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.

Sorry...ranting.

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

Kids...

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:

Flogging
National Service
Corporal Punishment in Schools
Removal of benefits from parents with rioting kids
Borstal
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?