ADRIENNE'S HIV BLOG – Hivine's Weblog

HIVINE is written by HIV positive women but still with a sense of humour

Archive for January, 2009

Stairway to Heaven

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Nothing lasts forever, not our cars, not our carpets and least of all our bodies, especially if we are suffering from a chronic illness such as HIV. Things tend to wear out and drop off, although hopefully not from our bodies (although they do tend to drop off my poor old mondeo) but there comes a time when one has to renew one’s material possessions. In this case I am talking about ‘ones,’ as in this ones, stair carpet, which over the years, a bit like me, possibly because throughout my life I have let too many people walk all over me, has become threadbare and subject to bald patches.

 

The comparison to my own thinning locks was starting to depress me every time I either climbed or descended my stairs, which I do on numerous occasions throughout the day – and also during the night if I’m having one of those nights when I can’t sleep. So I decided the time had come to take action and this action had to be taken immediately, because according to the voice over by Chris Evans in the latest advert for ‘Allied Carpets’, the sale was about to end and I had to hurry, hurry, hurry on down there if I wanted to buy my ‘stairway to heaven’ so to speak, and besides, according to the words of the timeless song by Led Zeppelin, which are inscribed upon my heart, I knew only too well what would happen if I didn’t.

 

“When she gets there she knows

If the stores are all closed

With a word she can get what she came for.”

 

But a word where? I’d never really understood that line and anyway, in whose ear? I didn’t think Chris Evans would lend me his, because rumour has it, or at least according to his ex wife, he is supposedly quite tight. Besides, he never stops talking and when he’s not on the radio he’s too busy advertising carpets to listen to the likes of me. And I don’t think poor old Led Zep are currently in good enough shape to ask them about my stair carpet, as one of their last musical compositions was entitled, “I’m gonna crawl” – unless they meant over the carpet of course.

 

But little did I know when I embarked on this course of action, what deep inner issues were lurking within me and which would arise to meet me during the rocky road, tufted course, underlay, as in on the road to (or was that Mandalay?) and other associated carpet terminology, when finding my personnal stairway to heaven.

 

I made it down to Allied Carpets just in time for the end of sale bargains, but I was cautious of being taken in by the money saving claims of the advert as Led so aptly warns us when in the act of negotiating any kind of deal on a stair related issue –

 

“There’s a sign on the wall

But she wants to be sure

Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.”

 

Exactly, Led, just as you pointed out. The sign was saying one thing and the salesman was saying another. I decided to go ahead anyway; regardless of the cost, but what colour to choose and what would it say about me? Obviously, a patterned carpet was not an option, as according to ‘Changing Rooms’ and the likes, we have a moral obligation these days to be minimalists. However, I am not a minimalist, no matter how hard I try; I even hang on to my cobwebs like Miss Haversham, although not my wedding dress which I cut up years ago for net curtains. I’m a maximist through and through, which is not a follower of Max Clifford, nor a political party, although I’m thinking of starting one in opposition to the Laurence Llewellyn Bowens of this world and their carpetical beliefs.

 

The huge carpet warehouse was an absolute nightmare for a maximist, or member of any political party for that matter, not to mention a Libran, as we are renowned for not being able to make up our minds. So many colours to choose from and so little time – up until midnight as it happened, which was when the sale ended. I felt pressured from within, torn with indecision. I flicked through the coloured square samples like the heavy cloth pages of a children’s book again and again. The hour was drawing nigh – I had to choose. So what did I do – I went for the safe option of a totally neutral colour. What had happened to me? Being a counsellor had obviously got to me and overtaken my bohemian artistic tendencies and love of outrageous colours.

 

“Can I change my mind about the colour, or should I say lack of colour, if I want?” I asked Mr Allied carpets when he came to measure up the following day. “The thing is, I can’t get excited about it and as there is very little excitement in my life these days, apart from twiddling with my blogs of an evening, re-carpeting my stairs is all I’ve got to look forward to. Sad isn’t it?” I looked meaningfully at carpet man, “Maybe I should go for a more exciting option, what do you think?”

 

I sincerely hoped carpet man didn’t think I was coming on to him by pointing out the lack of excitement in my life, or by hinting about ‘other’ more exciting options. I also hoped he was computer literate and knew what a blog was. But if he had misunderstood my intentions, he gave me no sign, instead simply shrugged his carpet measurer’s shoulders, which were slightly hunched after spending his entire life bent over his tape measure in dusty corners and with a sigh, wearily wiped a stray bit of lint off his chin (at least that’s what I hoped it was and nothing more suspect). “Trouble is,” he said philosophically in a broad Lancashire brogue, “We live in a neutral world.”

 

How true, I thought sadly, especially in relation to art, which has become so mediocre these days its virtually non existent.

 

For some reason carpet man’s comment upset and disturbed me and stayed twirling round in my brain all night like the pattern of an old cinema carpet. I even dreamt about bloody carpets; well, I dreamt I found a stray dog actually whose tightly woven coat resembled a carpet, in fact, it was exactly the same colour and texture as the one I’d chosen for the stairs, a bit like a poodle with very tight curls that were bumpy and not at all pleasant to stroke. Somehow, by the end of the dream and don’t ask me how this came about, carpet dog had magically turned into an old man in a raincoat, who I had brought home with me and wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Unlike carpet dog, stroking the old man’s coat (or anything else for that matter) was not an option, although doubtless to say the old man probably wouldn’t have objected.

 

Well, I thought, never mind worrying about appearing to come on to Mr Allied carpets. Things were really getting bad on the relationship front, or lack of it, if I was dreaming about bringing stray men home. Especially old ones – what was that all about and what would a psychiatrist make of it? I will refrain here from making the obvious and rather crude reference to a certain type of carpet known in the trade as shag pile, although no doubt the psychiatrists would, as they have all been brainwashed by Freud and think everything from an umbrella down to a carpet probably, has got some kind of sexual connotation. I was obviously mixing up my issues here. Yes, I wanted a new stair carpet, but what I really wanted and I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that, was a dog – what I most definitely did not need was a stray man, old or otherwise – although chance would be a fine thing in my condition.

 

Talking of old things, my stair carpet dates back to pre war days having been donated by my deceased partner from the time of his first marriage, so no wonder it was worn out and probably by this time riddled with carpet bugs. Did you know that however scrupulously we endeavour (or not in my case) to keep our houses clean, bugs still reside in our carpets and are much more common than we think. People even write books about them, for instance, ‘How Clean is Your House’ and of course the best selling blockbuster from the sixties by Harold Robbins, ‘The Carpetbuggers’, which was also adapted into a film of the same name, although at the time it suffered some terrible reviews. For example in the New York Times the reviewer complained that the plot was merely, “an excuse for a collection of monotonous episodes about normal and abnormal sex.”

 

Sounds like a good read to me and so did a lot of other people apparently, because on the date the review was published, ‘The Carpetbuggers’ was already at number nine on the ‘Times’ best seller list and was eventually to sell over eight million copies and is estimated to be the fourth most-read book in history.

 

Perhaps I should take a leaf out of dear Harold’s book and mention a few bugs in mine – although I’m already half way there, as it is called, ‘The Spider and the Fly’. But maybe I should change that to ‘The Spider and the Carpet Buggers’, maybe that way I can get it published without having to do it myself.

Hint hint to any publishers out there

 

Talking of dirty books and by that I don’t necessarily mean mine, in what’s known as ‘Dirty Talk’ on one website in direct reference to the fearful Kim and Aggie’s ‘How Clean is your House’, I chanced upon the following top tips on cleaning your carpets.

 

Wash bad spots with cheap shaving cream after which vacuum them up.”

 

At least I think its carpets they were referring to, although on second thoughts it could have been acne I suppose.

 

“After anything has sat on it for any length of time rub it with an ice cube and it pops back up.”

 

There again, I think it was carpet pile they were talking about – or it could have been piles, or even impotence for that matter, but probably not, as cold water is reputed to have the opposite effect.

 

Carpets, either with or without bugs, have often been featured in literature and in particular magic carpets, which have appeared in various tomes dating from biblical times through to the present day. The popularity of “One Thousand and One Nights” brought magic carpets to the attention of western audiences, not to mention the west end with David Essex and his accompanying tune, “On this night of a thousand stars” and not forgetting Bobby Vee’s famous classic, “Cos the night has a thousand eyes.”

 

The literary traditions of other cultures also feature magical carpets. Solomon’s carpet (not currently available in the Allied Carpet sale I must quickly point out – at least at the time of going to press) was reportedly made of green silk with a golden weft, sixty miles long and sixty miles wide.

 

“When Solomon sat upon the carpet he was caught up by the wind, and sailed through the air so quickly that he breakfasted at Damascus and supped in the

Media.”

 

Is that a bit like having a drink in the ‘hospitality suite’ or the ‘green room’ before the Jonathon Ross show, who I am pleased to note is now back on the box on Friday nights having been dragged over the carpet, or was it hauled over the coals, by his bosses at the BBC for his rude phone call.

 

In Russian folk tales, a chap called Baba Yaga supplied someone called Ivan the Fool with a flying carpet as well as, according to wikipedia, “other magical gifts, for example a ball that rolls in front of the hero showing him the way, or a towel that can turn into a bridge.”

 

Well the latter could come in very handy especially if you’ve left the taps running and you’ve just had your bathroom re-carpeted.

 

“Such gifts help the hero to find his way ‘beyond thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-ten kingdom’.”

 

So that’s why mums go to thriceland, along with Ivan the fool, who if his name is anything to go by is not to be believed and that’s probably why they didn’t use him in the advert, aside from the fact he hasn’t recently featured in ‘I’m a celebrity get me out of here’ – although there have been many other fools who have.

 

Carpet baggers as opposed to buggers is also a term widely used in politics in the US to describe outsiders’ attempting to gain political office or economic advantage, especially in areas thematically or geographically to which they previously had no connection. In 2004, Republican Alan Keyes was called a carpetbagger when he moved to Illinois only one month before the election for senator, which he lost, thankfully, to Barack Obama.

 

According to wikipedia the term carpetbagger has the generic meaning of a presumptuous newcomer who enters a new territory seeking success. It derived from ambitious northerners who flocked to the south carrying their clothes and possessions in a handbag made of carpet material seeking opportunities to help newly enfranchised citizens run for political office in return for various favours.

 

Well, I know in general southerners don’t think much of us northerners, but that’s going a bit far and what do they mean by in return for various favours? Although I believe from today’s news that in The House of Lords no less, that kind of thing does go on and by ‘ambitious’ northerners to boot, as in the case of our own Lord Taylor of Blackburn, who is in big trouble today by allegedly being prepared to change the law for cash. However, when questioned by the reporter, like Churchill the dog, as opposed to Churchill the Prime Minister, he replied in a broad Lancashire accent, “no no no no no – you don’t do things like that, that’s stupid.”  His carpet bag would have been stuffed to overflowing with pound notes should the deal have gone through – one hundred thousand as opposed to one thousand and one nights worth of them – but  luckily the rug was pulled from under his feet by the reporter. I’ll bet he’s wishing for a magic carpet right now to carry him away or for the floor to open and swallow him up.

 

In Mark Twain’s “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven,” magic carpets are used to instantaneously travel throughout heaven –

so that’s where Led got the inspiration for stairway to heaven – I always wondered.

 

Oooooh and it makes me wonder

 

Anyway, in relation to my own particular stairway to heaven, there is no going back now as the deposit is paid and the colour decision i.e. boring neutral is now set in stone, or carpet if you prefer – and I have to say that all the stress has not helped with my attempts at trying to give up smoking – Although allegedly, our Janet has, so if she is reading this – well done our kid.

 

I have still to give up the filthy habit and so does my son, although we are both pretending that we have. My son can’t fool me however because once again to quote the words of Led’s song –

 

“In my thoughts I have seen…..

Rings of smoke through the trees….”

 

But it wasn’t in my thoughts; it was in fact my son having crafty smoke in garden

 

And I’d just like to add for my neighbour’s benefit —

 

“If there’s a rustle in your hedgerow

Don’t be alarmed now..”

 

It’s only me lurking in the bushes doing the same. But old habits of a lifetime are hard to break and in the words of mark Twain –

 

“A habit cannot be tossed out the window; it must be coaxed down the stairs a step at a time.”

 

But I’ll wait until I get the new carpet.

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Playing Leapfrog with a Unicorn

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“The unicorns were the most recognisable magic the fairies possessed,
and they sent them to those worlds where belief in the magic was in danger of failing altogether.
After all there has to be some belief in magic – however small – for any world to survive”.                                                                                                                                
Terry Brooks, The Black Unicorn

After the unanimous decision was reached by the Trustees of my deceased partners Estate that they did not ‘wish’ to support my application for art funding, even though through their ‘Charitable’ Trust they are supporting other artists, I am finding it hard to believe in unicorns, in magic or indeed that there is any justice in this world. My painting above ‘The Last Unicorn’ I donated to charity many years ago but it seems in the case of the Trustees, charity does not begin at home.

However, No door closes without opening another” “Better than gold is the tale well told” so I’d better get on with finishing my book and last but not least,“Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.”

Old Goat’s Home

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It was my son’s birthday on Sunday – twenty nine, I can hardly believe it. Where have the years gone? After a birthday lunch we decided to go for a ‘healthy’ walk to Witton Park and as is our custom, went to pay a visit to the three Billy goats gruff who live not under a bridge, but in a fenced off enclosure in a B&Q garden shed with their photographs pinned to the door. My son especially wanted to pay his respects to Elvis, his favourite goat with whom over the course of time he has formed a special bond, but when we got there, the shed was all shuttered up, no one was at home and Elvis’s photo had been removed from the door. Elvis had left the building.

 

This was a tragedy, especially on my son’s birthday, but as we walked despondently away from the abandoned shed, we saw with pleasure that Elvis and his family, probably because of the freezing temperatures, had been relocated to a centrally heated barn. That’s obviously thanks to good old Gordon Brown, who even in the midst of financial crisis and with the country on the verge of total ruin, has magnanimously decided to pay the princely sum of twenty five pounds to all the old goats in England towards their heating bills. I do hope Elvis appreciates this, although he didn’t seem to.

 

“Elvis, Elvis,” we shouted excitedly, like star struck fans. But although Elvis poked his ageing horns out of the door, tossed his quiff and looked at us with his soulful eyes and even attempted a typical Elvis style knee jerk, he didn’t venture out to greet us, which was quite disappointing to say the least. I tried singing, “Are you lonesome tonight,” quickly followed by, “The lonely goatherd,” complete with yodelling, but for once he didn’t respond. Maybe I should have sung, “All shook up,” or, “It’s now or never,” two of his other favourite ditties, but I was starting to get funny looks from the other passers by with their hordes of offspring, also in search of Elvis, not to mention being a cause of acute embarrassment to the birthday boy, who can’t abide me singing at the best of times.

 

Now I come to think about it, I’ve just realised why my son and Elvis have such a special bond – he’s a Capricorn of course, the sign of the goat and so in fact was Elvis who was born on 8 January 1935 – Elvis Presley that is, I have no idea when Elvis the goat was born and neither does he probably, but he must be over sixty five otherwise he wouldn’t have qualified for Gordon Brown’s one off heating payment. According to goatworld.com, there are an estimated 450 million goats in the world. That’s a lot of goats. It’s a good job they don’t all live in England is all I can say, or Gordon Brown really would be in trouble.

 

Capricorns are ruled by Saturn, which explains a lot as far as my son is concerned. Apparently, their main characteristics are egotism, stubbornness and they are cruel taskmasters with materialistic tendencies. As the mother of a Capricorn and having just forked out for his birthday present, I can personally vouch for this. They are also supposed to have good organisational skills, hate untidiness and have a strong work ethic, so I don’t know what happened there. Capricorns need their privacy and dislike public embarrassment, which is unfortunate for my son considering his mother’s public profile, as in the writing this blog for example, not to mention my recent ‘Dancing on ice,’ video.

 

Some interesting facts about goats; they have a four chambered stomach, which I would imagine would look a bit like one of those sock organiser drawers and come in very useful as Capricorns allegedly like to be very organised. It also means they can eat just about anything, goats that is, not necessarily Capricorns – and obviously they do eat everything including the  kitchen sink as one of the chambers, the ‘reticulum’, is also known as the ‘hardware stomach’. Although my son eats me out of house and home he hasn’t started on the frying pans or the mop bucket yet – but give him time. A four chambered stomach would come in very handy for people with HIV as we could store our meds in a special compartment and in that way remember if we’d forgotten to take them or not.

 

If you are considering raising some kids yourself, although at this point I would have to say I wouldn’t bother if I were you, according to the website you must be aware that kids learn their eating habits from their mothers, therefore they will have a preference for grass. Although, they can hardly blame that on me, can they, as someone who has never touched the stuff. They also advise if you want to purchase a brush eating goat to make sure it was raised by a brush eating mother. Now I’ve heard of jumping the broomstick, which in some cultures means getting married, or living over the brush which means living together, but as for eating them?  

 

According to Wikipedia, female goats are called does or nannies and just before giving birth to their kids, the mother will display heavy breathing, a worried look, become restless and show a great display of affection for her keeper – although they didn’t say how. Chocolates and champagne perhaps, or flowers? Nothing like humans then. I can distinctly remember, even though it was twenty nine years ago, calling my ex husband all the names under the sun whilst in the throes of giving birth to my one and only kid and telling the nurses to piss off.

 

There are many different breeds of goat apparently, but one I wasn’t familiar with and which particularly took my fancy was the ‘fainting goat’, so named because when they are startled their muscles freeze and like ladies of the last century due to their delicate natures and tight corsets, swoon and fall over. If you startle a younger goat it will stiffen and topple over, even though it’s not wearing a corset, whereas older goats who well might be wearing some kind of surgical support, have learned to spread their legs, or lean against something when startled and often will continue to run about in an awkward stiff-legged shuffle. You might have noticed this if you have had cause to visit an old goat’s home recently where they tend to provide them with Zimmer frames so they won’t fall over when startled by the sudden and unexpected appearance of a long lost relative.  

 

Fainting goats, also known as mytonic goats, nervous goats, stiff leg goats, wooden leg goats or Tennessee scare goats, unlike most residents of an old goat’s home are highly intelligent, extremely sociable, easy to keep and amusing. If you have nothing much going on in your life and you want to be amused you can either pay a visit to your local old goat’s home to startle either your or someone else’s forgotten relative, or otherwise attend the Fainting goat festival, which is held every year in October in Marshall County Tennessee (where else) where fainting goats are honoured at the, “Goats Music and More Festival.” It’s a shame that here in England we don’t honour our old goats more but instead prefer to pasture them out to old goat institutions, the majority of which, in my experience and I can only hope I will never end up in one, should be shut down.

 

One thing I definitely didn’t know about goats is that they are widely known for their ability to climb trees, although I don’t know whether this applies to fainting goats, who could cause quite a bit of damage if they swooned and fell on your head, as in the famous song from the film, ‘Butch Cassidy and the baby goat the Sundance kid.’

 

“Fainting goats keep falling on my head…. fainting on the job…. those goats keep a falling… they keep falling.”  

 

Fortunately I haven’t seen any in my pussy willow recently. But I’d better be careful talking about trees. The last time I attracted some very pervy surfers. It’s amazing what can turn some people on.

 

Another example of goat behaviour is that their kids will prefer to remain nearby their mother, even if separated for years and reintroduced. So maybe we have more in common with our bearded friends than we think, or at least the fact that my particular kid even though he turned twenty nine on Sunday refuses to leave home, means I do – apart from the beard of course.

And a Happy Moo Year

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Oh dear, I’ve already broken my first New Year resolution, to stop roken – not good because as it says on the packet, roken is dodelijk, which I presume means dangerous in Dutch but actually sounds quite jolly – jolly dangerous. Having just returned from the jolly Netherlands after spending Christmas and New Year with my sister and her happy family, I am now feeling restless and discontent with my lot, as in with my own dysfunctional family and miserable, gloomy Blackburn. Aside from missing my sister, I would seriously consider moving to jolly Holland if I thought for one moment I could master the language, because everyone seems to be so much happier over there, not to mention healthier, even though they seem to survive on a diet of cheese and roll mops. Here in the ‘nanny’ state, we are constantly ordered not to eat dairy products, therefore all our bones are rotting at an early age (not helped if we are on HIV meds) due to lack of calcium. At this point I expect some smart alec will write in to inform me that calcium can be taken in other forms such as chewing on a lump of chalk, but you can’t eat a lump of chalk with Branston pickle or melt it over your burger.

 

They are also much kinder to their old folk in the Netherlands and in the run up to the festive season there was even a fund raising campaign in the form of smoothie bottles wearing tiny hand knitted bobble hats to provide pensioners with free Christmas dinners. How nice is that? The old folk seem much more active over there and even after a lifetime of roken they can be seen zapping around the highways and byways on their mobility scooters with oxygen tanks strapped to the back and still ride bikes and skate.

 

The Christmas decorations were also much to be admired especially in comparison to the dismal attempts in Blackburn and they even put fairy lights on their cranes.

However, it was bitterly cold and all the dykes and waterways were frozen solid and suddenly became freeways for the hordes of skaters of all ages whizzing along with their hands behind their backs. My sister and I ventured out to the wooded ‘wastelands’ to watch the skaters performing on the frozen lakes, which made me very envious as I would love to glide over a lake whistling the blue Danube with my hands nonchalantly clasped behind my back, but I am too frightened of falling over and cracking it – my head that is, not the ice.

 

Dutch children learn to skate by pushing a chair around on the ice but as my sis was not keen on the idea of me using one of her cane dining chairs, I had to forgo that learning experience. Maybe I could have borrowed a zimmer frame? Now there’s an idea. I did venture a tentative bladeless boot on the edge of the lake, but that was about it. My sister took some video footage of me in the act, which she then downloaded to you tube and can be seen if you click on my blogroll link, Adrienne Seed -Dancing on ice.

 

The next day, we went back to the wastelands yet again but this time armed with a broom and pan lid (she wouldn’t let me bring the kettle or her new non stick frying pan) so I could try my hand at curling. I had a vision of myself sliding across the ice on one knee like a cavalier, but this proved rather difficult as my knee joints were un cooperative, due to presumably not having consumed enough cheese in my lifetime. My frolics with the pan lid did cause some merriment from the passing skaters however as you will see when my sister’s next film production, ‘Curling on ice’ is downloaded.

 

I think I might even take up curling as an outdoor pursuit to add to my other healthy New Year resolutions. With this thought in mind, as soon as I got back to England I had a quick search on the internet to see if there were any curling centres in Lancashire. Canal Street in Manchester for example would be an ideal venue, or so I would have thought, but I didn’t find any. I did come across something called ‘cow curling’ though and was quite excited until I found it was an online game and had nothing at all to do with live cows. Neither did it have anything to do with ‘cow tipping’, which apparently is the activity of sneaking up on an upright cow and pushing it over for fun. I don’t know whether this kind of thing goes on in your area but as far as I know it is not a popular pastime in Blackburn, where the unruly youth would be more likely to push an old person over. There is however, The National Cow Tipping association of Ireland and it must be popular in other areas too, because online you can buy a selection of cow tipping gifts, such as a cup or an apron inscribed with, “I love cow tipping.”  

 

According to popular belief cows can be easily pushed over because they are slow moving, slow witted, weak legged and sleep standing up, although some say this last statement is a complete and utter myth as cows don’t sleep standing up, although I can’t verify this fact as I’ve never been out in my pyjamas to have a look. Nor apparently do their knees lock thus making the act of cow tipping physically impossible. At least according to someone called Margo something or other, a doctor of zoology and obviously something of a mad cow herself, who after lengthy research on the matter concludes that cow tipping by a single person is impossible. Margo’s calculations found that it would take at least two people to push over a cow that’s if the cow does not react and reorientate its footing. If the cow does react it would take at least four people to push it over. I wonder how Margo, who sounds like she is suffering from mad cow disease herself, carried out her research.

 

Some consider cow tipping to be an act of animal abuse and in Florida a ban was proposed on ‘cruelty to bovines’

 

“A person who for the purpose of practice, entertainment or sport intentionally fells trips or otherwise causes a cow to fall over or lose its balance by means of roping lassoing dragging or otherwise touching the tail of a cow commits a misdemeanour of the first degree.”

 

I should say so and so presumably would the poor cows, who now have to endure a lifetime of being continuously pushed over when they are trying to take forty winks, as the proposal did not become a law.

 

Well, no matter how restless or bored I feel to be back in Blackburn, or the fact that there is absolutely nothing worth watching on television these days, especially the latest Big Brother which has got to be as boring as it gets, I don’t think I would ever feel the need to entertain myself by venturing out in the dead of night and trying to push a cow over or even try to trip one up. Although never say never I say. What a disgrace it would be to be caught in the act and then have it reported in the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, “Local artist arrested for trying to trip up cow.”

 

I don’t know whether this kind of thing goes on in the Netherlands which would be a veritable paradise for cow tippers as there are so many cows and should really be called the Udderlands. But perhaps it’s like their attitude to sex and drugs and the fact that are so freely available. People just don’t seem to bother with them. Maybe there is a lesson to be learned here and the ‘nanny’ state should take a leaf out of Holland’s book and let us eat as much cheese and dairy products as we want and even trip up the odd Friesian, or in this weather freezian, if we so desire, because cow tipping unlike fly tipping in England is not against the law.

 

A very Happy moo year to everyone.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

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HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL HIVINERS

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