Posts Tagged ‘Holidays’




We are on holiday in Spain.

Spanish plumbing really has come on leaps and bounds. It is a pleasure to ascend my throne for an hour in the morning and allow the previous night’s paella, chips, sausages, black pudding, egg, chips and leg of lamb begin its momentous journey to the sea. Why David Attenborough hasn’t done a documentary on this still bemuses me. Like that one about the salmon returning to their spawning grounds. Only this would be about turds.

Still can’t get used to the bidet though. Use it to rinse me smalls.

We went on a boat trip.

An On The Pot served as a Tar under Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Horatio On The Pot came to a sticky end. Not in the heat of battle, but sneaking a crafty snifter from the barrel of brandy that Nelson was pickled in. They say the resulting dysentery was the inspiration behind pebble dashing.

We’ve met Brian and Sandra. They are from Basildon. The posh part. He sells double glazing. What he doesn’t know about glazing isn’t worth knowing about. I know because he told me. Often. Very often.

Sandra and my lovley wife Shirley have formed a bond, giggling and glaring at Brian and me as they cane the Gordons.

All this whilst Brian advises me on developments in toughened safety glass. Give me strength. Give me melanoma. Anything but the exciting world of lead beading finishes.



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Which came first?



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World Exclusive!

Ginger troubadour, Ed Sheeran recently spoke to Gingerfightback about music, his lucky sausage Dennis and his love of sheep and coach holidays.

46 year old Ed, whose new single “I Haven’t Told You Lately That I Love You Because I Mumble,” is released next week, told Gfb’s showbiz correspondent Barry Island, “I wasplaying gigs in kennels and cycle racks when Dennis, my lucky sausage approached me and reckoned we should team up. I thought it strange that a talking sausage had rock n roll pretensions, but thought why the hell not? I wrote a song entitled “The Sausage I Love”. It was a massive hit on You Tube and the rest is history.”



Ed’s first album + has sold by the bucket load all over the place. Ed said, “I was going to call it “Thank You Dennis My Lucky Sausage,” but those corporate pigs at the record company changed it to +. It has been number 1 in 46 countries including Belgebourg, a place that doesn’t even exist! I owe it all to Dennis.”

Redhead Ed, 33 also told us that he is knackered and needs a holiday. “The strings on my guitar have gone a bit wonky. So I’ve booked a two week coach trip around the Lake District for me and Dennis to watch sheepdog trials and sheep at rest. I like sheep especially when they are woolly. Baa, baa.”

ginger sheep                                                                                                           

Is it a case of Sheeran’s, Shearings shearing holiday we wonder!



This Is The Type Of Coach They Could Be On!

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Regular readers will know that Bob On The Pot has been on holiday in Spain. You can read Week 1’s report is here. Week 2’s report is here!


We are home! There is something nice about getting home.  This is what you might call a paradox, when you consider that it is only in the last 10,000 years or so that we moved to a more sedentary lifestyle due to arable cultivation.

You may be surprised of my knowledge of the move from a hunter gatherer to agrarian society. I picked this up from the  The History Channel whilst in our holding cell in Malaga Prison where myself, my lovely wife Shirley and her sister Doreen were residing on account of Doreen’s manhandling of Juan, a local road sweeper as she staggered home from the “Top O’ The Morn’ To Ye!”

Poor Juan, a man who had a dandy brushing technique before Doreen’s “needs” intervened. How his brush ended up in that orifice does not bare thinking about.

As I waited for Spanish Justice,  I watched a bit of TV.  I couldn’t find any porn (a clear breach of my human rights) hence the History Channel.

My only previous experience of pre-historic life was Raquel Welch in One Million Years BC.  If that is stone age life you can keep it. Wearing a wig in that heat? Would bring my rash on terrible. And don’t mention the terror a stop-go animated dinosaur would induce.

But I must say deportation is the only way to travel.

Plenty of leg room (on account of the chains) free food and drink (intravenously applied if needs be) and priority boarding.  All at no extra cost! Ablutions are tricky though.  Hard to evacuate whilst manacled to a Home Office official who enthusiastically recounted her recent appearance on The Antiques Roadshow whilst I strained away.

Apart from that, top marks to Rendition Air. I’ll definitely be flying with them again.

Laters and Lids Down Gentlemen

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‘Taint No Fun Burning in Der Sun

Every year Gfb leaves The Crib for a few days for the Sun. Every year, “Be careful. Cover up. Factor 50 minimum.” Every year rogue rays pierce my Maginot Line like defences and turn my dermis into pork scratchings.

Jesus it was hot. My brains were melting and dribbling out of my ears.

Gingers and the Sun? No!

Bastard Sun. Bastard Heat.

Under a parasol, thirty seven feet in diameter, dressed in a Burkha and propped up in a lead lined coffin for extra protection.

Burn Baby Burn

Still copped it though. Top of the thighs. Right ear. Left ankle and Neckline.

“Ooooh, ooooh, aaaaah, aaaaah,” goes the song at night as I turn in bed. Cotton sheets cling to me like a rejected lover just to inflict further rubbed ignominy.

Bastard Mosquitoes too. Like Drones in Helmand they were. Despite the copious application of Agent Orange (the stuff strips skin in a fashion Hannibal the Cannibal would have been proud of) they kept on a coming. Strafed and chaffed for hours until they sated themselves on my olive oil enriched blood cells.

Mediterranean diet me arse.

“I didn’t get bitten!” Ma Fightback chirped. That’s alright then.

Day 2. To the beach. Prop my coffin under the 78 feet diameter parasol. He’s there.

6′ 3″. 16 Stone. Early 60’s? Very tight trunks. Extremely tight trunks.

Stands in the Sun, hands on hips, legs slightly akimbo. He’s the man he’s telling the beach. I hear him speak.


“Ich bein ein bein einstein knacke der Ooompah Band,” or some such he says to his wife who is on a lounger looking at pictures of Princess Kate’s breasts.

“Ja,” she replies. He stands over her. His foot on the edge of the lounger. He’s proud of his trunks. His very tight trunks. He plays with his hair. Flicks it. Shapes it. Teases it. He has mullet memories.

Beads of sweat form inside my Burkha.

“Wasser for dippen,” he says.


He changes trunks. Yes I know. The tight, very tight trunks are removed with the aid of a block and tackle rig and support of a passing sunglass peddler.

Budgie smugglers now adorn his crotch.

He stands by the water’s edge. Hands on hips. Legs slightly akimbo. He wades into the water and then dives in. He is under for a few seconds and then Kraken like, he resurfaces. Without his hair. Worse still, the hair has been replaced by some used toilet roll.

He reminds me of a boiled egg. A Big Tuetonic Boiled Egg.

“Meinen syrup has kaput in der wasser. Scheissen schellotapen.”

“Ja,” mutters wifey now looking at pictures of Prince Harry’s testes.

He looks around in embarrassed fashion. No-one is laughing. A coffin shakes slightly though.

Eventually I spot it floating rather listlessly towards Crete. Is this is how the legend of The Golden Fleece was born millennia ago? The Golden Wig – now there would be a Greek Myth to spice the imagination.

Or maybe not.

“Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.”

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