Wednesday, 26 October 2011

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

Well.

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'
'Masturbating?'
'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:

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12044608-notes-on-an-orange-burial"
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, and...you 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?'
'Promise.'

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.