Thursday, 8 December 2011

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.

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