Crumbs. Crikey. Gosh.

Just checked my 'blog counter' thingy.

Shurely shome mishtake.

On a normal day (whatever that may be) I'm lucky if I get around 10 visitors with about 20 page viewings.

But yesterday's figures were 51 and 251.

And today's 53 and 885.

885!!!!

What the hell's going on?

This is weird.

P.S. - Just heard from Lindow that people are saying there's a possible fault with the 'counter' system. Possible? With my figures, make that 'probable'. In fact, make that 'a cast-iron certainty'. Ah well back to normal. It really was quite worrying having such an apparently high degree of popularity. Mass market ain't for me. Gimme a small select audience, exclusivity and a quality readership anyday. Talking of which, many thanks to all my fans. Both of them.

P.P.S. - Sunday 29 July. Interesting... 34 blog visitors and 3587 pages read. Oh yeah? Pull l'autre one.

P.P.P.S. - Just been informed that the counter IS functioning properly and that therefore these massively inflated figures are probably entirely due to search engines trawling, whatever that means. Not sure I like the sound of all this.

Drove Georgie and Donnie to Limoges airport last Monday at the end of their all too brief holiday break (amazing how quickly a week flies by when someone’s around who’s not only brilliant at foot massaging and gardening, but also understands what all the knobs are for on the washing machine and cooker).

Note the fact that we DROVE there, which just goes to show that we’d been very lucky at the start of their holiday week. Very lucky indeed…

On G and Ds’ first Monday in rain-swept France (typical holiday weather) it suddenly dawned on moi that our battered and highly abused Citroen was about due its bi-annual Controle Technique test (Froggy equivalent of the cesspit’s MoT test). So I dug out the file, rummaged through the paperwork and eventually discovered that our CT certificate expired that very day. Zut alors! Panicking slightly (yes, we still have the VW camper but it’s currently only registered for two people and we’re three, so without the Citroen we’d have a problem – unless Don’s prepared to travel hidden under a smelly dog blanket and I’m prepared to risk my licence), we immediately headed off to the test centre at Aubusson where we were fortunate to book a test for the following day.

Having read somewhere that the CT test is even more demanding than its UK equivalent, I decided some serious preparation work was called for. This consisted solely of nipping up the local garage, throwing a few euro coins in the vacuum machine and allowing Georgie to do some hoovering (quite incredible the quantity of dirt, dust, mud, doghair, fag-ends, tobacco, sweet papers and breadcrumbs that can accumulate over a two-year period) while Donnie cleared out the back (it’s an estate) and I did a spot of tyre-kicking (a crucial part of MoT preparation).

With the car a few tons lighter we then sped off in the direction of home, travelled about twenty yards, did a 360 degree turn at the roundabout, returned to the garage and parked up at the overheating vacuum machine which was busily turning raindrops to steam. There’s something both sad and amusing about the sight of a pair of forgotten wellies with soggy socks standing abandoned in the pouring rain of a gloomy Monday.

Next day we arrived at the test centre, handed over the keys, apologised for the car’s overpowering doggy smell and then wandered off to kill some time in downtown Aubusson.

Found a caff where we could sit outside and shelter from the pouring rain under an awning. Tried to get the dogs to lie down under the table but as they’re undisciplined country boys totally unused to the sights and sounds of a bustling metropolis (compared to Poussanges), they’d nip out to say hello to every passing stranger (bit like Crocodile Dundee in New York), thereby stretching their leads, jerking the table and sending coffee flying in all directions. But this was nothing compared to when cyclists trundled by. Then they’d leap out in a full barking attack, sending chairs flying skywards and causing the shocked riders to swerve into the path of following traffic accompanied by the screeching of brakes, the tooting of horns, the unmistakable sounds of bumper against bumper and the vociferous exchanging of somewhat less than pleasant Gallic phrases. And if this sounds like total bedlam, it was nothing compared to what happened when an elderly chap and his harmless old dog wandered by. Following the resultant chaos, there is now an unexplained coffee splash on the underside of the awning, my elbows are still gashed from the flying tackle I executed in attempting to restrain our darling little pooches and shocked animal lovers are probably still phoning the French RSPCA to report the sight of a deranged psychopath thumping eight bells out of two little terriers then taping their jaws shut and nailing their paws to the ground. Suffice it to say that without fear of contradiction I/we think we still have a bit of work to do in the Barbara Woodhouse department.

Coffee break over we headed back uphill to the test centre and my thoughts turned from dog training to the prickly subject of estimating the cost of rectifying all the car’s faults that had inevitably resulted in CT failure. My guess was somewhere in the region of about 500 euros (£300). No matter how perfectly a car seems to be running, examiners always find something wrong. By preparing myself for failure, it would come as less of a shock.

And what a shock we were in for when we arrived at the garage. The car had passed! Sacre bleu! Miracle! There were just two ‘attentions’ that have to be put right before its next test in two years’ time: a rear tyre and a front suspension unit. Not bad for a battered old banger.

However, despite my growing fondness of our underpowered, economical, loyal Citroen servant which has served us well over the last two years, I think the time is rapidly approaching when the expense of keeping it roadworthy will begin to exceed its value. So, while Georgie thinks we should keep it and run it into the ground, a resurgent Murdo and I have been looking around for a replacement.

And guess what; we've found one. It's a classic '89 mk2 VW Golf GTi 16v, with fsh, only one owner, totally un-yobboed and just 45000 kms (30k miles) on the clock. Absolute gold dust and one of greatest cars of all time. Yes, really. Trouble is, it's way up north near Nancy. Still working out a way of getting there. Hope to pick it up next Saturday.

The powers that be who run this site have apparently just completed a re-design of the old system with the result that I'm now unable to properly access the 'write' page plus a few other site facilities. Only managed to get here now by crawling in through the back door. Having no recollection whatsoever of how I did it, I then unbelievably managed it a second time. Still can't remember how I gained access so you may be relieved that any further blog postings are likely to be few and far between. Why do they bother mucking around like this? Nothing wrong with the old system.

The first time I managed to wriggle in through the iron bars of this confounded new blogsite defense system that's clearly been designed to keep out vociferous and opinionated old farts such as myself, was earlier today when I began scribing an account of Georgie and Dons' holiday week out here which ended yesterday. Spent about two or three hours writing, rewriting and generally creating yet another literary masterpiece when the whole lot just suddenly disappeared into thin air. No explanation. Nothing. Just a stupid message about 'login error' or some such computery lie.

P.S. - Have just flown over to the UK again (to 'fine tune' the website project) and am now sitting at Georgie's computer on a lovely sunny Sunday evening in downtown Putney (what's all this nonsense about floods and rain?). Out of idle curiosity, I logged into my blog just to see if it behaved better than out in Poussanges. And of course, it did. Or does, rather. No problems whatsobleedinever. So kindly ignore all comments questioning the dubious parentage of the people who run this excellent website. Any faults or inadequacies lie entirely within my useless computer at home which is drip fed by that utter waste of space non-Broadband system. Moi et mon grand nord et sud.

Having just written what must be my longest-ever posting, I'll now do a short one.

Lovely day yesterday. (Lovely day today come to think of it. Blistering sunshine. Clear blue skies. A decadent lunch of an apricot main course followed by a gin and tonic dessert under the garden brolly. Really pleasant change after the three days of grey sogginess that's marked the somewhat less than perfect start to Georgie and Dons' holiday week.)

Anyway, yesterday...

With morning sunshine steaming wispy clouds of damp from the hills, we decided to load up the car with various sharp gardening implements and head for 'the cottage' (the dilapidated pile of overgrown granite rocks next to 'the barn') in the optimistic hope of knocking back some of the green stuff that's been slowly creeping over our number two dream home (number one is 'the barn' but, as blah-blahed in a previous posting, the powers that be won't even think about granting us permission to renovate this until we've done 'the cottage').

So, having spent a little more time than expected in loading up the car (clippers, axe, handsaw, logsaw, massive lock-cutting thingy that's Georgie uses for demolishing thick brambles and tree branches, boots, socks, hats, waterproofs - well y'never know, spare teeshirts to replace sweaty ones, towel, Thermos, biscuits, stale bread, water, I've started so I'll finish, dogs, dog biscuits, dogfood, dog blanket, dog bowl, dog water, fags, lighter, cds, wallet, credit card, coinage for motorway tolls, handbags, loo-roll, mobile phone, cutlery, er..., think that's about it but I'm bound to have forgotten something...), we eventually hit the road at around two-ish. So we arrived there at about five-ish. Should have been around four-ish but Georgie wanted to see if anything had been done to that house near Tulle that we almost bought.

Personally, with houses, as in life, I'm a firm believer that one should never go back (army upbringing y'know). But Georgie, like all females, has this curiosity thing that us blokes will never understand. So we went back. Big mistake.

The tired old house that we actually left England to purchase, renovate and live in, only to pull out of at the eleventh hour when I thought the negatives outweighed the positives (see one of my very first postings), now had a brand new roof, new windows, cleared garden, cleared trees on the steep hillside round the back and a caravan parked in the side area. I must admit it looked very impressive. On the upside, we were pleased the place was now obviously very loved and being renovated almost exactly as we'd have done it ourselves. On the downside, I was once again in the doghouse for getting cold feet and not going ahead with Georgie's dream home. Hmm... still think I was right. Unfortunately, she thinks I was wrong. So therefore I'm wrong. And always will be. No question. See... never go back.

Hit the road again and headed south for Serilhac, stopping off at St. Fortunade's superb little boulangerie for bread, quiche and a slice of potato and meat pie (Don, sitting in the back of the car and unable to resist their expert scrounging techniques, ended up giving most of hers to the dogs).

Bit further on we arrived at the edge of the long ridge and saw the vast valleys of the Dordogne and Lot stretching out before us to a misty blue infinity where sky and land merged as one. For me, it's a breathtaking sight. I've always felt a reassuring sense of belonging high in the hills above valleys (might be my Scottish highland roots or being brought up high on the Rock of Gibraltar - or a subconscious reaction to being a short-arse). But for Georgie, it never stirs the soul in quite the same way - she much prefers the cosy sense of security found in valley settings, hence her attachment to the house at Tulle.

Descended the snaking road to Serilhac, took our little turning towards 'the barn', parked halfway up the bumpy forest track and prepared for our long trek uphill. Even though it was around 5pm, the sun still blazed away and we arrived sweaty at the barbed wire gate of our field, weighed down by bags of goodies and awkward to carry gardening implements. Having crawled through this final barrier, we eventually arrived at our destination to be met by a herd of very bored and extremely curious horses that belong to Katja, the German wife of Laurent, the farmer who'd sold us the property. Although we don't have much of a problem with these beasts, our dogs do. Basically, they're scared. So they bark. Then the horses get a bit territorial and threatening. Which is the last thing you need when you're in the doghouse with the missus, knackered from driving and mountaineering, minding your own business on your own property and dying for a fag and a cup of Thermos tea.

Despite being the son of horse-riding military man, the brother of a champion show-jumper sister whose house is crammed with horsey rosettes and prize silverware, the uncle of a champion dressage and point-to-point neice and the bro-in-law of a galloping Yorkshireman, I have little affinity with anything equine. None in fact. Far as I'm concerned they're all dangerous bad-tempered bastards that are to be avoided at all times. It's an attitude I've held ever since I was plonked on one aged ten, only to fall off immediately it took its first step, whereupon I flatly refused to re-mount, thus publicly humiliating and further disappointing my cavalier, cavalry-inclined dad. Four years later I was again plonked on one out in the Nigerian 'bush' where I nervously tagged along behind a demented bunch of military gits and their ghastly horsey offspring. When the tally-hoeing buggers started galloping, my flea-ridden nag made an attempt to follow suit but its front legs crumpled and I found myself flying between its ears, hitting terra firma some considerable time later, having executed about half-a-dozen airborne somersaults. Turned out it was an elderly racehorse that had broken its legs more times than a geriatric footballer. Never ridden a horse since. And flatly refuse to do so ever again.

Anyway, so there we were, sat outside our pile of overgrown granite rocks, optimistically referred to as 'the cottage', under attack by a herd of killer horses, with Georgie and Don restraining Jock and Sprocket on leads, with me swinging a four-foot long axe and screaming defiance when the horses' attention was momentarily diverted by a couple of astonished French horsey ladies with a camera. Haven't a clue who they were or what they were up to but I strongly expect they were friends of Katja. In which case she'll probably be horrified to learn of my somewhat interesting attitude to her darling nags. Doghouse again.

When the ladies and horses momentarily disappeared out of sight, I took the opportunity of cutting down a twelve foot high thorny shrub that was growing out of the cottage steps. This, I thought, would provide ideal weaponry to defend my troops. And so it proved when the inquisitive horses turned up again about five minutes later. Swinging the shrub high above my head, I ran straight for herd's leader, screaming like a braveheart, risking life and limb in a final act of defiance as I thrashed the beast's face and buttocks. "Gertcha, y'wee beastie, awa' doon the hill, y'bas'. Awey, awey, oot, oot!" And luckily he galloped off, taking his mates with him, but not before kicking a final flourish with his rear legs. Bastard.

With the horses grazing at a safe distance (safe? - never safe with nags around), we started cutting the foliage from the cottage's front, revealing a few interesting surprises. Behind a massive ivy growth we discovered a rather attractive front door. Bit weather-beaten but restorable. And a sawn-off, ivy covered tree trunk growing through the front steps. Tried to open the front door but couldn't due to roof edging slabs of granite having fallen behind it which were visible through the delicate wrought-ironwork in the two upper door panels where glass had once protected against the elements. In estate agent parlance, there was loads of potential in this superbly located bijou residence that oozed period charm. But clearly Georgie wasn't convinced. As well as having to do loads of work in restoring this property to its former glory, I still have a mountain of work to do in convincing my dearly beloved that the effort will eventually be worthwhile.

But do it I will. I'm determined.

Around 8.30 with the warm sun beginning to slowly descend behind us, we sat on the grass in front of the cottage and got stuck into tea and whatever grub we had left while surveying the glorious vista before us. Absolutely marvellous. No regrets whatsoever about buying a place that proves beyond doubt that I'm mad as a hatter. But mark my words, read my lips, one day this place will a domestic gem. A jewel in the Correze crown. You'll see. I'll show you. Just watch.

Packed up at around nine, descended back to the car, loaded up and headed out. Wouldn't be home 'til eleven but it was a glorious evening with the sun slowly setting to our left so I was looking forward to the homeward drive as we began hammering north. Still being in the doghouse, I didn't complain when Georgie chose our cd accompaniment. Neil Young or Willie Nelson would have made it a perfect drive. But the unknown warblers who made unfamiliar noises that pleased the boss but drove me bonkers served just as well. This aural battering had the side effect of sending the dogs and Donnie to sleep, only to be rudely awoken at the motorway toll booth when my coins jammed the machine and I got involved in an interesting conversation with the intercom voice of an unseen French woman.

"Bonjour madame, assistance s'il vous plait, j'ai un bloccaje de monnaie de machine."

"Un bloccaje? Qu'est ce qu'un bloccaje?"

"Er, Un bloccaje - c'est impossible a mettre plus coinaje."

"Coinaje? Qu'est ce que coinaje?"

"Er, monnaie, argent... c'est blockee. Un bloccaje de coinaje."

At this point, Georgie and Don were both doubled up with laughter at my 'Ello 'Ello franglais. And, luckily, the unseen French woman decided that further parlez-vousing in French would be pointless so, in perfect English, she said "if you kindly press the red button, your money will be returned and you can start again..." So I did and it worked perfectly.

"Thank you madame, good evening."

"A pleasure sir, have a good day."

Wouldn't get that back in the cesspit. Just imagine a conversation between a Frenchman who barely speaks a word of English and an unseen nanny-state official at a British toll booth. A frightening comparison.

Arrived home at about eleven in the evening dusk, partially unloaded the car, gave the dogs a quick run up to the cross and back with my twin chickadees and poured a large scotch and dry.

A perfect end to an almost perfect day.

Phew! Flew over to Angleterre last Thursday, art directed a photoshoot on Friday and flew back on Saturday with Georgie and Don who've popped over for a quick week's holiday.

Hah! Some holiday! Weather's been awful and the house has been virtually uninhabitable during the daytime due to builders bashing away (plasterboarding and laying a new floor) in the loft. So we've been killing time by dogwalking in the pouring rain, then doing the classic holiday 'thing' of sheltering under cafe awnings, supping buckets of caffeine and smoking damp fags before trundling off home at around sixish after the bashers have left. Then we've had to clear tons of dust and grit from all horizontal surfaces in the bedrooms (beds included) that's fallen from the loft through gaps in the attic floorboards. Welcome to the reality of doing up a French house. It's the part that the magazines and TV progs never seem to mention. Strange.

Anyway, enough of soggy old France. So..., the photoshoot...

This was in connection with the previously mentioned (see an earlier posting) website and promotional material design project and entailed the photographing of the contents of a box of luxury chocolates (would take too long to explain why). But first we had to source them. So, soon as I landed at Stansted, I headed straight for John's Tower Bridge offices, caught up with various aspects of the project, then we both zoomed off to Harrod's in John's car for a bit of Thursday late night shopping in the sumptuous choccy department.

Arrived there at about sevenish. This gave us two hours to make our selection of individual choccies from the vast range on display. Bags of time? Au contraire. We were still choosing when they shut up shop at nine. Or, rather, John was. By that time, I was standing outside one of the rear entrances puffing on a rollie and nattering about the weather to a big black doorman when suddenly his mobile rang. Told me the 'big boss' was on his way down and advised me to stand to one side. Couple of minutes later, three heavies stormed out followed by little old Al Fayed who quickly crossed the road and disappeared into the back of a black luxury limo with darkened windows and whooshed off into the evening gloom.

Then John emerged clutching his bags of chocs. Apparently he'd just spent a hundred and fifty quid. And, little did he know, but he'd return the next day to spend a further fifty quid because he thought the shot looked a bit bare. Pricey or what? No wonder Al Fayed can afford a limo, a corner shop and a footy team. Er, if one regards Fulham F.C. as such. Then we hopped back into John's car and headed for his luxury house off the King's Road. On the way there, John pointed out Chelsea and England player Frank Lampard's fabulous South Ken mansion (John's a Chelsea fan and has a couple of seats in the Directors' box) and talk turned to Russian oligarchs and the vast amount of Russian money that's flooding London. To a simple peasant such as moi from the Limousin backwoods it was all too much, especially when I arrived at John's for a quick drink and saw the size of his Sony telly. Feeling a total waste of space, I then slouched off to Putney where Georgie had been worrying herself sick that I'd died in an air crash (as usual I'd forgotten to inform her that I'd been delayed by work).

Next morning, shoot day, we convened at a studio in Camden Town. Kicked off at about nine thirty, spent about three hours arranging the chocs on a table then John dashed off to get some more. Said he'd be a couple of hours. Turned up about four hours later. London traffic. In the meantime, Steve and I rattled off loads of other shots that were required (various items and individual choccies), which took us up to about four thirty. Then added the extra chocs to the display, re-arranged a few, dropped a few, fiddled, swapped, nudged, titivated and generally flapped in the pursuit of unatainable perfection (one never knows when a layout is 'just right'), so by the time we were ready to shoot, most of London had already gone home.

Then we had to knock off a few shots of choccies with a bite taken out. Being a glutton for punishment (well, a glutton), I volunteered for the tortuous task of being official 'biter'. And could I get it right? Could I, heck. Time after time my nibbling would fall some considerably way short of the extremely high standard I'd set myself. So I'd nibble again. And again. Only after about a dozen brave attempts when I was beginning to feel slightly sick of all these luxury chocs (one can have too many you know) did we decide I'd got it right. Then that was it. A seven thirty finish. It's a warp. And we all went home.

Actually, we didn't. By this time, John was late for a dinner date with his wife Christine and young lad Henry in a flash restaurant off High Street Ken (apparently they often nosh there of a Friday soiree). So he kindly suggested I join 'em for a quick vino at the restaurant before continuing on my merry way to Putney while they had their meal.

Having experienced John's driving the night before when we'd driven to Harrod's, I was somewhat reluctant to repeat the exercise, especially so soon after munching various very rich choccies. The bloke's a maniac (Yorkshireman). And his car's a rocket (V8 4litre Audi special). Not exactly a combination that I'd recommend for winding-down after a hard day's work. Needless to say, I was a jibbering wreck by the time we miraculously made it to our destination. Christine welcomed me with the understatement "you seem a little pale, have a glass of wine." After three glasses I was just about composed enough to make my exit while they studied the menu, whereupon I staggered into a cab and headed for Putney.

In the cab, I reflected on the cultural shock of suddenly being surrounded by all this London wealth and opulence. A completely different world. To modern Londoners it may be normal but to me, well, the whole thirty-six hour experience had been like watching a film. Pure fiction and fantasy. As was the cab fare: £16.

Reality finally dawned when I arrived at Don's Putney pad, put two boxes of chocs that John had kindly donated to my pension fund in the fridge (to be enjoyed by Georgie and Donnie), knocked off my shoes and glanced at a hole in my sock. Ah yes, back to the real world. Next stop France and the oligarchs, oil barons and city billionaires of Poussanges.

Took the dogs out yesterday for their morning walkies with wee Jockie running free and Sprocket on his lead (I keep him tethered until we reach the open fields, just in case there's another dog around - he can be a bit, well, territorial, for want of a better word).

Headed round the back of the house and had just reached the back lane when suddenly, from behind, I heard a growling dog. Spun around to see next door's big black Doberman charging straight for us with his fiery eyes firmly fixed on Sprocket.

In one lightning fast movement, I just managed to lift and swing Sprock into mid air (spinning and dangling from his lead while snarling and barking his head off despite being asphyxiated), milliseconds before the jaws of death thundered through the space where Sprock had just been standing.

Somehow (and I don't know how I did it, what with being off balance and dangling a mediumweight dog in mid-air from a lead) I managed to swing a vicious right-footer at the head of the beast, which landed smack bang on his jaw. Unfortunately it didn't break.

Grabbed Sprock to my chest and speedily reversed to the house, half expecting another attack, screaming for Jockie to join us. Jock, meanwhile, was giving the beast a piece of his mind. Idiot. You don't argue with a psychopathic Doberman, Jockie.

With Jock and the Doberman slowly circling each other, snarling and growling, I dashed back indoors, slung manic Sprock into the kitchen, grabbed the axe (I keep it by the front door) and ran round the back, half-expecting to find a dead Westie dangling from the jaws of the killer. In which case, I'd have had the bastard's head off. Or died in the attempt. No question.

Instead I found Jockie looking very perky, kicking earth and generally acting lord of the manor as we both watched the Doberman slowly disappearing back down his drive.

About five minutes later young Hadrian turned up. Told me I was late (I'd been invited round to his parents for lunch and to watch the French GP on telly). Told him I was a bit shell-shocked, explained why, and said I'd probably give lunch a miss.

Another five minutes later Isabelle turned up and insisted I come round.

Another five minutes later neighbour Chantelle turned up (her son, I think, owns the Doberman - only there at occasional week-ends). Apparently Hadrian had phoned her to inform of the attack. She was naturally very apologetic and extremely concerned (she only knows the Doberman as a docile, cuddly pooch). By this time I'd calmed down a bit so I said it was okay, just dogs being dogs.

Went round to lunch, Christian gave me a laaaaarge scotch to calm my nerves and then said that, in France, all Dobermen have to be muzzled. This one wasn't, and isn't.

Chantelle, being a local government official, will presumably be aware of this. Maybe I'll have to double-check at the local Gendarmerie. If it's true, I suppose I'll have to suggest to Chantelle that the bastard's muzzled. Or tethered, like Sprock, when outdoors. Not exactly a prospect I'm relishing.

Bottom line is I need to move on a.s.a.p. Which means getting the barn project moving p.d.q.

Met the builder down there last week and he reckoned the dilapidated house could be saved, provided the exposed wall tops are covered against the elements before this coming winter. This, of course, means getting the road resurfaced soon as poss. - Mr. Chaulet (the road man) says he can get started around September, which probably means November, which probably means the builder won't be able to get his lorry up there 'til December. Still, we'll get there in the end.

Georgie strongly advised me some considerable time ago not to make any adverse comments herein about our fellow brethren of a muslim persuasion. And so far I haven't. But recent events such as the attempted car bombings of London's Tiger Tiger disco and Glasgow's airport, I must admit, have tested my powers of self-control to the utmost.

Suffice it to say that the image of a tough Glaswegian cop silhouetted against a blazing car whilst pinning to the ground the barbecued remnants of a fanatical suicide bomber who somehow managed to continue screaming "Allah! Allah!" in rage at failing to complete an eagerly anticipated journey to Paradise, did indeed strike me as divine retribution.

Initially, in much the same way as Romans enjoyed watching the Saturday night Colosseum spectacle of Christians dying at the swords of gladiators and claws of lions, I was rather looking forward to seeing this deranged maniac vent his final fury before our very eyes. But then I thought how much better it would be for him to live for another sixty years or so, marked forever with scars to constantly remind him of his wretched folly and total ingratitude for being made welcome in Britain's tolerant and multi-cultural society.

Tolerant? Pardon?

Although I no longer consider myself to be a resident of Britiain, I still retain an interest in her future. After all, I still have family and loved ones there, still pay British tax, still travel around with a British passport and still support a British footy team: Aldershotnil. Because of this, I feel justified in opining that Britain should think again about her globally-renowned tolerance. Personally, I think the time has come for zero tolerance. No more pussy-footing. No more social erosion. No more sloppy Home Office handling of immigration. No more negative attitude to integration by blinkered muslims who flatly refuse to accept the British way of life (however that's currently defined) and who all too often turn a blind eye to the cancerous growth of anarchic cells within their midst.

And in return?

Well, with a new P.M. calling the shots, it's obviously an ideal opportunity to review Britain's military operations throughout the world. Admittedly I know nothing of the political shenanigans that go on behind-the-scenes in order to retain a global balance of power, but it strikes me that if muslims are getting a bit miffed about us being in places like Iraq, then let's just move out. Leave 'em to it. Then if they want to fight it out amongst themselves, let 'em. Who cares? I certainly don't.

And, if the truth be told, neither did I care about Bob Geldof and the starving millions of Ethiopia. Although I sympathised with their considerable plight, I didn't really give a damn. If there's no rain, there's no food. So you die. You can't fight Mother Nature and global warming. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. And if gullible Westerners choose to send food, clothes and money without understanding the ways of a primitive society, and the racketeers cream most of it off for themselves, well, there you go. That's life. Or death rather. And, ultimately, what did it all achieve? Well, correct me if I'm wrong but, apart from Geldof getting a knighthood, I think the answer's basically 'nothing'.

Nor did I care about Viet-Nam. Pointless. If a bunch of commies chooses to invade an adjacent country, so bloody what? It's their problem not ours. Ironically, I was with a muslim, Mohammad Ali, on that one. Same with the Falklands. If the Argies want them back, fine. No problem. And Hong Kong? Same thing. Give it back to the Chinks. Who gives a toss. It'll all sort itself out in the end. It always does.

Then there was Idi Amin and the Uganda slaughterings. Didn't care. Honestly. I didn't give a monkey's. Well, not until he crowned himself King of Scotland. Same with President Mugabe who's currently reducing his country's population by military means while building a flashy new palace to impress neighbours and guests. I wish he wouldn't but that's what happens with power. It corrupts. Then enemies and innocents get wiped out. I'm repeating myself I know, but that's the way it is. Always has been. It's a base instinct of the human condition. You may call it uncivilised, but then again, what's civilised? Nuking innocent peasants with napalm? Poncing around in a Chelsea tractor while an eskimo's igloo slowly melts? Er, nah.

However, closer to home, if a johnny foreigner decides to invade Britain's shores, be he Napoleon, Hitler or Ronald McDonald, then I'd care. Like millions of Anglo-Saxons before me, including all of my whisky-drinking, flame-haired, cannon-fodder, military, naval and fleet air arm forefathers, I'd not only take up arms to defend against attack but also dig spuds like a maniac to ensure victory. And I'd fight 'em to the death on the beaches etc.

But..., wars are no longer like that. And the enemy is already within. So far we've been fortunate in that none of these recent bombs has resulted in carnage (no pun intended). But maybe they'll be third time lucky. Or fourth. Or fifth. And talking of luck, it'd be just my luck for a bomb to go off on Thursday or Saturday as I pass twice more through Stansted. Typical.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity of extending a warm welcome to my fellow Jock, Gordon Brown, Britain's new Prime Minister. May your tenure at Number Ten be worth the long wait at Number Eleven. And in the unlikely event that you're reading this, may I turn your attention to improving things at home rather than Brown-nosing (couldn't resist it) Dubbya and meddling in foreign affairs like your illustrious and misguided predecessor? You can start (please) by pulling out of Iraq. Then Palestine. And forget Iran. And Afghanistan. Fuck 'em all. What the hell are we doing in those God-forsaken places anyway? Grabbing oil wells? Hunting Osama? Attempting to persuade natives to do the decent thing and grow rice instead of cocaine? Educating the uninitiated about the joys of cricket, polo and Big Brother? Gimme a break.

Do us all a favour and bring our boys and girls back home immediately. No discussion. No debate. And no bowing to pressure from those warmongerering lunatics and profiteering arms manufacturers across the pond. We owe 'em nothing. Not even respect. Then concentrate on putting your own house in order. Do that and I promise to vote for you at the next election.