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Thanks to Hestia's Larder for this delightful award.
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Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Fear of Fear (The Finale)

Now we come to the reason why I started this series of posts on FEAR.

Before I begin, let me describe the feelings of true fear.

Loose bowels.  (I kid you not, that's what Goggle found)

The bowels loosen, and a feeling akin to having ice cold napalm directly injected into the colon permeates the abdomen.

The skin physically creeps, causing the hairs to rise vertically, and an icy-cold miasma seems to exude from every pore, leaving every square centimetre to feel slimy and frigid, not unlike having a huge cryogenic slug crawling over the surface, leaving tendrils of sub-zero slime to accumulate and engulf the body.

The throat tightens, making any intelligible speech impossible, only allowing strangled squeaks and grunts to escape.

The vision blurs as the focusing muscles slacken then tighten; outwith conscious control.

The heart momentarily ceases its regular beat, causing a huge palpitation and an incredible feeling of uncontrolled loss and despair.

Gone Man, just, like gone.

The knees lose their strength, causing a sagging of posture and a slumping against any available surface.

In my own case, all of the above is initiated at the moment of realisation, plus I also detect a faint ringing in the ears, a palsy effects my hands, my shirt collar grows tighter and I have to clamp my buttocks together to avoid an unfortunate accident, such as not happened to me for nigh on 58 ½ years.

But on second thoughts, these latter symptoms may not be unique to me.

I heard a veteran of an incident in the Oman (Battle of Mirbat) in 72, say that as the mortars of the rebels exploded around their basha, a comment was made about arseholes twitching in unison. (I strongly believe that this was meant as "twitching at the same time" as the trade union Unison didn't come into being until1993. But twitching in synchronicity doesn't have the same ring to it)

Another story I heard was about the good ship QEII during the Falklands conflict.  The British 5th Infantry Brigade was using the QEII as a troopship, conveying over 3000 soldiers down to the South Atlantic.  Many of the original crew, seamen, cooks and stewards accompanied their great vessel down to that conflict. Quite a few of the stewards were of  "a sensitive nature", and their habits and characteristics, while allowed by the rugged soldiery, were looked at askance.  One day, while one of these "sensitive" gentlemen was working behind the bar of a large lounge, filled with over 500 troops of the Scots Guards, the ship came under attack from Argentine aircraft.  All the lights were extinguished throughout the ship, and as the bombs were heard to explode in the distance, but coming closer, the steward uttered the almost fatal words "Oooo, I don't know about you gentlemen, but times like this don't half make my arsehole twitch"
He lived.

However, I digress.

The cause of all this FEAR?

Two months ago, my Beloved inveigled me into giving permission helping assisting accompanying her in a foray to an electronic store to buy a computer. With my advice she bought a nice little ASUS laptop computer, which she has been using to word process and print letters to her many and widely spread group of relatives and friends.

An innocent wee laptop

I had to set up a wireless network to allow her to print to our printers attached to my main computer, and of course this allowed her to access email as well.

I'm not completely dumb, and I therefore set up a separate email account for her, so our emails would irretrievably remain my emails.

I had however forgotten one little fact.

Access to the wireless network also allowed access to the internetthingy.

NOT an innocent wee laptop;  An evil f*cking instrument of death

I honestly wouldn't have believed it possible, that my Beloved, with her rather limited internetthingy skills, would have started LOOKING AROUND THE WEB.

I became aware of this, and also aware of all of the symptoms described at the start, when she asked me the question which filled me with the dread of centuries.

She said: "Dear?" (Don't all male partners learn very quickly to link this questioning adjective with a feeling of guilt, avoidance and a terrible sinking feeling? I do, but it was as nothing to what happened next)

Who he?

She said "Dear?", "Who is Richard [of RBB]?"

The shock!

The horror!

But worse was to come.

"And" (There's always a bloody AND)

Who she? Where? What larder?

"And" she said "Who or what is Hestia's Larder?"

"AND" (This said with a hint more emphasis)


A bloody log...a BLOG

I did what any true red-blooded male would do in this case, (although I must admit I didn't really feel like a red-blooded male at this point. More like a spineless, kneeless slug with liquid nitrogen running through its slimy despicable body)

I lied.

And ignored the parts I didn't even want to think about.

"A blog my Dear?"

"A blog is like a specialised area on the web, where aged contributors contribute bon mots, essays, epigrams and exquisite poetry, and where open and good natured criticism is welcomed by all"

"It's really like a great big electronic schoolroom" (This last added, because I couldn't see any glimmerings of understanding in her lovely (but quick to glare) brown eyes, and I knew she didn’t even like me discussing my days escapades, escapes and disasters at my place of employ, Nuova Lazio High School)

A Twisted Scot.  "See you Jimmy, you calling me a bastard?  I'll do you."

"Oh" she said, "I wondered, because I found a reference to [my real surname] and to some awful person called twistedscottishbastard writing to Richard[of RBB] and Hestia's Larder when I searched using Google for information on your family tree."

(May the people who started those awful series of adverts offering help in researching family trees be struck down with a moraine. (I know it should be a murrain, but a moraine is bigger and much, much heavier)

They're Aussie adverts, so they're all bloody convicts anyway. What else do they need to know?

Convicted and transported for stealing a sheep.
Convicted and transported for stealing a loaf.
Convicted and transported for having unlawful carnal knowledge of a goat.
Convicted and transported for wasting whisky (An absolutely dreadful crime, unique to Scotland. Rare though, most got hung on the spot)

They're all the bloody same.

Next Aussie PM and Accomplice, AKA Minister for the Treasury

"Oh really my Dear?" I managed to mutter nonchalantly, "There was someone at school who used to blog, so he might have mentioned my name sometime"

"I don't know what those other things are" "They do sound a bit dodgy"

"Do you want me to try and find out?"

She turned back to the keyboard on her laptop, dismissing the conversation.

"Oh don't bother; it all sounds so boring anyway"

I slinked away around the corner, finding it necessary to sink into the first available chair.


Dear God! (who doesn't probably exist anyway) that had been far too close for comfort.

If she had actually gone onto "How The Hell Does This Work" and actually read the bloody thing, My Arse (in the vernacular of the crude soldiery) Would Have Been Grass.

Finito Benito

You are f*cked. (Another aphorism from the military)

I think I've escaped, but I never, ever wish to go through that life-numbing shock again.

The wireless network unaccountably failed that very evening, and even with my most strenuous efforts, it has never worked again.

Funny that.
That's Odd


  1. Well played!

    Would it be possible to edit HTHDTW a little so that it's acceptable for her eyes?

    Or put a hosts file on her computer to divert arequest for the blog to a similar-looking but inoffensive version? Or to a fake 404 page?

    Taking the wirelss down seems a biut drastic, but then I don't live in your house.

  2. Didn't The Police record Twitching In Synchronicty in the mid 80s?

    Yep I had the "I read your blog" statement the other day, followed "Why do you write all that crap?"

    Back of the net she'll never come back... he prays silently to omnipotent celestial being that is beyond the realms of credulity to exist but hey when your back is against the wall and all that...

  3. By the end of your post, I was seeing something I haven't pictured in many a year: the sight of my own wee Dad slinking round the corner out of the dining room with his arse tucked under and a slight grin that widened as he reached the hallway safely. :D

  4. Wow, that was too damn close!
    I like looby's idea of a fake look alike blog.

  5. I've gt a similar problem in that I suspect my new girlfriend reads my blog. WRONG.

    FFS can't we have the tiniest buit pf privacy and chat without our beloveds lookimg over our shoulders?

    RewriteEngine On

    RewriteBase /

    RewriteCond %{REMOTE_HOST} HER.IP.Address.

    RewriteRule (.*) http://www.whateveryouwant or a fake 404 [R=301,L]

    Test it first!

    Basically it's a fucking ballache when women come snooping.

  6. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

  7. looby: No. Sorry. I have my artistic integrity to think of, so no editing. Yet.
    Posibly fix her little laptop, I'll think anon.

    Furtheron: I do believe you are correct about the Police track.
    But not as good as their other one:
    "Hiding on the Moon"

    Mind you, even though my dad was a cop, I think the main song the police were singing in the 80s was beating the shit out of everybody; in synchronicity.
    You're so lucky that was the only comment. I live in trepidation.

    Austan: Ah, that's so reassuring. Thinking that generations of wee Dads have been slinking around corners, having survived yet another encounter with "THE WIFE" is so delightful, I can almost picture it.

    Richard: Agree, escaped by the skin of my But loobus idea has the reek of dishonesty. I'm not sure I could continue.

    looby: But how do you really know???
    I might try it. But I've grown used to the "snooping". It's part of their nature.
    Like nagging.

    God, I really hope she doesn't read this.

  8. I think the totally random way she found TSB is absolutely hilarious. Good luck to you.

  9. Patience_Crabstick: Thanks so much Jen. I'm glad my terror and primeval fear makes you laugh. But, yes, it was a bit ironic.

  10. you guys........ got to learn to cover your tracks better..... as Celia Johnson would say:
    It's awfully easy to lie when you know that you're trusted implicitly. So very easy, and so very degrading.

  11. YaH: If I was trying to decieve my Beloved, I would feel guilty and, yes, possibly degraded. But I'm not. Trying to decieve her I mean. But there's just some things that blokes do that girls just don't get. So sometimes blissfull ignorance is for the best.

  12. I agree with you TSB.
    My Old Girl thinks that the blog posts I do and the comments I make are puerile and a waste of time. I'm not embarassed at her seeing what I write but she just doesn't see it as funny or necessary. Its a bloke thing I guess.


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