First Stroll of 2022

There were fireworks hereabouts last night, many, many fireworks. The oneth of January has turned out to be a ridiculously mild day. Mr Stove is lit, but mostly so that I can en-kettle and do cookingery upon him. Doors and windows are open. For the first stroll of the year I kept myself to the reasonably non-squidgy sections of towpath, and covered them twice. Didn’t meet a living soul upon my perambulations; presumably all tucked up a-bed with hangovers brewing. Didn’t meet any dead souls either, so they may or may not have hangovers.

To each and every one of the Greek and Roman gods – please, please, please let this year be less insane than the past two. If you need a sacrifice then just let me know in the usual way, I have several people in mind.

The (horrid) swans came with me part of the way. This in spite of my hissing at them.

The swans were replaced by a veritable army of geese flying directly overhead (always a dangerous thing, goose-sphincters not being made as well as they once were).

Ye gods, were they noisy.

There was a lone sheep in one of the fields… it’s that pale dot in the photograph below. Centre of frame, on the horizon this side of that hedgerow.

There were lots of other sheepsicles about, hundreds of them, but when they all wandered off and changed their outlook this one stood standingly still, all alone. Most peculiar behaviour indeed. Had it lost the ability to walk? Was it stood there in deep thought, contemplating life as a quadrupedal even-toed ungulate ruminant mammal? If so then we’ve all been there, haven’t we, trying to come to terms with life under the heel of the wolf, being fleeced on a regular basis.

Perhaps it (too) was merely pausing to contemplate the clouds or the Sun’s reluctant rising?

Perhaps we await not the Pale Rider but the Pale Sheep?

Did I simply fail to spot the White, Red, and Black Sheep? The full set for the Apockyclypse…

Well, whatever the Greek and Roman gods do about improving 2022 they’re going to have to move swiftly and decisively; I’ve already seen a headline suggesting that the odious little turd Tony Blair has been knighted in the “Honours” List. I suggest a small speculative investment in Parcel Force Ltd shares, since if true then there will be a(nother) flurry of Registered Post Parcels from all parts of the Empire to Buckingham Hice as others return their medals and sashes in disgust.

Wasn’t it Karl Marx (the Grouchy one) who put it best when he said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would accept Tony Blair as a member?

Don’t even get me started on Sir “Alien Bell-End” Whitty and Sir van Tam-Tam the quackzine man.

No, seriously, please don’t.

There have been many fine and splendid boats passing today, folk out for some sort of celebratory cruise methinks. Even Messrs BARGUS of Four Counties Fuels were out working, fully-laden and heading south.

I tell you, it’s all go on the canals, you know.

Those houses on the road opposite (above)? Very recent builds – thrown up in the winter weather, a little more each time I passed or moored there – including those terraced jobs to the right of frame… the banner outside while they were trying to flog them (and they’ve mostly been flogged now) indicated ‘…prices from £695,000…’ Eckythump alone knows what that “detached” (by about 18″) Show Home to the left of the entrance road went for…

Wibble moo fribble de-clomp. There’s nowt else to be said!

Those terraced jobbies surely can’t have gone for six nine five? Can they? The world’s more insane than I thought. Surely not. The building with the white car in front of it is two houses, the building to the right of that shows three front doors. Oh well, I hope folk are happy in them.

Pauses, Stage Left, to iron the puzzled frown out of his brain-gland.

I am typing this stuffed full of that eppy-tome of English cuisine, Squubble & Beak. Yesterday lunch was a fine platter of all manner of vegetables, today was a nicely-crusted end of their remains, with HP Sauce.

HP Sauce (“Houses of Parliament” Sauce – hence the “HP”) and still featuring same on the label along with the Queen Elizabeth Tower (home to Big Ben, the clock not the porn star), is now highly foreign-owned, and is produced in the Netherlands.

We own nothing anymore in this country, and nothing is sacred.

The Sun (the celestial body, not the scurrilous Fleet Street rag – no longer actually run from or produced in Fleet Street, as with all of England’s broadsheets and rags) is already setting as I type this. These days there will probably be a distinct period of time before it rises on some other part of the Empire (they pulled all of the Empires and the ODEONs down decades since). So that’s damned near the first day of the year gone already, and never called me ‘Mother’.

How time flies when you live in Interesting Times.

Time flies like an arrow but fruit flies like a bandana (sic).

Fruit flies are very fashion-conscious.

Whither England in 2022?

I care less with each passing year, this country having had its soul surgically removed, and continuing to blot its copybook on a daily basis. I would love this to be the year when we decorate our lampposts and sturdier roadside trees with politicians of all grades, and with anyone of a global and/or corporate and/or “billionaire” bent. Let’s add the lying bastard mainstream media in there too, eh? So many need to dangle for their crimes, so little time left in our window of opportunity in which to hang them variously by their necks, ankles, and (admittedly pre-shrivelled) testicles.

Ho et le hum.

I shall let you know if the lone sheep remains fixed when I walk tomorrow.

One little sheep, making a stand.

Waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Cry BAAAAAAA! and let slip the sheeps of [civil, global] war!

Chin-chin, chaps.

Ian H., & Cardinal W.


  1. On Youtube I watched a chemistry professor from Nottingham get knighted and get a new electric tram in Nottingham named after him. He was FAR more chuffed about the tram. Which seemed so appropriate somehow. If only all such honors were so well suited to the honoree. In general the rich get honored by governments, not the deserving. I still dream of a sentient covid solving that problem.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I am sure that in the matter of honours too there is a distinct difference in the way that we plebs view them versus the way that the average recipient views them… it seems to matter so to these gong-bedecked idiots. I don’t know why they still announce them to the public, when they could just keep the “news” within their club boundaries.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I read that someone, somewhere said all past PMs should be knighted. Can you imagine Sir Boris Johnson? Why should someone be given an honour just because they did a certain job, no matter how incompetent they were.
        You were lucky in your stroll. We tried to go for a walk, but gave up on two lovely places because of hordes of people on a sunny and mild day. We ended up doing our ‘lockdown walk’, which is close at hand.
        The traffic on the way into Eastbourne was traffic some. The place must have been full, spreading Omicron right left and centre.


  2. I could, if I had a mind to, suggest the lone sheep is considering the mistaken turn in his path of life which would otherwise have resulted in him being a lone wolf, although he’s showing some traits of such

    Liked by 2 people

  3. A sheep can certainly pounce.
    We had Monty…a twin lamb whose mother did not want him…picked him up bloody and battered, bottle fed him and he thrived. He was far better than a guard dog, usually launching his attack on visitors from the shrubbery. His tally included two detectives, the local drunk, the butcher’s delivery motorcycle and rider, a police car and an enormous lady from the rural development office…I wonder why we never had that grant…
    Loose at night he protected his flock….including pinning one intruder against the farm gate and pounding pieces.
    Elections here in February…..all the fun of the fair as the corrupt make their promises of fair government for all…well, all their cronies…

    Liked by 1 person

    1. My kind of sheep! Folk often don’t know just how strong a sheep can be (physically, I can’t speak for their mental fortitude).

      Elections seem to be such a useless process these days – at minimum they need a ‘None of the above’ box on the ballot paper, and if a majority vote that way then the candidates cannot stand again for two hundred years or something. Best of luck with it!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Sheeps can be quite nasty. I used to teach agricultural science, and we had some sheep. This included one wether (castrated ram) and a ram. One day, one of my pupils went out for something (can’t remember what) and the two boys had him pinned on the stump of a felled tree. Whenever he moved, one or the other took a step forward.
        We could see all this from the lab window. The class thought it hilarious. (As did I to be honest.) I did take pity on him and rescue him, unscathed except for his pride.


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