Monday, 19 December 2011

Diana Ross and Kim Jong Il

Woke up today and Man Friday informed me that Diana Ross had died.  I said: 'Bloody hell, that's a shock - didn't even know she was ill' (not that she was likely to tell me anyway).  So he said: 'She was the one in The Supremes, wasn't she'.  So, I said, yes, and he said: 'That's her then.'

The day goes on.  I work on me book, Man Friday does Man Friday stuff.  My internet had temporarily carked it, so I tried to make it for the six o'clock news on teevers but never got there till 6.15, so missed the Diana Ross story.

So, I make a huge effort to make the Channel 4 news at 7pm.  Hmmm.  News item No. 1: Kim Jong Il is dead.  Man Friday comes in and hears this and says: 'Jolly good job too,' or some such; then Jon Snow goes on to make some snarky comments about the Supreme Leader and our dear Leader.

Then, Man Friday goes: 'Oh! The Supreme Leader.  That's what I heard.  No wonder I thought it was Diana Ross.'

I don't know why I bother.

When I fell in the privet hedge the other week, after being head-butted into it by foster dog, Man Friday also had a mis-hear.  I was only cutting the bloody privet berries off cos I read they were poisonous to dogs and bloody foster dog eats anything that isn't nailed down.

Anyhow, I land in the privet hedge which is located in the 'I must do something about this, one of these days' section of the garden i.e. it is a big mess where you chuck old grass trimmings and plant pots etc.  Trouble was, I couldn't seem to get out of the shrubbery by myself and foster dog could only help by tugging on my trouser legs and biting my trainers.

So, there's me shouting out: 'Ronnie! Get orf me bleeding shoes, you little shit hound,' and 'Hello! A hand here please.'  But nothing.

Turned out that Man Friday had headphones on and was recording himself playing guitar - why no one in the universe can play guitar quietly is a mystery.

So, all by myself (and with the only assistance being a large puppy pulling my trousers) I managed to roll myself over and over out of the hedge - it was a highly unpleasant business to start with but with the addition of squirrel poo, even worse.

I finally get in the house.  Man Friday stops playing and shouts out to me: 'Heard you and Ronnie playing about in the garden - having a laugh?'

I give up.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Lint Roller

Man Friday makes me laugh!

Non-death of Poor Burt Bacharach

Sorry I've ignored the blog for a few days but me internet carked it - well, not the internet but me laptop, which does its best, but...  Perhaps it needs iron tablets, or something.

Anyhow was going to tell you how I accidentally had Britzy and unusual Mary upstairs in tears.


Connie Brix is down to her final nemesis (she's ripped all the other soft toys to bits); the only one left is a hand made toy tiger that I bought for 10p at a jumble sale cos I felt sorry for it. Some kid (I hope) had made it and drawn the face and stripes on with a magic marker, bless.

Now, I am very fond of the songs of Burt Bacharach (because I am a normal person) but Man Friday is of a different view. Whenever I start singing 'The Look of Love' say he stands stock still and screams. I used to think it was my voice, but turns out he doesn't like Burt Bacharach (he obviously was dropped on his head as a kid).

Therefore, Man Friday has named Connie's nemesis 'Burt Bacharach'. All you've got to do is say to the dog: 'Where's that Burt Bacharach?' and she's running around the house, searching for the poor, toy tiger. THEN Man Friday gets the tiger, hides it and gets her to hunt for it - rewarding her with a biscuit upon its successful retrieval.

However, Connie Brix has developed a deep and abiding hatred for the toy tiger and is not at all keen on handing it over and likes to shake it around in her jaws, like she's breaking a rabbit's neck.

So, the other day, Man Friday is playing :'Get Burt Bacharach!' with the dog.
The dog finds Burt Bacharach, and instead of returning with him to Man Friday, goes running out into the garden with the bloody thing in her jaws.

By the time, I've got up out of my office/cupboard saying: 'What the bleeding hell?', the dog is standing over the tiger, looking a bit shocked, cos she's ripped the bloody thing's head off.

I'm standing in the back door, see the carnage and shout to Man Friday: 'She's only bloody well murdered Burt Bacharach.'

Unbeknownst to me, Britzy is in his garden (we've got a six foot fence) and unusual Mary is on her balacony, high above us. Britzy shouts over: 'No, not Burt Bacharach! What bloody bitch would kill him?'
And before I can answer, Mary leans over and puts in her tuppence worth and says: 'I'll bet it's the wife that did it, poor man.'
Britizy shouts back to Mary: 'Is it on the news? His wife has killed him?'

I shout back: 'No, no. It's the dog's toy, not the real Burt Bacharach.' And by the time I explain the ins and outs of the cat's arse, all neighbours within hearing distance have decided I am barking - hardly surprising.

Lucky I came clean really - it could've gone viral. Doesn't bear thinking about.

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Busted Tennis Ball Causes Embarrassment

Connie Brix's latest tennis ball is now a soggy, chewed-up mess.  It's hardly a 'ball' anymore; just two semi-separate flaps, held togther by dried dog spit.

Connie dumped it at my feet, wanting me to throw it.  I picked it up, went 'yuk' and said to Man Friday: 'This isn't a tennis ball, it's a pair of tennis flaps.'
He said: 'Ah, but Connie loves it.'  So I threw it, and said: 'Dunno where they use these sorts of balls, only at Wimbleflaps.'

And Man Friday came to the back door with a disgusted look on his face.  He said: 'Never say Wimbleflaps again.  I've got an awful picture in my head of naked Wombles.'  I laughed.  But he pulled an even worse face.  I said: 'What is it?'  He said: 'I keep thinking of Madame Cholay.'

p.s. if you've never seen The Wombles, ignore the above.

Monday, 28 November 2011

Horrid Old Bag - cont'd from last post

Forgot to tell you about the really bad-tempered old girl in Morrison’s last week.  Here goes.  I was in the queue at the fags and booze section.  I thought I was at the front, so the nice Polish chap said: “Next, please” and cos it was dead noisy in there, I yelled out: “40 Silk Cut, please.”

Then, the Polish bloke looked a bit sheepish and I followed his glance downwards, and to my left – and there was teeny little old lady in front of me! Argh!  I never noticed her, she was such a tiddler.

So, I immediately said: “Oh, I’m so sorry, this lady is in front of me!” and before I could even say sorry to her as well, she said: “I never get anything but jip at this counter.”  And, cor, she didn’t half sound cross as two sticks.  So I touched her arm and said: “I really apologise, I didn’t see you, I’m so sorry.”

But she didn’t even look at me, she just said: “Oh, you can be sorry all you like.”  And I said: “Oh, but I really am sorry, it was a mistake, I wouldn’t dream of pushing in front, on purpose.”  And then another assistant came belting over to serve her, leaving the Polish chap to serve me.

So I said to him: “I really am sorry about that.”  AND THEN, the miserable old cow said to the other assistant: “Hark at her, being all sorry to him, what about me?”

And by now, me and the Polish man are as red as beetroots, so I said again: “Oh, I really didn’t mean to offend you, I’m so, so sorry.  I really can’t forgive myself.”


She (without even looking at me) said: “Well, you have offended me, and I don’t know about you forgiving yourself but I most certainly don’t forgive that sort of behaviour.”

By now, I was a crumpled bag of embarrassment and an Irishman behind me whispered: “Take no notice, she’s probably got the dementia.”  And she only heard him!

Now, I had just bought my fags and booze and was ready to leg it – top speed – out the shop, but the old lady turned to the man behind me and said: “I heard that, you…you Paddy.”

So, now (for crying out loud) I’m saying: “Sorry, oh my heavens!” to the Irishman and he’s yelling at me: “Don’t you be bloody sorry for that rude old bitch.” And then he says to the old lady: “Why don’t you get yourself out of it, you wicked old woman.  Shoo, away with you now!”

Luckily, the evil old hag had got her half bottle of Scotch and was stomping out of the shop.  So I had to wait and make sure that she’d gone off in a different direction to me, before I went home.

Did you ever!  I was expecting the usual English 'polite fest' of: "Oh no, don't you worry," from the old girl, and then I would have said: "I could honestly stab myself in the eye." And then she'd say: "Oh, it was probably my fault for dithering," and then I'd say: "Oh no, it was my fault for pushing in."  And on it would go for another five minutes whilst we both blamed ourselves.  Now, this is how proper people in England do it.  So if you bump into each other again, you can smile at each other, stop in the street for a little chat and both blame yourselves, all over again.

99% of old ladies know this: it is a primaeval thing.  Perhaps the Irish bloke was right.  Perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on her.

Now, back to the present day.

I went to Morrison’s today, did some shopping and as I was coming out via the fags and booze section, I saw the Polish man.  He looked shocked when he saw me and then motioned with his head and eyes over to my right.  So I looked.  And it was the self-same old girl who hates me!  Luckily, she had her back to me.  I looked back at Polish bloke, mouthed: “Thank you,” and totally Usain Bolt-ed it out of there.

It’s all getting a bit Beirut-y, for my liking.

Monday, 21 November 2011

Betty Crocker and Rude Old Girl and Weirdy Geezer

Sorry!  Forgot on last post to tell you about the Betty Crocker business.  Here goes:

About 8 months back we had Man Friday's little brother and sister over and they (being 7 and 11) wanted to make Betty Crocker cakes.  So, after my kitchen looks like the Fall of Carthage and the Betty Crocker frosting makes it look like a dirty protest in Strangeways, we have a tidy up and put the remaining cake frosting in the fridge.

Forgot all about it.

8 months later, Man Friday's searching around for something to add some voomph to the vanilla ice-cream.  He hunts around the fridge, finds the old Betty Crocker Frosting.  I said: 'Cor, we should've chucked that out months back.'

Meanwhile, he's opening it up, sticking his finger in it and before I can say: 'Botulism', he's already eating a dollop of it!

'You know what,' he says, 'There's bloody well nothing wrong with it.'
I say: 'After 8 months, mate, you're probably eating a completely different life-form.'

Finally, he gets me to have a try of it.  And do you know what? There really was nothing wrong with it whatsoever!  I tell you, whatever's in that bloody Betty Crocker they ought to be putting in face-cream: I'd buy it like a shot.

Oh yes.  Went to shops and some old geezer about 85yrs old stops me in the strasse and says: 'Hello! How are you doing?'

Well, I didn't know him from Adam, but you've got to be polite.  So, I had: 'Oh hello! Lovely to see you again.'  After all, he wasn't wearing any glasses and could have thought I was his niece or something.

So then he says to me: 'Are you still drinking and smoking?' - which seemed a bit suss, but I humoured him and said: 'You know me, same as ever, whatever keeps your spirits up,eh?'

And THEN he says to me: 'What about sex?' At which point I choked on my own spit and said: 'Hah! Given that all up at my age,' and started to move away.

THEN, as I'm moving off he only says (get this): 'Ah, you haven't been coming round my house lately, that's why your love life's gone off the boil, ha, ha!'

Well, I never.  85yrs old.  Who knew he had a grain of testosterone left - dirty old sod.

Will tell you about rude old lady tomorrow - am heading orf to the drinks cabinet, maties!

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Man Friday and Betty Crocker

Yester, we got a new foster dog from charity.  He is a Rottweiler/Labrador cross puppy; dunno what breed that is exactly, mebbes a Rottador?

Anyhow, Ira from the charity said that cos he was a stray with no name, that we could name him ourselves.  So, Man Friday immediately goes: 'Ah! Stray with no name, gotta be Clint Eastwood.'  I'm like: 'I think not.'

See, I had other plans.  Ro, my sister, had reminded me about our Mum's favourite green-grocer who was called Ronnie Cashbolt, bless him.  So I said: 'No, we'll call him Cashbolt in Mr Cashbolt's memory.'

Dunno why, the dog doesn't look like a green-grocer, or even Mr Cashbolt (there's a picture of the dog at the bottom of the page so you can see that he doesn't look a bit like Mr Cashbolt).

Anyway, when Man Friday told Ira the dog's new name, she was all: 'Oh no, it makes the dog sound like a thug.' (Mr Cashbolt would've had the right hump about that; lucky he's dead).

So, we called him Ronnie (Mr C-B's first name).  Trouble is we've now got Ronnie and Connie; you call one and the pair of 'em come running.

Ronnie is the sweetest puppy but the size of godzilla.  Also (we only found this out after) not house trained in the slightest.  Poor Man Friday is running all over the place with the kitchen towel and the anti-bac spray.  He said to me the other day: 'You can see why housewives get so stressed out.'  But then proceeded to go and make mushroom pate (patay) - makes a rod for his own back.  That said, it was bloody marvellous.

Young Ronnie's story is a bit sad: the park warden down Liverpool Road Park saw him wandering about over a few days, realised he was a stray and took him home.  Then the park warden rang the council and asked if they could take him into the dog pound and they said: 'Toof!  We haven't got enough council houses, mate, let alone kennels.'

So there's old parkie with godzilla puppy, crapping all over his house and his wife's coming back from a weekend away from her sister's.  Lucky enough, he finds the alldogsmatter number, rings them, they ring us and Man Friday picks him up.

Amazingly, he has had his knackers cut off - last thing I need to see first thing in the morgen is a ruddy great ball and winkle set wobbling round my house.

Enough dog news.

Guess what?  An agent took me on!  A lovely lady from California called Annie Bomke.  Honest to god, I nearly died naked on the floor when she said yes.  Talk about a tonic for the soul!  Well, I've sent off my contract already before she can realise that she's signed Carol Dance instead of a real writer called Darryl Pants, or something similar.

Nah, seriously, well chuffed.  Tell you though, I haven't even got a publisher yet and already I'm getting stiffed for nuggets.  Oh.  The thing I have to really change about the book is that I have to write footnotes for all the 'Briticisms'!

So, here's a start:
Died Naked on the Floor - shocked
Stiffed for a nugget - asked to lend money
Nugget - a pound coin
Well chuffed - very happy
Knackers - testicles
Ball and winkle set - penis and testicles
Got the right hump - most unhappy
Green-grocer - bloke that sells fruit and veg (etables)

Blimey, you don't realise, do you?  Oh, here we go again:
Blimey - blind me
Cor - god
Cor Blimey - god blind me

Saturday, 12 November 2011

Rocket Science

I forgot to tell you: I'm desperately trying to get me audio clips onto the PAGE called Audio Clips - makes sense don't it?

Can I work it out? Toof!  Like a monkey learning shorthand, thus far, mate.  Dear oh dear.  Any help gratefully accepted, nudge, nudge.

By the by.  I saw the unnecessarily thin man from the  Santeria Newsagents as I went down the shops - and his arm is in a cast!  Now, last time I heard about him, Melvis was going to 'have a word' with him about thin-Santeria-man's possible involvement in dobbing Melv into the polis.

So, of course, I saw old Melvis on my way back home.  He's ubitquitous, that bloke; I tell you, even if you pull a jersey over your head you wouldn't be surprised to see Melvis standing in front of you.  So, I told him that I'd seen skinny-Santeria-man.
'Looks like he's broken his arm,' I said.  Melvis put his hands on his hips, sucked his teeth and looked very put out, he said: 'I know, and I'm not happy about it, believe you me I'm not.'
I said: 'Oh dear, Melv, why's that then?'
And he said: 'It weren't bleeding me what broke it, that's what.'

So I asked if Melvis thought that skinny-Santeria had been the one to dob him in, and Melvis said no, he didn't think it was him after all.  So I said: 'So why'd you want to break his arm then?'
And Melvis thought about it and said: 'Oof! He's just got that look about him.' 

And when I asked 'what look', Melvis looked at me and shook his head, he said: 'Carol, you've gotta learn, in this life, that some people are just asking for a good slap.  Know what I mean?'

I said, yes.  It was easier.

Oh, and on a differs subject, we are getting another foster dog on Monday. 6mths old half Labrador half Rottweiler with no name: the nameless Rottador.  Depends on what he looks like but I fancy calling him Ronnie Cashbolt, after mum's old greengrocer.

Surreal Convo on Bench

Day before yesterday I took meself up the shops - huzzah for me!  Admittedly, it took over an hour what with having to have a little sit down on every other person's garden wall.  Still, I got up to Holloway Road but by this time I was knackered and found (miraculously) an empty bench for a jolly good sit-down and a foot rub.

So there's me sitting one end and then this bloke and his dog come along and sit on the other end.  He looked like quite a 'well to do' sort of fella but his dog was one of them right out Mutleys.  Nothing wrong with the animal, very nicely behaved, but not a looker and definately of the Heinz 57 Varieties-type breeds.  Had a big body and a small head and looked (a bit) like a donkey.

So, the bloke sits down to have a fiddle with his Blackberry/iPhone thingie.

Then a really old boy comes along and sits in between us.  He says: 'Hullo, love' to me, looks at the other bloke and smiles.

So far, so good.

Next thing you know, a bunch of lads (a likely looking bunch to be sure, but by no means Lord of the Flies material) come walking past us.

One of the lads shouts out:

'Oy, mister, I like your dog.'  All the lads start sniggering.

And the bloke (whose dog it is) looks up and he's livid!  He wags his finger and shouts back:
'Don't you "mister" me and you can keep your mitts off my dog.'

Me and the old geezer looked at each other a bit 'Hullo?' cos the man was so angry.  Perhaps loads of people had cast aspersions on his dog and it was a touchy subject for him.  So one of the lads shouts back:
'Wouldn't touch yer dog with a bargepole.'  And the lads wander past, laughing.

So, the old boy says to the bloke: 'Kids, eh?'
And the bloke goes: 'Kids? The very sort of urchins who stole my cat.'
And I said: 'How'd they steal your cat then?'

And the bloke looks at me like I'm mental, and says: 'The usual way of course.'
So I said: 'Oh. I didn't think there was much of market in cats.'
And the bloke said: 'I don't believe there is.  As I told the police, I considered it a personal attack on me.'

And the old boy, who was looking a bit perplexed, said: 'In my day, a personal attack meant fisticuffs, touch of the old 'boof, boof'.'
And the bloke said to him: 'Unfortunately my cat was the only one on the premises.'
So the old boy said: 'They punched your cat?'
And the bloke said: 'No, they pinched my cat.'

Anyhow.  The bloke with the hideous dog and the pinched/punched cat wandered off.

The old boy said to me: 'Do you reckon he was the full schilling?'
I said that I had my doubts.
The old boy said: 'Cor, you get all sorts down Holloway.'
I said, too right and all.  Then the old boy heaved himself up and said he had to get cracking cos his missus was expecting him back with the shopping.  And as he left he patted me on the shoulder and said:
'Do you know, dear, I'm 82 years old and in all my days I have never seen anyone punch a cat.  You can't believe a word anyone says these days.'

Well.  That was one of the odder conversations I've had all month.  It was almost a relief to get into Morrisons.

Monday, 7 November 2011

Sink Blockage #3


First it seemed like plumbing was, actually, rocket science; now, it appears to be supernatural - definate touch of the Harry Potter about the business.

Don't ask me how but it has 'miraculously' resolved itself without the help of any outside agency.  I'd just done a teeny tad of washing up and was watching, worriedly, as the soapy water went down the plug hole.  And bugger me if it didn't go hurtling down at 60mph!  I couldn't have been more surprised if the left over suds had formed into a picture of the Holy Mother.

Man Friday insists it was all his donkey work that resolved the blockage.

'What?  Two days later?  Where do you think we are, some Einsteinian thought experiment?'
'Enough of your cheek, missus,' he says, 'All you could contribute was a bottle of Mr Muscle.'

Hmmm.  All I know is that the world of Bazalgette is back to normal.  Phew.

Ooh.  Am getting out and about a bit now, thank heavens: but the first person I bump into is Poor Sandra.  Now, she's totally deaf and doesn't know any sign language, finger spelling or lip reading.  But, amazingly, that isn't the problem.  The real problem is that she thinks that I can. Me.

When I first met her, I couldn't understand her speech, realised she was deaf and tried to use some finger spelling to talk to her.  She started smiling, put her hands over mine to stop me 'talking'.  And pointed to her mouth and said to me:
'Can you lip-read, dear?'
I said: 'NO.'

She took this as a 'yes' and has been shouting at me (with exaggerated lip and tongue movements) for over 2 years. 

I tried, initially, to explain the problem but (on her husband's advice) eventually gave up.

So, today I had a ten minute conversation with her about (what I thought was) how the weather had changed suddenly and was a bit chilly.  Luckily her husband turned up, translated and it turned out we'd been talking about how Sandra was convinced that she'd been jipped at the dry cleaners.

Apparently, she took a coat in and asked them (somehow) to tighten up all the buttons and they'd misinterpreted and shortened the hem.  And now she has cold knees.

I asked her husband once (when I got him alone) and asked him why Sandra didn't write things down for people and he said:

'She's a very stubborn woman, my Sandra.'

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Sink Blockage #2

Dear, oh dear.  Turns out that plumbing is, in fact, rocket science.  I had guessed as much.

Man Friday spent aeons rodding the drains and I have been plumber's mate:

'Turn the water on.'
'Water on!'
'Aaaah, bloody hell, turn it off, turn it off.'
'Turning it off!'
'Oh my gawd, it's all down me trousers.'
'Sorry, turned it on again.  Off now.'
'For crying out loud.'
'I'll have you know I don't have a Masters in plumbing, matey.'
'Well, that's bleeding obvious.'
'I'm only trying to help.'
'Well, that's a matter of sodding opinion.'

et cetera et cetera.

So now, the council plumbers are coming (again) to have a bash at the blockage via pipe-work in Melvis's garage.

Trouble is: it's Saturday now and they aren't coming till Tuesday; and all the sinks are totally up the shoot.

Last night, Man Friday had gone to bed early and me and the dog were watching Texas Chain Saw Massacre.  Then suddenly, we heard this terrible gurgling and splashing sound coming from the bathroom.  Me and dog looked at each other, like: 'You what?' And then we went into the bathroom and the bath had turned into a geyser!

Hot soapy water was spurting out the plug hole and making the most god awful noise like someone strangling Pavarotti.  Must have been next door having a late night bath and - Lord knows how - their dirty water ends up coming up MY plug hole.

So, there's me, ladling out next door's bloody dirty bath water with a saucepan, and chucking it into the lavatory.  The dog tried to help but all she could do was poke her nose towards the plug hole and then run away every time it went: 'gurgle, gurgle, bloop'.  Still, it was nice to have the moral support.

After a couple of mins of chucking soapy water down the lavvy, it was, of course, filling up a bit.  So, I flushed it.

What a bloody mistake!

Next thing you know the soap is getting more and more sudsy and sudsy and there's bubbles creeping over the edge of the lavvy bowl!  It was like something out of John Carpenter except it wasn't on the telly it was in my bleeding bathroom.

So I'm scraping off the suds onto the bathmat with one hand and trying to saucepan out the bath with the other hand.  Talk about: 'Fast Cake Machine'.

Luckily, next door didn't decide to have another bath.

Man Friday kipped through the entire adventure.

Where's Joseph Bazalgette when you need him!

Thursday, 3 November 2011

I Get a Cold

Yes.  Unbelievable.  I haven't had a ruddy cold for ten years odd and last week, bof (as the French say, Lord knows why) I'm the world's repository of snot.

There isn't an orifice in my body that isn't leaking some sort of foul humour; green, yellow, see-thru - you've never seen the like (and you wouldn't, believe you me).

I've been coughing and choking and sneezing over the whole of Nag's Head; I've probably started one of them pandemics.

And absorbent materials?  Shall we talk about them?  All right then: tissues and toilet roll are absolutely futile in the face of my phlegm's velocity - comes shooting out my nose at 60mph.  Terrible.  The only thing that can temporarily contain it is Kitchen Roll: but even that has its limits.

Why don't we have linen handkerchiefs anymore?  Yes, yes, everyone bangs on about how germy they are but they're the only thing that can save unsuspecting neighbours from...well, you can guess.

Hmmmm.  It makes you feel like moving to Dubai.  Except for the lack of off-licences the place would be perfect.  You never see any Arab people whipping out a Vick's Sinus Nasal Spray.

Just realised that I have been moaning for the entire post: sorry.  And sorry to all the men in the world cos women are always saying how THEY are the biggest moaners in re coldage.  Well, last time I looked, I was a woman and I haven't shut up whining for over a week!  I think it must depend on how much room you have in your sinuses to store all the phlegm; there must be a space the size of an apple inside my bleeding head.

Oh.  Got another agent reading the full manuscript of Joe's Nan; some nice lady from California.  So (as Geedswood says) all malleable joints crossed.

Promise next post more jolly.

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

Sink Blockage! Not exactly 'Titanic Sinks' - actually, better...


Been going on a few weeks now: slower and slower emptying sinkage tempus.

Not a big problemo till this morgen when it was nada: bloody thing wouldn't empty at all, leaving huge oily, scum on top of w/up wasser.

Man Friday, bless, took the U-Bend off and had a butchers but nah, clean as a whistle.  But the ponk coming out the drainpipe that leads outside...cor, it could bring a Victorian around from the vapours, mate.  Dear, dear.

So, I rang the council and they're all sharp intake of breath and: 'yes, well, sounds nasty, oh dear, can't come out till Monday'.  And today is Wednesday.

So, we done the w/up in the bath and I tell you something: ceramic and crockery are not mates, same goes for glass.  We lost a small plate, a dish and a tumbler.

Then, me and old M.F. are like: 'bugger, what are we going to have for dinner that doesn't make any washing up?'

M.F. suggested we buy paper plates, which would, admittedly be a start but the main problemo is if we do any cooking we've got pots and pans and they're just bloody bound (knowing my luck) to crack the ceramic on the bath.  And then we've got blocked drains and a sodding cracked bath.

Thus, we came up with the cunning ploy of microwave dinners and take-out for next 5 days - huzzah!  Ner, ner, dee, ner, ner to me diet; I was bleeding starving anyhow.

We considered boxed salad from Marks and Sparks and sandwiches, but they just didn't have the same appeal as week-long take-away.  Heh heh.

Am thinking about writing an anti-diet book called: 'How to keep your trap shut in the presence of grub'; to which my answer will be: 'don't even bother'.

Good old blocked pipe work.  Saved me from bloody salad,

Friday, 21 October 2011

Connie Brix goes Vet

The dog has been scratching her earhole like nobody's business.  We left it a week, trying to clean it out with salty water, but it got worse so Man Friday took her up the Vet's.

Turns out she has an ear infection - if it's not one thing with that dog, it's another.

The Vet gave Mrs Doggit a complete once over.

Man Friday asked the vet to have a look at her paws cos she keeps chewing on them and I've been worried (why, I'll never know) that she might have some splinters from the bark that covers my (former) garden (now dog track and sneaky chod section).

As per uzh, poor MF was covered in dog hair cos Connie moults like mad (I might loan her to some Hair-Loss clinic for experimentation purposes).

The Vet said:

'Ooh, dear.  What with the paw chewing, the constant moulting and (the second this year) ear infection, I'm thinking your dog might have an allergy.'

Allergy?  How do dogs get allergies? She doesn't just take a chomp out of her own chods but she'll have a gnaw on any other bloody dog's.  How does a animal like that get an allergy?

Anyhow.  The Vet asked MF to bring her back in 2 weeks for testing.  Hmmm.

Then MF decided to go for it, he said:

'Can I ask a personal question?'
'Er, yes.'
'Do, erm, well, you know, oh it's hard to say, well, do dogs, ahem, ahem, (whispers) masturbate?'

Man Friday was like a beetroot by now.  The Vet (who is a lady) said:
'No. Not really.  Not like us.  Oh, I don't mean you and me,' now she goes bright red, 'Oh, dear, I mean 'people' in general, obviously. Ha, ha. Oh dear.'

Man Friday is now beyond beetroot, more vermillion and all down his neck as well.  But the whole thing went from bad to worse.  The Vet, bless her heart, carried on:
'It's more like a tic, in dogs.  Mostly in male dogs.  Why, err, do you ask?'

And poor, poor Man Friday is dying by now, but still manages to say in a teeny, weeny voice:
'It's just that Connie is always....erm...well'
'That's the word, sorry.  And I wondered if it was normal?  Sorry.'

And the Vet says (and this is the bit that finished the poor bloke off):
'Well, I noticed that Connie has particularly large labia and that's probably why she cleans herself so much.  I expect her urine is often caught in the folds.'

When MF got home he threw himself on the sofa and said:
'I feel like I've been in a dog porn movie.  Never, ever say 'folds' to me again.'

Took a good half hour for him to calm down enough to tell me what he was on about.

Monday, 17 October 2011

King of the Kind Brush-Offs

Ah.  Ms Reid finally said no, I wasn't a match for her list.  She was really sweet about it though.  All that said though, still the old brush-off.

So, soon as she said 'nope', I started sending out to other agents, on a Sunday night.  And, this afternoon (Montag), I immediately get another kindly brush-off from an agent in Connecticut!

Oh, and I got my script back from the BBC (another brush-off) but they gave me the reader's notes which were v. encouraging AND they noted that it was rare to get as far as that.  Thus, round two and she's out!

Blimey, eh.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm bloody pleased to have gotten as far as I have (in fact it's a miracle) but it's a bit like that saying that I can't remember properly: blah, blah, blah but no cigar.

Aha! Found out yesterday that Esther husband is called George.  I have been called him Harry for over two years and he has never said a word.  It's a bit like 'odd' Sandra upstairs who always calls me Barbara - I don't have the heart to tell her any different.

Friday, 14 October 2011

Notes on an Orange Burial and Ben's Adventures in Home Brewing

Just a quickie.  A bloke I know has just had a book published.  He's called Greg Levin and he's a bit of a comic genius.  I laughed so hard reading his 'Notes on an Orange Burial' that I hurt me face and then got that terrible pain thingy behind one of me ears.  It is that good - fact.

Here's a link to some sort of site thingy where you can read/buy it:"
Oh.  And another good bloke I know just had a book published too!  Book's called 'Ben's Adventures in Wine-Making' (I think) and he's called Ben Hardy (am going to buy this, though I read loads of it already on-line).

It's non-fiction and about how he starting making his own wine and finally got good at it!  It is really, really funny esp. the anecdotes about his brewing disasters AND it's got loads of wine recipes/techniques.

Word to the wise: never bother with potato wine...

I remember my old mum straining a marrow full of sugar through a pair of old tights to make some sort of alcoholic concoction.  She bottled it and we tried it; cor, what a shocker.  Bleeding drain cleaner.

And one time she tried to make pea-pod wine.  Dear oh dear.  The smell in the house just wouldn't go; not being funny or that but it smelled like farts and it tasted like the smell of farts, if you know what I mean.  It was ridiculously alcoholic however and my uncle Vic (who had olfactory problems) drank so much he fell off the armchair in our front room, burst out laughing and said: 'There's something wrong with my legs.'

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Severe Effings and Blindings

Went for limping odyssey round the back of flats with Esther and Henry (ottoman dog).  Henry kept sitting down and refusing to move.  I suggested he could sit on top of sholley and I could push him along.

‘It’s a plan,’ Esther goes to me, ‘Trouble is, the poor soul’s too heavy to lift onto the sholley.’
I gave her a hand to try and lift him but it was no good; dog weighs a ton.

Then, across the road, a youngish bloke comes running out a front door and he’s shouting:
‘I’m not listening to another effing word.’

Then, a youngish lady’s head pokes out the top window and shouts down to the bloke:
‘Don’t you effing think you can effing walk out on me.’

And the bloke shouts up to her:
‘You just effing watch me.’  And he goes over to some ancient old motor, opens the door, gets in and slams the door.

Then, the lady’s head whips back in the window and you can just about hear her still effing and blinding.

Me, Esther and Henry are still standing there.

The man does a sharpish three point turn in the road, just as the lady comes tearing out the front door, shouting:
‘You come back here, you fucker.’

But she’s too late cos he’s already driving off down the road.

So, she’s standing in the middle of the road, wearing her slippers and some sort of pajama-ings.  And she looks over at us, and I thought, oh no, she’s going to think we’re just nosey parkering about the place.  But she shouts over to us:
‘He stole my fucking car keys.’

And Esther goes: ‘Oooh. Are you going to call the police?’
And the lady goes: ‘Nah.  I’m ringing his fucking mother.’

And she stomped off back into her casa.

It is more interesting to engage in physiotherapy around our neck of the woods, rather than at the National; most exciting thing that happens there is that someone gets stuck in some odd position and it takes three people to get ‘em upright.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Miriam Margolyes vs. Arnold Schwarzenegger

Forgot to tell you.

Saw a film the other nacht that had Arnold in a full-on fisticuffs sketch mitt Miriam Margolyes!  Totally superb.  She nearly won as well.

I love old M.M.  She is the sort of woman you just know has a gun in her handbag.  Was reminded of her just now when I looked in salle de bain mirror.  Have taken to wearing black eye make-up again and what with me curly pube-head, I look like a (very slightly) younger M.M. gone gothic.

Must buzz orf now cos there is a Japanese horror remake on at 23:00 (hark at me, gone all Tom Clancy).  Thank goodness it's not one of those sub-title jobs.  I have to sit, practically, on top of teevers to read 'em.  A few weeks back, I set the timer to show a film, billed as: 'An all action engineering thriller.'  Turned out not to be 'engineering' but 'espionage'; not half so exciting at all - thought I'd winkled out a new genre.

'Quick, Horace - the widget's about to blow.'
'Save yourself, Felix.  I've only got enough WD-40 for one.  Run, run for your half-life.'

I would die naked on the floor to see an engineering thriller.  Sigh.

Prince Wallah and The Farts

Thought I'd share a few childhood memories.  Can't imagine why they've come back to me...ahem, ahem.

At primary, aged about 7, my mate Geedswood invented a game called Prince Wallah and the Farts; which, to this day, I cannot work out (for the life of me) why I went along with.

Me and about four other loyal amigos of Geedswood had to sit on a playground bench.  Our role was to be the slaves of Prince Wallah.  Of course, Geedswood played Prince Wallah.

She would stride over to us, say: 'Ha!  Who would dare cross the great Prince Wallah?' or some such.

And, as far as I can remember, if any of us laughed, she would say: 'Filthy infidel, you will pay dearly for your levity.'

And then (get this) she would pretend to fart on our faces, and, couldn't move or you'd get more farts.  AND all the other slaves would be laughing their heads off.

The thing that gets me, is: I LOVED PLAYING PRINCE WALLAH!

Coming soon to (this) a blog near you: The Gas Man Calls and The Man With The Golden Gun (more childhood games of Geedswood's 'Mervyn Peake'-ishness invention).

Saturday, 8 October 2011

The Odyssey

Went out for limpage with lovely Esther and her dog, Henry.  Luckily (for me), Henry is walking so slowly that, as MF remarked: 'Much slower and we'd be going back in time.'

Poor Henry is now an entire cube with a leg at each corner and a teeny head sticking out one of the sides.  He was never a slim dog to start with but since the arthritis he is more ottoman than dog.
'Poor old Henry,' I said, 'He's ballooned up, is it the steroids?'
'No!' Esther goes, 'It's all the biscuits.  He is very fond of those Jules de Strooper butter ones.'

Those Jules de Strooper's are a good £1.50 per pack; I'm quite fond of them myself.

'I've given up on the steroids for him,' she told us, 'I just give him a paracetamol, half hour before we go out for a drag around the estate.  The biscuits are just to cheer him up, poor old bugger.  Don't think he's got long, keeps staring up at the wall.'
Miss Gladiola said: 'Ah, mebbes he's got a sixth sense.'
'Toof!' goes Esther, 'He hasn't got the full five, leave alone a sixth.  He's half deaf, half bind.  I think he's got a touch of the old dementia.'

Then as we all hobbled along (me, Henry and Miss Gladiola, with her veins) we had a conversation about how could you tell if a dog had dementia or not; after all, they attack their own reflections in puddles and eat old bits of poo - if you let 'em.

We didn't go far (maybe a few hundred yards) but as Miss Gladiola said: 'Who wants to run a marathon anyway?  Complete waste of resources to no good end.'

On the hobble, Ginge, Corn Rows and Charlie walked past us - all nice and friendly now (unless Corn Rows and Charlie were the cause of the cast on Ginge's arm).  Amazing.  Kids, eh?  You can't take 'em seriously.

It was only a couple of years back, I had to rush out of the back door cos about a dozen kids had gotten Corn Rows on the floor and  were giving him a kicking.

'Hoy! You can't kick people in the head,' I told them.
'Nah, it's all right,' one of them goes, 'It's just friendly.'  During which exchange Corn Rows had escaped and jumped into Britzy's garden.
'Promise you, ' I told 'em, 'Kicking people in the head is never considered friendly.  The head is very delicate.'
'Not his, missus,' another informed me, whilst simultaneously dragging Corn Rows out of Britzy's (along with a few other rough herberts) and back onto the path.

I was at my gate by now and the mob was a little disquieted, giving Corn Rows a chance to leg it and the mob to yell: 'Tosser!' at his fleeing back.

They dispersed.

Britzy came out.
'You should leave them to it, little barbarians.'
'Well, I have to draw the line when they're kicking each other in the head.'
'Hmmmm.  I think, survival of the fittest.  If one little bastard kills another little bastard, I think, good - one little bastard less.'
Britzy had a (brutal) point.  But, as I pointed out to him: 'Sods they may be, but there might be a potential Einstein amongst 'em.'

He couldn't stop laughing.

And now, the kids are all mates with each other!  Mebbes they needed to fight it out amongst each other (whatever 'it' was).

Hobbes was a bit harsh, I thought; but William Golding had it pinned down all right.

Thursday, 6 October 2011

Screaming Lesson with Mark Chesterton

Just ten mins back I was watching Horizon.  This week's programme concerned the problems with the Standard Theory of Cosmology.

I had to listen to it through headphones cos MF and young Dan had gotten (god knows how) James II to shout the lyrics, over and over; it was like a Primal Scream Therapy session where the psychiatrist had gone loo and the participants had gone Neanderthal.

Anyhow.  I'm watching Horizon and (it turns out) mebbes there wasn't a Big Bang at all (typical, just when I bent me head around it).

Then James II's voice gives out, so he has to come in the front room for a cuppa and some paracetamol (prob. gave himself an aneurism, all that screaming).  So I take the headphones out.  James II says: 'What's this about?'
I say: 'Look's like the Big Bang Theory's all to cack.'
James II says: 'Does it matter?'
I say: 'Too right it does - dark matter, mate.'
James II goes: 'What's dark matter?'
I say: 'No one knows.'
He goes: 'That why they call it 'dark' then?'
And I had to admit: 'Probably.'

Then MF and young Dan are arguing over £2.50's worth of change.  I shouted out: 'Will you two pack it in - you shouldn't be worrying about £2.50, you ought to be worrying about Dark Flow.'
Young Dan asks who 'Dark Flo' is.
I give up the will to live.

Finally, five mins back, they all start to set off: MF to Offy for non-alcoholic booze (oxymoron) and boys off home.  MF pops his head in me office door to tell me they're going in a min.  He says: 'Dan's having a tom-tit to save having one in his own house,' and James II says: 'Yeah, he's saving water.'

And the above story explains why Jesus invented wine.  Or made some.  Or something.  Probably drank it, poor sod - 'Son of God' makes 'Prince of Wales' look like three kittens holding up a cup-cake.

p.s. 'Screaming Lessons with Mark Chesterton' is a real 'How To' video that MF and Dan made James II watch.  I'm not making it up - you couldn't.

Joe's Dog

Ha! Have finally started new 'Joe's Nan' buch, called (after mucho thought, well, ten minutes, and it is a bit about a dog, well, there's a dog in it): Joe's Dog.  Huzzah for me, eh?

Admittedly only 4 pages in but is mucho relieving to get going again.

I've beem emming and awwing about whether to write another one for aeons now cos still no definitive word from Ms. Reid.  But finally decided, bugger it,  I fancy writing another one anyhow.  AND it will save me moping about the house with a face like the dog died (me, that is, not the house - didn't use the Oxford comma there, sorry).

My sister reckons they grow the most apples in China.  I don't think they have the same apples as us tho'; the only one I ever tasted was more of a pear; and you can't have an 'apple' that tastes like a 'pear', can you now: makes a mockery of the phrase 'like comparing apples and pears'.

Having just written the above, I think the phrase is: 'like comparing apples and oranges'.

James II and young Dan are recording vocals in the bedroom with MF in Mission Control mode.  The windows and back door are draped in duvets and the better part of my cardigan collection.  The room is boiling, humidity high and the smell could be bottled and labelled: 'Midnight in King's Cross'.

When they finally finish, there's going to be some open doors and windows and plenty of the old 'power of Christ compels you' to dispel the miasmas.

Am going for a short troll along the front of the estate tomorrow with Esther and Henry (the dog).  I expect to be also accompanied by MF, Connie Brix (my dog) and my sholley.  We will no doubt bump into Melvis and Miss Gladiola.  All we need is the kids from the cake shop to turn up and we'll look like a 'cutting-room floor' slow motion from Oliver.

Dog, dog for sale! Going cheap, only seven guineas!

p.s. don't really know what this blog was about

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Smoking in Casa

MF (who very, very rarely smokes) said: 'Carol, is it ok if I smoke in the house?'  I said: 'Course it is.  Where do you think I smoke?' (Like I'm going out in the jardin).  And he goes: 'Yeah, but I feel a bit bad.'  So I said: 'For crying out loud, whaddya think I do, secretly have a puff out the window and then spray fag-scented air freshner around the place?'

Come to think of it, I rather like the old 'fag-scented air-freshner' idea.  Could imagine myself surreptiously spraying it:

1. at church
2. on the tube
3. at my stop smoking group

However, that said, I might as well just smoke a fag and have done with it.

Swear: when I give up will use the fag-scented air-freshner to make myself feel at home.

What am I on about?  Note to self: never blog after glass of wine - nonsense ensues.

Monday, 3 October 2011

Man Friday Tries to Kill Me...

Man Friday cooked up a fabby pot of red cabbage the other nacht; it was abso excellent - so I had seconds, whilst watching teevers from the kitchen table.

Next thing I know, it feels like I've got a football stuck in my gob and I'm sat there going: 'Ob, ob, ob,' (or some such old nonsense) whilst I drop my fork and stick my hand in my mouth.  Then (I dunno why I bother)  realise I've pushed the 'football' further down me gullet.  So, as Man Friday comes charging over to slap me on the back, I leap (well, 'get') up from my chair, throw my back against the fridge door and the sodding bouncing bomb (seemed big to me, matey) came shooting out me mouth, crashed onto my dinner plate and boinged off onto the floor.

Whole business scared the dog witless: she started barking and charged at the gob-missile going 'Grrrrr' with all the hair standing up on her back.

Man Friday grabbed it up off the floor in some kitchen paper. We both looked at the little brown globe.

'Ha!' he goes, 'Wondered where that went.'
'What went?'
'It's that nutmeg I put in the red cabbage, flew out my hand, thought it went behind the cooker.  What a lark, eh?'

Lark?  My nether eye.

Later on that nacht, I heard: 'Oh my dear god.  Oh dear me.  Oh hang on a minute,' coming from the bedroom.  I shouted out from the front room: 'What's up?' and old MF shouts back, 'Don't come in here!'

Well, that's like one of them buttons that says: 'Don't Press' - you've just got to, it's only human.

I limped over to the bedroom, turned the door handle and MF only shuts it back AND holds it shut; so now I'm totally like a Jack Russell and a drainpipe.

'What's going on in there?'
'Nothing.  You can't come in, not for a minute.  I've gotta turn this off.'
'Turn what off?'
'This bloody film.  Oh my word.  Look, I can't hold the door shut and reach the mouse at the same time.  Promise us you won't come in?'

Soon as I felt him let go the handle I went straight in.
'Don't look,' he says.

I looked.

Well, I only saw a couple of frames but that was quite enough to wrap the case up.  MF had told me half an hour back that he'd bought himself a zombie film download.  Said it was called: 'L.A. Zombie' and read something off the screen about it had won an award and sounded really hardcore.

It was hardcore all right.  He'd only downloaded a gay zombie porno (who knew?) with the strapline (completely ignored by MF) 'He f*cks the dead to life'.  And yes, it had won an award.  A 'Extraordinarily Grown-Up' film award.

MF came over all unnecessary but I thought it dead amusant.  I'll give him nutmeg. 

Friday, 30 September 2011

The Non-Existent Old Girl

I thought I hadn't seen that non-existent old girl for aeons, and turns out she died months back! No one tells me anything.

I shouldn't be surprised though cos she was about 99yrs old (mebbe not 99 but v.v. elderly) with a hacking cough and bent over like a hair pin, poor old soul.

Man Friday heard it from the Iranian boys at the 'everything' store.  Apparently, she fell into the bath whilst dyeing her hair or bashed herself on the bonce getting up from dyeing her hair; but whatever story you believe, it definately had something to do with dyeing her hair (which she dyed some deep shade of 'black hole').

I used to see her quite a bit when I first moved here; never understood a word she said though.  She used to lean over my fence and chatter away and when I put out my hand to shake hers, she put her hands up in the air, bust out laughing, pointed to her chest and said: 'I am non-existent.' Which I thought was odd but considering she had gallons of 'black' hair, wore a fox tippet with the head cut off and, generally, wore a pair of wellingtons, it didn't seem that odd.

Thing was, everytime I saw her (from then on in) I couldn't say: 'Hello, non-existent,' now could I.  So I settled for sweetheart or my love or somesuch.

Well (typical) it turns out, acc. to the Iranian boys, that her name was Nona Zistia (dunno how you spell Zistia).  Anyone could've made the same mistake, I really don't blame myself for getting her name wrong; not only did she had a really strong accent but very big dentures.  She was a lovely old girl though, always smelled of rose water.

No surprise that the bath got her in the end; in the RoSPA statistics, the bath is one of THE most dangerous places in the house.

I remember when I saw Denise Trubb out on Upper Street (donkeys' years back, mind) and she had a huge black eye and bruising all down one side of her face, neck, hands and several stitches in her lip.  I said: 'Blimey, what happened to you?' (expecting to hear 'car accident')
And she goes: 'Bloody bathroom.'
I said: 'Get out of town.  Did it turn on you?' (Which she didn't find funny, can't blame her really).
And she goes: 'I slipped getting out of the bath on me new ceramc floor tiles, landed on my face and passed out.'
I said: 'Dear oh Lord!'
And she goes: 'It gets worse.  When I finally came to, covered in me own blood, I got on my hands and knees, going: 'oh, oh, christ.'
'Fair enough, mate.' (that's what I said)
'But I was all fuzzy and couldn't quite see properly, crawled a few more inches and tried to stand up, but didn't realise that I was right under the sink.  So as I stood up I cracked my head on the underside of that and knocked meself out again.'
'Cor, dear, what a sketch.' (That was me, again).
'Tell me about it.' (That was Denise).

Yeah, so don't tell me about bathrooms.  I've got linoleum in mine.  Ceramic tiles, perchance!

Monday, 26 September 2011

Melvis and the Polis #2


Turns out that the police bashed in Melvis's door and stormed his casa cos they had a tip off that he was 'holding onto some gear' for 'some geezer'.

Of course, the search was fruitless as, Melv said: 'Amazing.  The only crime on the books I've never touched.  Typical.'

And the reason his dog was engaged in such major barkage is cos they kicked in the door, his dog (Aldo) came tearing down the corridor and they gassed him! (I think is some pepper spray thing).

Apparently, poor Aldo spent the next hour running round the flat and bumping into furniture, which set him off barking again.

I'm not sure if this is exactly ironic, but suffice to say that Aldo doesn't have a tooth in his head.  Yes, he has a giant pair of ding dong bells but, as I say, no teeth.

Aldo is, literally, all bark and no bite.

Melvis told me the news and went off, searching out the impossibly skinny man from the Santeria newsagents as he has a 'feeling in his water' that he was behind the tip-off to the Old Bill.

To be honest if anyone rings the Old Bill and gives the name Melvis di Gioia for even so much as a stolen flowerpot, it can be quite certain that they will suspect him of the crime.  That is one of the big problems with crime: you keep getting the police round your gaff.  Melvis said he was sitting on his sofa watching the news when they busted in the door and spilled all hot tea down his front + all the mess and the dog problem.  Crime is so not worth it.

Quick one.  Miss Gladiola knocked on back gate yester and came in for coffee and custard creams.  She's been back from hospedale (cos of her veins) for over a week but she has only just started walking further than her own block.

She is bandaged from hip to ankle and cannot sit down unless she has her feet up and when she stands: 'I have to go foot to foot like I need a tinkle.  Very embarassing.  So I tell every person about my veins and this stops the misunderstanding.'

Her gait is a bit wide, what with all the thick bandages and that has affected her balance somewhat, so she has to hold her arms a little ahead of her to: 'maintain equilibrium.'

She said herself: 'I am walking like Boris Karloff.  If he was black.  And a lady.'  And I said no, no, not at all and that she had much better hair.  And she said I was little and wicked but she did laugh and then Frankenstein's monstered it back down the path.  Bless.

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Melvis and the Polis!

Cor!  This morgen approx. 9.30am I was woken out of the old somnus by 'Crash, Bang, Wallop (what a picture)' - sounded like the ruddy ceiling was coming in.  Honestly, it was from Melvis's upstairs and I thought he knocked a wardrobe or a bookcase over.  His dog started barking like mad and I heard old Melvis going: 'Here up, look at all this mess you've made.'  So I thought, ah, Melvis has been out on steptoe duty, found some giant piece of furni, him and a mate have lugged it upstairs and then dropped it.  So me and Man Friday woke up and ran to door frame type sketch (not really, but we were a bit, what the bloody hell) and MF sneaked to the front door for a butchers.

And it was only a million old Bill...well, half  a dozen.

MF heard two of them talking to Melvis (couldn't make it out though) and saw a van AND a police car parked right outside.  So, obvi, they had bashed the door in with that battering ram thingy and no wonder he said: 'Look all at all the mess you've made.'

Well, they didn't cart him off cos he would've shouted to MF to look after the dog.  Dunno what it was about but no doubt will find out via horse's mouth itself as Melvis is the estate's 'man about town' - he is a ubiquitous presence.  I know he's 'got some fingers in some pies' but he's not all bad by any means.

After all, whilst MF was in hospedale, he took Connie Brix for a run every day which was very decent of him.  Imagine if Michael Caine (aged 45) was mixed race and had the voice of Sid James (off the Carry On films) and that's what he looks and sounds like.

He is quite a lark.

Will let you know what's going on.  Last time he did a stretch it was for constantly cutting his tag off (which he got for decking a policeman...never wise, whatever the provocation).

Oh.  The head of the UN is called Ban Ki-Moon; I thought it was Banki Moon - trips off the tongue easier.  However, don't suppose you'd want to be called Banki  - too easy, just too easy.  That said, probably nothing even similar in Thailand (I think he's Thai).

Friday, 23 September 2011

Mathew, Mark, Luke and John...

Aha! I have FOUR followers!  I feel like Jesus (when he was starting out, obvi.) but without quite so much beard.  All I seem able to grow is a few dark black Fu Man Chu's at the corners and a couple of enormous Michael Finigans on my chin.

However, I now have to use a 6x magnifying mirror to be able to see the buggers and, trouble is, it makes the rest of me moosh look like a topographical map of South America.  I tell you, there is an old dippy hole on one of me cheek that looks like the bloody sea of tranquility, and around my nose - well, shall we say the B roads of Britain, why don't we.

For years I used that anti-wrinkle cream endorsed by that lying hag, Andi MacDowell (dunno if that's her name, but you must know her, the Jane to Christopher Lambert's Tarzan).  I bet if you see her in the flesh she's got a face like the skin of a custard falling off the table - and there's me, spending a forch, rubbing a load of rendered cow fat into me face for years, and what do I get: best with the light behind me, mate.

Word on the strasse is that Miss Gladiola is in hospedale having her varicose veins 'done' (I hear they make a hole and pull 'em out like licquorice strings with baked beans attached).

Debs came for visit yesterday and managed to keep Hound of the Baskervilles at bay by using her skills gained as Head Librarian for many years i.e. she didn't shout (years of working in a library) but she pulled some remarkably stern faces and did very angry mime.  It was like Marcel Marceau having an argument with Helen Keller (Connie Brix being both deaf to commands and completely dumb).  That dog is so going Battersea.  Ha!  Let's face it: the only one going anywhere's gonna be me.  Soon as that dog learns to use the phone she'll be booking me into the local Shadey Pines.

Note to all lovely followers: ta very much and feel free to contradict any old rubbish I put up and/or ask me who's who in the neighbourhood.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

My sister don't half make stuff up - Part Two

Anyway, as I was saying:

Britzy insisted on lobbing the bag in the bin for me in case: 'You are weak today and the bin is large.  If the bag of doggy mess flies back and hits you in the face, neither of us will be laughing.'  Fair enough and very decent of him.

Then he said: 'Wait, wait,' dived in his satchel and brought out a big bottle of Gucci Homme - which he sprayed all over me and even sprayed some into the bin: 'for good luck'.

Then bloody Sigaret Opellederen walks past and gives us and terrible look, like we were a time-lapse cheese with mould on it.  He crinkled up his 'so called' face, gave a sneeze and said: 'My allergies' and carried on walking past.

Britzy took it as a personal insult,  He called after him: 'Why don't you ring the council?'  And Opellederen pretended he didn't hear.  So Brizio came back inside with me and ran up to Opellederen's floor and sprayed the whole section with Gucci.  He came running down, said: 'Ha!' and then went off to work.

I think Sigaret Opellederen has got one of those personality disorders - of the 'bleeding awful' variety.


Monday, 19 September 2011

My sister don't half make stuff up...

Ro goes to me that The Phoenecians (some ancient blokes who lived in The Lebananon) worshipped lettuce.  She said she saw it on the BBC.  Don't believe a word of it.  And why is it called 'The' Lebanon? (you know, instead of just Lebanon).  Is there something else (i.e. not a country) called 'a' Lebanon?  Or was there some other country trying to nick their name?  A bit odd.

Oh.  Saw Brizio this morgen.  I was taking out a completely sealed and parcel taped bag of Connie Brix Di-ha-hee-ho-har out to the big bins (never ever giving that dog Jerk chicken skin again) and as I was about to lob it in the big bin, Brizio turns up and says: 'oh my god what a smell is the dog still alive?' I said yes and sorry, sorry

hang on, will finish later - lying sister is on Alexander Graham.

That Greek Bloke I was Telling You About...

MF now much better and 'oooh, aaah'-ing about the place and even up shops.  However, Chandra at the chemist told him that he really ought to start cutting down on the old post-operative codeines.  Which is a bit of a blow as he is very fond of 'em now and no surprise as Chandra reckons they are basically the Rowntree Mackintosh version of Heroin.  Who knew?

Thinking about it tho' - a mate of my mum's never shook the kaoline and morphine bottle and used a straw to suck the morphine out: said it did her the power of good.  I suppose it really, really was morphine; I thought they just 'said' it in the old days.  Remember having a sip myself - bloody marvellous.

Oh yes.  That lovely Greek bloke is called Harris, according to MF (who saw him today).

I think he must really be 'Aris' as in Aristotle.  Not a name you hear much of round Nag's Head; aris generally used in sentences concerning: 'a kick up the 'aris''.  Small wonder he goes by Harris.  Lovely bloke though.

Just in case: Aristotle = bottle; bottle and glass = arse.

Sunday, 18 September 2011

I didn't know that Raymond Burr was one tells me anything

Hmmm.  Stuck in casa for the duration owing to old war wound flare up.  Honestly.  I wouldn’t be me if I paid myself.  Still gives me plenty of time to catch up on internet shopping channel.

Saw one this morgen about ‘Theee the most comfortable pillow ev-er!’.  Well, it looked like a bit of old moulded foam rubber to me – but what do I know?

Some bloke came on and said that it really was the best pillow ever cos on the other pillows he’d ever used: ‘I always woke up with numbness in my fingers, pain in my shoulders and down my side’.  Which makes you wonder what sort of bleeding pillows he’d had in the past?  What were they made of?  Pre-cast concrete?  And what sort of shape would they have to be?  I could only imagine he’d gone, mistakenly (if you ask me) for a dodecahedron.  And I’m not being funny but if you pick anything other than a rectangle you’re asking for trouble.

Woke up in nacht, turned on teevers to lull me back and guess what was on?  Yup, Perry Mason!  Huzzah!  I love old Perry, he really is my ‘real’ uncle.  If only you could chose your own relatives.  Jessica Fletcher would be my ‘real’ aunt, for a start.  Although, I remember war-wounding it for a few months about ten years back and ‘Murder She Wrote’ was on every afternoon at 2pm (my nap time); and do recall, before I fell asleep, that I was a bit jealous of a 75 year old bounding up the stairs and riding a bicycle (oh and solving murders).  Lucky I got better and she turned into the singing teapot in Beauty and the Beast, or I might have held it against her.

Oh.  Weird thing.  Heard via internet that Legs LaViola had been called an anti-semite and was a bit livid about the whole business considering that she is jewish herself.  I looked into it and it turned out that her art gallery is near a jewish school and she had some paintings  of nudes in the window and the jewish headmistress said it was very rude (or something) and that her passing pupils could see the pictures.  And Legs said, well they don’t have to look do they?  And for some reason, some jewish people thought that ‘they’ referred to jews in general and this (somehow) made her an anti-semite.  Don’t ask me.

So there was some argy-bargy in some spot in NY called Lower Eastside and the police were called and she had to put brown paper against her gallery windows up to the height of the passing (peeping tom) kids.

Then there were some mean posts on the internet about poor Legs so I put one up myself saying that if anti-semitism meant NOT putting fig-leaves on nudes then there was obviously trouble in the history department.

Perhaps Amercian head mistresses don’t see naked bodies very much.  Although this begs the question, where do they look when in the bath?

Thursday, 8 September 2011

Connie Brix is not my child!

On a slow schlep to the bins this morgen I saw Agnes' husband who I hope is called Jim, or else it means that Agnes is always calling the man 'him'.  Not good (for 'him').

He was walking Agnes' dog with the unnecessarily large head.  I do not trust that dog; it gives me a funny look  - you can see the tickertape running through it's mind that reads: 'wonder what she tastes like braised in butter and shallots'.

Anyway, 'Jim' (let's hope) asked about MF and about my dog, Connie Brix.  I (yet again) had to apologise like mad for her barking whilst MF was in hospedale.  And old 'Jim' said: 'Oh don't you worry.  I know what dogs are like.  No problem.'

And I said that it was very decent of him, considering that the dog had even driven me bonkers.  And he said: 'Oh, I don't believe a word of it; I know that dog's like a baby to you.  She's your little girl, isn't she?'  And then he rubbed the giant head of his own dog and said: 'You gotta love 'em' and buzzed orf.


I tell you: if Connie Brix really was my baby I'd have called the exorcist in years back.  My baby?  More like: 'What a hairy face you've got, grandma, and such huge teeth!'.

I spend a small fortune of meaty sticks to keep that dog on side.  I think I'm being played for a mug.  When I'm out the house, I bet Brixie is reading my newspapers and sitting on the sofa watching teevers and drinking my wine.  Soon as I get back in, it's all: 'Look at me, I'm a poor dog.  Feed me.  Love me.'

I'll catch you at it, Brixie - one of these days.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Booze is good for you!

Now it's official; I read it on front cover of Daily Mail.  It read: 'Women should drink 2 glasses of wine per day to avoid illness'.

Which illness, I dunno; but taken all in all, illness of whatever form is to be avoided.

Only five years back or so, 'it' (some government thing) said that women shouldn't drink more than 1 glass per day and have one day off booze completely per week.  Now, 'someone' has changed their mind by precisely 100%.  I so knew it.

However, bad news for MF after pancreatitis.  Didn't tell him what the paper said, would only upset him.  He now has officially declared that he believes Lemme to be the anti-christ, as the man drinks a bottle of Jack Daniel's per day and has never had pancreatitis, oh and is still perfectly (sort of) alive.

By the by: have noticed that mucho adverts on teevers are now saying: 'Get so and so for £10 a day' or some such; not 'per' but 'a'.  I knew it was a mistake to stop mandatory Latin in schools; now how will anyone get the 'Romani ite domus' joke in Life of Brian.

The world!

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

Quincy! Godammit!

Why is Quincy on at 3am?  It used to have a nice 4pm slot that gave me an excellent reason for a sit down and a cuppa.  Now, I can only watch it if upstairs are having one of their 'Let's drop billiard balls on our marble flooring' parties.

Have (over past few weeks) had to resort to CSI.  At first, it seemed like 40mins of 6 people staring at a piece of lint and the final 5mins of all 6 pointing to the actor with the least symmetrical face and going: 'It was him what done it' and then the credits.  Oh yes, and then me going: 'Bloody Jerry Bruckheimer'.

But now I'm into it.  I even love the 'hey, look at this piece of lint' stories.  The only thing that gets me is why the buggery they never turn the lights on; they just stumble about in the dark with torches.  Quincy turned the light on.  I don't think he ever had a torch.

Total monsoon today, lago di Como in garden.  Will admit, but don't tell: am very antsy-pantsy.  Waiting to hear if Ms. Reid likes my barmy book.  Keep looking at inbox, wandering around flat and sighing - am saddest sad sack in England.  I mean, chances are she'll start reading and then get stitch from laughing.

I may take up stone-masonry.  Or hair-dressing.  Or losing the will to live.

Monday, 5 September 2011

Santeria Newsagents #2


Melvis upstairs informs me that the Santeria newsagents are not Santeria - at all.  He reckons they are trying to keep people from coming into their shop because the shop is a front for some form of dodgy dealing.

AND, he says that the Obiah man is not an Obiah man but the look-out bloke.  AND he isn't from Trinidad (like Miss Gladiola thought) but from Hackney.

I said to Melvis: 'Come on though, whatever he isn't, he's certainly a bit potty.'  And Melvis tapped the side of his nose and said: 'Nah, he's just sly.'  And I said: 'How do you know?' And he said: 'He still owes me a fiver from 1976.'

Will discuss matters with Miss Gladiola next time I see her; she was the one who convinced me they were Santeria.  Oh, and Greek bloke too: will have a word with him about it.  Dunno whether he told Miss Gladiola or he told her.

Note to self: must find out Greek bloke's name poss. ask Miss G.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

Santeria Newsagents

Was going (quickly - well, quick for me) past the Santeria newsagents the other day.  And it had to be a serious day for them cos the Obiah man was standing outside talking to himself - in tongues.

To be fair, it might not be 'tongues' but I can't understand a word of it; and (whatever it is) he speaks it really fast, as  if addressing someone in the far distance - well, across the road at least.

He's a Trinidadian old geezer with a pork pie hat and the blue-est eyes you've ever seen.  He smokes one fag after the other so quick you'd think someone was coming to nick his fag stash and he had to get through 'em fast as poss.

Sometimes he does a little dance, flapping his arms like a chicken.

Well, as I was going past him, this dreadful ponk was in evidence and, as I was right by their rubbish bin, I was like: 'Oh my gawd, they've shoved a torso in the bin'.

So, brave as ever, I went straight past and came to a stop by the Greek bloke's house and had a rest.  Trouble was, I could still smell the ponk.  I knew it wasn't me: I had a bath last week.  The only other possibility was sholley.  You can tell I've watched too much George Romero cos my first thought was: 'they've transferred the torso into my sholley' - torso kinesis or some such.

So I opened sholley up - no torso, thank gawd - but some digging arounnd the old detritus in the bottom revealed a decaying banana skin.  Now, look at the facts:

1. I eat bananas
2. I never throw rubbish on the street

- looks cut and dried so far, but:

3. I have never left any form of fruit or fruit peelings in sholley


the Santeria newsagent lot are sending me a message.  About what, I dunno.  But I'm deffo walking on the other side of the road from now on.  Well creepy.

Greek bloke (sorry, Greek bloke, but I don't know your name) says that the heavily made-up woman who sits silently by the counter is 'in league'.  And, if you ask me, huge red candles are just not right in retail outlets.

There's something going on there...will let you know.  Am off to make a crucifix out of lolly so not joking.

Thursday, 25 August 2011

My Doorbell

Forgot to tell you about the doorbell incident the other week.  It was a Saturday (dunno which one) and some bugger rang our main front door to the flats - I ignored it.  Then you could hear some beggar ringing all the flats in the block, in turn.

Now, this always tells you something: either some pushy div is trying to sell you cheap gas or it's the religious types.  Therefore, the rules state: never, ever answer the door.

Anyhow, some numpty let 'em in and next thing you know, they're in the compound.  You can hear them milling around in the front hall and doing bible stuff.

Then - get this - they start ringing my inner front door bell.  They rang it about four times.  I tried to ignore it, but we have all only got so much rope.

I finally put on some clothings (don't want to scare any passing horses, obvi) and my shoes.  MF just laid there with pillow on head and mumbled something about losing the will to live.

I stomped on out to my front door, but the whole putting on clothes and waking up business took me so long that by the time I opened the front door, they seemed to have gone.

So, totally vexed by now, I vented my rage on my own doorbell and ripped it off the wall.  I then shouted: 'Christians! Look what you've made me do!' up the stairwell.  But there was no answer; it probably took them back to the days of the Roman Republic.

I know I'm an idiot and I'm now an idiot with a broken door bell.

A Jewish mate of mine once told me to tell them that I was a Jew and that would frighten them off.  I only tried it once - they blamed me, personally, for killing Jesus.

Am thinking about writing a huge S P Q R on my front door.  Worth a try.  Well, it's either that or lions.

I know Jesus said to spread the word but I quite sure he never said go round knocking on everyone's door.

I'd fight for anyone's rights to practise their religion but with the stipulation that they do it by post.


Wednesday, 24 August 2011

I am rubbish

Thinking about that title I reckon it was the working title for 'I am Legend' (that Will Smith film with the dog and the angry zombies); cos the whole kit and kaboodle was Will Smith's fault in the first place.  But you can't call a film 'I am rubbish'.  Well, you could.  I suppose.  Actually, I reckon I'd go and see it, sounds like a laugh.

No, 'I am rubbish' refers to meself not writing for a while, reason being cos Man Friday is in hospedale (Whittington) with acute pancreatitis.  Thus, I have been on 'you are so going back to the shop' dog-duty.

Cos it's the kids' summer holbeins, there's a couple of poor little sods stuck high up on the estate and the highlight of their day is leaning out the window and saying hello to Connie.  That dog doesn't stop talking and barking and going 'rooooo' all day.

I'm in out shake it all about with 'Connie!' and 'Enough now' and 'You are going dogs' home mate'; added to fooling the dog in the house with sardine and tomato paste - that was meant to be mine, that was.

So, will be back on top of things when MF returns, hopefully in a few days.

Friday, 12 August 2011

Pumice Stones

Nicked what I thought was a pumice stone from my sister; it was in the shape of a foot.  It had been part of a gift set from her old husband that she had never used and had simply bunged in her 'just suppose all the chemists in the world suddenly up and disappear' cabinet.  She has millions of: shampoos, face creams, depilatory products, sun screens, skin masks, hair conditioners, soaps, emery boards, serum things, anti-ageing stuff etc etc.

So I pinched a 'pumice'.

Got it home and unwrapped it and blow me if it never snapped in two: just like that giant broken foot in the British Museum.

Turns out it is was a bath cube - in the shape of a foot?  What scent was it meant to have?  Mixed messages, mixed messages.

So, the broken foot/bath cube is now on my shelf: a microcosm of the fall of Rome.

Back to the point: why are pumice stones so impossible to get hold of these days?

Will no doubt require a trip to Pompeii.

My sister recommends sandpaper for feet.  Might try it out later.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011


Well, it's all gone a bit Clockwork Orange.  You can hear the hollow laughter of Burgess from the grave (I think he's dead, not sure - no one tells me anything).

All ok round Nag's Head.  Well, it would be.  We have a load of tough African and Eastern European mothers who are never slack with a wallop round the head: thank heavens for them.

The Turkish lads down the road shut up shop early last night: only just managed to buy a bottle of boozington before they pulled the shutters down.

This is a tiny example of the sort of hideous ripple effect caused by rioting: the rest of us risk remaining boozeless.

I remember the same sort of old business when the IRA kept sticking bombs in litter bins.  The result of which meant that there are no litter bins at Kings Cross to this day.  So, at the end of any journey you end up with a pocket full of old rubbish and a half full cup of cold coffee.  AND the Kings  Cross cleaning staff are always morose.

Lord knows what we'll do about these little beggars.  I tend to think that it is merely cyclical: every 25-30 years (when we get a few hot days; note how they never decide on a riot when it's raining) some communal sentience takes hold and sets them off.  Funny how that communal sentience never sends them down the library for a reading-fest.

Some of my neighbours, however, appear to know exactly how to sort the whole thing out (phew).  The answers range from:

National Service
Corporal Punishment in Schools
Removal of benefits from parents with rioting kids
The Work House

I 'think' I have a better solution...fasten yer seat belts:

what about we sub-contract the Youth Offenders out to Mali?  Just think: the naughty beggars will be in huts in the middle of nowhere (where they going to run?); the warders will be tough sorts who think nothing of walking 2miles to get a bucket of water (they certainly won't stand for any old nonsense); Mali could do with the money; sub-contracting will help Mali financially and will, I reckon, save us a fortune.

I only say, Mali, only because I know a lady from Mali and she doesn't stand for any old cods.

To be honest, I don't even know where Mali is, apart from it's in Africa.

I don't think my neighbours would approve of my idea: the consensus is along the eye for a eye lines id est they want to give the little sods a kicking.

Kids, eh?

Monday, 8 August 2011

Cheeky Monkeys

Apres shopping, was walking home with Grant (my Man Friday, or, as he says, 'More like bloody Man Good Friday - I only work me fullest once per year: what with my bloody family and nose bleeds' - bless him).

We passed a lady in a wheelchair who was giving those 'Hello, madam, you look like the sort of person who cares about Polar Bears' type people a bit of a dressing down.

Grant did a tad of ear-wigging and told me: 'She's giving 'em what for - telling 'em that they need to improve their communication skills' type sketch.

I thought, bloody good for her.

The other day some bugger told Grant that if he didn't pay £3 per month, that, basically, he would be personally contributing to a toddler's death somewhere in the third world.  He was very upset, took it quite personally and had to have a sit down and cuppa when he got home.

So as the lady in the wheelchair drove past me, I called to her: 'Excuse me, miss' - poor woman probably thought, 'christ, not another nutter', but I put her mind at ease by telling her that I was so grateful to her for standing up to those pesky buggers.

Apparently, they had the front to call her over and say: 'Scuse me Madam, could you spare a few moments.  You've got wheels so you can scoot off after speaking to us'.  So that got her back up, straight off.

Then, one of them (Gormo the Lifeless) said to her: 'So, may I ask how you ended up in that wheelchair.'  So by now, she's hopping up and down (if you know what I mean) and she says: 'No you bloody may not ask, sonny.  You need to improve your communication skills' and then went into one (totally justified, obviously) about the cheek of their whole enterprise and if they wanted to help peeps in Africa they'd be doing it in a voluntary capacity.  And if they wanted to do a good deed, there was a poor mentally handicapped geezer sitting outside Waitrose who could do with  a sandwich.

Good for her.I shook her hand and thanked her on behalf of all of us who have to rush past saying: 'Sorry, I'm a Scientologist'.

Nerve of some people.

Friday, 5 August 2011

It so wasn't me...

Standing at the traffic lights, waiting to cross Holloway Road.  Millions of kids and parents out and about cos of Holbeins.

Had just got me shopping, so sholley was full up.  Whilst waiting for little bloke to go green, I reach inside old shols and got out half a sandwich and took a bite.  Yeah, yeah, know you shouldn't really eat in the street but in defence, I had run out of bananas this morgen.

So, anyway, I take a sneaky bite and this lady standing near to me (who was eating an ice lolly) smiled at me (prob cos of mayonnaise down me chin).  So I smiled back and she lost concentration and a small bit of ice off her lolly landed on her small boy's head.

He looked up his and mum and, get this, the lady goes to the kid: 'It was that lady made me laugh' - like it was my fault.

So then the little kid gives me a right withering look.  I said 'sorry' (for some unknown 'primaeval brain' reason) and the lady goes to me: 'Ah, he's all right, needs a bath anyway.'

And the kid goes: 'No I don't,' to his mum and then looks at me like it's my fault, again.  Hardly my fault he was so grubby AND I never dropped the ice lolly on his head.

p.s. is it me, or has the Queen shrunk considerably?

Friday, 29 July 2011

Another Day Up Nag's Head...

Was in the check-out queue at Morrisons today.  Three rough herberts were all playing on the pretend aeroplane thingy.  What a sketch.
'No, you gerrof.'
'Mum! Mum!'

One pushes another off: 'Aaaaah!'.  Having landed on the floor, RH#1 starts pulling at RH#2's leg, trying to pull him off.  Then RH#3 grabs a handful of RH#1's hair and starts pulling it.

Me and the check-out lady were giving each other looks in re. the RHs; looks that indicated that we both held with capital punishment.

Suddenly, an angry woman comes storming up to the aeroplane thingy and starts giving them, all three, a good whack round the bounce.  Her words were:
'I never stuck a quid in this bloody thing for the sake of my health,' and she dragged 'em off, all blubbing.

Me and the check-out lady had a good laugh.  I said: 'I shouldn't laugh, I was a kid myself once.'  And she said: 'Bet you weren't a kid like that, you'd never have lasted so long.'

I like being a grown-up.