Bubba’s Long Dry Spell…

Well for whatever reason John Howland has decided to reminisce.  He usually only does that (or slurs that) when he’s about ten minutes away from passing out.  What really scares me however is that he has labeled this update part one! I mean who knows what evil lurks in this man’s pickled and demented mind. One can only imagine…

A warning John…be careful what you say. I have your wife’s email address.

ATLANTIC CITY ’86 – Part One.

By the time the 747’s wheels hit the tarmac early evening at JFK, the urge to kill my traveling companion, the NCMD’s General Secretary, Gerald Costello, had somewhat abated. “I’ll get the tickets,” he’d shouted excitedly down the phone a few days earlier.  Okay, that’s great, I thought, and it wasn’t until the Trolley-Dolly came around at 35,000-ft asking what I’d like to drink that I realised the pillock had booked us on a ‘dry’ flight with a certain Middle-Eastern airline. I mean there’s only so much bloody cola you can drink on an eight hour flight, so I settled for a Tonic Water, ice and a slice, pretending it contained a shot of Stolichnaya.  The old boy behind us seemed to be ordering an inordinate amount of 7UP.

Walking back from the toilet to my seat, I noticed the obviously seasoned traveller, in the seat behind Gerald, surreptitiously sipping from a brown paper bag; and I caught a brief flash of the neck of a Jack Daniels bottle.  Bastard!  No wonder he wanted 7UPs. For the rest of the flight every time the paper bag rustled Gerry took a sideways glance at me, shrugged, and mouthed the words, “I didn’t know” somewhat apologetically, like when your beloved forgets to put on the handbrake and your car rolls into Cadillac.

“Some of the people on here look a bit dodgy to me,” Gerald whispers, “Reckon they could be hi-jackers?”

“Arab terrorists don’t hi-jack their own planes, though if they do, you’re gonna be right in the shit,” I snarled.


“Yeah,” I said cruelly, “When they check your passport and see your name. Think about it. Goodnight.”

I was soon in the arms of Morpheus but not so deep as to mask the rustle of the paper bag behind. It was like being staked out by the Comanche’s near to a bucket of water. My thoughts turned to mugging the old boy for the JD, but let them go as I didn’t fancy getting 200 strokes in some Arabian market square, or something equally unspeakable; I was after all on Arab territory.

When I awoke – over the North Pole – and with a mouth drier than a Sheik’s short hairs, my companion was wide-awake, apparently trying to suss out which of the passengers might be a potential hijacker.  Revenge is sweet (but dry). [Note to Dick. That’s why he looked so shagged out when you picked us up at JFK. Ha,ha.]


Mid-evening saw us being chauffeured out of JFK and Noo Joisey bound, having been met by Dick Stout and the fragrant Fay. “You OK with the route, honey?”  Fay purred to hubby Dick. “Yeah, yeah, no sweat.”  We were impressed.

And so it came to pass. That journey from JFK via the Big Apple, to Frenchtown NJ as I recall, has entered into treasure hunting legend. Never before had I realized that New York has two Empire State Buildings, or three squares named ‘Times.’ What a city. We were impressed.

Around midnight we arrived at our motel. It seemed like we’d been driving for hours.  We had been, thanks to Dick’s familiarity of New York City. “Is there anything you guys want?” Says Dick.

“Disregard anything he says,” I says, pointing at Gerald. “Yep, I really need a beer.” Gerald stared down at his shoes.

Opposite was an oriental-themed bar. “I’ll get ‘em in,” I says, stepping up to the bar. “What’ll ya have?” drawls the barman. I resisted the urge to do a Randolph Scott; “Hey, gimme two fingers of Red-Eye and tell Doc Holliday the Limey’s here.”

“A pint of lager and whatever those guys are having.”

“A pint? Pint?”


“We don’t do pints.” Conversation nearby, stopped. People turned in my direction.

“Just find the biggest glass you got and fill it to the brim,” I says.

Up comes a foaming quart, as the barmen sets about serving drinks for Dick, Fay and the dastardly Gerald.  Just as he’d finished setting them up I plonked the empty jug back on the bar…the sweetest beer I’d ever enjoyed. “Same again mate,” I smiled, “Same glass’ll do.”

The guy sitting at the bar nibbling nuts gently moved away.  He wanted no part of a guy who drinks beer twice from the same jug.

Conversation resumed all round, with obvious relief that the guy who drinks from the bucket ain’t a psycho.  Well I was wearing a tie after all, and I am English.

The penny dropped and my new pal, the barman, smiled knowingly…“OK. Right-on! You’re an Australian!”

Stay tuned for part two (I guess)


“I did a gig in the U.S. for the homeless. I said ‘It’s nice to see so many bums on seats.’” – Jimmy Carr



ChefJohnIn the days when the sun never set on the British Empire and you colonial rebel Johnnies along with that Washington chap bent their knee in obedience to the British Crown (let’s hear it for King George, Hurrah! Hurrah!) and well before you expatriate scallywags chucked all that tea overboard at Boston, we Brits were already developing sophisticated palates with hot and spicy grub imported from our lands in India, then under governance of the British Raj.

Curry was king and of a kind that makes so-called Tex/Mex chili a poor relation not to mention knocking it into a cocked hat. If you yearn for heat and fire…have a go at this if you think you’re hard (or stoopid) enough.

This Chicken curry recipe from Madras (also known as Ghandi’s Revenge for reasons that might become obvious early on the following morning) should do the biz…

You’ll need:

  • 4 chicken breasts, one per person!
  • 3 tablespoons vegetable oil
  • 2 onions, peeled and finely chopped
  • 2 cm block of fresh root ginger, peeled and grated
  • 3 garlic cloves peeled and finely chopped. Sea salt and black pepper
  • 454g tin of chopped tomatoes
  • 300ml water
  • 1 teaspoon of garam masala
  • Chopped fresh coriander (cilantro) as a final garnish
  • 4 red chillies, chopped (with seeds)
  • 2 teaspoons of ground cumin
  • 1 teaspoon of ground coriander
  • 1 teaspoon of ground turmeric
  • 3 teaspoons (or more) hot chilli powder, to taste (depending on your masochistic tendencies)
  • 8 curry leaves
  • Juice of half a lemon


Cut the chicken into strips or cubes and put aside. Heat the oil and add the onions and cook until they start to soften which will be about 5 or 6 minutes. Once the onions have started to brown add the chillies, the garlic and ginger and cook for a further 3 minutes. Then add the turmeric, cumin, coriander, curry leaves and chilli powder and leave to cook for a further minute or so.

In that time, season the chicken you set aside earlier with the salt and pepper and add to the pan and cook stirring the pan until the chicken begins to go golden brown all over.

At this stage you’ll want to add the water and the chopped tomatoes and then bring to boil. Once the pan is boiling, reduce the heat to a simmer and cover the pan stirring every so often. Let it simmer for about 30-minutes and add more water as needed if it begins to stick or the sauce becomes too dry – remember to stir well if you do need to add water. At the end of the 30-minutes, stir in the garam masala and leave uncovered for another 10-minutes, again taking care not to let it dry out.

When the cooking’s finished and you’re ready to serve the chicken madras, garnish with a handful of coriander (cilantro) leaves, and serve with boiled rice, naan bread, or chapatti.

Remember the Rules: With curry it’s water always, cold beer sometimes, and wine NEVER!




….your sweetie says, “Let’s go upstairs and make love,” and you answer, “Honey, I can’t do both!”

….your friends compliment you on your new alligator shoes and you’re barefoot..

….the porn you bring home is “Debby Does Dialysis.

….a sexy babe catches your fancy and your pacemaker opens the garage door nearest your car.

…..you remember when the Dead Sea was only sick.

….you don’t care where your spouse goes, just as long as you don’t have to go along.

….when it takes longer to rest than to get tired.

….when you are cautioned to slow down by the doctor instead of by the police.

….”getting a little action” means I don’t need to take any fiber today.

….”getting lucky” means you find your car in the parking lot.

…. an “all-nighter” means not getting up to pee!

…….Statistics show that at the age of seventy, there are five women to every man. Isn’t that an ironic time for a guy to get those odds?



A snake and a rabbit were racing along a pair of intersecting forest pathways one day, when they collided at the point where the pathways meet. They immediately began to argue with one another as to who was at fault for the mishap. When the snake remarked that he had been blind since birth, and thus should be given additional leeway, the rabbit said that he, too, had been blind since birth. The two animals then forgot about the collision and began commiserating concerning the problems of being blind.

The snake said that his greatest regret was the loss of his identity. He had never been able to see his reflection in water, and for that reason did not know exactly what he looked like, or even what he was. The rabbit declared that he had the same problem. Seeing a way that they could help each other, the rabbit proposed that one feel the other from head to toe, and then try to describe what the other animal was. The snake agreed, and started by winding himself around the rabbit. After a few moments, he announced, “You’ve got very soft, fuzzy fur, long ears, big rear feet, and a little fuzzy ball for a tail.  I think that you must be a bunny rabbit!”

The rabbit was much relieved to find his identity, and proceeded to return the favor to the snake. After feeling about the snake’s body for a few minutes, he asserted, “Well, you’re scaly, you’re slimy, you’ve got beady little eyes, you squirm and slither all the time, and you’ve got a forked tongue. I think you’re an arkie.”


Consider the first rule of archaeology:-

“Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as you please”….Mark Twain


I’ll see y’all in the bar!



Filed under Metal Detecting

3 responses to “Bubba’s Long Dry Spell…

  1. jamie

    LOL. Looking forward to part 2.

  2. RoyR

    I bet part two will be a hoot.

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