Good restaurants want to keep vermin out – and there’s no reason to exempt squawking rug-rats

If the Grumbles wanted to put up with a noise like this they would sit in on a Labour caucus meeting.

Internet storm-troopers have flocked together to strike another blow against civilized and decent dining.

Using the power of the mob, they have bombarded a Canadian restaurant with “hate and threats” after it made
the highly proper decision to ban “small screaming children” from its premises.

The restaurant is the Lobster Pound and Moore, in Nova Scotia.

Alf and Mrs Grumble were musing on flying to Nova Scotia just to reward the restaurant owners with their custom on learning from The Independent of the high standards they set.

We imagined they similarly banned lefties and greenies for the same civilizing reasons, although this is surmise.

The restaurant signalled its worthy attempt to attract customers who like to dine in a sprog-free zone on its Facebook page.

It posted a message that enticingly said:

“Effective as of now, we will no longer allow small screaming children.

“We are an adult themed restaurant that caters to those who are out to enjoy themselves. We understand this may upset some, but after careful consideration, we feel it’s best for those who enjoy, appreciate and understand our business.”

But mindless mums and  Facebook fascists soon struck back.

It’s just an idea to help pay off those fines – why not export surplus moggies as tucker for the Swiss?

Hold on, son … we should cook it first.

Alf has some advice for an Invercargill woman who has been given 21 days to dispose of 22 of the cats at her city home.

She would be doing our export drive a favour if she takes this advice, which is to slaughter the cats and ship them off to a country where the people fancy making a meal of a moggy.

The woman is Averil Gardiner.

A district court judge has found charges against her proved.

If we oldies can get to bed at a respectable hour, there’s no need for pubs to stay open until dawn

Alf observes with some fascination the goings-on about boozing hours in Wellington.

The rejection of Wellington City Council plans for bar hours has implications for councils in other parts of the country. Hence it may affect the Tararua District Council’s thinking on what is allowable in its patch, and this in turn would affect Alf’s lifestyle.

This means that councils across the county (according to Radio NZ) may struggle to enforce any policies allowing bars to stay open beyond 4am.

Alf can advise his constituents (who are well aware of his habits, anyway) that his lifestyle certainly would not be affected by any requirement for pubs to shut by 4am, because at that hour he has long ago gone home to snuggle down with Mrs Grumble or (sometimes) be put to bed in the spare room.

 

Surly to bed, surly to rise – and you can blame it on a gene that affects your serotonin

Alf is often accused of being a grumpy old bugger.

But the paint could be covering up his grumpy gene.

It transpires he was born that way.

He has learned this today from an account of some  work by scientists at Warwick University who have discovered the gene responsible for serotonin levels in the brain is responsible for setting one’s mood.

The shorter the gene, the lower the levels of the mood-enhancing hormone.

The longer the gene the higher the levels of serotonin, and so people are happier.

Danes are found to be happiest, and they happen to have the longest form of the gene.

People in France are most miserable, with the shortest form of the gene.

And then there were the two gays – sorry, guys – who showed NZ what equality is all about

Alf and his mates have been chuckling at news of a Dunedin couple’s wedding plans and the hostile reaction from gays.

Travis McIntosh and Matt McCormick, a couple of Dunedin blokes, will marry tomorrow.

These nuptials are just what gay groups should be welcoming, you might think. Out with the champagne – pink, of course – to celebrate.

After all, they campaigned bloody hard to have our law changed to enable same-sex marriages (which required them to overcome the staunch resistance of true-blue conservatives like Alf).

Shoplifter was obviously intent on rumpy-pumpy – but what would he have done with the gum?

Please make sure you don’t arouse the neighbours…

The Grumbles long ago realised they had led sheltered rural lives, when it comes to engaging in anything much beyond the missionary position in the bedroom (and never anywhere else).

Alf did attempt something suggested by the Kama Sutra on one memorable occasion.

But he finished up with his limbs in such a knot, requiring the disentangling skills of good and very discrete neighbours, that he never again departed from the technique with which he is familiar.

Not even the suggestions to be found in Shades of Grey (according to Mrs Grumble) could dissuade him that novelty when indulging in nooky is best avoided.

For starters, the position pictured here seems awfully wrong because it requires the feller to perform in a suit.

When partying takes precedence over being saved from floodwaters – well, just leave them to it

The Grumbles were fascinated by news that rescuers trying to save people at a house party deluged by floodwaters in the Far North were abused by those they were trying to help.

They were given the brush-off in a place called Haruru, where a woman was swept to her death by the floods.

According to this report in the NZ Herald:

Nobody had been stampeding to settle in Invercargill – but did you know shifting there might kill you?

No, not Siberia … it’s Invercargill’s Eastern Cemetery where Stewart Islanders prematurely finish up.

The Grumbles have never contemplated retiring to anywhere but good old Eketahuna.

If they were to move, it would be to somewhere more agreeable than Invercargill, which finished up at the bottom of a very long list the Grumbles prepared last night (it included Baghdad, Damascus and Aleppo).

Their aversion to heading for Inverargill has been fortified by a dismaying revelation about what happens to people who do move there, presumably because of desperation.

Fieldays are said to be a foodies’ delight – but that’s what they were in the days of the mince pie

No Michelin stars here … but the foodies were well nourished.

As Alf’s hoed into his early-morning fry-up of bacon, eggs, chips and what-have-you, his attention was drawn to an NZ Herald headline that said…

Fieldays now a foodie’s delight

Just how delighted Alf might be is a moot point, because the report proceeded to regale him with an unappetising account of gourmet produce and cooking demos that apparently are turning the agri-expo into much more than just farming technology.

Alf does not regard himself as a gourmet and has a certain disdain for tossers who profess to be a cut above the rest of us when it comes to tucker.

The Herald’s report was letting readers know that Fieldays starts today at Mystery Creek with more than 900 exhibitors on 1380 sites across 50ha. This makes the four-day farming event the biggest of its type in the Southern Hemisphere.

But the Herald’s hack then said:

There’s something awfully queer about the maths when three politicians are viewed as a queue

It’s not for Alf…but pinkos will enjoy Sydney’s Mardi Gras.

It looks like Stuff has dumped a load of bollocks on its hapless readers.

Its headline writer is telling us (and he, she or it must be struggling to keep a straight face) Politicians flock to Big Gay Out.

Stuff proceeds to say Auckland’s annual Big Gay Out plans to be more extravagant than usual –

and, being an election year, politicians are queuing up to attend.

Are they really?