IT'S NOT WHAT YOU DO AT THE GYMN ITS GETTING THERE THAT FxxKS YOU UP!

Through the years as i've been forging the body in the white hot furnace of my will into the steel hard fighting machine that you all know and love i've discovered its not the training thats so hard and punishing ,that can be handled and even enjoyed. The one thing that never gets easier ,infact seems to be getting harder is the getting off my arse to make an effort to go training. I just recently thought i'm going to make an effort to make life a bit more productive on a variety of levels. I am going to produce more work :Keep this bloody blog up to a semblance of some kind of regularity and even hilarity; And most ridiculous of all try going to the gymn! Well, we've got a family membership so i might as well try some of the classes and even do my own karate training inthe empty halls, brilliant i'll be a rippling muscular ball of kinetic energy before you know it. So, much to mine and 'The lovely Lynnes suprise i went to the gymn a couple of times this week. The toughest part of the whole stupid ridiculous process is the actual getting there its about 50 minutes walk there then back , thats the killer ,then i get in and before i flake out or put the kettle on i turn right around and take the dog for a walk.

But its not all in vain, i'm fit (now all together now...) "I'M FIT FER FxxK ALL!!!"

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.

NEXT TIME THIS OLD MAN SEE'S A KID STUCK UP A TREE, THE LITTLE GET STAYS THERE..OLD MEN DON'T CLIMB TREES.

The other day, walking the dogs through some woods near where i live, i happened upon an oppertunity to do a good deed and help somebody in trouble. Being the warmhearted christian, caring sort you all know me to be, i pounced upon this god given test of my courage and general wonderfulness. There was a couple of kids around the base of a tree who ,as i approached said, "Hey, Mister. Will you help our mate , cos he's stuck up that tree?" So, i looked up and sure enough there was this rag arsed little scruffy get up near the top of the tree. I asked if he was ok, and if he couldn't get down. He said he couldn't get down. So, your hero, (thats me ,by the way), ditched my jacket and, much like riding a bike, my years of climbing trees hadn't been forgotten and i shot up like a squirrel. As i got near the kid, he started panicking, a little, and kicking his legs and waving me back. That was ok ,but when the little get started shouting. "GET BACK, OLD MAN!". And not in the good ol' polite English form of address manner, but in direct reference to my physical age. Well, i nearly kicked the little sod off the branch he was so desperatly clinging too. I got him down, all the way he was asking how should he grab this branch,or where should he put his foot, etc, etc, but all the time, addressing me as, OLD MAN! Then when we got down, his mates gave him a little 'stick' about how he'd not of gotten down if 'THE OLD MAN', Hadn't come and helped him. One of the little sods, very nicely told his mate to pass me my jacket, but spoiled it by asking his mate,' to pass the ol fellah's jacket' . So, next time any young' uns need a hand getting down any trees. Well, it's tough titties,they can stay up there, 'cos old men don't climb trees.