Vicky Pollard Explained - Yer but I never dunn it, right?

I'm originally from Bath, and the character of Vicky Pollard is supposed to hail from Bristol, which coincidentally, is only about 15 miles from Bath. So for me, understanding Vicky's accent is a breeze. But for others, her fast paced dialogue and broad Bristol accent makes her difficult to comprehend. So for all of you that can't fathom what she's saying beyond the "no...but yer...but no"; here's the swimming pool sketch translated into plain English :-)

Announcer’s Voice: Swimming pools in Britain have very strict rules. No bombing, no petting, no ducking, and no fondue parties.

Whistle, whistle.

Life Guard: Excuse me can I have a word?

Vicky puts her cigarette out in the water and walks over to talk to the Life guard.

Life Guard: Just uh, been speaking to a little girl. Says you pushed her in the pool. Did you?

Vicky Pollard: No, but yeah, but no, because what happened was was you know the Redmond sisters? Well they found a varuca sock in the girl’s bogs and put it in Carrie’s bag and she completely had an eppy and turned up to Camell Sharma’s party with a compass and stabbed Camell Sharma. But anyway Shelly Bentley gave Craig Herman a blowie in the shallow end for a bite of his Funny Foot.

Life Guard: I asked you if you pushed that girl in the pool.

Vicky Pollard: No because I couldn’t have done because I was with Michaela the whole time because she was crying because you know Dominic Malone? Well he was supposed to be meetin’ her down the swings to go third base. But anyway Ian Patworth ,who I like once got off with as a joke, nicked a whole bottle of DuBonnet off Stacey Manning’s mum and hid it in the woods. But then he couldn’t find it but then he did find it but he didn’t like it so he threw it at a family of gypos.

Life Guard: Did you push her in or not?

Vicky Pollard: No because I would never do that. Because once I heard this thing right, that a man, pushed a man, and the man died and that’s true and if you don’t believe me you can ask him yourself. And anyway Johnno tripped up Dean Hurse by the water slides and he had to have 300 stitches in his face. And when his mum found out she went down Johnno’s dad’s car showroom and went up to a Vauxhall Astra and done her dirty business on it.

Life Guard: Get out and go and get changed.

Vicky Pollard: Well I’m just gonna have a wee first, and then I’ll get changed.

Life Guard: Be quick.

Remains standing where she is, peeing in the pool.

Vicky Pollard: Right, I’ll go an get changed………Don’t go giving me evils! Bitch!

Whistle

Vicky Pollard: Oh shut up!

Leia Mais…

Smooth Lil Pokey

One of my biggest passions is my horses, and I am especially fanatical about the American Quarter Horse breed in particular. This is my 4-year-old AQHA mare Smooth Lil Pokey, affectionately known as Grace.

Not only is she an AQHA, Grace is also eligible to be registered ABRA (Buckskin), and NFQHA (Foundation Quarter Horse) making her more valuable. But of course to me, she is priceless :o)

Leia Mais…

Diego Maradona and the "Hand of God"

The 1980s was a particularly low point in Anglo/Argentinean relations. The Falklands conflict had just ended with an Argentinean surrender in June of 1982 and as we somewhat reluctantly tried to mend the diplomatic fences all our efforts would turn out to be for naught when on June 22, 1986 our two countries were again at loggerheads as were endured another assault by the Argies. This time, almost four years to the day following the end of hostilities, we found ourselves face to face with the enemy on the football pitch in the 1986 FIFA World Cup quarter-final.

This coming Monday will be the 23rd anniversary of an epic sporting event during which an incident occurred that caused the residents of the United Kingdom to collectively rise to their feet to cry “FOUL” as we were cheated out of a possible FIFA World Cup victory by an Argentinean footballer and the “hand of god”. In pubs, working men’s clubs, and front rooms up and down the length of the country we saw the hopes and dreams of what we believed was going to be our first World Cup triumph since 1966, dashed on the rocks.

It was six minutes into the second half of the match as we battled for the right to progress to the semi-final, when a miscued hook from left midfielder Steve Hodge who was trying to clear the ball from the penalty area inadvertently sent it sailing towards Maradona. England goalkeeper Peter Shilton came out of his goal to punch the ball clear, and with his considerable height advantage at 6’ 1” he was clearly favorite to beat the diminutive Maradona to the ball. However, Maradona reached it first, with the outside of his left fist. The ball went into the net, and the Tunisian referee, not having seen the infringement, allowed the goal.



Maradona later said, "I was waiting for my teammates to embrace me, and no one came... I told them, 'Come hug me, or the referee isn't going to allow it.'"

At the post-game press conference, Maradona claimed that the goal was scored "a little with the head of Maradona and a little with the hand of God", coining the phrase "Hand of God".

Although almost a quarter century has passed since this underhanded act it's hard to find anything to take the sting out of the wound although I had to smile when I found this photo on Flickr that recreates the scene in Lego and captures the infamous incident brilliantly.

Oh yeah, and Maradona is to scale in this picture wa ha ha ha (sound of maniacal laughter). It's all part of the therapy....just let it go Domenica....let it go.


You may have won that battle Argentina but don't forget who won the war!! Oops....I'm supposed to let it go right?

Leia Mais…

Facebook - If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them

How do you instantly reconnect with a bunch of family and friends you haven’t seen or spoken to for years? The answer……….get a Facebook account. Now I don’t want to sound like a walking infomercial but if they want a customer testimonial they can have mine anytime.

I‘ve been staving off signing up for a MySpace or Facebook social networking service because I didn’t want to class myself as one of the “herd”, a definite throw-back to the nonconformist side of my personality. But when my husband invited me to take a look at his profile on Facebook and I told him I couldn’t do that (only other Facebookers can look at member profiles) I though ah what the heck, may as well jump on the bandwagon. There comes a point where if you can’t beat ‘em you may as well join ‘em……..after all over 200 million users can’t be wrong can they?

So now, only three or four days after signing up I’m definitely a convert and back in touch with numerous friends and family both in the UK and USA and even and old pal I used to knock around with “back in the day” that relocated to the Cayman Islands.

The only down side is that I have suddenly become aware of how much time has passed. Where have all those years gone? I remember the time I saw my newest cousin a week or so after she was born, now she’s married with kids of her own! But that’s okay, it’s been a delight to reconnect and I look forward to reminiscing with more kin as and when they decide to take a ride on the Facebook Express. All Aboard!

Leia Mais…

Free Verse Poetry in Honor of my Husband

Free Verse Poetry - Although it does not follow traditional rhyming conventions it is recognized as poetry by its rhythmical style.

How Can I Tell You?

How can I tell you friend of mine, of hell on earth inside Iraq. To be a walking target there, patrol all day in sapping heat. With gun in hand observing roofs and doors and crowds, each face regarding with mistrust while I look on with equal hate. When given half a chance dear friend they seize the glory to attack, their holy jihad plan fulfilled then claim in Allah’s filthy name their martyrdom like some sick prize.

How can I tell you friend of mine, unwelcome cries five times a day, of wailing clerics calling men to prayer from spired towers tall polluting Baghdad’s scorching air. And even now, though I am home, I hear that sound in some dire dream won’t leave me be, its melancholy echo haunts again please leave, please leave me be.

How can I tell you friend of mine, just how it feels to be assailed by noise the likes you’ve never heard. The whining path of mortar flight as deadly shells drone overhead and moaning pleas in foreign tongues of wounded men and panicked wives. And coating each horrific sound are layers of acrid smoke and stench and bodies littered on the ground amid the fragments of the blast.

How can I tell you friend of mine, to understand the wrenching fear that grips your gut and twists its rusty jagged blade and breaks it off inside your chest to leave it there for you to clutch.

How can I tell you friend of mine, for you are blessed, you were not there.


Wave Goodbye
Off to war; wave goodbye brave soldier. Wave goodbye to the man you were.
Wave goodbye to the life you knew, your body, your mind, your soul.
Baghdad has plans for you brave soldier; prepares in ghastly scheming ways, to tear you down but not rebuild, nor shall you repair your life brave soldier. For you are gone, wave goodbye.

Leia Mais…

When Weeds Weren’t Weeds.

There are daisies in SW Washington, but they’re what I refer to as the nuclear kind; bloody gigantic meadow monsters. You know the type that should have a Latin name like “vulagris gargantuas” or something equally unromantic. And, like the plant version of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, they appears as though they’ve been exposed to a liquid mutagen evolving into a species that adorns roadside verges like so many dish plates on stalks.

Oh how I miss the delicate British version of the wild flower. The fragile, diminutive daisy that graced the lawns and grassy common areas where we played as kids. I can remember sitting on the soft green grass, warmed by the afternoon summer sunshine, making daisy chains with my sister. Playing the “He loves me. He loves me not.” game pulling each fragile snow-white petal from the yellow head and praying that he loved me (even though I was too young to have a “he” in my life it was fun to see how the game would turn out).

In my youth, playing games with weeds was a fun, free, and easy way to pass the time. Like the simple dandelion clock; blowing the fluffy seeds off the head one puff at a time, telling the time by counting the number of tries it took before each parachute shaped spore had finally been blown away. (But don’t touch the yellow dandelions or you’ll wet the bed). Then there was the amusing act of holding a bunch of glossy yellow buttercups under a friend’s chin to see if they liked butter. Or holding a blade of grass taut between your thumbs and blowing on it to make a squealing noise.

Now, as an adult, I can’t believe I’m reminiscing about plants which have now become “the enemy”. Our gardens are under attack from these stubborn weeds. Daisies invade any place they can get their aggressive root systems established and dandelions pollute any spot their flying spores can take a hold, lawns, borders, even cracks between pavers……….I love them, I love them NOT!

Leia Mais…

Saucy Seaside Postcards

A couple of years ago my husband and I made a trip back home to England; a highlight of which for me was a whistle-stop tour of Devon and Cornwall. We crammed in as many glorious little coastal towns as possible on that three-day leg of our trip and bought all kinds of wonderful souvenirs. But missing from our stash of keepsakes was the one item I especially used to enjoy back in the 70’s - the Saucy Seaside Postcard.

In an era when the “double entendre” and spoonerisms were so heavily used in British films, radio and telly (especially the Carry On series), and almost every sexual innuendo was followed by the phrase “said the Actress to the Bishop” the saucy postcard suited the 1960’s and 70s working class knotted-hankie-on-head punter right down to the sand between his hairy toes.

In fact, I noticed that postcards in general seemed to be conspicuously absent from the wind-blown displays outside the beach front shops, perhaps a sign of a more sophisticated population that would rather communicate via email and text messages than with pen and paper. The holiday greeting has gone from a handwritten “wish you were here” (which usually showed up on the recipient's door step long after you got back from holiday) replaced by an impersonal digitally coded IM……….OMG lol.

I was glad to see that you can still find buckets, spades, windmills, snorkels, flippers, armbands, and sticks of rock all coated with a thin layer of salt water and sand, but sadly no more sketched cards of tarts and vicars, fat housewives, busty blondes, and red-nosed drunken middle aged men adorning the racks.

All of which must leave the last surviving saucy postcard manufacturers crying (as Kenneth Williams playing Julius Caesar put it in Carry on Cleo) "Infamy! Infamy! They've all got it in for me!"

Leia Mais…