THE COST OF GETTING CHARGED !

In the wonderful hi-tech world we now find ourselves dumped in, some people would say we have been blessed with things like mobile phones ,Blackberry , personal computers, computer games, electric razors even. Myself being a boring old fart i think its all one giant portable electronic pain in the arse. And i'm fairly sure there a whole range of portable electrical items speciffically designed for use on ,in and up various parts n' points of the body. The thing that unites all these wonders of science and communication,texting, games, playing music , stimulating body bits and removing bodily hair off hairy bodily bits.....Is quite simply that they all need to be recharged. Whereas once it was all down to the good ol' battery, nowadays we have what was one a housebrick sized electric box called a transformer to supply DC current to our boyhood SCALECTRIC racing cars.

These are now simply small plastic things called chargers. "Where's me phone charger/MP3 charger/Shaver charger",etc, etc. Heres where the technological hiccup is located. Every single item that has to be recharged has a different connection, requiring a different plug (2 or 3 pin, square or round). Then theres the other end, the jack plug which has an infinitly larger array of shapes, sizes, shapes, width, lengths, etc, etc,.......I wanted to recharge my razor ,opened the drawer and was stunned by a mass of chargers and miles of cable all attached to a different jack plug. I just said "F**K That!" And went back to the good ol' 'wet shave'. I only have to use my phone once every so often as i hardly use the bloody thing for calls,and also as i'm incapable of texting, and quite frankly just don't see the point. But as wherever i go ,everybody is clattering away texting, even if they are sitting with their friends or beloved, i admit it must be that i've missed something. But that wouldn't be the first time.

As i was typing this garbage i remembered watching a documentary about the SHAOLIN priests. They were swinging these ropes with blades attached all around their body,under their feet and bouncing off their back like a rap dancer body popping, or whatever as the cable went under them, very odd, but no doubt very effective. But as we're not allowed to wander around with knives and sharp things, so i believe. Maybe its time to adapt, so the shaolin could be deadly with a mobile charger or ladysoft leg razor recharger.

THE THREE MOST HORRIBLE WORDS FOR ANY CARICATURIST !!

Being a fine upstanding pillock of the community, i find myself being at the behest of the said community , esspecially since the little 'un's old school, with the help of the 'Little 'un' and the Lovely Lynne found out what a wonderfully gifted and talented cartoonist and caricaturist i am. This combined with, apparently me being a wonderful human being who would do anything for anyone???????????..........Well, this got me volunteered by my beloved family to draw hundreds and hundreds of kids at various summer fairs and so such 'do's'. This spread to the scouts functions and general charity functions. Jeez! its hard work being wonderful.

It always started with a telephone call to the lovely Lynne and i would hear the words WORK, CHARITY and FREE...It didn't matter where i was in the house ,or even if i was a mile away walking the dog, i would still hear THOSE words!!!. It meant i was being volunteered again!

The ironical thing is that everybody goes to the lovely Lynne to see if i'll 'do it!'.... Even if i answer the phone they'll ask to speak to the Lovely Lynne. She'll volunteer me ("Of course he'll do it, we're doing nothing that day" ).... After the day is over and the school or scout newsletter, or whatever comes out, there'll be a nice "Thank you"......For the Lovely Lynne for her help.

The other week , the lovely Lynne's sister , the exotic Elaine called and those words that chill any caricaturist to the bone...WORK...CHARITY...FREE...(My ink tinted blood is curdling even as my trembling hands type at this)..... came out as the Lovely Lynne spoke on the phone, i couldn't finish my X-MEN comic ,even. So, a week or so later i was away in the Cheshire countryside freezing me cobblers off drawing at a special needs school......Aaaah maybe i am wonderful..... The words will always have the same affect on me ,but i'll keep on letting the Lovely Lynne volunteer me. I'm still not talking to the exotic Elaine tho', much to her amusement.

IF THEY HAVE WHEELIE-BIN RACING IN THE OLYMPICS WE'LL BE UNBEATABLE

Every house in the land has a wonderfully coloured array of plastic wheelie bins stuck around the side of the house. And the pile of lazy bastards who just leave them at the top of the drive for us all to walk past. Each different coloured bin has a different function. One, normally green carries garden waste(within strict council guidelines); The blue one for re-cycling(within strict council guidelines) And the grotty grey one for the usual shit and stuff that your not sure if it should go in the other pretty bins(within strict council guidelines) or not. So we have our range of pretty bins and all we have to do is pull them out to the road to be emptied, whenever!.... Various councils throughout our fair isles have deemed, in their usual efficiant way that various bins of various rubbish should be picked up at various times and at various frequencies. I still haven't a clue when and which binis to be emptied when. So, like most sturdy Brits, on hearing the wagons around the corner ,you go racing out to grab the grey bin. Only to find out its a blue bin day, so you run back with the grey and swap it, only to find out that next door who'd put their blue bin out was wrong. So your lovely wife shouts down "it's the green bin !" SO another swap takes place. Soon as you idly gaze out the window, you see it was actually the grey bin all along. Then you burst out of the front drive to grab the grey bin ,drag it up the road after the accelerating dustwagon, then drag the grey(thankfully empty), and the green(still f***'in full) back round the side of the house till the next bin-based adventure in days, weeks, months, god, who knows, but councillor shitinthegreybinforbrains.

But every grey bin has a silver lining. A few weeks ago we were at a village festival in Wales and they had a wheelie bin race. A variety of men and women of a broad age range, some in fancy dress dragged these wheelie bins around a thickly grassy field riddled with cow pats and with footwork akin to a ballroom dancer they sprinted, jumped ,turned and leapt over the obstacle course that was the farmers field.

I think, forget the running jumping, athletics ,swimming, gymnastics,etc,etc. The future of British sport lies in the wheelie bin.....I'm not sure which colour.

ZEN AND THE ART OF PICKING YOUR NOSE !

As i wandered through the hustling n' bustling streets of the fine city of clutter that is Liverpool, i wandered past the famous Liverpool Playhouse theatre. I'm highly cultured me y'know i pass posh theatres on my way to scabby back street boozers and drinking dens. Leaning against a poster advertising the playhouses production of 'THE POSTMAN.....(A PLAY BY HAROLD PINTER)', was a cultured 'scally' with his finger shoved so far up his nose it was sticking out of the opposite ear. There he was in a world of his own picking his nose, with n'are a care in the world. I found this a comforting sight and smiled to myself. Nobody picks their nose anymore, it has become a dying art ,another good old British tradition fading away. Nowadays all the kids n' scallies walk around 'gobbing' all over the place, not nice at all , not like picking your nose.

For the dedicated and skilled nosepicker, the index finger is without doubt the tool of choice. If possible for best results the fingernail on this finger should be kept long and taken care of ,much as a classical guitarist does with his thumb and various fingers. This is for when the picking digit is inserted this allows for maximum insertion and optimum 'scrapeage'. Then when maximum point of insertion has been attained it is time to replace upward thrust for ,rotational force. The well maintained, pedicured nose-picking finger will now be able to scrape from its sides. At this point the crystalline deposits which have lined the nasal passages for a few days at least will start crunching and grinding noises and movement of the wall of the nasal passages will be felt and a gelatinous sound and feel will start to take over from the aforesaid crunching and grinding.

Although nose-picking is looked down upon in many quarters ,as are many personal habits, there is no need to not make an effort at deportment and etiquette as you scrape away. I find by raising your little finger, this supplies a touch of elegance to your snotty manouvering. The twisting of the hand and finger through an optimum 180 degrees of turn requires a little flexibility and strength esspecially in the forearms. So, maybe a little excercise to keep you 'at your picking peak' from time to time might be a good idea.

It is at this point where the delicate touch of the artist takes over from the mining engineer. The challenge of the true nose-picker is to withdraw the snotty ore, dilligently dug for into a long drawn out snooty strip from the tip of your diggin finger to the nasal passages and way up the sinuses and to see how long you can draw it out...Before it ...........



......SNAPS !!!!!!!!

"AND, GUYS 'N' GALS AT No: 1, THIS WEEK IN THE TOP OF THE 'WHAT DRIVES ME NUTS CHART ,IS.......

Now that a suitable period of mourning has passed since the sad loss of poor old Buster. Life, has settled into its usual parade and collection of tedium ,frustration and general irritants and annoyances. As you all know, on the whole i'm a pretty wonderful person. Theres always a smile. Just not quite sure where it is. I've looked everywhere for it, under cupboards, back of couches, but can't quite find it at the moment. So i'm making do with an old scowl i used to wear a lot when i was younger. But there is something that would wipe the smile off my face, if i had it. And even the scowl isn't enough to express my total, complete and utter anger and irritation of this 'thing' that 'gets on my tits', every single morning as i sit there with my toast and boiled for 4 minutes, precisely pair of eggs, in front of the telly.

Well may you ask what can drive such a sweetheart as lovely Tim, to the edge of sanity and the verge of total murderous rage. Well, even if your not interested i'm going to tell you. There is a channel called COMEDY CENTRAL on the SKY network. And as with all the sky channels, its constant repeats .And if by some amazing way you manage to miss the 475th repeat of ,'whatever', there' s a whole set of the same channel with a +1, after the name so you can watch the repeat, again an hour later.????.....I turn on comedy central ,or sometimes comedy central+1 an hour later depending when i'm having my breakfast. Its all Yank sit-coms, but one i like is FRASIER. But, before that is a thing called TELESHOPPING. This has been on most of the night, but whenever you turn it on theres always women in fitness bikini-like gear with socks and trainers and headbands. With them is a fellah with a bikini-like affair showing his 6-pack. The two of them comparing a variety of twisted metal frame things that you rock and pull on; machines you push, pull, curl, extend, step,cycle, and a variety of other unatural bodily functions to get the most of your tummy(Abs, as they call it in the body beautiful trade) ,biceps, triceps, quadraceps and tone all the other muscles and ligaments you dont pull or wrench. But, suddenly all this stops and is replaced by this COMEDY CENTRAL logo slowly bouncing around the screen as one of those symbols on your computer screen when you leave it for a while. This moving is accompanied by some kind of single banjo note being twanged once at a time. Now this might not seem like much to you, but it drives me F**k'in' nuts!... Try it for a few mornings. And if you don't find yourself smashing your boiled egg to a yellow and white mess splattered over the table and walls of the room, your a better man than i, Gungah Din!

BUSTER (R.I.P.)....FINALLY SHUFFLED AND PEE'ED OFF THIS MORTAL COIL...

To many of the cartoonists who have visited the Leatherbarrows various hovels throughout the years on the way to festivals, crashing out on the way to a job ,or just visiting for whatever reason. They will have gotten to know a very scruffy and incredibly stupid , but very loveable creature....No, not me!...No, Buster, the family pooch. Who today was 'put to sleep', as we say when we trying to break the news gently that he's 'popped his paws' and is dead.

Buster was bought for 'the Lovely Lynne ', and grew to be an incredibly stupid creature whose single brain cell rattled around his cranium like a marble in a biscuit tin. He would race around attacking all kinds of brushes for some reason. Yard brushes and toilet brushes held a strong fascination for him. He was named Buster, after one morning he was only a few weeks old and got hold a bottle, with a rubber stopper of artists acrylic ink(crimson red)....His nose, tongue and the carpet had splashes of acrylic red ink over it , so showing whose boss i said, with the famous Leatherbarrow finger wagging menacingly. "Listen ,Buster you do anything like that again and i'll kick yer arse..."You know the gist!..But The Lovely Lynne ,still lying in bed, thought Buster was a nice name, so that was that. He was a short stubby Cairn terrier. He also had the ability and Tardis like capacity to pee on every blade of grass and bush wherever he went. Even as he grew older he'd shuffle n' pee, accompanied by ,pants, snorts, sniffs n' grunts. But age did its bit and thats that .Hopefully he's in doggy heaven feeling a little more lively, as once he was. He'll definitly be shufflin n' pee'ing on the clouds ,so i'd better be a little careful when i look up from now on.

TOMMY WAS A DEAF DUMB 'N' BLIND BOY WHO COULD PLAY A MEAN PIN-BALL,BUT AT 6.30.A.M, TIMMY'S DEAF, DUMB 'N' BLIND AND CAN PLAY F***K ALL !!

My darlin' dearest 'Little 'un started 'Big Skool' this week. She's loving it. The missus, the Lovely Lynne is upset as she's "lost her 'little girl', and i'm F***ked as i've got to get out of my bed an hour or so earlier. Getting out of bed has never been something i've been good at, but as i grow older and need my 15 hours more and more, i seem to be getting less and less. When i awake on pure instinct,as at this point, concious thought doesn't enter into the equation at any level. I leap out of bed. My legs are unable to support the upper levels as they haven't woken yet, buckle, causing me to crash over a variety of bedside cabinets, then a few seconds later are the cause of me falling 'arse over tit' down the stairs. When i crawl into the kitchen, totally devoid of any sensory stimulation. Somehow, a primevil instinct allows me to put the kettle on and make a bucket of tea. The angel of the morning isn't quite dead yet, not far of it, but not quite.

My theory about the total inability of the bodies sensory or muscular system to 'kick in' when you get up ,until 3 buckets of tea have been consumed is all down to the brain in the skull cavity. When you lie in bed the brain like scots porridge oats slops to the back of the brain cavity, the furthest point from the sensory organs which are situated mainly at the front of the skull, so everythings dissconnected when you go to bed, rather like turning off the telly and things when you go to bed. It helps you to you sleep, i s'pose. When you leap out of bed the foreward momentum presses the brain even harder against the back of the skull and it takes the congealed porridge of your brain a few minutes and lots of tea to slop to the base of the brain cavity and reconnect to eyes and ears and tongue, etc. And only then does the world gradually come into focus. I can even put the telly on ,Sky News and cannot believe that at this ungodly hour there is a smart, groomed,smiling, chirpy, sincere, earnest politician being interviewed by Eamon Holmes, at least he always looks like he's just out of bed.

The other puzzling thing about getting out of bed is how much hair you seem to have. At no other time of the day are you that hairy!... You could go and have a No 1 crewcut, but when you get up at some ungodly hour, hair is sticking up all over the place. My theory is that as you lie there relaxed your 'barnet' is influenced by the Earths magnetic field. I've seen pictures on the Discovery channel showing the magnetic field and it looks like my head in the morning. Ah well i'll have plenty of early morning starts to reflect on these things over the next god knows how many years, the 'Little 'un's'at big skool.

QUADROPHENIA; AND GOD! WHAT AN ODD MOD THIS OL' SOD MAKES !

Over the last few weeks yours truly has been a bit of a 'culture vulture', i may not be that cultured, but i've been reliably informed i've got the nose of a vulture. But the nose was mixed in with a bit of culture. While in London i was dragged in to see that X-factoring; Celebrity ice skating Scouser Ray Quinn, in Grease. Which was alright. A week, or so later i was shoved into the Echo Arena in Liverpool Docklands to watch the 'Walking with Dinosaurs' show, which was very impressive. Then in Liverpools good ol' Empire Theatre, as a birthday present from the Lovely Lynne i was taken to see the stage show of QUADRAPHEENYAH !!!

When i saw Grease i wasn't enthused to dress and act like a rocking 50's highschool 'jock'. When i saw the dinosaurs, i was informed i was already like a dinosaur as i was always hungry ,always bad-tempered and always roaring at my beloved little offspring, according to my beloved little offspring. But the PETE TOWNSHEND masterwork was different. It was very well done on the stage. The music and singing was really good and the whole thing was powerfully done, Mods n' rockers knocking 7 bells out of each other ,sex, dancing , pills and scooters, etc all very cleverly done. The energy was there. Whenever i was feeling pissed off i would always whack QUADRAPHENIA on the player, and by the end i was fairly charged up and able to face the world again. The Lovely Lynne would see the Quadrophenia box lying open and inquire, "Feeling better now?". The show had a little of that charge.

I left feeling like a mod. The 'Ace-Face', not just a 'number,'Walking the walk,leading with my chin and shoulders in front of my feet, With my 'Zoot-Suit, "white jacket with side vents 5 inches long"; Button down collars and the best Carnaby Street has to offer..Jump on the scooter with the mass of wing mirrors and with my parka with badges , nip down to Brighton to batter a few rockers. Get high on speed, uppers, downers, leapers and good ol' booze. Dance the night away and work on generating my attitude and cool. But there is a few differences from my imagination and life, as is. The clothes dont come from Carnaby Street, but St George, the Asda cheap range. Haven't got a scooter.But i've got a couple of wing mirrors from an old car in the shed. So, cant get to Brighton. The nearest bit of water is the sandbanks of the Mersey, or the nearest place with pier in the title is Wigan pier, even if there is no pier there. Don't pop pills, as i've got to take enough prescription f***'in' pills anyhow, so i'll chew on a packet of smarties,M&M's, or mint imperials. And i'll dance the evening away ,as long as i get my 10 hours beauty sleep in and the musics not too loud and not 'dance' music. I did have a parka, once, but that was designated a health hazard and dissappeared from my cool wardrobe along with a military combat jacket long ago. I s'pose maybe i've not got what it takes to be a mod, but I've got a few button-down collars and do tend to have the occasional drink(!!!!) , have a bad attitude and i'm cool, but that's 'cos the little'un's left the back door open, in fact i'm f***'in freezing.

IT IS NOW OFFICIALLY WINTER...THE XXX'IN X FACTOR AND STRICTLY COME DANCING ARE BACK ON THE TELLY !!!!!

Once upon a time summer went on forever. Long sunny days running around ,playing 12 hour games of footy with your friends or going on 40 mile bike rides to god knows where. Then autumn came as the nights started to draw in, although the evenings were still 'balmy' and pleasant. Then , eventually winter arrived with the clocks going foreward and we were back in school waiting for the run up to x-mas. Now its all different. Summer's no different to any other part of the year, except for the fact that it rains more than most of the rest of the year. The streets and green areas are totally bereft of kid playing. They're all in the back room watching the telly and playing computer games and only making any attempts at communication if they want something. But the main difference to 'everything' is the total disapearance of autumn. Winter replaces summer at approximatly 7.00 pm one Saturday night....'Bang !'....Its now Winter!.......The beginning of the dark depressing oppressive winter is the NEW SERIES OF THE X-FACTOR.

That collection of talentless deadbeats n' no-marks who for some reason consider themselves qualified to be a celebrity, as that is all they want to be, not an artiste, or anything just a celebrity. And it is their god given right to become a star. They are totally oblivious to the fact that they are shite and everyone thinks they're shite. Friends ,family, laughing qualified (?) panellists,( they're in the buisness y'see)...The jeering thousands in the audience; The scoffing millions watching on the telly and re-enjoying the humiliation on 'you-tube, etc. I would love to become famous on the X-Factor set by blowing the bastards on the panel and the chirpy comedian presenter to bits with a high powered rapid fire combat rifle. But ,for some reason i am alone in my hatred of the X-Factor. My family love it,they adore it, its great. We have the SKY+ system, so we can't miss any of it. And to make matters much much worse i also find myself forced to watch STRICTLY COME DANCING. Which i also dislike, although it has to be said ,not with the venom reerved for'X'....So as once saturdays used to be:The wrestling; Football results from every single person in the British Isles who trudged onto a mucky pitch and booted a soggy heavy leather footyball; Doctor Who, adventure series and films. Now its dancing and screeching. And lest we forget the stereotypical celebrity expert panellists which are spreading like a virus on the spawning pandemic of various types of talent shows. The cartoon storm clouds of gloom hover over my head on a Saturday night whilst the Lovely Lynne and the Little'un literally shine with pleasure and joy. And then they start showing it on a Sunday as well......I'm not a celebrity,but get me outta here!

SORRY ABOUT LACK OF BLOGS, BUT I'M RUNNING THE COUNTRY WHILE THE GOVERMENT ARE ON THEIR HOLS!!!!

Sorry haven't had much to say to you all lately, but since our glorious n' beloved leaders have all decided to bugger off around the world on holidays, Gordo'. Mandelson and Harriet Harmdone. They left the key under the mat of Number 10 for me to take over the running of the country 'till their holiday expenses run out and they have to return to renew their expense claims for the coming year. So, as you can imagine i've had a busy couple of days trying to maintain the high standards of our British way of life, keeping you lot happy n' healthy and even some employed .While fighting wars against terrorism around the world . And this is before i've even got in and put the kettle on. Any requests on what to do to put the empire back on its knees would be gratefully recieved.

ME WWW.TARZAN.OT.APES.COM....YOU..WWW.JANE.OT.SEXYBIKINI.COM...

In reply to a comment from the lovely Cathy Simpson about me being her lord of the jungle, the lovely lady doesnt realise how close she is to the truth. When i lived in India i spent a little time exploring jungles and forests. I gave a few good RON ELY ,TARZAN calls ,which in the telly series would've had the jungle stampeding. But some bird just fluttered away from me. It's not that easy being king of the jungle. And you never meet those cute little chimps like Tarzans friend CHEETAH. The apes were nasty dirty flea-infested shit covered pains ,best kept well away from. When we lived in Malaysia the compound we lived on was the stomping ground of an aged bad tempered baboon type ape and there was nothing nice about him. He went for a few people , including me .I belted him with a plastic chair and henceforth we just sneered at each other. A friend of ours was sitting on a settee in the living room, reading a paper when his missus came out of the bathroom. He thought she'd been sitting beside him, when she advised him to carefully look to the side, he carefully looked up to see this bloody baboon sitting on the settee picking at his snack, he, then not so carefully shifted very sharpish. The compound security people went to "stun him, sir!".....They certainly did that, stunning us as well, by blowing his bloody head off. So i wasn't a king of the apes either

One thing about being an EXPAT, is that wherever you go people are always giving you business cards, telling you to get in touch. Expats seem a lot more relaxed and funnily enough quite often mean it about getting in touch. I know Tarzan has a holder for his knife, but where does he keep his business cards? I mean you can't be king of the jungle and the apes and not have some cards printed, its bad bizniz!!!!

INJURED ELBOWS!!!!....THEY'RE A PAIN IN THE ARSE.

The other week as i was throwing myself off the top of Alpine mountains in the endless quest for speed, kicks n' thrills. I found my self on what could be described as a tea tray with a handbrake, which slide down a concrete shute all the way down this mountain. I did the easy one, jumped on the cablecar back to the top and jumped down what they classified as the experts run. I shot down this highly cambered swerving run at full belt, no brakes or slowing down for T.B. Leatherbarrow, paah! the merest thought!.....But i must admit to thinking about it once. As i flew off this jump; Landed and flew into this steep bend, whereupon me n' my teatray took off and parted company in mid air before landing back on the run. I carried on flying down the run, with a foot on the teatray. My elbows acted as skids protecting the rest of my precious ,small, but perfectly formed body. I finally clambered back on board the teatray, accelerated and finished the course. As i stood up the Lovely Lynne nearly collapsed when she saw the blood dribbling down my legs. This was a result of resting my bloody elbows on the inside of my thighs as a battled valiently to control the carrerring teatray.

The skin was scrapped off both my elbows and was a beautiful sight to behold. The first day was sore, but it was the days after . You could say my sore elbows were a pain in the arse. It didn't matter where we went ,everything was elbow height, so the elbows hit,scraped n' rubbed against everything. Not my arms, not my forearms or wrists, but right 'on the knuckle', my bloody elbows. I couldn't lean on a table or a chair. As they were scrapped the wounds were oozing, so were sticky. Whenever i moved my arm the bloody elbow stuck to the surface it was resting upon. As well as just being plain sore.

So, i hope you ignorant shower appreciate the pain and suffering thats gone into leaning against the drawing board and computer table trying to keep my elbows above shoulder level.

WITH EINSTEIN'S 'GENERAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY' ALSO LEAD TO 'THE RELATIVE THEORY OF GENERAL INSANITY'.

Once upon a donkeys years ago, man was a fairly sensible sort of creature and was quite content to spend his time down on the 'flat', as opposed to the top of hills and mountains. He'd invent, build, farm, and get together in massive groups on a flat plain facing another massive group and proceed to beat the shit out of each other. They built boats to sail the flattish seas to find other flat plains were they could gather and beat the shit out of the 'home' gathering. As far as they were concerned hills and mountains were ok, if you could use them to grow grapes on the slopes to make the vino to help the fighting groups get 'tanked up' on the flat plain below for the forthcoming 'beating the shit out of'. As far as they were concerned going uphill was hard work, so the tops of the big hills and mountains were allocated as the homes of the gods, so, totally off limits to 'us mere mortals down on the 'flat'. This was before they invented gravity!...

Over in our part of the world , there was a pile of plain out n' out nutjobs who lived in the 'highlands' and would come racing down to the flat from time to time to batter the 'flattee's', but rarely would the 'flatee's' follow them back up, wisely thinking. "Why should i virtually kill meself and freeze me nuts off chasing them gobshites up the side of a mountain?".A fairly understandable sentiment, i think you bunch of lazy gets would sympathise with. In some places like the Alpine regions, esspecially. The farmers would move their cattle to the upper pastures in the summer and back down in the winter. They invented planks of wood to strap on their feet and with the aid of sticks tramp up the snowy slopes and sometimes use the planks of wood on their feet to slide back down on the snow. This was the ski. An aid to get to the village strasse ;the boozenfarter and back to the fraulein(???)er. And that was that.

When Issac Newton decided to invent gravity it was handy for getting apples out of trees, and working out where the moon would be, or where a cannon ball may drop. But the real streamlining of gravity was with a swiss chappie by the name of ALBERT EINSTEIN.

Before our hero gave the world the new sporty model of gravity. Gravity was this 'stuff' that kept you on the floor. There were a few strange sorts who wanted to oppose this perfectly natural force. They would risk life and limb and climb up almost vertical slopes and cliffs to get to the top of mountains ,"cos' it was there?". But man is basically a lazy git and much preferred coming down to busting a gut going up. So, somebody invented the cablecar so people could go up higher than your screaming thighs and howling calf muscles would let you walk, and then you could slide down on those wooden planks called ski's. The higher you went the faster you skied. Einstein, apparently was a keen skier. So, wether he discovered the Relative theory of general insanity, The only possible reason for hurling yourself off the top of a mountain to see how fast you can get to the bottom.(E=MC2....ego=madness x craziness 2 )... And if this inspired the general theory of relativity, which to the average non skier makes much more sense, we may never know.

But this fascination with gravity has made parts of the world into haunts of the rich n' famous,(thats not us)..Gravity has made the Alpine regions and the various countries thereabouts very rich indeed. Even richer now, since some maniac decided to launch a kiddie-sized bike off the top of a mountain when the snow wasn't about. The mountain bike craze had begun. So now the whole reigion has an ever expanding variety of ways of falling down mountains at ridiculous speeds in and out of the snowy season. I know this having just come back from LES GETS, in the FRENCH ALPS...As the week wore on the numbers of wrecked bikes and legs and arms in plaster mounted up. I think the skiers are ok, as apparently they do like to drink and have a good time...Whereas the bikers go back to their tent , van or hotel to fix their bike to wreck it again tomorrow ,then' hit the sack'. For my money i reckon the bikers are the real maniacs as they stay sober, so they've no excuse.

"DAD, DAD, THEY'VE LANDED ON THE MOON N' ITS UPSIDE DOWN !!"

Long ago in the days of the old steam television, as the wonderful SPIKE MILLIGAN(spine Milligna, the well known typing error.) might've said. The steam telly was a huge wooden box full of valves which took about an hour n' a half to heat up and display a crappy old black and white picture on a tiny screen. The buttons were huge clunky things that you had to twist with both hands to turn channels, never mind turn on or off. It was just as well that there was only 2 channels in those long gone days as the levels of hernias would've been a lot higher. Do you remember horizontal and vertical hold; 405 and 625 lines, etc. Ahh in the days of digital telly, this is how proper tellys worked. But it was on one of these steaming box of valves that a nine year old(just, 5 days past the birthday)space mad, schoolboy watched the most mindblowing thing he'd ever seen. The MOON LANDING.

I would wait with mounting excitment every Tuesday night for the paperboy to deliver the TV21 comic, with all the GERRY ANDERSON-based comic strips exquisitly drawn on quality glossy paper ,a wonderful comic. Telly had PATRICK TROUGHTON as DR WHO; LOST IN SPACE; VOYAGE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA; TIME TUNNEL; So, rockets, space and science fiction was 'it'. So, when the APOLLO boys started their 'stuff' it was great. I always remember being most excited when APOLLO 8 went off around the moon for the first time. I was stunned, and still am by the photos of the moon and the approaching darkness of mountains and crater walls as they orbited the darkside and then earthrise. A few months later PATRICK MOORE and JAMES BURKE are talking us, in great lengths through this grainy lousy telly(live from the the moon') ,mostly black, with a white chunk,at the top of the screen. The picture was,it turns out, upside down."Dad,dad,they've landed and the moons upside down"... I pondered on the possibility that they had landed at the south pole,or the moons bottom. Then the picture rightened up and cleared up a little and NEIL ARMSTRONG stepped on the moon. And a 9- year old schoolboy busting a gut with excitment, in his grey school sweater and black school shorts on a bright sunny morning was yelling for his dad ."Dad,Dad, he's walking on the moon!!!"When i got to school we we're moon skipping around the playground for weeks.

Even today the conspiracy theorists are still blathering on about shadows; Reflections in visors; Flags waving; Multiple shadows; Lack of blast craters and on and on. As i've said before the yanks cant keep a secret among a few people for long ,never mind thousands for 40- odd years. It must be frustrating for the astronauts. I had to laugh when i read about BUZZ ALDRIN giving somebody who claimed he'd never gone to the moon, a 'smack in the gob.'Good on yer, Buzz. I've been watching programmes over the last week or so and some of the re-digitallised lunar footage is ,to me ,truly mindblowing, after all this time .The 9-year old schoolboy is now a 49 year old schoolboy. And to complete this nostalgia fest. I recently mentioned DANNI and DISHI(over on the links)These are the people who supply the comics on disc. They sent me a disc with all the old COUNTDOWN comics on.Countdown was a sort of extension of the TV21. But they used to feature a lot about the APOLLO programme. I remember the first issue with , GERRY ANDERSON'S ,U.F.O.Thunderbirds, Fireball, Stingray;JON PERTWEE'S Dr Who, and stuff ,but with a huge free gift. A poster that you had to add stickers over the weeks to, to show the whole Apollo moon shots n' stuff. I, of course filled it up and it held pride of place on my bedroom wall ,right up there with the BRUCE LEE posters.

A MEEK MILD MANNERED CARTOONIST,ALIAS SOOPERDOOPER-PINNY,FASTER THAN A THROWN USED TEA BAG;ABLE TO LEAP FULL FAIRY LIQUID BOTTLES AT A SINGLE BOUND...

(SOOPERDOOPERPINNYMAN)

As many of you, no doubt remember, or not by the lack of birthday greetings that flooded the infinity of cyberspace, or the not quite so infinite infinity of the Royal Mail. But, anyhow, another year 'flopped' over. Next year would've been the big Five-Oooooooh!!!...But i've found away of avoiding this tragic occurance. No, not at some suicide clinic in Switzerland. My daughter shares the same birthday as her beloved father(my words, not hers!)....So i bask, in the cold of her shadow, lonely and neglected. So, i shall put this situation to my advantage and start going backwards, not mentally,chronologically. So, remember in 33 years ,i'll be 'sweet 16'.....

A little while back,an article on the blog examining my station in life as a house husband, introduced a highly stained pinny. This inspired the lovely Cathy Simpson.(look at her link, over the other side of the page)..This in turn caused a 'knock on response from' around'. The stains on the pinny caused the creation of a seperate sentinate lifeform,that developed and evolved then ran away to become an MP and live off fiddled expenses. Cathy reported seeing it on a boat sailing the seven seas. This was probably after running away after being exposed in the Telegraph. But we may never know the truth as it all got very silly. But the Lovely Lynne saw how i had an emotional empty hole within me,(must've seen it through a hole in my jeans)that needed filling. So, for my birthday i got a superman pinny. So now when theres dishes to be washed or a carpet to be hoovered .Meek, mild mannered cartoonist Tim Leatherbarrow becomes Sooperdooperpinnyman. The pinny doesn't cause much trouble, but the telephone box to get changed in does(ever tried getting changed in a phonebox?I have and i'm covered in bruises.). It was awkward trying to hide an old red English phonebox in the kitchen. So, that was shifted into ,the utility room. Then into the studio, i've told the Lovely Lynne its there as i'm doing a strip about some fellah thats zips through time n' space in the phone box,crazy i know, but i think it has possibilities.

But now i'm older with the smells and stains of an older man .One day a super pinny could evole from the mature organic emissions of yours truly. Faster than a discarded soggy tea bag; Able to leap a full fairy liquid bottle with a single bound; Soap bubbles bounce off my chest .A new hero is born.

WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE,BUT THERES NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT AS ITS ONLY A WORSE CASE SCENARIO!!!

" SO YOU SEE,PRIME MINISTER, UNLIKE ALL THE OTHER TARGETS YOU'VE FAILED TO MEET...FAILING TO MEET THIS ONE WILL BOOST YOUR APPROVAL RATINGS IMMEASURABLY!!!"




Over the last couple of days ,all those serious looking newsreaders have been telling us how hundreds of thousands of people are going to be killed by the swine flu pandemic sweeping the world faster than anything ever.....But then ,with a smile ,it's pointed out that this isn't nessecerally going to happen and this is 'ONLY(!)..A WORST CASE SCENARIO????"....Oh well thats a relief then, nothin' to worry about. All those out there popping their clogs is just bad luck. But thinking about it, its an act of genius by the politicians.

All this time the bunch o' shit'eads who congeal in that building with the big clock have been showing how totally useless they are at running the country by making targets and then totally failing to come within a million miles of reaching them. Their little graphs, etc, the lines instead of reaching the top of the page dont even get far above the baseline. But what they've decided to do ,instead of trying to reach these proposed positive targets. They have announced a negative target. The 'Worst case scenario'......It scares the shit out of everybody. Then, when this point isn't reached, everybody gasps a gasp of relief and praise is heaped upon our glorious leaders for guiding us through this potential disaster.

This (WCS) can apply to anything from the economy.The whole country could crash and millions would be out on the streets, but only thousands suffered,"God, bless the goverment". Sport; The Ashes....(WCS),England get slaughtered by the Aussies...So, if we get away with a mere battering ,or a good hammering, thats alright then. In fact it becomes a victory of sorts. Being British a victory is quite often a 'not too bad beating', rather than an outright victory.

You can expect a(WCS) for the Olympic stadium. Costing squillions of tax pounds, so when it only costs billions of tax pounds, we've got a bargain. The same principal for the boys fighting in Afghanistan. When we dont lose the (WCS) number of men, the goverment can say we told you so,we're winning, and they didn't need extra helicopters....Personnally i think every time a politician opens their mouth, its a case of worse case scenario.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPEEY BIRTHDAY TO-OO MEE-EE. HAPP-EE BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!..49 NOT(quite) OUT !!!

Well, it's my birthday you ignorant shower. Maybe i overlooked the 3foot mound of envelopes on the mat inside the front door containing the mounds of birthday cards that've no doubt poured through this morning,to bring your love and respect to me on this very special day ; Give me joy n' pleasure and give the post man a hernia. On my way to the first pot of tea of the day i wouldn't have been capable of noticing a post van parked at the bottom of the stairs. But when my eyesight'kicked in' after my 3rd mug of heavily sugared tea, my 20/20 vision could see the doormat perfectly. Totally unobscured by a mass of birthday cards...YOU MISERABLE HEARTLESS BASTARDS!!!.....I am now 49 years of age , and worse than that i am now in my 50th year.....Excuse me while i go and sever some vitally important blood vessel, will ya.

I was born when the world was black n' white; The Beatles hadn't formed, you listened to Slim Whitman and Jim Reeves and Cliff Richard and Adam Faith and enjoyed it? Doctor Who wasn't even thought of. Steam engines filled Lime street station and powered past our old house. And if you went 49 years before my birth , i'd have been alive during the First World war. Oh god this is getting worse. I am now at that age where there are plenty of old people ,but wherever you go you seem to be the oldest. Thankfully i've retained my youthful good looks whereas many of you haven't. There is, ironically a shaft of sunlight beaming through the darkness...My birthday is ST SWITHINS day and when it pisses down on this day, it pisses down for 40 days and 40 nights, so enjoy my birthday..Cos its hammering down.

READING COMICS ON THE 'BOG', GOES HI-TECH !

One of the great joys and pleasures of life is locking yourself in the toilet, seating yourself comfortably on the 'bog' and reading a comic or tabloid newspaper. Cartoonists are the main offenders and are the only people i've seen with magazine racks and bookcases in the smallest room. But that is about to change. Hi-Technology is coming to the Lavvy!....

If you look to the list of links on the side of the blog page . One of the list is for a pair who call themselves DARREN & DISHI (darren.phillips7@ntlworld.com)......They produce computer discs of all the comic characters you could ever think of. For a couple of quid you get hundreds of issues, annuals and specials of 'whoever' from Superman and Batman to Spiderman and The X-men and millions more. I've spent months plowing through the collection of comics ,curled up on the couch with the lap top. And recently, much as i would never have believed it until recently. I have sat reading comics on the 'bog' from my laptop. The time spent is gradually getting longer and longer and the seat ring on my backside is taking longer and longer to disappear between 'visits'. There is now an extension lead constantly ready in case of emergency on the landing outside the 'Lavvy'. This is in case the lap-top battery goes flat and i need to connect the charger. I mean you cant be left locked in the 'Kharzi' with a flat battery and Magneto on the verge of destroying The X-Men; Doctor Doom annihalating the Fantastic Four; The Green Goblin murdering Spiderman; The Joker doing for Batman, etc,etc.....Jeez! it doesn't bear thinking about.

DARREN & DISHI are well worth getting in touch with ,they'll send you a list of all the titles available and its amazing ,tell 'em you read about it here. I still like comics with paper and staples and no one can replace the boxloads in the attic. But i'm now doing my bit for the planet . Reading about all these heroes saving the planet, by having hundreds of comics on a little cd disc, rather than a 40 foot pile of paper and staples.

HOW CAN A GEEZER BLAG A BANK IF HE CANT GET HIS BALACLAVER OVER HIS NOSE ?

The other day i had a busy day ahead of me .So, i put the kettle on , boiled an egg, made some toast sat and turned the telly on. After contemplation of the multiple tasks that the day held before me, i put the kettle on again and thought something along the lines of "Oooh F**k it !"..I knew there were things that i had to do, and i wasn't going to neglect my responsibilities. One of the tasks that had to be addressed was catching up on the growing collection of films that was building up on the SKY+system. The first i'd been meaning to watch was McVICAR, starring a certain Mr ROGER DALTREY. It wasn't bad. A certain Hard man called John McVicar had, apparently this annoying habit of going out with some like-minded 'tooled-up geezers' to pull a 'blag' at various banks. Then 'gettin' nicked' and sentanced to 'a stretch', 'in the nick'. After many attempts at escaping and gettin' a kickin' from' the screws'. He is finally released to go through the whole thing again. But 'our hero' escapes, but 'gets nicked again. But he gets a degree and writes about crime on the telly and newspapers and the film is a success and he lives happily ever after. Except, apparently his son, such a cute kid in the film ,playing 'footy' in the park with Roger Daltrey, with a Daltrey backing song playing away. The kid now he's 'all growed up', is 'a tooled -up armed robber, who's been 'sent down', just like his dad, he must be so proud.

I thought i might become 'a geezer';Be 'the daddy'; Pull a few blags; Etc,etc....... But ,not many of you know this but i've 'done time'. I've been in the toughest 'nicks' in the land. I've attempted to escape hundreds of times. Once i made it as far as the landing. When i did get out, the dogs had no trouble following my scent. This was due to an incident with a bar of soap in the shower ,so i never showered for the rest of my 'time'.

I've always believed in wearing the right'gear for a job.."If you pull a blag, pull it right," as my ol' dad used to say on our visits. So, i'd wear a stripped shirt a beret,or bobble hat, and a bag marked with SWAG. I had trouble with balaclavers, as my somewhat aqualine regal, upper class nose wouldn't fit under the wooly covering properly. And, purely coincidentally, the main girlfriends i had through my formative years and even the Lovely Lynne have all worked in various banks, so every 'blag' i pulled i was recognised. The following morning 'The Old Bill ' would bust in telling me how "They were 'the Sweeney and to put my trousers on. Then, for some reason how they hadn't had their dinner". Then off 'For a stretch'. All fascinating stuff, topped off with how i gave up honest thieving to become a criminal cartoonist. I wondered if Roger Daltrey would like to play me in the film. But ,everyone thought with a nose like mine, PETE TOWNSHEND would be better.

YOUR BORN, YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE THEN YOU DIE AND IF YOUR LUCKY SOMEBODY MIGHT NOTICE.

If you were lucky enough to have been stranded on a frozen moon a billion light years beyond our galaxy, you will have been spared ,for a billion years or so ,just about enough time to avoid the light speed news signals beaming across the cosmos to inform you of the death of, 'the king of pop'..Michael,Whacko Jacko, Jackson himself. The stories about prescription drugs; A skeletal body covered in needle holes, like a tea-bag covered in little perforations, but not as much mass ; Stomachs bunged full of tablets; And his kids who aren't his. And they're not even their mothers???/Now thats a headscratcher for a simple country lad like meself. The Lovely Lynne told me the other day that apparently he was totally bald. Jeez! Could you imagine what he'd of looked like without that ridiculous head of hair to cover that mess of distortions that passed for an Airfix kit of an early Star Trek aliens face ,that was the' Whacko's kipper'. Jacko's face and he's bald ,god thats a sight that i'd say would ruin your day.

There's that saying about people remembering where they were when certain people 'popped their clogs'. People like J.F.K.;Elvis; John Lennon; My dad(well i do!)....Now, of course The Whackmeister, himself. And just in case the memory does let you down in years to come. We, of course have the weeks of totally insane revelations that are, and yet too come out.All that would make it almost impossible to forget one of lifes genuine nutjobs. Somebody who put such a lot of effort and mind boggling amounts of money into his insanity deserves to be rememebered. How crazy he was, who knows, crazy he may've been, but he wasn't daft.

I was talking with that hairy ace caricaturist to the stars Guy Carter. He said 'That when he went, he'd like to go quietly and with dignity!'...I disagreed totally. When i go i want the world to shudder and shake,Volcanoes to erupt ; Earthquakes, Floods n' tsunamis; People howling and wailing in the streets all over the planet; Television specials going on for weeks, no make that months; Plaques and statues put up everywhere i ever went; Billions of websites devoted to my memory.......But that probably wont happen. My beloved Lovely Lynne will miss me cos she loves me madly and i do the dishes ( with a little help from a stained pinny) and hoover up. The little'un'll be pissed off at me cos she'll have to walk the dogs.