Kenneth the Cat has always been one on his own.
I’ve never encouraged any of the felines to be ‘Lap Cats’ but Kenny won’t even be picked up.
He just doesn’t like it. He bitches, scratches, growls and whines to get away.
As I let him jump from my arms this evening with a resounding,
“Be nice! I fecking feed you! Ungrateful fucker!”
Mr Next Door With The Kids said,
“Yeah, and stop bullying our cat.”
What do you say to that?
I wanted to respond,
‘And your point? Your poncey cat wants to butch himself up a bit. Bloody Poof! That’s what happens if you take a cat to France for several years. Ruins ‘em so it does!’
I didn’t.
I apologised! I fucking apologised for my cat!
A creature beyond training or ‘owning’.
Happy 21st to niece Sinead.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
May Twelfth
‘Sex can become like a drug’
Really?
Thank Christ they got an expert on the subject to tell us!
Can somebody not shut this bloke up?
Really?
Nice to know a high profile Catholic has no problem using contraception or being open about it, except when staying with the Queen.
Strangely, she has no such shame about shagging there though!
As many of you know, I am a fan of Prince Phillip.
I think the bloke is great and it helps that he is almost an exact replica of my Grandfather!
Tonight there was the first part of a documentary about his life on TV.
Sir Trevor McDonald doing the honours, so plenty of opportunity for him to put his foot in it.
I like the bloke even more now and make no apologies for it.
They don’t make them like him anymore.
“The term ‘hero’ irritates me greatly. The opposite is true. I continue to have pangs of conscience that I did so little.”
Irena Sendler.
They don’t make them like her anymore.
A Hero.
May she rest in peace.
Really?
Thank Christ they got an expert on the subject to tell us!
Can somebody not shut this bloke up?
Really?
Nice to know a high profile Catholic has no problem using contraception or being open about it, except when staying with the Queen.
Strangely, she has no such shame about shagging there though!
As many of you know, I am a fan of Prince Phillip.
I think the bloke is great and it helps that he is almost an exact replica of my Grandfather!
Tonight there was the first part of a documentary about his life on TV.
Sir Trevor McDonald doing the honours, so plenty of opportunity for him to put his foot in it.
I like the bloke even more now and make no apologies for it.
They don’t make them like him anymore.
“The term ‘hero’ irritates me greatly. The opposite is true. I continue to have pangs of conscience that I did so little.”
Irena Sendler.
They don’t make them like her anymore.
A Hero.
May she rest in peace.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
May Eleventh
Today is my birthday.
It’s an even numbered one so it has been celebrated!
Last night a leg of lamb was barbecued, friends came round and vast amounts were drunk.
Guitar was played in the garden and there was much laughter.
It was brilliant. A perfect night.
I received some belting presents.
Lots of books from Mad Matt, a garden ornament from Crisp-e, an inspired packet of smokes and can of Red Bull from Mrs A, a Hypotrochoid Art Set (Spirograph!) from Sassy, Booze, Booze, Booze from all and sundry, a book token and my absolute favourite, a retro Spurs shirt!
Heaven.
Thanks to all who came and celebrated with me, it couldn’t have been better.
Now I am just chilling out with a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and a joint, which will be followed by a bottle of Sancerre and quite possibly, another joint!
Nature gave me a birthday present too!
The radishes I planted the other day are sprouting.
I’m delighted!
It’s an even numbered one so it has been celebrated!
Last night a leg of lamb was barbecued, friends came round and vast amounts were drunk.
Guitar was played in the garden and there was much laughter.
It was brilliant. A perfect night.
I received some belting presents.
Lots of books from Mad Matt, a garden ornament from Crisp-e, an inspired packet of smokes and can of Red Bull from Mrs A, a Hypotrochoid Art Set (Spirograph!) from Sassy, Booze, Booze, Booze from all and sundry, a book token and my absolute favourite, a retro Spurs shirt!
Heaven.
Thanks to all who came and celebrated with me, it couldn’t have been better.
Now I am just chilling out with a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and a joint, which will be followed by a bottle of Sancerre and quite possibly, another joint!
Nature gave me a birthday present too!
The radishes I planted the other day are sprouting.
I’m delighted!
Friday, May 09, 2008
The Stench
After 15 packets of Nag Champa, several kilos of Soda Crystals, temper tantrums and doing everything I could think of with the sink without actually taking it apart; the general aroma of something decomposing in the house became to much and the ‘Professionals’ were contacted.
Sleepy Mansions is a Victorian building, built in what used to be a swamp.
Excellent planning.
Over the years shite has shifted, settled and caused the house to lean a little bit to the right.
(The left when you are leaving!)
Being my father’s daughter, I had long ago clocked that the drainage piping would have been ‘leaned’ on and given their age, possibly cracked.
So when British Gas offered a yearly insurance for drains, sewers and all that nastiness, without looking, I nearly had their arm off.
They were contacted and sent me a Dynorod ‘Man’.
I use the term Man loosely, as in one sentence he had a four octave range.
Last heard when the Big little brother was 12!
I’d accidentally discovered the problem an hour before he arrived but let him go through his routine.
This involved stating that he couldn’t smell anything.
(Given his job, I’m sure it’s a bonus!)
Flushing both toilets several times.
Turning on the kitchen tap.
Then he explained the problem was,
“Further Down”
How they would dig up my floor, cut out pieces of pipes, put a camera down and ascertain the problem.
He was making his way to the door when I suggested he look at the kitchen drain.
People, it was filth.
There was a ball of congealed fat the size of a Space Hopper.
“That’ll be your problem”
He sagely informed me.
“You fucking think?”
Was my reply.
It’s sorted.
At last, Sleepy Mansions smells as it should.
Cannabis reigns supreme!
Oh No! Who is giving this bloke advice?
Year 8?
Sleepy Mansions is a Victorian building, built in what used to be a swamp.
Excellent planning.
Over the years shite has shifted, settled and caused the house to lean a little bit to the right.
(The left when you are leaving!)
Being my father’s daughter, I had long ago clocked that the drainage piping would have been ‘leaned’ on and given their age, possibly cracked.
So when British Gas offered a yearly insurance for drains, sewers and all that nastiness, without looking, I nearly had their arm off.
They were contacted and sent me a Dynorod ‘Man’.
I use the term Man loosely, as in one sentence he had a four octave range.
Last heard when the Big little brother was 12!
I’d accidentally discovered the problem an hour before he arrived but let him go through his routine.
This involved stating that he couldn’t smell anything.
(Given his job, I’m sure it’s a bonus!)
Flushing both toilets several times.
Turning on the kitchen tap.
Then he explained the problem was,
“Further Down”
How they would dig up my floor, cut out pieces of pipes, put a camera down and ascertain the problem.
He was making his way to the door when I suggested he look at the kitchen drain.
People, it was filth.
There was a ball of congealed fat the size of a Space Hopper.
“That’ll be your problem”
He sagely informed me.
“You fucking think?”
Was my reply.
It’s sorted.
At last, Sleepy Mansions smells as it should.
Cannabis reigns supreme!
Oh No! Who is giving this bloke advice?
Year 8?
Thursday, May 08, 2008
May Eighth
With the help of a huge dollop of amphetamine I have got loads done today!I’ve planted seeds for Radishes, Red Scallions, Parsley, Lemon Coriander and Celosia.
How fecking lush do they look?
I’ll be chuffed to bits if they come up.
I’ve seen Sassy, The Ex Bro in law, L and Crisp-e!
Cornelia Mayo is a woman after my own heart!
While on jury service for the trial of a woman accused of possessing weed, she was caught outside the court having a spliff during a break!
You’ve got to love her.
On a dope related note, the sick fucker part of me hopes this is true!
Really.
May Seventh
Last night I made the hideous mistake of thinking it would be a good idea to wash all the seat covers.Chair, sofa, and cushion covers were all stripped from furniture and washed.
I realised my mistake and what a shitty job it was when it came to getting all the ‘guts’ back inside the covers.
The government have gone and reclassified cannabis as a class B drug, against all advice.
So the moment I heard it announced what changes went on in the joint I was smoking?
Did I suddenly become more susceptible to schizophrenia?
“Err on the side of caution”
My Arse!
Err on the side of fucking votes.
If I had a choice about any of this bollocks.
I’d definitely go for the horse!
I’d definitely go for the horse!
Check out these Dutch tulip fields.
So many good and beautiful things come from Holland.
So many good and beautiful things come from Holland.
This will either make you pull a WTF face or make you start smiling immediately and exclaim, “Christ! I remember that!”
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Cinco De Beltane
It has been an excellent Bank Holiday weekend culminating in last night’s Cinco de Beltane celebration with Housemates, Sassy and the Random One.I made Mexican food for Cinco de Mayo and we lit up the garden with candles and a fire for Beltane.
Much Tequila and wine was drunk and the police spotter plane was repeatedly mooned.
The picture is slightly blurred, that would be due to me being more than slightly drunk.
While gardening I managed to dislocate my finger.
I wanted to let rip with a resounding, “FUUUUUUUUCK!” but it was really early so I kicked the shit out of the compost bin instead.
I relocated it but Housemates aren’t convinced the finger is actually straight anymore.
The garden is starting to look the business.
The pear, the apple and the plum trees all have fruit coming.
The tomato seedlings are doing well and the blackcurrant and the vine both have healthy shoots.
I’m seriously considering getting a pet chicken maybe two, I don‘t know if they need company.
I think it would be cool to have them mooching around the garden and if I get it from this place it’ll be good karma.
Tikka and Pathia are the front running names, although Pasanda has a nice ring to it.
I don’t know why I keep looking at this, but there is something hypnotic about it.
It pleases me that there are people like this out there!
This is my tune of the day.
Listen and I bet you have a little bit of a sing.
It is also an effective earworm, so expect to keep humming it!
Sunday, May 04, 2008
May Third
This is the frog that has set up home in my mini pond!She is called Annie.
I spent most of my day in the garden trying to work out what were weeds and what weren’t.
I’m pretty piss poor at recognising seedlings.
Tomatoes, Tobacco plants and Cannabis are all I can identify with 100% certainty.
Basically I just pull everything up until someone tells me otherwise.
Huge amounts were hacked, um, I mean, pruned from the Bay tree and the Rosemary bushes.
Neither seems to compost well and the bin men won’t take garden waste.
I’m pretty piss poor at recognising seedlings.
Tomatoes, Tobacco plants and Cannabis are all I can identify with 100% certainty.
Basically I just pull everything up until someone tells me otherwise.
Huge amounts were hacked, um, I mean, pruned from the Bay tree and the Rosemary bushes.
Neither seems to compost well and the bin men won’t take garden waste.
My inner pyromaniac combusted in my mind, waving matches and enticing me with firelighters.
So I decided to burn it and was immediately faced with the problem highlighted by Peter Kaye.
“You are never sure if it’s legal to have a bonfire in your garden”.
An attempt at lateral thinking and a large joint led me to the Barbeque.
Bay and Rosemary smell lovely when burning, helpfully masking the smell of the other crap I cremated.
A few snails were accidentally roasted, so I’m going to have to do something to restore the Karmic balance.
It was quite smokey and I smell a tad like charred Bouquet Garni.
So I decided to burn it and was immediately faced with the problem highlighted by Peter Kaye.
“You are never sure if it’s legal to have a bonfire in your garden”.
An attempt at lateral thinking and a large joint led me to the Barbeque.
Bay and Rosemary smell lovely when burning, helpfully masking the smell of the other crap I cremated.
A few snails were accidentally roasted, so I’m going to have to do something to restore the Karmic balance.
It was quite smokey and I smell a tad like charred Bouquet Garni.
There is also this plant/mutant thing I liberated from Sassy’s garden last summer.
Back then in was about 10 inches high.
Look at the Triffid fecker now!
The bits at the top seem to be the flowers and if you cut leaves off, it “bleeds” white, milky stuff.
I’m wondering if it is some kind of basic Aloe.
I love it though. It has great form.
Plus it just looks so prehistoric and basic.
Any help in identifying it would be greatly received.
Back then in was about 10 inches high.
Look at the Triffid fecker now!
The bits at the top seem to be the flowers and if you cut leaves off, it “bleeds” white, milky stuff.
I’m wondering if it is some kind of basic Aloe.
I love it though. It has great form.
Plus it just looks so prehistoric and basic.
Any help in identifying it would be greatly received.
Mr and Mrs Next Door With The Kids had a blazing row this afternoon.
I heard her shout,
"I could understand it if it was Manchester United or Liverpool but it's CARDIFF!"
Call me psychic, but I feel it in my water that Mr Next Door WTK, will not be going to the FA Cup Final!
Thursday, May 01, 2008
May First
I had a wonderful surprise this afternoon.
My ex brother in law was insistent that I go round at a certain time, not something he has done before.
I was worried that he might be having one of his ‘breaks with reality’, so shot round there.
Instead I saw the Niece and Nephew I haven’t seen in nearly six years.
They have grown up so much.
Obviously.
My niece is so like my sister it’s uncanny. To look at, her mannerisms, the way she speaks, everything.
But she’s still in there, the baby I saw born nineteen years ago next month.
My Loz.
The Nephew is gorgeous. Tall, handsome and frighteningly bright.
He is studying Accountancy, Economics, Business Studies and Critical Thinking at college.
They both have great senses of humour.
Very similar to mine and my sister’s.
We laughed a lot and it was so comfortable. No awkwardness or silences.
It has made my year!
I’ve missed them so much.
It took all my self control not to launch myself at them.
From seeing them every day from the moment they were born to nothing was a heartbreak I hope I never feel again.
It was a physical pain for a long time.
I got hugs and kisses when I left and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling yet.
Today is local Election Day so I went and did my duty, especially as it’s International Workers Day.
I’m still missing the May Day Parade from Moscow.
Red flags, tanks and Goose Stepping. Ho Hum.
What is it with people not telling you how they voted?
I can remember asking my Grandfather and him reacting as if I’d broken some huge taboo.
I would also like to know who those people sitting outside are and why they want to look at my voting card?
Not that they ever get to see it.
When they ask they get my politest,
‘Can you bollocks!’
I’m hoping to Christ that the ‘Irish’ characters don’t stay too long in the new series of “Heroes”.
Piss poor accents I can just about cope with, but a brother with a Southern accent and the sister with a Northern one is just fecking appalling.
This is my tune of the day.
My ex brother in law was insistent that I go round at a certain time, not something he has done before.
I was worried that he might be having one of his ‘breaks with reality’, so shot round there.
Instead I saw the Niece and Nephew I haven’t seen in nearly six years.
They have grown up so much.
Obviously.
My niece is so like my sister it’s uncanny. To look at, her mannerisms, the way she speaks, everything.
But she’s still in there, the baby I saw born nineteen years ago next month.
My Loz.
The Nephew is gorgeous. Tall, handsome and frighteningly bright.
He is studying Accountancy, Economics, Business Studies and Critical Thinking at college.
They both have great senses of humour.
Very similar to mine and my sister’s.
We laughed a lot and it was so comfortable. No awkwardness or silences.
It has made my year!
I’ve missed them so much.
It took all my self control not to launch myself at them.
From seeing them every day from the moment they were born to nothing was a heartbreak I hope I never feel again.
It was a physical pain for a long time.
I got hugs and kisses when I left and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling yet.
Today is local Election Day so I went and did my duty, especially as it’s International Workers Day.
I’m still missing the May Day Parade from Moscow.
Red flags, tanks and Goose Stepping. Ho Hum.
What is it with people not telling you how they voted?
I can remember asking my Grandfather and him reacting as if I’d broken some huge taboo.
I would also like to know who those people sitting outside are and why they want to look at my voting card?
Not that they ever get to see it.
When they ask they get my politest,
‘Can you bollocks!’
I’m hoping to Christ that the ‘Irish’ characters don’t stay too long in the new series of “Heroes”.
Piss poor accents I can just about cope with, but a brother with a Southern accent and the sister with a Northern one is just fecking appalling.
This is my tune of the day.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Rain, Pain And Gain
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!
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!
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.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Smiley Day
Housemates, now most of you have achieved ‘Sociable Kitchening’ Level 2; Washing up after your sorry arsed self.
I would like to suggest aiming for Level 3; Putting the bastard stuff away.
Not knowing where it goes is no excuse because you knew where it lived to get it out!
Neither is ‘draining’, once the stuff is actually dry.
Also, is it only me who finds it unacceptable to put things away wet?
It takes lazy to a new height and skanky into the stratosphere.
My friend from yesterday visited again today.
Her son wrote back to her with his phone number and she contacted him!
It went really well for a first ever phone call.
They arranged to meet a week Saturday.
A while later he phoned back saying he was too excited to wait and they are going to meet this week instead.
As she was telling me, I got goosebumps and all the hairs on my arms stood up.
It was so amazing having her share this.
I think I could actually feel the joy coming off her.
A nice feeling.
This has repeated on me all day long!
Then while I was in the garden, I overheard from builders next door;
A…. I feel sorry for you mate
B…. Why? Because I have to work for that cunt in there?
A…. Umm. No. Because you just stood in cat shit!
B…. OH! For Fuck’s sake!
A…. Hahahahahahahaha!
A smiley day!
I would like to suggest aiming for Level 3; Putting the bastard stuff away.
Not knowing where it goes is no excuse because you knew where it lived to get it out!
Neither is ‘draining’, once the stuff is actually dry.
Also, is it only me who finds it unacceptable to put things away wet?
It takes lazy to a new height and skanky into the stratosphere.
My friend from yesterday visited again today.
Her son wrote back to her with his phone number and she contacted him!
It went really well for a first ever phone call.
They arranged to meet a week Saturday.
A while later he phoned back saying he was too excited to wait and they are going to meet this week instead.
As she was telling me, I got goosebumps and all the hairs on my arms stood up.
It was so amazing having her share this.
I think I could actually feel the joy coming off her.
A nice feeling.
This has repeated on me all day long!
Then while I was in the garden, I overheard from builders next door;
A…. I feel sorry for you mate
B…. Why? Because I have to work for that cunt in there?
A…. Umm. No. Because you just stood in cat shit!
B…. OH! For Fuck’s sake!
A…. Hahahahahahahaha!
A smiley day!
How Rage Begins
Being the "techno 'tard" that I am, what to others are simple tasks, to me are pure Hell.
I'll keep it as simple as I can (For my benefit)
Apple has Bluetooth.
Phone has Bluetooth.
I want to Bluetooth stuff to the apple.
Have attempted connection.
Boxes pop up about authorising.
I authorise.
Fuck all happens.
No bluetoothing occurs.
I try 4 or 5 times.
Nothing happens.
Short fuse ignited.
Constant banging, scraping and building work next door.
Still no bluetoothing.
Short fuse nearing crisis point.
Banging so loud and hard, stuff is moving in my house.
Sawing. Sawing. Sawing. Sawing.
Remember those kids spinning tops you got going by pushing a handle in and out of the top?
That is what the ball of molten anger was doing in the pit of my stomach.
Pointless anger management strategies are as follows…
Take deep breaths….. No. Makes top spin faster.
Counting…. No. makes me count hammer blows. Makes top spin faster.
Remove self from situation… No. Can be heard everywhere in the house. Makes top spin faster.
Relaxing starting at the feet… No. Floor is vibrating with blows, causing me to count… Makes top spin faster.
No relief.
I calmed down when a friend arrived and told me her fantastic news.
The child she gave up for adoption in 1972 is looking for her.
She was so delighted and happy that the anger went!
So did the builders.
A smoke and huge mug of tea helped as well.
I'll keep it as simple as I can (For my benefit)
Apple has Bluetooth.
Phone has Bluetooth.
I want to Bluetooth stuff to the apple.
Have attempted connection.
Boxes pop up about authorising.
I authorise.
Fuck all happens.
No bluetoothing occurs.
I try 4 or 5 times.
Nothing happens.
Short fuse ignited.
Constant banging, scraping and building work next door.
Still no bluetoothing.
Short fuse nearing crisis point.
Banging so loud and hard, stuff is moving in my house.
Sawing. Sawing. Sawing. Sawing.
Remember those kids spinning tops you got going by pushing a handle in and out of the top?
That is what the ball of molten anger was doing in the pit of my stomach.
Pointless anger management strategies are as follows…
Take deep breaths….. No. Makes top spin faster.
Counting…. No. makes me count hammer blows. Makes top spin faster.
Remove self from situation… No. Can be heard everywhere in the house. Makes top spin faster.
Relaxing starting at the feet… No. Floor is vibrating with blows, causing me to count… Makes top spin faster.
No relief.
I calmed down when a friend arrived and told me her fantastic news.
The child she gave up for adoption in 1972 is looking for her.
She was so delighted and happy that the anger went!
So did the builders.
A smoke and huge mug of tea helped as well.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Positive, Negative And Eeeeesh
At last something positive has come from belonging to Genes Reunited.
I discovered that the person my Grandfather called his ‘Step-sister’ was his ‘Half-sister’, they shared the same father.
She is still alive and living in Cambridge.
Tuesday I met her daughter.
She is just as interested in discovering the family story as me.
I did catch myself staring at her, looking for familiarities in her face and I’m sure she did the same.
I now have a copy of my Great grandfather’s birth certificate and, at last, can confirm he was born in Cork.
The other breakthrough is I now have my Great Great Grandparent’s names.
The irony of this won’t be lost on all of you.
My Great Grandfather was an Inspector of Schools and his Father was a Chemist!
I was on the point of giving up but the search is now back on.
I got an email this evening that involved changing a letter in a word and punting it on.
Feeling a little bit wicked I made sure I sent it to all the dyslexics I know!
I hate those ‘chain letter’ email things; they should bollocks it right up!
Then my Big little brother infected me with some kind of MSN spyware.
It trawled my address book and got up to mischief.
See, instant karma, for letting the dyslexics loose on the internet scrabble thing.
This is a cracker..
The story aside, check out the picture.
What are they doing to the eyes?
Isn’t the whole point of what she’s wearing that we don’t see her?
Even if it were an actual photo of the woman, you’d have to have some sort of fucking Autism to recognise and identify an individual woman from Bangladesh.
I discovered that the person my Grandfather called his ‘Step-sister’ was his ‘Half-sister’, they shared the same father.
She is still alive and living in Cambridge.
Tuesday I met her daughter.
She is just as interested in discovering the family story as me.
I did catch myself staring at her, looking for familiarities in her face and I’m sure she did the same.
I now have a copy of my Great grandfather’s birth certificate and, at last, can confirm he was born in Cork.
The other breakthrough is I now have my Great Great Grandparent’s names.
The irony of this won’t be lost on all of you.
My Great Grandfather was an Inspector of Schools and his Father was a Chemist!
I was on the point of giving up but the search is now back on.
I got an email this evening that involved changing a letter in a word and punting it on.
Feeling a little bit wicked I made sure I sent it to all the dyslexics I know!
I hate those ‘chain letter’ email things; they should bollocks it right up!
Then my Big little brother infected me with some kind of MSN spyware.
It trawled my address book and got up to mischief.
See, instant karma, for letting the dyslexics loose on the internet scrabble thing.
This is a cracker..
The story aside, check out the picture.
What are they doing to the eyes?
Isn’t the whole point of what she’s wearing that we don’t see her?
Even if it were an actual photo of the woman, you’d have to have some sort of fucking Autism to recognise and identify an individual woman from Bangladesh.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Shells And Palms
My beachcombing and shell collecting has thrown up an awkward problem.Combined with some good weed, a serious touch of OCD, the photo is the frightening result.
Cannabis doesn’t lead to heroin; it leads to fucking ‘Handycrafts’!
Now for the problems.
1.. How do I get it to stay together?
2.. What the hell can I mount it on?
And most importantly,
3.. How the fuck do I get it off the living room floor?
Come on, you are bright people, HELP!
Crisp-e visited yesterday, and I was close to tying him into the chair to keep from being anywhere near it!
On top of his dyspraxic tendencies, the bloke has a chaotic aura that he drags around with him.
His haplessness swooshes about him like an invisible cloak and this can sweep things from tables that he is not ACTUALLY near!
A bunch of arranged shells in the middle of the floor was basically, inviting disaster.
Today, instead of finding a nutter at Mass.
I, was someone’s nutter!
Palm Leaves are a fecking health and safety nightmare.
Kids were whipping each other with them and were nearly all crying by the time they had ‘processed’.
Everybody, but me, seemed to know the origami required to turn them into a cross.
The Gospel was FOUR pages long! FOUR!
I got disruptive.
Started poking the point of it into holes in the pews, trying to turn the pages of the liturgy book with it.
The man next to me took it; rustled up a cross and gave it back.
I was SO bored.
All the statues were Yashmak-ed beyond the eyeballs, in a fetching purple, so there was nothing to look at either.
As soon as the priest had passed my shoulder, I was out of there and part of the procession.
Scared the shite out of him when he turned round outside!
He let out a little yelp.
I frighten him a bit, I think.
I gave him a thumbs up, said,
“Loving your work” and headed off for some smokes.
The new BBC six part, “The Passion” has started.
It doesn't say anything about a ‘new’ ending, so I’ll give it a miss.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Avoidance, Adverts, Amsterdam
There is a secondhand bookshop along Rue Albert that I avoid.
It’s a few doors along from the Porn shop and you’ve got more chance seeing me coming out of there.
But something in the window of the ‘avoided’ shop caught my eye and I stopped.
This place must have some sort of super sensor because it started making a noise like I had entered the shop.
I stepped away.
It continued.
Then he was there. The reason for my avoidance.
I know that the bloke who runs the shop served 18 months for sex offences with a minor.
It was all over the local press a few years ago.
The way my memory is wired I can’t forget this and want to scream,
“Nonce!” every time I see him.
There is also a part of me that thinks, ‘He’s done his time, his slate’s clean’.
But the overwhelming part of me just wants to go,
NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! at the top of my voice.
Fortunately, I had the ipod on and pretended I couldn’t hear him as I walked away.
Adverts, as usual, have been catching my eye.
The BT one, where she is sat in bed with the laptop, Nick from ‘My Family’ is cleaning his teeth.
She tells him she’s lost the file with all the baby pictures and stuff.
He says not to worry they can make another one.
She thinks he means ‘make more babies’. He means another file.
It’s all backed up you see!
In the real world, the first words from his mouth would have been,
“What have I told you about fecking around with that thing? How many times have I told you to tell me want you want and I’ll find it? Jesus Christ woman, give it here! Don‘t touch ANYTHING!”
No thoughts of a baby there.
I can also guarantee that the conversation would not have been conducted between the bedroom and en suite.
Yeah BT, we all have fucking en suite bathrooms.
The other ad is the Vanish Oxy-somethingorother.
This loud woman appears in a house and says,
‘You like whites don’t you?’
The lady of the house answers in the affirmative. And she is then shown how shite her whites are.
I scream at the TV,
“NO! and I’d like to know what the FUCK you are doing in my kitchen!?”
I’ve fallen in love with Johnny Kingdom.
I like wildlife programmes, I don’t particularly care if people are good I like them enthusiastic.
Bill Oddie gets on my tits with his totally childish attempts at humour.
Johnny is enthusiastic!!
Plus, he has one of the best West Country accents ever.
I read somewhere that on TV he is using his ‘Posh’ voice.
He has a new series out charting the trials and tribulations of owning his own land.
The tricks he is trying out to encourage animals to settle on there.
Through Johnny I have come up with a new drinking game.
During his latest series, every time he says, “My Land” drink a shot of vodka.
You’ll be mash up by 9pm, courtesy of BBC2.
Almost worth the license fee.
Almost.
The Chancellor has more or less, guaranteed that Labour lose the next election.
11p on a pack of smokes and increasing the price of booze.
Bye Bye Labour.
My Big little brother made it back from Amsterdam, unscathed and STI free!
There was also an awesome bit of synchronicity.
He went to one of my favourite coffee shops on the 8th of March.
Ten years to the very day, that I was there.
Love it!
It’s a few doors along from the Porn shop and you’ve got more chance seeing me coming out of there.
But something in the window of the ‘avoided’ shop caught my eye and I stopped.
This place must have some sort of super sensor because it started making a noise like I had entered the shop.
I stepped away.
It continued.
Then he was there. The reason for my avoidance.
I know that the bloke who runs the shop served 18 months for sex offences with a minor.
It was all over the local press a few years ago.
The way my memory is wired I can’t forget this and want to scream,
“Nonce!” every time I see him.
There is also a part of me that thinks, ‘He’s done his time, his slate’s clean’.
But the overwhelming part of me just wants to go,
NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! at the top of my voice.
Fortunately, I had the ipod on and pretended I couldn’t hear him as I walked away.
Adverts, as usual, have been catching my eye.
The BT one, where she is sat in bed with the laptop, Nick from ‘My Family’ is cleaning his teeth.
She tells him she’s lost the file with all the baby pictures and stuff.
He says not to worry they can make another one.
She thinks he means ‘make more babies’. He means another file.
It’s all backed up you see!
In the real world, the first words from his mouth would have been,
“What have I told you about fecking around with that thing? How many times have I told you to tell me want you want and I’ll find it? Jesus Christ woman, give it here! Don‘t touch ANYTHING!”
No thoughts of a baby there.
I can also guarantee that the conversation would not have been conducted between the bedroom and en suite.
Yeah BT, we all have fucking en suite bathrooms.
The other ad is the Vanish Oxy-somethingorother.
This loud woman appears in a house and says,
‘You like whites don’t you?’
The lady of the house answers in the affirmative. And she is then shown how shite her whites are.
I scream at the TV,
“NO! and I’d like to know what the FUCK you are doing in my kitchen!?”
I’ve fallen in love with Johnny Kingdom.
I like wildlife programmes, I don’t particularly care if people are good I like them enthusiastic.
Bill Oddie gets on my tits with his totally childish attempts at humour.
Johnny is enthusiastic!!
Plus, he has one of the best West Country accents ever.
I read somewhere that on TV he is using his ‘Posh’ voice.
He has a new series out charting the trials and tribulations of owning his own land.
The tricks he is trying out to encourage animals to settle on there.
Through Johnny I have come up with a new drinking game.
During his latest series, every time he says, “My Land” drink a shot of vodka.
You’ll be mash up by 9pm, courtesy of BBC2.
Almost worth the license fee.
Almost.
The Chancellor has more or less, guaranteed that Labour lose the next election.
11p on a pack of smokes and increasing the price of booze.
Bye Bye Labour.
My Big little brother made it back from Amsterdam, unscathed and STI free!
There was also an awesome bit of synchronicity.
He went to one of my favourite coffee shops on the 8th of March.
Ten years to the very day, that I was there.
Love it!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
After The Storm
This morning I spent over two hours walking along the beach.
Just to see what the sea had given up during last evening’s storm.
Judging by the amount of shells that have washed ashore, it was just as brutal at sea last night.
It was still very windy but the sun was out.
I met four people during the whole time.
A couple with metal detectors, a bloke with his dogs and Mr fuckingknowitall.
There were hundreds of small pink shells so I decided to collect a few for the garden.
This is when Mr Fuckingknowitall couldn't keep his thoughts to himself.
He started gesturing at me, it was so windy I couldn't hear what he was saying.
He caught up with me and started going on about 'people like you', 'Sea defences'.
At first I thought he was going to tell me that homosexuality had caused global warming and it was my fault there were cuttlefish all over the Promenade.
No.
People like me were eroding our natural defenses and would be responsible for his daughter's cellar flooding.
Or something.
Twat.
I told him my impact on the beach was not as devastating as his had been on the gene pool and that he should fuck off.
He did.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Storming Southsea
It blew an absolute hooligan last night.This is what the seafront looked like this afternoon.
The road had been closed and the sea was beginning to whip up again.
There were loads of shells, bits of crabs but hardly any ‘pollution’.
No masses of tangled ropes, clumps of tar, a rafts worth of plastic bottles or carrier bags.
The latter being a real surprise given the current news coverage.
Maybe the council had been out early and cleared it.
I went to Lidl today and marvelled at how multi-cultural it is.
As I was bimbling around I heard, at least, 5 different languages being spoken.
They have some blinding stuff if you have a European/Mediterranean palate.
I love that I can buy squid, a bucket of Greek yogurt, Camembert, dodgy looking slippers and a Mitre Saw all in one place.
And very cheaply!
The ‘impulse buy’ basket at my till was filled with secateurs and those Belgian chocolates shaped like shellfish.
An usual combination I thought.
As I was bimbling around I heard, at least, 5 different languages being spoken.
They have some blinding stuff if you have a European/Mediterranean palate.
I love that I can buy squid, a bucket of Greek yogurt, Camembert, dodgy looking slippers and a Mitre Saw all in one place.
And very cheaply!
The ‘impulse buy’ basket at my till was filled with secateurs and those Belgian chocolates shaped like shellfish.
An usual combination I thought.
It’s blowing a gale again now and pissing with rain.
Everything is tied down in the garden but I’m worried that my frog spawn will get washed out of the pond if it overflows.
Everything is tied down in the garden but I’m worried that my frog spawn will get washed out of the pond if it overflows.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Slime And Sublime
This is the frog spawn I transferred from the pond in Wiltshire to the big bucket of water that is mine, in Pompey.The picture is blurred.
Half to do with my camera and half my revulsion.
Frog Spawn is like an iceberg.
There is SO much more below water.
I was gagging as this lot slopped all over my hands as I shook it into the jar.
Horrible, Slimey, Nastiness of the highest order.
Boarding School flashback!
Today, I have watched Pompey fluke their way into the FA Cup Semis, beating Manchester United.
11-1 on Portsmouth winning.
Fucking 11-1!!!
I wish I’d had a punt on that!
Just as well really, Gambling is a vice I could really do without.
This evening Mr and Mrs Crisp-e have hosted me.
Splendid food, outstanding company, ‘descriptive’ weed!
Saki Vodka… Amazing tasting stuff.
There was also something made of Damsons.
It all became too much and I laid on the floor to await the cab.
This is my tune of the day.. There is something about the lyrics.
The video is a bit good too!
Friday, March 07, 2008
Identity
One of the housemates has an Irish heritage, that on one side, goes back to 1160 and on the other back to G-d, apparently!
So imagine her surprise when she received an invitation to join the local Anglo Italian Society.
The name does look and sound totally Italian but is ancient in Ireland.
The Irish got about a bit while they served in the British Army, even more so during The Famine.
It wouldn’t be beyond reason that a few ended up in Italy and Spain.
She was a bit miffed to discover that she had missed the monthly presentation,
“How to dress and present yourself - The Italian Way”.
We did wonder how much this would differ from the Irish Club presentation of the same thing.
We decided it came down to an age group and a look.
Those with a Headscarf, Rosary Beads, judgement in their eyes with optional Wellies are the same in both cultures.
For the younger generations:
Irish = Clothes that booze and food stains come out of in 1 wash.
Italian = A thousand ways to tie a Hermes scarf.
Trips:
Irish = 3 day debauched piss up in Dublin or 3 days on your knees at Knock/Lourdes/Fatima.
Italian = 7 day Food and Wine holiday in Puglia, Wine tasting in Umbria or 3 days in Rome/Lourdes/Fatima.
Raffle Prizes:
Irish = 1st A milk churn of Guinness
2nd Six Rashers
3rd Basket of Pot Pourri
Italian = 1st Five days Wine tasting in Tuscany
2nd A Parma Ham
3rd Italian Food Hamper.
I’m now sharing a house with someone practising an Italian accent at a Joe Dolce level and copying the hand movement as seen on ‘Football Italia’.
The real splitter was the letter was signed by some bloke with the surname,
‘ Mcavoi’.
A story that nearly slipped me by was about a Jewish School in London.
The students there refused to sit the English exam because they ‘could have’ studied The Merchant of Venice.
Their complaint was the negative racial stereotyping of Shylock.
I like to think that this was an intelligent protest.
I like to hope they are trying to point out that Shakespeare, by having knowledge of and writing about The French, Italians, Danes, Jews and Moors; may have lived in a quite a multi-cultural 16th century.
You never know.
I invented a new word this evening,
‘Fish Butcher’.
I was too stoned to pull Fishmonger from my memory.
I kind of like it better.
‘Monger’ sounds a bit yukky.
So imagine her surprise when she received an invitation to join the local Anglo Italian Society.
The name does look and sound totally Italian but is ancient in Ireland.
The Irish got about a bit while they served in the British Army, even more so during The Famine.
It wouldn’t be beyond reason that a few ended up in Italy and Spain.
She was a bit miffed to discover that she had missed the monthly presentation,
“How to dress and present yourself - The Italian Way”.
We did wonder how much this would differ from the Irish Club presentation of the same thing.
We decided it came down to an age group and a look.
Those with a Headscarf, Rosary Beads, judgement in their eyes with optional Wellies are the same in both cultures.
For the younger generations:
Irish = Clothes that booze and food stains come out of in 1 wash.
Italian = A thousand ways to tie a Hermes scarf.
Trips:
Irish = 3 day debauched piss up in Dublin or 3 days on your knees at Knock/Lourdes/Fatima.
Italian = 7 day Food and Wine holiday in Puglia, Wine tasting in Umbria or 3 days in Rome/Lourdes/Fatima.
Raffle Prizes:
Irish = 1st A milk churn of Guinness
2nd Six Rashers
3rd Basket of Pot Pourri
Italian = 1st Five days Wine tasting in Tuscany
2nd A Parma Ham
3rd Italian Food Hamper.
I’m now sharing a house with someone practising an Italian accent at a Joe Dolce level and copying the hand movement as seen on ‘Football Italia’.
The real splitter was the letter was signed by some bloke with the surname,
‘ Mcavoi’.
A story that nearly slipped me by was about a Jewish School in London.
The students there refused to sit the English exam because they ‘could have’ studied The Merchant of Venice.
Their complaint was the negative racial stereotyping of Shylock.
I like to think that this was an intelligent protest.
I like to hope they are trying to point out that Shakespeare, by having knowledge of and writing about The French, Italians, Danes, Jews and Moors; may have lived in a quite a multi-cultural 16th century.
You never know.
I invented a new word this evening,
‘Fish Butcher’.
I was too stoned to pull Fishmonger from my memory.
I kind of like it better.
‘Monger’ sounds a bit yukky.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Gutted
As some of you know, I’ve more or less cut myself off from my Mother’s side of the family.
The Big little brother, an Uncle and a couple of cousins are all I keep in contact with.
One of those cousins has broken my heart.
I’ve housed him, more than once.
I’ve fed him when he wasn‘t working.
Got him a job.
He has stolen money from me.
He has stolen from Housemates.
His Mother (ATM’s sister) has had me hide him when the police have been after him.
Supported him through a break up and loss of custody of his son.
All, I have done because I considered him another ‘black sheep’, like me.
I considered him a brother.
Yesterday I found out that his son was christened on Sunday and he didn’t even tell me it was happening.
I spoke to him just days beforehand.
I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d been asked…. But to have had the invitation would have been nice.
Gutted people. Gutted.
The Big little brother, an Uncle and a couple of cousins are all I keep in contact with.
One of those cousins has broken my heart.
I’ve housed him, more than once.
I’ve fed him when he wasn‘t working.
Got him a job.
He has stolen money from me.
He has stolen from Housemates.
His Mother (ATM’s sister) has had me hide him when the police have been after him.
Supported him through a break up and loss of custody of his son.
All, I have done because I considered him another ‘black sheep’, like me.
I considered him a brother.
Yesterday I found out that his son was christened on Sunday and he didn’t even tell me it was happening.
I spoke to him just days beforehand.
I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d been asked…. But to have had the invitation would have been nice.
Gutted people. Gutted.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Quakes, Waits And Riding
There was an earthquake last night and it seems everybody but me felt it!
Tremors from Scotland to the Isle of Wight
I was up at 1am and nothing, not a wobble.
In an interview, some bloke from Lincolnshire said,
“I was woken up. It was hell.”
Um.. Hell?
I don’t think so.
Being buried under your house for days with injuries and no food or water is hell.
A few ornaments falling off the shelf is most definitely not.
I’ve noticed stuff today.
Like how small the writing is on posters at the eye clinic.
Sadistic fuckers.
Then twins came in.
I couldn’t help thinking what a head fuck that would be for the poor double-visioned bastards.
There were two old, deaf sisters who for some reason couldn’t swap seats with each other.
Doing so they’d have been on each other’s hearing side.
Also, moving me from one waiting room to another doesn’t make me feel I’m getting to the doctor any quicker.
Another thing I’ve noticed is, old ladies with bikes that have a basket on the front, never fucking ride them.
The bikes have bags and all sorts of crap hanging off them but THEY are never ON them.
I see three old dears regularly, but I’ve never, once, seen any of them on the bicycle.
Maybe it’s just Pompey.
This bloke’s lucky he can see at all.
If he’s using double doses of Viagra the fucker should be blind!
Tremors from Scotland to the Isle of Wight
I was up at 1am and nothing, not a wobble.
In an interview, some bloke from Lincolnshire said,
“I was woken up. It was hell.”
Um.. Hell?
I don’t think so.
Being buried under your house for days with injuries and no food or water is hell.
A few ornaments falling off the shelf is most definitely not.
I’ve noticed stuff today.
Like how small the writing is on posters at the eye clinic.
Sadistic fuckers.
Then twins came in.
I couldn’t help thinking what a head fuck that would be for the poor double-visioned bastards.
There were two old, deaf sisters who for some reason couldn’t swap seats with each other.
Doing so they’d have been on each other’s hearing side.
Also, moving me from one waiting room to another doesn’t make me feel I’m getting to the doctor any quicker.
Another thing I’ve noticed is, old ladies with bikes that have a basket on the front, never fucking ride them.
The bikes have bags and all sorts of crap hanging off them but THEY are never ON them.
I see three old dears regularly, but I’ve never, once, seen any of them on the bicycle.
Maybe it’s just Pompey.
This bloke’s lucky he can see at all.
If he’s using double doses of Viagra the fucker should be blind!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Simple Things
I decided not to tackle the grumbling, stinking sink today.
I slung bi-carbonate of soda and vinegar down it and pretended it wasn’t there.
I kept imaging what I would find in the u bend and it put me right off.
Tomorrow.
Instead, I cooked.
Check it out.
Butternut squash and chickpea soup!
I’ve also done meatballs in vodka sauce for tomorrow.
Great sink avoidance strategies.
There have been ‘revelations’ that the hideous Paul Burrell twat is gay.
Really? Gay you say?
I would never have had an inkling.
Now, hands up if that came as a real shock to you.
Another one from the Celebrity Jungle.
He and Biggins didn’t seem to have any obvious problems swallowing animal genitalia.
I’m not saying it’s a clear sign, but if you can get a kangaroo cock and balls down without gagging, it suggests certain ‘leanings’ to me.
I had Phantom Cat Syndrome this afternoon.
So convinced that a feline was rubbing up against my leg, I put my hand down to stroke it.
Nothing.
No cat.
It mildly freaked me out and sent me in search of the boys just so I could shout, “Fuckers”, at them.
I’m wearing new socks.
Sometimes having new socks is as good as having new shoes.
Not that interesting but it’s really made my day!
Simple things. Simple things.
I slung bi-carbonate of soda and vinegar down it and pretended it wasn’t there.
I kept imaging what I would find in the u bend and it put me right off.
Tomorrow.
Instead, I cooked.
Check it out.
Butternut squash and chickpea soup!
I’ve also done meatballs in vodka sauce for tomorrow.
Great sink avoidance strategies.
There have been ‘revelations’ that the hideous Paul Burrell twat is gay.
Really? Gay you say?
I would never have had an inkling.
Now, hands up if that came as a real shock to you.
Another one from the Celebrity Jungle.
He and Biggins didn’t seem to have any obvious problems swallowing animal genitalia.
I’m not saying it’s a clear sign, but if you can get a kangaroo cock and balls down without gagging, it suggests certain ‘leanings’ to me.
I had Phantom Cat Syndrome this afternoon.
So convinced that a feline was rubbing up against my leg, I put my hand down to stroke it.
Nothing.
No cat.
It mildly freaked me out and sent me in search of the boys just so I could shout, “Fuckers”, at them.
I’m wearing new socks.
Sometimes having new socks is as good as having new shoes.
Not that interesting but it’s really made my day!
Simple things. Simple things.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Catholic And The Yid
I had every intention of going to the 8.15 Mass but couldn’t be arsed to get up.
At the 10.15 I decided to sit somewhere nearer the front, away from the back pew rockers and nutters.
When I got the first lungful of incense, I remembered why I sat at the back.
Something seems to happen to old women when the hit the 75ish mark.
They sit at the front of the church and all of a sudden the back of their hair ceases to exist for them.
The front and their face is all pristine and made up, the back is a fucking birds nest.
There was a superb moment when a Dad held a little baby up in front of his face, just as it sneezed.
It covered them both.
Who knew a baby could be that full of snot!
Most entertaining.
What has pissed me off today, is the priest telling us to write to our MPs encouraging them to vote against any further ‘Abortion Liberalisation’ and ‘the removal of the need for a father from law and birth certificates’.
I’d be interested in just how many kids have ‘Father Unknown’ on their birth certificates in this city.
I don’t want my politics and religion being mixed up.
For some reason this has always enraged me.
There are still people who take what the priest says, as part of Mass, as ‘gospel’ and don’t even bother to form their own opinion.
Separation of church and state works in France.
I started talking loudly, suggesting that nobody take ANY of their medication because it could have been tested or produced from ‘illegal’ sources.
I was bundled out, in front of the priest’s procession before I could shout,
“KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES”!
Just as well I suppose.
My beloved Spurs won The League Cup Final, against Chelsea.
People, I’m not afraid to admit that I wept!
I had Crisp-e on the ‘phone for the last 5 minutes, which were sphincter tighteningly tense.
I am now tucking in to my second bottle of wine in celebration.
Robbie and The Sassy One have been round and have eaten my culinary experiments!
I’ll let you know of any deaths in the morning.
Tottenham ‘til I die!
At the 10.15 I decided to sit somewhere nearer the front, away from the back pew rockers and nutters.
When I got the first lungful of incense, I remembered why I sat at the back.
Something seems to happen to old women when the hit the 75ish mark.
They sit at the front of the church and all of a sudden the back of their hair ceases to exist for them.
The front and their face is all pristine and made up, the back is a fucking birds nest.
There was a superb moment when a Dad held a little baby up in front of his face, just as it sneezed.
It covered them both.
Who knew a baby could be that full of snot!
Most entertaining.
What has pissed me off today, is the priest telling us to write to our MPs encouraging them to vote against any further ‘Abortion Liberalisation’ and ‘the removal of the need for a father from law and birth certificates’.
I’d be interested in just how many kids have ‘Father Unknown’ on their birth certificates in this city.
I don’t want my politics and religion being mixed up.
For some reason this has always enraged me.
There are still people who take what the priest says, as part of Mass, as ‘gospel’ and don’t even bother to form their own opinion.
Separation of church and state works in France.
I started talking loudly, suggesting that nobody take ANY of their medication because it could have been tested or produced from ‘illegal’ sources.
I was bundled out, in front of the priest’s procession before I could shout,
“KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES”!
Just as well I suppose.
My beloved Spurs won The League Cup Final, against Chelsea.
People, I’m not afraid to admit that I wept!
I had Crisp-e on the ‘phone for the last 5 minutes, which were sphincter tighteningly tense.
I am now tucking in to my second bottle of wine in celebration.
Robbie and The Sassy One have been round and have eaten my culinary experiments!
I’ll let you know of any deaths in the morning.
Tottenham ‘til I die!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Booze Blues
Tesco are considering putting up the prices of their alcohol.
They have agreed that cheap booze is causing ‘binge drinking’ amongst the young.
Not my fucking problem.
Why should I be punished for someone else’s piss poor parenting?
Put the age up to 21, I don’t care.
Drinkers are taxed beyond reason as it is.
That’s why we were all fecking off to France for our booze and smokes in the first place.
Not that it matters, in my experience the parents buy it for them.
I’ve confiscated vodka on a school trip only to be informed,
“You better fucking give that back, my Mum bought that for me.”
My reply was that I’d return it to the Mother, which I did.
Her reaction?
“Ah Bless! I bought that for her to ’ave on the trip. Weren’t she allowed it?”
I managed to stop myself screaming,
‘Of course not! She’s fucking 15, you mental bitch!’
Fine. She might like being in charge of a pissed up teen, I don’t.
Especially when they feel they can sue YOU for anything the kid does to injure themselves.
I want to be able to sue a parent for having the brass neck to send their terminally thick offspring to a mainstream school.
With extra damages if the child is particularly fucking ugly.
The sink in the kitchen is making strange noises.
Expensive sounding noises.
Stuff needs replacing noises.
I’m ignoring it, hoping it goes tits up while I’m not here.
Great line from the rugby,
“You are not allowed to tread on people anymore, you should be, but you can’t”.
You have got to love Brian Moore!
Is it just me or do these just sound really fucking itchy?
I’d also like to know how they get from China to our bathrooms.
The bamboo wafts away on a passing thermal does it?
Tell me how the Chinese get them here in an ‘eco-friendly’ manner.
You just got to love the Catholic Church in South America don’t you?
All her children were ‘born prematurely’…
Prematurely? Prematurely?!!
(Helps it you take your voice up an octave on each of those!)
I should fucking say so!
Seven kids before she is 17.
They have agreed that cheap booze is causing ‘binge drinking’ amongst the young.
Not my fucking problem.
Why should I be punished for someone else’s piss poor parenting?
Put the age up to 21, I don’t care.
Drinkers are taxed beyond reason as it is.
That’s why we were all fecking off to France for our booze and smokes in the first place.
Not that it matters, in my experience the parents buy it for them.
I’ve confiscated vodka on a school trip only to be informed,
“You better fucking give that back, my Mum bought that for me.”
My reply was that I’d return it to the Mother, which I did.
Her reaction?
“Ah Bless! I bought that for her to ’ave on the trip. Weren’t she allowed it?”
I managed to stop myself screaming,
‘Of course not! She’s fucking 15, you mental bitch!’
Fine. She might like being in charge of a pissed up teen, I don’t.
Especially when they feel they can sue YOU for anything the kid does to injure themselves.
I want to be able to sue a parent for having the brass neck to send their terminally thick offspring to a mainstream school.
With extra damages if the child is particularly fucking ugly.
The sink in the kitchen is making strange noises.
Expensive sounding noises.
Stuff needs replacing noises.
I’m ignoring it, hoping it goes tits up while I’m not here.
Great line from the rugby,
“You are not allowed to tread on people anymore, you should be, but you can’t”.
You have got to love Brian Moore!
Is it just me or do these just sound really fucking itchy?
I’d also like to know how they get from China to our bathrooms.
The bamboo wafts away on a passing thermal does it?
Tell me how the Chinese get them here in an ‘eco-friendly’ manner.
You just got to love the Catholic Church in South America don’t you?
All her children were ‘born prematurely’…
Prematurely? Prematurely?!!
(Helps it you take your voice up an octave on each of those!)
I should fucking say so!
Seven kids before she is 17.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Ire And Eire
The trip to Ireland began with some serious anger.
They tried to take my Zippo lighter away from me at security.
The BAA website states you can carry one lighter on your person, but doesn’t specify type.
Trying to argue this with the ‘Supervisor’ Nazi was going nowhere.
I suggested taking the flint out and rendering it useless that way.
Supervisor Nazi was having none of it.
She took all of the innards and left me with the case.
Even though her colleagues were agreeing with me.
Totally eviscerated my Zippo.
What could I have done with it anyway? Lit a fart?
Antisocial, but not exactly terrorism.
They tried to take my Zippo lighter away from me at security.
The BAA website states you can carry one lighter on your person, but doesn’t specify type.
Trying to argue this with the ‘Supervisor’ Nazi was going nowhere.
I suggested taking the flint out and rendering it useless that way.
Supervisor Nazi was having none of it.
She took all of the innards and left me with the case.
Even though her colleagues were agreeing with me.
Totally eviscerated my Zippo.
What could I have done with it anyway? Lit a fart?
Antisocial, but not exactly terrorism.
Arguing got my boots removed and x-rayed and my 100mls of shampoo tested.
I wanted to have a big old freak out but decided that as I was hiding some personal use weed about my person, it was best just to leave it!
I wanted to have a big old freak out but decided that as I was hiding some personal use weed about my person, it was best just to leave it!
I’d forgotten how fast Mass is said in Ireland.
I tried with the responses but started to sound a little bit ‘Special’, so stopped.
The priest read the wrong Gospel so just started over again, then tried to quote a poem but couldn’t remember it all.
All most entertaining.
Joyously there was no ‘sign of peace’.
There were a whole load of prayers I don’t ever, ever remember saying and I was on my knees at different times.
I tried with the responses but started to sound a little bit ‘Special’, so stopped.
The priest read the wrong Gospel so just started over again, then tried to quote a poem but couldn’t remember it all.
All most entertaining.
Joyously there was no ‘sign of peace’.
There were a whole load of prayers I don’t ever, ever remember saying and I was on my knees at different times.
I’ve been fed to within an inch of my life.
Apparently there are different ‘levels’ of hungry.
You may not be hungry enough for a Full Irish but hungry enough for a biscuit.
Similar to Hobbits knowing about Second Breakfast.
I’ve stood in Cashel High Street watching workmen let passing ‘auld fellers’ stand and stare in the hole in the road with them.
Health and Safety, my arse.
A flat cap and a roll up was there only defence against injury.
I’ve spent a few hours throwing a ball for a cute but mad Springer Spaniel, named Molly.
I’ve met up with Lenten and can report he is well.
The Aunt and The Uncle are as ever, Brilliant!
You may not be hungry enough for a Full Irish but hungry enough for a biscuit.
Similar to Hobbits knowing about Second Breakfast.
I’ve stood in Cashel High Street watching workmen let passing ‘auld fellers’ stand and stare in the hole in the road with them.
Health and Safety, my arse.
A flat cap and a roll up was there only defence against injury.
I’ve spent a few hours throwing a ball for a cute but mad Springer Spaniel, named Molly.
I’ve met up with Lenten and can report he is well.
The Aunt and The Uncle are as ever, Brilliant!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Brilliantly Funny
I can't remember how I surfed into this but I think it's superb!
Saying, 'I gave you the clap', face to face can be a tad awkward.
This is brilliant!
Saying, 'I gave you the clap', face to face can be a tad awkward.
This is brilliant!
Hounds, Rage And Eire
I’ve been in Wiltshire for a few days.Blue, the new Greyhound, is settling in wonderfully.
He has a cracking personality and character, but absolutely no social skills.
He steals food and drink (Tea, wine and Bailey’s!) and tries to lift his leg in the house.
He is learning how to walk on the lead without yanking the shoulder of the walker from its socket.
His ‘prey’ instinct is still very strong. He will go for anything small, furry and feathery.
Greyhounds go from 0 to 35mph in seconds, can see for almost a mile and have the most amazing peripheral vision.
You have to be aware of him all the time.
Jess, on the other hand, is his polar opposite.
She avoids little dogs and is totally uninterested in cats.
You can eat your dinner off your lap, unmolested.
Jessie is so very patient with him and they get on brilliantly.
I usually find being out and about in the countryside very calming, except for yesterday.
We were driving along a narrow country lane when we encountered another car.
Expecting the driver to pull in to the passing place 6 feet in front of him, M carried on.
So did the other driver, seemingly, without slowing down.
There was an almighty smash as wing mirrors hit, more or less destroying M’s.
He stopped and jumped out of his car.
So did I.
This well-dressed, well-spoken 70 year old man came at me shouting and screaming,
“Why didn’t you pull over? Are you stupid?”
I said nothing until he called me a Prick.
Nought to Psycho in under 2 seconds.
(As I’m typing this I can feel my heart racing and myself winding up again)
Then I went apeshit.
“Right, now YOU have sworn at ME, I can FUCKING start.
Why the fuck didn’t YOU pull in, you senile fucking cunt? Eh?
Where the fuck did you expect us to go? The passing place is your side you prick!
You thought you would bully your way through, just as you are trying to do now.
You have made a fucking HUGE mistake, you wanker because I’m a medicated fucking mental!
Now, I suggest you turn your geriatric fucking self round and run old man.
Fucking RUN!”
I starting walking towards him and he ran people!
He ran like he hasn’t in decades.
Can’t be easy in sensible Brogues either!
By my third step he was in his car and driving away.
Idiot.
It took me over two hours to calm down.
Thank G-d for Diazepam! Or I’d still be raging.
Gives you an idea what I was like before the anger management and the removal of ‘E’ numbers from my diet!
Ho Hum.
Anyway, off to Ireland tomorrow for a few days.
I’ll be here.
If you click on the ‘zoom out’ about 6 times, it’ll give you an idea just how far into the arse end of nowhere I’m going!
I haven’t decided if I’m taking the laptop yet, it’s a pain in the arse at airport security, but so handy when I’m away.
I like to get my photos downloaded, in case I do something stupid, like erase the lot!
So, you may hear from me or you may not.
Finally, todays “I know it’s wrong to laugh but…..”
Also, that’s some serious fecking Limescale!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Rehab, Rugby And Today
Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse, Eva Mendez and Kirsten Dunst. Anyone else want to check themselves into rehab?
Looks like Heath Ledger has put the ‘detox’ up them.
Kirsten has booked in because, and get this, ‘She is crying a lot’.
I find myself screaming, your fucking point?
Kirsten. Love.
Fucking crying? Really?
Dear Christ, that is every teacher I know at LEAST once a week!
I can’t help thinking that these people need some kind of ‘Chav Buddy’.
A ‘Mental Mentor’ to show them the real world.
Some low income, low achieving, high conceiving, benefit drawing, ‘trailer trash’ they can swap with for a month.
Live their lives, on their budget, in their home, with their kids and see how close you get to tears then.
Fuck Off!
Yesterday’s Rugby commentary gave me a laugh.
Gabby Logan says to the camera,
“I’m sat here with two of the best Hookers ever”.
Camera then pans to a pair of THE most cauliflower eared, battered, broken nosed, beat up, looking feckers you’ve ever seen.
One of them was biting his lip trying not to laugh; the camera crew must have been cracked up because this guy’s eyes were just flicking all over the place!
It’s been a gorgeous day.
I have pruned the grapevine and the fruit trees. The herbs are all cut back and the cats have been looking at me as if I’m mad.
I have the most serious secateur blisters ever.
Today I have cooked a total Mediterranean fare.
I had a yen for soul food.
Roasted garlic soup, Falafel, Kofte kebabs, Tzatziki, home made pitta and Greek salad, tahini and a load of yogurt sauces.
Most yummers.
We are know sat in front of the BAFTA’s saying,
NO!!
You fecking what!
Looks like Heath Ledger has put the ‘detox’ up them.
Kirsten has booked in because, and get this, ‘She is crying a lot’.
I find myself screaming, your fucking point?
Kirsten. Love.
Fucking crying? Really?
Dear Christ, that is every teacher I know at LEAST once a week!
I can’t help thinking that these people need some kind of ‘Chav Buddy’.
A ‘Mental Mentor’ to show them the real world.
Some low income, low achieving, high conceiving, benefit drawing, ‘trailer trash’ they can swap with for a month.
Live their lives, on their budget, in their home, with their kids and see how close you get to tears then.
Fuck Off!
Yesterday’s Rugby commentary gave me a laugh.
Gabby Logan says to the camera,
“I’m sat here with two of the best Hookers ever”.
Camera then pans to a pair of THE most cauliflower eared, battered, broken nosed, beat up, looking feckers you’ve ever seen.
One of them was biting his lip trying not to laugh; the camera crew must have been cracked up because this guy’s eyes were just flicking all over the place!
It’s been a gorgeous day.
I have pruned the grapevine and the fruit trees. The herbs are all cut back and the cats have been looking at me as if I’m mad.
I have the most serious secateur blisters ever.
Today I have cooked a total Mediterranean fare.
I had a yen for soul food.
Roasted garlic soup, Falafel, Kofte kebabs, Tzatziki, home made pitta and Greek salad, tahini and a load of yogurt sauces.
Most yummers.
We are know sat in front of the BAFTA’s saying,
NO!!
You fecking what!
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Under Pressure
I played with blood pressure machines most of last night.
The Tame Pharmacist brought them home for Mrs Next Door to check out.
The experiments conducted would point towards cannabis lowering my blood pressure but the nicotine ‘delivery system’ increasing my pulse rate considerably.
The machines are a bit scary and inflate themselves, which makes your heart race to start with.
A bit unfair I feel.
Basically, with each ciggie I smoke I’m playing Russian Roulette with a stroke.
I love it!
If there is anything that would affect my blood pressure adversely, it’s Lourdes.
Hideous, gaudy, greedy, unholy place that it is.
This year his Nazi-ness is handing out ‘Indulgences’ for idiots who do the pilgrimage.
The indulgence reduces the time a soul spends in purgatory.
What bollocks!
I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the indulgence would be to book the trip through the Vatican Airline.
As if that’s a plane you’d want to get on!
Imagine the coughing, spluttering, moaning and groaning that would be going on.
Nuns and priests all over the place.
What a horror!
In-flight movie, The Song of Bernadette or Quo Vadis.
Jaysus!
I wouldn’t want a miracle cure. I’d want euthanizing.
Pilot may as well just fly the fucker straight into the ground.
A waiter who is leaving Lourdes sums it up,
“I’m leaving, because I can’t stand seeing another revolting, badly-cooked burger sold to innocent British people for €6, when the wholesale price was 50 cents. It’s taboo to say it round here, but I’m disgusted by the greed.”
I’m still amazed people fall for this old shit. Fecking grow up!
Drink water and all your ailments will be cured.
Yeah, right!
If it tastes anything like the filth they give you in Bath, I’d give it a huge body swerve if I were you.
Cloudy, grey looking stuff with a blended pumice stone texture.
For fuck’s sake, you can still taste the Romans in that shite!
It’s been 50 years since the Munich Air Disaster.
I have to admit, as a fan on the terraces, I have sung and chanted about this.
None of it complimentary!
But I would like to just remind people about the goalkeeper, Harry Gregg.
This man ran back into the plane and pulled people out.
Bobby Charlton, Dennis Violett, Matt Busby, Jackie Blanchflower, the pregnant wife of a Yugoslavian diplomat and her daughter.
He always told the truth about it as well.
When others said they helped, he would put the story right.
“No they didn’t, they ran away.”
He called them back and handed them the baby he saved from the burning wreckage.
For over 45 years the poor bastard suffered ‘survivor’s guilt’.
To me, Harry Gregg you are one of the greatest British Heroes.
Housemates, this is going to sound like déjà vu, it certainly does to me.
Who likes getting into a ‘hairy’ bath or shower?
I sure as shit don’t!
I can promise you that all the time my arsehole points downward, I DO NOT want to deal with the ‘Plughole Hamster’.
Rinse the bastard down for fuck’s sake.
Don’t make me start leaving notes.
Nobody enjoys those, least of all me.
The Tame Pharmacist brought them home for Mrs Next Door to check out.
The experiments conducted would point towards cannabis lowering my blood pressure but the nicotine ‘delivery system’ increasing my pulse rate considerably.
The machines are a bit scary and inflate themselves, which makes your heart race to start with.
A bit unfair I feel.
Basically, with each ciggie I smoke I’m playing Russian Roulette with a stroke.
I love it!
If there is anything that would affect my blood pressure adversely, it’s Lourdes.
Hideous, gaudy, greedy, unholy place that it is.
This year his Nazi-ness is handing out ‘Indulgences’ for idiots who do the pilgrimage.
The indulgence reduces the time a soul spends in purgatory.
What bollocks!
I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the indulgence would be to book the trip through the Vatican Airline.
As if that’s a plane you’d want to get on!
Imagine the coughing, spluttering, moaning and groaning that would be going on.
Nuns and priests all over the place.
What a horror!
In-flight movie, The Song of Bernadette or Quo Vadis.
Jaysus!
I wouldn’t want a miracle cure. I’d want euthanizing.
Pilot may as well just fly the fucker straight into the ground.
A waiter who is leaving Lourdes sums it up,
“I’m leaving, because I can’t stand seeing another revolting, badly-cooked burger sold to innocent British people for €6, when the wholesale price was 50 cents. It’s taboo to say it round here, but I’m disgusted by the greed.”
I’m still amazed people fall for this old shit. Fecking grow up!
Drink water and all your ailments will be cured.
Yeah, right!
If it tastes anything like the filth they give you in Bath, I’d give it a huge body swerve if I were you.
Cloudy, grey looking stuff with a blended pumice stone texture.
For fuck’s sake, you can still taste the Romans in that shite!
It’s been 50 years since the Munich Air Disaster.
I have to admit, as a fan on the terraces, I have sung and chanted about this.
None of it complimentary!
But I would like to just remind people about the goalkeeper, Harry Gregg.
This man ran back into the plane and pulled people out.
Bobby Charlton, Dennis Violett, Matt Busby, Jackie Blanchflower, the pregnant wife of a Yugoslavian diplomat and her daughter.
He always told the truth about it as well.
When others said they helped, he would put the story right.
“No they didn’t, they ran away.”
He called them back and handed them the baby he saved from the burning wreckage.
For over 45 years the poor bastard suffered ‘survivor’s guilt’.
To me, Harry Gregg you are one of the greatest British Heroes.
Housemates, this is going to sound like déjà vu, it certainly does to me.
Who likes getting into a ‘hairy’ bath or shower?
I sure as shit don’t!
I can promise you that all the time my arsehole points downward, I DO NOT want to deal with the ‘Plughole Hamster’.
Rinse the bastard down for fuck’s sake.
Don’t make me start leaving notes.
Nobody enjoys those, least of all me.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Looking East
Last night we helped Housemate Pat celebrate Chinese New Year.
She spent the whole day preparing food.
Mrs Next Door and her niece brought dishes with them as well.
Now, Chinese food has never been a favourite of mine, but this food was amazing.
I even ate Thai noodles.
Pat had made some amazing sushi but tried to kill me with wasabi.
Jaysus, that green nastiness is hot!
A huge amount of wine was drunk and there was even an empty whiskey bottle this morning.
The things you find out about people after a few drinks is amazing.
Mrs Next Door’s Dad is a bigamist! How cool is that?!
Her Mum knows, but is very traditional and won’t get divorced. Fortunately they live in different countries.
It must have been a good night because I have no recollection of going to bed.
I did have a nosebleed during the night and woke up looking like I had survived an autopsy.
Today, I was taken to a hospital appointment as ‘moral support’.
Yeah, I know?!
Who’d take me?
I couldn’t go in the MRI room so entertained my self with a game my sister and I used to play at the hospital.
“Find The Morgue”.
You take the lift down as far as it will go and look for a door with a cheerful name.
That’s usually the morgue.
The one at this hospital is called ‘Rose Lodge’.
There is no Chapel because of extensive building work but there was a prayer room.
I walked in just as a Muslim doctor rolled out his prayer mat.
We had that awkward moment when we just stared at each other, so I said, “Can I have a go?”
He looked really shocked, laughed and said, “Yeah! Alright!”
He showed me how to say the prayers. When to kneel down, when to stand up, when to fold my arms, the lot.
It was excellent!
You have to stand in front of G-d, then thank and praise him.
You also have to ask G-d to show you the right way.
You stand and let G-d know that, in your heart you are ready to pray.
Then you hold your hands up and say, ‘G-d is great’.
Some verses of the Qur’an are recited and you bend over from the waist.
Several more verses are spoken then you bow down and touch your head to the ground.
I probably haven’t explained that very well!
I’m used to spending time on my knees before G-d, but this was a really unique feeling.
Real submission and deference.
This evening I have eaten Kurdish food and fecking yummers it was too!
She spent the whole day preparing food.
Mrs Next Door and her niece brought dishes with them as well.
Now, Chinese food has never been a favourite of mine, but this food was amazing.
I even ate Thai noodles.
Pat had made some amazing sushi but tried to kill me with wasabi.
Jaysus, that green nastiness is hot!
A huge amount of wine was drunk and there was even an empty whiskey bottle this morning.
The things you find out about people after a few drinks is amazing.
Mrs Next Door’s Dad is a bigamist! How cool is that?!
Her Mum knows, but is very traditional and won’t get divorced. Fortunately they live in different countries.
It must have been a good night because I have no recollection of going to bed.
I did have a nosebleed during the night and woke up looking like I had survived an autopsy.
Today, I was taken to a hospital appointment as ‘moral support’.
Yeah, I know?!
Who’d take me?
I couldn’t go in the MRI room so entertained my self with a game my sister and I used to play at the hospital.
“Find The Morgue”.
You take the lift down as far as it will go and look for a door with a cheerful name.
That’s usually the morgue.
The one at this hospital is called ‘Rose Lodge’.
There is no Chapel because of extensive building work but there was a prayer room.
I walked in just as a Muslim doctor rolled out his prayer mat.
We had that awkward moment when we just stared at each other, so I said, “Can I have a go?”
He looked really shocked, laughed and said, “Yeah! Alright!”
He showed me how to say the prayers. When to kneel down, when to stand up, when to fold my arms, the lot.
It was excellent!
You have to stand in front of G-d, then thank and praise him.
You also have to ask G-d to show you the right way.
You stand and let G-d know that, in your heart you are ready to pray.
Then you hold your hands up and say, ‘G-d is great’.
Some verses of the Qur’an are recited and you bend over from the waist.
Several more verses are spoken then you bow down and touch your head to the ground.
I probably haven’t explained that very well!
I’m used to spending time on my knees before G-d, but this was a really unique feeling.
Real submission and deference.
This evening I have eaten Kurdish food and fecking yummers it was too!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Dust And Ashes
I only managed two pancakes yesterday.
Shameful.
One filled with Nutella and the other with tinned mandarins.
Yummers!
I was trying for the Golden Syrup, Lemon and Sugar one but was feeling a bit sick.
Mass today, reintroduced me to a subtype of catholic I had almost forgotten about.
The Statue Hugger.
Today’s ‘hugger’ took the specialism a stage further and was also a kisser.
She started at Mary’s feet and started working up.
She stopped mid-thigh.
Thank all that is Holy.
The Yid in me can’t get my head around statues; I never have and never will.
Honestly, when I see them, ‘Graven Image’ pops into my head.
There were also a lot of old women with male pattern baldness.
A bizarre fascination of mine!
The Gospel was all about doing good deeds in secret, not being so obvious about prayer and worship.
An unusual reading considering were all left with a fucking great OBVIOUS smudge of ash on our foreheads.
There was an extraordinary moment just at the Transubstantiation bit.
Some kind of Gun salute was fired in the Dockyard.
When this happens the percussion and sound can be heard and felt all over the city.
As he held the host up, the booming began.
Stronger weed but less used.
This has pissed me off.
Why don’t they tell you about the complete and utter nastiness that is sprayed on the crops just before harvest?
Chemical shit made to make the cannabis weigh more.
Chemical shit that has never been tested on humans.
Chemical shit that has never been tested for the affects on mental health.
Report the complete story.
Don’t just say ‘weed is bad’.
The Weed has been fucked about with.
Take control of it. Tax it. ‘Amsterdam’ it.
Just don’t ban it. It doesn’t stop us.
But what is being punted out on ‘us smokers’ now is dangerous.
If you think cannabis is costing the NHS now, you will not believe the damage that is coming.
For some reason I think this too, will end up being about penetration.
It would add a whole new dimension to, ‘Butch enough to get you pregnant’, I suppose.
“Dust thou art; to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.”
Shameful.
One filled with Nutella and the other with tinned mandarins.
Yummers!
I was trying for the Golden Syrup, Lemon and Sugar one but was feeling a bit sick.
Mass today, reintroduced me to a subtype of catholic I had almost forgotten about.
The Statue Hugger.
Today’s ‘hugger’ took the specialism a stage further and was also a kisser.
She started at Mary’s feet and started working up.
She stopped mid-thigh.
Thank all that is Holy.
The Yid in me can’t get my head around statues; I never have and never will.
Honestly, when I see them, ‘Graven Image’ pops into my head.
There were also a lot of old women with male pattern baldness.
A bizarre fascination of mine!
The Gospel was all about doing good deeds in secret, not being so obvious about prayer and worship.
An unusual reading considering were all left with a fucking great OBVIOUS smudge of ash on our foreheads.
There was an extraordinary moment just at the Transubstantiation bit.
Some kind of Gun salute was fired in the Dockyard.
When this happens the percussion and sound can be heard and felt all over the city.
As he held the host up, the booming began.
Stronger weed but less used.
This has pissed me off.
Why don’t they tell you about the complete and utter nastiness that is sprayed on the crops just before harvest?
Chemical shit made to make the cannabis weigh more.
Chemical shit that has never been tested on humans.
Chemical shit that has never been tested for the affects on mental health.
Report the complete story.
Don’t just say ‘weed is bad’.
The Weed has been fucked about with.
Take control of it. Tax it. ‘Amsterdam’ it.
Just don’t ban it. It doesn’t stop us.
But what is being punted out on ‘us smokers’ now is dangerous.
If you think cannabis is costing the NHS now, you will not believe the damage that is coming.
For some reason I think this too, will end up being about penetration.
It would add a whole new dimension to, ‘Butch enough to get you pregnant’, I suppose.
“Dust thou art; to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.”
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Snot And Saints
I am loaded up with Contac 400.
Housemate Claire, while at the hospital trying to get better, has brought home germs.
Typhoid Clairey, as she is now known.
It’s not even a proper cold.
I can manage about 8 sneezes on the trot and my nose is just dripping warm ‘water’.
Looking forward to the hacking cough when it makes its way to my lungs.
As soon as I saw this photo I got the song from ‘The Meaning of Life’ in my head.
‘Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is good….’
Along with Monty Python, there is just enough OCD ‘clean freakery’ about me that thinks,
“That’s a bloody good idea!”
ATM told me about episodes of Oprah where they swabbed public areas; cinemas, restaurants etc.
The ‘residue’ found on bedspreads in hotels is enough to turn one agoraphobic.
It’s Saint Agatha’s day.
She spurned the advances of some Roman or other and he got bitter and twisted.
He made sure she was persecuted for her Christianity.
Before being burnt at the stake, she was tortured and her breasts cut off.
Unsurprisingly, she is patron of breast cancer patients and amusingly, patron of bell founders and bakers!
My Darwin Award has to go to this guy!
Housemate Claire, while at the hospital trying to get better, has brought home germs.
Typhoid Clairey, as she is now known.
It’s not even a proper cold.
I can manage about 8 sneezes on the trot and my nose is just dripping warm ‘water’.
Looking forward to the hacking cough when it makes its way to my lungs.
As soon as I saw this photo I got the song from ‘The Meaning of Life’ in my head.
‘Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is good….’
Along with Monty Python, there is just enough OCD ‘clean freakery’ about me that thinks,
“That’s a bloody good idea!”
ATM told me about episodes of Oprah where they swabbed public areas; cinemas, restaurants etc.
The ‘residue’ found on bedspreads in hotels is enough to turn one agoraphobic.
It’s Saint Agatha’s day.
She spurned the advances of some Roman or other and he got bitter and twisted.
He made sure she was persecuted for her Christianity.
Before being burnt at the stake, she was tortured and her breasts cut off.
Unsurprisingly, she is patron of breast cancer patients and amusingly, patron of bell founders and bakers!
My Darwin Award has to go to this guy!
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sunday Takes Its Toll
I had to abandon Mass after 15 minutes.
There were Baptisms going on, screaming kids galore.
It amuses me how the regular non attendees give themselves away.
They are the people in suits and their ‘Sunday Best’.
The regular attendees have on whatever was to hand and clean.
It was all too much for me and I had to get out.
The regular ‘Mass Mental’ added another string to his bow of burning bonkers.
Hitting himself in the head really fast then spitting on the floor.
His nose picking has taken on a ‘Cowboy’ flourish.
Make your forefinger and thumb into a gun, like when you were a kid.
Place the tips of both ‘barrels’ up each nostril, now fire like you were in the shoot out at the Ok Corral.
Returning to nostrils to reload.
When my rocking synched with his, I knew it was time to go.
This! could only happen to Mad Matt.
Mr and Mrs Crisp-e dropped him at the station at 9.20pm last night.
This is the text I received from him at 11.56pm, dyslexia and all.
“Fucking disaster! Train delayd buses runing late got stuck in a faulty caredge and stranded at bersaldon! Next train 6am. 118 think weding chofers r a taxi ferm. And its very cold. Thanks for lovely eve and tunes. Hope 2 see u very soon x.”
As any good friend would do, I immediately forwarded the text to Crisp-e so we could laugh our arses off at his expense.
It started with me calling him the High Priest of Hapless, the list progressed like this:
The Clergyman of Chaos
The Druid of Disaster
The Rabbi of Recklessness
The Friar of Fuck Ups
The Shamen of Shambles
The Monsignor of Misrule
The Pontiff of Pandemonium
The Lama of Lawlessness
The Minister of Mayhem
The Buddha of Bedlam
A Samaritan, fit enough to drive, was dispatched to rescue him.
I saw a programme today that mentioned The Passing Bell.
This is tolled at the instant of a person’s death to invite their neighbours to pray for the safe passing of the soul.
The single tolling bell was also thought to frighten away the devil and his minions.
The Puritans got rid of ‘The Soul Bell’ by an act of Parliament claiming it was ‘a popish practise to be stamped out’.
Catholic churches in England still aren’t allowed to ring bells.
It gradually worked its way back in.
I can’t remember the last time I heard church bells in the city.
Every Sunday when I’m in Wiltshire I hear them.
It seems to be confined to villages these days.
Just as well really, as the man said,
“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
There were Baptisms going on, screaming kids galore.
It amuses me how the regular non attendees give themselves away.
They are the people in suits and their ‘Sunday Best’.
The regular attendees have on whatever was to hand and clean.
It was all too much for me and I had to get out.
The regular ‘Mass Mental’ added another string to his bow of burning bonkers.
Hitting himself in the head really fast then spitting on the floor.
His nose picking has taken on a ‘Cowboy’ flourish.
Make your forefinger and thumb into a gun, like when you were a kid.
Place the tips of both ‘barrels’ up each nostril, now fire like you were in the shoot out at the Ok Corral.
Returning to nostrils to reload.
When my rocking synched with his, I knew it was time to go.
This! could only happen to Mad Matt.
Mr and Mrs Crisp-e dropped him at the station at 9.20pm last night.
This is the text I received from him at 11.56pm, dyslexia and all.
“Fucking disaster! Train delayd buses runing late got stuck in a faulty caredge and stranded at bersaldon! Next train 6am. 118 think weding chofers r a taxi ferm. And its very cold. Thanks for lovely eve and tunes. Hope 2 see u very soon x.”
As any good friend would do, I immediately forwarded the text to Crisp-e so we could laugh our arses off at his expense.
It started with me calling him the High Priest of Hapless, the list progressed like this:
The Clergyman of Chaos
The Druid of Disaster
The Rabbi of Recklessness
The Friar of Fuck Ups
The Shamen of Shambles
The Monsignor of Misrule
The Pontiff of Pandemonium
The Lama of Lawlessness
The Minister of Mayhem
The Buddha of Bedlam
A Samaritan, fit enough to drive, was dispatched to rescue him.
I saw a programme today that mentioned The Passing Bell.
This is tolled at the instant of a person’s death to invite their neighbours to pray for the safe passing of the soul.
The single tolling bell was also thought to frighten away the devil and his minions.
The Puritans got rid of ‘The Soul Bell’ by an act of Parliament claiming it was ‘a popish practise to be stamped out’.
Catholic churches in England still aren’t allowed to ring bells.
It gradually worked its way back in.
I can’t remember the last time I heard church bells in the city.
Every Sunday when I’m in Wiltshire I hear them.
It seems to be confined to villages these days.
Just as well really, as the man said,
“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
Saturday, February 02, 2008
A Day Of It
I have had, what my Dad would describe as, ‘A fucking day of it!’
There was a plan to meet my cousin at a railway station 40 minutes away.
An exchange of ‘herbs’ was arranged.
As he’d pissed me about with the time, my temper was just shy of Psycho.
(Whoever heard of someone, whose business is weighing stuff, not having scales?!)
I got on to the enquiries site and chose my train.
While buying the ticket at my station I was informed there was a bus laid on.
I replied, ‘No. If I’d wanted the bus I would have gone to the Hard’. (Where the bus station is!)
The man mumbled on about work on the track.
So I said, ‘Why doesn’t it say this shit on the fucking website then?’
He tried to tell me it did and I had read it wrong.
I flipped and a LOT of loud swearing ensued.
The station was full of police because of Pompey playing at home.
One came over and asked if there was a problem.
I told him there fucking would be if he got involved.
I must have looked pretty mental, because he went away.
When the bus eventually arrived, I watched as everybody ignored the young mum with a toddler and new baby struggle with her pram.
I asked if I could help, expecting to be put in charge of the pushchair.
She handed me the toddler who took one look at me, realised I wasn’t Mum or Nan, and screamed like I’d bitten her.
This did nothing to improve my mood.
She then handed me the baby in it’s carrying thing while she tried to stow the pushchair away.
The baby started crying because its dummy thing had come out.
Mum was still trying to undo straps on the storage area.
Two screaming kids.
Then to top it all the Mum shouted at me,
“Can you put her dummy back in please!”
As calmly and softly as I possibly could, (I WAS holding children!) I replied,
“Um… No. I have only got two hands AND I’m not your fucking husband!”
There was an apology.
For some reason, the process was repeated at the other end.
Without the ‘sharp’ words this time.
The look on my cousin’s face as he saw me with two kids was priceless.
He looked totally confused as he mouthed ‘What The Fuck!’
For all that effort, it’s nice to know that a few of my nearest and dearest are sat at home, slitty eyed and grinning!
It was also comforting to know that the choice to remain childless was fecking inspired!
We’ll say nothing about the rugby, it will only start me off again.
There was a plan to meet my cousin at a railway station 40 minutes away.
An exchange of ‘herbs’ was arranged.
As he’d pissed me about with the time, my temper was just shy of Psycho.
(Whoever heard of someone, whose business is weighing stuff, not having scales?!)
I got on to the enquiries site and chose my train.
While buying the ticket at my station I was informed there was a bus laid on.
I replied, ‘No. If I’d wanted the bus I would have gone to the Hard’. (Where the bus station is!)
The man mumbled on about work on the track.
So I said, ‘Why doesn’t it say this shit on the fucking website then?’
He tried to tell me it did and I had read it wrong.
I flipped and a LOT of loud swearing ensued.
The station was full of police because of Pompey playing at home.
One came over and asked if there was a problem.
I told him there fucking would be if he got involved.
I must have looked pretty mental, because he went away.
When the bus eventually arrived, I watched as everybody ignored the young mum with a toddler and new baby struggle with her pram.
I asked if I could help, expecting to be put in charge of the pushchair.
She handed me the toddler who took one look at me, realised I wasn’t Mum or Nan, and screamed like I’d bitten her.
This did nothing to improve my mood.
She then handed me the baby in it’s carrying thing while she tried to stow the pushchair away.
The baby started crying because its dummy thing had come out.
Mum was still trying to undo straps on the storage area.
Two screaming kids.
Then to top it all the Mum shouted at me,
“Can you put her dummy back in please!”
As calmly and softly as I possibly could, (I WAS holding children!) I replied,
“Um… No. I have only got two hands AND I’m not your fucking husband!”
There was an apology.
For some reason, the process was repeated at the other end.
Without the ‘sharp’ words this time.
The look on my cousin’s face as he saw me with two kids was priceless.
He looked totally confused as he mouthed ‘What The Fuck!’
For all that effort, it’s nice to know that a few of my nearest and dearest are sat at home, slitty eyed and grinning!
It was also comforting to know that the choice to remain childless was fecking inspired!
We’ll say nothing about the rugby, it will only start me off again.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Savaged and Sectioned
Yesterday I woke up to a savage day.
Storm force winds and horizontal rain.
Not a whisper of any snow here though.
Today it was blue skies, sunshine and bitter cold.
St F, over in the West of Ireland sent text pictures of heavy snow.
Jealous? Oh, just a tad!
Didn’t take her long to master her new camera phone!
I know Peter Kaye claims, ‘old ladies with mobile phones look wrong’, but it really suits St F!
It was a bizarre start to the day.
I got in the shower with my glasses on, it took me a while to work out what had happened and why I couldn‘t see.
I’m feeling for Blue today.
While out for a walk he, well, um “Caught” a little yapper type dog.
He was on his lead the yapper one wasn’t.
It ran up to him and then tried to run away.
Instantly, 2 thousand years worth of breeding kicked in and before it had taken four steps, Blue had it.
Greyhounds shake their prey to death and because of the strength in their necks, this doesn’t usually take long.
The little dog was, fortunately, unharmed but I’m pissed off for Blue.
He must be so confused; he was racing up until about six months ago and was being praised for doing that very thing.
People with little dogs seem to think that their hound doesn’t need restraining because they are ‘Small’.
Then they shouldn’t be surprised if it gets savaged.
Season 4 of Boston Legal started last night.
Bliss.
I’ve missed them, all the characters are like old friends.
The image of Jerry getting his groove on was priceless.
This evening was the last of Jam and Jerusalem. Again, some priceless lines, a particular classic from Queenie!
At last someone has given enough of a shit to sort this fecking nutter out!
Mirrored on this side of the water with Winehouse being dragged to rehab.
Although, I have to admit that Amy would be more of a loss to the music world than Britney.
Storm force winds and horizontal rain.
Not a whisper of any snow here though.
Today it was blue skies, sunshine and bitter cold.
St F, over in the West of Ireland sent text pictures of heavy snow.
Jealous? Oh, just a tad!
Didn’t take her long to master her new camera phone!
I know Peter Kaye claims, ‘old ladies with mobile phones look wrong’, but it really suits St F!
It was a bizarre start to the day.
I got in the shower with my glasses on, it took me a while to work out what had happened and why I couldn‘t see.
I’m feeling for Blue today.
While out for a walk he, well, um “Caught” a little yapper type dog.
He was on his lead the yapper one wasn’t.
It ran up to him and then tried to run away.
Instantly, 2 thousand years worth of breeding kicked in and before it had taken four steps, Blue had it.
Greyhounds shake their prey to death and because of the strength in their necks, this doesn’t usually take long.
The little dog was, fortunately, unharmed but I’m pissed off for Blue.
He must be so confused; he was racing up until about six months ago and was being praised for doing that very thing.
People with little dogs seem to think that their hound doesn’t need restraining because they are ‘Small’.
Then they shouldn’t be surprised if it gets savaged.
Season 4 of Boston Legal started last night.
Bliss.
I’ve missed them, all the characters are like old friends.
The image of Jerry getting his groove on was priceless.
This evening was the last of Jam and Jerusalem. Again, some priceless lines, a particular classic from Queenie!
At last someone has given enough of a shit to sort this fecking nutter out!
Mirrored on this side of the water with Winehouse being dragged to rehab.
Although, I have to admit that Amy would be more of a loss to the music world than Britney.