I woke up after three and a half hours sleep believing I had a collapsed lung.
I didn’t.
I had a cat sat on my back, staring at me.
It has been a shitty, wet horrible day and I’ve managed to stay in doors thanks to Sassy picking up my smokes for me.
Even with that, I have managed to commit a social faux pas without leaving the house.
The after school meeting spot for parents appears to be right outside Sleepy Mansions.
I don’t object to that.
I do object to their brats running up and down screaming or climbing all over the railings.
Today it was particularly bad and went on for ages until I bawled,
“Fuck Off!” in their general direction.
Totally forgetting I’d opened the window because the cat was being a twat about the cat flap.
There was immediate silence followed by a swift dispersal.
The Big little Brother reckons it won’t be long before I’m collecting vicious stray cats to throw at them.
I must admit to being quite taken with that idea!
Horrific details from Austria are being revealed daily.
The more I read the more I wonder how you punish Josef Fritzl.
Even if he were locked up for the rest of his life, the Austrian authorities have to honour his ‘basic human rights’, by law.
He’ll be banged up in a room with a window, he’ll be allowed out for exercise, he’ll have cable television, access to educational classes and medical care, a choice of meals, phone calls and most galling of all, the right to have visitors.
There is often talk of punishment fitting crime.
What fits this?
Personally, I’d stick him in with some arse raping sociopath who has access to an unending supply of Viagra.
That’s just me and I HAVE watched a lot of “Oz”!
Changing the subject totally.
Where do umbrellas come from?
There are at least 7 in the house and I have NEVER bought one in my life, they just appear, so where do they come from?
I think they appear from the same realm that steals my socks.
For every ten odd socks I find they must send me an umbrella.
This is my tune for the day.
It cheers me right up, reminds me of a brilliant trip to New York and a bar called Ruby Fruit!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Poles, Trains And Stars
I’ve had to chuckle.
There is a panic on because many of the Polish workers are going home.
Oh No!
Who the fuck is going to do their jobs?
Um..
How about all the English people who bitched about ‘them’ taking ‘our jobs’?
The next lot of school leavers?
Problem with that is employers expect them to be able to read, write and have basic English.
I had a bit of a capture the other day.
I was travelling back from Salisbury on the train and didn’t have time to get a ticket.
You can pay on the train so I sat and waited for someone to come.
No one did.
By the time I was two stops away from home I was thinking how fecking gutting it would be to have to pay now.
The train pulled into my station and I was out of there.
Then I got the guilts.
So, to avoid the karmic bitch slap, I have divided the price of my ticket between three homeless people along Rue Albert.
But I would just like to say it wasn’t my fault and I was prepared to pay.
This is a fucking travesty.
If Stonewall or any of the Gay and Lesbian support groups have got ANYTHING about them, they will get behind this case and fight for these two.
We expect Straight ‘but not narrow’ people to support us and our fights.
Why can’t that work the other way?
It’s the honourable thing to do.
My tune for the day.
It’s an old one but I love it and make no apologies!
I would like to know why Teutonic, blond types have such trouble with bleaching and highlighting.
There is a panic on because many of the Polish workers are going home.
Oh No!
Who the fuck is going to do their jobs?
Um..
How about all the English people who bitched about ‘them’ taking ‘our jobs’?
The next lot of school leavers?
Problem with that is employers expect them to be able to read, write and have basic English.
I had a bit of a capture the other day.
I was travelling back from Salisbury on the train and didn’t have time to get a ticket.
You can pay on the train so I sat and waited for someone to come.
No one did.
By the time I was two stops away from home I was thinking how fecking gutting it would be to have to pay now.
The train pulled into my station and I was out of there.
Then I got the guilts.
So, to avoid the karmic bitch slap, I have divided the price of my ticket between three homeless people along Rue Albert.
But I would just like to say it wasn’t my fault and I was prepared to pay.
This is a fucking travesty.
If Stonewall or any of the Gay and Lesbian support groups have got ANYTHING about them, they will get behind this case and fight for these two.
We expect Straight ‘but not narrow’ people to support us and our fights.
Why can’t that work the other way?
It’s the honourable thing to do.
My tune for the day.
It’s an old one but I love it and make no apologies!
I would like to know why Teutonic, blond types have such trouble with bleaching and highlighting.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Back
What is it with Austrians and underground bunkers?This latest one sounds absolutely horrific. I seriously doubt there is any coming back from that kind of mental hell.
I bought myself a new camera. A Canon EOS 400.
It’s lovely to play with but I really do need to read the instruction manual.
There is so much more going on with this one.
Happy Birthday to Crisp-e!
He rustled up an amazing Chinese meal on Saturday which was kind of weird because I’d had an Italian meal, cooked by a Chinese chef on Friday.
He was so thoughtful and only cooked stuff I liked!
Housemates.
Yet again I have had to wash up saucepans before I could use them.
You bunch of skanky fecking bitches.
People, I’m gutted.
Humphrey Lyttelton has died.
I’ve listened to him on Radio 4 ever since I can remember.
I’ve seen him at the Marlborough Jazz festival.
Strangely, he has been more of a constant in my life than family have.
Rest easy Humph and Thank You.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Rant And A Service
I’ve lasted as long as I can but now I’m going to have to mention His Nazi-ness.
The Panzer Pope is in the US at the cost of $1.2 a day, A FUCKING DAY!
So to all those pious, holier than thou fuckers who look at me when I refuse to put money in to Peter’s Pence.
There’s your reason.
He is ‘deeply ashamed’ by the sex abuse scandals.
Really?
The Congregation for The Doctrine of Faith was in charge of disciplining the paedophile priests, which for the last 25 years or so was under the direct control of Cardinal Josef Ratzinger.
AKA The Pope.
I’d also like to know what the hell he has on his feet?
Talk about a Friend of Dorothy.
A few gays start mobbing him and he'll be clicking those feckers together whispering,
'There's no place like Rome, There's no place like Rome....'
The man to his right in the photo is his 'personal secretary' Monsignor George Ganswein, also known as ‘Gorgeous George’.
The Vatican is keen for us to know that is what his ‘Female Fans’ call him.
Female Fans?
He’s a fecking priest! How can he have female fans?
Don’t you just dream of that description?
Well? Don’t you?!
I think I may have come up with a useful public service, like that ABC thing on the mobile phone that has your emergency contact number.
The DOA Playlist on your ipod.
In this playlist would be all the songs you wouldn’t mind being played at your funeral!
Imagine the music your parents, or worse, your kids might have played to see you on to your way.
This is my tune for the day.
This person has been the object of my lust for the day.
I watched the film this morning and after a night of absolutely NO sleep, it set me up for the day!
The Panzer Pope is in the US at the cost of $1.2 a day, A FUCKING DAY!
So to all those pious, holier than thou fuckers who look at me when I refuse to put money in to Peter’s Pence.
There’s your reason.
He is ‘deeply ashamed’ by the sex abuse scandals.
Really?
The Congregation for The Doctrine of Faith was in charge of disciplining the paedophile priests, which for the last 25 years or so was under the direct control of Cardinal Josef Ratzinger.
AKA The Pope.
I’d also like to know what the hell he has on his feet?
Talk about a Friend of Dorothy.
A few gays start mobbing him and he'll be clicking those feckers together whispering,
'There's no place like Rome, There's no place like Rome....'
The man to his right in the photo is his 'personal secretary' Monsignor George Ganswein, also known as ‘Gorgeous George’.
The Vatican is keen for us to know that is what his ‘Female Fans’ call him.
Female Fans?
He’s a fecking priest! How can he have female fans?
Don’t you just dream of that description?
Well? Don’t you?!
I think I may have come up with a useful public service, like that ABC thing on the mobile phone that has your emergency contact number.
The DOA Playlist on your ipod.
In this playlist would be all the songs you wouldn’t mind being played at your funeral!
Imagine the music your parents, or worse, your kids might have played to see you on to your way.
This is my tune for the day.
This person has been the object of my lust for the day.
I watched the film this morning and after a night of absolutely NO sleep, it set me up for the day!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Power, Paper And People
The sad reality of my life means that a 2 hour power cut was the highlight of my day.
I was watching the TV, then all of a sudden I wasn’t.
Using all my ‘electrics savvy’ I opened the cupboard under the stairs, looked at the fusebox and shouted,
“What? What is it? What do you want?”
I did the all important flipping on and off of lights, until the fish tank not bubbling confirmed 'The Power Cut'.
For some reason I refused to believe it when the TV went blank.
I went into the street to ‘look’. At what? I have no idea.
Then people started emerging from their houses.
The almost albino students across the road looked relieved when enlightened, believing it had something to do with their “billing issues”.
The Scottish bloke from down the road cheerfully announced,
“Right, if I cannae work, I’m going for a pint”, and disappeared.
The smiley Indian man who never talks appeared and raised his eyebrows.
He was told the problem.
He smiled, raised a hand and off he went.
Not a word!
Could the Housemate who ‘tidies’ the Parozone Antibacterial Wipes, used for sanitising the seat, on to the top of the Antibacterial Moist Toilet Wipes, used for sanitising the arse, please refrain.
As appealing as a ‘lemon fresh’ arsehole is, a bleached clean one certainly isn’t.
Perhaps now you will understand their necessary separation.
If what nearly happened this afternoon does EVER occur, rents will increase 200%, the felines will be allowed to go Free Range (Yes, that means in your rooms!) and I’ll hide the fecking toilet paper.
Sounds reasonable to me.
Have seen Mr & Mrs Crisp-e, Sassy, Mad Matt and the Big little Brother today.
It was nice to have company and to take my mind off the ‘feminine pain that may not speak its name’!
Crisp-e and I decided that there was no way to describe this pain to a bloke, just as there is no way for a man to describe the pain of a kick in the balls to a woman.
As humans, there is no shared pain we can use in comparison to illustrate for us.
Mad Matt and I discussed the idea that as he was Dyslexic and Discalcular could he describe himself as ‘Un-numerate’?
Anyway, we made ourselves laugh.
I was watching the TV, then all of a sudden I wasn’t.
Using all my ‘electrics savvy’ I opened the cupboard under the stairs, looked at the fusebox and shouted,
“What? What is it? What do you want?”
I did the all important flipping on and off of lights, until the fish tank not bubbling confirmed 'The Power Cut'.
For some reason I refused to believe it when the TV went blank.
I went into the street to ‘look’. At what? I have no idea.
Then people started emerging from their houses.
The almost albino students across the road looked relieved when enlightened, believing it had something to do with their “billing issues”.
The Scottish bloke from down the road cheerfully announced,
“Right, if I cannae work, I’m going for a pint”, and disappeared.
The smiley Indian man who never talks appeared and raised his eyebrows.
He was told the problem.
He smiled, raised a hand and off he went.
Not a word!
Could the Housemate who ‘tidies’ the Parozone Antibacterial Wipes, used for sanitising the seat, on to the top of the Antibacterial Moist Toilet Wipes, used for sanitising the arse, please refrain.
As appealing as a ‘lemon fresh’ arsehole is, a bleached clean one certainly isn’t.
Perhaps now you will understand their necessary separation.
If what nearly happened this afternoon does EVER occur, rents will increase 200%, the felines will be allowed to go Free Range (Yes, that means in your rooms!) and I’ll hide the fecking toilet paper.
Sounds reasonable to me.
Have seen Mr & Mrs Crisp-e, Sassy, Mad Matt and the Big little Brother today.
It was nice to have company and to take my mind off the ‘feminine pain that may not speak its name’!
Crisp-e and I decided that there was no way to describe this pain to a bloke, just as there is no way for a man to describe the pain of a kick in the balls to a woman.
As humans, there is no shared pain we can use in comparison to illustrate for us.
Mad Matt and I discussed the idea that as he was Dyslexic and Discalcular could he describe himself as ‘Un-numerate’?
Anyway, we made ourselves laugh.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Stiffs, Semolina And Scooters
I’ve seen a lot of Silvio Berlusconi on the News today and I swear the last time I saw someone that colour I was peering at Lenin.
He looked like he’d been carved from mahogany but I was informed he had only been varnished that colour.
If they used Sadolin, they certainly got a convert in my Grandfather!
I met my next door neighbour today. The one having the noisy building work.
She let it be known that they’d heard me screaming and bitching about the banging.
I let it be known that I didn’t give a flying fuck.
Looking in the window I saw the skirting boards still weren’t on.
I told her I was away the weekend and that it would be an ideal time to get that done!
Right. Opinion please.
Is Semolina an ‘English’ pudding?
The Tame Pharmacist claims that it was never eaten in her ‘Irish’ household and that it is English nastiness that came with school dinner.
This has caused some, um, ‘debate’.
It got a bit racial, with accusations of potato, peat and goat hair based desserts.
Hence the question.
I think it’s one of the best yumminesses in the world.
With jam mixed in for gorgeous pinkness.
To the ‘hard’ lads who ride scooters.
IF you are not brave enough to ride it with both feet off the ground, then you should go back to a pushbike.
Zooming along with one leg hanging down makes you look like a complete and utter wanker!
If I could construct some sort of contraption that would, with the press of a button, flip out from the side of the car and slap you straight off your Honda Hairdryer, I would.
Blinding line from tonight’s Shameless.
Frank Gallagher, after been told he can’t smoke in the pub,
“But you sell E’s!”
“Yeah, I know. But no one ever dies from secondary Tripping!”
Love it.
He looked like he’d been carved from mahogany but I was informed he had only been varnished that colour.
If they used Sadolin, they certainly got a convert in my Grandfather!
I met my next door neighbour today. The one having the noisy building work.
She let it be known that they’d heard me screaming and bitching about the banging.
I let it be known that I didn’t give a flying fuck.
Looking in the window I saw the skirting boards still weren’t on.
I told her I was away the weekend and that it would be an ideal time to get that done!
Right. Opinion please.
Is Semolina an ‘English’ pudding?
The Tame Pharmacist claims that it was never eaten in her ‘Irish’ household and that it is English nastiness that came with school dinner.
This has caused some, um, ‘debate’.
It got a bit racial, with accusations of potato, peat and goat hair based desserts.
Hence the question.
I think it’s one of the best yumminesses in the world.
With jam mixed in for gorgeous pinkness.
To the ‘hard’ lads who ride scooters.
IF you are not brave enough to ride it with both feet off the ground, then you should go back to a pushbike.
Zooming along with one leg hanging down makes you look like a complete and utter wanker!
If I could construct some sort of contraption that would, with the press of a button, flip out from the side of the car and slap you straight off your Honda Hairdryer, I would.
Blinding line from tonight’s Shameless.
Frank Gallagher, after been told he can’t smoke in the pub,
“But you sell E’s!”
“Yeah, I know. But no one ever dies from secondary Tripping!”
Love it.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Words, Bees, Grooves And Smiles
What words have you been deliberately mispronouncing for so long, that you have trouble saying it correctly when you need to?
Mine would be Jugular which I have pronounced JUG-LE-UR for years.
The same with DRAC-LE-UR for Dracula.
EMBLOW for elbow because my little brother used to call it that.
I also can’t say Samuel Pepys without adopting a Stavros accent, which is wrong on so many levels!
Are Bumble Bees THE most stupid bee in the range?
They are always bouncing off things, flying into things and they look as though they find the flowers by accident.
I’ve had to rescue two from the pond. I am assuming it’s two, could be the same thicko twice, and nearly trod on one bimbling across the grass.
It’s my Grandfather’s anniversary today. He has been gone seven years.
It feels like an impossible amount of time.
Miss you old man.
May he, and the souls of all the faithful, unfaithful and irreverent departed, Rest In Peace.
This is my tune of the day people.
Play it loud and I defy you not to get a little bit of a groove on.
Laugh? Something got hurt inside me! It’s a total repeater and will keep you going for ages.
Just the title makes me chuckle.
I guarantee you will see someone and that title will spring in to your head, instantly!
Mine would be Jugular which I have pronounced JUG-LE-UR for years.
The same with DRAC-LE-UR for Dracula.
EMBLOW for elbow because my little brother used to call it that.
I also can’t say Samuel Pepys without adopting a Stavros accent, which is wrong on so many levels!
Are Bumble Bees THE most stupid bee in the range?
They are always bouncing off things, flying into things and they look as though they find the flowers by accident.
I’ve had to rescue two from the pond. I am assuming it’s two, could be the same thicko twice, and nearly trod on one bimbling across the grass.
It’s my Grandfather’s anniversary today. He has been gone seven years.
It feels like an impossible amount of time.
Miss you old man.
May he, and the souls of all the faithful, unfaithful and irreverent departed, Rest In Peace.
This is my tune of the day people.
Play it loud and I defy you not to get a little bit of a groove on.
Laugh? Something got hurt inside me! It’s a total repeater and will keep you going for ages.
Just the title makes me chuckle.
I guarantee you will see someone and that title will spring in to your head, instantly!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
A Sunday Passes
I had every intention of going to Mass this morning but amazingly, I slept!
So I have worshipped at the Temple of Premiership Football.
Easy on my Chi, less trauma for the poor priest and as I have been taught G-d is an Englishman, he’d approve too.
The priest always looks as if he is battling with his ‘fight or flight’ instinct when he sees me, he deserves some time off!
The London Marathon took place today.
Why the fuck would any sane person run, for 26 miles, with no good reason.
The first idiot who did it was relaying a message during a war and had the good grace to drop fecking dead straight afterwards.
Don’t even get me started about the numpty’s who do it ‘dressed’ as something.
Televising it is beyond me as well.
I can’t see the point, unless they put snipers around the course and give them a 10 minute head start before releasing savage hounds and assorted snarling beasts.
They’d get those pantomime horses moving, especially the arse end!
Ungrateful Freeloader Number Two, AKA Murphy the Cat, has developed a disturbing ‘Wheeze’.
It’s a cross between a cough, that yakking sound they make when they are going to puke and asthma.
He looks a bit freaked when it happens, but calms down when stroked.
The other Furry Leech always appears and stares at him.
In my head they talk to each other, in voices like two old Jewish geezers.
Ken…… Nu? Anything?
Murff…. Nothing.
Ken…… Oy! Soon.
Murff…. From your lips to G-d’s ears.
It’s all over in under a minute.
I don’t want to take him to the vet if it is nothing.
It’s a traumatic experience for both of us.
His psyche is damaged and my finances are raped!
Then I start worrying that something might ‘actually’ be wrong with him.
My theory is that if he eats, he’s fine.
He’s eating.
I’ve read about Charlton Heston’s funeral, with this in particular catching my eye,
“……A frail Nancy Reagan entered the church on the arm of Tom Selleck. Following the nearly two hour ceremony, Mrs Reagan left with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
We have a word for that in England and it certainly isn’t, “Frail”.
It’s Slut!
It’s those Ads again.
Woolite, the day I decide to hang massive weights off my jumpers, will be the day I start using your shite.
You can feck off with trying to foist some German advert on me too.
The words are English but their mouths are not making the shapes for forming English.
Pay English actors you bastards!
So I have worshipped at the Temple of Premiership Football.
Easy on my Chi, less trauma for the poor priest and as I have been taught G-d is an Englishman, he’d approve too.
The priest always looks as if he is battling with his ‘fight or flight’ instinct when he sees me, he deserves some time off!
The London Marathon took place today.
Why the fuck would any sane person run, for 26 miles, with no good reason.
The first idiot who did it was relaying a message during a war and had the good grace to drop fecking dead straight afterwards.
Don’t even get me started about the numpty’s who do it ‘dressed’ as something.
Televising it is beyond me as well.
I can’t see the point, unless they put snipers around the course and give them a 10 minute head start before releasing savage hounds and assorted snarling beasts.
They’d get those pantomime horses moving, especially the arse end!
Ungrateful Freeloader Number Two, AKA Murphy the Cat, has developed a disturbing ‘Wheeze’.
It’s a cross between a cough, that yakking sound they make when they are going to puke and asthma.
He looks a bit freaked when it happens, but calms down when stroked.
The other Furry Leech always appears and stares at him.
In my head they talk to each other, in voices like two old Jewish geezers.
Ken…… Nu? Anything?
Murff…. Nothing.
Ken…… Oy! Soon.
Murff…. From your lips to G-d’s ears.
It’s all over in under a minute.
I don’t want to take him to the vet if it is nothing.
It’s a traumatic experience for both of us.
His psyche is damaged and my finances are raped!
Then I start worrying that something might ‘actually’ be wrong with him.
My theory is that if he eats, he’s fine.
He’s eating.
I’ve read about Charlton Heston’s funeral, with this in particular catching my eye,
“……A frail Nancy Reagan entered the church on the arm of Tom Selleck. Following the nearly two hour ceremony, Mrs Reagan left with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
We have a word for that in England and it certainly isn’t, “Frail”.
It’s Slut!
It’s those Ads again.
Woolite, the day I decide to hang massive weights off my jumpers, will be the day I start using your shite.
You can feck off with trying to foist some German advert on me too.
The words are English but their mouths are not making the shapes for forming English.
Pay English actors you bastards!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Ozymandias
A few minutes walk from my house is a brilliant cemetery.It’s like Highgate, but way less crowded.
There are Knights of the Realm, a huge number of VC winners, mistresses of Dickens, a survivor from the Titanic; the great and the good!
It’s an interesting bone yard!
When I was a lot younger, a friend and I used to steal the lead from the headstones.
Prising out the lead letters that made up the names, dates etc.
We’d melt it them down and make fishing weights!
During a census search I found an unusual name, linked to me, buried there.
So I went for a mooch this afternoon.
As I may have mentioned before, I have an ability to attract nutters while I am out of the house.
Today was no different.
An oddly attired man with a yapper dog was today’s gift.
So I went for a mooch this afternoon.
As I may have mentioned before, I have an ability to attract nutters while I am out of the house.
Today was no different.
An oddly attired man with a yapper dog was today’s gift.
I was in THE remotest area of the yard; this is where they tend to put the Catholics and ‘Non-Conformists”.
Basically, wherever I was, he was.
Eventually, he aggressively informed me I was stood on a grave, went on about disrespect for a bit until I stopped him with a,
“Shhhhhh…. Listen…. Hear anyone complaining?”
He looked confused.
So off I went,
“In fact I’m more offended by you!!… I have family planted in here; can you guarantee that your RAT hasn’t shit on them?? Ever? Can you?
No? Really?
Now fuck off before you start to really wind me up!”
His dog seemed to have more about him than he did and dragged the loon away from me.
Basically, wherever I was, he was.
Eventually, he aggressively informed me I was stood on a grave, went on about disrespect for a bit until I stopped him with a,
“Shhhhhh…. Listen…. Hear anyone complaining?”
He looked confused.
So off I went,
“In fact I’m more offended by you!!… I have family planted in here; can you guarantee that your RAT hasn’t shit on them?? Ever? Can you?
No? Really?
Now fuck off before you start to really wind me up!”
His dog seemed to have more about him than he did and dragged the loon away from me.
I couldn’t find the plot I was looking for and searching headstones was difficult and in some cases impossible.
Too many of the graves had the lead script removed by some gobshite, thieving bastard!
Too many of the graves had the lead script removed by some gobshite, thieving bastard!
Today, the Tories have been on the knock.
Drumming up business for the local elections.
They hit Sassy first and I got a warning text.
Followed by, and I quote,
They hit Sassy first and I got a warning text.
Followed by, and I quote,
“We need to set up a local alert system for when these mordant cunts are in the street! A system of cans in the back garden or summat!”
I was ready for them!
The bell rang and I answered it with a huge joint and my surliest look.
One of the ‘mordant cunts’ was only someone I worked with at Mayhem.
I ignored this, and toking deep asked what “They” were going to do for me.
The Candidate started on about local shit, so I stopped him.
“No, you misunderstand. What are you going to do for ME?”
He started about the local area again.
I looked at the ex colleague and asked if the Candidate was retarded.
He walked away from my house shaking his head and smiling.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked
“Simply put. Convince this middle aged, property owning, dope smoking, Friend of Dorothy, that I should vote for you.”
He looked over his shoulder, pretending to hear a call from down the road, and fucked off.
I always spoil my ballot anyway. Especially in the local elections.
One down. Two to go!
The bell rang and I answered it with a huge joint and my surliest look.
One of the ‘mordant cunts’ was only someone I worked with at Mayhem.
I ignored this, and toking deep asked what “They” were going to do for me.
The Candidate started on about local shit, so I stopped him.
“No, you misunderstand. What are you going to do for ME?”
He started about the local area again.
I looked at the ex colleague and asked if the Candidate was retarded.
He walked away from my house shaking his head and smiling.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked
“Simply put. Convince this middle aged, property owning, dope smoking, Friend of Dorothy, that I should vote for you.”
He looked over his shoulder, pretending to hear a call from down the road, and fucked off.
I always spoil my ballot anyway. Especially in the local elections.
One down. Two to go!
The Mayhem girls were round these evening!
A superb night.
I’ll probably remember more later.
A superb night.
I’ll probably remember more later.
Check out this! It was on the back of the headstone for a Harriet Jackman!
A loving or guilty husband?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
No Spitting
For various reasons I ended up riding the Loser Cruiser round to see Mr and Mrs Crisp-e.
A walk was involved, right through bandit country.
Had to walk past the end of ATM’s road.
I got to Crisp-e’s unmolested.
Handily, their bell doesn’t work and I was left on the doorstep, with a poxy rucksack, looking like a stoned Mormon.
The final indignity was to receive a text telling me to, ‘go round the back’, like I was some kind of “Tradesman”!
They kindly let me kotch with them for the day.
The bus home has me convinced that the number 6 is an annexe of St James’s and runs along a main chav artery.
I had a ‘describer’ to the right of me. The people who give a commentary on the route.
“Cemetery. Passing the Cemetery.. Oooh.. Fratton Park.. Passing Fratton Park. Crossing. Pub.. Pushing a pram.”
Behind me I had the middle aged couple having a domestic.
Then the Pompey Mum, with kids the United Colours of Benetton got on.
Refusing to collapse the pushchair she blocked up the walkway.
The driver turned, looked at me and asked if I could put the pram thing in the storage.
“Um… NO!”
The bus went silent.
The driver stared at me.
“Health and Safety, Mate.”
I put the ipod on and looked out of the window.
Why the fuck should I help?
Not my fecking kids! Not my fecking job!
Parish Council meetings here must have been unmissable!
Spitting!
I’ve seen a priest shout, “Get out of my Church!”
Not at me, surprisingly!
I’ve seen them held up during Mass; I’ve seen them fall down during Mass and on one occasion fall asleep.
But spitting.
Difficult to ‘turn the other cheek’ for that one.
Freaky looking fecker too!
A walk was involved, right through bandit country.
Had to walk past the end of ATM’s road.
I got to Crisp-e’s unmolested.
Handily, their bell doesn’t work and I was left on the doorstep, with a poxy rucksack, looking like a stoned Mormon.
The final indignity was to receive a text telling me to, ‘go round the back’, like I was some kind of “Tradesman”!
They kindly let me kotch with them for the day.
The bus home has me convinced that the number 6 is an annexe of St James’s and runs along a main chav artery.
I had a ‘describer’ to the right of me. The people who give a commentary on the route.
“Cemetery. Passing the Cemetery.. Oooh.. Fratton Park.. Passing Fratton Park. Crossing. Pub.. Pushing a pram.”
Behind me I had the middle aged couple having a domestic.
Then the Pompey Mum, with kids the United Colours of Benetton got on.
Refusing to collapse the pushchair she blocked up the walkway.
The driver turned, looked at me and asked if I could put the pram thing in the storage.
“Um… NO!”
The bus went silent.
The driver stared at me.
“Health and Safety, Mate.”
I put the ipod on and looked out of the window.
Why the fuck should I help?
Not my fecking kids! Not my fecking job!
Parish Council meetings here must have been unmissable!
Spitting!
I’ve seen a priest shout, “Get out of my Church!”
Not at me, surprisingly!
I’ve seen them held up during Mass; I’ve seen them fall down during Mass and on one occasion fall asleep.
But spitting.
Difficult to ‘turn the other cheek’ for that one.
Freaky looking fecker too!
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Scenarios
For generations humans have been trying to delay that nice bit at the end of sex.
Naming football teams, doing maths equations etc, imagining horrible scenarios.
Well people, I have found my horrible scenario.
*Shudder*
I went to see my Dad yesterday.
As ever, we laughed ourselves silly.
He is growing all sorts of vegetables in his garden.
Various beans in black bags, potatoes in dustbins and courgettes in sacks.
While admiring my Step Mum’s primroses, I pointed to a growth and asked him what it was.
He looked at me is if I was a bit special and said,
“Onions! I fucking love ‘em don’t I!”
Every gap in her ‘Ornamental’ flower beds are filled with onions and shallots!
My Step Mum is in London for a few days, so Dad’s gone a bit feral.
He loves it.
I attacked the garden today.
Hacked away at the ‘lawn’ with garden shears and a rake.
Planted a blackcurrant bush, tree thing.
Bleeding knees are killing me now. Feels like floorboard nails are being driven into my patellas.
Tomorrow I’m going to try and cure myself by walking to Crisp-e’s.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Naming football teams, doing maths equations etc, imagining horrible scenarios.
Well people, I have found my horrible scenario.
*Shudder*
I went to see my Dad yesterday.
As ever, we laughed ourselves silly.
He is growing all sorts of vegetables in his garden.
Various beans in black bags, potatoes in dustbins and courgettes in sacks.
While admiring my Step Mum’s primroses, I pointed to a growth and asked him what it was.
He looked at me is if I was a bit special and said,
“Onions! I fucking love ‘em don’t I!”
Every gap in her ‘Ornamental’ flower beds are filled with onions and shallots!
My Step Mum is in London for a few days, so Dad’s gone a bit feral.
He loves it.
I attacked the garden today.
Hacked away at the ‘lawn’ with garden shears and a rake.
Planted a blackcurrant bush, tree thing.
Bleeding knees are killing me now. Feels like floorboard nails are being driven into my patellas.
Tomorrow I’m going to try and cure myself by walking to Crisp-e’s.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Snow, Spaced And Soda
Yesterday, I got the snow I’ve been awaiting for fecking ages.Yep, it actually snowed here!
I got my Ex Russian Army furry hat on and was straight out in it.
A very happy Sleepy indeed!
Today has been totally surreal.
I reached a new mile stone in my quest into self medication.
My record for the number of Temazepam I can take and still function has increased by twenty milligrams.
I did 80mg this morning.
I was driven to it by the constant banging from next door, agonising knee pain and an ‘issue’ with the sink.
I will come back to the sink.
A morbid fear of constipation means I will avoid taking my sooper dooper painkillers until I absolutely, positively can’t take it anymore.
So I necked a load of temazzies instead.
I have had such a spacey day!
Crossing the road became really confusing and the traffic lights a bit hypnotic!
When I got to the fruit and veg shop I’d forgotten what I had decided to cook.
So I chose stuff that had the brightest colours.
For some reason thinking that was a good idea.
I arrived home with three pillar-box red peppers, three gorgeously purple aubergines, a massive sweet potato and a bouquet of parsley.
We have stuffed peppers with sweet potato chips!
Now for the sink.
I have been trying to remedy its gurgling, stench emitting problems for a few weeks now.
Believing I was getting the upper hand.
I have thrown so many bags of Soda Crystals down it, I have to alternate the hardware shops I buy it from.
Something as innocent and silly as that could have me detained for months under the Terrorism Act.
Seeing as running for a tube can get your head shot off, it pays to be careful.
As for the sink?
I think the photo speaks for itself and explains the spanking of the benzodiazepines.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Good Times
Well, Irony of Ironies.
After transporting frog spawn from Wiltshire, a local frog has moved in and spawned.
The imported spawn are now mini tadpoles and the snails are getting their groove on!
It’s going to get crowded in there.
Mega news of the week is my youngest sister had a baby boy Friday morning!
Not a pleasant experience apparently.
A 26 hour labour.
Big baby + Tiny sister = Yikes!
I could’ve probably gone for 20 minutes or so but then ‘induced coma’ would have been my choice.
They could bring me out of it when the kid had a job.
This has caught my eye.
Climate and diet my arse!
It’s because they didn’t die in the war.
It’s the ‘cheese eating, surrender monkey’ gene that’s fucking doing it!
Pompey are in the FA Cup final so this evening’s air was a symphony of emergency service sirens.
I picked the winner on the Grand National but left it too late to get good odds, so bet on a donkey that fell at the 3rd.
Ho Hum.
After transporting frog spawn from Wiltshire, a local frog has moved in and spawned.
The imported spawn are now mini tadpoles and the snails are getting their groove on!
It’s going to get crowded in there.
Mega news of the week is my youngest sister had a baby boy Friday morning!
Not a pleasant experience apparently.
A 26 hour labour.
Big baby + Tiny sister = Yikes!
I could’ve probably gone for 20 minutes or so but then ‘induced coma’ would have been my choice.
They could bring me out of it when the kid had a job.
This has caught my eye.
Climate and diet my arse!
It’s because they didn’t die in the war.
It’s the ‘cheese eating, surrender monkey’ gene that’s fucking doing it!
Pompey are in the FA Cup final so this evening’s air was a symphony of emergency service sirens.
I picked the winner on the Grand National but left it too late to get good odds, so bet on a donkey that fell at the 3rd.
Ho Hum.