Under Pressure

I played with blood pressure machines most of last night.
The Tame Pharmacist brought them home for Mrs Next Door to check out.
The experiments conducted would point towards cannabis lowering my blood pressure but the nicotine ‘delivery system’ increasing my pulse rate considerably.
The machines are a bit scary and inflate themselves, which makes your heart race to start with.
A bit unfair I feel.
Basically, with each ciggie I smoke I’m playing Russian Roulette with a stroke.
I love it!

If there is anything that would affect my blood pressure adversely, it’s Lourdes.
Hideous, gaudy, greedy, unholy place that it is.
This year his Nazi-ness is handing out ‘Indulgences’ for idiots who do the pilgrimage.
The indulgence reduces the time a soul spends in purgatory.
What bollocks!
I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the indulgence would be to book the trip through the Vatican Airline.
As if that’s a plane you’d want to get on!
Imagine the coughing, spluttering, moaning and groaning that would be going on.
Nuns and priests all over the place.
What a horror!
In-flight movie, The Song of Bernadette or Quo Vadis.
Jaysus!
I wouldn’t want a miracle cure. I’d want euthanizing.
Pilot may as well just fly the fucker straight into the ground.

A waiter who is leaving Lourdes sums it up,

“I’m leaving, because I can’t stand seeing another revolting, badly-cooked burger sold to innocent British people for €6, when the wholesale price was 50 cents. It’s taboo to say it round here, but I’m disgusted by the greed.”

I’m still amazed people fall for this old shit. Fecking grow up!
Drink water and all your ailments will be cured.
Yeah, right!
If it tastes anything like the filth they give you in Bath, I’d give it a huge body swerve if I were you.
Cloudy, grey looking stuff with a blended pumice stone texture.
For fuck’s sake, you can still taste the Romans in that shite!

It’s been 50 years since the Munich Air Disaster.
I have to admit, as a fan on the terraces, I have sung and chanted about this.
None of it complimentary!
But I would like to just remind people about the goalkeeper, Harry Gregg.
This man ran back into the plane and pulled people out.
Bobby Charlton, Dennis Violett, Matt Busby, Jackie Blanchflower, the pregnant wife of a Yugoslavian diplomat and her daughter.
He always told the truth about it as well.
When others said they helped, he would put the story right.
“No they didn’t, they ran away.”
He called them back and handed them the baby he saved from the burning wreckage.
For over 45 years the poor bastard suffered ‘survivor’s guilt’.
To me, Harry Gregg you are one of the greatest British Heroes.

Housemates, this is going to sound like déjà vu, it certainly does to me.
Who likes getting into a ‘hairy’ bath or shower?
I sure as shit don’t!
I can promise you that all the time my arsehole points downward, I DO NOT want to deal with the ‘Plughole Hamster’.
Rinse the bastard down for fuck’s sake.
Don’t make me start leaving notes.
Nobody enjoys those, least of all me.