Farewell Rodney Bewes

I just had to mark the passing of one of the ‘Likely Lads’, Rodney Bewes who died today at the age of 79.

He was part of what in my opinion is the best sitcom ever to appear on British television, because not only was it funny, but each episode was a little play in its own right. A lot of that is down to the brilliant scriptwriters Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais, but the casting was perfect and a few actors might have been as good Rodney Bewes and James Bolam, but none could have been better.

When the original 60s series returned as “Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads” depicting the characters and how their lives had changed years later, there was an element of nostalgia in the show that appealed to me and one of my closest friends. We saw a lot of ourselves in the characters and their situations, and we still often talk about the show fondly and watch re-runs.

Without wishing to sound maudlin, the wonderful old school we attended when we first watched it has been demolished, and now another part of our youth has gone.

Rest in peace “Bob Ferris” – Rodney Bewes.

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Nailed On

I’ve finally come across a way to identify the perfect date, thanks an entry from The Shepherd’s Prognostication, 1729 in my trusty Perpetual Almanac:

The nails very short, signify a person to be wicked; small and cracked to be a greedy catcher; very little, to be a crafty beguiler. White flecks in the nails signifies very wealthy, and to have many friends; black flecks, to be hated. The nails long, smooth, reddish and clear withal, to be witty and of good capacity; narrow and long, to be cruel and fierce; the nails rough and round, to be prone to the venereal act.

So there you have it. Having examined them scientifically and objectively, mine are quite clearly long, smooth and reddish. I’m just working on developing the white flecks.

Like I said, long, smooth and reddish – with a nautical touch to boot.


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Classy Tattoos


Ah, we’ve all experienced love that has that kind of effect!

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Word Origins

In response to an overwhelming lack of demand for another posting on the origins of words and phrases, I proudly bring you the following.

In days of yore, before many things had been thought through as well as they might

Days of Yore

and when hand-held weapons firing projectiles were much less common, it was noticed that the guns of certain mounted soldiers resembled fire-breathing dragons when unleashed on the enemy.

Possibly not days of yore, but still like a fire-breathing dragon


The word we are looking at found its way from French into English, and those soldiers became known to us as…


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Fetch, boy!

Here’s another offering from our friends at Analytical Grammar

I would never ask my dog to do this – but then I do have a servant who follows me around with the appropriate equipment.

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Classy Tattoo Time

Am I the only person in the world without a tattoo? Even mathematicians are getting in on the act now!

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A Visitor

I was busy replacing the letterbox at Beardsley Towers (I’d given both the handyman and the butler the day off on a whim – I’m just that kind of employer) and I was grovelling on my hands and knees with screws and drills etc, when I looked up to find myself face-to-face with a beautiful fox!

My first thought was that as soon as I move he is bound to shoot off, but when I straightened up he wasn’t in the least concerned. I got the idea of stealing some of Max’s dog treats and seeing if he would take them. Again I fully expected him to run away either when I got up or while I was away, but again he still hung around, and didn’t flinch when I tossed him the first couple of treats.

I couldn’t resist trying to get him to take a treat from my hand














And I came close…
















But not quite.

At first I thought he was perhaps semi-tame from getting food from people’s gardens – but then I noticed the large open wound on his flank, which you can just make out in the picture below. I then suspected that his behaviour was more to do with sickness and perhaps desperation then tameness, so with a heavy heart I decided I needed to call the RSPCA. I say with a heavy heart because having had dealings with them over the years they used to be great in situations like this, but I’ve learned that these days they don’t really want to know, and that you have to go through umpteen menus and listen to all kinds of recorded nonsense before you even get to speak to a human being.

When I did get through to someone they refused to send someone out because even though the fox was right there in front of me they said it might be gone when they arrived. I’m not sure if Foxie was listening in on the conversation, because he went for a little wander around with me following him to see where he went – and then doubled back and ran into my flat – I mean, Beardsley Towers. He even obliged by running straight into the bathroom, allowing me to close the door behind him. Take that, RSPCA!

I rang again and they finally agreed to come. I was watching as the inspector grabbed him using heavy gauntlets, and he didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as I’ve seen foxes do before, and she agreed with me that it was probably because he was sick – perhaps an infection from the wound.

Ailing creatures seem to be attracted to me. I once caught a sick cormorant in the street (who nearly pecked my eye out for my troubles)

Another bathroom refugee


That time I managed to bypass the RSPCA and get a wildlife rescue charity to come and get him. Then another time I rescued a weak and helpless baby jackdaw from circling cats.

You should usually leave baby birds alone, since their parents may well be hovering around somewhere, but this one wouldn’t have lasted five minutes and anyway I could tell that it wasn’t just lost but ill. Possibly its parents had abandoned it and it was starving. I tried to feed it and then leave it in a warm, dark place to recover, but a few minutes after the picture was taken it died.

Anyway, my fox has gone now, and I hope they manage to make him well. Good luck, Foxie, and thanks for a memorable encounter.

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