11.02 pm Saturday

Just in the nick of Time!

Will I Never Learn?

Not only is my brother Mr.Moses Odiaka, which if you read yesterday's post, you will know I cottoned on to, but it turns out he was Victor Hababibi  as well, which I didn't suspect at all.

Just call me Miss. Gullible *sigh*.  It didn't even click when we were talking about it last night, until waaay into the conversation and he didn't actually tell me at first because he thought I knew.  Double d'oh!  Of course that made it even funnier.  I really should know better.  He has been playing these kind of tricks all my life.  He once got a friend of his to ring me up pretending to be a head office manager of the sweet shop I worked in at the time.  The friend, who's voice I should have recognised, proceeded to tell me that they had found teeth marks in some of the chocolates in my shop, and as they had matched them to my dental records, I was in BIG trouble.  I was indignant and stuttering denials before I recognised the voice.  So, I would just like to say, well done John, you got me...again and gave me one of the best laughs I've ever had. 

Hmmm... I suspect my Brother!

Further to yesterday's post I have received the following and I am laughing so hard that Coca-Cola is coming down both my nostrils and I will have to collect it with a spoon. (See what I did there Joe & Jess?)
I strongly suspect my lovely brother has had a hand in this - at least I hope so, as the alternative is a little scary.  And if it is true, as I heard the other week, that a good laugh adds seven minutes to your life, then surely this laugh is going to see me well into my nineties!

Dear Elephant Fairy,

My name is Mr.Moses Odiaka.I work in the credit and accounts department of Union Bank of NigeriaPlc,Lagos, Nigeria. I write you in respect of a foreign customer with a Domicilliary account. His name is Victor Hababibi. He was among those who died in a plane crash here in Nigeria this morning.

Since the demise of this our customer, we have had to go through his belongings and have found only your name and details. He had only $100.5 mllion in his a/c and the a/c is coded.

As you are the only name in his belonging you now stand as the only beneficary to his funds. In order to release the funds I just need a small payment of £120. If you are uncomfortable with giving me your bank details I can get my good friend Daniel Wakajawaka-Dandada to call at your address. He is currently in the UK studying at the university of woodplumpton.

Kindly send your reply to my private email address mosesodig1@hotmail.com

Trusting to hear from you,

I remain Respectfully yours,

Mr Moses Odiaka.

Good Grief!

I received the following as a comment on one of my blog posts the other day.  I'm still laughing.
Enjoy, and see my reply underneath ( I didn't actually send it because I'M NOT STUPID!)

-----------------------------

Victor Hababibi has left a new comment on your post "Now that's what I call Knitting!": 


I like your knitting project it amusing very to me. But I have a small problem, maybe help me you can?
I am a personal treasurer to Mikhail Khodorkovsky the Richest man in Russia and owner of the following companies: Chairman CEO:YUKOS OIL (Russian Largest Oil Company) Chairman CEO:Menatep SBP Bank (A well reputable financial institution with its Branches all over the world)
SOURCE OF FUNDS:
I have a profiling amount in an excess of US$100.5M, which I seek your Partnership in accommodating for me. You will be rewarded with 4% of The total sum for your partnership. Can you be my partner on this?
INTRODUCTION OF MY SELF As a personal consultant to him, authority Was handed over to me in transfer of money of an American oil merchant For his last oil deal with my boss Mikhail Khodorkovsky.
In order to help release your part of the funds I just need a Postal Order for £60. If you agree please email me all your bank details to victor.hababibi@hotmail.com 

Dear Victor


Although I have never heard of you or your boss Mr. Khodorkovsky, I am very touched that you would be willing to allow me, a total stranger to share in your good fortune. However I have a small problem.  Perhaps you can help me with it.  I'm afraid I do not have the £60 you require from me to get this wonderful partnership under way.  So if you could just advance me Ooo, say £300 of my share, then I will be able to send you the £60 Postal Order and give myself a little treat while I await the rest of my funds.
Thank you so much for your understanding in this matter.  My bank details are below

Sort Code:         B-u-g-g-e-r-O-f-f

Account No:       Y-o-u-H-a-v-e-G-o-t-T-o-B-e-K-i-d-d-i-n-g-M-e

Bank Address:   Not as Gullible As You Think Building Society

I'm no Sucker Lane

Gullible

Fairy Land

                          

Anyone for Tennis?

Yay! it's Wimbledon fortnight... I love Wimbledon, as much for the tradition as for the tennis.

My only problem is actually getting to see the matches I want to watch.  Not because I'm not there, or they are not televised... no, it's worse than that.  For example, I sat down to watch Andy Murrey play his first round march against Nikolay Davydenko and (Oh! The shame of it) woke up just in time to see Murrey play the winning shot.  Short of turning to narcotics, I don't know what to do.  It doesn't seem to matter whether I'm tired or not.  These days if I want to see something all the way through, I have to half watch it while I'm on the computer.  Is it my age?  Did I tell you I'm 50 this year?

This is a tenous tenuous connection to the subject at hand, except for the first two lines including the word tennis, but this is one of my favourite, favourite, favourite songs ever.  I have put the lyrics below the video, so you can sing along and please do.... loud enough so that I can hear you from here if you don't mind.  Thanks very much.

Now, go watch it, go on, scoot, and Annonymous if you are there, if you fancy playing this for me on my birthday, I'll love you even more than I already do.

Dennis is a menace
With his "Anyone for tennis?"
And he'd beseech me to come keep the score
And Maude said, "Oh Lord, I'm so terribly bored"
I really can't stand it anymore...

I'm going...out to dinner
With a gorgeous singer
To a little place I found
Down by the key

Her name is Patricia
She calls herself delicia
And the reason isn't
Very hard to see

She said, God made her a sinner
Just to keep fat men thinner
As they tumble down in heaps
Before her feet

They hang around in groups
Like battle weary troops
One can often see them
Queue right down the street

You see, Patricia Or Delicia
Not only is a singer
She also removes all her clothing

For Patricia
Is the best stripper in town...

And with a swing of her hips
She started to strip
To tremendous applause
She took of her drawers

And with a lick of her lips
She undid all her clips
And threw it all in the air
And everybody stared

And as the last piece of clothing
Fell to the floor
The police were banging on the door
On a Saturday night
In 1924

Take it away boys...

Well, Patricia was arrested
And everyone detested
The terrible manner in which
she was exposed

Later on in court
where everyone thought
A summer's run in jail
would be proposed..

But the judge said Patricia
Or may I say Delicia
The facts of this case lie before me
(knock, knock, knock)
Case dismissed...
This girl was in her working clothes...

And with a swing of her hips
She started to strip
To tremendous applause
She took of her drawers

And with a lick of her lips
She undid all her clips
Threw it all in the air
And everybody stared

And as the last piece of clothing
Fell to the floor
The police were yelling out for more (more)
On a Saturday night
In 1924

Now that's what I call Knitting!

Knitting has never been my friend, I couldn't cast on, I couldn't understand the patterns and I found it very very boring.  I did start a matinee jacket once for a friend's new baby but I've not finished it yet and the baby is twenty-four this year.  However, I might have tried harder if Yarnbombing had been about then, how cool is this?

and this....

....and this

I think I might have managed the cute little tree sweater, with a bit of help.

Yarnbombing is graffiti art for knitters and they often cover the objects in question during the night. One lady spent an entire week covering a disused single decker bus in colourful swatches of her work.  This strange but beautiful hobby is thought to have been started in America by a shop owner who was bored one day and decided to knit a little cover for her door handle.

Now then, who's going to cast on for me?

Memories

I have learnt in the last few years, when as a family we start to reminisce, that my memories of the past are not always the same as everyone else's.  A case in point is the story of how and when we got our first colour television.  This is the way I remember it.  It was 1973 and Princess Anne was due to get married on November 14th, Mum was expecting Tricia and she wanted to be able to watch the wedding in colour so.... we got a colour TV.  The irony was that Tricia was a very late baby and Mum was in hospital and had to watch it on a black and white set with the rest of the new Mums.  Now if you ask my Dad or my Brother about this, they will tell you a completely different story (which I can't remember no matter how many times I'm told as my version is completely ingrained in my mind).

So when I tell you stories from the past, they may or may not be correct but what the heck, it's how I remember stuff!

When I was born, we lived in a flat on Lincoln Road which I don't remember at all, and then we moved to a house on Windsor Close which I do remember a little.  My brother was born when we lived there, which is also fixed in my memory.  I thought he was very clever you see, because he brought with him a present for me, a little patent handbag with fur on one side...which I'd had my eye on for a while.  How did he know? On this basis alone I decided he could stay.  I don't know if he knows how close he came to being returned to sender but the handbag saved him, and fortunately it proved to be a wise decision.

Another memory problem, is when you are told a story from your childhood so many times, you think you remember it.  My Grandad used to tell me that once when he took me to the park, I got my head stuck in the railings so he went home with a duck under his arm instead.  Now while this is a very amusing story (except perhaps for the poor duck who was just quacking along minding it's own business) and I sort of feel like I half remember it, this can't possibly be true...can it?  I'll have to enquire about that....Hmmm!


Grandad also told me that when I was very little and in my playpen, I shuffled the whole thing over to the window ledge, reached up and pulled his tobacco pouch down and started to eat the contents.  I can only imagine the look on my face when they found me!


Another event that is so clear in my mind it could have been yesterday, happened when I was about nine and my brother was six.  We were playing behind the settee where Dad kept the enormous barrel of beer he was brewing - I'm sure the next bit is different in my brother's memory - but the way I recall it, he climbed up onto the big plastic barrel and over it went... oh dear, the living room was awash with half brewed beer and hoo ha ensued.  We were both banished to our rooms for the rest of our lives.  My brother was actually paroled for the afternoon to go to his best friends birthday party because it would have been unfair on his friend....  never been sure about that one.  Mind you it might have all been my fault in the first place, I probably egged him on to climb that beer barrel mountain.  I've conveniently forgotten that bit.

Dear Lesley

If you look in the third cupboard along in the kitchen, on the second shelf, right at the back behind the doodads, just next to the thingymabobs and under the whozits, you should find some.

Love Tracey x

Goldilocks and the Three Bears - Roald Dahl

This famous wicked little tale
Should never have been put on sale
It is a mystery to me
Why loving parents cannot see
That this is actually a book
About a brazen little crook
Had I the chance I wouldn’t fail
To clap young Goldilocks in jail
Now just imagine how you’d feel
If you had cooked a lovely meal
Delicious porridge, steaming hot
Fresh coffee in the coffee-pot
With maybe toast and marmalade
The table beautifully laid
One place for you and one for Dad
Another for your little lad
Then Dad cries, “Golly-gosh! Gee whizz!
Oh cripes! How hot this porridge is,
Let’s take a walk along the street
Until it’s cool enough to eat.”
He adds, “An early morning stroll
Is good for people on the whole
It makes your appetite improve
It also helps your bowels to move.”
No proper wife would dare to question
Such a sensible suggestion
Above all not at breakfast time
When men are seldom at their prime.

No sooner are you down the road
Than Goldilocks, that little toad
That nosey thieving little louse
Comes sneaking in your empty house
She looks around, she quickly notes
Three bowls brimful of porridge oats
And while still standing on her feet
She grabs a spoon and starts to eat
I say again, how would you feel
If you had made this lovely meal
And some delinquent little tot
Broke in and gobbled up the lot?

But wait! That’s not the worst of it
Now comes the most depressing bit
You are of course a houseproud wife
And all your happy married life
You have collected lovely things
Like guilded cherubs wearing wings
And furniture by Chippendale
Bought at some famous auction sale
But your most special valued treasure
The piece that gives you endless pleasure
Is one small children’s dining-chair
Elizabethan, very rare
It is in fact your joy and pride
Passed down to you on grandma’s side
But Goldilocks, like many freaks
Does not appreciate antiques
She doesn’t care, she doesn’t mind
And now she plomks her fat behind
Upon this dainty precious chair
And crunch! It bursts beyond repair
A nice girl would at once exclaim
“Oh dear! Oh heavens! What a shame.”
Not Goldilocks, she begins to swear
She bellows, “What a lousy chair.”
And used one disgusting word
That luckily you’ve never heard
(I dare not write it, even hint it
Nobody would ever print it) 

You’d think by now this little skunk
Would have the sense to do a bunk
But no, I very much regret
She hasn’t nearly finished yet
Deciding she would like a rest
She says, “Let’s see which bed is best.”
Upstairs she goes and tries all three
(Here comes the next catastrophe)
Most educated people choose
To rid themselves of socks and shoes
Before they clamber into bed
But Goldie didn’t give a shred
Her filthy shoes were thick with grime
And mud and mush and slush and slime
Worse still, upon the heel of one
Was somehting that a dog had done
I say once more, what would you think
If all this horrid dirt and stink
Was smeared upon your eiderdown
By this revolting little clown
(The famous story has no clues
To show the girl removed her shoes)
Oh what a tale of crime on crime
Let’s check it for a second time.

Crime one, the prosecution’s case
She breaks and enters someone’s place.

Crime two, the prosecutor notes
She steals a bowl of porridge oats.

Crime three, she breaks a precious chair
Belonging to the Baby Bear.

Crime four, she smears each spotless sheet
With filthy messes from her feet.

A judge would say without a blink
“Ten years hard labour in the clink.”
But in the book, as you will see
The little beast gets off Scot-free
While tiny children near and far
Shout, “Goody-good! Hooray! Hurrah!
Poor Darling Goldilocks,” they say,
“Thank goodness that she got away.”

Myself, I think I’d rather send
Young Goldie to a sticky end
“Oh Daddy” cried the Baby Bear
“My porridge gone, it isn’t fair!”
“Then go upstairs,” the Big Bear said
“Your porridge is upon the bed
But as it’s inside mademoiselle
You’ll have to eat her up as well.”

A Very British Obsession

Looks like we are having another drought!!

What is it with the weather?  A couple of weeks ago the sun was cracking the flags, people were stripping off to reveal pasty pale legs and wobbly midriffs; even I undid a button on my cardigan and took my socks off.

I remember when there were four definate seasons in a year.  In winter it was cold, it rained a lot and it snowed.  Spring was fresh and pretty.  Summer was hot and bright and Autumn was cool and colourful.  Now it's anybodies guess from one week to the next.  Leaving the house is a nightmare, you need an umbrella, suncream, snowshoes, a winter coat and your bikini just to be on the safe side.  Notice I said your bikini, not my bikini, I just undo another button on my cardigan.

In 1976, one of the hottest summers ever, while you lot were basking in the English sun, I was in France in the rain, so much rain that we nearly drowned on a boat trip as the canoe type boats filled up very quickly.  It was my first and last school trip, I knew I should have gone skiing.

So once again we are enmeshed in a very British Summer where rain will stop play all over the place, or it will be too hot to leave the house or the wind will blow your umbrella inside out while you get pelted with rain that steams as it hits the hot pavements.  At least it's not boring.  Imagine living somewhere where it is too cold all the time; the far reaches of Alaska perhaps, or somewhere where it is too hot all the time; Queensland, Australia anyone? No?  Me neither.... 
        

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs - Roald Dahl

When little Snow-White’s mother died
The King, her father, up and cried
“Oh, what a nuisance! What a life!
Now I must find another wife.”
(It’s never easy for a King
To find himself that sort of thing.)
He wrote to every magazine
And said, “I’m looking for a Queen.”
At least ten thousand girls replied
And begged to be the royal bride
The king said with a shifty smile
“I’d like to give each one a trial.”
However, in the end he chose
A lady called Miss Maclahose
Who brought along a curious toy
That seemed to give her endless joy.
This was a mirror framed in brass
A MAGIC TALKING LOOKING GLASS
Ask it something day or night
It always got the answer right
For instance, if you were to say
“Oh Mirror, what’s for lunch today?”
The thing would answer in a trice
“Today it’s scrambled eggs and rice.”
Now every day, week in week out
The spoiled and stupid Queen would shout
“Oh Mirror Mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?”
The Mirror answered every time
“Oh Madam, you’re the Queen sublime
You are the only one to charm us
Queen, you are the cat’s pyjamas.”

For ten whole years the silly Queen
Repeated this absurd routine
Then suddenly, one awful day
She heard the Magic Mirror say
“From now on Queen, you’re number two
Snow-White is prettier than you.”
The Queen went absolutely wild
She yelled, “I’m going to scrag that child.”
“I’ll cook her flaming goose, I’ll skin her
I’ll have her rotten guts for dinner.”
She called the Huntsman to her study
She shouted at him, “Listen, buddy,
You drag that filthy girl outside
And see you take her for a ride
Thereafter slit her ribs apart
And bring me back her bleeding heart.”
The Huntsman dragged the lovely child
Deep deep into the forest wild
Fearing the worst, poor Snow-White spake
She cried, “Oh please give me a break.”
The knife was poised, the arm was strong
She cried again, “I’ve done no wrong.”
The Huntsman’s heart began to flutter
It melted like a pound of butter.
He murmured, “Okay, beat it, kid.”
And you can bet your life she did
Later, the Huntsman made a stop
Within the local butcher’s shop
And there he bought, for safety’s sake
A bullocks heart and one nice steak
“Oh Majesty! Oh Queen,” he cried
“That rotten little girl has died.
And just to prove I didn’t cheat
I’ve brought along these bits of meat.”
The Queen cried out, “Bravissimo
I trust you killed her nice and slow.”
Then (this is the disgusting part)
The Queen sat down and ate the heart
(I only hope she cooked it well
Boiled heart can be as tough as hell)

While all this was going on
Oh where, oh where had Snow-White gone?
She’d found it easy, being pretty
To hitch a ride into the city
And there she’d got a job, unpaid
As general cook and parlour-maid
With seven funny little men
Each one not more than three foot ten
Ex horse-race jockeys, all of them
These seven dwarfs, though awfully nice
Were guilty of one shocking vice
They squandered all of their resources
At the race-track backing horses
(When they hadn’t backed a winner
None of them got any dinner)
One evening, Snow-White said, “Look here,
I think I’ve got a great idea
Just leave it all to me, okay,
And no more gambling till I say.”
That very night, at eventide
Young Snow-White hitched another ride
And then, when it was very late
She slipped in through the Palace gate
The King was in his counting house
Counting out his money
The Queen was in the parlour
Eating bread and honey
The footmen and the servants slept
So no one saw her as she crept
On tip-toe through the mighty hall
And grabbed THE MIRROR off the wall

As soon as she had got it home
She told the Senior Dwarf (or Gnome)
To ask it what he wished to know
“Go on,” she shouted, “Have a go.”
He said, “Oh Mirror, please don’t joke
Each of us is stony broke
Which horse will win tomorrow’s race,
The Ascot Gold Cup Steeple-chase?”
The Mirror whispered sweet and low
“The horse’s name is Mistletoe.”
The Dwarfs went absolutely daft
They kissed young Snow-White fore and aft
Then rushed away to raise some dough
With which to back old Mistletoe
They pawned their watches, sold the car
They borrowed money near and far
(For much of it they had to thank
The Manager of Barclays Bank)

They went to Ascot and of course
For once they backed the winning horse
Thereafter, every single day
The Mirror made the bookies pay
Each Dwarf and Snow-White got a share
And each was soon a millionaire
Which shows that gambling’s not a sin
Provided that you always win.

My Special Power

I think I have a gift!  Yesterday I sat on a bench to wait for a bus and a lady started talking to me before my bum had even made contact with the seat. She started by telling me that she liked my top whilst rubbing the fabric between her fingers.  Aw, how sweet you're thinking.....  then she asked me if I had trouble getting clothes to fit me!  I suppose I should be grateful that she didn't just look at me and say "My, you're awfully fat dear".  We then proceeded through the entire back catalogue of every pair of shoes she had ever bought.  No, I don't know why either, we started off on blouses for goodness sake.  Eventually her bus came and she trotted away.  Quick as a whippet, a grizzled, gnarly old fella took her place and extracted his grubby tobacco tin from the depths of his trouser pocket.  We then had a ten minute conversation about the state of the buses while he rolled himself a cigarette.  See, it's a gift; they swarm to me like bees on a particularly tasty flower.  Now if I could just turn this power towards men aged between forty and fifty with lots of money and bad eyesight........

Weather Forecast!

INSTALLING SUMMER..... ███████████████░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ 45% DONE. Installation failed. 404 error: Season not valid in UK

The Three Little Pigs - Roald Dahl

The animal I really dig

Above all others is the pig.

Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,

Pigs are courteous, however,

Now and then, to break this rule,

One meets a pig who is a fool.

What, for example, would you say

If strolling through the woods one day,

Right there in front of you, you saw

A pig who'd built his house of STRAW?

The Wolf who saw it licked his lips,

And said, "that pig has had his chips.'' 

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!''

"No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!''

"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'' 

The little pig began to pray,

But Wolfie blew his house away.

He shouted, "bacon, pork and ham!

Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!''

And though he ate the pig quite fast,

He carefully kept the tail till last.

Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated.

Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted

Another little house for pigs,

And this one had been built of TWIGS! 

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!''

"No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!''

"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'' 

The Wolf said, "Okay, here we go!''

He then began to blow and blow.

The little pig began to squeal.

He cried, "Oh Wolf, you've had one meal!

Why can't we talk and make a deal?"

The Wolf replied, "Not on your nelly!''

And soon the pig was in his belly.

"Two juicy little pigs!'' Wolf cried,

"But still I'm not quite satisfied!

I know how full my tummy's bulging,

But oh, how I adore indulging.''

So creeping quietly as a mouse,

The Wolf approached another house,

A house which also had inside

A little piggy trying to hide.

But this one, Piggy Number Three,

Was bright and brainy as could be. 

No straw for him, no twigs or sticks.

This pig had built his house of BRICKS.

"You'll not get me!'' the Piggy cried.

"I'll blow you down!'' the Wolf replied.

"You'll need,'' Pig said, "a lot of puff,

And I don't think you've got enough.''

Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew.

The house stayed up as good as new.

"If I can't blow it down,'' Wolf said,

I'll have to blow it up instead.

I'll come back in the dead of night

And blow it up with dynamite!''

Pig cried, "You brute! I might have known!''

Then, picking up the telephone,

He dialed as quickly as he could

The number of Red Riding Hood.

"Hello,'' she said. "Who's speaking? Who?

Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?''

Pig cried, "I need your help, Miss Hood!

Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?''

"I'll try of course,'' Miss Hood replied.

"What's on your mind...?'' "A Wolf!'' Pig cried.

"I know you've dealt with wolves before,

And now I've got one at my door!''

"My darling Pig,'' she said, "my sweet,

That's something really up my street.

I've just begun to wash my hair.

But when it's dry, I'll be right there.''

A short while later, through the wood,

Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood.

The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze

And yellowish, like mayonnaise.

His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw,

And spit was dripping from his jaw.

Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers.

She draws the pistol from her knickers.

Once more she hits the vital spot,

And kills him with a single shot.

Pig, peeping through the window, stood

And yelled, "Well done, Miss Riding Hood!'' 

Ah, Piglet, you must never trust

Young ladies from the upper crust.

For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes,

Not only has two wolfskin coats,

But when she goes from place to place

She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELLING CASE. 

Queenie's Party Concert

Judging by this 'Morning After' picture, the Queen had a jolly good time at her Diamond Jubilee concert!!!

The concert on Monday night was a spectacular event.  The highlights for me were Sir Tom Jones (who is one of few artists who can sing live). 

...and Madness on the roof of Buckingham Palace.  The way the Palace was used as a backdrop was brilliant, utilizing the whole building instead of just parts of it.

I was very disappointed in Cliff Richard, he seemed way out of tune to me and chose a poor selection of songs. Elton John sounded like he should have been resting his voice, he was a bit gruff.

The Queen arrived at 9pm just after Tom Jones had sung.  Hmmm, wonder if she planned it that way? Then she and we were treated to the Jubilee anthem written especially for the event by Gary Barlow and Lord Lloyd Webber.... try saying that after a few glasses of celebratory champagne. Hic! The song is called 'Sing' and features the Military Wives Choir, the African Children's Choir and their soloist Lydia.  The recorded version also features Prince Harry on the tambourine but unfortunately he did not take part on stage.

Kylie brightened the place up a bit dressed in her Pearly Queen outfit.

Grace Jones was her usual very strange self, shouting Happy Birthday as she was leaving the stage.  Yes dear, we know it's nearly Lizzie's official birthday but that wasn't why you were there.

Where would a party be without Peter Kay in fancy dress.  He played a blinder as usual when he introduced the headline act of Paul McCartney.

After the concert some of the Royals gathered on the stage were Prince Charles gave a heartfelt speech in honor of his Mother and urged us to wish his Father a speedy recovery, which the crowd did by chanting Philip, Philip....

and finally after the Queen had lit the last of the four thousand beacons to commemorate the special occasion, we had fireworks.

Hopefully the poor exhausted Monarch finally got to put her feet up and give Philip a call to ask what he thought of the concert. To which I'm sure his reply would have been "Too bloody noisy for me old girl".