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While we’re tearing down statues

juan

And Juan is on the left side of the door at the bulk spice company. Pretty sure this would be a hate crime in the US of A at the moment. It probably would be a hate crime here, if we had any Mexican presence at all.

If a statue promotes bigotry and no-one is offended, did it make a stereotype?

Carl wins the dick(™) with Bruce Forsyth, a man who holds the Guiness record(™) for the longest-running television career for a male.

NB: this is Carl’s sixth or seventh win. Do not fuck with Carl.

Too late for this week; come back next Friday for Dead Pool Round…who the hell knows. Rick Rostrom (whose records are better than mine) says it’s not really #100, it’s #97. Because I not math at good.

Have a great weekend, all!

August 18, 2017 — 9:08 pm
Comments: 20

I haven’t had the heart to tell them…

paolo

This large fiberglass vegetable sits outside the door of a store where we occasionally stock up on spices in bulk. ‘Paolo’, if you’ve not run across it, is the Italian version of Paul.

I’m pretty sure any self-respecting giant plastic chili pepper in a sombrero strumming a guitar would be Pablo, nay?

When cultural stereotypes go (slightly) wrong…

August 17, 2017 — 8:19 pm
Comments: 28

bucket o’ crabs

crabs

This, if you can’t tell, is a bucket of crabs.

I was done early today, so we lit out for a nature reserve at the seaside. There, we met a dour woman catching crabs. It was an older couple with their granddaughter, but clearly only grandma was into it. And boy, was she into it.

She had a crabbing net (an open-topped wire basket on a string, for those who, like me, grew up a thousand miles from the sea) baited with rotten chicken. She’d go to the edge of the pier and play it down into the water until it touched bottom, let it rest a couple of minutes, and haul it up again. She had two or three of the little pinch-monsters in there every time (plus a few shrimps).

She let them go in the end. At least, she said she was gunna, so we could watch with clear conscience. I could never stand watching food struggle to escape.

After that, we went to a cafe for a sandwich. It was sunny and fine. The end.

p.s. First time I ever saw the ocean, I was nine. I’ll never forget my dad showing us the right was to pick up a crab. He scooched it up from the back, gave an almighty howl and flung it out to sea as far as ever he could. We thought he was clowning around, but no – he was bleeding freely from the hole it pinched in his thumb. Heh heh.

August 16, 2017 — 9:34 pm
Comments: 11

Paging Argentium G. Tiger…!

silverband

Argentium G. Tiger, please go to the white courtesy phone. Someone you (presumably) know is looking for you and, believe it or not, your most recent internet presence with this nick is a comment on this blog. Drop me a line and I’ll give you the deets.

By contrast to the ploughing match I posted about yesterday, here is the house band from the poshest of posh fetes.

How posh? That ain’t a brass band, son, it’s a silver band. Yes, it’s a thing.

They’re very good, actually. It’s particularly amusing when they break into an enthusiastic version of the Time Warp or sech like.

August 15, 2017 — 9:22 pm
Comments: 17

A lady! Driving a tractor!

plough

And she probably has one of those fru-fru British accents and everything.

Ploughing match. We were told that’s her tractor and nobody else is allowed to touch it.

We managed one fete, one country fair and two parties this weekend, because our lives are just that exciting. You?

August 14, 2017 — 8:49 pm
Comments: 16

Dead Pool Round 99: the ‘OOooo almost a hundred!’ edition

Glen Campbell wins it, Uncle Al takes the dick. But you knew that.

Campbell was only 81 — which no longer strikes me as very old — but he’d had Alzheimer’s for a thousand years, so this was probably a blessed relief.

Any ideas what to do for Round 100, let me know. But probably not in this thread…it’ll get lost in the candidates.

Ready? Okay then!

0. Rule Zero (AKA Steve’s Rule): your pick has to be living when picked. Also, nobody whose execution date is circled on the calendar. Also, please don’t kill anybody. Plus (Pupster’s Rule) no picking someone who’s only famous for being the oldest person alive.

1. Pick a celebrity. Any celebrity — though I reserve the right to nix picks I never heard of (I don’t generally follow the Dead Pool threads carefully, so if you’re unsure of your pick, call it to my attention).

2. We start from scratch every time. No matter who you had last time, or who you may have called between rounds, you have to turn up on this very thread and stake your claim.

3. Poaching and other dirty tricks positively encouraged.

4. Your first choice sticks. Don’t just blurt something out, m’kay? Also, make sure you have a correct spelling of your choice somewhere in your comment. These threads get longish and I use search to figure out if we have a winner.

5. It’s up to you to search the thread and make sure your choice is unique. I’m waayyyy too lazy to catch the dupes. Popular picks go fast.

6. The pool stays open until somebody on the list dies. Feel free to jump in any time. Noobs, strangers, drive-bys and one-comment-wonders — all are welcome.

7. If you want your fabulous prize, you have to entrust me with a mailing address. If you’ve won before, send me your address again. I don’t keep good records.

8. The new DeadPool will begin 6pm WBT (Weasel’s Blog Time) the Friday after the last round is concluded.

The winner, if the winner chooses to entrust me with a mailing address, will receive an Official Certificate of Dick Winning and a small original drawing on paper suffused with elephant shit particles. Because I’m fresh out of fairy shit particles.

August 11, 2017 — 6:00 pm
Comments: 80

Chook update

chooksupdate

No, no…these are not new baby chooks. This is the trio from last year, who are now all growed up and doing well. It occurred to me I hadn’t given you an update in a while.

The two millies are fat and happy and each lay an egg every day like little champs. The lavender has gone broody and sits on the nest sulking.

These are by far the most neurotic chickens I’ve had. They haven’t warmed to me at all. Usually, a chicken — by virtue of natural gluttony — will ultimately come to love you, because you represent FOOD. These girls? Scream and run away from corn if you throw it at them.

Run away. From corn.

They’re greedy enough. They come back and eat it eventually. They’re just super, super spooky and neurotic.

And old Mapp is doing fine. She’s seven this year, which is a damn good run for a bantam. And, yes, she’s gone broody this year as she does every year. Poop out three eggs and then go broody. Useless old bird. She and Colette sit on the nest together and scream at the other chickens.

I’ve made her a promise: if she makes it through another Winter, I’ll give her some fertile eggs to sit on. Motherhood would serve her right.

Right! Tomorrow, 6WBT, Dead Pool Round 99! Be here or I’ll give you some fertile eggs to sit on.

August 10, 2017 — 10:26 pm
Comments: 3

Come into my parlor…

house

Remember the feral cat who was making Jack’s life miserable? We hadn’t seen him for ages. In fact, we started to wonder if the Monster that Chewed Charlotte had got him.

But, no. He’s back. And the reason is: the food I’ve been leaving out for the hedgies. I haven’t fed them for two days because Ginge keeps knicking it.

Poor old boy. I do feel bad for him. Because he’s a working farm cat, they don’t feed him, and a skinny rough old thing he is. But he beats up Jack and then Jack beats up Charlotte and…no, we just can’t have it.

So that beehive looking thing in the picture is a hedgehog feeder. Or house. It’s sold as both. The opening is too small for a tomcat.

It’s not weighted at the moment, so I reckon Ginge could get his head in the opening and toss it aside, but it’ll slow him down enough I can catch him at it and shoo him off. I watch them cameras like a demented hawk.

Funny thing: it’s wire covered in twigs and it’s almost invisible, tucked up under the hedge. But it screams out on the surveillance video, see? Another IR anomaly.

August 9, 2017 — 9:33 pm
Comments: 21

Huh. Must be egg bound.

porcelain

This came across my Twitter feed today. Most useful thing I’ve gotten out of Twatter in a long time. Yes, there’s color. I must have this thing.

Still dealing with home-broughten work at the moment.

RIP Glen Campbell. Poor bastard had been dealing with Alzheimer’s for a thousand years. And Uncle Al had ‘im in the Dead Pool. That means you-know-what, here, Friday, 6WBT.

August 8, 2017 — 10:03 pm
Comments: 21

The Ghost of Weasel Hall

mist

Infrared does some very strange things. We figured that out early on. One of the first nights we switched the outside cameras on, two of them showed the most amazing howling blizzard for half an hour. It was an IR gross exaggeration of a light mist. I guess. It was hard even to see the mist with the naked eye and t hasn’t happened since.

Something similar happens at work, where dust or moisture speckles swirl around in a seemingly purposeful way. One of my colleagues watching the recording firmly believes they’re orbs — you know, spirit doo-dahs.

I definitely think it’s just weird IR artifacts. I’m as psychic as a potato, me.

Picture above shows the camera in the garden that has its back to the chicken house. I hope you can make out the swirling mist. I see this many nights on this one camera. It’s a sort of twisty thing, like smoke, seemingly close to the camera. Very spooky looking.

My best guess is, it’s some kind of spider gossamer. Spiders love the cameras and crawl all over them (with B horror movie results). I guess the red lights either attract them, or attract bugs that attract them. They often leave cloudy, milky artifacts when they spin web up close to the lens.

OR maybe it’s some particular kind of mist coming up from the grass, bearing in mind how weirdly IR can exaggerate moisture.

Any other guesses?

August 7, 2017 — 10:28 pm
Comments: 24