Divorce Coaching.

Nevermind the recession, now I know we really have hit rock bottom.

Whilst browsing the newspaper (and let’s face it, they only deserve a ‘browse’) I came across this ‘authoritative’ and ‘instructive’ article by, of all things, a ‘divorce coach’. I’m not joking I assure you.

Now, the only ‘divorce coaching’ I ever needed was another woman and a good bottle of whisky. Simple. So, who on earth do these people,these Oracles of profound wisdom, these media acclaimed ‘experts’ think they are? Their self-serving arrogance and know-all pontificating idiocy is nothing less than astonishing, but the best bit is that people actually pay them good money for the privilege of hearing them spout!

Next thing, there are those no doubt, who will be demanding a wee bit of ‘coaching’ to help them go to the toilet……… oh and paying for the privilege. Manoeuvring one’s way around a toilet roll can be a trifle traumatic and confusing I suppose.

The foolery and comic operas of our modern and so-called ‘enlightened’ Western societies never cease to disappoint, as we become more and more indulged, and more and more permanently pathetic by the day.

It is no wonder that Western so-called Empires and hegemony are on their way out. We thoroughly deserve all we get.As for all these ‘Gurus’, a bit of Clarkson’s Follies would sort this lot out…….oops, be careful now Julian otherwise the ‘Oh, I’m so offended!’ brigade will be off bless ’em.

The point is I don’t need any clown, who no doubt hails from the University of UpperComeTit and Media Expertise in How To Bullshit The Swinish Multitude, to tell me how to live, love, cry or buy a house – as long as I’m not hurting anyone or breaking the law that’s up to me!


PS The University of UpperComeTit I’m told, does actually do a Masters Degrees in ‘divorce coaching’ and ‘Counselling’ too apparently God forbid,  another equally offensive presumption, just to add insult to injury!


Welshy Buses.

Damn me, it’s happened again!!!!

Remember my escapades with Welsh language train arrival and departure announcements? Well, to-day I thought I would do my bit for the environment and take a bus to see my cross-dressing dentist Dafydd ap Islwyn, you know he with the frilly pink knickers.

Anyway, the bus to my particular destination only runs once every hour and what happened? A bus arrives with a Welsh name on its front as a destination. Not mine thinks I, so I carry on reading the newspaper. 15 minutes go by and my bus still hasn’t shown up, 30 minutes, there’s something wrong here, so I ask an obliging fellow traveller what’s happened to the bus.

‘It’s been and gone boyo, just like my last missus!’ says he with the look of one who has been divorced too many times.

‘Gone!’ I nearly shrieked. ‘But….but, I  haven’t seen any bus with my destination on it!’

‘Ah, well now boyo, that’s what ‘appens when you can’t speak Welsh see. The buses don’t always translate like. Nevermind, better luck next time eh. Like women, better off without ’em anyway. Come to think of it mind, like most people I don’t speak the lingo  meeself either.  Never been able to make ‘ead nor tail of it.’

So, there you have it. The name of the town I had become so used to had now been changed to its Welsh language equivalent.

I think I’ll apply to the Welsh Assembly for a Grant to make sure I catch the right buses and trains in future! On second thoughts what with the cutbacks………….


Childish negotiation.

I gather that in these liberal and enlightened times, one is supposed to ‘negotiate’ with a tantrum prone urchin everytime the degeneration of their ‘self-esteem’ and paucity of adult ’empathy’, results in an outburst of juvenile angst…..the end of one’s boot (hand-made of course) I suspect, might be a good initial ‘negotiating’ position.


PS And before any of you precious and admirably sensitive minorities start reporting me to ChildLine or God forbid Amnesty International I APOLOGISE, albeit that I am only joking, well……….Although, no doubt if you lot had your way a writer’s craft would be so anodyne and bland that the art form would eventually end up in blank paged history books.

Getting Young

Castaways without a desert island disc;

Statin squealing joints and aspirin loaded blood;

Yellow boiled cabbage and a lump of matching cod;

Memories of Stella bellies and vindaloo beyonds;

Televised days of going nowhere;

A difficult fag whining to be smoked;

Eyes fighting sight and everything already known;

Livid arms and falls that just happen;

And getting young?

Not bloody likely!



The annihilation of insult.

The adenoidal but commendably ’empathetic’ Ed Miliband felt that Jeremy Clarkson’s remarks were ‘absolutely disgraceful and disgusting’.

Dear God, he should hear what my wife calls me first thing in the morning, when a flatulent whirlwind nearly blows her out of bed. Come to think of it, I wonder if he suffers from such a dastardly infliction? If so, I suppose his missus would say, ‘Oh golly Ed, you’re  such a naughty boy. You really must cut down on the All-Bran!’


Tippling in Paris.

I’ve just come back from visiting my Froggy folk in Paris.

The Ruck’s are now mostly French, so before anyone starts having a rant about Wellington and kicking Frenchy bums watch out, I’m extremely sensitive where Froggy bashing is concerned, if not manically politically correct – believe this and you’ll believe anything!

So, what a few days it turned out to be.

My little sister (she’s 14 years younger than me, the result of a misguided bout of hanky panky, curlers an’ all according to our father) has a brood of what can only be described as little lumps of delightful flesh. At least they tend to giggle a lot, particularly when the youngest falls into the dishwasher – and before any of you Amnesty International crusaders (and Esther Rantzen) start howling with incandescent anger , the dishwasher wasn’t on!

They all attend Catholic schools, and I can assure you that Loyola’s diktat of ‘Give me the boy and I’ll care not for the man’ is still alive and well in the environs of a Parisian suburb. I looked at their previous efforts of homework and damn me, I couldn’t make out the ink for red splashes of teaching tyranny – all good stuff in my view, a pity our own schools didn’t try some of the same now and again.

As it so happens, I carefully observed the way these little ones were being taught and despaired at the prospects for our own school children. How on earth are they going to compete? How on earth are they going to learn that failure is just a beginning? In French schools even sport is marked, and the parents receive all test/exam results by email before the pupils even get a look in, so no dossing, no crafty prevarication and certainly no bullshit.

Sadly, I simply couldn’t help but conclude that we have simply lost the plot in this country  where educating our young people are concerned, and I have no doubt that the future will demand a terribly high price for our negligence.

98% pass rates but passing what exactly? Need I say more.

I apologise for this rather untidy ‘rant’, where possible I try to avoid such self-indulgent diversions but I do feel profoundly for learning and knowledge,for their expression, for their civilising calm but most of all for their understanding.

Our system is at fault not the young ‘uns, and believe me we are doing their young minds grievous bodily harm all in the name of mediocrity, social engineering and an equality that exists only in the minds of the deranged.


PS Oh and I did do plenty of ‘Tippling in Paris’, so did my little sister. Runs in the family I’m afraid.

Nursing Home Farce.

I’ve got to tell you this one,it’s irresistible, I mean it’s not often one bursts out laughing in a Nursing Home after all.

My wife and I were visiting the old man in his souped up and luxurious accommodation. You know, one of those places where old ‘un’s life expectancy tends to be a bit longer than that offered by the NHS. Anyway, there he was, lying flat and looking as if he had just had his head and arms microwaved – he had apparently reacted badly to some creamy medication.

To cap it all he had run out of Special Brews and fags, so what with the cooked head, general disgust with young carers and their tattoos, well you can imagine – he’s 85, so give the old boy a break, he had never been impressed with human rights and equality etc, the only ‘human right’ he had ever believed in was his right to kick me up the arse when he felt like it.

So, there we were, feeling thoroughly ’empathetic’ and nodding oodles of sympathy, when what does my darling wife say to the old man?

‘So, you’re not feeling a 100% then?’

Jesus, I had to walk out of the room. She’s a nursing Matron too, can you believe it????!!!


Rioting Teachers.

You know I really do try and avoid  getting too political on my Blog, first and foremost I am a story-teller after all. Anyway, late last night as I was dropping off to sleep and wondering if Paradise really is filled with dusky maidens of even duskier intent, I suddenly remembered my ancient school days. You know (well some of you will anyway), the days when one always had to stand up every time a teacher walked into the classroom.

My sleepy brain then went on to consider what all these ‘teaching assistants’ are all about. I mean, since when does one need an ‘assistant’ to teach?Did Socrates need an assistant? I certainly don’t remember my teachers ever needing one.

All very odd you will agree, surely one either can or one can’t.It then occurred to me that maybe standing up and all this ‘assistance’ might just have something to do with all the recent rioting…..or is there a whiff of dastardly public sector job creation at work here as well?

Just a thought.


PS Makes one wonder why teachers are always worrying about their pensions so much, doesn’t it? They are hardly going to be burnt out at sixty are they, what with all the ‘assistance’ they receive?

The fastest Divorce on record!

Like so many others who play matrimonial roulette, my first spin of the wheel saw me nigh on bankrupted, drunk for a year and cursing the marriage vows to hell and back. Nothing new there, I hear all you veterans of matrimonial discord confirm, but before I go any further allow me to offer some humble advice – when your  marriage hits the skids, get a new bed-mate in tow fast, works wonders believe me, even if you are drunk most of the time.

So, what’s all this ‘fastest Divorce on record’ all about then?

Well now, as I say my first journey into the twistable bliss called marriage ended up in the County Court, as indeed many of them do. Now you would think that at forty-one, I would have had some mature idea of the risks and pitfalls of such a loving committment – not so, like everyone else who embarks upon this ‘must do’ insanity, I was a daft bugger who sincerely  believed that I had met the ‘one’, or God forbid my ‘soul mate’ (the Guardian still uses these two supremely idiotic words of doom, but I suppose they are better than a red and pink explosion from a Clinton Card  shop, albeit that both are equally as nauseating).

The above notwithstanding I still choked my ‘I do’- tearfully and full of love I stress! – whilst deluding myself that from that day on life would be a loving merry-go-round of lip to lip breakfasts, clasped hands along exotic shorelines and imaginative exercises with a bar of soap in some four-legged, claw footed Victorian tub.

Not so.

Now don’t worry, I’m not going to do a ‘self-esteemed’ pitifully ’empathetic’  bleat on you, neither am I going to enter into a pathetic rant about how horrible the missus was etc etc. You see, two years after sharing a bed together we decided (by mutual consent I hasten to add)  that we really didn’t like each other very much after all and that was that. If I remember correctly my nighttime flatulence was the straw that finally broke the matrimonial camel’s back but there we are, old habits die-hard and by this time I was forty-three after all. That’s my story anyway and I’m sticking to it.

So there I was. In the local County Court office demanding a Divorce Petition. All pretty straight forward stuff you will agree, until  you take into account the fact that I had consumed a bottle of whisky that morning, smoked a couple of packets of good ‘ole Marlborough’s and tried to find out where the nearest gunsmith’s was located so that I could go and buy a shotgun to shoot the erstwhile Mrs Ruck.

Well, the Court office Clerk observed my swaying, judiciously noted my blow torch breath and quite rightly advised that I seek legal advice. Well, ha ha to that, I knew only too well how much thieving legal bandits cost, so to hell with those pearls of wisdom, the fellow meant well but I wasn’t having any of it.

‘Give me a Petition, please.’ I slurred, ‘and by the way how much does Her Majesty’s Postmaster General cost these days to file it?  Worse than bloody lawyers!’

The poor fellow was by this time in a state of flux. I was plastered but still in control – just– and seemed to know what I was going on about. Well, he looked me up and down for about the fifth time and obviously decided that discretion be the better part of valour – I was well dressed, well spoken (again ‘just’) and polite in a shambling sort of way.

The Petition was duly handed over. I  withdrew my fountain pen from my inside pocket; Divorce Petitions tend to demand  the refined elegance of black ink and the occasional calligraphic swirl, in my view anyway, damn they cost enough!

I opened the Petition and started to fill it in.

19 minutes and 23 seconds it took to complete. I handed it back to the now utterly bemused Clerk (together with Marriage Certificate etc), who took it, checked it over a couple of times in between looking at me with dare I say it, a degree of grudging admiration.

‘Well sir,’ says he. ‘It’s all in order, that will be £150.00 please.’

‘Cheaper than the wedding I suppose.’ I remarked before handing over a cheque, turning tail and walking out in search of that bloody gunsmith’s again – oh and an Off License!

See what I mean about ‘The fastest Divorce on record’?

It’s true too.


PS And do you know what? I’ve gone and done it again! Getting married that is, although I have to say that the present Mrs Ruck is always sneaking off to see a Divorce lawyer, sensible woman. I suspect it’s the nocturnal flatulence again. We never learn do we?

Nobel…….without the dynamite!

I take my hat off (literally) to those three women who have just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The world would undoubtedly, be a safer and more inherently co-operative place if women were calling the shots – within reason of course and providing one of them isn’t the missus!


PS I mean it too. Short of a few historical ruffians and the odd psychotic murderess, the world would be a better place if more women were sitting at head of table.