Now look here!As the liver bashing season is well and truly upon us the Memsahib and I should like to remind the tenants of Her Majesty's Colony America that I fully intend to start repossession of the place in the New Year.I am not a greedy man and as such will reclaim the Commonwealth in increments; the New England and Virginia colonies will be the first to cede their sovereignty so rashly bestowed on them by General ( Stinky ) Cornwallis. I never had much opinion of Stinky other than as a third class rugger player so why anyone would entrust him with securing Blighty's property in the New World is beyond me. Stuff and nonsense! Gammon and spinach I say!.My plan will be of the subtlest order. It will incorporate stealth, an iron nerve, bribery on a vast scale and the inescapable truth that the colonials are always looking to their betters in England for leadership.I intend to smuggle tens of dozens of the Whistleton - Thynne Light Horse Militia into Buffalo via the Maid of the Mist ferry service at Niagara Falls; these will be highly trained operatives with an intricate knowledge of Americana. Each will have access to some $2 billion dollars US. Their mission will be simple. To visit every Senator and Congressman in the Colonies and make funds available to them for anything their heart's desire;I have it on the highest authority that waving cash around in American political circles can achieve anything.Blackmail will then ensue and I'll control every last man jack of the blighters.I haven't crossed the I's and dotted the T's yet but I feel sure the National United Kingdom of America (NUKAM ) will be in place by July 4th 2009 - a day which will be designated ' Reindependence Day '.But that's in the New Year.Until then may I be the first to extend the Season's Greetings to my Colonial chums. Oh by the way. When I take command of Her Majesty's Colonies once again I will make it a stipulation that extreme deference be displayed to The Memsahib and myself. We shall be referred to as Governer and Mrs Governor General of NUKAM.Toodle Pip

I'm sure many of us have a number of stories we could tell of wild times in our youth when the most outlandish of actions seemed perfectly reasonable or at the very least possessed of a certain kudos that in today's parlance would be known as cool. The following is an account of a trip made to London in 1982.Two friends of mine called Julian Phillips and Alan Powell accompanied me on a weekend visit to some friends " up the smoke " or London as it's more commonly known. They lived near The World's End pub in Chelsea. The visit was to last two nights wherein we would party as only people in their early twenties could.So on one bright Friday summer morning we left Treorchy station for the great metropolis. We would make a train connection at Cardiff which would take us to Paddington and from there to Sloan Square and the Kings Road in Chelsea. The distance from Sloan Square to the Worlds End pub is about a mile.Everything seemed straightforward until it became apparent that one of my companions had taken it upon himself to go on a magic mushroom hunt. He produced a bag of the hallucinogenic inducing fungus and handed it around as if it were something we could confidently build our futures upon. Being already fortified by several large whiskeys I went against my better judgement and swallowed a handful and washed the lot down with a generous slurp of Scotland's finest.I had no idea what the combination of the two intoxicating substances would produce but it wasn't long before I found out. Slowly but surely I became aware of a change in the atmosphere in the Pullman compartment in which we were traveling. There was a cosiness about the place that I hadn't noticed before. The rattle of the tracks seemed to be actually singing to me and most startling of all was the pattern on the seating in the compartment. They were little stripes of colour that were actually beginning to dance in front of my eyes. This was swiftly followed by a sensation that made my bottom lip feel like kneaded rubber and I was convinced that my arms and legs were at least nine foot long apiece. I remember thinking that I've had enough now. But this was just the start. Powell and Phillips suddenly took it upon themselves to become survey takers and they disappeared into the train to ask other passengers what seemed to them pertinent questions about rail travel. At this point I had an almost overwhelming need to laugh and I just knew that if I looked at either of them in the eye I'd be reduced to hysterical jollity. This happened to them as well and we spent the rest of the journey studiously looking at anything but each other desperately stifling laughter.The trip ( no pun intended ) from Paddington to Sloan Square was the longest 20 minutes of my life - or so it seemed. We couldn't look at each other or anyone else without wanting to burst into maniacal laughter. However, we reached the top of The Kings Road Chelsea and proceeded along the highway towards the Worlds End public house at the other end of the street - which as I stated was about a mile away.Normally I could cover this distance in about twenty minutes. But not tonight. Trying to walk on nine foot legs and having every red double decker bus smile at me was quite disconcerting. That, coupled with Julian talking to lamp posts an Alan disappearing up every side street meant it took us the better part of ninety minutes to get as far as the pub.We did get there though and met our friends over several pints of lager which tasted like nectar. Things seemed to have calmed down a bit in my mind and I had stopped laughing although the large clock in the bar kept winking at me and there was the Viking who was standing at the end of the bar. But apart from that I felt I was returning to normal. I wish I could have said the same for Jules and Alan. Possessed of their new found god like abilities they had decided to take poppers and much more alcohol as we all did. At around 23:30 that night we left the pub in what could only be described as an advanced state of inebriation. Somehow I managed to lose the rest of the people I was with and could not for the likes of me remember where I was supposed to sleep that night. I had a vague idea of where our friends house was but not the exact location. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to me to knock on the doors of every house I thought was likely to be where I should be. As you can imagine the residents were not too pleased particularly as I knocked the doors on at least two streets twice in the space of two hours. I finally gave up at 03:00 ish and decided that Id go for a walk by the Thames until it was daylight.Whilst doing this I noticed some very plush houses indeed and decided to investigate their premises to pass the time as much as anything else. At around four oclock now desperately tired I was just about to lie down on the lawn of one of the houses when someone called me. It was a police officer on the beat. I thought Oh good! Hes going to arrest me for trespass and put me in a nice cosy cell where I can sleep for years. As fate would have it he was from Wales and refused to arrest me but did tell me that a caf would be opening soon not far from where we were. He suggested I went there and drank some coffee. So off I went and became lost again.It was then I had a stroke of genius. I knew I needed to get some sleep pretty fast and I knew I couldnt afford a hotel especially in Chelsea. So what was I to do? It then occurred to me to travel to Portsmouth on the south coast. This was not as mad as it first seems. I was a student in Portsmouth in the late seventies and knew that a return ticket was relatively cheap. More to the point the train would be practically empty because it was so early and I could be assured some rest. I also knew that the train was checked at Portsmouth by rail staff before they allowed it to board a ferry for The Isle of Wight therefore I had a wake up call. So this is what I did. I haled a taxi and went to Waterloo station, bought a ticket, boarded the train, slept like a baby, was woken up at Portsmouth, bought breakfast and caught the next available train back to London and slept all the way back.Refreshed and sober I returned to The Worlds End pub and instantly remembered where my friends house was. When I got there I found out that I hadnt been missed until around midday because no one had woken up or recovered from the stupors theyd put themselves into the night before.The irony of all the previous nights fiasco was that I was as fresh as a daisy whilst my companions had continued partying into the early hours and were well and truly wrecked.It was fortunate really because that night partying continued once again and Alan and Jules insisted on taking the idiotic mix of mushrooms, poppers and booze. I stuck to beer.On the Sunday morning we had to make our way back to Wales. I was ok except that every time I shut my eyes I could see a chess board. Julian was shaking a bit but was rallying by the hour. Alan on the other hand was green. And I mean GREEEEEEN. Ive never seen anyone so ill who hadnt died soon after. He recovered though. It took a month or so but was OK.I for one as you can see will never forget that fateful trip to London in the Summer of 1982.

OFF THE RAILSIn another one of my incarnations I worked for a number of years as a railway guard in the South Wales valleys. The company was part of the Regional Railway Network called Valley Lines both of which were part of British Rail. I was based at the Canton depot in Cardiff and took trains as far afield as the exotic flesh pots of Barry Island, Rhymney, Treherbert, Aberdare and Merthyr Tydfil.During my time as a guard I came across many strange passengers; there seems to be a peculiarity about train travel in the UK that alters the personality of those who chosen to travel by rail. Some people go very quiet. Others act as though theyve been kidnapped and regard train staff as oppressors. Others still, develop an ability to lie that would make Tom Pepper look like a saint. However, no matter how eccentric the passengers there was always a guard who could make them look like rank amateurs when it came to odd behaviour.For example there was one who revelled in the name of Captain Chaos. He had been given this moniker because of his ability to make the slightest problem seem like an extinction level scenario. Another was Smelly Evans a man who could clear a train just by walking through it. But undoubtedly the very top of the eccentric tree belonged to one Billy Lucas.Lucas was a guard of the old order. He was in his early sixties, had served forty years on the railways, was in possession of a hair lip and a nasal delivery to match. He also had the most intolerant attitude to passengers it was possible to have without actually killing them.Tales of Billy were legendary. One recalls with a certain fondness the time he ejected two youths from his train for failing to purchase a ticket. The standard approach when dealing with fare dodgers was to ask them if they actually wanted to buy a ticket. If they said no, the British Transport Police were called. If they said yes but had no money their names and addresses would be taken ( hoping they were telling the truth ) and they would be issued with the most expensive one way ticket to their destination that the rules allowed. The revenue department would then bill them and if they refused to pay they would go to court. Billy didnt believe in any of this and his invariable response to fare dodgers was OFF . Such was the case with the aforementioned youths who were duly put off the train somewhere in the upper reaches of the Rhymney valley. What made this incident remarkable however was that Billys Philistine approach had been witnessed by a vicar who took it upon himself to chastise Billy for his unchristian ways. Billy took one look at him and said Shut up you. I work seven days a week. Not one. You can get off as well if you like.On another occasion Lucas was working the Treherbert to Barry Island service on a particularly busy train. So, as he proceeded through the train calling out TICKETHS PLEASTH courtesy of his hair lip, he didnt have the time to look at the faces of the passengers he was serving. If a passenger had a ticket they would hand it to him and he would clip it. If they didnt have a ticket they would say something like Single or Return to Cardiff please. He could then issue them with a ticket from a portable ticket dispenser we all carried at work.On the day in question he had reached the second carriage and was calling out the usual TICKETHS PLEASTH when a passenger said Thicket tho Cardiph pleasth. Billy wasnt biting today so he said without looking up from his machine. Thingle or return? The passenger hadnt heard him and said again Thicket tho Cardiph pleasth. Again without looking up Lucas said THINGLE OR RETURN? THINGLE PLEATH came the reply. At this point Lucas was reaching a fever pitch of indignation for being mocked and said in the loudest possible voice ARE YOU TAKING THE PISSTH OUT OF ME? He swung around only to be staring into the face of a man with a bigger hair lip than he had.Undoubtedly though Lucass finest hour was dealing with a man who believed in the common sympathy we would all feel for a fellow human being in his plight. Billy and I were working a train from Cardiff. I was the assistant ticket collector and Billy was the guard. We approached a guy who was looking the worse for wear and didnt have a ticket. He proceeded to spin a tale of woe second to none. Im sorry boys he said My mother died yesterday and I went out and got drunk, lost all my money on the horses, started a fight and was arrested by the police. I was fined 500.00 this morning and I havent got a penny on me.. I looked at Billy. Billy looked at the guy and said Not your lucky day is it pal? OFF.

In my life I have worked in many varied jobs. During a short period in the nineteen eighties I worked for the Royal Mail in London as a postman. The office I worked in was called E.C.D.O ( Eastern Central District Office ) located in Newgate Street adjacent to Saint Paul's Cathedral. It had a compliment of four thousand staff and dealt with mail posted in and received by The City of London. This included The Stock Exchange, Bank of England, Hatton Gardens (diamond merchants) and all the other financial institutions one would expect to find in a great metropolis.The building we worked in was extraordinary as it contained a church a mosque, two restaurants, two bars and assorted playgrounds. The work area itself extended from an underground railway system independent of London Transport through six or seven storeys that was the hub of all manner of sorting activities; letters, parcels and packets were processed at a rate of seven million a week on average rising to nineteen million at Christmas. It was often touted that we ran the best postal system in the world - an assertion that had the majority of postal workers laughing like drains. However, the system did work because we were all prepared to help each other so that the Royal Mail was delivered on time.In order to ensure that we were not impeded in our efforts, by some unkind fellows who would often take the time and effort to send letter bombs through our office, security was of a ' high' priority. I myself was instructed to remove a suspect package and take it to a place where it would be safe until the bomb squad arrived. I imagined some high tech isolation unit so you will appreciate my surprise when I and said suspect package had to travel in an elevator up two floors only to find a bucket of water and a bucket of sand in the middle of a large hall. This journey became a fairly regular affair but the office remained open and the sorting unaffected. This was the normal state of affairs until the 'night of the marzipan attack'.To understand how marzipan could disrupt the mail its best to have a picture of the building I worked in in your mind. Imagine, if you will, a large Victorian edifice that had platforms at the east and west sides of the building. These were used to receive and dispose of sack loads of mail brought to and taken away from us by vans. Connecting these two platforms was a conveyor belt that ran through the center of the building. Mail brought to us which was intended for sorting at our office would be taken from the vans and deposited down a chute marked ECDO. The rest would be deposited down a chute that led directly to the conveyor belt. This would take it to the platform at other side of the building where it would be sorted into vans dependent on which district it was headed for. This was an unremarkable process that took place hundreds of times a day. However on a particularly sultry summers night, a combination of heat, gravity, fans and plain bad judgment led to the evacuation of everyone in the building.You see! At around three thirty in the morning the temperature in the main sorting area had rising to stifling levels; body and machinery heat coupled with the outside atmosphere meant that the fans which were always running to reduce the paper dust in the building and cool us were becoming ineffective. So someone had the sensible idea of wedging open the doors on the east and west platforms to create a draught. It helped a great deal until that fateful delivery of a gallon of concentrated marzipan extract. It was delivered to us in a standard post bag so we couldnt see exactly what we were dealing with. It was heavy and was marked for another office and as such was duly dropped onto the conveyor belt some ten feet below the platform. There was a sharp crack as the glass container holding the stuff broke. But off it went through the building to the opposing platform where it hit the ground and spilled its contents.During its short but eventful journey through the sorting area some of the staff started to cough unaccountably and their eyes started to stream. The air was filled with marzipan flavour and many commented that Christmas seemed to have come early. However, the best was yet to come. One of the managers in charge of the platform where the concentrate was now oozing decided that the best course of action would be to turn a hose on it and wash it away. In his defence it must be said that he had no idea that he was dealing with anything other than a wet smelly substance that should be washed away. The result of his actions meant we then had about 80 gallons of concentrated marzipan extract giving of fumes that took full advantage of the draught system created to alleviate our discomfort. It would be hard to say that the effect on the personnel was akin to a mustard gas attack but it wasnt far off. Soon people were making for every available exit. As luck would have it Saint Bartholomews hospital was located further down Newgate Street and a few traipsed there in the hope of succour. Others who had developed a furious thirst in the marzipan cloud decided the best course of action was to wander down to Smithfield Market. The famous London meat emporium worked through the night just like we did and because of this the local pubs opened to cater for the workers hours accordingly. By seven oclock some four hours after the onset of the marzipan attack it was difficult to discern which postal workers were suffering from what. It was generally agreed however that two symptoms brought on by an overflow of marzipan extract was slurred speech and an unsteady gait.I believe the report into the incident was lost.

The Yellow Brick Rd led straight to the Millenium Stadium in Kairdiff yesterday where a wizardly display left OZ looking emerald green by comparison.Warren Gatland was last seen heading for the dressing room after the All Blacks game with his trusty revolver glowing in anticipation of imminent executions. The threat of death or at least loss of earnings seems to have galvanised the Welsh side into producing some fine running rugby.The serious tone was set within the first three minutes when the Oz captain was offered a personal tackle which sent him up a gum tree for the duration. To add insult to injury the Taff scored a runaway try that had grown men crying in their beer wistfully recalling the heady days of the seventies. But to give the Wallabies their due they fought back like good 'uns and had many a Welsh fan changing his shorts just before no side was called.

I say! I'm not much of a Kinema chappie. Much prefer live gels with long legs and the chance of an immediate liaison. However I chanced upon a rollicking production the other day concerning a spirited gel called Crofty or somesuch. Reminded me of the mem sahib in her prime. But I digress. This Crofty wallah apparently has an interest in ancient artifacts - this put her immediately in my good books being one meself - but has nothing of the starched corsets one would usually associate with her ilk. I remember givin in in a fit of exasperation after attempting to remove Myrtle Trubshaw's drawers during a particularly damp summer in Bognor. I was very young of course. Around thirteen I should think but even then I had a particularly excessive libido.Now where was I? Ah yes the Crofty creature. Imagine my horror when I enquired after the gels antecedents only to disover she was a Hun from Hun stock. It's very hush hush but apparently she tries to hide the fact by sporting a different moniker. Julie or somesuch as opposed to Volker. Too bloody close to valkyrie for my liking.Well I must come to the point. I was wondering if anyone knew where I could reach the gel.

Frost in the morningIce in the nightChill of the windSnow falling brightCrispness of airSheen on the landChildren all playingSounds of a bandJingle and jangleSkiing and skatesSprinkling snowdropsCrystalline shapesGlow of the street lightsHush of the darkSnowmen collectingMore flakes in the parkGreen of the hollyMistletoe funCream on the puddingWhiffs of warm rumChimings and carolsCalls of good cheerTrimmings and stockingsTime of the yearSensing excitementLights on the treeThe Wonder of winterThat is Christmas Eve.Ian Price 2007

Now look here!It's all very well your Boer visiting God's own in abject humility but I must say I took the gravest exception to them presuming superiority at HQ yesterday . Bad form don't cha know.When I visited The South African Embassy last week - cheque book in hand - I believe an arrangement had been procured wherin your Boer was to take the same attitude he had in 1900 and quietly return to his farm in utmost servitude.I must say that the scoundrels reneged on a gentleman's agreement and handed out a thoroughly undeserved thrashing to the cream of English rugby. It's this kind of uppity attitude that sent Rhodesia to the poor house.May I remind my chums in the Broederbund that I have substantial holdings in De Beers and Rio Tinto Zinc and could, if I wished, reduce the whole Rainbow State to ashes within a month.But Noblesse Oblige. I have it on the highest authority that every man jack in the England side were suffering the most appalling flu symptoms. Brought on by the gals in my entertainment booth on the eve of the game no doubt.So there you have it. A mere misunderstanding.By the by I believe the Taff and those other sheep people had a ding dong somewhere to the west. Memo to self ' Must keep the colonials happy for a while'.Pip Pip.QWT