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!

Thursday, 17 January 2013

The 'Hello' Woman and George gets 'better'...

You know I said about the home for poor ladies...well, I met another one of them today.  I was limping past their home (on the other side of the road - not cos I was avoiding them, but just cos I was) and someone shouts out: 'Hello!'

So I look over and there is a big sort of lady sitting on the home's garden wall and she's waving.  Now, I didn't think she was waving at me, mebbes someone behind me cos i) I didn't know who she was and ii) she wasn't wearing any shoes or socks, and I know it never gets that  cold in London but stone me...no one would chose to be thus unattired (in their right bonce, anyhow).

So, this poor lady shouts out: 'Hello!' again, so I look over (big mistake) and she stands up and nearly runs in the road yelling out: 'Hello! Hello! Hello!' whilst waving away wildly in the same way that them landing blokes do with aeroplanes!

I stopped and pointed to my chest and mouthed: 'What, me?' and that was it!  She came tearing over the road to me (I was totally rabbit in headlights) still yelling out: 'Hello! Hello!' and doing all this mad waving.

I stood there like Lott's wife and she comes right in front of me (no shoes or socks, mind) and stops and just stares at me - talk about 'without resources', I really didn't know what to do, so I said: 'Hello!' back to her.]

Now, I know it could've gone either way but the augers favoured me and she smiled and said: 'Hello!' again.

So, I said: 'Hello!' again and then she said: 'Hello!' again.  Well, this 'hello' malarky could've run and run so I said: 'Well....' and she said: 'Hello!' and I said: '...I'd better get cracking, eh?', and she said: Hello! again, and I said: 'Well, ta ta then,' and she said: 'Hello!'.  By this time I'd started moving off but, though I had been heading for my own flats, I now had a nasty thought.  So I walked straight past my main front door and lucky I did cos I turned my head and Mrs Hello was still watching me and waving.

I walked all the way round the estate, come back the other side and blow me down - she was still there!  And, of course, by this time I was dying for a pee but there was nothing for it but to back off back to Holloway Road (where I'd just come from). 

I just about (phew!) made it to the nearest pub, begged the barman to hang onto my sholley whilst I went gang-way to the loo!  When I came back out, he said: 'Are you all right?' and I said: 'I'll have a single brandy and black coffee, please.'  And he said: 'Dear oh dear, that bad, eh?'  So I told him: 'Well, nothing that a brandy won't help.'  He laughed and said: 'Missus, there's nothing on this earth that a brandy won't help!'.

Anyhow, I solved the problem by ringing Man Friday and getting him to advise me when Mrs Hello had gone.  What a palaver!

Ah, and George - must tell you the latest.  I saw him walking Henry and his wife, Esther was a little ways behind them.  I said: 'Oh, George, you do look well.'  And he was really smiley and very light on his feet and told me the story of how the doctors had now taken him off ALL his blood pressure medication and his was now as right as rain.

Turned out he'd been on the blood pressure pills for 20 odd years, but as he got older (don't ask me how) his blood pressure had gone lower all by itself but as he was still on the pills (but didn't need 'em anymore) they started sending him a bit dippy.

Then he walked off and Esther (who I thought had been hanging back a tad) walks up to me and says: 'Yes, he's better all right, better at driving me distracted.'  So happens (as it often does) that she preferred him a bit woolly.  Oh dear.  We shall see...

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

Sausage-Eating Mad-Bird


Whilst I’ve been ‘away’ (euphemism for ‘poor old crippy takes turn for worse, goes convalescence, takes aeons getting better and moans constantly throughout process), there’s been some interest right across the road from our estate.  Two biggish Victorian terraced houses were being turned into a ‘home’ for what we all thought was poor ladies whose partners give ‘em a good whacking and the poor souls and their kids would have a refuge in said ‘home’.

 

About five months ago, I remember saying to Esther: ‘Ah, that’s so decent.  The poor souls need somewhere safe to go.’  And Esther (owner of Henry, Ottoman dog and wife to George, who went a tad mental on blood pressure meds) gave me a sideways sort of look and said: ‘Hmmm.’

 

Well, turns out she was quite right to say: ‘Hmmm,’ instead of: ‘Ah…’.

 

It’s not a home for poor battered ladies at all, it’s a home for totally mental ladies aged 40 plus.  And when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean a bit touched, I mean totally ‘rip bong giddely dee.’

 

The way I found out was this: I took my first trip to Morrisons in six months.  Me and sholley, in the rain, it took about 2.5 hours (25mins for everyone else, but it’s a start) and on the way home, I saw a ‘woman’ (very unusual hair and dentition) come out of the Turkish boys’ shop and she was holding a pack of Wall’s sausages – no plastic bag or anything.  And perhaps I wouldn’t have taken so much notice but she turned round and stared at me (I was behind her as she came out the shops) and waved the sausages at me.

 

I said: ‘Oh, lovely,’ sussing out immediately that she was bonkers, ‘Are you having those for your tea?’ (In my best ‘Does he take sugar?’ way).  But she then totally ignored me, ran ahead a few feet and then sat down on the pavement, her back to someone’s front garden wall and – get this – started ripping at the sausages’ plastic wrapping.

 

Then, then (you’re going to die) she pulls out a string of the sausages (say six of ‘em), grabs one of them in both hands and proceeds to put it in her mouth and eat it – a raw sausage!  And this is all in the pouring rain, in the middle of Caledonian Road!  A few people walked in the road, around her, and by the time I caught up to her, there were a couple of school-kids doing pig-noises at her (but they didn’t hang around long cos it was raining, and school kids don’t work to full capacity in the rain).

 

I stopped and said to her: ‘Here up, now lovey.  You can’t eat those raw, now can you?’

 

And she just carried on munching on the raw sausage and a bit of sausage skin got caught between her two remaining teeth and just hung there.  It was like Hogarth drew it or something.

 

Then, I hear Esther calling to me.  She’s got her rain-hat on and she’s running up to me: ‘Cal, Cal.  Move along now, girl.  Nothing to see!’  And she’s shooing me away with her hand.  Now, first thought goes thru my mind was: ‘Nothing to see???  I never seen nothing more to see in my life!’

 

So, Esther catches up to me and starts hustling me along, away from the raw sausage events and starts explaining to me about the ‘Home’.  So I said:

‘Well, that might be, but we can just leave her eating a raw sausage in the pouring rain.’  And Esther says: ‘You’re too good, you are.  That (pointing backwards) is not a case for roadside assistance, dear. That’s a case for break-down recovery.’

 

So, we go over to home and knock on the door and a really nice lady (big, big girl) answers the door.  We give her the s.p. and she says: ‘My life!  Sitsva, Sitsva!  You come and sit at the desk, I have to go and pick up Daphne.’ 

 

So, we all come out and the nice lady runs out in the rain to pick up ‘Daphne’.  And do you know what?  I think the weirdest thing of all is that the sausage-eating woman was called ‘Daphne’.  I reckon ‘Daphne’ would be the last name I’d ever imagine her being called!

 

This care in the community thing is getting a bit out of hand.  When I first went out to the shops, I had a quick look about and I was convinced I saw a pair of bosoms (naked ones) at a window across the road.  And then I thought: ‘Don’t be a div, can’t have been, you’re seeing things, girl!’

 

Now, I’m not so sure…

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Poor Melvis, I knew him - alas

Well, the end came for Melvis about five months back.  Me and Man Friday knew which day it would be and thus got up super early to sit on the door step and do some knitting (well, stare thru the letter box).

First a fire engine came.  Then a police car and another car pulled up.  A few neighbours came out to view proceedings.  Then the police and two blokes in suits came in the communal door and went up to Melvis's.  Boomph, boomph, boomph!

'Mr Valentine, can you come to the door please?'
'No.'
'Are you incapacitated, sir?'
'Yes, I've got a pain in my fucking arse!'
'We have a court order with your name on it, sir....'
'And I've got an hammer with your fucking name on it...'
'Melvis Valentine, this is the police.  If you do not open this door, we have a warrant to force entry.'
'Do your bloody worst!'

Then the fire men (4 of em) came in the front door.  I dunno whether they thought that Melvis would set fire to the flat or if he might climb up on the roof and then they'd have to rescue him.  Or maybe the police thought that they might need rescuing from old Melvis!

Well, the police had a battering ram thing and they used it on the door, which was a bit of a disaster cos Melvis's front door is only held together with spit and sealing wax (cos he's kicked it in so often - he loses his key a lot) and when they boofed in the door they (all four of em) went flying thru the door and down the corridor and landed on Melvis.  Then Louis, Melvis's dog, thought it was the best game ever and jumped on the whole pile of 'em and kept nipping 'em and running away.

We heard all this afterwards from Sigaret Oppellederen (who lives upstairs and hates Melvis).

Then, the firemen went charging upstairs to help and the next thing we could see was Melvis being carried downstairs by four fireman.  Melvis, who had gone stiff as a board was shouting at them: 'I'm not lifting a finger to help you boot me out of my own home.'  And he let himself be carried down the stairs whilst lying there like Tutankhamen.  It was a difficult manoeuvre cos the staircase is dead narrow and can hardly manage two abreast, let alone four firemen and a lunatic.

At one point, we hard Melvis yell out: 'Get your hand off me arse you pervert!'  And one of the firemen said: 'Ha! Chance'd be a fine thing, Senor.'  And the other firemen laughed.  And Melvis shouted back: 'And you don't you 'Senor' me with yer la-di-la Costa Blanca talk.'

And that was it.  A big repair van then pulled up and the workmen ran inside and put up metal grille things over the door and windows.  Man, it was better than telly.  Oh, and they took Melvis in the police car, 'escorting' him to his new home - a hostel in Edmonton (which is like, 200 miles away for Melvis, although only 5 miles for the rest of us).

However, we only 'didn't' see the bugger for less than a week!  Apparently (and this is pieced together from Melvis's moaning, the funny prostitute lady (I could be wrong about her tho') and various neighbours), apparently, Melvis was moved into a hostel run by a super Christian charity, and when I say 'super' I don't mean 'a bunch of really good eggs' I mean like they're the sorts who make Jesus look like Hugh Hefner.  So, as much as he annoyed them and flouted the rules, they kept on forgiving him.  Which, of course, made him madder and madder.  Finally, he threw a cocktail cabinet out of the communal tv room window and it killed a squirrel.  Some versions say he threw out the tv and it beaned a vicar (but I don't belive that, I don't even believe the squirrel bit - come to think of it I dunno if I believe the cocktail cabinet bit.  I mean, no-one but no-one has a cocktail cabinet anymore and the chance of super Christians having one of things is zero!)

So, finally the Super Christians bunged him out on his ear and he moved in with a mate of his who only just lives up the road, right next to our local betting shop!  So we still see the beggar all the time.  At least he doesn't live above us anymore and keep dropping billiard balls onto his marble flooring (which is exactly what it sounded like when he was three sheets to the wind and staggering around the domicile and throwing saucepans on the floor).

A new bloke (dunno his name yet) has moved in.  But although the council repaired the electrics, radiator, water heater and front door and windows, they didn't have the dough to replaster (Melvis had, as it turned out, chipped orf 80% of the plaster - don't ask me why).  However, poor new bloke couldnt afford to get a proper plasterer, so had a bash at it himself.  It must've turned out a bit 'rustic' cos he spent a good two weeks sanding down the sticky-out bits.  I imagine that once he finished the plastering it was a bit like yer mum's Christmas cake when she takes a fork to the icing to pretend it's snow.  P.s. my old mum had a set of cake decorations that had built up over the years, one of which was a robin.  However, the robin was six times the size of the children on the sledge.  Her Xmas cakes always had a B-Movie look about em.