Blimey. Shopping ain’t arf a chore, esepcially when Tesco take it upon themselves to rearrange their entire shelving system just because they’re building some sort of extension*.
With my faithful wobbly trolley leading the way, I did eventually manage to find the Fruit ‘n’ Veg Section, the Frozen Dinners For One Section, the Gert Bag Of Doughnuts For 29 Pees Section and, finally and after much agonised searching hither and thither, The Booze Section. This was actually in the same place it’s always been, but by the time I’d got there I was sore distressed, vexed and not a little lost. D’you know they don’t even give out maps as you walk through the door? Tchoh. Amatuers.

‹Decides to take a ball of twine next time, and a sword just in case there’s a Minotaur near the cheese-counter›

*A conservatory, I think.

I had an Epiphany when I was driving home from work today. Y’see my car, being of the well and truly knackered variety, refuses to play any sort of sweet music to aid my weary travels. I usually resort to listening to fabbo tunes of the groovy persuasion on my MP3 player. This week’s stars have been Fairport Convention*, indeed Tipplers Tales, which apparantly ain’t to every Fairport fan’s taste nonetheless is to mine. One song in particular I love, and that’s John Barleycorn.
I’ve always thought this song was about some bloke who’d got brutally chopped up by some nasty rogues, but it’s not. Today, for some bizarre reason I know not the source of, I actually listened to the lyrics with all of my brain, instead of just that part which tells me which bits of any given tune I think I can sing along to**. It dawned on me what the tune was really about, in it’s Real-Ale-Swilling-Telegraph-Crossword-Solving-Smug-Yet-Enjoyable way.
Suffice to say I felt laughably stupid once realisation dawned, so I laughed stupidly all the way home.
Here are the lyrics, you figure it for yourself.

There were three men come out of the west, their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn would die
They’ve ploughed, they’ve sown, they’ve harrowed, thrown clods upon his head
Till these three men were satisfied John Barleycorn was dead

Chorus:
There’s beer all in the barrel and brandy in the glass
But little Sir John, with his nut-brown bowl, proved the strongest man at last

They’ve let him lie for a long long time till the rains from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprang up his head and so amazed them all
They’ve let him stand till midsummer’s day and he looks both pale and wan
Then little Sir John’s grown a long long beard and so become a man

(Chorus)
(Chorus)

They’ve hired men with the sharp-edged scythes to cut him off at the knee
They’ve rolled him and tied him around the waist, treated him most barbarously
They’ve hired men with the sharp-edged forks to prick him to the heart
And the loader has served him worse than that for he’s bound him to the cart
So they’ve wheeled him around and around the field till they’ve come unto a barn
And here they’ve kept their solemn word concerning Barleycorn
They’ve hired men with the crabtree sticks to split him skin from bone
And the miller has served him worse than that for he’s ground him between two stones

(Chorus)
(Chorus)

And the huntsman he can’t hunt the fox nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he can’t mend his pots without John Barleycorn

‹Eagerly anticipates the next Cropredy Festival, which is, according to Ralphus, most definitely ON!›

*Whaddyamean ‘Jeez, not them again!’? Hmmm?
**The truth, of course, is that I can sing along to sweet F.A. but that doesn’t stop me, not when I’m in my car on my own.

Once upon a time in Sweden there was a silly old King called Ömally (or possibly Ømally; opinion remains divided even to this day). King Ömally would often do daft things, like forgetting what he was, er, thing. Y’know. Um.
*ahem*
King Ömally’s glorious reign was peppered with many deeds of derring-don’t, such as the time when he forgot that Tesco closed at 4 p.m. on a Sunday and had also forgotten (the two being inextricably linked) to buy any food at any point over the weekend, thereby having to settle for noodles* for his din-dins.

Another famous event (yes, and in a similar vein) that stood out bright in Ömally’s reign, like a shiny penny in a puddle, was the time he agreed to give a work-colleague a lift home ‘cos her car was in for repairs. Come the 5:30 factory fanfare and King Ömally flew out the hallowed portal that gave onto the car-park, climbed into his chariot and high-tailed it homeward without his passenger. This happened not once, not twice but three times. In a row.
On the third such occasion, rescue of the aforementioned Damsel In Distress was sought via the wonder that is the GSM network; to be precise, the message “ArghyoustupidgityouforgotmeagainI’msogoingtokillyoutheresnooneelseheretotakemehome!!”** plopped itself in text form into the Royal Mobile Phone. Shame it didn’t turn up until the Royal Chariot was naught but 3 minutes fom home, a half-hour drive from work***.

King Ömally seems to have forgotten that he has to work tomorrow and therefore should have gone to bed hours ago.
Silly King.

‹Anticipates a not-very-early-start ‘pon the morrow›

*All proper Kings have a stack of emergency noodles in their cupboards. It’s The Law.
**Or variations thereof. The Royal recollection is, understandably, a trifle hazy on the exact details.
***Yes, he turned round and went back to get the poor girl; he wasn’t that stupid.