the police are waiting for you!
But that’s another story…
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
med-living.com
Replaces med-liv.com
To all those of you suffering withdrawal symptoms, here is a fun page from Mediterranean Living.
Find us at http://www.med-living.com
She was blonde and beautiful and it was her first time in the saddle.
The guy of her dreams had invited her to go horse riding with him, with stars in her eyes she had agreed.
Now it was just the two of them, slowly cantering along the beach.
Her body was alive with thoughts of making love in the gentle surf as it broke on the beach.
But then something frightened her goñden steed.
Sharply it veered off and picked up speed as it began to gallop out of control.
Faster and faster it sped, she hung on in fear of her life.
Then as quickly as it had started to run, the horse stopped and reared up, jigh on its hind legs.
She felt herself falling backwards with her foot caught in the stirrup, and she fell heavily, head first to the ground.
Her horse didn’t stop andh her head bounced on the ground as the horse would not stop or even slow down.
She felt herself losing consciousness…
Then her money ran out, she jumped off the roundabout and ran to the candy floss stall.
Which reminds me that taking Viagra like an attraction at Disneyland.
You have to wait an hour for a two minute ride!
My mate Ian is a kid at heart.
The other day he was in his back yard is trying to fly a kite.
Every time he threw it into the air, the wind would catch it for a few seconds then it comes crashing back down.
But Ian’s no quitter.
He persevered, throwing the kite and watching it nose dive into the ground.
So his wife is watching all this from the kitchen window.
Then the window opens and she yells to Ian, “You need more tail."
Ian turned slowly round, and through gritted teeth shouted, , "Make up yer ferkin mind, last night in bed you told me to go fly a kite!"
I was backstage at the theatre the other day, I just love the atmosphere just before curtain up.
We were putting on the ballet, The Nutcracker Suite. Just writing it makes my eyes water!
Anyway, all but two of the ballerinas were in costume early for the matinee performance.
At 1:55 the distressed director, flapping like a Prima Donna himself, asked these two ballerinas in the chorus why they were not yet in costume.
“It’s five minutes to curtain up”, he trilled.
If he’d flapped any more he would have taken off quicker than the curtain could rise!
So Cyntia looks at him haughtily and says, "I never dress until 1:58, bad luck you see"
His eyes flashing murderousñy through his eye-liner, he turned to other dancer and pouted, “And what about you, luvvey, don’t tell me you’re superstitious too?" he asked.
"Oh yes”, she flounced, her eyes showing absolute distaste, “I have a two to two tutu, too!”
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
http://www.med-living.com
Find us now at...
http://www.med-living.com
I'll write more when I resolve the situation, but be warned:
I renewed my domain name from a reseller of...
http://www.enom.com
The reseller has taken my money but not actioned my domain renewal.
I have contaced http://www.enom.com/ asking them to help, but all they do is refer me to the reseller.
http://www.enom.com/ have also bought the domain name I wanted which is great, but will not transfer it to me.
I have no option now but to recover my money from Paypal.
Watch this space...and be careful who you do business with on here.
Mike
Mediterranean Living Magazinehas changed to http://www.med-living.com
Find us now at...
http://www.med-living.com
I'll write more when I resolve the situation, but be warned:
I renewed my domain name from a reseller of...
http://www.enom.com
The reseller has taken my money but not actioned my domain renewal.
I have contaced http://www.enom.com/ asking them to help, but all they do is refer me to the reseller.
http://www.enom.com/ have also bought the domain name I wanted which is great, but will not transfer it to me.
I have no option now but to recover my money from Paypal.
Watch this space...and be careful who you do business with on here.
Mike
Life's answers
My wife and I were sitting in a bar recently, and I must have been staring at a drunken woman swigging her drink, as she sat alone at a nearby table."Do you know her?", asked the wife.
"Yes," I sighed. "She’s an old girlfriend. She started drinking after we split up, years ago, and I hear she hasn’t been sober since."
"Wow!" says the wife. "Who would think a person could go on Celebrating that long?"
At times like this, I think to myself, you could have married Cherie Blair mate!
But then I think, Cherie's worth a fortune.
I also hear she's the numero uno barrister for Human Rights in the UK.
Missed her vocation, with her looks it should have been animal rights.
Mind you, she got half way there when she married our Tone.
Did you hear Cherrie spouting off about how Tone is advising El Gordo how to win the next election.
That's a bit like asking the captain of the Titanic for sailing lessons.
It's no coincidence that Cherie has started talking to the press, her long awaited book has hit the shops earlier than planned.
Earlier than planned...that's marketing speak for "I got it out before the sh*t hit the fan"
You see, you can fool all of the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time, but if the people don't speak English in the first place you can fool all of the people all of the time.
Tone is nobody's fool.
He has now realised that the number one money making business in the world is religion.
That's why we don't hear too much from him at the moment.
He's a Protestant convert to Catholicism already.
I now believe that we will shortly see the Reverend, Father, Rabbi, Imam Pope Tone the 1st as the next Queen of England.
Do you ever wonder about life?
I do.
All the strain, all the pain, and then…nothing.
You die.
But I’ve been thinking.
Maybe, just maybe, someone got it all wrong.
People talk about the Great Architect of life, what if he had the plans upside down?
It does happen.
Maybe what we call negatives in photography are really positives.
We’d all walk around black and white.
And the Earth.
Maybe we should be living inside, not outside.
In one stroke we’d do away with global warming and ozone layers.
No more heating bills.
Aeroplanes would be built to fly in water.
Space would start on the surface.
It all makes sense.
All we’d have to worry about was that no one pulled the plug, the inside of the Earth would fill with water.
And life itself.
We go through the hassle of existing, and what happens at the end.
Nothing…we die.
But what if we started off dead.
First thing we’d know is waking up in an old people’s home, feeling better every day.
You’d know things could only get better.
Then they’d kick you out for being too young and healthy, you could then start collecting your pension, then, all of a sudden when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day.
You’d work for forty years feeling better all the time.
You’d feel fitter, younger, and full of life.
Your teeth would fall back in, you’d de-bald and other parts of you, if you’re a man, would start looking up again.
The longer it went on the more virile you’d get.
One long party until you’re ready to start school.
You graduate on your first day, snog all the girls you could find, and get ready for junior school.
There you’d become a kid, play all day long, no responsibilities, and “George” would be peeking out all day long.
As time went on you’d leave school to become a playschool kid.
Then as you got even younger, oh happy days.
You’d live in centrally heated luxury, nothing to do but sleep and play with boobs all day long.
Your food on tap.
You wouldn’t even have to get up to go the bathroom.
Then someone would turn the lights of and you’d spend your last 9 months in warm peaceful sleep.
And then one day, when your time had really come…you’d finish your life as an orgasm.
Go out with a bang!
http://www.med-living.com
Find us now at...
http://www.med-living.com
I'll write more when I resolve the situation, but be warned:
I renewed my domain name from a reseller of...
http://www.enom.com
The reseller has taken my money but not actioned my domain renewal.
I have contaced http://www.enom.com/ asking them to help, but all they do is refer me to the reseller.
http://www.enom.com/ have also bought the domain name I wanted which is great, but will not transfer it to me.
I have no option now but to recover my money from Paypal.
Watch this space...and be careful who you do business with on here.
Mike
Mediterranean Living Magazinehas changed to http://www.med-living.com
Find us now at...
http://www.med-living.com
I'll write more when I resolve the situation, but be warned:
I renewed my domain name from a reseller of...
http://www.enom.com
The reseller has taken my money but not actioned my domain renewal.
I have contaced http://www.enom.com/ asking them to help, but all they do is refer me to the reseller.
http://www.enom.com/ have also bought the domain name I wanted which is great, but will not transfer it to me.
I have no option now but to recover my money from Paypal.
Watch this space...and be careful who you do business with on here.
Mike
Friday, January 11, 2008
You Live And Learn!
I've often said after reading something I wrote, "I wish I could write like that".
Then lo and behold I find I'm not alone!
I was reading this week that it's a common occurrence, and it's all down to your muse.
Now there's me thinking a mews is a little street in London, round the back of big houses, where they used to stable the horses.
No, this muse is someone who does your writing for you. Like a MacDonalds Take-Away but for words.
You sit there, do nothing and all of a sudden your word meal is ready to publish.
Joking aside, there is a lot to be said for just sitting there and typing.
Type anything.
And surprisingly the words do start to flow.
No corrections, that comes later. Just write.
Don't even think about what you're writing.
And voilà, your article is ready!
Mind you, they do also say, that given enough time, you can sit a monkey in front of a typewriter and it will type the complete works of Shakespeare.
Sigh...now I have to decide whether I'm assisted by a muse or a monkey!
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
I put a lot of work into Mediterranean Living print magazine.
Hour and hours of research go into each edition.
I was talking to a lady today who said that she seemed to discover something new on each page.
Now I've been wondering for ages now how to shape this blog, what direction it should take.
So I'm going to start from today by linking to articles in previous editions, new articles of up to the minute interest and anything that is interesting, informative or a bloody good laugh!
Let's start with this true-life story from the US of A...
True Life Horror. - The men in black watched the mother give birth, then took the baby away.
Why? The baby does not have mother's DNA. Any parent's worst nightmare! http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
While you're there take a look at how teen millionairess Patty Hearst became a victim of The Stockholm Syndrome. The Syndrome occurs when a hostage becomes so reliant in their captors that they establish a loving relationship. Bizarre but true. http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
How do the silver screen's most glamorous stars rate their men?
Just to whet your appetite, one classic came from the 12 year old girl in the spoof movie Airplane.
When asked by the hostess how she likes her coffee she replies, "The same as I like my men, strong and black"
Now sit back and enjoy Mae West, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Joan Rivers as they slag off the superior sex! http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
Lots more of the same to follow.
Have a good one,
Mike
Hour and hours of research go into each edition.
I was talking to a lady today who said that she seemed to discover something new on each page.
Now I've been wondering for ages now how to shape this blog, what direction it should take.
So I'm going to start from today by linking to articles in previous editions, new articles of up to the minute interest and anything that is interesting, informative or a bloody good laugh!
Let's start with this true-life story from the US of A...
True Life Horror. - The men in black watched the mother give birth, then took the baby away.
Why? The baby does not have mother's DNA. Any parent's worst nightmare! http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
While you're there take a look at how teen millionairess Patty Hearst became a victim of The Stockholm Syndrome. The Syndrome occurs when a hostage becomes so reliant in their captors that they establish a loving relationship. Bizarre but true. http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
How do the silver screen's most glamorous stars rate their men?
Just to whet your appetite, one classic came from the 12 year old girl in the spoof movie Airplane.
When asked by the hostess how she likes her coffee she replies, "The same as I like my men, strong and black"
Now sit back and enjoy Mae West, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Joan Rivers as they slag off the superior sex! http://www.med-liv.com/Articles Index.html
Lots more of the same to follow.
Have a good one,
Mike
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Is Being Too Clean Killing Us?
My mother was the daughter of a coal miner from the north of England.
One of the things she always used to say was, “As my mother used to say, thicker the dirt, better the man”.
Just a saying, of course, but what was an old wives tale, yet again appears to have a basis in fact.
Mother Nature likes to keep a balance between the good and the bad, she seems to like to offset one against the other. Live and let live.
So while the bad guys in our bodies are trying to harm us, and existing, the good guys trying to protect us, while also existing.
One of the puzzles of health today, is that at a time when the developed countries have never been cleaner, previously unknown diseases are appearing.
Diseases such as hay fever and asthma to diabetes and multiple sclerosis are on the rise, whereas they are relatively unknown in the poorer countries.
Joel Weinstock, the head of gastroenterology and herpetology at Tufts New England Medical Centre, believes we have become just too clean.
Read the article here... http://www.med-liv.com/Medical Update.html
Talking about cleanliness, they say it's next to Godliness, which has very little to do with
little Johnny who boarded a bus and sat down next to this man.
He noticed that the man had a strange kind of collar, so he asked him, "Excuse me sir, but why do you have your shirt collar on backwards?" He was a posh little git!
The man smiled kindly and replied, "I wear this collar because I am a Father."
Little Johnny thought for a second then said, "Sir, I have a father, but he wears his collar the other way around. Why do you wear your collar so differently?"
The priest thought for a moment then said, "I am the father of many."
Little Johnny quickly said, "My father, too, is the father of many. He has four sons, four daughters and many grandchildren. But, he wears his collar like everyone else does. Why do you wear yours backwards?"
The priest, flustered, said impatiently, "I am the Father of hundreds and hundreds of people." Little Johnny sat quietly for a while.
As he got up to leave the bus, he leaned over to the priest and said, "Mister, maybe you should wear your trousers backwards."
Have a good one,
Mike
My mother was the daughter of a coal miner from the north of England.
One of the things she always used to say was, “As my mother used to say, thicker the dirt, better the man”.
Just a saying, of course, but what was an old wives tale, yet again appears to have a basis in fact.
Mother Nature likes to keep a balance between the good and the bad, she seems to like to offset one against the other. Live and let live.
So while the bad guys in our bodies are trying to harm us, and existing, the good guys trying to protect us, while also existing.
One of the puzzles of health today, is that at a time when the developed countries have never been cleaner, previously unknown diseases are appearing.
Diseases such as hay fever and asthma to diabetes and multiple sclerosis are on the rise, whereas they are relatively unknown in the poorer countries.
Joel Weinstock, the head of gastroenterology and herpetology at Tufts New England Medical Centre, believes we have become just too clean.
Read the article here... http://www.med-liv.com/Medical Update.html
Talking about cleanliness, they say it's next to Godliness, which has very little to do with
little Johnny who boarded a bus and sat down next to this man.
He noticed that the man had a strange kind of collar, so he asked him, "Excuse me sir, but why do you have your shirt collar on backwards?" He was a posh little git!
The man smiled kindly and replied, "I wear this collar because I am a Father."
Little Johnny thought for a second then said, "Sir, I have a father, but he wears his collar the other way around. Why do you wear your collar so differently?"
The priest thought for a moment then said, "I am the father of many."
Little Johnny quickly said, "My father, too, is the father of many. He has four sons, four daughters and many grandchildren. But, he wears his collar like everyone else does. Why do you wear yours backwards?"
The priest, flustered, said impatiently, "I am the Father of hundreds and hundreds of people." Little Johnny sat quietly for a while.
As he got up to leave the bus, he leaned over to the priest and said, "Mister, maybe you should wear your trousers backwards."
Have a good one,
Mike
Friday, January 04, 2008
Happy New Year for 2008
Had a great start with this blog.
Added a few meaningful tweaks of my own...to perfect things you know.
Added a few meaningful tweaks of my own...to perfect things you know.
Lost the bloody lot.
Sigh.
So please excuse the rather bare page, I hope to sort it out shortly. Either that, knowing my luck and skill, this is the last post!
Winter edition of the mag is out now, if you haven't seen a copy yet, then either be bloody patient, or you can read it on the net at: www.med-liv.com
As the most popular part of the mag seems to be the jokes, I've started pages on the website for all you pervs, racists and heathens out there. Take a look.
I say pages, there is on, but it's a start.
You can also sign up for a regular dose of funnies by email...just send an unstamped email to laughs@med-liv.com and mark the subject jokes.
This reminded me of my younger days,
Sigh.
So please excuse the rather bare page, I hope to sort it out shortly. Either that, knowing my luck and skill, this is the last post!
Winter edition of the mag is out now, if you haven't seen a copy yet, then either be bloody patient, or you can read it on the net at: www.med-liv.com
As the most popular part of the mag seems to be the jokes, I've started pages on the website for all you pervs, racists and heathens out there. Take a look.
I say pages, there is on, but it's a start.
You can also sign up for a regular dose of funnies by email...just send an unstamped email to laughs@med-liv.com and mark the subject jokes.
This reminded me of my younger days,
A lonely wife brought a man she had just met at a bar home to her bedroom one evening when she thought her husband was out of town.
They immediately tore each other's clothes off and started going at it.
She sat up quickly in bed as she heard the key in the lock.
"Quick!" she said to the man, "it's my husband! You've got to get out of here quick!"
"Where's the back door?" the man asked as he grabbed his clothes.
"There isn't one," she replied.
"Where would you like one?" he asked.
They immediately tore each other's clothes off and started going at it.
She sat up quickly in bed as she heard the key in the lock.
"Quick!" she said to the man, "it's my husband! You've got to get out of here quick!"
"Where's the back door?" the man asked as he grabbed his clothes.
"There isn't one," she replied.
"Where would you like one?" he asked.
Reuters came up with these facts, about the production of cocaine in Latin America, this week.
Of the money earned,
- 2% goes to the growers.
0.7% goes to those who convert it from a leaf to pure cocaine;
5.2% goes on the “system” in the country of origin, the wholesalers if you like.
91%, goes to the drug barons, dealers and sellers.
So just 2.7% goes to the producers, those involved before the Mr Bigs of the drugs world get their filthy mitts on it.
Much of this 2.7% goes to feed the starving poor in Latin America, and many areas now rely on the growing of drugs as a source of income.
America spends a fortune fighting the drugs trade in South America.
I know it sounds simplistic, but wouldn’t money diverted to these poor countries to give a reasonable minimum wage encourage the growers to give up growing the illegal crops?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)