Continue reading »]]> I have checked the writings of Nostradamus to see if he predicts the end of the world with the current situation in North Korea and as yet can find no mention of, ‘flaming arrows of fire falling upon the earth from a Far East land launched by a man who bares a striking resemblance to Benny Hill.’ I could be wrong…but then again so was he. Nostradamus died in 1566 and didn’t predict that either.

And so to this weeks wonderful world of whacky stories from the press. I was fascinated to read that ‘name meshing’ is now the trend when couples get married. What is name meshing? Well, when the actor Chris O’Dowd married TV presenter Dawn Porter last year, the two of them meshed! They merged their surnames, and became the O’Porters. Only last week, a couple called Miss Griffin and Mr Pugh got spliced and are now starting out on wedded life as Mr and Mrs Puffin. Yes, honestly. According to the UK Deed Poll service, almost 800 British newly weds have already “meshed” their names together this year. It’s nothing new, in my day the hyphen was all the rage for a while and produced some stunning monikers. The North Devon family of the Pine-Coffins will always raise a smile with me as will a Major I met at Sandhurst called Charles Orpen-Smellie. You would have thought that if you have the chance to ditch Smellie as a name it would be a priority but no, it was preserved for all to see. By the way, I also met a Major Major there as well. But anyway, name
changes can be embarrassing. My friend Pippa Baron was getting married and realised at the top of the church isle she was about to become Pippa Pappin and thus would spend he rest of her life spitting on people so an emergency double barrel, Baron-Pappin, was organised, although I always thought she resounded like a World War One fighter ace.

I would have tired meshing with the enemy, the good lady wife, but Fitzfield sounds like a council run waste disposal site and Fieldfitz, a rare thrush from Russia. I would love to have seen my old school friend John Hemmersly marry Elenor Oldroyd from Radio Five Live. Mr and Mrs Hemmerroyd has a wonderful ring about it. Go on, sit there and work out with the other half what you would become. It’s pointless, ridiculous but fun and takes your mind of the troubles of life. There are some pitfalls, long standing unmarried friends of ours with surnames Stewart and Adams would become the Sadams, about as popular a name as Kim Jong-un. Mind you, if this was to catch on, I assume that the surname Tucker would die out almost overnight.

Continue reading »]]> If anyone sees me pounding the streets of Plymouth, red faced, panting and wheezing, don’t be alarmed, I am training for the Plymouth Half Marathon on April 28^th.  Just to save you re reading that bit again….in capitals: I AM TRAINING FOR THE PLYMOUTH HALF MARATHON. It is all part of the BBC Inside Out series looking at getting Fitz fitter and will be shown on BBC1 in September or as part of a short memorial programme on or around April 29^th. The series started with me giving up alcohol at Christmas 2011, then with me joining a gym and taking regular exercise in early 2012. So far I have managed to loose two stone in weight since the bad old days.

My current training regime consists of running along my road and up to the first lamppost on the hill opposite. Being slightly asthmatic, I then collapse at number 12. The doctor has given me an inhaler, which has worked nicely and I am now collapsing at number 18. That’s a distance of nearly three quarters of a mile. The other 12 and a quarter miles are a work in progress at the moment.

I have called upon my old friend, Commonwealth medal winning sprinter Katherine Endacott, to assist me and she did sound a little stunned and confused in a recent phone call when I asked if she could help me train. She thought I wanted picking up from the railway station! When I explained what I was doing her first question was ‘Do you own a track suit?’ Charming! It is nice to know who your friends are. Anyway, hastily buying track suit trousers after that comment I arrived on The Hoe for a training session with her. Being a bloke, I never checked the size and slipped on the garment in hopes I would look like Mo Farah. In truth the XXL made me look more like MC Hammer. Still, as I wandered back through the town centre at little later in trackies and trainers, at least I blended in.

It is not the first time I have pushed myself into extreme exercise. On 5^th November 2000 I entered the New York marathon and came 29109^th. Actually I have just noticed that my runner number was 39616 so I did beat quite a few people, the number slip is framed in my office.
I can still remember the fight for the line between myself and a gent in a wheelchair who had pushed himself backwards for 13 miles. In the last hundred yards he was shouting encouragement to me and gave me a sprint finish. He beat me. His name was Robert Triggs and I would love to meet him again one day, a true inspiration.

My medal hangs on the side of the frame and reads 7 hours, 18 minutes and 33 seconds which is about 45 minutes slower than the Jumbo took to cross the Atlantic but I made it.

I hope to do Plymouth in four hours or on all fours. Katherine pointed out that four hours would be handy as they open the roads again after four hours….which is quite an incentive!

Fitz

You can support Fitz’s effort by donating to the Radio Devon Give A Gift Appeal  at http://www.justgiving.com/bbc-radio-devon-give-a-gift

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Ratboy, the son and heir, has been in hospital. He has managed to snap his ACL, needed major knee surgery and thus went under the knife. I would like to say thank you to everyone who looked after him during what is now a fairly routine operation but nevertheless a worrying time for his Mum and Dad.  It was only a twelve hour stay in Derriford but we saved a fortune in food and electricity that afternoon.
At seven o’clock we had the call to come in and see him and despite pleading, the surgeon sent him home, having refused my request to have him neutered or keep in over the weekend. So, sadly the bills are creeping up again. The Xbox is slightly warmer than the wood burner, Sky Movies delivered their bill by parcel post and the local Coop are taking on extra staff to compete with the near Olympian demand for pizza and Jaffa cakes. Does anyone know if Haribo is available on prescription? Any road, on the plus side he can’t drive but what we save in petrol goes out on ketchup.

Trying to find Ratboy in Derriford was a task in itself. First to park! I enclose a photo of the car park signage saying ONE WAY. I drove past this twice, once from the left and once from the right. As there are no arrows to indicate which way was one way…and I was only going one way at the
time, technically no law was broached.

Then to reception. From a distance the welcoming doors of Derriford looked like a Turner painting mainly as you still have to walk through the fogs and mists from the first smokers of spring, with drip in one hand and fag in the other. Emerging from the ‘cloud base nicotine’ I entered reception, past the bakery and café packed with people on strict hospital diets whacking into pasties, sausage rolls and cream cakes, past the empty shop selling fresh fruit and into the main newsagents, stacked with choccy bars and sugar laced fizzy drinks. It is here that I enclose the second photo of the day, the selection of books on offer for the patient. ‘God Bless the NHS’ The Truth Behind The Current Crisis (HALF PRICE..I wonder why) may not be the best reading material if you are about to have something whipped out. But to place it right by the title ‘Kill Me If You Can’, does show a remarkable lack of marketing. I once climbed onto our local airline, when we had an airport, and sat there listening to the soothing music to calm the nervous air passenger…..they were playing the hits of Buddy Holly! Didn’t he die in a …..

Anyway, twenty minutes later and with a £2.20 parking charge, Ratboy was back in the car. Then home, with every pot hole testing the stitches and aesthetic. Thank you Derriford, at £2.20 it is one of the cheapest and most entertaining days out in Plymouth.

Fitz

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I will be with you in a minute, I am just watching the England Rugby highlight on television……there we are, back with you know.

Last week it was pies, this week it’s preserves, Popes and apostraphies. If you missed last week, pies can’t be called pies unless they have a lid, a pastry top. Now, believe it or not an EU ruling says that jam can not be called jam unless it has 60% sugar in it. Anything lower and it must be
called a preserve. One woman from Manchester has taken the Eurocrats on and they have relented…..a bit. Now jam can be called jam with only 50% sugar. But you can bet that that ruling came from the same desk in the same office which says sugar is bad for you. The same office, which we pay for, which has dealt with the horse meat scandal! Maybe someone miss heard? ‘Sorry I thought you said 50% Shergar is OK!’

And so to Mid Devon, where their apostrophes are causing problems! The apostrophe is being banned from street names by the council to avoid
potential confusion. Names and signs will have to be changed. Maybe you have got your priorities a little confused? In the land of a thousand potholes, you are worried about Baker’s View or Bakers View, a place name in Newton Abbot. Is there an apostrophe in the word pothole? There is in this sentence ‘The unattended potholes have just knackered my car’s suspension.’ If this were adopted by the people of Plymouth would you really want to see money spent on changing Derry’s Cross to Derrys Cross or even Derry Cross or Cross of Derry? Do you want to see money spent on changing Derry’s Cross, now there’s a question!

Speaking of crosses or cross’s …… to Rome. The last time I heard that many people say who….was at a Who concert! I was transfixed as The Vatican gave us a new kid on the block in the shape of the Argentine Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio. Obviously the bread contract will be looked at now and
‘give us our daily corned beef’ will be slipped into the Lord’s Prayer but what else will change? The enemy, the good lady wife, did ask why it took over an hour to get His Holiness out onto the balcony after the white smoke but as I pointed out, it does take sometime to get a 76 year old up four flights of stairs in a building five times the size of Debenhams , into a ball gown, learn a speech in several languages and struggle past an irate German yelling….I’ll be back!’ This man is the same age as Bobby Charleton, Jack Nicolson and Shirley Bassey! None of them have performed in front of a 750,000 live crowd at the drop of a hat. The world is speculating where he will visit first. Might I suggest Ikea…those Vatican curtains are so 1980’s.

Right, I’m off to see my dentist in St Judes or is it St Jude’s.

Fitz

Continue reading »]]> I admit it, my hearing is going. While sat in the BBC canteen, I head the voice on the radio say that the next Eurovision Great British song entry would be sung by Tommy Tynan. Tommy Tynan? Imagine my disappointment when I found out the presenter has said Bonnie Tyler. I think Tommy would have a great chance. I once had to phone Bonnie Tyler for an interview and dropped myself right in it. An Arthur Mullard sound-a-like answered the phone. When I addressed the voice as ‘sir’ only to discover that I was speaking to Bonnie directly, I hastily said ‘Hang on I will put you through to Mr FitzGerald.’ Doh!

So, Plymouth has a new advertising slogan, Ocean City, catchy and to the point! I can’t help thinking that Ocean City sounds like an ‘all you can eat’ Chinese restaurant, but I hope it works. I have a bad record with ‘all you can eat’ Chinese restaurants as there is one in Plymouth who watched me ladle fragrant rice and beef with oyster sauce onto a plate. Then I added spring rolls and chicken balls, garlic spare ribs and promptly smothered the lot in sweet and sour sauce. Mmmmmm. After some frantic chewing I discovered that the chicken balls were in fact banana fritters!

Ocean City could be the slogan seen by hundreds of thousands when we win city of culture status. In case you missed it, the English contenders for the 2017 title are Chester, East Kent, Hastings and Bexhill-on-Sea, Hull….yes Hull, Leicester, Plymouth, Portsmouth and Southampton to name but a few. So have we got a chance? Let’s start with Chester and compare famous people born in they city. Sporting talent. They’ve got Michael Owen and we have Michael Evans, no contest…one up to us. Hunks! They have Daniel Craig and we have Wayne Sleep!

OK, how about Hull? Arr Hull, so good they named it once. I have never been to Hull and I wish that status to remain the same for the rest of my life.

Let’s size up Hastings. My family lived in that area in the fifties and took me for a visit in 1972. As my father said at the time, the tide went out in 1954 and had never come back in again. It’s not exactly a racy, throbbing centre of nightlife. There were eighteen of us stood on the seafront that day and I think I was the only one who had my own hips.

Leicester, great for dead monarchs and car parks plus brilliant for curry! The city gave us Peter Shilton and then we gave him back but not before I ran into him at Bigbury one afternoon. I wandered into a pub and there was sat a very famous footballer. I knew the face but the name just wouldn’t come.

‘Trevor,’ I said.

‘Peter,’ he corrected.

I wasn’t going to let this go and added defiantly ‘Francis?’ I drove home the mistake….why?

‘Shilton.’ Was his one word answer and the conversation ended there.

Support the 2017 bid and if the team want a slightly deaf diplomat with no sense of taste, I’m your man.

Fitz

Continue reading »]]> A few weeks ago I stood and stared at the news screens in amazement. As a good catholic, if that’s not an oxymoron, I was amazed at the news of Pope Benedict resigning. I immediately grabbed my mobile phone and texted the enemy, the good lady wife.

‘Pipe has resigned’

I love pre-emptive text. I then had to call to explain it was the Pope who had quit and nothing to do with horse trainers. She had already jumped to terrible conclusions about pies!

I remember writing about my trip to the Vatican City a couple of years ago. We had just wandered through the Sistine Chapel and had emerged into the massive St Peter’s Square when she piped up.

‘Where does the Pope live then?’

I pointed to the left had side of the square, to a window, six along, one in from the end with what appeared to be a Man U beach towel on the windowsill….being German I suspected that slinging towels on everything is a cultural trait.

She squinted at the window and suddenly shouted…  ‘Is that him?’

Several nuns from Nigeria run over to join in the confusion and, like me, were disappointed to discover she was pointing to a seagull on the guttering. I pointed out that he was not a foot and half tall and was unlikely to have climbed onto the roof.

‘Perhaps he has had a bad day Pope’ing’ she said and wandered off.

On reflection perhaps he had. But I admire anyone who, because of age and personal worry about doing a job properly, has made the decision to step down. I hope some MP’s, judges, members of the House of Lords, Beatles guitarists and councillors might take note from the Pope and follow his example.

Speaking of pies, there is a genuine lobby group at the moment which is trying to get the term ‘pie’ used only when said ‘pie’ comes
with a lid. If it doesn’t have a full covering of pastry then it can’t be called a pie. I spoke to one of the people behind this and was told pork pies,
steak and kidney pies and games pies were fine as long as there was a pastry top.

‘So if it doesn’t have a top, it’s a tart!’ I said.

He would be drawn on that.

So fill up on the best of English food while you can as the name may well change very soon. I hope you enjoy a bit of Shepard’s Tart or Cottage Tart and make sure it has a lid or you’ll be tucking into Melton Mowbray pork tart. I have been trying to find an email address for Don Mclean so he can get used to the new chorus of his 1971 smash hit. Bye Bye Miss American Tart…doesn’t sit well with me.

Fitz

P.S. Pope Tarts! There’s an idea.

Continue reading »]]> We had a very interesting debate on BBC Radio Devon last week over the rights and wrongs of a toy which has got the Anti-gun campaigners a little hot under the collar. The figure comes with all the pieces to stage a violent bank robbery, including a hand gun, dark glasses, crow bar, swag bag and gas canister! The manufacturers say it is important that children can be taught, through play, the importance of recognising good from evil and ‘baddies’ from ‘goodies’. I couldn’t help but notice that the figure looks like Sandi Toksvig pointing a gun at David Cameron, not an unbelievable scene but the resemblance is uncanny. I am sure she won’t sue the manufacturers for taking her likeness, let’s face it, Eric Pickles hasn’t over the space hopper industry.

We must all admit that time has moved on and that the classics such as Snakes and Ladders, Buckaroo and Kerplunk are old hat. With that whole idea of in mind, I am sending off my list of updated, 21^st century toy ideas in hope that they might get made. The Barbie takes points for Ken set would be a great gift idea and The Sylvanian Family trial separation kit is a real winner. This is where ‘she’ gets the castle and ‘he’ gets thirteen rabbits, two hedgehogs and a squirrel! If you have never had a Sylvanian family in your house you won’t understand that….. and ….may I wish, that you never do as the squirrel is still wedged up our hoover!

The Scalextric Drive By Shooting box set or the Lego Build Your Own Crack Den have great potential and as for Action Man, the sky is the limit.
Suitable for six to twelve year olds, comes with nearly full military kit but if you want any of it to work in the battle field you have to buy your own.
Actually it is suitable for six to ten year olds as Action Man may have to take forced redundancy a couple years early. How about Tiny Tears which cries, wets herself and throws up….hang on that was a scene from the Barbican last Friday, not a toy idea.

OK, how’s this…. 21^st century Monopoly, where everyone can go to prison apart from the banker or a modern day Hornby layout, the ultimate OO gauge railway for today. Comes with buses if you want to play with it in Cornwall, tiny shovels for landslips and a large waterproof sheet to play ‘let’s try and get past Exeter’. Warning, entire system may not run for up to five days at a time.

I doubt if any of these will see the light of day, the My Little Pony recipe cards are doomed to fail as I don’t think the supermarkets will stock them. Airfix Smart Car models are a bit of a non starter as well as it would be difficult to tell which was which side by side.

Back to the drawing board

Fitz

Continue reading »]]> I was travelling back from Plymouth a few days ago when I became aware of a low pitched whine coming from the passenger side of the vehicle and assumed it was yet another wheel bearing, spring or strut problem.
Having just left most the contents of my engine bay in a pothole on Budshead Road, I am used to strange noises coming from one time perfectly serviceable cars. However, on closer inspection I discovered that this particular whine was coming from the enemy, the good lady wife. The garden needs tidying, the garage is a mess and shed is a tip. We had had this conversation before and I had said that I would get round to it. In fact I clearly remember stating that in June of last year…… and told her that I now considered this second outburst  as persistent ‘nagging.’

Anyway as soon as we arrived home I set to work with brush, rake and bonfire. Yes, I know it is not very ‘green’ but I did have a lot of cupboard boxes and 2012’s Christmas tree to get rid of and little time to visit my local recycling centre where to deposit anything these days you have to undergo a one to one meet and greet at the gate, a written test on what is in your boot and leave a stool and blood sample in order to identify yourself.
This has been a point of issue where I live, as it was believed that it might lead to illegal dumping in and around the country lanes but as most of the lanes are so badly potholed, even fly tippers are put off by the damage they can do to their untaxed, uninsured transit vans, with adverts claiming to be tarmac and roofing specialists from Chester.

So by and by, I wandered back out to the garden, got distracted and put bread on the bird table, replaced the nuts and seeds in the feeders and then turned my attention to the bonfire. This was the pattern of events which I have laid down mainly for the insurance company and medical claim solicitor I am using.

Approached bonfire with lighter, flicked lighter, failed to light.

1. Added newspaper, flicked lighter, failed to light.
2. Added accelerant, namely squirted WD40 on several boxes and former Christmas tree, flicked lighter, failed to light.
3. Added more WD40, then a little more and then some more newspaper, then more WD40. Flicked lighter.
4. Sprinted to house in order to phone strike command that the fireball over Ivybridge was not a pre-emptive attack from Eastern Block countries, no need to issue retaliatory strike.
5. Then phoned RSPB to see if birds can eat toast and do tits like roasted nuts?
6. Extinguished bird table.

In order to draw attention away from that little incident I then offered to take the bin out but then promptly dropped said bin. The nurse said that if the toe goes black it is broken but the limp will take people’s attention away from the fact that I have no eyebrows.

Ladies, never ask a busy man to do anything.

Yours

Fitz

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Five hundred years in a car park in Leicester is a fairly stiff clamping policy, even by today’s standards. But it will be nice to see Richard III getting out and about once again. He has had a lot of bad publicity thanks to Shakespeare and the truth about him will probably be lost for ever. What we do know is that he lasted for only 26 months on the throne and took the rampant white board as his symbol so I assume in those 26 months he watched a lot of Top Gear programmes.

It has been a quiet week in the FitzGerald family household apart from the alarming discovery of two aerosol cans in Ratboy’s bedroom. Being 18 and gorgeous, he applies hairspray and gel as Devon Highways would apply tarmac to the A38. A simple five minute trip to the shops can involve twenty minutes of spraying and preening and then the careful application of after shave which could mask the smell of Grimsby. After one such session, the front door slammed and I made the mistake of entering his bedroom without a respirator or a canary. Dropping to the floor for fresher air, I groped my way towards the window and then knelt in whatever diner was last night. Having successfully ventilated the pit, I then discovered the two cans of spray. One assured me that it offered a firm hold on flyaway hair, the other, invisible protection for suede, leather and fabric against water and oil penetration! He had used a can of shoe and boot protector which had been forced on me when I last purchased some brogues. Yep, Ratboy wandered off with a scuff resistant, waterproof head.

I can’t really criticize, years ago while fumbling round a darkened kitchen, I found what I assumed was a bag of muesli, added milk and munched my way through several ounces of John Innes potting compost number 3. And my mother-in-law still blushes when I remind her that she wandered into Plymouth and tried to make a call home on the remote control to the television. Maybe it is hereditary?

But for the prize for the ultimate misuse of modern items in my family, has to go to my nephew who went off on his travels around Italy when
he left school. After two weeks he found himself a little short of money and started to shop in supermarkets watching every penny. He soon married up low cost packets of French toast like biscuits and tiny tins of pate, two of the cheapest items in the store. He managed two weeks on this diet. It wasn’t till he got talking to a girl in Rome, who could read Italian that he discovered that he had been living off cat food with an anti fur ball ingredient. He did admit that he threw up that evening but I have to hand it to the Italian cat food industry, he never suffered fur balls.

Chow

Fitz

Continue reading »]]> I am sat here listening to the snow report on Friday. The weather has closed the Southampton, Bristol and Cardiff airports. Thankfully we have already closed Plymouth airport so just think of the money we have saved in trying to clear it of snow!

Anyway, I was in a shop a few days ago, which is a rare statement in itself these days. I managed to get out before I was locked in with the administrators. In my parent’s time, early closing meant midday Wednesday not just after Christmas never to be seen again. This particular
establishment was boasting an odd bargain collection. Half price Christmas cards, two for one Easter Eggs and cut price sun tan lotion. Talk about wishing you life away, half of 2013 was stretched out in front of me on one shelf. The only thing missing from that was Halloween, Valentines and Father’s Day tat.

I had wandered in to town in order to search through the sales and at one time had found myself sat in Drakes Circus at a café. Being 51 years old now, I have learnt never to pass up the chance of a sandwich or a pee so had just finished one and was thinking about the other when I noticed a
strange, male based, phenomena. The loo opposite me was doing steady business but I couldn’t help but notice that most of the gentlemen customers started a sort of ‘run up’ from about twenty yards from the actual convenience door. Now, I don’t suggest you sit there and observe this for yourself but believe me half of the men were already fumbling with their flies in mid concourse! Why? Do I do that? Do you do that? IF SO, STOP IT.

There was one other male based phenomenon I noticed that day, the ‘sales trance’. In every shoe store and dress emporium, the sales trance had struck the male population. Desperate looking individuals, staring out of the shop windows or trying to find something interesting about mass produced galvanised clothing rails, while the female of the species rummaged through collections summer maxi dresses, whatever they are? I spent so long in one frock shop; I was beginning to feel like Julian Assange…by the way is he still in the Ecuadorean embassy?
Every so often one or two of the traumatised males would leave their partners and collect outside of the stores in hopes of finding something interesting; I know I was one of them. I actually got talking to the bloke selling membership to a car breakdown association. Great value, brilliant cover and even European recovery! He went though it all for me. I hadn’t the heart to tell him I have been a member for twelve years but at least I didn’t have to go through the open toed sandal range again or the specially reduced onesy’s pile. The sad thing is I would have liked a onesy for Christmas. I am going to suggest to my employers that they produce their own range. I think BBC Onesy’s and Radio Onesy’s would sell.

Yours

Fitz