12 of the finest (unintentional) double-entendres ever aired on British TV and radio:
12 of the finest (unintentional) double-entendres ever aired on British TV and radio:
Last night I went to see Being Flynn at the movies. Have you seen it yet?
Goodness, it was so sad. Yet surprisingly it still managed to portray an element of hope. It’s based on the story of writer/poet Nick Flynn and his father Jonathan who have been estranged since Nick’s early childhood.
Played brilliantly by Robert De Niro, Jonathan is a pretty unpleasant character. He’s racist, homophobic, drunk, and foul, all of which fester and explode into vitriolic rants. Contra to this, and beneath the venom, Jonathan holds firm to a belief of being a masterful writer who has written, or is writing, the greatest novel yet to be read.
Nick, on the other hand, a somewhat aspiring poet and writer, is a decent kind of a bloke. And even when falls into drugs for a while, you certainly feel for him. Let’s be honest, it can’t be easy wandering around with memories of a mother who took her life after reading a story you’d penned, and the ever present shadow of absent and destructive father.
They meet up at the homeless shelter where Nick works and this is where the story really takes off. There is nothing remotely close to rose-tinted story lines or ending to this movie. Their story is crudely portrayed, with every scene depicting a brutal life on the street as they fight against each other to survive their own personal demons and needs.
The ending is not predictable but rather presents what I thought was a beginning.
Rating: 9 out of 10 for Robert De Niro
Overall entertainment: 7
I’m not sure of the validity of this source, but despite that I thought the sentiment pretty much hit the nail on the proverbial head
Wise Words from a Judge in New Zealand – for Young People and Adults
“Northland College (NZ) principal John Tapene has offered the following words from a judge who regularly deals with youth.
“Always we hear the cry from teenagers ‘What can we do, where can we go?’
… My answer is, “Go home, mow the lawn, wash the windows, learn to cook, build a raft, get a job, visit the sick, study your lessons, and after you’ve finished, read a book.”
“Your town does not owe you recreational facilities and your parents do not owe you fun. The world does not owe you a living, you owe the world something. You owe it your time, energy and talent so that no one will be at war, in poverty or sick and lonely again.”
“In other words, grow up, stop being a cry baby, get out of your dream world and develop a backbone, not a wishbone. Start behaving like a responsible person. You are important and you are needed. It’s too late to sit around and wait for somebody to do something someday. Someday is now and that somebody is you…”"
Before I go any further, let me reiterate once again that my hubby is an absolute STAR, love him to bits, warts and all.
The trouble is…well it’s the warts. The biggest wart being pressies. I’m pretty darn positive I’ve blogged about this before, but thought I needed to share my latest present, received yesterday.
It wasn’t my birthday or anything special mind you. Nope, hubby just felt he needed to buy me something extra nice. I’ve tried explaining that practical gifts don’t do it for me, and I really don’t mind what I have as long as it is something I’ve hinted about for weeks, or physically pointed out to him on our very rare shopping trips. Failing that, money is always good
So here we go, this is what he came back with yesterday. Proud as punch he was. Little cheeks flushed at what he thought would be joy on my face.
I’ll leave you to decide on how I might have reacted…
I’m a bit of a kid at heart, and will often leap at the chance to do something daft. So when we found ourselves visiting Arniston – a small fishing village in the Western Cape – a year or so ago, a daft opportunity smacked me in the face and I hastily put on my running shoes.
The Dunes in Arniston are amazing. We walked up and down them many, many times over the weekend, welcoming the heat of the day on our bodies as the warm silky sand rolled between our toes. It was bliss.
Anyway this one particular late afternoon, the dunes were quite deserted and I took my moment. I sent hubby to the bottom, camera at the ready, and I made my way to the top. We waved at each other a couple of times, I gave him the thumbs up, and off I went….
I’ve realised that I’m not capable of sending emails and posting blogs, or even chatting, without complaining about the weather – in winter that is.
Flipping heck, it is chilly. Correction, it’s $%$$%^$%^ cold in Cape Town. Driving to work around 6am, my seat warmer is on max, my hands are gloved and my mood is certainly not upbeat.
Even my little dog is in agreement. Just look at him here. All snuggled up with no intention of leaving-the-blanket until spring is sprung
There are a couple of good things about Winter though, or maybe it’s Autumn, I don’ know.
One of the truly bestest are the brilliant colours of the leaves. From our office window I look onto the mountains and what an amazing sight to see them padded with trees covered in every shade of red, green, gold, rust and brown. I mentioned this to my daughter and she looked at me as if to say, WEIRDO.
Seems we only appreciate nature when we are slightly older! So gonna remind her of this when she is my age and all dewy eyed hugging a tree. A-ha, note already made in book titled “remind daughter of this when her children are annoying her etc.”
I also love the crunchy leaves that bunch up and just beg you to run through them. That crispy crunch always brings a smile to my little face. In fact, if I could assure myself I might not end up grubby, I could be well be tempted to throw myself in them and roll around. Somehow that sounds a little odd, but I think you know what I mean.
And lastly of course, how wonderful it is to be snuggled on the couch with your favourite doggie by your feet, sipping a hot cup of your choice, munching a packet of choc digestives while watching a feel-good movie.
Ahhh, bliss…Winter I think I’ve changed my mind about you
Sunday is father’s day. And if I could have one wish this week, it would be to spend that special, special day with my lovely Dad in England. We wouldn’t have to do much either. I know we’d be happy watching some rugby or soccer together, or failing that some good old TV. Inevitably we’d be hungry, and what better meal to share than a mound of Yorkshire puddings and a packet of chocolate digestives.
I miss him.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad
Odd Socks! Bet you have a million of them laying around the house. In my house I’ll find them under the bed, back of the cupboard, under the car seat and bottom of gym bags. And like the world over, I can never, ever find the partner. But you know, once found, I wash them and move them to the clean underwear basket where they wait for a mate to appear.
A little part of me likes to believe the abandoned-socks listen with awe to the elder-socks stories of a sock-cloning device that is days away from launching. I can see the launch now, socks of all colours, shapes and sizes mingling around a sparkly stainless steel box that fits snugly atop the washing machine.
Can you imagine the consequence of sock-cloning? Beds would teeter on mounds and going to the gym would require two bags, one for odd socks, and one for your gym kit.
But this odd sock thing got me thinking about what we won’t throw away and also what we won’t spend money on. Clearly I do not enjoy tossing out odd socks, I have about a gazillion of them laying around at home. But more to the point what do I not want to spend money on?
Well let’s put it this way, don’t expect a greeting card from me, or a nicely wrapped gift. So not going to happen. I know, I know, I sound like a miserable old bat, but I cannot for the life of me hand over cash for something that will end up in the bin. I’d rather buy you a nice gift, something I know you want, and hand it over in the shopping bag it came in.
What won’t I throw away? Hmmm, not much escapes the bin for me. No, no, I know what. Bags and scarves. It’s pretty odd really because I can toss out clothes on a regular basis, but not my bags and scarves. You’ll have to wrestle them from me.
Hubby on the other hand resents buying clothes. The man walks around looking like a pauper, holes in his shoes, worn collars, threadbare trousers and paint spattered t-shirts. Take him by the arm and force him into a shop and he practically hyperventilates pricing underwear. If I let him near shoes, I would be reading his obituary the next day.
Then there is his van. Nope, not changing it. For him the battered panels and doors and much cherished missing petrol cap all give character and have a story to tell. The damp smell is now familiar, and the pock exterior is tactile. Actually this van is a bit of an amusement to us. We like to arrive at posh restaurants in this well-loved vehicle. It’s pretty childish, but dangling a blinged-up wrist from the window as we sign in at the gate is a must.
Hubby won’t throw away anything. And I mean anything. There is no point allocating him a man-drawer for his bits and pieces. Nope, he’d laugh at me and maintain his claim on the study, garage, shed, kitchen drawers, kitchen counter, and if I let him ,the top shelf in my cupboard. He not only hangs onto broken appliances, chairs, screws and paint-stuck brushes etc, he also hoards empty food tubs and jars. BUT, I draw the line at his insistence on keeping his old underwear for dusting. I’m sorry, that’s just wrong. Flicking dust with my mans underpants is not something I want to do.
Could you just imagine me handing hubby’s brooks to my mother and asking her to polish the TV. Not good. Could be another obituary moment!