This blog has been censored

It is with some regret that we, Les Gendarmes d'Internet, have had to remove many of the photos posted by the renegade named Fille Eede.
He has come under our scrutiny for two flagrant abuses of the law. Firstly the trafficking of photos, and secondly the posting of so-called portrait photography without permission. Often the two laws have been broken on the very same photo
Take this one for instance:

Not only was the photo taken without the permission of the young ladies concerned, but it was then mangled by an unknown electronic device to make it look like Lord knows what. Clearly the workings of a deranged mind.
Even worse than this, he has taken photos of young children, again without permission and again 'trafficked' beyond the realms of decency.

Photos like this are often targeted by perverts to be used in extremely naughty ways, such as crochet and grapple varnishing. This sort of thing has to be stopped.
This reprobate has previously stayed under the radar by concentrating on things like landscapes...

and wildlife...

We started to realise that all was not well when highly trafficked landscapes started to appear...

... including highly suspicious subjects such as grass...

He came to our notice partly because of his disgusting obsession of abusing photos of animals...

But finally, complaints from perfectly innocent members of the public who were horrified to hear that images of them or their children had been placed on web-sites such facepalm and spluttr without express permission.
Thankfully we have now brought this mastermind to book. He has admitted to multiple crimes such as trafficking babies, emulsifying fat and drinking under the influence.
He would like to apologise to all those that he has affected or manipulated out of all recognition, to all those that he has forcible removed facial blemishes, and to those permanently affected by his unforgivable use of vibrancy. He would like to apologise, but he isn't going to do so. In fact he's just said a very rude word and escaped with his portfolio intact.
Bottom.

Of Relaxation and Limericks

Just because I am now retired does not mean that I can easily relax. There is just so much to do, that I feel as if I'm being spread too thinly, like marmite on toast, as Bilbo might say in a different universe.
And there are still plenty of challenges, not all related to avoiding a pee in the middle of the night. Take as an example Ian's challenge of writing a limerick. For those of you whom are not Brits (European or otherwise), a limerick may confound you nearly as much as marmite.
I will post my response to this challenge at the end of this blog, thus building suspense in new and tortuous ways.
Back to relaxation. It is true that the stresses of running a business have now been lifted, but other problems persist.
If anyone says to me again that 'these are not problems; they are opportunities' I'll shove their stupid management speak up where the giant ball of fire never radiates.
So how do you deal with these bleedin' 'opportunities'? I normally like to shove them into an airtight compartment and seal it shut. Sadly, no matter how airtight, they do tend to leak every now and again.
I am by no means alone in this quandary. Our friends Lindsay & Nigel, are in a similar boat, and in search of Nirvana, came to us last week. As I am the very antithesis of a relaxation councillor, you may wonder at their sanity. My therapy for them was to take them to our retreat in the Pyrénées, cunningly called the 'Hydeaway'.
Initial training consisted of practicing walking the dogs near our farmstead...

where Lindsay proved her unequaled ability at finding equines in need of cuddles...

Once they were well versed in picking up dog poo, we headed for the hills....

Discarding the traditional incomprehensible method of hill climbing, that of riding a bloody bike, we decided that internal combustion was a mite easier...

Reaching the summit with this arduous method required the usual 'I've just climbed a mountain' photo...

Despite everything, this form of relaxation appeared to have worked a treat. As demonstrated by Nigel's efforts at gardening...

We did try a little randomised rambling, but Nigel's ankle injury, picked up in the Crimea he tells me, reduced these efforts to a stroll, much to everyone's relief.

Our achievements led us to celebrate in the usual fashion...

Well, it was an intense few days trying to relax. Did it work? May be time will tell. If they return for another session within the seven years it took to return this time, then maybe it will have been a success.
And so to that work of art that you have all been waiting for, the relaxation limerick....

Whilst attempting to find relaxation
And shun terminal income taxation
I decided "Retire!
To the mountains, aspire!"
And buggered my lung circulation.

"Editor's Note: Phil's lung problems, brought on by whooping cough a mere two years ago, have all but skittered away into another of those compartments that he was rabbiting on about. I'm sure that they too will leak out from time to time to produce another lame excuse for a blog."

Believing in Heaven

So.
So you think you can tell Heaven from Hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Most people who profess a belief in heaven, when asked where it is, point up to the skies.
To be fair, this is a belief driven by hope and need, not by any substance or rationality. Well, like any belief I suppose.
The one thing that could be said to distinguish us from other animals, abstract thought, is the one thing that shows up our deep ignorance of the world about us.
Take my dogs for instance. (Please). Pippa's strongest belief is in rugs, and the simple pleasure of lying on them. Sky's belief is in her stomach. The rest of her is simply a life support system for her stomach. When eating she is truly in paradise. When she is not eating she is thinking about eating. When she sleeps she dreams about eating.
Neither of these dumb animals are dumb enough to believe that whilst in the process of putrefying, we somehow live on. Bleh.
It is, however, a comforting thought. (As long as you bypass the putrefying bit.)
Except, that is, when taken to its logical conclusion.
Are we really going to live together for all eternity with our family? Most families can't even get on with each other for a few hours let alone for all eternity. This is why Christmas is actually a satanic ritual.
When together for all eternity, Mum will be there nagging that I haven't phoned her since the Almighty knows when.
How many coffees will I end up making for the missus in all eternity? An infinite number?
What will happen to all those toenail clippings?
Heaven does begin to sound more like hell the more you look at it.

Working on the assumption that there is a heaven and it is 'up there', I thought I'd go and take a look.
If everyone is right, and, wherever you are on the planets surface, heaven is 'up', there can only be one logical conclusion. Well, apart from mass delusion of course. Heaven must be in the clouds! Otherwise it couldn't be in all directions, and, of course, the substance of clouds stop us from seeing it!
Easy.
Getting to the clouds is easy too. Just take a sunny weekend in the South of France with a weather forecast of clear skies, and head for the Pyrénées. A meteorologist's nightmare.
This we did last weekend.
Leaving the sunny blue skies of Montauban, we soon discovered that the distant mountains were obscured by clouds.

At this point I began to realise that my conscious being had been taken over by Pink Floyd.
(For those of you not of a certain age, just ignore that last remark).
Our long forest walks were considerably shortened by deluge and mist.

For indeed yes, we were within the clouds themselves, the veritable substance of Heaven. We were there. In Paradise.
At first I felt that this was a correct conclusion. The small restaurant housed right there in the middle of heaven provided us with what was certainly a heavenly meal. Starting with a perfect Trappist beer (very appropriate), followed by perfectly fried bacon (proof we were not actually in France). An entire half litre of the blood of Christ, (one of JC's good points I think, turning water into wine, although I suspect he must've used grapes like everyone else) then a café gourmand to die for (a little late for that I thought).
My suspicions were aroused however when presented by the bill.
Then I thought, "Where was Mum?"
It is true that I had to make lots of coffees for 'er indoors, but I'm pretty sure it was short of an infinite number.
And no obvious signs of toe clippings either.
So was it really Heaven? Were we in Paradise?
I would argue that we were. At the risk of coming over all philosophical, life is all we've got and its up to us how we interpret it. We all have heaven in our lives, and we all have hell. It is up to us which side of the line between the two that you wish to live. Well, up to us and the hand of Fate. Hmmmm..... Fate....... something else that I need to take a closer look at....
On a less philosophical and more 'feet in the sludge of reality' mode, I spent years studying physiology and I can assure you that when we're gone, we are gone. So live life for now guys! (Oops, slipped back into nauseous philosophy mode again).
To prove the point, we returned after a wet weekend to a glorious new day in the real heaven.

Where I can look up at the clouds and think, "Hey, the clouds are beautifully formed today, and full of wet stuff".

Although I do have this nagging feeling that I should phone my mum....

A few parting words from the Floyd:

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

Down on the Farm (part 7)

It has been several months since the last exciting episode of my entertaining series about home renovation. I bet you've been wetting yourself with anticipation. I appologise for any soiled underwear.
All that fuss about Brexit, indiscriminate killings and selling my Veterinary Kingdom has sidetracked me from that important thing in life.
Home.
It has been a year since we started this ambitious project. After gutting the main farmhouse to make a home for our dogs and tropical fish, (plus a discreet room for us), and going overboard on the garage to make a home for my snooker table and booze, we are well underway with a complete rebuild of the barn.
What started as a renovation, changed direction when the lack of foundations under the giant pillars holding up the barn forced them to reconsider the gravitational effects of our mahousive planet.
Thus: Plan B.

This new building is to be the Swiss Knife of all buildings.

A home for all manner of assorted goodies. Our pool...

...our various vehicles...

...as well as our pool table and host of exercise machines (more room for scattering clothing) as well as, amazingly, our doves!

Ok, we don't actually have any doves. However, despite this small handicap, we are building a dovecote next to the pool.
Why? You may well ask. It's just something that is done in this part of France. It's a bit of a tradition here, like pétanque, fois gras and year round bank holidays.
Really. You see them dotted around the countryside. You can even buy collections of miniatures!
This dovecote is to be cunningly built so that no doves will be able to get into it. Dove poops and swimming pools do not mix in any kind of approved or acceptable manner.
To compensate Mother Nature, just next to the pool, our ducks now have a new home as well...

You may note the disabled duck access.
This really only leaves making a home for the rest of nature in all its glory. The garden is probably the greatest undertaking of all, and can only be adequately described as terraforming.

And so, my faithful reader, please be prepared for several changes of underwear before the next exciting episode of 'Down on the Farm', bedwettingly called 'Part 8'.

Closed Borders

France lives in difficult times. It is under attack. It's borders are closing. Humour is required...
Paranoia rules over here in beleaguered France. Despite this, two commonwealth colonists originating from good old Hyde stock, father and daughter, have smuggled themselves from Canada into France, to stay with us for a week.
The father (apparently my first cousin once removed), Adam, has visited us before, some three years ago, and as far as we are aware left no unwelcome packages, and whilst here undertook no pillaging.

His daughter, Makena, was previously unknown to us, therefore viewed with suspicion. Her ability to smile radiantly on demand made us even more careful...

Checking their luggage for weapons of mass destruction yielded nothing, although our sniffer dog, Sky, seemed more interested in underwear than explosives.
Fearing their potential destructive power, we decided to tour some fortified towns, well able to protect themselves.

The first, Cordes-sur-Ciel, was not just fortified, but filled with defenders.
Some were mere foot soldiers...

...whilst others were formidable indeed.

Feeling our guests might report back about such advanced defensive capabilities, we pretended that they were just actors. I think they bought it.

Some of the infantry were radically new prototypes...

...sporting a variety of weapons:

Whilst the air power was truly frightening...

We left there tired and hungry, so stopped on our return in Penne, where we ate well, albeit troubled by the reddening sky...

Our next trip was to the amazing St Cirq Lapopie...

...a village perched on the side of a gorge...

and well protected by its deity.

That night, the Bastille celebrations. No humour possible here, the attack in Nice brought the real troubles close to home, as a friend of ours was there...

Our guests seemed beaten by the unyielding heat. Escaping to the river seemed to calm them...

...but that night, Montauban was to show its true colours.
This was to be their last night. It started with incitement to riot, with someone who reckoned he was the Queen, shouting that they were the champions...

...then the rioting started, with the combatants crying that they were 'Bad'...

...then things turned ugly...

And so Adam and Makena parted the next day, and peace returned to our little piece of paradise.

Malevolent Beings

Sometimes you get the feeling that there is 'something' out there. We decided see if this 'something' is naughty or nice. Or neither.
After one aborted attempt, we finally set out in our new rig. The new rig being a combination of our now ancient camper van with renewed electrics, towing the new 3-wheeled scooter on a trailer.

The cunning plan being to find a quiet camp site to use as base camp, then go in search of our goal on scoot-back. Yes, we have gone over to the dark side...

And so, we ended up in a town called Mazamet, at the foot of the Black Mountains in the South of France. The town itself can be described as 'nice' in that it has lots of possibility, but doesn't quite pull it off. It was built after the original town, called Hautpoul, was destroyed by the last crusade in search of the Cathar, that race of peace loving Christians that were so hated by other Christians because of their overwhelming smugness. They were just too 'nice' I guess. If there is evidence of a 'higher power', surely it would be here...
So we pootled on up to this hillside village, part renovated, to see why the Catholics thought it so obnoxious.

It turned out to be quite pleasant. Sitting there looking at the vista below I got the feeling that the ancient inhabitants must have been a little pissed off when being raped and pillaged at the whim of the Pope.

If there is 'something out there' here was evidence that it wasn't something nice. As a monument to this butchery, the Catholics built a giant statue of some virgin woman with a baby (yeah, I've heard that one before. Toilet seat was it?) looking down on the town below making sure everyone does as they are told.

All this time, the sun was beating down, and the humidity levels were in the 'high sticky' region. Any physical activity led to drowning by perspiration. Not too pleasant. After a fulfilling meal in the local foodery, we set off back to base camp to spend a night sweltering.
The next day was no cooler, so we set off north. We were looking for rocks.

Well, we found some, not surprisingly as this region is renowned for them. Big granite boulders lay all about as if placed there randomly by some malevolent super being.
The crowning glory of these rocks is the mahousive 'Peyro Clabado',

a crazy lump of rock teetering on a small pivot.

From this view it looks like our super being has a sense of humour after all. Although, on second look, it actually closely resembles Napolean's hat...
After concluding that there IS something out there, and it's name is Random, we headed home.
As one final twist, our non-existent super being had one final trick up it's non-existent sleeve. On parking up, he (it) gently flicked my scooter off the trailer and left it lying forlorn on its side, completely pillaged.
I blame it on the Pope.

I've finally figured it out.

Ok, I admit to being a little bemused by the vote to leave Europe. What was the reason so many voted for the leave campaign?
Was it Farrage’s personality?
Er, no.
Was it Johnson’s ability to lie? After, he’s one of the few journalists fired for lying. Imagine that!
No.
I’ve finally figured it out. It’s Gove’s ideology.
Everyone knows that when Gove ran the health service, he wanted to ditch evidence based science and the rational use of medicines for homeopathy.
That’s it! The £350 million a week is not to be spent on actual stuff, it’s to be spent on NOTHING. Yes! All the promises will be diluted down (it’s already happening) until there is not a single promise left in a volume the size of the entire solar system!
Genius!
Magic!
Everyone loves a good magician, so we’ll done everyone who voted for the wizard.
One good thing to come out of this debacle is that the vast majority of the young voters voted using empathy, consideration of others, a lack of racism, a lack of greed, and thought for the future. After all, it is their future.
I’m proud of them, but, today, I’m ashamed to be British.