The Stinking Smell Of Smoking Socks

Really, The Indignities I Put Up With!
As is well-known by now, your humble scribe is physically remarkable for two reasons:  
1) No sense of smell and 2) The ability to eat anything*.
     Hold onto that concept, it comes into play later on.
     Okay, so yesterday was spent mostly dogsitting Edna, as Wonder Wifey tootled off down south to pick up an E-bay purchase, a rug that cost £5,000 new that she acquired for 50p, something like that.  Conrad: not big on rugs; wasn't paying close attention, instead rubbed hands at the opportunity to binge-watch "Archer" and "Game of Thrones", which will come into play later on.
     Now - sorry, what's that?
     "Show us!  Show us the £6,000 rug!" I hear you call.  Well, if that will help us move on, okay.  Art?
     

     I'm sure you'll agree, worth every penny of the 25p that WW bargained it down to.  Not sure I'd ever pay £7,000 for a bit of wool backed with cord, but hey, whatever floats your boat.
     Today I was dogsitting again, literally at times.  Art?

Sittingdog

     - as Wonder Wifey was off to get a new ironing board.  Once again, binge-watching GoT, and whilst everyone else was out of the house, Conrad took the opportunity to get that remaindered Gorgonzola and spread it on toast, so he could grill it.  I refer you again to Paragraph One and points 1 & 2.
     Unfortunately for all involved, WW and Degsy returned just as it was being grilled and - obviously! - they felt compelled to comment.
     "That stinks!"
     "It smells exactly like socks!"
     "It smell like burning socks!"
     "It reeks!  Better open a window!"
     Conrad huffily departed with his cheese on toast, which he ate in the lounge as quickly as possible SO NOBODY ELSE HAD TO SUFFER THE SMELL ANY LONGER THAN THEY HAD TO.

It was delicious, thanks for asking

     Edna remained available for comment but didn't.

"Game Of Thrones"
Conrad is saddened to see that, although Wildlings have been introduced, there are still no bagpipes.  If you care to know, I have just finished watching Episode 9 of Season 1.
     I have to say, they're not scared of knocking off major characters.  Whoops, there goes King Robert!  Political situation promptly turns upside down.  Oh, I say, Ned Stark's in the dungeons - ooops, no, tell a lie, he's dead.
     Yes, that was a spoiler, from five years ago.  So don't blame me**.

In those days, even barbers were ferocious

     Also in this episode, British character actor Charles Vaughn gets a speech that allows him to show his acting chops, against Kit Harrington and a load of ravens, disproving the adage about acting with children or animals.

The Olympics Have Ended
You may have already noticed this.  Conrad, not being at all interested in sports, has managed to avoid seeing more than a brief glimpse of Dancing Lady Kickers, and People Throwing Themselves Off Tall Structures (fortunately there was water beneath to break their fall).
     Team GB seem to have covered themselves in glory, winning scads of medals (Conrad has no idea how many so will hastily move on from this ...).  Some of these events are a little obscure, I have to confess, yet you can't really criticise the medal-winners after they've been going at it for the past four years.

Note chap in wheelchair - it's about ability

     Tom, who may at ANY MOMENT be stripped of his MInistry of Musical Murder portfolio due to lack of love for popcorn***, pointed out that other nations reward their Olympians with vast amounts of filthy lucre.  We here in the Pond Of Eden do not, which he thought rather unfair.
     Tom!  This is in keeping with the proud tradition of British amateurs who perform for love of the sport, not money.  I realise this tradition breaks down when it comes to those whinging  prima donnas who play football; rest assured this is yet another problem that will be speedily resolved when I become World Dictator.
     After all, remember that the original Greek Olympians were rewarded with nothing more than a laurel wreath -
     - hmm, that sounds a winning combination, football players and wreaths ...

As tasteful as only BOOJUM! can be

Conrad's Sinister Forward Planning
I intend to use a particular rhyme to pimp the blog today, which necessitates having this picture in here, as otherwise I'd be lying, and we can't have that, can we?

A pile of bones

     In fact I think I'll egg the pudding a bit more.  Art?

A heap of stones

Finally -
Another bit of promotion, but of someone else, rather than that inveterate camera-hog Conrad:  Jim'll Paint it.

Hilarious, yes.  Tasteless - no, not at all!

     Jim accepts suggestions for paintings, which are all universally bizarre, and indeed one wonders if some of those doing the suggesting are taking a break from their medication.  Just to cover my bottom I shall include a link to his site, which is worth checking out for a disbelieving snigger:

http://jimllpaintit.tumblr.com/



*  Live nuclear fuel rods being the single known exception
** Actually you can, I don't care.  I'm horrid like that.
*** It's a long story.  Go read the blog.

A Beautiful View, A Misjudged Menu

Gird Your Metaphorical Loins, Gentle Reader
For tonight we travel in both time and space, courtesy of your humble scribe, who will - what's that?  No! Not the TARDIS, Conrad.  Me.  I shall - oh let's just get on with it, eh?
     Conrad's posting schedule last Saturday was a little discombobulated, as he had been invited to go on Pete's stag do, which involved meeting in Manchester at 17:00, thus allowing only one post that day.
     Needless to say, your humble scribe does not often get invited to go out on social events, and I suspect Pete was a bit desperate in resorting to me.  Be that as it may, I went, and hopefully our madcap adventures will divert you for a moment or two*.
     First problem was locating the meeting venue - "Red's True Barbecue", which was not where I fondly imagined it to be.

The corner of Whitworth Street and Princess Parkway

     Fortunately Pete had the foresight on Friday afternoon to obtain your humble scribe's mobile phone number.  Er - that is, Anna provided him with same, as <mild blush> your modest artisan has absolutely no idea what his Portable Devil Box number is.  So I plaintively rang Pete and confessed I was slightly adrift**.  He guided me to target.

A grim vista

     Lovely Manchester weather!
     Pete and party turned up mere minutes later, and then our second hurdle of the evening transpired.  Pete had not been able to book a table in advance, so we'd agreed to turn up early and hopefully not have to wait more than, ooh, thirty minutes for a table.
     "It might take two or three hours," mournfully informed our blond waitress.
     Damnit!  Conrad had left that money-off voucher for Burgerking at home -
     We consolidated in back, drowning our sorrows with alcohol.  I met the rest of our party - Russell (Pete's partner-in-crime from work), Mick, John, Simon, Robbo and Craig.
     

Pete, Simon (his elder brother), Robbo and Craig
(You are lucky to get this shot, as Pete detests having his photo taken)

     No shots of Russell as you've probably already seen him, and Mick and John vanished after the meal.
     Speaking of which -
     "I can fit you in at two tables of four," informed our waitress five minutes after we began darkly considering where to eat.  We would have fallen upon her and praised her and her ancestors to the heavens were there not such things as sexual harrassment suits.
     Craig, Simon, Robbo and I were at one table and we all agreed to share a couple of "Feasts" which were £19 and £35 respectively.  You got plenty of bang for your buck.

Before!

     Now, you can't deny there's a lot there.  Fries and ribs and chicken and sausages and cornbread and coleslaw and onion rings and a "Bucket of Bones" and sweet potato fries.  We did them justice.

Very much After!

     Conrad had to explain about "cornbread" a couple of times, as he's baked it before.  It's made from cornmeal not wheat, and has a general rather sweet and cakey texture - oh, can we have the bill please - and this version is rather looser and crumblier than the version I -
     - WHAT  £130! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN!?
     The waiter gently pointed out, with a menu, that the "Bucket of Bones" had a minimum order of four persons and cost £19 EACH.
     Oh what the heck, it's only money.  We paid up, and left.  Although not before Conrad, because the balance of his mind was disturbed, tipped our waitress £5 for hustling the tables for us.

Next:  Belle Vue Stadium

Where they race greyhounds.  That's where "A Beautiful View" comes from.  What, did you think it referred to us or a wet Manchester city centre?  Art?

     I would take to task whoever came up with the name for this racetrack, as the view from the terraces could scarcely be called beautiful.  Art?

Perhaps better in sunlight?

     Altogether a novel experience for your humble scribe, as I have never been to a racetrack of any sort.  Nor, frankly, do I participate in gambling.  Not, I hasten to assure you, out of any particular moral scruples.  No.  I just like to have something to show for spending my money***.
     The format was that a race was run every twenty minutes or so, before which we the punters could place a bet.  Lest you confuse greyhound racing with Ascot or Epsom, the minimum bet placed at Belle Vue is £2.  The dogs then raced madly round the track -

Atmospheric shot of muddy track in the rain

     And one of them won.
     I realise this concept of "racing" and "win" may not go down well in these PC times, so let me distract you with a trackside shot of an artificial hurdle -

Slightly obscured by fencing

     Let me also regale you with a shot of the programme -

Note runner number 2!

     Never mind all the nonsense about statistics and numbers and performance and whether a particular animal had voided it's bladder or bowels before a race - this was a genuine criteria for the others present - Conrad chose "Crinkilly Sally" because Darling Daughter is called "Sally".
     And it won.
     Yes!  £7.50 return on a £2 "stake" - stop me if I get too technical.  Not only that, I was the only one who won all night.

We then got a taxi back into Gomorrah Manchester, courtesy of an hilarious taxi driver with a fine line in dismissive banter, at which your talented typist abandoned ship in order to catch the last bus home.  Getting on, you know, these old bones. Which are up a bit of betting money and down a whole lot of dining dollars.

Now you know.  Chin chin!

Ooops.  Have to add another 8 words at least to boost this to 1,000 words.

There!  Done.

* No complaints if they don't. This is all free.
** "Completely lost" - translation courtesy Mister Hand.
*** Like a huge restaurant bill! - added Mister Hand

A Day Late and £0.76 Short

What?  You Expected Dollars?
That whistling noise is my Boomerang Of Hurt, headed right for your head.  This is BOOJUM! where we resort to Imperial metrics whenever possible, although I will admit that (at current exchange rates) £0.76 is in fact a dollar.

An example of South Canadian lucre

     My title refers to not posting anything new yesterday due to time, space and relative dimensions bus timetables.  In fact I could have posted except it wouldn't have gone up until 10 p.m. and I felt like a bit of "me" time.
     So, not only do I have the notes from Friday, there's leftovers from Thursday, too, which means today is going to be a settling of accounts.  Firstly we have the apologia about the following, because it's about Thursday's 

Pub Quiz
To quote the note: Ah yes.  This may be.  Or not.  If it is then I anticipate doing better than last week as we shall have Phil - good for sports - and Rosie - good for television and British geography.  Last week we had 8 questions out of 40 on sport and could only answer one:  "Bobsleigh".


Yesterday Morning
(Please treat all references as applying to Friday, as this is being posted on Saturday)
     As you know by now (or should do if you were taking notes) Conrad has the literary ability to compose a major screed on the smallest of subjects - adding a full stop to the end of a sentence, for example.
     "Verbosity!" I hear you say*.
     Raw creative talent, is my riposte.  When you have unlimited time then there's no pressure; working against the clock, on the other hand, sorts out the wolves from the bouffant French poodles.

 - some poodles being scarier than others ...

     As this morning.
     At 6:35 I decided there wouldn't be time to do a proper BOOJUM! tonight, given scheduling:  arrive home, 7:15 at the earliest, do the weekly shop, put it away**, by which time it's 8:45, have a crust of bread and a sip of water, and it's 9:00 p.m., to all of which add an hour if I miss the 6:20 p.m. bus.
     Thus a race against time ensues, to create that old fallback, the 2013/2014/2015 links post, three posts out of 1372.  Don't forget I still have to have a shave and shower after this, then get dressed, pack bag and hare myself hence to the bus stop.
     Done!
     Posted on Facebook and Twitter.  Then, off to wash away the accumulated grime of Thursday from my aged bones (not literally, I just didn't want to generate an image you couldn't unsee).

Thus

     Check traffic figures.  There is a hardcore of people, numbering about six, who can be counted on to read BOOJUM! at 6:45 a.m. - but what's this?  24 hits?  On an essentially historic post with no new content.  Hmmmm.  Your humble scribe slightly perturbed.

First Bus
On both Thursday and Friday the 24 came on time, and was a double-decker, and came absent The Metro both mornings.  Then, getting off the bus on the way home, Conrad noticed some compassionate soul had left a copy of the Metro for Thursday.  So, Friday morning First Bus, this is for you!  Art?

Ha!  Mocked you, First

     In fact I acquired a second copy, which is helpful as I think I might have boobooed on the Cryptic Crossword, so I can start again.
     I wonder - should I perhaps actually - really pushing the envelope here - read it?

How Long Will This Take To Fix?
As you should know by now, Conrad takes a peculiar and enduring interest in the Electric Goldfish Bowl's atrium lighting.  To be more specific, when it fails.  Whenever a bulb on the fifth floor burns out, it takes a geological age for it to be replaced.  So this is a bit of a doozy - Art?

     TWO bulbs gone!
     I can see the heat death of the universe approaching before these get replaced.






*  I'll get you later, when you're not expecting it.
**  Onerous yet it means what I've bought remains secret.