January 2016 | uptheworkers

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Ririn Ekawati (Foto: Radarcirebon)

ANAK-ANAK sering rewel di pesawat, baik akibat tekanan udara maupun turbulensi. Aktris cantik Ririn Ekawati punya cara biar anak tidak pernah rewel.

Fasilitas di pesawat ternyata membuat anak Ririn menjadi tenang dan tidak rewel seperti anak yang lain. Karena sang anak menikmati hiburan sehingga tidak berpikir tentang hal buruk di esawat.

“Anakku tidak rewel saat duduk di pesawat. Karena dia menikmati hiburan yang disediakan di pesawat, seperti nonton film,” kata Ririn kepada Okezone di Gedung Djakarta Theater XXI, Thamrin, Jakarta Pusat, Rabu 7 Januari 2015.

Hal tersebut membuat pemeran Salma dalam film ‘Di Balik 98’ ini merasa senang. Karena ia tidak repot mengatur dan meminta anaknya untuk tenang. Kepanikan anaknya masih dalam tahap wajar, sebab sang anak hanya minta Ririn memeganginya ketika pesawat mendarat.
“Paling di saat landing pesawatnya suka goyang-goyang, dia cuma minta pegangan tangan,” tutup Ririn.
“Bun elth hesh il soo hunesh ickma das blif zo bis reminash t’tirlmut oso il soo ormins efer do das blurf, elth hesh utu roff bir dolgon zo bis ulfrap nuti bir wintsh gosh il bir zo bis das blif United Nation‘s”

“What did he say Peeler, come on man”!

“Sir he said ‘good morning & thank you for allowing our small country to speak at the United Nation’s’ Sir”.

“That’s it, Peeler. That’s it. But it took him half an hour. Are you sure? Do I need to find another interpreter”?

“I am positive Colonel Blimley. I am also the only registered interpreter that can speak fluent Blingtigistanish, Sir”.

Colonel Horatio ‘pim pim’ Blimley, Tinglish Ambassador to the UN. His specialist field, ’s**t stirring'.

Since leaving the armed forces & after a short stint in MI6 I found myself working as an interpreter at the United Nations building in New Yodel which was just a short hop over the water from Old Yodel. Well when I say water I mean the Drywater River. When I say hop its not really a hop it’s more of a stroll across the bridge & when I say river it‘s more of a muddy canal.

New Yodel was built after the Great Pigeon Plague of 1895. The residents of Old Yodel were being bombarded with bird muck caused by a pigeon infestation which was mainly due to old Mrs Brinkle who continually fed foreign bread to the birds in the old square.

The miners, who had spent the day getting covered in honest coal dust from down below, would then find themselves getting covered in dodgy bird sh*te from up above as they walked home. This appeared to be a no win situation which they found very irritating & would often blow raspberry’s at Mrs Brinkle as they walked through the Old square. Mrs Brinkle in turn would give them the ’finger’ & shout “Up yours“.

This ritual went on & on, day in day out.


“Up yours”!


“Up yours”!

Constable Dollup found his Police Station constantly inundated with people complaining about the birds, the miners & Mrs Brinkle. Some people said that the bird muck was lucky. Constable Dullop didn’t think so. Not with all the s**t on his helmet.

So eventually the residents of the Old town became founders of the New Town, except of course Mrs Brinkle who was banned & Constable Dollup who rather enjoyed the sharp drop in the crime rate since everybody had moved over the mud. In fact he suspected he was in line for a promotion due to his exceptional work in clearing up the crime rate.

“Constable Dollup” said a young Inspector Blimley over the telephone.

“Yes Sir” answered Constable Dollup in a medium to well gloating manner, immediately standing to attention & closing his newspaper which had no headlines.

“Headquarters have just promoted you Constable, it’s due to your exceptional work in clearing up the crime rate over there. So you are being promoted to Sergeant of New Yodel as from Monday. Well done son”.

“No shit Sir” cried Old Constable Dollup of Old Yodel & now the New Sergeant of New Yodel.

“Pardon, Dollup”! said the Inspector.

“There will be no shit in New Yodel, sir”.

“That’s the Spirit Constable, I knew you were the right man for the job, zero tolerance that’s what we need”.

So very quickly New Yodel became the fastest growing city in the world.

except for the miners

Population 1372.
Pigeons 0

Read the sign at the end of New Street. & so New Yodel eventually became the home of the United Nations, well it was more to do with Inspector Blimley eventually becoming the Chief Commissioner of Tingland prior to becoming Colonel Blimley & on hearing that the UN was going to be formed & needed a home. So he proposed New Yodel, as he personally knew the no nonsense Police Sergeant there & what a crime free town it was.

“Right Peeler you’re off to Blingtigistan to find out what the devil they’re up to” said an overly enthusiastic Colonel 'pim pim' Blimley.

So that’s how it happened, one minute I was in New Yodel the next thing I was being greeted off the plane on the hot tarmac of Blingtigistan which was a small but well evolved nation which baked lovely bread & exported it all over the world.

“Bun elth hesh il soo hunesh ickma das blif zo bis reminash t’tirlmut oso il soo ormins efer do das blurf, elth hesh utu roff bir dolgon zo bis ulfrap nuti bir wintsh gosh il bir zo bis das blif Blangtigistan”

‘Welcome to Blingtigistan’ said the Blingtigistanian Ambassador as he greeted me.

I was quickly whisked off to my hotel where a reception had been put on in my honour. It was mainly various types of local bread, it was however very delicious & I could see the potential for international trade.

I was conscious of the time & realised that I would have to sneak up to my hotel suite & radio a situation report back to HQ. I made my excuses of jet lag etc & after the Ambassador had finished saying good night an hour later I managed to nip off.

At the bottom of my suitcase was a secret compartment where the radio was hidden, along with several tins of beans which Mrs Peeler had kindly packed just in case the food was a bit dodgy.
I switched on the radio & began my transmission.

“Traveller to Camp Site come in over. Arrived safe, weather hot, over. I received a party invitation in my honour, over. It was wonderful they bake lovely bread which they export all over the world as they have methods of vast production, over”.

Crackle, crackle.

‘beep beep beep‘!

“It’s at radio transmission coming through from Peeler Sir”!

“What does he say private”? Barked Colonel Blimley

“Its very difficult to hear, the signal keeps breaking up. I’m getting ………HOT…crackle…..sounds like……..STARTING INVASION…hiss…..DEAD………ALL OVER THE WORLD…crackle…….WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION….then it went quite Sir”.

“I knew it, right get me a carrier pigeon I need to send an urgent message to First Minister Bloon, this means war”!!!!!!!!!!
“Be good boys” said Father Macafferty “or you’ll eeend up in heel & before d' heel comes d' prison“.

Father Macafferty new a lot of things about hell, prison & the devil.

“Discoootecks are de Divils Tambourines & Neeked Flesh is de Divils Bread”, he would shriek on a tuesday morning in class.

Being twelve, I had never been inside a discotheque or seen a woman naked, not for the lack of trying I might add. I imagined doing them both together would be really good but eternally damning at the same time, like an icecream headache.

Oh god. I don’t think I could bear the pressure, just the thought of growing up & being invited to the naked disco after work was enough to make me put an extra jumper on.
What about all the people who went on those naturist camp sites that I had read about in dads purely educational magazines. Would they all be condemned to hell if they had a dance in the camp bar?

Topless sunbathing, surely that must mean a good stint in purgatory, such a shame!

No more John Travolta movies for me & by Father Macafferty‘s logic, disco John‘s going to need some flameproof underpants. Would the same apply to Olivia? Okay so it was a different movie but on the down side they did dance quite close together …..but on the other hand they weren’t in a disco in Grease & she definitely wasn’t naked, unfortunately? In fact disco’s hadn’t been invented then, so does that mean hell is only post Gloria Gaynor? Pre Punk even!

I’d heard the stories about hell & prison of course. No one ever leaves alive. You will need eyes in the back of your head.

I contemplate having eyes in the back of my head & wonder whether they will be instead of the ones in the front or as well as. I wouldn’t fancy having the front ones removed, that said I also wouldn’t relish the thought of having to learn to close the back set whilst walking forward & vice versa.

Now it seems to me that there are pro’s & con’s of having four perfectly functioning eyeballs.


An end to being stabbed in the back.
Being very clever at playing “hide & seek”.
Not having to look over your shoulder when reversing your car. (unless you have a big fancy car with big fancy head rests)
Going to the cinema, watching the movie & being able to look up the skirt of the girl behind.
Able to visit an Art Gallery twice as fast as everyone else.


Never knowing whether you are coming or going.
Getting woken up by daylight even when you sleep face down.
Every time you look up means being able to see your own bum. (think about it)
Really having to concentrate hard to wink.
Problems deciding on which car to buy.
(“No sorry I do not wish to purchase that car, it is far too fancy & I have eyes in the back of my head”.)
Going to the cinema, looking up the skirt of the girl sat behind & being distracted by the movie.
Spending twice as much on sunglasses.
Having to have a fringe cut at the back of your head.

It would appear that the con’s outweigh the pro’s. So as I wasn’t ever going to get eyes in the back of my head I had to grow up avoiding disco’s & naked girls.

I remember one occasion being in a pub with my friend Larry. He said to me “You see those two gorgeous girls over there. They have being giving us the glad eye all night. If they come over just be cool & act natural”

“Okay” I eagerly responded not wishing to let the team down.

……& that’s when it happened. The most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on & her equally attractive friend, walked across the room as all heads turned, straight towards a salivating Larry & myself. Never again would we get the opportunity to meet such gorgeous girls as these.

“Would you like to dance” said the stunning creature.

The horror.

“F**k off you brazen hoor, you‘ll not tempt me through the gates of hell you disco dancing jezebel” I retorted proud in the knowledge that I had just saved my soul from the stain of eternal sin.

It was just a shame that the same couldn’t be said for my now wine coloured shirt.

“Could someone phone an ambulance…..” shouted the barmaid, “…….Larry’s just fainted”.
In the early days, the earliest days of manhood. When we are nearer to nappies than shaving, democratic decisions in the school yard are made using the ritual act of


Now “pushin” is a form of fighting. But truth be known it is nearer to being grumpy than actual violence. I recall that some of the best pushers even used vocals.

“Yeah?” Followed by a push was seen as mildly serious, inflammatory even.

Where as a solid shove accompanied by a “Come on then”! Was just down right hard.

The only downside to “pushin” was getting caught. …..Err by the other school kids I mean. What you didn’t ever want to hear were the cat calls of, “FIGHT, FIGHT” breaking out as a horde of badly dressed eager for blood, relieved it’s not them, kids, spotted you. Then charge across the yard & make a better circle than they ever did in geometry around you & your fellow (the pushee or opponent) pusher. No that was bad karma. Because then you would have to take your “pushin” to the next level, in front of everyone.

No, that was unthinkable, especially if you were not a good pusher. In that case you were likely made into the world’s largest laughing stock. Not only would you be seen as a bad fighter but a target for every up & coming contender who fancied their chances at “pushin”. Failure, wasn’t just failure, no it was more. So much more. It meant you were thick, it meant you wouldn’t be good at sport; girls would laugh & even a few teachers. No, failure just wasn’t an option.

The smart money was always on delaying tactics. Give it some more aggressive “pushin” & hope that Mr Kennedy the head of year would break it up in time. This is where the good vocals counted, as he who shouts loudest is generally perceived to be victorious.

Now I must say that I realised early on that “pushin” just wasn’t my thing. I would try to avoid it at all costs. In my time I have used many ingenious techniques, picked up from a variety of sources.

I recall a wild life programme debating the merits of surviving an attack by a Grizzly Bear.

“Lie down & play dead” offered the khakily dressed genius. “The bear will lose interest & wander off”.

It doesn’t work.

Several kicks later I was forced to groan out loud & curl up into a ball as the rest of the school tried to practice penalty shoot out.

Some of the kids at my school were so tough that even a Grizzly would play dead.

If there are any up & coming pushers reading this I would definitely advise against bursting into song as a way to defuse the situation. Singing, in the hope of calming a volatile crowd & impressing the throng with a few verses of “Dancing Queen”, whilst swaying from side to side doesn’t work.

I still maintain that in theory, fainting & throwing a fake fit is a good idea. I mean it’s not my fault if school kids are dispassionate & don’t understand the frailties of disability.

Posing like the karate kid stood on one leg arms raised is also a no no & combined with Abba can appear camper than Butlins. & definitely don’t tie your school tie around your head for added effect.

It was during one spectacular world title bout of “pushin” that I was almost on the verge of a famous victory. My opponent, a well renowned bully had attempted to steal some of my lunch. Now I didn’t mind when this particular chap copied my homework, but pinching my chocolate was the last straw. I responded with a quick upper push to the ribs. Before I knew it we were locked in a death struggle, “pushin” for pride. A crowd had gathered baying for blood. I almost had him in tears I could smell triumph. All of a sudden the crowd scattered as Mr Barratt the ferocious Headmaster appeared,

“MR KENNEDY…….” he bellowed at the deflated head of year.

“………leave Peeler alone, I will see you in my office now & take that stupid tie off your head”.
The other day whilst sat at my desk typing away I noticed something in the garden through the window. It was something shining. What was it, a reflection? I couldn’t quite make it out, I leaned forward to get a better look, eyes squinting. Now what is that?

Microwaves are electromagnetic waves with wavelengths longer than those of terahertz (THz) frequencies, but relatively short for radio waves. Microwaves have wavelengths approximately in the range of 30 cm (frequency = 1 GHz) to 1 mm (300 GHz). This range of wavelengths has led many to question the naming convention used for microwaves as the name suggests a micrometer wavelength. However, the boundaries between far infrared light, terahertz radiation, microwaves, and ultra-high-frequency radio waves are fairly arbitrary and are used variously between different fields of study. The term microwave generally refers to "alternating current signals with frequencies between 300 MHz (3×108 Hz) and 300 GHz (3×1011 Hz)."[1] sometimes used by alien invaders to shrink people, blah blah, blah

…….well it was one of them microwave thingy’s. Yes beamed down from an alien craft in orbit 50 miles above my house. & you guessed it, it hit me right between the eyes. Curious? I bet you are. Exited? Au natural.


“What the f**k” I cry out loud.

I begin to shrink. Yes I am suddenly getting SMALLER & smaller. Thank god it was between my eyes & not between my, well you know!
I slip right off my chair & land on the floor of my now enormous kitchen.


Its no use I can’t stop thinking about, well you know. So I do. I quickly sneak a look in my downstairs engine parts. Phew! They are still there, tiny, but in proportion. Although now I have suddenly been shrunk in an unprovoked alien attack I don’t know what use my tiny reproductive parts will be to woman kind. It would be the equivalent of throwing a pebble into the Grand Canyon. Not that I am suggesting that you ladies are like large barren hard rocky gaping caverns in the arse end of America of course.

Suddenly I am pulled from my inquisitive thoughts by a high pitched whirring sound. It’s coming from outside. I look up towards the window. I have to take a step back to get a better view. Damn I am still working in imperial measurements. Feet & inches don’t count. Alright well maybe inches are quite relevant now, but anyway. So I have taken a step back but I am no better off. So I have to turn around & run about a hundred yards. Sorry, sorry inches.
I turn around & look back towards the window, I stand on my tip toes (like it will make a difference now that I am 10 inches tall).

What’s that hovering outside? It’s a glowing metallic spheroid. Making a strange humming sound. Its about the size of a rugby ball. It hover’s away towards the back of the kitchen, I slowly run towards the dining table in order to peer through the patio doors. It comes in to view & begins to descend onto the lawn. It lands & I watch in horror as a door appears in the side of the craft & begins to slowly open. Then a black figure emerges from the opening. It walks down the gang plank carrying what looks like a ray gun of some type, I am not familiar with this particular model. As the alien visitor begins his journey towards my home I start to feel the panic rise from the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t take long to reach my throat now that I am short.

“AAAAHHHHH! The aliens are coming. The aliens are coming”! I bellow. Well it’s more like a squeak to be honest. I run around in circles waving my arms in the air for a moment but this doesn’t help so I stop, a little dizzy.

The bug eyed alien chap is at the patio doors now. He has started to cut through the glass with his laser, thank god for double glazing. Keeps the house warm & slows alien attacks. They should use that line when they are trying to sell it. I hate double glazing salesmen almost as much as taxi drivers, alien invaders & estate agents.

I have been shrunken so that I can be kidnapped & buggered to death by midget alien invaders. Oh the shame. Come to think of it I’ve heard of that before or did I read it in a magazine er oops! Right enough of this drivel lets get back to the nonsense.

I spring into action. I need a weapon, quick. I look around, a knife. that’s it. But I am tiny. I must scale the kitchen units & open a drawer I run towards a unit. I grab hold of a handle & pull myself up one drawer at a time eventually I am holding onto the top drawer handle. I heave. It slides open, but I am dangling below it. With one almighty effort I pull myself up & over the top. The alien is on the second pane of glass now. I reach in & grab hold of something.

A spatula! A f**king spatula.

Where is the corkscrew when you need it. It always the same I can never find that b***ard. No time to mess around, the spatula will have to do. I throw it to the ground & climb back down. He is in the house now.

Hide quick. I pick the spatula up & dart into the gap next to the fridge.

I take a moment to catch my breath. I wonder if it speaks English. A silly thought, I remember someone telling me that English is the hardest language in the world to learn. B***ocks, I say. Whoever said that must have been Chinese. Although we do have a lot of similar words which probably would confuse the average Dutchman such as where were, there their. But hey, they can talk, especially in double dutch. Sounds like someone gargling with a bad cough to me. & what about Gobble de gook? Now I don’t know where it originates from but I have heard it loads of times in my local pub! I did once meet a couple on holiday who were bi-lingual or something, but I could never understand them, always speaking with their mouths full. Anyway enough with the linguistics already, back to the action.

He is getting closer I can smell him. It is a dark & foul smell. Similar to that of a public toilet. Damn that’s not him that’s me.

I peep. He is inches away.

I pounce.


I crack him, full on with my spatula. Right on one of his heads. Down he goes. I give him a second one for good measure.

“Have it”.

It is done, finished, game over.

Suddenly I hear a noise. It is a metallic sound. My heart sinks, was he the first of many. Then footsteps.

The horror.

No wait it is a familiar sound. It’s Mrs Peeler back from shopping. I am safe.
She strides into the kitchen & drops her bags on the floor.
“Hello dear” I croak, exhausted.

“Get up off the floor you dirty little bugger & stop trying to look up my skirt” she hisses lovingly.

Bugger. I am caught again.

I stand up and walk back to my desk & sit down.

“Would you like a cup of tea dear” I offer.

“Pervert” she replies.
I often wonder how far we are going with technological advancements’. I mean look, we’ve got wheelie bins, stretch jeans, waterproof plasters & pot noodles. Where will it a end. Stretch, waterproof, edible bins that can hover? Ah! But even if we get that far down the road of scientific wonder I bet they still wont be able to empty themselves, not without moaning & scratching their electronic chins.
What prompts this tale is a recent run in I had with a satellite navigation system. If this is not the work of the devil & a coven of mother in laws I don’t know what is.

You see my mother in law has recently bought me a Satellite Navigation thingy for my birthday & naively I thought,

“Ooh that’s nice, thank you very much”, kiss.
Oh how I underestimated the powers of darkness. This small inoffensive looking box is a malevolent beast incarnated from the bowels of hell itself. AND if there is not a spaceship involved somewhere with this wee contraption I will be very surprised. There I am going about my business on a sunny afternoon, off to the football. Which I secretly don’t think ‘you know who’ likes me doing although I have no evidence to the contrary.


So I did. Then realised that I didn’t want to turn left, so I took the next right.

“TURN LEFT”. I sigh & choose to ignore it.


It shrieks in what I now think is rapidly becoming a mother in lawesque type of voice. A Shrill whilst gargling with gravel in a dark cavern type sound comes to mind. Is she actually in the car I wonder, the boot perhaps. With a megaphone.

“LEFT” it barks.

“NO” I find myself responding.

Note to self, talking alone (to yourself) in a car is okay, provided: Provided you never look to you left or right. It is at this point you will always find another car full of people staring & laughing at you. Also as I’ve mentioned before the only way to get out of this embarrassing situation is quickly look away (as if you don’t realise you’ve been caught) & start to sing, followed by a little seat dance as if you are listening to the radio. Obviously which method you use depends on what level your embarrassment threshold is at.

For example if you accidentally & suddenly break wind in a room full of strangers I see two potential types of people.

(a) the suddenly ‘go red & apologise’ types. (eyes roll, sigh, fools)

(b) or the ‘say nothing & walk away with a sly grin’ type. (just remember there is now’t down for an early confession)

© I have heard tell of people who will actually put there arms in the air & make a victory fist shouting “Ave it” even in a room full of strangers, but I suspect this is more fiction than fact. Surely nobody is that hard core?

On the odd occasion this happens & there is a terrible smell & you don’t have time to escape, I find raising one eyebrow & staring at the nearest person with a look of disgust across your face followed by a “Tut”! as you walk off helps to divert unwanted attention.

Anyway where was I? Oh yes replying to the demonically possessed Sat Nav.
I pull over & fiddle with its buttons in an attempt to turn it off. That should do it. I indicate & pull away continuing my journey. Periodically casting an eye in its direction. Was that a noise I just heard coming from it. I approach a set of traffic lights at a crossroads & drive straight through.

“LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” it screams, the noise reverberating inside my head. Oh my god, its alive.

‘Keep calm son ‘ I whisper to self. ‘Just keep driving & it will all be okay’.

I accelerate with the notion that if I drive quicker I will get there sooner & this nightmare will end.



Did I just turn left then. No surely not. I definitely drove straight past that junction just like the next one which I fully intend to drive past ignoring the evil wee machine as I turn left into it completely against my wishes.

Did I just do it again. Two left turns on the bounce.

I need to take action to counter act this act of self destructive mutiny. So I immediately take a further left turn in order to come back on myself & continue on my way to the football.
So left I turn. Ha that’s confused it, I think smugly to myself. Aargh! Heavy breaking. I screech to a halt. In front an angry looking large man with big eyes.

“What the f**ck do you think you are doing on my drive”?

Oops I have taken a wrong left.

“Sorry” I offer in reverse.

Back on the street. Now which way. I get my bearings & suddenly realise that I am almost back at my own house. I jump out of the car & run the short distance to my home, I rush in shouting for my wife.

“The cars haunted, the cars haunted”.

“WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT” she bellowed gently.

I hurriedly explain what has just happened & pull her outside in the direction of the haunted motor.
As we fasten our seatbelts I explain how I am going to drive straight up the road passed all the side streets as if I am going to the football & how the demonic Sat Nav is going to tell me to turn left.

Off we set. As we past the first junction I hear,

“LEFT” - the Sat Nav.

“Left”, followed Mrs Peeler.

“What”?! I respond dumfounded. “I don’t want to go left”.

“Stop being awkward & do as the machine says, otherwise you will get us lost”.

“But we live around here. I know where we are - that isn’t the point! The Sat Nav has got a mind of its own, that’s why I wanted you to……….”

“You’ve never liked my mother”.


“Take me home”.

“LEFT” squawked the evil machine as we approached a cross roads.

We arrive home. I stop. The door slams quietly as Mrs Peeler exits.

“BURKE” barks the Sat Nav.

Pull, Rip, Open, Drop, Stamp & Smash.

“Hah” responds I.

I walk towards the house almost sure I heard a chuckle coming from the boot of the car.

'Now where did I put that hosepipe'?.......
Cupboards are useful. They may look boring but they are in fact just the opposite. Apart from the obvious uses such as storage they make for impromptu hiding places to be used in emergencies.
Case in point when Mrs Peeler is on the war path. (Note to self. Put a lock on the inside of cupboard door & hide the frying pan, resistance is just prolonging the inevitable)

Subsequently I found the hall cupboard very handy when I bought my first time machine. This quirky little device was a little worn but generally in good condition. It looked a bit like a small shower cubicle but without the soap dish.

It was small cupboard size in fact!

“That cupboard looks smaller than I remember” growled the love of my life softly.

“It’s just a little cluttered dear” I squirmed, stuffing my hammer into a pocket of one of the coats hung up inside. Thankful that I had not fainted.

I bought said quirky time machine off a gentleman in the pub after sharing a few jars with him at the bar.

“It will make you wealthy beyond your dreams” he purred as he opened the boot of his Bentley in the car park.

‘Yes! I will be able to learn & understand so much about our history, I will become wise beyond my years’ , I thought to myself whilst breaking wind with excitement or was that the Guinness.
Although I didn’t think he had made the best use of his wisdom as he was driving a large gas guzzler & was wearing a very creased linen suit.

Now this chap must have loved horses. On the first few occasions I used the machine I always landed at one horse track or another. Horse racing is definitely not my bag, but hey each to their own. The other strange thing was, that he had only ever ventured a couple of days into the future, I could never work that out. I mean what is the point of having a machine capable of travelling back through the ages but only ever visiting the middle of next week. On one of my early trips using the pre-programmed coordinates I even appeared in a television studio where they were playing bingo or some such like game with numbered balls. I didn’t hang around long enough to get the gist.

After downloading some intergalactic charts off eBay & fiddling with the control panel I managed to get the hang of it.

I fully intended to see the dinosaurs, watch the Egyptians building pyramids & warn all the wealthy Italians about building with solid foundations. Oh & to tell them to avoid Smokey mountains as well.

This would not be my first experience as a temporal time & space line dancer. I had a few run ins with time travel when I was very young. Indeed I recall my parents buying me my fist Timex watch.

“What is it”? I asked excitedly. “It’s a watch” said mum, “It tells the time”. Fantastic I thought, my first miniature time machine.

I recall the long summer days when all the kids on the street would play out together.

“Be home by eight”, dad would say.

Oh but we had so much fun knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door & running off, again & again & again & again &&&&& again. How annoying young children can be. “Are we there yet”? Eight O clock was far to early. Nobody else had to be in by that time.

…….& that’s when it occurred to me. ‘My time machine’. At eight, I wound it back to a quarter too. Then again every fifteen minutes. What a brilliant plan. This was the best present in the whole world.

THUNDER! Or was it? No it definitely wasn’t thunder. No such luck.

All the other kids look towards the heavens. It was in fact my dads voice booming up the street. I nearly fainted, but managed to maintain my balance long enough to run home. ( that was my first experience at travelling at the speed of light )

Now on arriving in the house for a period of less than three seconds I attempted to explain that it was only eight o clock according to my watch. My dad didn’t appear to understand me. I put this down to the time & space diferential, as we were in actual fact, in different time zones. He was in the present I was in the past. His zone looked a lot redder than mine. My father must have understood this & brought me back into the present by utilising a series of equalising strokes to my buttocks. Which apparently hurt him more than me but I could never see how. I must of inherited my time travelling capabilities from dad, as he managed to knock me from the past right into the middle of next week.

I did try to experiment with time travel on occasion whilst at secondary school.

“Peeler you are LATE”!

“But it’s nine o clock Sir”.

“It’s a quarter past”.

“It’s nine sir”

“It’s a quarter past”.

“But my watch says nine”.

I could see that my wonderous feat of folding time had failed to impress Mr Kennedy. & I was later to discover the reason. He like my dear father, was in fact a Time Lord himself. Later that very same day he managed to turn half past three into half past four.

Anyway back to the present. Well would you look at that! Now you're travelling through time as well. Before I decided to visit the ancient past I wanted to nip a short distance into the future just to make sure I was healthy & everything was hunky dorey in the home etc. So off I popped, a year or so into the future.

ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop!

I opened the cupboard door & walked into the hallway. I could hear the sound of someone taking a shower upstairs. Sneaky, sneaky up the stairs I went. I peeped into our bedroom, nobody there, good. I can still hear the shower so into the room I creep. I open the door to the en suite ever so slightly & find myself face to face with my own backside. Yes I am in the steamy shower. But to my surprise I have let my hair grow & it is rather curly. I have a good tan as well must have just been on holiday. Well that’s a good sign. My biggest shock however was my voice.

“Volare, oh oh
Cantare, oh oh oh oh”

I didn’t realise my voice was so good & I had learnt Italian.

The futures bright, the futures tanned with a firm butt.

Happy with my expedition I decide to retreat back to my own time & smarm around the house for a bit...
....ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop! & return.

As I sneak out of my cupboard the door bell goes.

“Get that would you” sings my beloved from the cushion. “It will be the plumber”.

“Ciao” said Mario, the plumber who had come to fix the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

I pointed Mario in the direction of the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

“Mario has come to fix the leaky tap which you promised to fix” said Mrs Peeler.

“Cup of tea Mario” I offered whilst attempting to look both manly & to busy for leaky taps.

A few minutes later I took Mario’s tea up to the bathroom. I could hear him singing away to himself. It was a lovely song, Italian I think.

‘Now where had I heard that song before’?

Average Joe (0)
Tall Dark Handsome Continental Types With Loads of Charm (make me sick)
“Uncle Frank is a cross dresser” that’s what mum told dad. I heard it quite clearly. Through the wall & down the stairs.

Personally I never understood this maybe it was because I was a young lad or just because my parents were mad as cheese.

I thought about Uncle Franks friends & wondered if they knew. I mean it couldn’t be right. Everybody liked Uncle Frank he was just so funny.

Not like Aunty Wart. Aunty Wart was Uncle Franks wife.


“Its Aunty Mavis” shouted mum. “Lots of people get warts when they get older”

“Not right on the end of their noses” I chirped back.


“Don’t you answer me back lad, wait till your dad gets home”.


That was bad karma. Being grassed up by mum was definitely bad karma. Not that mum was a soft touch. I mean any woman that could make Die Hard or the Matrix look easy had to be tough. Before I had even finished saying Aunty Wart she had cart wheeled out of the kitchen, double back flipped, sideways dived & landed a slap on my back. Nope! Mum was most definitely not to be tinkered with, but dad well he was a different kettle of sharks. If dad wasn’t gods brother he must have been god himself.

My dad had the following patents;


“Please don’t tell dad”

“I will”

“…..pleeeeease don’t tell him”

“I will”


“I am”



“Okay consider them done”

Half an hour, three sinks full of water & a small flood later the dishes were done.

“Look at my kitchen floor” screeched mum. Oh oh time to go. Door to dining room blocked, quick think fast. I sensed a back flip followed by a round house kick coming. Out into the back garden was my only sensible option. I moonwalk backwards (I actually invented it, as an escape method, not wacko. I just didn’t know it looked cool)

“You’ve got one hour” rasped the terminator. “Were going round to Aunty Mavis’s for your cousin Jimmy’s birthday every one will be there, so don’t get dirty or I‘ll wing you one“.

Outside sat on the garden wall in the safety of the real world I ponder whether to ask for Scalextric or an electric train set for Christmas. It is nearly as tough a decision as last years "Chopper" or "Chippa" bike contest. I actually didn’t get either.

“Its an action man” said dad.

“I know” I reply trying to sound disappointed in my best, my dog is dead & the end of the world is coming kinda voice.

“He’s got eagle eyes” clucked dad.

“He hasn’t” I replied with expert authority.

“Yes he has, you just swivel his head from side to side like this. See”!

STROOTH. Eyes roll, sigh. I think that was probably my first sigh. Apart from the time I realised that pooing in your shorts, without a nappy, in front of the other kids, whilst at nursery, without your mum there, was definitely not cool.

“Come & give your Aunty Mavis a kiss” said mum in a room packed full of hairy relatives.

‘Just get it over with’ I think to myself. ‘Don’t look at the wart. Don’t look at the wart’.

“He’s gone cross eyed, the daft bugger” yelled Aunty really big massive humungous wart on the end of her nose Mavis.

“Stop being silly” laughed mum in her ever so, I’m so embarrassed & wait till I get you on your own style.

“Aunty Mavis”? I enquire coyly.

“Yes dear”

“Has Uncle Frank lost weight”?

“No dear”.

“Does his suit still fit him”?

“Yes dear…..” said a baffled Aunty Mavis.

“Well why does he get angry when he’s getting dressed in the morning”?
In my minds eye I can see Uncle Frank getting dressed in front of the mirror, he pulls up his trousers only to discover they are too short or too tight. At this he looses his temper "Aaaarrgh look at the size of my bloody arse" he screams.

“What do you mean dear”? enquires Warty Mave.

“Well its just that mum said that he was a cross dresser”



I think I heard a shriek in between Aunty Mavis fainting & the rain starting.
Uncle Frank strides into the room.
"Who's for another drink then"?
"Hehehehehehehe" chirps Uncle Albert constructively as Gran almost swallows her dentures.

Smirks in the pub (6) Tact (0)