Gutter Balls.

Dear all,

This post is overdue - much like my most recent Amazon delivery.

Now look, I think we can all agree that 99% of the time it’s a seamlessly perfect system that amazes and delights - poetry in motion. But I’m afraid it’s the 1% that lets the side down. You’re only as good as your last delivery, and if that’s the case then let’s just call the whole thing off - what a filthy, honking disappointment. Just like that time Ouseph and I queued to be in The One Show audience, only to be shown the exit door because my thermos flask contravened the rule guide - extremely frustrating.

Delivery cock ups and Pitkin meltdowns aside, what a time it is to be alive. Forget Brexit bullshine, let’s focus on the positives: 2020 is soon to rear its beautiful face, and I’m ready to toss my shiny kugel all over the country. Next year will be a boules-fest like no other, as the BAFBA-inspired ‘Boules or Nothing’ book hits the shelves and membership continues to soar like the wind - what better use of your time could you possibly be using your time for?

Ok, I admit, I have also been throwing a heavier type of ball recently, as I’ve been flirting with my local tenpin-bowling team, but it’s just not the same. I even had to throw deliberately poorly at one meet just to dampen the overtures and praise knocking on my door - it was all getting too friendly, and I missed the competitive dynamite of a local Bastard that raises the heart rate and fires the nostrils.

Well, ok, yes, my head was turned, but only briefly. And only to see if the grass was any greener on the other side of the paddock. I can confirm that it is NOT any greener than the lush pastures of BAFBA. Indeed, some bowling alleys smell like shoe-smell, only covered in anti-shoe smell spray, which smells worse than shoes.

Let’s call it a score draw. My head is full of boules, and I’m back in the game.

Right, must dash, Ouseph and I are off out tonight for a Thai meal, so I need to eat something before I go out.

Keep going everyone, one day this is all we’ll have to look back on.

Merry Crimblebum!

Pitkin
x

Desk Balls.

Hey ho,

Pitkin here, fresh and upright.

That’s right, upright.

Following my well-publicised (thanks to that lovely BAFBA article in OK! Magazine) back problems, I’ve invested in a new desk. It elevates and then de-elevates at will. More specifically, you push a red button and BINGO, it moves like a dream. Up and down, up and down. Not that I would, but you could just watch it rise and fall, rise and fall, hour after hour. Utter magic, and it purrs like a ruddy thoroughbred. This means I can stand and type and drink and smoke and stand and smile and stretch and type. I’m very pleased with my purchase. Really chuffed. I have some desk balls that I can watch clink back and forth with an astronomically metronomic beauty. You know the ones. Can’t get them anymore. These are vintage balls. Shiny silver desk balls.

All good here at ‘Hombres Heights, despite the filthy weather. It’s windy and rainy and shitty out there but I’m snug and fine, thank you. These Yuletide slip slops (see below) keep my toesies nice and toastie.

That’s all for now - this soup won’t slurp itself.

Bye,

Pitkin

No Balls.

Dear Followers, and lovers of Boules, 

Hello. It's good to see you.   Unfortunately, by 'good', I mean 'not easy'.

It's nearly July, and I have an eye infection that has restricted the vision in my eye. I'm not one to complain, but combined with my allergies (dust, seed, silver birch, pollen, mornings) I'm a spluttering mess. I’m not a happy Pitkin. I guess I just have to shut my noise, hold my nose, and pray for Autumn.

Anyhoo, thought I'd give you an update on my summer thus far, as the Heatwave strikes and Wimblebum approaches.

Firstly, it looks like my frosty relationship with BAFBA Secretary, Cahill Morgue, has warmed a fraction. I can confirm that we had a 'disagreement' at the Club some months back. The details are unimportant (not to say logged incorrectly in the Club Diary), but let's just say names were called, shoes were removed, and food was thrown.

Cahill has apologised, to myself and the Club chef, for his outburst and unnatural language.  We move on.

Secondly, I had genuinely thought my boules-playing days were numbered after a severe back complaint/calf niggle left me depleted. I am pleased to say that I made it onto the Training Paddock this morning for the first time in months. It was heaven, despite my wayward tossing. My, how I've missed the complex thrill of a mid-morning Bastard.

Got to go now, as I have a Webex session with Ouseph in 20mins.

Until next time,

Pitkin

Balls.

Good Day to you and yours,

With overdue apologies to all, here is my first (overdue) Blog post.

It seems only a few months ago that we took to the World Web like a duck to water. It's probably longer than that. And therefore this post is overdue. It took blood, sweat and yoga to get this site up and jogging, so please consider the gap in time as a 'well earned rest' for Ouseph and myself. 

It certainly hasn't all been mindfulness walks and Pimm's. Indeed, relaxation has seldomly appeared on any menu or agenda. Then of course Ouseph has been away; firstly to the U.S. on business, and then to Saint-Hubert, via Gstaad and South Wales.  He'll be back soon enough, fear not.

Personally, I've been very, very busy of late. I hurt my back helping my friend with some creosoting, and that has added to the delay in kicking off this Blog - apologies for that. I had actually written something for here a while back. It was charming and funny, and enlightening, and engaging. Christ knows what happened to the draft, but I can't locate it anywhere. Computers must be embraced, but fuck me if they're not curious and unforgiving beasts. 

Never mind, I'm sure you'll agree that this post more than makes up for it.

Until next time,

Pitkin

Pitkin Productivity.