Rent And Tunes

Today is rent day.
I wanted to go out and buy a few bits but couldn’t be arsed with going to the cash point.
Usually Housemate P appears about 10am and hands it over.
No problem.
Not today.
I hate having to ask so I had a touch of the ‘Gwen Guthrie’s’ instead.
It must have done the trick; she appeared at 1.30pm with a fist full of 20’s!

The Big little brother popped in the other night. I love seeing him.
He must have lost over three stone in weight and looks amazing.
We did the usual ‘have a smoke and put the world to rights’ thing.
As ever, we discussed music.
The subject of songs that have been ruined for you came up.
Songs you used to love to bits but can no longer listen to because of a negative association.
The fraternal one can no longer listen to Enigma because of the loony ex girlfriend, NUTtasha!
I have the same thing with Drag by kd Lang because of a ‘bit of fun turned stalker’ situation.
Then there are the songs ruined by someone singing different words and the wrong ones staying with you, forever.
“Someone Shaved My Wife Tonight” by Elton John being mine.
Although, Kokoma will never, ever be the same again!

Walking along Rue Albert this evening I saw a huge black bloke, wearing a pink sleeveless shirt and white linen trousers.
He was wired for sound and doing the full on dance from the ipod adverts.
He was excellent, if a little out of place!

A July Weekend

So, the Church of England has been on a bit of a march about this week.
Good for them.
I’m gay, so have march training.
The 1pm news of the day had some woman Bishop pitch up for an interview.
This is where my gripe begins.
If the woman was straight, so am I.
But my main problem is women who are SO obviously gay wearing dangly earrings.
NO!
It doesn’t make you look anymore feminine or straight.
Stop. Your. Fecking. Selves. Will. You!
Just accept that stud earrings are for you now and if you are marching, so are comfy shoes.

This week my ASDA delivery was missing some smoked salmon, so I was forced to phone them.
My call was answered by ‘Mark’ who was very eager to help me.
He was also South African and I couldn’t understand a word.
“Just let me talk” I said “I can’t understand you. Trust me, it‘ll work better this way”.
He decided that this was the point to start asking me for my Mobile number.
“Mark! Mark! You’re not hearing me! Just be quiet and listen!”
Then every time he tried to speak I just shouted,
“Stop!”
He got the score eventually.

On Friday I went with Mr & Mrs Next Door Without The Kids to the Sailor’s Home Club to see a couple of tribute acts.
Elton John and Rod Stewart.
Being with a load of ex Matelots meant a pretty debauched night ensued.
Elton was arse but Mr Next Door informed me that he imitated the ‘real’ Elton perfectly.
Definitely won’t ever be seeing him then.
‘Rod’ was different class altogether.
Absolutely brilliant!
I didn’t feel too wonderful Saturday. As it was nice and warm I thought I’d have a lay down in the garden.
So, of course, the fucking Red Arrows went over at about head height.

Or so it seemed!

July 23rd

This evening I rode the ‘loser cruiser’ to Mr & Mrs Crisp-e’s.
I arrived covered in chocolate, courtesy of the chav spawn that was behind me.
Chav Mum had ‘it’ in her lap but let ‘it’ touch and smear itself over everything and everyone.
As Schnee has mentioned before, “We”, the British, don’t really appreciate the children of strangers.
I’m sure it has something to do with the Reformation.
Catholic types have a more laissez faire attitude to kids.
The more the merrier and of course they are allowed in the bar.
For Protestants, if they are not up a chimney or down a mine, they need to be seen and not heard; and sit outside the bar with a coke and a bag of crisps.


Castell Crisp-e has a really old and well established apple tree.
With permission, I had a bit of a ‘scrump’.
Three carrier bags full.
Apple sauce will be made by me and apple pies by Housemate Claire.
This is when I got injured.
I’d had to get ‘inside’ the tree to pick some of the fruit and in my haste to get out I scraped myself against a brutal branch.
This happened.
I swear it stung for three hours!















I am a seriously sick fucker! I am aware of this.
But this makes me laugh.
Lots!
Tell me you don’t hear that mechanical ‘Simon Says’ voice in your head when you look at it!

Returned

I am returned from Wales.
The North of the country is very different from the South.
They are VERY Welsh there.
We did a day trip to an area called The Llyn, where they blot out any English on signs and speak a dialect that Welsh speakers find incomprehensible.
Unfortunately we needed petrol and had to stop in a small village.
The petrol station was basically a lay-by with three pumps.
They also don’t trust you to fill you own tank.
A Yeti of a man appeared at the window and said something very fast and very ‘phlegm-y’.
Luckily the fact it was a petrol station limited what he could possibly be saying.
We worked out it was the keys. Obviously.
While he was doing his bit I told ‘M’ to only speak French to him when he returned and I’d go for Germish.
Chuckling, we were ready for him!
Bastard suddenly found a command of English, robbing us of our bilingual “Up Yours”.

The Garden has exploded in my absence. Everything has got big and ‘Fat’.
There is also a flea epidemic.
Murff is running alive and at the moment has been Frontlined within an inch of his life.
I’m trying to work out how to submerge him in the bath without injury to either of us.
I have leather gloves, leather jacket and a full-faced crash helmet from the attic.
I’m going to attempt to put some Frontline Sassy’s cats in the same gear, as I’m not sure how they’ll react.

Fixed Up And Fecking Off

I have fixed the washing machine!
I know! I know! I’m just as freaked as you.
A jig was danced!
That hideous dance twats of Celtic descent do.
Where a bit of Motown hip twirling gets mixed with a smidge of Riverdance
I’m loving this ‘Can Do’ weed!

It would appear that reading the manual, even after about 10 years of ownership, is a real boon!
(Disturbing that I have the manual! But let’s move on!)
Error Code 20 means that something is blocked.
Who knew?
So, following the ‘Euro Pictures’ that render language defunct, I tackled the area known as the ‘pump/pompe/ pumpe’.

Obsessive Compulsive attention to detail can be as serious handicap here, especially where the ‘diagrams’ are concerned.
I found looking at them very quickly, then getting someone to describe them, helped slightly.
Like IKEA stuff!
The mistake is in ‘trying’ to understand.
Nastiness came out and instantly fell within the same realm as cat sick and dog shite, a realm where I don’t deal with such things.
I walked away, but being a slave to DNA and my father’s daughter, I yelled over my shoulder,
“Any money found is mine”.
I even laughed at myself for the predictability of the sentence as I sat down.
Then even more predictably I shouted,
“No! Really! It’s mine”
Thanks Dad.

I’m off to Snowdonia for a week or so.
It’s a part of Wales I haven’t seen and I’m looking forward to it.
We’ll be in a cottage five miles from Lake Bala.
A place greyhounds can run free and I can really start to play with my new camera.
I have weed, The Guide to British Birds and a mushroom field guide.
Sorted.

I’m going to attempt keeping a handwritten diary, something I’ve never done before.
With my Mother? Are you kidding? The Alan Turing of Diaries?
I vividly remember the horrible schadenfreude moment when she found my sister’s.

Catch you all in a week.

From Laundry Woes To Bothersome Breasts

I’ve been in Wiltshire for a few days with the Gorgeous Hounds.
Had a really calm and gentle time.
I return and I’m wound up in under an hour.

The sink is unblocked and properly fixed at long last.
I arranged for a plumber to call 9am Saturday morning, when I wouldn’t be here.
Worth every penny of the forty quid it cost.
I knew there would be karmic repercussions but I didn’t care.
We had a bizarre conversation when he came to price up the job.
Being my usual Aspergers self I said,
“Oh! You’re not Polish!”
“No, I’m a twin” was his reply.
There really is no answer to that, so I showed him the sink.

Back to today’s wind up.
I have worn that special face you wear when staring at one of your ‘expensive to replace’ white goods, pleading with it not to be banjaxed.
Yep, I think the washing machine may be mortally wounded.
It loudly beeped its Error Code 20 shit every 7 minutes through the 54 minute cycle.
Then with six minutes to go it stopped and is holding my white wash hostage as I type.
There are only a number of times you can scream, “Fucking don’t you dare fuck up now!” at a machine before you look demented to the neighbours.
Mrs Next Door With The Kids half smiled and half waved when I noticed her at their kitchen window.
I gave up and went to Sassy’s for a calming cup of Earl Grey and some light weeding.

Fortunately, I found this and it’s had me smiling.
Genius use of ‘bothersome’ breasts!
Which led to the disturbing/comforting article.
The kind you find yourself reading with a squint, as if half closing your eyes ‘lessens it’ somehow.
Which reminds me, does anyone else shout “Christ! NO!” at the television when that Advert comes on?
I hate it so much I can’t remember what they are trying to sell.
It might be deodorant.
Straight people snogging is bad enough, but geriatric, snogging straight people?
Please!
Am I allowed to be offended?
Especially as ‘they’ pulled the Heinz ad for a kiss.
Check his leg coming back down afterwards.
Brilliant!

I'm off to Wales at the weekend, I feel a 'walkabout' coming on. More on that later.

Bat Shit

Today Housemate Pat and I struck the language barrier over laundry.
For some reason she washes EVERYTHING on the hand wash cycle.
This means the machine goes into error mode on the spin because everything is too fecking heavy.
I tried to explain it to her this morning.
“What about Bat Shit?” she said
‘Bat Shit? How do you get bat shit on yourself?’
“No, Bat Shit upstair in my room.”
Total panic.
‘There’s bat shit in your room? Where the fuck is bat shit coming from?’
When she said,
“I SLEEP in Bat Shit” I got what she was on about.
Bed Sheets!
Managing a straight face,
‘Are they satin or silk?’ I enquired.
It turns out they are cotton and have no fucking business on a hand wash.
So far she has managed to block the kitchen sink so that it bubbles back noodles and bean sprouts rendering it unusable, flood the bathroom and is on her way to sending the washer into a breakdown.
Eeesh.
Housemate Claire, who has been here nearly four years, hasn’t even broken a glass!

When it was bearable I was out in the garden.
Check out this mutant radish! One between two I think.
After reading that Squash can be trained to climb, I attached an old bike wheel to the wall (Recycling! Boom Boom!) and set them on their way.
I’m pretty pleased with their progress.

I nearly forgot this! Isn't it just brilliant!