The Hills Have Eyes meets Dad's Army

As Warden Hodges (a character I have based my entire persona on) might intone: "RUDDY HOOLIGANS!"

It was like (the Sly Stallone/Davide Carradine film) Death Race 2000 trying to cross the road this morning. 

Two social outcasts were bearing down on me at the speed of sound (I could tell, as the Abba medley they were blaring out reached my ear as they drew level). Only their twisted grimaces were visible through the grimy windscreen - the kind you see backwoodsmen driving in those horror road movies which invariably involve a digit or two being lost to a rusty blade. 

And how apt, for 'twas the kings of the rusty Stanley blade themselves. The fearsome duo who walk around local shops just to wear down their carpets in an evil plot to garner business. The cads!

Some foul abuse was thrown from the open window as the driver cursed about my shop not selling suitable receptacles for Freddo Bars as the passenger (ensconced within what locals, with a wobble in their voice, call the "offcut van") laughed with a blood-curdling chuckle (the type only a hired-help can truly master over countless cups of tea).

Passers-by cowed in horror at the sight of such anti-social behaviour in broad daylight, though it may have been at the graffiti written on the back of the van (finger in dirt style), employing various cuss words and questioning the parentage of the boss of Carpet Rite. Who cares? Er I mean, who knows?

Then with a Speedy Gonzalez (and deeply racist act of cultural misappropriation) shout of "andalé, andalé" (though in hindsight it may have been "underlay underlay") they were off with a wheel-spin to the rough end of the high street where the police will only patrol in pairs and the grannies have tattoos with swear words. 

I barely escaped with my life. It's true. Honest. 

An Open Letter to Skechers Shoes

Dear Skechers Shoe People,

I bought these shoes 10 years ago in Boston, in that there America. 

Despite wearing them to the point of destruction, you can imagine my horror when yesterday, after some heavy gardening, the sole began to come away. 

Now I know many items have an inbuilt obsolescence (Mrs H says I've somehow stumbled and mumbled my way past mine) but in this age of countering the throwaway culture I'm distraught that my trusty workingmen's shoes have finally given up the ghost. 

It's in this regard I throw myself on your munificence and ask that you let me trade in my old pair for a new pair. Now I know I no longer have the receipt nor the box but I'm sure as men of this world (if I were wearing high heals I'd address my concerns to a lady, but despite modern fads and fallacies I'm not, so I won't) we can agree to a mutually beneficial outcome in this matter - new shoes for me - and loads of free advertising for you. 

Imagine the scene. Lots of trendy folks are strutting their stuff of a Saturday afternoon and I go by in my spankingly new Skechers shoes. "Oh wow!" they'll exclaim, as I glide by "look at them there shoes. It's like being in downtown LA or sumfink." A few weeks of that will be akin to a paid advert slap bang in the middle of Ant & Dec (no I don't know which is which either). 

It's either that or a tube of super glue or (horror steeped on horror) they'll find their way to a landfill site. And I don't think any of us wish to see that happen. 

So if you'll post a trade-in voucher to me I'll vouch (geddit?) in turn to be the feet of Skechers (I'd say be the face of Skechers like Demi Lovato but let's be realistic, she's not in my league). 

Yours in hope,

Gareth Hurley (aka 'the feet of Skechers'). 

Wheelie Bin Laden - another Evil Mullah

Those evil Bin Ladens! First Osama in Afghan, now his Irish brother "Wheelie". 😱 will the evil never end?

Cardinal Nichols, Cardiff City, Reds V the Blues

In a week when Mr Fox snacked on our chickens, we needed something to lift our spirits.

How nice then to see Cardinal Nichols with a Cardiff City shirt.

Such a shame that he chose the red version and not the Marian blue (with yellow and white Vatican trim), so beloved of many popes.

I know he got a red hat, but to empathise with Cardiff fans perhaps he should have chosen a blue hat?

A blue hat for blue times...

Still, as St Thomas More - friend of Cardinal St John Fisher - said, no one gets to heaven on a feather bed. That's a sentiment Cardiff fans can associate with!

The (Pro) Lifer Baby Grow

I like this baby grow.

Not only is it very funny & cute, it is also subtly Pro-Life. It reminds everyone that the baby was inside his/her mum for 9 months - as were we all.

No jokes about hard labour. Honest.

Cardiff Promoted on Pope's Birthday

I have already proved, beyond reasonable doubt that Pope (Emeritus) Benedict XVI is Welsh: see post here.

Now it's settled for good after Cardiff City held back winning promotion to the Premier League until Pope Benedict's birthday, the 16th of April.

Rumours that Cardiff will change their shirt colours next year to those of the Swiss Guard have been, er, scotched by Cardiff manager a Mr Malky McMalkyson and Pope Francis whose sole response was: "Blooooooooooobirds."

Right: Cardiff City's new away strip for 2013-14 Season?

Pope Francis is Welsh. The Proof is Here.

In the Vatican they ask all Welshmen to raise a hand.

And so we have a new Pope: Pope Francis from Argentina.

Now we all (should) know a region of Argentina, in the south, is called Patagonia. And we all (should) know that many of the people there speak Welsh.

I have previously proved, beyond reasonable doubt m'lud, that Pope Benedict was Welsh (see here). Now we know, very early on in his pontificate (trans: PontyFicate) that Pope Francis is Welsh.

I often wondered why Argentinian flags, shirts etc. were/are popular amongst Welsh fans whenever England make it to the World Cup: I think we now know the answer to that.

So well done Pope Francis. We all know (or should) that Welsh comes from the Germanic for 'foreignor' and was used for many peoples at the edge of the Roman Empire (the Welsh, the Walloons, the Wallachians etc.) so here's to our Welsh Pope!

It all bodes well for Saturday doesn't it?

Oh, and his first public Mass is to be on St Joseph's Day as a special nod to my dad who I can reveal is indeed Welsh.

I rest my case. I think that's all the proof we need. All I'm saying is don't be shocked if Pope Francis is hoping the Bluebirds go up this year.

Now we need a special edition Francis pint from Brains Beers and a Pieus Pie from Clarks Pies. They can send me free samples to get this blog's official thumbs-up.

The Pope is Welsh: The Evidence is Irrefutable

Our Welsh Shepherd (wearing an old Cardiff City scarf).

Many people call the Pope "our German Shepherd," but I have unearthed a conspiracy that would make Dan Brown's hair turn (albino?) white!

As Cardiff City fans have long known, the Pope is a Cardiff fan (they have long sung a song about Swansea fans going to the Vatican and being told, in no uncertain terms by His Holiness, that "Cardiff we'll support you evermore"), of course the Pope says "we" as he speaks for all the Popes on such vital matters of Faith and Morals.

But -- and hold on to your hat/Biretta here -- there is now ample proof that, as many have suspected, the Pope is in fact Welsh.

I will skip the obvious evidence, such as Welsh and Latin being the languages of heaven, and get down to the nitty gritty (as St Thomas Aquinas was wont to do).

A hobbit-like friend and fellow Cardiff City fan who shall remain nameless (let's just say he's the sort of best man who'd forget a ring), has pointed out that the Pope's Twitter id is @Pontifex. Of course Welsh is well known for its mutations, and to Latinise a Welsh word results in this kind of thing, but the evidence is clear.

The Pope is Pontyfex just as Pontypridd is the place where Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (I won't insult your intelligence by telling you that's the Welsh national anthem) was penned.

Furthermore Pontypridd sprung up around a bridge (the "Ponty" in question) built specifically to take pilgrims to the great pilgrimage site of Penrhys where today pilgrims still gather at the statue of Our Lady of Penrhys. So without the Catholic monks present there, and the place of pilgrimage, the bridge at Pontypridd would not have been built, the town of Pontypridd would not exist, and the Welsh national anthem may well not exist in its current form.

The Pope (Pontyfex) knows this and has chosen his Twitter name to reflect the importance of Catholicism to Welsh history, as well as to give a nod to his own Welsh heritage; also to acknowledge that the Papacy is the bridge which leads the Church militant to the promised land (a bit like Jacob's Ladder).

If you are still in doubt watch this week's Weatherman Walking (still on BBC iplayer) to see him visit two sites - the first, the well known Holywell in north east Wales, a place of Catholic pilgrimage for well over 1000 years. The second was the scant remains of a Chapel dedicated to St Michael the Archangel atop Holy Mountain in South East Wales. The guide (accompanying the 'weatherman' Derek) said this Chapel was in use throughout Medieval times and even after Catholicism was outlawed (by the English) it was still frequented by brave recusant souls.

So the Pope is Welsh, a Cardiff City fan and our country is, in every part, scattered with Holy places just as it was Catholic when the English were still living in Germany and its environs.

Case closed. Do you think Tom Hanks will want to make a film about it?

'It's a Top of the League Christmas' Says Pope on Twitter?

It's official - the Pope is a Cardiff City fan.

It can only be a matter of hours now before His Holiness confirms as much on his new Twitter account (yes I am a follower of his, naturally).

How else might we explain that Cardiff are sitting atop the Championship on Christmas Day? Oh yes, it's going to be a blue red Christmas after all.

Big Business Call Centres

If my call is so VERY important to you - how about answering it?

If you experience a high volume of calls so regularly (like 99% of the times I call) why not employ a few more people?

If you must make me go through 1001 options and permutations before -- eventually -- answering, why am I them so regularly redirected to another office who then tell me that I've come through to the wrong place?

And if you make me key in or (even worse) pronounce my details to a machine that only seems to recognise American accents, why when I reach a human being (after 2 months waiting) usually called Keith or Susan, yet with a suspiciously Asian accent, is the first thing they ask me for the very thing I just spent 48 hours tapping in or shouting at the phone?

So to recap: SORT IT OUT YOU TIGHT-FISTED MONEY-GRUBBING SCUMBAGS.

'I am not a number. I am a free man.'

Happy Fathers Day to Old Pa Hurley (and Reflections on Sweets)

Coconut Rolls

You know it's Father's Day when you open your Liquorice Allsorts (other brands are available) and there is a preponderance of Coconut Rolls!

Mmmmm. My favourites.

Sprogs

Luckily Mrs H loves the sprogs (jelly-ish ones) which I do not really like, and the youngest Hurley loves the plain liquorice ones which are pretty hit and miss for me.

So there we are. Like Jack Spratt and his wife, the 'plate' (as it were) shall be licked clean.

Happy Father's Day to all Dads. Especially my dad, Old Pa Hurley who is officially the best dad in the world. I would probably swap a skip load of Coconut Rolls for him. Now that's filial love!

Greater love hath no man than to give up his Coconut Rolls for his dad.

Luckily for me Old Pa Hurley seemed perfectly sated with a big box of Bassett's Wine Gums (other brands are available).

I did try and find a pic of a skip filled with sweets... but no joy. Just how much use is the internet?

The Hurleys: Common as Muck

A lovely family moment yesterday, one to cherish for generations. Mrs H and the littlest H were in London to see Shrek the Musical on stage in the West End. Oh yes: we Hurleys are posh and can mix it with the top knobs of the West End. Next step is surely an invite to a garden party at Buckingham Palace?

"For Services to the Blogging Community: Gareth Hurley, accompanied by Mrs H."

Oh yes. I can see it now. Top hat and tails. That's Mrs H sorted. I could go for a floral print. A bit of retro 50s Laura Ashley.

Or maybe not. Maybe yesterday's family moment has scuppered my dreams of cucumber sandwiches on the lawn (though I hasten to add my preference is for pork pies, victoria sponge and a builder's mug of tea).

So what was this event that's sent shock waves through the upper echelons of the British establishment - to shake BuckPal (to use the modern parlance) to its very foundations?

Well, left with instructions for the day by Mrs H (as usual when she's away) we found ourselves in one of the smaller supermarkets. I won't name them for fear of upsetting my sponsors (Ranjit's Corner Emporium) but suffice to say we Co-Operated to get there.

One of the items on my list was 'toilet rolls' and never one to shirk my responsibilities I decamped to the isle containing these daily necessariums. The remnant of the Hurley children followed.

On reaching the large range of 'paper essentials' I announced to the children that we needed to calculate the prices and quantities to work out the optimum product. Cue much moaning and rolling of eyes from those who are used to spending my money! How naughty.

So I scanned the shelves for the special offers and there was a sumptuous quality branded product - let's just say it was 'velvety' - at 9 rolls for £3. OK, I lodged that in the spending receptacle in my cranium.

I then turned to look at the cheaper options including the own-brand and the (pardon the intentional pun) bottom of the range items.

At which point, one of the Hurley boys spoke out, against my perceived "tightertudiness" or "skinflinterfication" (which is purely fictional of course) by announcing, for half the patrons of said establishment to hear:

"You don't want to buy that cheap rubbish, your finger will go through it."

Talk about 'painting a picture!' Bless him. From the mouth of babes (and teens) etc.

At that point I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and that the velvety brand was indeed the best bargain, grabbed the 9-pack and got to the till asap, in record time no less!

So there we go. Just as I envision grandeur and being part of the aristocracy, a Hurley child brings me crashing back to earth.

Oh well. Humility is good for the soul.

Perhaps I should seek an audience with the makers of the velvety option paper and sell them a new slogan, a distinctive style of marketing: "Try Our Velvet Tissue: It's Posh and Your Finger Won't Go Through It."

Could be a USP (Unique Selling Point) they haven't thought of!

We Hurleys are nothing if not forward thinking. Besides which, if a success and the velvety tissue goes viral, we might get a BuckPal invite 'For Services to Industry and Exports' as The Queen (as we all know) doesn't use the loo, she may not see the murky side of the advert campaign, just its multi-billion pound results.

Mission accomplished.

I await a call from the velvety brand makers.

How to Stop Nuisance Callers: Beware the Men in Black

I was walking Patch the Dog (PTD) this morning, as Mrs H who normally does the morning walking duties is away in Caernarfon accompanying our youngest at yet another Urdd National Eisteddfod! It's become almost an annual event that one of our offspring makes it through to the National Eisteddfod (and gets on TV!). And to think I couldn't even get a first prize in my school Eisteddfod!

Anyhoo, there I was walking back to Hurley Towers with PTD, gaily swinging my bag of dog pooh, when I spotted them! In their long dark coats, clutching their files and cases!

You are wondering who they are no doubt. Could it be a Bourne film - are they CIA or MI5 operatives looking to "take down" PTD and I?

No.

Who were the MiB?

Might they be the fabled Men in Black? Would they ask me weird questions (about UFOs and the strange man across the road who seems unkempt, shuffles in his baggy-arsed jeans and is too large for his small car) before wiping my memory?

No.

Might they be debt or rent-collectors, the Rackmans of the 21st Century out to  take my hard-earned money for some outstanding bill overlooked in the chaos of everyday life?

No.

Might they be spies for some enemy agency? Perhaps scouts for Rugby League teams out to bribe me to start supporting strange Northern teams and betray my beloved Wales? Or agents from London Pride or some Burton-on-Trent based brewery out to offer me free beer in return for turning my back on Brains glorious brews?

No.

Perhaps they were secret RSPCA agents out to confiscate my frogs from the pond or the chickens from our run?

No.

Perhaps they were Anglicans out to canvas my support for women priests, pooftahs in the clergy, and to shake my belief in Transubstantiation and the Real Presence?

No.

It was worse.

These were indeed enemy agents in our midst. They would send shivers of fear up the most hardened and resolute spines. As I passed them I saw the literature sticking out of pockets, fists and cases: these were Jehovah's Witnesses! On our Holy soil!

I was rehearsing my speech to them as I continued home and got PTD in. As Mrs H was away I could really let fly without fear of (another) clip around the ear for being just so outspoken.

I gave PTD his treat for (semi) behaving on our walk, and put the kettle on. I am nothing if not cultured. Oh, just in case I should say that I put the bag of dog pooh out the back in our special bin, then washed my hands. I don't want you thinking I act nonchalantly or in a lackadaisical manner when it comes to handling dog faeces! Perish the thought.

I made my tea. I even popped some bread in the toaster. I am nothing if not extravagant with my celebration of life: no dour Presbyterianism in Hurley Towers. No siree.

I waited. sipped tea. And waited. Munched toast. And waited. Gave PTD a crust. And waited... But knock there came none.

The lesson here is clear, for all men of goodwill and anyone who doesn't like CIA-Men in Black-Rackman lookalikes knocking on their door at all hours of the day. And I, in my status at Captain Charitable and Mr. Caring-Sharing 2012 am willing to divulge my secret to you all (fees are discretionary, if you wish to send me a fiver - no problem).

HOW TO STOP JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES KNOCKING AT YOUR DOOR

When you open the door to Jehovah's Witnesses do not:

• Fling it shut
• Say "sorry I'm busy"
• Mumble something and close the door.
• Say "no thank you" politely.

These are fatal errors. They will see you as a "challenge" and mark their little notebooks as such, and try and get you again when they next swing their infernal machinery of proselytising into town. Any of these replies/responses or similar will guarantee you another visit from those promoting error and annoyance.

This is what you have to do. I know because I did it and they have never knocked since:

You ask: When was your church started? They answer (19th Century or some such).

You ask: Do you believe in Jesus Christ? They answer (yes).

You then say: We are Roman Catholics. Our Church was founded by Jesus Christ who made St Peter the first Pope. You are promoting heresy and a false church founded by a conman. Plead forgiveness from God, convert and get to Confession. You are in danger of losing your souls by promoting heresy.

You do all this with a firm, almost stern look on your face so they know you are deadly serious and far from joking.

They will mark you in their book as a 'lost cause' perhaps, or maybe they will view you as dangerous and a possible means to lose some of those they send on their missions to subvert the goodly people of these lands. Either way, it seems they will not send another heretic to your door.

And who knows - when castigating them, your charity may reap some reward by planting the seed of Truth in their minds. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day.

And: you need never fear getting that knock on the door the next time you're in the bath, up a set of ladders, changing a baby's nappy, putting the finishing touches to a great work of art - or otherwise indisposed.

Here endeth the lesson.

A Special Diamond Jubilee Event

Rumour has it that Old Pa Hurley is threatening to open his Diamond Jubilee wallet this weekend.

It's not red, white and blue nor adorned with crowns - it just hasn't been opened for 60 years!

40 Little Friends

It's been another rough day.

I was just starting to think that my/our recent run of bad luck was coming to an end.

The roof was finally fixed after years of problems and recent leaks, holes and storms (rearrange that order if you like).

We are in that pleasant period when the roof is snug and dry but the builders' bill has yet to land.

Anyways, after an 'orrible toothache the antibiotics the dentist prescribed actually worked and even work this week has been (relatively) problem free: a rarity in and of itself!

I should have known I was being dragged into a false sense of security!

My usual outlook is one of, expect the worst and anything else is a bonus. I think I've become pessimistic after being deflated so many times when in a good mood. Sad but true.

Today was a perfect example. Just perking up and then: BHAM! (I mean as in wham or kappow - not shorthand for Birmingham, like Brum).

"We" lost £40. I wont go into details, but the money was misplaced and lost...

Now bear in mind I get upset if I lose £1 or even if I have to break into a tenner. So the loss of £40 was felt very hard.

That'll teach me to have a sunny disposition of an afternoon! A lesson learnt methinks.

I'll be wearing my black armband again tomorrow it seems. Perhaps with the numerals 4 and 0 chalked on it.

I just hope Old Pa Hurley doesn't find out! The shock of such a large loss in the family could see off even the hardiest of octogenarians - even a Battle of Britain veteran like him!

'Ere - Don't You Support Cardiff City Geezer?

What? Me? Support Cardiff City?

No... I'm a Swansea fan me!

(and the cock crowed for the third time).

Will the Barrow Boys roll Over?

Today's the day.

Cardiff City only have to get 3 goals past West Ham. Easy peasy!

It's raining this morning on our little plot in God's own country. I hope this isn't a metaphor for this afternoon's footie.

If Cardiff fail this afternoon I am going to have to organise a Rosary Crusade for next year's campaign! I did get a tweet sent onto me from one good soul saying how he had turned to (Our Lord's kinsman) St Jude, the Patron Saint of lost causes in an effort to gain heaven's help for the Bluebirds.

I fear that short of every single Cardiff player running onto the pitch, dropping to his knees and saying the Nicene Creed in a public display of Faith, Cardiff may well be out on their... erm... ear!

But if you are a Catholic and a Cardiff fan (and why wouldn't you be?) you know that Hope is one of the greatest virtues.

Nil Desperandum dear friends. Just don't look for solace in the form of the Cardiff Blues (for overseas readers: our currently losing-form rugby team).

There's still a few hours, so raise your voices. As you work, travel or potter this morning sing the Hail Mary (in Latin of course- what are you, a liberal?). Who knows...

Dare we dream the impossible? I know there must be a lot of Catholics in East London, but for today let's pretend they're all heretics, heathens and homo's... I know, I know. Just call me Gareth 'Clutching at Straws' Hurley.

Otherwise, if the unthinkable happens and anyone asks me this evening I may be so stressed out I might have to say I'm a Swansea fan (before the cock crows thrice).

Now where's my blue and white jester's hat (the one with the bells on)?

Chickens, Cardiff City, Storm, Holes in Roof and Olympics SAM Defence Systems - Just Another Weekend

Well it's been quite a weekend.

• We finally got some new chickens on Saturday. Unable to get ex-battery hens as last time, we got a selection of breeds at a livestock market, which was a weird mix of salt of the earth farmers, inbreds, middle class welly-wearers, scary men in hunting gear - and us. More news on that (and photo's) soon.
• Cardiff won against Crystal Palace on Saturday so now they're through to the play-offs and with lessened expectations than in the previous two years of play-offs experience, it's not so much a case of "we will win" as it is one of "every stage is a bonus." So it's West Ham as the first team to beat... Bluebirds versus the Hammers. 
• On Sunday the storms hit and on returning from Mass we discovered two small(ish) holes in our roof (and two of our neighbours were similarly afflicted). With more heavy rain forecast for tonight/tomorrow it looks like we'll all need snorkels.
• Poor Dad Hurley (yep, me!) was up in the loft in the cavity betwixt the plasterboard and the brick wall, pushing temporary materials into the holes just to stop the bulk of the water coming in. Lots of dirt, cobwebs and dripping water later... job done. For now.
• Our poor chooks were very bedraggled on only their second day at Hurley Towers. They must have been wondering what they let themselves in for. That plus our last existing ex-battery hen -- the Big Momma of the run -- is bullying a bit, especially when it comes to settling down for the night, getting to the food scraps etc.
• Today we had eggs from the smallest of our new breeds (more info soon!) which is good going. Due to the stress of moving, even the ex-batteries took almost a week to start laying when we first got them (three years ago I think), so just a couple of days with a big bullying mother hen, mixed in with three other chicken breeds (yes, four in total), our newbies are doing pretty well.
• Today we didn't hear from the MoD or the govt about the surface to air missile (SAM) battery to defend the Olympic sites and its placement on our roof. I'm sure this is an oversight, and just so they know for the price of a new roof we'd be happy to oblige. If unsuitable for the SAM battery, perhaps a couple of soldiers could sit up their with binoculars looking out for Al Qaeda baddies? We're easy either way.

Comin' atcha!

And if one of the missiles accidentally goes off and lands on the West Ham training ground, giving the scattering players sprained ankles and a valuable life-lesson in the depredations of football players in Afghanistan and other war-torn regions, well... no real harm done.

Anyhow, life goes on... Patch is snoozing on the settee and breaking wind. Yes, he's quite the social commentator.

It Has All Gone a Bit 1970s

Better than an Alarm Clock!

Poor old SAS Eddie felt a bit of a drip this (Weds.) morning. Literally.

The downpour overnight had weedled its way, like a weedly thing, through our dilapidated roof and was dripping at a worrying rate through his ceiling.

Leaking ceilings, recession, frozen wages, inflation in food, fuel etc.

It's all so very 1970s.

So now we'll have to get our roof fixed - either that or buy Ed a snorkel and change his name to SBS Eddie.

Still, after the boys recent camping with pillows and delivered kebabs this could be divine intervention...

So now the big black rain cloud has dissipated, the only black cloud is the one over my head. As you may know, even the thought of spending money can bring me out in hives ... so the idea of getting the roof re-tiled? Ooh la la!

I think either SBS Eddie will have to get used to his snorkel and flippers, or I shall be wearing a black armband for the next few years.

I wonder if they'd do a minutes silence for me and my wallet before Cardiff's match at Selhurst Park this Saturday?

I may adopt an online silence for a while... The tears welling up in my eyes at the mere thought of breaking the rusted padlock off my wallet is starting to blur my vision even as I tap now.

Those snorkel-cum-flipper sets aren't cheap you know! I may even have to break into a tenner. [sobs uncontrollably].

I wonder if I could train him to hold an umbrella in his sleep?

Dilemma of the Modern World

I woke up this morning and had quite the dilemma (though the Wittertainment chaps say it can also be a dilemna).

I was dog-gone tired, though the dog known as Patch (PTD) had NOT gone and was acting is a bolster, stretched from the pillow region to the knee area, between my good self and Mrs H.

And yet my tummy was making weird little noises, and an aching hunger came upon me, so I knew I needed some sustenance (toast, cereal - some sort of traditional breakfast, I don't like to be revolutionary, especially early in the morning).

So what was I to do? Having not got to sleep until circa 2am I was pooped.

Should I decamp, leaving Mrs H and PTD in their cosy slumber, in the welcoming, all-embracing, cosy folds of the duvet? Could I really thrust a limb out from the warm depths of the bed into the cold air of the room - only to be followed by the rest of my hitherto blissfully toastie-warm body?

Or would I be a coward and decide that a rumbling tumski was a price worth paying for more time snoozing?

In our opulent world, figuratively speaking, this is what comes close to a moral dilemma.

Do I have to get up?

That's what I thought anyway as I turned over gave PTD a scratch on the chin (Mrs H doesn't like her chin being scratched until mid afternoon, a norm in civilised society), and grabbed another 15 minutes drowsy, if hungry, slumber.

I am, if nothing else a coward who fears the cold air of the morning.

Here endeth the lesson.

Except... it did cross my mind that if I were a decadent liberal, a homosexualist trying to rip apart societal norms or just a lazy student, I would probably have some cold half-eaten (even day old) foodstuff to hand and some flat old beer nearby to wash it down with.

So whilst I initially thought that I was being decadent and lazy in turning back into the welcoming warmth of the Hurley bed, I now realise that in not behaving like someone intent on changing the millennial meaning of marriage, and embracing my hunger, I was in fact supporting the struggle of Catholic tradition, general goodness and the centrality of marriage as one man - one woman in society.

And I hadn't even done too much yet! The day could only get better from here on in!