We begin today with the post of Chas Thursfield of the Dull Men’s Club (UK), who shares:
While driving across Herefordshire recently, my long-suffering wife and I found ourselves inadvertently following this van for a sizeable chunk of our journey.
The more I had to stare at the stock image on its doors of a besuited coiffured man crouching behind a table and peering at (or through?) a glass of water, the more unsettling I found it. Remembering snippets of Physics ‘O’ Level from some 40+ years ago (Snell’s Law, and all that) I felt that the gentleman’s face staring back at me should surely be refracted: distorted, compressed or magnified to some extent – either unrecognisably, or comedically so. My long-suffering wife and I resolved to recreate the image as best we could on our return home with myself acting as the model, if only to prove the aforementioned image must have been created in PhotoShop and was not a genuine photograph.
Et voilá. QED. (I couldn’t match the hair.)
Andrew Harper: I’d be pulling off for a rest room visit after 3 or so miles.
Mike James Reid: Sir, in the UK we do not have “rest rooms.” We have other pseudonyms for that activity. “Ty bach” for instance.
Avi Liveson: Pseudonyms or euphemisms.
[OC note: Ty bach is Welsh for small house. In this case, an outhouse.]
Colin Catlin: Makes me wonder what the bloke on the van looks like when they take the glass away?
Avi Liveson: Glad to see you have all of your fingers, Thursfield. The van man seems to be missing one or two.
Vicky Jones: Firstly I want to apologise on behalf of Herefordshire for you having to drive through this absolute crap hole of a county.
John Hampton: A bit harsh. It’s got great scenery.
Vicky: Herefordshire countryside is beautiful, I lived there for a couple of years, I moved to get away from the insane amount of rain fall. Am now in East Anglia, near the yearly recorded driest spot in the UK, I am not a duck. I’ve seen Gloucester city and Tewkesbury surrounded by flood water more than a few times.
Avi Liveson: I am also not a duck.
Mike Alexander: Can’t beat the old magnifying glass gag from Top Secret.
This poem from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by Meg Kearney and is called “Ticket.”
I have a ticket in my pocket that will take me from Lynchburg
to New York in nine hours, from the Blue Ridge to Stuy Town,
from blue jays wrangling over sunflower seeds to my alarm
clock and startled pigeons. If I had a daughter I’d take her
with me. She’d sit by the window wearing the blue dress
with the stars and sickle moons, counting houses and cemeteries,
watching the knotted rope of fence posts slip by while I sat
beside her pretending to read, but unable to stop studying
her in disbelief. Her name would tell her that she’s beautiful.
Belle. Or something strong, biblical. Sarah. She would tolerate
the blue jay and weep for the pigeon; she would have all the music
she wanted and always the seat by the window. If I had a daughter
she would know who her father is and he would be home writing letters
or playing the banjo, waiting for us, and I would be her mother.
We’d have a dog, a mutt, a stray we took in from the rain one night
in November, the only stray we ever had to take in, one night in our
cabin in the Catskills. It would be impossibly simple: two train tickets;
a man, a dog, waiting; and a girl with her nose pressed to the window.
Back to the DMC (UK) for a bit. If you can indulge me, I love this for the wonderful names of British ales. Nick Scotty started things off with this post:
Any cask ale recommendations? The Hobgoblin is a little flat.
Richard Browning: It’s an ale. It’s meant to be flat….. And not chilled, neither.
Adrian Don: Hilarious drivel. It’s not supposed to be as flat as that awful specimen.
Dan Robertson: There’s really nothing in the picture alone to suggest it’s massively out of condition. Given the lacing on the glass, the lack of head (assuming that’s what the poster is alluding to) is probably more indicative of it being killed by oils on his lips or facial hair, or simply the fact he’s already supped it!
Some recommendations (and notes)
Joe Murray: Sarah Hughes’ Dark Ruby Mild
Diane Reed: Oh, yes please.
Andy Turner: Timmy Taylor’s Landlord.
Matt Tompsett: always.
Nicola Weatherall: Theakston Old Peculier
Sultan Brown: Always chuck a bottle in my beef stew. Lovely.
Nicola: Or Bradfield Pale Ale
Peter Saxton: Try Oakham Citra
Josh Bamber: Wobbly Bob
John Scotland: If you can find it, Fraoch… [below]
Phil Woodridge: Incredible beer.
Steve Leach: Proper Job
Alastair Gilbert: Jail ale! Dartmoor brewery
Garry Mills: I’m visiting Dorset, and Butcombe Brewery Bitter on draught is amazing stuff. Only 4% but full of flavour.
Nigel Carter: Batham’s Bitter.
Wilf T. Beige: Otter
Ian Cranmer: Try Chantry brewery from Rotherham
Brian Cummins: Abbott’s Ale, or Old Speckled Hen.
Garry Donald: Doombar ……. Or, if you’re in that area they don’t ‘export’ to, anything from Hook Norton Brewery, superb Ales.
Rob Woods: Taylor’s Boltmaker
John Hampton: Hobson’s Twisted Spire.
Burp!
From The Onion:
U.S. Mint Introduces New Double-Stuf Quarters
Bizarre Assemblage Of Shapes Visible Through Area Man’s Pockets
Excellent line by newsman Jim Acosta as he watched labor secretary, Lori Chavez-DeRemer, fawning over Trump during that abhorrent and embarrassing three-hour cabinet meeting: “Get a room.”
Here’s a shot of Bill Belichick, 73, and his 24-year-old girlfriend Jordon Hudson on their way to Bill’s autopsy.
What the hell does he see in her? They met on a flight. She was first runner-up in last year’s Miss Maine USA pageant. Anne Baldridge came in first.
We mention this because the college team Bill’s coaching now has its first test tonight: UNC vs. TCU. The nation’s eyes will be watching. Except for Phil. He’ll still be drooling over Miss Maine.
See you tomorrow, Chatterheads. Thanks for dropping in on Labor Day.
The Wellington Files 