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.