I meant to publish this in 2021, but for some reason, I didn’t get around to it, don’t know why, I just didn’t.

So, here it is. I’m currently scratching my head, trying to think back and completely remember what happened, to the best of my bloody awful memory. I’m adding onto it now because I didn’t finish it (Maybe that’s why I didn’t post it eh!!)

In 2021, the un-royal we, my wife Angie and I, took 5 days annual leave. (Much needed) During lockdown, Angie was expected to work from home (As much of the World was) but, quite often, she delivered food packages to the most vulnerable as part of her job. I worked through as normal, working 15 hour shifts at a residential house, where 5 elderly gentlemen lived (All with very severe learning disabilities) Needless to say, it was a mentally exhausting time for everyone.

The year before, in 2020, I bought Angie a few gifts to celebrate her 50th. Last year we (I mean everyone) suffered the frustration and anguish of lockdown. So, just like everyone else, she couldn’t celebrate her birthday in the way that we wanted her to. However, we celebrated her big day sat in the sun in our garden, sipping beer and wine. Every twenty minutes or so, she answered her phone to real time chats, calls and messages (Not sure what it’s called!) At one point, we sat at the front of the house across from our neighbours, who sat outside their front door. They had baked her a lovely big fresh cream cake. Whilst we tucked into it and raised a glass, our neighbours put some 80s music on and we did a singalong. A few people passed by, disguised behind masks, stopped to chat and wished my wife a happy birthday. Angie told me later that she loved every minute of her day.

Fast forward to September 2021. One of the presents I bought Angie for her birthday (Something for her to look forward to) was a weekend away at a place of her choice in the UK. After much deliberation, she chose to stay at an old coaching inn in the heart of a village called Dorchester on Thames. It is a few miles from Oxford and as far as I could tell, it was/is a pretty affluent village. Absolutely lovely, quintessentially English.

So, off we went. Packed light, eager to drive away from the terrible norm. After stopping quite a few times to break the long journey, we arrived in Dorchester a few hours later. The pub was pretty easy to find. It was one of two or three pubs In the village (Can’t remember) and it was the only one with a yellow coach standing directly outside of the entrance to the courtyard, cum carpark. It was a stately looking contraption, almost royal in appearance. I could almost imagine Dick Turpin jumping out of the carriage, swinging a couple of flintlocks around, shouting “Your money or your wife”!! (Much like politicians do today, substitute life for wife!!) (Sorry, too political) We parked up and went into the pub, which was all beams, oak bar, aged fireplace and suspiciously, a very faint aroma of pipe smoke. We introduced ourselves to a lady behind the bar, explained we had booked a room and ordered a cold beer. We drank the beer at a leisurely pace outside in the courtyard before being shown to our room. The delightful surprise was, when we stepped outside of the pub entrance, we walked maybe 6 steps and walked into our room. For two people who enjoy a beer (Not alcoholics) it was an ironic thought that all we had to do to go to the pub was to walk outside of our room door and take 6 steps!! (I’ve had dreams like that)

The room, the yellow coach and the courtyard.

As you can see, the room was everything Angie had hoped for, with a four poster bed to boot. (It was a two and a half poster by the time we checked out haha!) The yellow coach was directly outside of our room, which made a refreshing change to being greeted by modern cars when we open the curtains at home. The bathroom was huge. If past and future guests were that way inclined, a Roman orgy could be held in there with room to swing several cats.

That’s the bathroom and cheers to the orgy 😜

Only joking. Over half of the bathroom is not in the photo, it was such a huge space.

During our stay, we discovered 2 interesting facts. The first was this. Most English people will be familiar with the tv program, Inspector Morse. Well, it turns out that the pub where we were staying had been used on a couple of occasions to film bar scenes in the series.

The second interesting (Or not) thing was this. During one of our walks through the village (Hand in hand, arms swinging, skipping like kids) we walked past the village cricket pitch. A man was walking towards us with his dog. He was on the opposite side of the green and as we passed he waved and said hello. We in turn, greeted him. That appeared to be an invitation because he hurried over to us and asked us if we were visiting anyone in the village. When we told him we were just enjoying a mini break, his whole demeanor lit up and he invited us to join him at the other pub in the village. Before we could answer, he boldly informed us that the most famous person who used to live in the village was Paul Gadd, stating he “Never liked him, he was shifty” and asked me if I knew who he was talking about! Before I could answer fully, he said “Gary Glitter, he was never liked in the village”! We politely pretended to be unaware that Paul Gadd was Glitter’s real name, which appeared to delight him because he proudly informed us he had plenty of stories to tell us about the village if we bought him a few pints later on in the pub.

We did not want to disappoint him so we told him we might see him later on before he carried on walking his dog. He must have been salivating at the thought of free beer but we decided not to meet him. (Occasionally, when I think back, I regret that decision and then I remember that my bank account would have breathed a sigh of relief)

We made a few journeys into Oxford during our stay in Dorchester. We traveled by bus to give me a break from driving. The following photographs are a couple taken while we were there. (Notice the beer)

As you can see (If you zoom in) The Bear is the oldest pub in Oxford. We sampled a local beer there  whilst we walked around the City.

Interestingly and bizarrely, I was greeted or shocked to witness something I have never seen before in broad daylight in a City. Angie was walking around one of the shops near the University while I was standing outside, leaning on a wall. A woman came meandering down the very busy street wearing what seemed to be a completely see through dress, with no underwear on! Obviously, I did a double and triple take just in case my bulging eyes deceived me. (Yep, definitely naked!!) Thank you God! To be fair to her, she looked bizarrely elegant and she wore a pretty, wide brimmed hat. As my eyes refused to wander from the unbelievable sight, she floated past and I noticed everyone walking towards and behind her were staring in shock and awe (Beat that Mr Trump) Oppsss, political again, sorry!

Until next time, happy streaking.

“Written in the stars”, I believe this is a literary  term first used in the Bible. (Could be wrong, according to the wife, I usually am!)  It’s been quite a long time since I wrote anything anywhere, but shazzzammmm, as if by magic, it was in the stars, inevitable, predetermined that it would happen! (Sorry about that) Life has a way of carving a path that each and every one of us have always been destined to tread. I’ve always believed that. Happiness, despair, love, hate, peace, war etc etc blah blah blah.

Life changes in the wince of a donkey’s arse hole. Every second counts. All of my children grew up, married, started their own families, have their own houses, dotted around the county and country and they face their own predetermined journeys. So it’s literally repeat, rinse, repeat, rinse, start again.

I could say I’m going to start writing again, (I think I intended to continue the last time I wrote something) But, I don’t really know, it depends on what life has in store for me. Nobody really knows.

The world has changed somewhat since I really got my knashers into this writing malarkey. COVID for one, the invasion of Ukraine for another, the slaughter of innocent people in Gaza, and now the illegal war on Iran. Innocent people die every day, every second, for what? So the fat, greedy 000.1% can get fatter and greedier!!! Do the 000.1% care if innocent people die? Of course not, they’re ok Jack!!

Bloody hell, get off your high soap box Johnny boy. “This will never do” I imagine the 000.1% say! Wait a goddam picking minute, they don’t say that because they don’t hear me or even care what I think! They don’t know I exist and I’m happy they don’t!

I’ll be back soon. Hope everyone who writes on this platform is safe, well and happy?

At the moment, I’m off work with health problems and I’m pretty bored. When I get bored, I have been known to do silly things!!!

So, I’m thinking of winning the next general election in England. The party name is the title of this post.

Uhhhh hummm (Clears Throat)

Don’t forget, it’s all tongue in cheek (Not serious)

The Grit and Gravy Party. We Do Shit When We Promise Shit.

My fellow Brits,

We did it. You’ve put your trust in me—and against all odds, common sense, and BBC panel predictions—we have won.

Tonight, the political elite are quivering in their quinoa. Because this victory was not handed down from think tanks or Twitter threads—it was earned in working men’s clubs, garden centres, Greggs queues, bingo halls and back street brothel’s of Britain.

Now let me be crystal clear about what this government stands for:

First—lower taxes. Why? Because we believe the British people are far better at spending their money than the government is. Let’s be honest, you’d rather have a holiday, fix the boiler, get yet another credit card or buy a new lawnmower than fund another ‘Department for Inclusive Pigeons’.

Second—immigration control. Not because we don’t welcome guests—but because the guest room’s full, the kettle’s broken, and we can’t keep pretending the spare key under the mat is a border policy.

And third—yes, the NHS. We love it, we need it, we’ll fix it. Fewer managers, more nurses. Shorter waits, longer lives. And no more asking your nan to call the GP at 7am for an appointment in three weeks’ time at a clinic 40 miles away.

But finally—our flagship policy. And let me say, it’s got the nation’s pensioners talking… and possibly overdosing on arthritic meds.

Free sex with approved prostitutes (All of them ) for all old age pensioners. (Except transgenders)
Why? Because they’ve earned it. They fought in wars. They built the country. They drank Double Diamond. They remember when crisps came with a little blue salt packet. If anyone deserves a happy ending—it’s them. We want you to go out with a bang!!

We call it… the “Silver Service.”

And if Brussels has a problem with it—they can come over here and try stopping Doris and Ken from getting their taxpayer-funded tango.

So to every voter: thank you. To every sceptic: watch us. And to every pensioner: hitch your dressing gown up and get ready—we start Monday.

God save the King. God bless Britain. And someone call HR—we’re going to need a new department.

David Robinson.

After suffering a heart attack on 27th December 2024, he finally passed away after fighting a fight only he could fight. After the heart attack, his body was ravaged by kidney failure, sepsis and extremely low blood pressure. He fought to the end, holding on as long as he could for his family. 

He was the love of our lives.  He was honorable and full of kindness, never hesitating to offer a helping hand or a warm smile to those around him. His wit could light up a room and his ability to tease people without them realizing he was doing it, made him unique and made people laugh. With a smile and a twinkle in his eye, he brought laughter even in the most challenging of times, while his determination was unwavering in the pursuit of what was right and just. Loyal to his loved ones, he stood as a father figure we all looked up to and idolized. He was the  constant, reassuring presence in the  lives of his children, his grandchildren, his great grandchildren and his wife, no matter what the circumstances were, he stood strong and loyal. His respect for others was evident in the way he treated everyone with fairness and dignity. He was never judgemental and he was equally respected in return. But above all, he was loved — not just for his character, but for the love he carried within him for everyone who came into his life.

If I could have chosen a man to be my father, without a doubt, he would have been my choice. 

His wisdom, his compassion, his friendship, his sense of humor and the love he seeped out of every pore shaped me into who I am today. The bond we shared was one of pure respect, one beyond judgement and admiration. I was fortunate to have witnessed his strength and resilience, his successes, his struggles, his triumphs, and even his vulnerabilities. And as much as he gave to others, he never asked for anything in return. He was one of a kind, never to be repeated. The mold was broken when he was born and shattered when he left us.

Though he’s no longer with us in the physical world, the  memories we all have of him will continue to guide, inspire, and comfort. 

We all have our own favorite memories of him, and I’m sure, when we think of them, we will smile and laugh again, just like we did when he was still with us. 

One of my most treasured memories of David (Dad) happened a few days after I married his eldest daughter Angie. We were in the kitchen of his house and he said to me “Look after my little girl John, she’s precious”. I promised him I would and he put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. I felt how much he loved his daughter and I think he felt how much I loved her. He was special and I loved him from that moment. 

He will always be remembered for the man he was and the loyal friend to many he was.  He taught us how to love and cherish the things we love. He came alive again when he found the love of his life, Julie, who became his wife and his strength, inseparable in life and together always.

He will never be forgotten, because the imprint he left on our hearts will never die.

Life has to end, memories and love don’t have to. Because of that, he will live forever. 

https://youtube.com/shorts/P9bxr21JGww?si=wMXxBa4Qm_bEkepK

It’s been awhile, not sure how long, but quite a long time.

My father-in-law suffered massive heart failure yesterday morning (March 30th) About 23 years ago he had a triple heart bypass and fought his way back to some sort of normality.

Yesterday, he fell over in his bedroom and lost consciousness. . He effectively died on his bedroom floor. His wife heard him fall from downstairs and tried getting into the bedroom but couldn’t gain entry because of where he had fallen. One of the grandchildren managed to break into the bedroom. One of my sisters (Who rushed to the house after a distress call from her mum) went into a panic and ran out onto the street and shouted for help from anyone and everyone.

A new neighbor, who had only just moved in a few days before, was outside about to get into his car. As the stars aligned, he is a paramedic. He ran into my family’s house, acted quickly and phoned an ambulance, who arrived in 5 minutes.

They managed to bring him back to life. After fighting to keep him alive for nearly 4 hours, he was transported to a hospital in Sheffield, where they carried on fighting to save him.

Dave, my father-in-law, is currently alive and fighting after surgery. Apart from the incident of heart failure, the stars aligned to keep him with us.

He keeps fighting, we keep clinging on to hope.

6 weeks later and Dave is home and slowly recovering. He doesn’t remember everything that happened but he knows he’s very lucky to still be with us. The king is not dead. Long live the king.