Blighting a new Rog(hard ‘g’ de rigueur here!) DP

Last night was so cold that I jaw a wumper and was almost at the stage of glaring woves in bed!

The frain-breezing that followed has left me in decidedly Mooneristic Spode!

I am, as some will know from a previous example of the genre (not to mention endangered species!), a keen, nay fanatical, blighter of rogs.

Quite what these poor old rogs – which I see as some form of backward tribe inhabiting a corner of the world right off the map! – have ever done to deserve this kind of wholesale and relentless blighting, I could not begin to tell you. It is nothing personal, since I also – and even more sinisterly – bite rooks!

Due to a dolting mog, I shall be billing up the fucket with water this morning – and thoroughly flopping the moor – and, since it looks set fair to be a sunny day, wanging out the hoshing…

Yes, indeedy, I am in Spooneristic mode today! And why not? Any withered old academic who can speak, even if it was apocryphal, of fighting a liar in the Quad and hissing mystery lectures before being sent home via the town drain gets my vote!

Biting rooks has to be my number one passion in life. Amazon is awash with their poor truncated bodies and ghastly-eyed, blood-strewn wee heads. Some friends even have one or more shitting on their selves, and sometimes, when in meading road, go as far as to bead these rooks.

You know what, I gare to Swod that my blighting habit is more fun than savving Hex (and those aware of Terry Pratchett’s Unseen University books will readily understand the very real need so to do!), halfing my lead off or winking drisky.

Right, I lust meave you and choe about my gores: give Kipper a parrot, bake the med and, having drot guest, sut in the sin for a while!



Running with the Stags…

I have always been more your running with the stags than your stunning with the rags sort of a gal. That is not to say, as a female, that I avoid the rutting season: I am as fond of a good rut as the next man (or woman!) – but much of the traditional doe gene seems to have passed me by.

But I can see the inner logic behind this behaviour: I would rather be the lone female in a group of bucks, than risk the competition (and its concomitant fear of coming last!) involved in any kind of herding situation with my fellow hinds!

From Bambi-hood upwards, I have shied away from the hordes of sister red deer preening and adorning themselves to snag the King Stag – and have, instead, befriended the powerful beast and played happily with him and his gang, vouchsafed a wild freedom denied to me had I stayed with the melting-eyed does.


Of course, the down-side to this is that many a splendidly-antlered male beast would far prefer to mate with the beautiful, soft and do(e!)cile members of the clan – and we untamed, over-excitable hybrids have a tendency to be over-looked when teams for the rut are being picked (as it were), regularly having the Fat One and The Weird One whisked away to cervine ecstasy before we get so much as a deep bellow!

But, as I daresay my perceptive human readers will by now have realised, Spoonerisms oft come thick and fast when the time is right – and, if I may be so bold, if a tad vulgar (No change there, then), a lively fight with a buck could well segue into –  an equally lively bite with a f*** and twins six months later!

Spoonerisms: I Spite Roonerisms!

One of the most important lessons I have learned in my life (so far) is the importance, and wide scope, of a good sense of humour. From Slapstick to Spoonerisms, through Monty Python, The League of Gentlemen and Richard Herring, all are grist to the Comedy Mill! Long live humour, I say! We can all learn from it!

I have always loved the eccentric verbal world spawned, allegedly, by Oxford don, the Reverend William Archibald Spooner.


An absent-minded cove – as P.G.Wodehouse would, no doubt, have had it – Spooner was at New College his entire academic life, ending up as its Warden. It may be that the syllabic mixes and subsequent hilarity associated with him was apocryphal, or at least highly-exaggerated, but the fruit of this verbal tic has fallen richly from the Tree of the Ages, and lies clustered in guffaw-inducing piles on the Grass of Scathe, Wit and Malapropism.

The most famous, Oxford-related, Spooneristic trio (which I first heard in my Oxonian-based youth), dealt with the expulsion of an egregious undergraduate and goes as follows:

‘He has hissed all his Mystery lectures; he was caught fighting a liar in the Quad – and he will leave Oxford on the next town drain…’

Imagine having a lecturer like that! Envisage the daily hilarity! Wow! Nearest I can come to that admittedly very high standard involves one of my lecturers for Classical Studies (which I took, along with English and Philosophy, in my first year). He once sauntered vaguely into the Old College room (overlooking the wilds of Aberystwyth’s sea front), intoned, ‘The Romans – they were very rude…’ lost his train of thought down the Tunnel of Reminiscence, or possibly the Siding of Incipient Alzheimer’s, and buggered off.

Back to Spooner: I am, as you know, a writer (of novels, the blog, the journal, plays, poetry…) and it occurred to me this morning, as I was desperately trying to justify another ten minutes of hoggish slumber in the no-doubt- foetid sack, that I could apply the inadvertent wisdom of Old Spooner to my burgeoning career.

Thus, I actually Bite Rooks for a living! Poor sods! Asked by a fellow Spooner fan, ‘Have you Bitten any Rooks recently?’ (the mind boggles), I would, in all honesty, have to reply thusly, ‘Unfortunately, no: I am currently afflicted with that dreaded disorder, Blighters’ Rock!’

In even more sinister, and borderline Satanic mode, I Blight Rogs – though what the poor Rogs (presumably either a little-known Papua New Guinean tribe, or a race of aliens) have ever done to me is anybody’s guess. Blight them I do, however, sometimes at a rate of two a day.

As for my gardening activities, well, ranging from the sepulchral to the borderline silly, is all I can say. When I am not Lowing the Mourn (tears obligatory), I am out there Wanging out the Hoshing (which sounds like either a minor Olympic sport, bit like Flinging the Welly, or an obscure branch of the Masturbation Bush), and Saring up the Pox (God help us all!)…

All righty: Having delivered a Mit of Birth, I am now off to, on this occasion, Bead rather than Bite a Rook, followed by a Shit of Bopping!

See below for an image of a brace of my regular victims, watching for an Incoming Alienora, fangs at the ready!

Two Rooks perched on fence post (Corvus frugilegus) England