Whatever happened to my typewriter

So here we are on that infernal contraption that she bought last year with her winter heating allowance. Typing out varying degrees of nonsense to a potential audience of billions which will be read by three slightly bored and dissappointed teenagers who’d mistyped ‘Boobie’ into their Google thingamy, (whatever the hell that means), and a couple of crotchety old fools, a bit like myself, who’ve got nothing better to do until ‘Countdown’ comes on.

So, what on earth are we supposed to put on this electronic wonderland that is our website?

Ever since the dawn of time when we bashed rocks against each other for fun, mankind has attempted to communicate – be that by painting terribly childish pictures on cave walls or by carving silly little pictures into bloody great lumps of rock in the middle of a dessert – ridiculous – they could build the pyramids but couldn’t spell the word sand without drawing four hyroglyphics. One particular Pharoah chap by the name of ‘Xerox’ invented paper, Caxton invented printing, and Peter, 42, from Ramsgate invented writing obscene messages on the back of the toilet door in my favourite watering hole, although quite what he expects me to do with the information he provides is beyond me. Yes, really physically beyond me.

But what these examples all have in common is communication, and my oh my, don’t we all like to communicate a lot in this day and age. I’m amazed how we ever survived, during my childhood when we were sent off for weeks at a time into the wild blue yonder with nothing but a wedge of Cheese, three stale loaves and half a pound of Beef dripping all lovingly wrapped in a canvas tent brought back from the Boer war. Father would hand out the guns as he said goodbye at the door of the manor house. “You can never be too careful of those Badgers” he would say “Now off with you, and dont come back till you’ve got some hair on your chin and some blood on your hands”. Of course most of us heeded his warnings of wild animal attacks on our camping adventures, all except young ‘Bingy Bingo’ who took great pleasure in poking at animal sets with his pointed stick – he came off a lot worse than that angry, angry Badger I can tell you, but did we have a telecommunication device to call for help? No. However, we didn’t really need one,  father came running when he heard the screams as we performed an emergency amputation to remove ‘Bingys’ four mauled fingers with a blunt scout knife. Still, he never poked at an angry Badger again. More to do with not being able to pick up a stick than anything else – ended up quite dead after dropping his rifle on the Sargeant Majors foot during passing out parade…..now there was an angry man.

But I digress.

Yes, what to put on here apart from the badly spelled and awfully punctuated ramblings of a silly old fool?

Ideas please?

The Brigadier

 

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