My intention was to have this post headed by a photograph, a large one, of our prize from the quiz the other night.  Some may enjoy it, and if it does arrive from my colleague I will update, so keep watching.

A good night was had by all, especially a team of six that managed to err in only four of 60 questions.  Impressive stuff indeed, but it wasn’t us, though we did place a credible fifth.

So the prize that I have in mind to accompany these musings comes from the raffle.  It was the cause of the biggest roar of the night from the assembled masses, and much laughter round our table.  It was the star prize in the raffle, the one dished out after all the chocolate and alcohol, after the candles and the napkins, and the set of four mugs put by with the various other winnings we have amassed for the Big Red Shed quest.  But the star prize won’t rest there, for it has pride of place in the conservatory of a certain team-mate.

Now in absence of the promised photo I did a bit of googling, and I need to clean my mouse.  Have you seen Sainsbury’s Jubilee mini-site?  I don’t think there will have been too many purchases from these parts.

But our prize was not just Jubilee related, though perhaps so prompted.  My team-mates this time out were two Englishmen, neither of whom are by definition bad persons, and a flag-waving loyalist; or at least he would be flag-waving if his football team wasn’t currently belly-up and comatose, wondering if they have a league slot, an owner, or even players to deck out in their red, white and blue.  Yes, that team, the one that seems to own the town where the nearest branch of my bank is, the town with the only supply of union jacks yet witnessed within a thirty mile radius this celebratory weekend.

It occurred to me that Mr Cameron and Ms Brooks, in their witty texts and repartee, may not have heard of the other LOL, the one that is steeped in blue blood in these parts; the reason why, if you find a bank card in the street and try the PIN 1690, it has a fair chance of being the right one.

And that came to mind just before the cooncil voting last month.  The First Minister’s predecessor in office left one lasting legacy, perhaps a couple actually for he introduced the smoking ban as well, for he publicly denounced the shame that is brought on this nation under the guise of football fans, the shame that is sectarianism, and quite right too.  But last month the leader of Labour in Glasow, fearing armageddon at the polls, announced that the restrictions on Orange Marches were too much and had to be relaxed.  Why we know not, but he wooed the marchers, and their Grand Masters and all the guff that goes with them, the followers dragging their knuckles and drinking their soon-to-be minimum unit priced alcohol for their votes.  And marching season starts this weekend, all in the name of loyalty, and unions jacks, and the Right of Succession that keeps the throne free of papal influence.  But this is 2012, not 1690.

For the star prize in said raffle was a garden chair, one of those ones that folds into itself and generally collapses after an hour or two if you weigh more than six stone, with the little mesh holder in the arm-rest to hold your pimms or your half pint of buckfast; and it was resplendently decked out in the flag of the union, probably right now being planted by the gross, or is that grossly planted, along the banks of the Thames.  How the hall erupted.  My colleagues’ only disappointment was that it was not my number that was pulled from the hat, for that may have given them some cause for hilarity and another fine picture for these pages.

Now, any tips for the £10 bet at the local bookies?  A much better prize; and that one I have.  LOL, I know I did.


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