Paddy's "Things that cheer you up"

[TDR V2]

19 hours ago, Genie said:

I posted a while back teenagers call others a Tory as an insult. A terrible attempt at a tackle in football is called a Brexit tackle.

I am very familiar with that term 

[BOF]

Dunno how true it is, because I played Texas Hold 'Em and never 'erd of it. But seemingly a pocket Ace & King (A K) is called an Anna Kournikova.  Because it looks good, but rarely wins*.

 

* unless it's suited, obviously

[AVFC_Hitz]

I think I'd prefer Anna Kournikova un suited. Man, that woman was a teenage dream. 

[Chindie]

9 minutes ago, BOF said:

Dunno how true it is, because I played Texas Hold 'Em and never 'erd of it. But seemingly a pocket Ace & King (A K) is called an Anna Kournikova.  Because it looks good, but rarely wins*.

 

* unless it's suited, obviously

This is true.

It's an ok hand but psychologically looks better than it is because it's 2 high cards, and as a result is difficult to play.

Basically every starting hand has a nickname - pocket Jacks are 'Hooks', etc etc

[Xela]

On 18/07/2024 at 21:11, Genie said:

I posted a while back teenagers call others a Tory as an insult. A terrible attempt at a tackle in football is called a Brexit tackle.

Political insults? How boring. What happened to calling each others Mom's slags and Dad's bummers? That a playground insult! 

[Nor-Cal Villan]

5 hours ago, AVFC_Hitz said:

I think I'd prefer Anna Kournikova un suited. Man, that woman was a teenage dream. 

Whatever happened to the Teenage Dream?

[Xela]

Saw a lot of older cars out today. Not mega old, but 90s metal. Unassuming stuff. Was nice to see - a first generation Mondeo, in white, a first generation Corsa. I imagine a lot of us learnt to drive in one of those. Also an old biddy driving a pre facelift K11 Micra. You just know she's had that from new! 

Made me smile anyway. 

[mottaloo]

6 hours ago, AVFC_Hitz said:

I think I'd prefer Anna Kournikova un suited. Man, that woman was a teenage dream. 

More of a Sharapova man, me.

 

[il_serpente]

4 hours ago, mottaloo said:

More of a Sharapova man, me.

 

So hot, the Champ-de-Mars has an erection

[tonyh29]

11 hours ago, Xela said:

Political insults? How boring. What happened to calling each others Mom's slags and Dad's bummers? That a playground insult! 

Ahh , The good old days where kids just got touched by teachers  rather than  brainwashed by left wing teachers 

 

 

[mjmooney]

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
For I know it tastes as pure as Malvern water,
Though laced with bright bubbles like the aqua minerale
That melted the kidney stones of Michelangelo
As sunlight the snow in spring.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
In a green Lycergus cup with a sprig of mint,
But add no sugar –
The bitterness is what I want.
If I craved sweetness I would be asking you to bring me
The tears of Annabel Croft.

I never asked for the wristbands of Maria Bueno,
Though their periodic transit of her glowing forehead
Was like watching a bear’s tongue lap nectar.
I never asked for the blouse of Françoise Durr,
Who refused point-blank to improve her soufflé serve
For fear of overdeveloping her upper arm –
Which indeed remained delicate as a fawn’s femur,
As a fern’s frond under which cool shadows gather
So that the dew lingers.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
And give me credit for having never before now
Cried out with longing.
Though for all the years since TV acquired colour
To watch Wimbledon for even a single day
Has left me shaking with grief like an ex-smoker
Locked overnight in a cigar factory,
Not once have I let loose as now I do
The parched howl of deprivation,
The croak of need.

Did I ever demand, as I might well have done,
The socks of Tracy Austin?
Did you ever hear me call for the cast-off Pumas
Of Hana Mandlikova?
Think what might have been distilled from these things,
And what a small request it would have seemed –
It would not, after all, have been like asking
For something so intimate as to arouse suspicion
Of mental derangement.
I would not have been calling for Carling Bassett’s knickers
Or the tingling, Teddy Tinling B-cup brassière
Of Andrea Temesvari.

Yet I denied myself.
I have denied myself too long.
If I had been Pat Cash at that great moment
Of triumph, I would have handed back the trophy
Saying take that thing away
And don’t let me see it again until
It spills what makes this lawn burst into flower:
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

In the beginning there was Gorgeous Gussie Moran
And even when there was just her it was tough enough,
But by now the top hundred boasts at least a dozen knockouts
Who make it difficult to keep one’s tongue
From lolling like a broken roller blind.
Out of deference to Billy-Jean I did my best
To control my male chauvinist urges –
An objectivity made easier to achieve
When Betty Stove came clumping out to play
On a pair of what appeared to be bionic legs
Borrowed from Six Million Dollar Man.

I won’t go so far as to say I harbour
Similar reservations about Steffi Graf –
I merely note that her thigh muscles when tense
Look interchangeable with those of Boris Becker –
Yet all are agreed that there can be no doubt
About Martina Navratilova:
Since she lent her body to Charles Atlas
The definition of the veins on her right forearm
Looks like the Mississippi river system
Photographed from a satellite,
And though she may unleash a charming smile
When crouching to dance at the ball with Ivan Lendl,
I have always found to admire her yet remain detached
Has been no problem.

But when the rain stops long enough for the true beauties
To come out swinging under the outshone sun,
The spectacle is hard for a man to take,
And in the case of this supernally graceful dish –
Likened to a panther by slavering sports reporters
Who pitiably fail to realize that any panther
With a topspin forehand line drive like hers
Would be managed personally by Mark McCormack –
I’m obliged to admit defeat.

So let me drink deep from the bitter cup.
Take it to her between any two points of a tie-break
That she may shake above it her thick black hair,
A nocturne from which the droplets as they fall
Flash like shooting stars –
And as their lustre becomes liqueur
Let the full calyx be repeatedly carried to me.
Until I tell you to stop,
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

CLIVE JAMES 

[mjmooney]

7 hours ago, tonyh29 said:

Ahh , The good old days where kids just got touched by teachers  rather than  brainwashed by left wing teachers 

Left wing? Most of the 'hard left' were Brexiteers. Most Tory MPs and most businessmen/industrialists were Remainers. 

[Nor-Cal Villan]

10 hours ago, mjmooney said:

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
For I know it tastes as pure as Malvern water,
Though laced with bright bubbles like the aqua minerale
That melted the kidney stones of Michelangelo
As sunlight the snow in spring.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
In a green Lycergus cup with a sprig of mint,
But add no sugar –
The bitterness is what I want.
If I craved sweetness I would be asking you to bring me
The tears of Annabel Croft.

I never asked for the wristbands of Maria Bueno,
Though their periodic transit of her glowing forehead
Was like watching a bear’s tongue lap nectar.
I never asked for the blouse of Françoise Durr,
Who refused point-blank to improve her soufflé serve
For fear of overdeveloping her upper arm –
Which indeed remained delicate as a fawn’s femur,
As a fern’s frond under which cool shadows gather
So that the dew lingers.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
And give me credit for having never before now
Cried out with longing.
Though for all the years since TV acquired colour
To watch Wimbledon for even a single day
Has left me shaking with grief like an ex-smoker
Locked overnight in a cigar factory,
Not once have I let loose as now I do
The parched howl of deprivation,
The croak of need.

Did I ever demand, as I might well have done,
The socks of Tracy Austin?
Did you ever hear me call for the cast-off Pumas
Of Hana Mandlikova?
Think what might have been distilled from these things,
And what a small request it would have seemed –
It would not, after all, have been like asking
For something so intimate as to arouse suspicion
Of mental derangement.
I would not have been calling for Carling Bassett’s knickers
Or the tingling, Teddy Tinling B-cup brassière
Of Andrea Temesvari.

Yet I denied myself.
I have denied myself too long.
If I had been Pat Cash at that great moment
Of triumph, I would have handed back the trophy
Saying take that thing away
And don’t let me see it again until
It spills what makes this lawn burst into flower:
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

In the beginning there was Gorgeous Gussie Moran
And even when there was just her it was tough enough,
But by now the top hundred boasts at least a dozen knockouts
Who make it difficult to keep one’s tongue
From lolling like a broken roller blind.
Out of deference to Billy-Jean I did my best
To control my male chauvinist urges –
An objectivity made easier to achieve
When Betty Stove came clumping out to play
On a pair of what appeared to be bionic legs
Borrowed from Six Million Dollar Man.

I won’t go so far as to say I harbour
Similar reservations about Steffi Graf –
I merely note that her thigh muscles when tense
Look interchangeable with those of Boris Becker –
Yet all are agreed that there can be no doubt
About Martina Navratilova:
Since she lent her body to Charles Atlas
The definition of the veins on her right forearm
Looks like the Mississippi river system
Photographed from a satellite,
And though she may unleash a charming smile
When crouching to dance at the ball with Ivan Lendl,
I have always found to admire her yet remain detached
Has been no problem.

But when the rain stops long enough for the true beauties
To come out swinging under the outshone sun,
The spectacle is hard for a man to take,
And in the case of this supernally graceful dish –
Likened to a panther by slavering sports reporters
Who pitiably fail to realize that any panther
With a topspin forehand line drive like hers
Would be managed personally by Mark McCormack –
I’m obliged to admit defeat.

So let me drink deep from the bitter cup.
Take it to her between any two points of a tie-break
That she may shake above it her thick black hair,
A nocturne from which the droplets as they fall
Flash like shooting stars –
And as their lustre becomes liqueur
Let the full calyx be repeatedly carried to me.
Until I tell you to stop,
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

CLIVE JAMES 

Not a single mention of Bettina Bunge

[il_serpente]

21 hours ago, mjmooney said:

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
For I know it tastes as pure as Malvern water,
Though laced with bright bubbles like the aqua minerale
That melted the kidney stones of Michelangelo
As sunlight the snow in spring.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
In a green Lycergus cup with a sprig of mint,
But add no sugar –
The bitterness is what I want.
If I craved sweetness I would be asking you to bring me
The tears of Annabel Croft.

I never asked for the wristbands of Maria Bueno,
Though their periodic transit of her glowing forehead
Was like watching a bear’s tongue lap nectar.
I never asked for the blouse of Françoise Durr,
Who refused point-blank to improve her soufflé serve
For fear of overdeveloping her upper arm –
Which indeed remained delicate as a fawn’s femur,
As a fern’s frond under which cool shadows gather
So that the dew lingers.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
And give me credit for having never before now
Cried out with longing.
Though for all the years since TV acquired colour
To watch Wimbledon for even a single day
Has left me shaking with grief like an ex-smoker
Locked overnight in a cigar factory,
Not once have I let loose as now I do
The parched howl of deprivation,
The croak of need.

Did I ever demand, as I might well have done,
The socks of Tracy Austin?
Did you ever hear me call for the cast-off Pumas
Of Hana Mandlikova?
Think what might have been distilled from these things,
And what a small request it would have seemed –
It would not, after all, have been like asking
For something so intimate as to arouse suspicion
Of mental derangement.
I would not have been calling for Carling Bassett’s knickers
Or the tingling, Teddy Tinling B-cup brassière
Of Andrea Temesvari.

Yet I denied myself.
I have denied myself too long.
If I had been Pat Cash at that great moment
Of triumph, I would have handed back the trophy
Saying take that thing away
And don’t let me see it again until
It spills what makes this lawn burst into flower:
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

In the beginning there was Gorgeous Gussie Moran
And even when there was just her it was tough enough,
But by now the top hundred boasts at least a dozen knockouts
Who make it difficult to keep one’s tongue
From lolling like a broken roller blind.
Out of deference to Billy-Jean I did my best
To control my male chauvinist urges –
An objectivity made easier to achieve
When Betty Stove came clumping out to play
On a pair of what appeared to be bionic legs
Borrowed from Six Million Dollar Man.

I won’t go so far as to say I harbour
Similar reservations about Steffi Graf –
I merely note that her thigh muscles when tense
Look interchangeable with those of Boris Becker –
Yet all are agreed that there can be no doubt
About Martina Navratilova:
Since she lent her body to Charles Atlas
The definition of the veins on her right forearm
Looks like the Mississippi river system
Photographed from a satellite,
And though she may unleash a charming smile
When crouching to dance at the ball with Ivan Lendl,
I have always found to admire her yet remain detached
Has been no problem.

But when the rain stops long enough for the true beauties
To come out swinging under the outshone sun,
The spectacle is hard for a man to take,
And in the case of this supernally graceful dish –
Likened to a panther by slavering sports reporters
Who pitiably fail to realize that any panther
With a topspin forehand line drive like hers
Would be managed personally by Mark McCormack –
I’m obliged to admit defeat.

So let me drink deep from the bitter cup.
Take it to her between any two points of a tie-break
That she may shake above it her thick black hair,
A nocturne from which the droplets as they fall
Flash like shooting stars –
And as their lustre becomes liqueur
Let the full calyx be repeatedly carried to me.
Until I tell you to stop,
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

CLIVE JAMES 

Is Clive James a pseudonym for ChatGTP?

[sidcow]

1 hour ago, il_serpente said:

Is Clive James a pseudonym for ChatGTP?

You might think so 

 

 

[choffer]

 

[Anthony]

So, we went to the Happisburgh Owl Sanctuary on Saturday, and it was every bit as good as I'd hoped, and more.

They were really friendly when we arrived, then showed the two of us into a room with little concrete models of all the owls they have. Then one of them moved its head. Turns out they were all just sitting there chilled out, not concrete at all.

Over three hours we held all eight of them. They all had such different characters. There was one baby who, just like a puppy or little kid, was so curious about everything. Most owls parents kick their babies out of the nest very young, so they're kind of indifferent to most things, but with South American Spectacled owls, and they stay with their parents for about a year, so they're used interaction as their parents groom them on the head with their beaks. This one took quite a fancy to my girlfriend:

Can't recommend this place enough. The care they give the owls, the understanding they have, and the time you get to spend up close with them. Unbeatable.

[blandy]

In the winter, when I ride my bike I use wireless earphones, but in the summer I use wired ones, because with no winter headband the wireless ones can fall out. Anyway the wired ones started being all left side and almost no right side. Gave them a bit of a clean, still the same. Hmm. Swapped the speaker parts over on the cable (they’re detachable) and it was still left sided, so not the speaker parts at fault. Maybe it’s the phone?  So tried the headphones on my iPod. Same result. So is it my hearing? Put the AirPods on. No they’re fine? Not my ears. Right, must be the cable. Bought new cable. Bugger, still the same. What about the rubber cushiony things. Tried all different sizes, some improvement. Ok, maybe it’s just that these headphones are really good at separating the mix….but I’d never noticed that previously and I’ve had them for 5 or 6 years. Took them all apart, more cleaning with a special tool this time. Fixed! Hurrah.

[Anthony]

Wanted to post more owl pics, but I shall limit myself to one.

[Seat68]

3 minutes ago, Anthony said:

Wanted to post more owl pics, but I shall limit myself to one.