Tuesday, 30 September 2014

The horror, the horror!

I've been stuck in the house for a few months now with the old MS finally, this morning, I decided to take a walk around the estate to get my sea-legs back.

So, hand in hand with Man Friday, we venture forth.  Now, we'd only gone 25 yards with me staring down at my feet to make sure they were doing as I told them when Man Friday says: "Christ Alive! We've got the old walking dead coming up astern!"

Now, this is bad already: the 'old walking dead' is this profoundly deaf and equally mental woman who lives a few doors along.  She is also built along the lines of a female Russian weightlifter circa 1984.  For some unknown reason, she thinks I can understand her -  I have no idea why.

Not only can she not use sign language (or even finger spell) but she also cannot lip read, all she does is shout at me and then grab me in a bear hug (she is about 5' 10" and must come in at 17 stone) and, and, the very, very, most horrifying and appalling part is that she has outbreaks of the worse herpes around her mouth that I have ever seen.  See below for a slight approximation:


And this time, when I am walking at a half mph, clinging onto Man Friday, she runs up to me and I see that she is in the worst throws of an outbreak.  It's like something out of George Romero.  So, I don't look up (cos I'm still staring at me bloody feet) and she's saying: 'Hello, hello!", then I say: "Oh, I'm not very well," and then, then, she goes in for the snog and there's nothing I can do.  

No where to run?  I can't even bloody run.  Added to the fact that I am so English that people feel sorry for me, so there's no way on earth I can say: "Help! Get your face barnacles off me!".  Also, even if I did manage to say it, she couldn't hear me!  It's a disaster of epic proportions!

So she kisses me on the cheek and I simply die a little inside and then, as I still trying to come to terms with the horror, she only reaches over to Man Friday (who is also stuck in situ, cos he's holding onto me!) and she kisses him too.

The she says: "bye, bye!" and charges off ahead and we're left there, in shock.  So we wait for her to round a turn, and then we immediately head back to the house to wipe ourselve down with cotton wool swabs saturated with surgical spirit (best we could think of!).

Worse part is, I actually have Herpes and will, occasionally get one on the lip - but I use separate towels and never, never, bom, bam, bever bloody well kissed any poor sod.  Christ alive.  However, Man Friday doesn't have Herpes but, as he says: 'not yet I don't. Oh god, I'm doomed!'

Have had awful afternoon.  This really is the worst part of being an invalid: you cannot make a run for it and whoever is with you is up the creek as well.  Jesus!  Someone pass the brandy!

Promise next time to tell of less appalingness.


Monday, 28 July 2014

Oh, for Crying Out Loud...Shed of the Year, my hairy rear end!

Sorry but I really must register an objection.  I know I'm English but, I'm not that bloody English: no-one's that bloody English!

So, what is all this 'Shed of the Year' nonsense on the telly?  'Shed of the Year'?  No, no, no - the comparative value (that sounds about brainily right) of  sheds is not a subject for a whole set of programmes on the public teevers.

Sheds!  Anyhow, I was flicking through the channels and it said: 'And up next, it's Shed of the Year.'  So I'm like - what?  No, no, surely I misheard.  But nope, it really was a programme about the sheds inc. their aesthetic value, for heaven's sake.

So, I turned it over and just thought some 'harumphhh' type thoughts over the old gin and tonic.  That night I only ruddy well ended up dreaming about bloody sheds: getting locked in a shed, the disgraceful old Josef Fritzel-esque number that my brother in law built etc etc.

Next morning, I tried to stop myself...but I'm only human, so I googled it and voila:


2013 Shed of the Year.

And then it occurred to me: I'd just had a very nasty brush with irony.

Now, of course, I'm totally into Shed of the Year...

Will let you know which dreadful old pile wins, sigh...

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

The State of Britain's Feet...

Have noticed that every other advert on teevers is for foot-related products.  Foul images of hard skin shavings abound!

Every 25 minutes I am confronted by some hideous old plates; what the blinking flip has happened to peoples' feet?  What has gone wrong?  My feet are the same as uzh, except for an extreme hardening of the big toenail:


However, everyone else's feet have become hyper-skanky-old-hard-skin-erised (dunno what it's really called...probably what I just said) a la (sorry to do this to you):





I mean, what do you have to do to get feet like that?  These aren't ordinary old feet; these are disgusting old B-Roads of Britain feet; Ice Cold in Alex feet; 'Ghandi's got better feet than those' feet.  In fact, I don't believe it.  If your disgraceful old Corn and Bunion Sets have got so bad that you have to shave the skin off...well...perhaps you should be in a home for shameless old slatterns.

Oh, and if it's not 'Singing Detective' feet, it's feet with Fungal Nail Infection or Athletes' Feet.  What is Britain doing - never taking its socks orf for a bit of an airing?  Some of the feet I've been forced to look at recently should be put to good use: growing mushrooms for Africa.  I heard that one from Father Piotr.  I'm not sure if I believe him but it is a tad dry out there, I suppose...for mushrooms.

Sorry for the diatribe but it really is a bit much.  So, on a lighter note: was watching X-Men 2 with Man Friday (cannot be arsed to watch anything nuevo at the mo' - it's far too hot to bother with new plots - so am either watching re-runs of tv shows or films I've seen at least twice before.  Therefore, if I nod orf for a few minutes I don't have to keep asking: 'Who's he then?' or 'What's she got in that bucket?'- type things).

So, watching X Men 2.  Wolverine comes into a kitchen and gets a small bottle of fizzy pop from a cupboard.  He opens it and then hands it over to a young man who is sitting at the kitchen table.  The young man smiles and blows lightly across the top of the bottle.  The bottle becomes immediately cold and Wolverine says thank-you.

At this point Man Friday says to me: 'That's Ice-Man, you know.'  And I got all shirty (it is a bit hot) and I replied: 'Oh, I thought it was Blows on Bottle Boy.'

Then Man Friday laughed at me and said: 'Feeling sarcastic are we, Can't Open Child-Proof Bottles Woman?' - which made me laugh.  We then made much merry with devising useless super powers and naming their exponents.

See, that's the trouble with all this hot weather malarkey: it can make arses of the best of us - which, of course, as Esther says: 'Explains all the cantankerousness in those foreign countries.'

Oh, did I tell you - poor Henry (the Ottoman dog) died.  Can't remember if I said or not.  Oh, and George is still clinging on by the skin of his dentures.

Must buzz orf for now.


Friday, 7 February 2014

Hitlerisation!


I’d just like to say that the following is totally true: well, it’s a true rumour i.e. it’s really a rumour that I heard about, not one that I am making up!
It goes like this: Hitler didn’t die in the bunker.  He escaped to Brazil, married a black lady, had 2 children, lived to a ripe old age and then died in the 1970s.  Hmmmm…..
There’s a picture on the internet somewhere that is really blurry and grainy and shows a youngish black lady and some old cracker.  Apparently, no one thought anything about the couple and just thought he was a bit odd and was known as Uncle Fritzy.  Then (this is the good bit), some Latin American researchers came across the photo and thought Uncle Fritzy reminded them of someone.  Then, one of the researcher’s fag ash fell on the photo and landed under Uncle Fritzy’s nose and then: ‘Eureka!’.
However, I have done some experiments of my own and worked that any picture of a black lady next to a white bloke could look like she’d been duped by the Furher by the addition of a moustache onto the white bloke.
For example, say this is a picture of George and Miss Gladiola doing some synchronised swimming:



All seems fine, yes?  However, with the addition of a few strokes of the magic marker….

  

Arrrrgggghhh!  Adolf Hitler is sneaking up on Miss Gladi !!!!

Honestly, if you stuck a little black moustache on Ghandhi he’d look like Hitler.  I think I might go and draw one on myself and see if I feel a little bit world-conquer!
p.s.  Whilst in the Boys from Brazil mood, I put a moustache on the soppiest dog ever – old Frenchie, one of my foster dogs. Voila!
You vill giff me ein Denti-Stik!

Saturday, 1 February 2014

Moustachios Cause Reality Check

Now that I am in my dotage, I find myself constantly battling the old beard and moustache set.  What used to be the odd, blonde bit of Fu Manchu is now the Brian Blessed.

I said to Man Friday: 'Blimey, I'm seriously considering buying a No No.'

He said: 'I'll go in half with you, then I could borrow it.'

This is Man Friday:


I said to him: 'Forget the No No, you need the "NONE SHALL PASS" mate.'

He said I was a cheeky mare and I told him he had lost touch with reality.   He then said he wasn't going to cook dinner and how did I like that reality.

Friday, 31 January 2014

Boiling Potatoes Burn Roof

Last nacht I had a big bowl of roast pots, squash, parsnips and beets (having decided that a clear out of the lower alimentary was probably in order).  So, all went well except for the pots which retained gallons more heat than the other vegetables and really burned the old roof.

So, I looked up potato propertied on Google and, so far so good, I got pointed in the direction of some science website called Quara(?).  Well, before it would let me enter the site a huge screen popped up and demanded I type in my email address and password for Google, so I thought: 'I should cocoa,' cos I'm not as green as I'm cabbage looking.

So, I closed the screen and dear old Peter Norton (the anti virus software) told me that he had bravely halted a dangerous hack of my system.  But I thought, I think not, Norton; after all I was the one who didn't go any further.  Honestly, when your own software tries to steal your thunder...

But I'm meandering around the tubers: guess what I found out about potatoes?  They use them in cavity wall insulation!

I mentioned this to Man Friday and he said: 'Don't you get any mental ideas, missus.'  He was referring to the fact that we've had terrible condensation this year and have toyed with air bricks and plasticky paint and polystyrene tiles, but finally hit upon the only efficacious and free solution - take the door off the offending closet.  True, everyone can see all our old rubbish, but it is better than mushrooms.

So when I mentioned the insulating properties of potatoes, M.F. thought I was reading up on some crackers idea in re tuberising the closet.

Sorry, don't know what I'm blethering on about in this blog - it all made sense when I started.

Oh, George down the road had a stroke poor old bugger.  He'd been on high blood pressure medicine for a hundred years but as he got older, his blood pressure normalised itself (don't ask me how) and so the medicine was too strong, and that's why he went all potty the other year and started crying over the dropped sausage (see previous blog).  So, he came orf the BP medicine and we all went 'phew' cos everyone thought it was the old dementia.  However, seems like praps he could've done with a bit of the medicine cos he then had a stroke.

He is getting better tho' (if a bit crab-like in the walking department) but gets very miffed if you get him on the subject of blood pressure.

Thursday, 30 January 2014

I'm not dead...I have a floating shard

Am so not dead! 

What happened was, I took up poker (at which I am really rather rubbish) and, next thing you know, a year had gone past.

Then... I busticated my arm whilst making a heroic save of my good self and landed awkwardly on the sofa (natch, on the only hard bit).  It took aeons to get an injection in the old appendage (see 'aeons' viz a viz 'NHS' equals 7 months, I kid you not!).

The syringe (horse sized and needle like a lance, am so not kidding) was filled with steroids and I don't care what the anti-doping councils of the world say, but that stuff is mustard!

All the doctors reckon I mungelated a bit of bone off one of my shoulder bones (connected to the arm bone) and have, what is known as in physician circles as 'a floating shard'.

So, am orf to have to have an X-Ray next week.  However, in meantimes, I have been appointed a visiting physiotherapist called Jolly Hockey Sticks (she's really called something like Caroline Japp) but she's one of those people that you don't see much of anymore: foreboding product of a girl's boarding school.

Get this one:  Jolly Hockeys came around the other week and Man Friday and self completely forgot she was coming.  So, when she came back today she did all her usual agonising man-handling and then she said: 'Oh ho! Where were you two blighters last week then?'

And we did some grovelling and mondo sorries et cetera and guess what she said: 'You smell, you two, you really do.'

When she said that I nearly had a fit from laughing, I hurt all my cheeks.

She is about six feet tall and very sturdily built, with very sensible clothings and she says: 'Ho!' all the time.  I totally love her!

Man Friday hates her.  But she is really rather sexist i.e. Man Friday was doing the washing-up whilst she was trying to wrench my arm out of its socket and she cocked her head at poor old M.F. and said to me: 'You've got him well trained, ho!'  And Man Friday's eyebrows nearly disappeared over the top of his head.  I did some screaming in agony to distract us from the unpleasantness and Jolly Hockeys said to me: 'I say, you really are a baby!'

Jolly Hocksticks is so terrible that I adore her and think she should be preserved: she is obvious of a limited edition.

Man Friday thinks she should be put out of his misery.

We are having roasted beetroot and butternut squash for tea - huzzah!