Tuesday, 25 December 2012

I just give up...

This is so the worst Christmas ever.  Man Friday and self both have di-ha-hee-ho-hah from yesterday’s suspect bacon and egg sandwich (lucky I never gave any to the dogs).  Oh yes, and between running to and fro the khazi, I read on the internet that Quincy died!  Well, I give up, I really do.  It’s nearly 5 on Xmas arvo, I haven’t had anything to eat and the whole flat stinks of Clovey/Spicey Xmas air-freshner with a charming undertone of old ass.


There’s a ruddy great piece of beef in the fridge, just staring at me.  And Quincy is dead!  True, true, he was ninety but for heaven’s sake, you think he might have held off till the New Year.  I think I might just start on the Advocaat and blow the consequences.  Oh, oh and those e-cigarettes…they are stronger than real fags!  I had about four puffs then my legs went wobbly and my head was all swimming.  For crying out loud: who was their bloody test market?  Winston Churchill and sodding Fidel Castro.  Good for your health?  My nether eye.


Perhaps I’d better buzz orf and pour that advocaat.  Oh, I thought the Queen looked well this year – has anyone noticed how her chest has grown over the years?  Or is it me, just being a bit Jimmy Saville in the regalophile-type way?

Monday, 20 August 2012

I Get Completely Above Meself

Went mental about a week back - more than uzh - and self-published the first book I ever wrote.  I wrote it long-hand, in pencil in a lined notebook.  Everyone in the universe passed on it but I still like it.   Just thought I might blow me own trumpet:

Hmmm....can't seem to get the front page up: but just imagine you type in the title: Believe You Me by Tracey Henzell (my nom de plume de ma tante).  Then you see a picture of a bulls-eye type dog.
It's for Kindles, but you can get a free app for a pc and read it on that.  It only costs a few farthings, but what I really want, is reviews!  You don't even have to buy it, you can read the first couple of chapters for free on Amazon.

I think (ha! thank you, Babbage) that if you click on the link below, you will be magically linked to the land of the Amazonians and see the big Bulls-eye dog!


p.s.  I know I succumbed to vanity publishing, but it was free!!!

Connie Brix goes Vets

Connie Brix, my giant dog, started getting hiccups after wolfing down some left-over lasagne.  First, it made me and old Man Friday laugh, but as it continued into the night AND the next morning, we got worried.  After all, there was that Pope that died of hiccups.

Aside:  when I first moved to this estate I met old Leggy and he had hiccups as he walked past my garden.  So I said 'hello' and introduced meself and then gave him some severely unhelpful advice on how to cure them.  Then I told him that story about the Pope in the Middle Ages who actually died of hiccups (I think they gave him an H.A.).

Anyhow, time goes on, mebbes a year or so.  I'm sitting in the garden and old Leggy goes past.  Now, I was indeed drinking some wine but that had nothing to do with the hiccups; I just had hiccups, ahem.  So, old Leggy goes to me: 'Oh, you should watch them hiccups, there was that Pope who died of hiccups.'  And it was on the tip of my tongue to say: 'I bloody told YOU that!' but it seemed churlish.  Then Leggy nods towards me and says: 'And he was only middle-aged, dont'cha know.'  Talk about: 'Send three and fourpence, we're going to a dance.'

Back to the main story.

So, me and Man Friday get a bit worried about Connie Brix (what with the Pope and all) so, M.F. takes her down the vets.  He goes into the vet's surgery thing, and it's that nice Australian bloke.  So old Bilabong shakes Man Friday's hand, says hello.  M.F. says: 'hello' and meanwhile, Connie Brix is sitting quietly next to M.F. hiccuping away.

So the vet goes: 'So then, what seems to be up?'
Connie Brix goes:'Hic, hic.'
Man Friday motions towards Connie Brix with his head, 'What do you think it is?' he says.

Connie Brix goes: 'Hic, hic.'

The vet says: 'Sounds like hiccups to me, mate,' with a completely straight face.

Man Friday looks at the vet, somewhat perplexed.
Connie Brix goes: 'Hic, hic.'
The vet goes: 'Definately hiccups.'

There was silence for a few seconds till the vet burst out laughing, bent over double laughing he was, the beggar!
'Sorry, sorry,' he gasps, 'Couldn't resist it, mate.'

Man Friday says: 'Get out of here, you nearly had me going.'

Meanwhile the vet was laughing so hard he knocked over a steel tray with some implements on it that crashed to the floor.  Man Friday said: 'Jesus Christ!'.  The vet said: 'Oh bugger me' and the dog jumped out of her skin.

It would be so cool to say that it cured her hiccups but it never.  She had to have a shot of some, I dunno, anti-hiccup stuff (whatever it was, it cost £95).

Sunday, 5 August 2012

4 Joyce Grenfells go Amsterdam - part two.

So, the four Joyce Grenfells (my sister and her 3 prim and proper civil servant amigos - all in their sixties) decide to take their annual long weekend to Amsterdam.

Every year they go to some old city around Europe, and once every 4 years or so they go away for a week to some well proper abroad place - like Egypt.  I had a postcard from there that read:

Jolly, jolly hot.  Indigenous pop. wear far too many clothes.  No women here, bar tourists - poss. accounts for warfare (as many women in Israel).  Feel donkeys are undervalued.  Much dust.

Anyhow, this year they trolled orf to Amsterdam.  They stayed at a dead swanky hotel (that had Marmalade, thank heaven cos any jams e.g. strawberry or raspberry annoy the 4 ladies immensely, cos the pips get stuck in their teeth.)  As Marjorie says: 'It cannot be beyond the wit of man to strain boiled fruits,' - and fair enough.

Well, they went some art museum but nothing conceptual, of course, cos as my sister Ro says:
'I have a perfectly good idea of concepts without having to have them explained to me via a pile of coat hangers.'

Then, they went to the Anne Frank hiding place museum; which upset them all greatly and they had to retire to a teashop.

Anyhow, across the road from this teashop was this (acc. to them) 'somewhat down at heel' coffee shop.  Everyone appeared to having a rather jolly time, however and many of them were smoking.  But as Belinda noted:
'Obviously, girls, there is more poverty in Holland than I had imagined; most of those poor souls are having to share cigarettes.'

Then - ding, ding all aboard, ladies - my sister suddenly realises that they are viewing the Dutch experiment in the legalisation of marajuana (dunno how you spell it).

'I say,' says Ro, 'I do believe we are witnessing the partaking of a class C substance!'

And then there was some verbal to and fro, regarding whether marajuana is class C or class B.

However, mebbes the fumes from the joints were wafting across to their teashop or mebbes they all had a mid-life crisis at the same time but, the 4 Joyce Grenfells decided that they should take advantage of narcotics within an entirely legal framework.

Dear christ.

Well, they trundle into the coffee shop, looking like the most unlikely of customers (all in floral dress ala Norman Hartnell, all with short permed greying hair and pearl earrings - you get the picture: I'm so not making this up).

They huddle together as they make their way towards the counter, they get a few stares (prob. cos they were acting like 4 anaphalactics in a peanut factory) and the man says:

'Good morning, ladies.  Can I help you?'

They were all a little flustered (prob. expecting a bit more cor blimey guvnor type of person) and not entirely sure how to go about such a transaction.  So my sister, Ro, being a bit 'let me through, coming through, Englishwoman coming through, my your backs type person'  folds her hands (in most lady-like fashion) across her middle, smiles at the coffee shop blokes and says:
'Four of your finest marujuana cigarettes, please.'

No going back now.

The blokes says: 'Of course, ladies, which type?'  Which, of course, had 'em all completely foxed and all a twitter.  So Marjorie says:
'The type that alters consciousness, please.'

The bloke smiled and said: 'They will all do that my dear ladies.  Can I take it you have never indulged in the pleasures of marujuana before?'
'God Lord, of course not,' says Ro, 'We're English.'

I dunno how the bloke kept a straight face.  He explains to them that there are many kinds, in different strengths etc etc and recommends something for absolute beginners.

So, they get four coffees, four joints and sit themselves down at a table.  Now, my sister Ro, who used to smoke in her salad days, lit up first and took a puff.  Belinda, Marjorie and Babs all watched her.

'How is it, dear?' asks Babs.
'Quite unpleasant,' says Ro, and then she pauses and says: 'Hang on, I feel a little light headed.  Perhaps we should refrain from continuance.'

Now, Marjorie (who has never smoked in her life) gets all Ghengis Khan about the whole business, lights up her joint, takes the biggest lug ever and starts coughing and spluttering.

Then, Belinda and Babs become a little miffed at what they see as 'shilly shallying'.

Belinda says: 'A million rastafarians cannot be wrong.'  She lights up and takes a puff, inhales, leans back and her chair and goes: 'Aahhh!'  Babs is now well miffed, she says: 'Belinda! I do believe you have done 'this sort of thing' before.'
Belinda says: 'Not this, dear but I am very keen on a good cigar.'  Which is a bit of a relevation to the rest of 'em, esp. to Babs who is very often feeling a little left out of 'things' - what with being a Catholic and all and completely bemused by all argot after 'U and non-U'.

'Well,' says Babs, all pursey mouthed, 'I realise you all consider me rather a puss-kins, but I tell you, girls, I am made of sterner stuff.'  She lights up, takes a lug, has a bit of a cough, says: 'What fun!'

Meanwhile, my sister has put her joint out, Marjorie still can't stop coughing, Belinda has a few more lugs and puts her joint out.  And as Belinda and Ro are patting (whacking) Marj on the back, getting out handkerchief to stop her eyes and nose from running, what they don't notice is that Babs is going thru the joint, like it's the last one on earth.  She gets to the end of it, somehow manages to stub it out in the ashtray and says to the others: 'I simply cannot see the fuss about the whole....oh my heavens...'  She tries to stand up but her legs have gone all wobbly but a nice beardy bloke grabs her before she lands on the fall like spillikins (a very, very thin woman old Babs).

So, the other 3 Joyce Grenfells grab Babs up between 'em and drag from the shop.  The shop bloke calls out: 'Are you ladies feeling ok?'
My sister calls back: 'Yes, thank you.  A most interesting experience.'

They get old Babs out on the pavement, walk along a few feet and tell her to do a bit of deep breathing (thinking it might get the stuff out of her system quicker), but poor old Babs can't hardly put one foot in front of the other, and even tho' she might weigh perhaps 6 stones (and that, after a Mars bar), she turns into a dead weight.

'She has become a leaden octopus,' says Marjorie.
'I do not favour the outcome,' says Belinda (who's a much bigger girl, about a size 18 - used to compete in the decathlon as a girl), 'See here, ladies, if I lean over a little you can load her onto my back, hang onto her and I think we can make it back to the hotel.'

Never, never give old girls any puff - I'm surprised it's not some Roman epigram.

So, they load old Babs onto Belinda's back; Ro holds onto Babs arms and Marj tries to wrangle her legs.  It goes fine for a few staggering feet then, suddenly Babs (who hasn't said anything for ages) goes: 'I feel nauseous,' and proceeds to chuck up all over Belinda's head, and then chucks up all over her shoulder.  Belinda's like: 'Dear heavens, quickly girls, some of the vomitus is trickling into my eye.'

So Ro, reaches up to wipe it out of Belinda's eye whilst poor old Marj is now in sole charge of all Bab's limbs.  Unfortu, Ro only just wipes one bit of vomitus off Belinda's forehead before Bab's chucks up again and now it's in Bab's eyes and on Ro's head; Marjorie just can't keep control of Bab's limbs that are flailing about as she cries:
'Let me off the tram, I am unwell!' 

And poor old Belind, dear christ, she's staggering about the pavement like cyclops and she backs into a shop, saying:
'I can't see a blessed thing, what's happening?  Dear god almighty, what a pass!'

So, Belinda , with Babs sill on her back slumps backwards against this shop front and they both slide down to the floor.  Babs falls over onto her side, passed out.  Ro and Marj are busy in the near hopeless effort of wiping a gallon of sick off a civil servant with only a few Kleenex.

The lady in said shop, comes running out saying: 'Has someone had a heart attack?  Shall I call the ambulance?'    Ro says: 'No thank you dear, just a minor misadventure.'  Then Belinda says: 'Where am I?'  And Marjorie looks at the shop window, has to squink at it a bit and then says:
'I believe you are collapsed outside a novelty condom shop, dear.'

p.s.  the above was all totally true except for names

Sunday, 15 July 2012

Sleep Asparagus, plus 4 Joyce Grenfells go Amsterdam

Cor, hang on a minute - will have a bash a this a tad later cos the old wooden stairs are beckoning!  Damn you, Marquis de Monistrol!  Back this evers.

Back again!  Just had a decent little kip on the sofa - feel miles more like it.


A few days back, I was out the back of the garden (behind the fence) having a bit of a sweep up - you know, old sweet wrappers, desgarded beer cans, broken glass, empty wallets, severed limbs etc - when I saw my sister coming down the path.  It was a surprise visit cos she'd been to some arts and crafts thingie where you learn to make felt.

I know, I know, I dunno why she is always wanting to make obscure stuff: probably so that she can make me a waistcoat out of it, bless her.

Anyhow, we're coming down the path together and in thru the gate and we just get to my wide open back door, when you can hear the loud sound of someone peeing from a height.  We stopped still and looked at each other.

Then, Man Friday's voice comes booming out: 'Dear oh lord,' he shouts, 'Anyone'd think I'd been sleep-eating asparagus.  Talk about stinky piss, ha ha!'  Me and my sister looked at each other again.

Then, Man Friday does his best Brian Blessed voice, and starts singing to the tune of 'Purple Rain' by Prince: 'Stinky piss...stinkee piss.  Stinky piss....stinkee piss, tell me how do you like this?' and then flushes the lavatory, does a huge Mwah, hah hah laugh and says out loud: 'I have defeated you with my opposingable thumbs'.  Me and my sister just stood there, in the doorway, and waited.

He finally comes out the loo and into the front room and sees the pair of us.  He goes a whiter shade of pale.  He says: 'I didn't know anyone was there.'

My sister says: 'Obviously not, but you also conflated a gerund with an adjective - a far greater misdemeanour.'

A quick note about my sister, Ro.  She is about 20 years older than me, and we have been brought up quite differently.  She is (don't faint now) posher than the Queen, quite fiersome (when she has to be) and quite the proper little personage - dontcha know.  She is a Civil Servant, has always been a Civil Servant and works in some part of the Treasury where they deal with overseas transactions as pertaining to UK tax law (or something similar).

Now, she works with 3 other ladies in the same sort of department who are all of similar age and have Joyce Grenfell voices and Joyce Grenfell dresses and shoes and handbags; the other difference is that they don't wear little white gloves...anymore.

Hang on, that's the doorbell - will publish this and finish it tomorrow.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

George drops a sausage; causes unforeseen results

Esther's husband, George, has been having a right old time of it - getting his blood pressure medication sorted out.  For several weeks the old lad has been either bright red in the chops and saying: 'Give us an hand, girl, I reckon I'm having an H.A.' or, looking like 'next stop - BoneYard' and then saying: 'I'm floating away, help,' but then passing out instead.

Anyhow, as you can imagine, it's been getting him down - no end (you know, in that depression thing sort of way).  So, the other night, him and Esther were cooking sausages and mash for tea.  Esther drained the boiled potatoes herself, whilst George was doing a wee - cos she knew he'd insist on doing it himself but, as she said: 'the combination of boiling water and wobbly old men is not one to be combined,' and fair enough.

However, when it came to getting the sausages out of the oven, George totally insisted on doing it.
'I'm not an invalid,' he said, all testy, 'Just because my blood won't make its mind up, don't you think I'll be entering the paralympics.'   Which was a bit odd.

So, next thing you know, he's leaning over, tea towel in hand to get the sausages out.  He grabs onto the tray, goes to stand on straight and suddenly his knees give out and the tray with the sausages (and George) are wobbling all over the kitchen.

Esther rushes to help George, but George says: 'Save the sausages, I can't bear the sight of a sausage on the floor.'  Which was, again, a bit odd.

So, Esther saves the sausages and George sinks to his knees on the kitchen floor, crying his eyes out.

'Oh, oh,' the poor bugger says, 'Don't worry about me, Ess, how are the sausages?'

Well, turns out that all the upset with his blood pressure has sent him temporarily (so the doctor says) a bit doo dally, and poor George now thinks he's in the late 1940s and that rationing is in force (hence, 'save the sausages').

He is now on some cheer you up tablets (which he won't take) that Esther crushes up and puts in yoghurts for him.  Luckily, George has always liked yoghurts.

Oh.  I was taking the rubbish out to the bin when Lally (the ridiculously large Labradoodle) comes bounding up to say hello.  It was all over in a second (cos the speed of the dog far excedes my brain's ability to comprehend events) but I'm suddenly on my back with Lally on top of me, licking my face.  And cor blimey, my arse and elbow (amazingly, yes, the two of 'em) didn't half hurt.

Mrs Labradoodle (I wish I could remember her name) comes running up.  She's shouting:
'Lally, Lally!' and the dog isn't taking a blind bit of notice, bless her.

So the poor woman, all distraught with a face full of worry, comes and grabs Lally with one hand and helps me to my feet with the other.
'Oh, my word, are you alright, Carol?'
'I think so, oh my backside took a whack though.'
'Oh, I'm so so sorry, Lally slipped her leash.'

Then I have to lean against the bin doors, to get me bearings, and Mrs Labradoodle says:
'Oh no, is it internal bleeding?'

And, I tell you honestly, for a nano-second, even I thought: 'IS it internal bleeding?' and then rationality stepped to the head of the queue and I said:  'Course it's not, love.  I reckon it takes more than a dog landing on you.'

I reckon people watch too many medial dramas - internal bleeding, I ask you.

Then, this is the bit that got me, Mrs Labradoodle says:
'Oh Cal, I'm so sorry.  Are you going to sue?'

It took me a sec to work out what she was on about.  The word 'sue' as a verb is not the sort of word you hear, apart from on telly.  So I said:  'Sue who?  The dog?'
And she said: 'No, sue me.'
So I said: 'Why would I sue you?'
And she said: 'Well, it was my dog that knocked you over.'
And I said: 'That's mental.  If someone kills someone, you hardly sue his mother, do you?'

I know that wasn't perfect reasoning but it was the best I could do, on the spot.  Mrs Labradoodle said:
'Oh, Cal, you are good.  I can't tell you the times that people have said they'd sue me, over Lally's behaviour.'

You know, in the words of Ozzy Osborne: 'Who can we get on the case?  We need Perry Mason.'

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Don't Panic, Capt. Mainwaring!!

Dear old blog-matekins, hello!  Sorry I've been away so long, am totally rubbish and should be shot (and more than likely will be!).

Ben - ta so much for Leibschen award thingie - how decent of you!

So what's been going on, you lazy mare (I hear you asking)?  Well, what bleeding well hasn't!  I'll give you a short list to be going on with and will write at length on Sunday.

1.  Have been teaching ungrateful little bleeders how to read; it's like pulling teeth (mine!!!)
2.  Hiding from Melvis.  He has been evicted but will not leave (don't ask me).  He is (get this) appealing to the European Court of Human Rights.  Me and him had a few words, I must admit.  He said he had the human right to stay in his flat; I said that the council workers had the right not to have  a bucket of excrement chucked over 'em.  As you can imagine, he didn't like this one bit.

However, he had given me the right needle by saying that he'd burn his flat down before he gave it up.  I reminded him that I lived directly underneath him.  He replied: 'Don't you worry, girl - I'll give you the nod before I torch the place.'  So I said (all sarky): 'Very decent of you, I must say.'

And that's how we started to have 'words'.  And in re the 'human rights' convo, I never bothered with the negative trumping positive rights argument - I tell you, talk about 'pearls, swine, pearls, swine.'

Sorry, am as cross as two sticks.

3.  Have been (ha!) writing a new book.  Got 30k words in...then decided I hated it.  I sulked for about a week.  Man Friday swiped me with a tea towel and said: 'You've got a face like a slapped arse, and I'M the one has to look at it.  For gawd's sake, woman - you're the one who wrote the bloody thing.  Bloody Rumpelstiltskin never came in the night and typed it up.'

He is quite right.

4.  My ex-husband (lovely bloke) left his job (chartered accountant) and went to crew on a yacht going from Antigua to the Azores.  He wrote an account of the doomed ocean crossing.  When he has finished editing (it's a short story), I'll ask him if you guys can read it.

Alistair Dance (my ex) is 50yrs old, has always been an accountant but always wished he was a sailor/wreck diver.  So, he gives up his job, rents his house and sails orf round the world (well, not quite - they came a bit of a cropper!).  Can you believe it?  I salute him, I really do.  Talk about 'bottle'.

p.s. dunno why I made that piece of news no.4 (cos it wasn't what I was doing myself) but nevertheless...kudos (as the kids round here (and Socrates) say).

Must buzz orf now, need booze.  Carol

p.p.s in re the latter: wished I lived next door to Ben and Claire and their fabby wine cellar!!  Am stuck with a bottle of: 'yes, missus, very good wine, very red.  Made of grapes, 100%', as recommended by Farid down the local shop.  Still, for 2.75 per bottle, it won't kill you to add a spoon of sugar to take the edge off it!

Thursday, 24 May 2012

Recipe, Noddy Holder and new nomenclature.

I was watching teevers the other day and Noddy Holder came on (presenting some arts prog. concerning heavy metal) and, as I watched it, I thought: 'cor, you don't half remind me of someone else.'  And then it occured to me.

So, here is Noddy Holder:

And here is his doppelganger:

Yes, Margaret Rutherford!!  How did that happen?  Do you reckon they might be related?  Or do lots of old geezers start looking like Margaret Rutherford?  I might send a letter to Richard Dawkins, mebbes he can explain it.  Weird one.

Anyhow.  So much for hiding out in casa cos of Melvis's court case: it's only been shoved back in the pile (apparently the courts have got a lot of stabbed kids and dead pensioners and such pending) and now won't go to court for another month.  So, me and Man Friday were hiding in casa for abso nothing - typical!  And, to add insult to injury, he's started peeing in the bath again and it's currently dripping down thru my bathroom ceiling.  I'm not being rotten (cos he's totally rip, bong, giddely dee) but for crying out loud - the khazi is only 2 feet away from the bath.  Ah well.

Good old Chance (of chantscottage.blogspot.co.uk) actually made a proper recipe of my fave grub (egg with an anchovy).  I didn't know it was possible.  You really ought to go to her site for a gander, she bloody makes me laugh.  Though, I must say, her's looks 8 million times more better than mine.  So, I thought I'd spread my cunning method of making ertsatz Ben and Jerry's.

Buy tub of cheap vanilla ice cream (I mean cheap)
Buy packet of bourbon biscuits (I mean cheap)
Buy jar of Dulce de Leche (unfortu, it doesn't come cheap - it's sort of floppy caramel stuff in a jar)

Scrunch up bourbons.
Bung ice cream, bourbons and Dulce de Leche (not too much, it's doesn't grow on trees, you know!) into big bowl.
Stir it up a bit.
Bung it back in ice cream tub.
Bung ice cream tub back in freezer.

Totally tastes like B&J's and costs 57 thousand times less - bargain.  Tip: if any kids are around, just put it in a dish and tell 'em it's B&J's - I do like kids but they can't tell their arses from their elbows and are easily fooled.

Oh.  English has been evolved in casa.  MF and me were watching Star Trek and Mr. Data was at the steering wheel and everything was going wrong.  The captain's jumping up and down saying something along the lines of: 'Do something, Mutley!' and suddenly the ship goes all lurchey and everyone falls over. 
Capt says: 'What happened Mr. Data?'  And Mr. Data gets a pained looked on his face.  He says: 'Sorry, Capt.  I just had to vent some drive plasma.'

And mebbes you had to be there at the time, but it didn't half sound like a euphemism for: 'Sorry, I farted.'

Now, me and MF are constantly saying: 'Oops, sorry, just vented some drive plasma,' and making ourselves laugh like absolute cretins.

It doesn't take much...

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Cabin Fever Reveals 'Stupidest thing I did as a kid.'

Me and Man Friday have been stuck in the flat for a few days cos Melvis's court-hearing is today!!  He has been badgering MF like mad to be a 'character witness' in his defence!  I mean, what could he say?  'Oh, I've known my neighbour Melvis Valentine for four years.  During this time he punched the indian bloke (from the off-licence) calling him 'paki bastard'.  He also threw a large bucket of pee and poo over the workers at the local council offices.  Then he 'kidnapped' a council workman who had come to repair his door (cos it had been kicked in by the police).  Mr Valentine constantly asks me for money/beer/fags; he pees in his bath and cos there is a leak under said bath, the pee eventually seeps thru my own ceiling; he makes loads of racket.  All this said, however, he is quite jolly."

I ask you - how would that do any good.

Anyhow the court hearing is to determine whether the council are allowed to bung Melvis out on his ear for, well, basically driving them to distraction.

Therefore, MF bought in a week's worth of supplies and we have been keeping our heads down.  As you might imagine, we've gotten a bit on the 'cabin fever' side of things.

Just now, we were discussing: 'what was the stupidest thing you did as a child?'.

I said: 'When I was 13, my mum sent me to buy a pint of milk.  It was Sunday and the shop was miles off and it was raining a bit.  So, I walked a few houses along the road and nicked a pint of milk off some poor buggers door step.  I felt more and more guilty as the day went on and told my step-father what I had done.  I begged him not to tell my mum and he totally promised as long as I never did it again.  What total little George Washington tit, I was!  Step-father immediately went and dobbed me into Mummy, she came charging downstairs, screamed and shouted and got in some really severe whacks with a salad spoon.'

MF said: 'When I was about 8 and my brother was about six, we used to have a bath together and we always took toys into the bath with us to muck about with.  One time, I brought an empty plastic lemonade bottle in with me to pour over my brother.  Then, for some unknown reason, I squeezed the air out of the bottle and held it over my penis.  Of course, my willy started getting stuck in the bottle neck and being pulled down into the bottle.  I jumped out of the bath with the bottle stuck on my willy and a bath towel covering the lot and got a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer.  My mum shouted out: 'What's going on?'  and came in the kitchen, to see me stabbing my self in the meat and two veg with a vegetable knife.  She rushed over, the towel fell off to reveal that I was, in fact, trying to stab a hole in the lemonade bottle to free the old dongler.  Then my brother came in, wearing a bathrobe, my dad came in from the garden and a neighbour shouted out: 'Is everyone alright in there?'.  My dad shouted back: 'Einstein's got his dick stuck in a bottle.''

I really, really wasn't expecting that story.

Saturday, 12 May 2012

My Mate's Book!!! And: We have company...

Time for a bit of the old name-dropping...

My good mate, Geoff Wilson, has only got his novel out in paperback!!!!  Am not, of course, one bit jealous (lies, lies and more lies!) - I'm bigger than that (even more lies!).

No, really.  It's really true, I actually know a bona fide author who works really hard everyday (unlike me) and does research in the British Library (unlike me), and doesn't have to stop at 4pm every day to watch original Star Trek with Cpt. Kirk et al.

The above reasons are why Geoff has now got his book out in paperback - graft!!!  Plus plenty of the old talent (hard-working, talented: I hate him sooo much!  Nah, only kidding...no, I hate him....no, only kidding!

It's one of those alternative history jobs: India invades, conquers and colonises England!!  Totally cool premise (wish I thought of it!).  The protagonist bloke works for the Indian Rajas (used to be in their army, bit like the Sikhs, I suppose, used to be in our army), he's a sort of head of security on a rich Indian bloke's estate.  Anyhoo, his best mate and his daughter muck the whole think up by starting a rebellion against the Indians (trust your own relatives to tip the apple cart).  Then, the daughter only gets herself captured and is sentenced to death (typical!).  So, our hero has to go save her.

Best part, I reckon, is the steam-powered machines of war that the Indians use for fighting; a bit like the Nautilus in 20k Leagues Under the Sea.  Oh, and the Indians use this mystical sort of yogic based magic (the fat cheats!) but our hero starts to learn some of the tricks of the trade as he goes along - so ner!

LoHG is the first book in a trilogy (Geoff's written the 2nd one, prob. published end of this year) and this is SO going to be a film (you heard it here first!).


The above link should take you to the section where you can have a gander at the book.  It really deserves a read, I bloody loved it (whilst sticking pins into a voodoo doll of Geoff!!); it's one of those 'good old romp' books, you know?  Where stuff keeps happening?  Instead of someone staring at a mantelpiece for 200 pages and remembering a tea-party in 1927?  Nah, LoHG is more of a 'punch, bang, argh, oh my gawd, what the bloody hell, run, hide, shoot the bugger,' sort of book - thank heavens!!


Last night, Man Friday runs into kitchen, goes to cupboard under the sink and starts Febrezing his trousers.  I said: 'We got company coming?'.  He goes: 'Yep, can I borrow yr deodorant, mine's run out?'

Now, as you might gather, me and M.F. have been slobbing around the house all day long - I was still in my ruddy pajamas (and it was far too early to pretend that I was just off to bed!).  So, I was just on the verge of leaping (well, heaving meself) off the sofa to give the bathroom the once over, when I had a brainwave.  I said: 'Who's coming?'  And M.F. said: 'James is popping over.'  So, I immediately laid back on the sofa and got M.F. to spray Channel No.5 over me.

Odd really.  If my girlfriends are coming over, the first thing I do is to overhaul the bathroom, then the kitchen, then I spray the dog (with Fid-eau), sweep up and spray the hallway with Channel No.5.  Weird one.

Just to say: I don't know anyone else who Febrezes themselves.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012


Just a quick note.  Was reading Northsider Dave's blog (excellent geezer who owns a little farm in Ireland) and when I posted a comment to him, the computer goes to me: 'Please prove that you're not a robot' - and then I have to type in two weird, wobbly words.  I tell you, for two pins, I would've typed in: 'How bloody dare you, Hal!' - cheeky bloody thing.

I type in the words 'Orvid Eldish'; I may re-name myself thus.


Orvid Eldish

p.s.  The awful Nita's kid, Norris, who had to go hearing specialist cos Nita thought he was deaf is now having to go a Educational Psychologist for the 'once over'.  I would feel sorry for poor Norris, if only he hadn't been one of the kids who threw that pebble at me.

Tuesday, 8 May 2012

Ho! Vtz saga continues (a bit)

Latest from Mrs Labradoodle via Evie (upstairs from Vtz and Mrza) is that he never spent the money for a fruit and veg stall, but an entire shop!  So, obvi there was far more dough involved hence the flying visit from the Transylvanian brother.

Man Friday saw Mrza up at Tesco's today and she didn't look happy, not one bit!

And Melvis (who always seems to be hanging around the Magistrates Court, sort of a home away from home) said the brothers weren't on today's list for appearance before the judge.  I tell you, if he isn't up the bookies, he's up the Magistrates - in a different life he could've been an MP or a lawyer.

Oh yes, bit of bad news on the Fr. Piot front.  Some of his parishioners who are 'helping' him around the area took him on the tube, for a visit to Westminster Abbey.  I'm not a religious expert but I'm sure it's not a Catholic church.  Anyway, turns out he'd never been on a tube train before (when his scrap of paper said: '...I am from Lithuanian country...' it actually meant 'countryside') and when I looked the place up on Google it looks like a very horse and cart sort of place esp. in the countryside.  So, he was all nervous going there, the escalator nearly caused him a mischief, what with never having been on one and his long robes.

However, he got there and calmed down a bit but on the way back he had a panic attack and him and about 4 old girls (who meant well, bless him) were stuck on the tube going back and fore for ages cos Fr. Piot couldn't get up the nerve to get out of the carriage!  Luckily, someone had a paper bag from an old quarter of nut brittle and that seemed to calm him down and they got him back to the priesty house place and the housekeeper told them all off!!

Oh yes, I found fox poo in the garden today - I thought I saw the little bugger climbing over the fence the other night.  And there's me thinking: 'ah, so cute,' and then he does a shit in me garden, the ingrate.  So not only content with rusing stupid lying puppets and stupid uppity ducks, they're now picking on me.  Connie Brix is no help, probably inviting 'em over, just to get me...

Monday, 7 May 2012

Vtz locks himself in the bathroom

Sorry, such slack bloggage from me, am worst blogger in the universe.

Anyway, we've had a bit of excitement round these parts.  A bloke called Vtz (dunno how you spell it, but that's how it sounds!) lives down the other end of our Stalag.  All I really knew about him was that he was called Vtz and had huge eyebrows.  His wife, Mrza (don't ask me!) works part time in Tescos: she is a very nice, very circular woman who ends every conversation with: 'Yes, yes, very good.'  I.e. 'I think you gave me the wrong change,' and she says: 'Yes, yes, very good, goodbye. Next!'

So, about 10 days back, Man Friday comes in circa 10pm at nacht (having just taken Connie Brix for a drag around the estate) and he says: 'Vtz has locked himself in the bathroom - there's a right old to-do outside.'

Well, that was enough for me.  I go straight out and immediately meet up with Melvis who says: 'Cor, that dick Vtz has locked himself in the khazi.'  And we both head up to the other end of the flats.  On the way, the nice lady with the labradoodle comes running up to us and says: 'Oh, I just heard from the lady who lives above Mrza that Vtz has gotten locked in the loo.'  So, we've got conflicting versions of events.

However, when we get to his block there's a crowd outside (well, about 3 people plus dogs).  Mrs Labradoodle goes inside cos she knows the lady who lives above Vtz and Mrza.  So Melvis holds her dog and then he can't stop himself (you know Melvis) and he says: 'Can you hold onto Lally - I'm going up there to render assistance.'  Well, he never actually said 'render assistance', it was more along the lines of 'sort the **** out.'

So, there's me hanging onto Lally (who is probably at least as tall as my waist) and it's dark out (and I haven't got any night vision), so I let the dog drag me over to the grass and I sit down on the kerb and hang onto her for dear life - bloody Melvis.

Thank god Lally's mum comes back down and rescues me in no time.  She says: 'Oh, my friend Evie upstairs is having to let Mrza and Erik (her son) use her loo but, ' she whispered, 'only to do Number 1s.'  Which is understandable.

Apparently, for some reason unknown to Mrza and Erik (and everyone else), Vtz had indeed locked himself in the khazi and wouldn't come out or, more to the point, let anyone else in (which really is a bit rich).  Turned out he started screaming and hitting himself on the head, then ran in the loo, locked the door and started crying and hasn't stopped since.

Lally's mum said that Melvis was in their house now and arguing with Mrza about kicking her door in i.e. Melvis wanted to do it to save Vtz and Mrza was worried that the door would crash into Vtz and kill him(it is a really small bathroom).

So, it goes on for a full night and a full day and then (so it is written...)  Mrza calls Vtz's brother for advice.

This is when it gets a bit interesting...

Vtz's brother immediately gets on a aeroplane from (dun, dun, dun!!!) TRANSYLVANIA!!!!!!  (Turns out they are all Transylvanian - I didn't even know it was a 'real' place!)

So, now it's been two nights and one morning and a mini-cab turns up, a huge angy geezer gets out and rings on Mrza's bell and he's shouting and obvi it's the brother(!), so Man Friday comes running in and tells me the news.  Of course, we have to immediately go and do the recycling and turns out so do about 4 or 5 others including Mrs Labradoodle and the giant Lally.

We hear some shouting coming from the right storey, but it's all in Transylvanian (we presume), so it's all a bit hopeless and we all trickle off.

Later that night...the police turn up outside Vtz's and Mrza's!  And they bring out Vtz and his brother in handcuffs (this was all reported to me by Melvis - who doesn't half ham stuff up) and they're all shouting and screaming and they've obviously been in a severe punch-up with lots of blood and gore and such.  And they get whisked up the cop shop.

I didn't hear the full story till a few days later when Mrs Labradoodle heard it from Evie (upstairs from Mrza) when Mrza came round to give her a bottle of vodka to say thanks for being a good mate and letting her use the loo so much.

Turns out...Vtz's brother sent Vtz the seed money to open a fruit and veg stall.  Vtz (unbeknowst to anyone) spent all the money playing online roulette!!!!  Vtz's brother goes raving mad, comes over, kicks the khazi door in, kicks Vtz's head in(!), Mrza and Erik run up to Evie who calls the old Bill and they come and arrest 'em!

Will let you know when I hear more.

Make you laugh: Man Friday was watching some apocalyptic type film, where aliens blow up all famous landmarks (I don't know why either).  So, I'm sitting in the front room watching the elections and he shouts in: 'Here, Cal, where's the sixteenth chapel?'  So I say: 'The what?' and he says: 'You know, the pointy finger bloke on the ceiling.'  So, it comes to me (god knows from where!) and I say: 'Do you mean the Sistine chapel?' and MF says (reasonably enough): 'I don't know.   Don't you mean the sixteenth chapel? '  I go in the bedroom and (on the telly) the Vatican's taking a pounding, so I say: 'No, it's definately the Sistine chapel.'  And I go back in the front room.  Then he shouts to me: 'So where is it then?'  So I say: 'It's in the Vatican.'  And MF says: 'Oh.'  And two minutes later he shouts out: 'So where exactly is the Vatican?'

Sunday, 22 April 2012

Latin Conversations and Grandpa Walton

Sorry, sorry am such a slack blogger (sounds like a medical complaint).  Right, let’s get on with it.

Last time I wrote, Miss Gladi and Esther (who owns Henry the dog) were going to have it out with the ‘church’ of the Holy Kidnappers.  I saw them the other week and they said they went there at the end of the one of them ‘Healing Ministries’ – where no one gets better but there is a lot of fainting.  Anyhow, there were SO many people there and all the ministers were so big and scary and dressed like bank managers that they slunk off and had a re-group.

Miss Gladi said it looked like the mafia had taken charge of the ‘Sticks and Chairs’ club.  And Esther said it looked more like the mafia had PUT half the congregation in the ‘Sticks and Chairs’ club.

Anyroad, they have got hold of a very, very Lithuanian Catholic priest and seem to be persuading him (poor sod) to be their shield against the anti-christ mafia.  They brought him down to mine last week.  Anyway, Miss G. Esther and father Piot come into mine for a cup of.  I do all the: ‘Hello, hello, how are you’s?’, they get themselves settled on the three piece suite and then Miss Gladi says: ‘Now, young Carol (I’m 48), this is father Piot, right here and now in our hour of need.’

So, I say: ‘Hello, father,’ and shake his hand (and he’s like Lodka off Taxi, in robes) and he hands me a grubby bit of paper.  It reads: ‘Hello, I am father Piot from Lithuanian country.  I can speak Russian and Latin also.’

Miss Gladi says to me: ‘See?’  So, I say: ‘See what?’  And then she goes: ‘Well, you know some of that Latin, you can talk to him.’  So I said: ‘Yes, I can read and write it a bit, but I’ve never spoken it.  No one’s spoken it for, I dunno, a thousand years.’  So Esther points at Father Piot and says to me: ‘Well, he proves you wrong, girl.  I heard him reading Latin Mass last Sunday.’

And the little bloke is all smiling at me and I’ve got me knickers in a right twist.  I said to the old girls: ‘You want me to talk to him in Latin?   Why can’t he speak English?’  And Esther looks at ME like I’m the barmy one and goes: ‘Cos he never learnt English at priest school, now did he?’

So, we have this ‘conversation’ that goes like this:

Me: ‘Greetings, priest.’

Him: ‘I am known as father.’

Me: ‘Oh, my fault and obeseseinces (dunno how you spell it), father.’

Him: ‘So you are the saintly invalid of much renown?’

Me: ‘It’s true.  But not a saint, father.  When did you disembark in Londinium?’

Him: ’32 days since.  I am with the pedagogue for the lingua Franca?’

Me: ‘Ah, English (said ‘in’ English)

Him: ‘Yes but my errors are many.  I am not a young man, I have many years.  Now, tell me of your times as a hostage with/from/by the barbarians.’

Me: ‘Not a hostage per se (actually could use it properly!), but they held me with much persistence…

And then I forgot the word for ‘bench’.

Me…’attached to the chair and much talking.’

Him: ‘Tied to a chair you were?’

Me: ‘No, not with rope.’

Him: ‘With chains?!’

Me: ‘No, no.  With force of will I was held, father.’

 I tell you, it was like having a conversation with bloody Yoda.  To be honest, I could just about understand him, but I nearly got a migraine from trying to ‘talk’ back to him.  I’m not really, really sure if I got it all right cos he did a great deal of staring at me as if I was mental.

Anyhow, Miss Gladi and Esther were mightily impressed by the business (talk about in the land of the blind, blah, blah).  They went off with father Piot who gave me a blessing before he left – he also blessed the flat, and the dog.  Unfortu, he left the flat with his black robes completely covered in dog hair – looked like Sasquatch from the neck down.

Lord knows what’s going to happen there with that unholy trinity – bless their hearts.

Oh, and just a few more bits:  you know that Fleece material?  It’s only made of old plastic bottles – unbelievable.  AND, someone told me that Grandpa Walton was gay.  Well, I must admit, he was always my favourite character, so it could be true.  And I’m not going on that bloody internet to ‘find out’ cos half of it is cobblers – and the trouble is, that you can’t tell which half!

p.s. just did a spell check and the machine wanted to change Londinium to Leninism, and it had no suggestions whatsoever for ‘obeiseinces’!!

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

Two Altercations (as promised) and I totally dob in the christians - ha!

Christian Dobbage

Saw Miss Gladiola this morning and I totally dobbed in those kidnappers.  And, being a big christian herself, she knows exactly what church they come from.  I asked her how she knew, she said: 'It's arcane, dear,' and tapped the side of her nose. (One of us doesn't know what 'arcane' means - I bet it's me).  Then,  Miss G. said she will go round there (!) and have 'a word' with them - I almost feel sorry for them (not).  Then Esther turned up with Henry (who wasn't wearing his King Arthur gear).
I said: 'Where's his Camelot outfit?'  And Esther rolled her eyes and said: 'No only did the ingrate chew half the fringing off, but the vet said he had to get as much sunshine on his coat as possible.'
Miss G. did some tutting, she said: 'That dog has always been a hypochondriac, Esther.'  And I stroked Henry's head cos even though he is a dog, he knows some English and I thought he looked morose.

Then Miss G. (bless her) told Esther about my ordeal at the hands of the Baader Meinhof, and if I thought Miss G. was angry you should have seen Esther (who is totally Onward Christian Soldiers).  Esther said: 'I'll give 'em Healing Ministry at the end of my bleeding toe, raging bloody charlatans.'
Miss G. said: 'And they only told young Carol (I'm 48) that god did this to her.'
Esther said: 'Oh!  Slander.  Whenever you want to confront them, Gladi, I'm coming with.'
Miss G. said: 'Thank you dear, I'll need your spiritualism by my side in case I start in with the smiting of the Pharisees.'
Esther moved Henry into a patch of sunlight and said: 'I might have a word with my vicar as well.'

To be honest, I reckon they've been waiting for an excuse for a bit of the old smiting business.  I tell you, the christians round my neck of the woods are not of the 'airy fairy god is love' variety.  Or mebbes all of 'em hate the Baader Meinhof Church of Bare-Faced Cheek.  We shall see.  Bit exciting, eh?  I am SUCH a blab!

Two Altercations

Some time back, one of them charity muggers got severely shirty with Man Friday cos he wouldn't give him £2 per month for some poor  people in Africa.  He told M.F. that: 'You realise you'll be the responsible for the death of at least one child today, you know.'  And Man Friday got vexed and told the charity bloke (in no uncertain terms) that he'd never killed anyone but in his case he might make an exception.  Then (acc. to M.F.) he made a fist, pulled back his elbow and made a fake lunge for the bloke whilst going: 'Gertcha.'

However, although he looks like your typical alpha male (burly, big beard, armfuls of tatoos etc) he is more of an omega, and when he came home, he had to have a lie down and a sherry.

Well,  the same sort of business happened to him again, poor beggar.  This time it was for some starving people (prob. in Africa again).  What is it with these charity muggers - they jump out at you and hound you down the road like a bunch of complete spivs: like that's going to endear you to 'em.

Anyway, Man Friday said: 'Sorry, I give my money to the R.S.P.C.A.' and went to walk on, but the guy stood right in front of him and said: 'So you care about animals more than people?'.  And Man Friday said: 'Yes,' and tried to move on but the man followed him and shouted after him: 'I suppose it's understandable that someone like you doesn't care about the starving.'  And considering old M.F. must weigh 16 stone odd, it was obviously a dig.

M.F. told me later: 'I had tears in my eyes, Cal.'  Poor devil.  But the upside is that Man Friday pulled himself together and chased the little toe-rag down Holloway and into Seven Sisters Road and the little tosser had to run into the Anderson Estate to get away from him.  Now M.F. made it back out of the estate but who knows about the charity bloke - it is rare for a stranger to walk out of the Anderton with all goods and chattels intacta.  Serves him bloody right.

The next altercation happened about a week back when I was in the middle of our estate (it's shaped like an oval and there's two big greens in the middle of the oval where people hang out and kids pitch battles, bless em).  I was walking over to see the lady with the labradoodle, when who comes out of her back gate - it's only old Bridgit (I haven't seen her for mebbes a year).  Turns out Mrs Labradoodle hadn't seen her for aeons either.  So we all stand there having a chat and I keep on looking at old Bridgit (who is mebbe 50 or late 30's, I'm very bad at judging) and thinking that there's something different about her, but I can't put me finger on it.  Luckily she said to us: 'Don't suppose you've noticed?'  and pointed to her Bristol section.  Which isn't the sort of thing that you normally look at - well, not unless they're like watermelons, or wet stockings on the radiator - bit embarassing.  Anyway we looked at 'em and then me and Mrs. Labra looked at each other, like: 'Eh?'.  And old Bridgit is all smiley and she goes: 'They're super aren't they?'  So I said: 'Oh yes, marvellous' - but only for something noncomittal to say and then, thank god, Mrs. Labra says: 'Oh Bridge, have you had them done?'  And then I realise we're discussing a boob haulage operation.

Then Bridgit says: 'I had the full works, had them evened up - I was two cup sizes bigger on the right than the left, I had to use an sock to pad it out.  So they evened them up, they're both bigger and I had them lifted,' she lifted up her arms, 'from right under the armpits.'  I really didn't know what to say.  Luckily, Mrs Labra said: 'That must've put you back a few quid, Bridge.'  And Bridgit said: 'Oh yes, the full altercation cost just over 3 grand.'

You really can't do right for doing wrong in these situs: if you correct someone, you come across as a right know-it-all; but if you say nothing you are letting dimness loose in the world.  Hard one.  I said nothing, as you might have expected.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Two Altercations and I get kidnapped by the 10 Disciples

I don't know exactly how many disciples Jesus had, but this next pictures shows vaguely how many of the beggars I had to deal with the other day:

So, I'm limping along Holloway Road with sholley and I see the above set of religious types approaching me.  Except the N7 version wore slightly more modern outfits.  Several of 'em suddenly clustered round me, and I'm thinking 'oh, jesus' (and he's thinking: 'you're on yer own, mate!').  So, I stopped and one of 'em said: 'Hello, madam,' and another one started patting my shoulder.  I tried to get 'em to vacate the environs with: 'I'm sorry, dears, but I'm ever so busy.'  And one 'em says: 'Oh, we won't take too much of your time,' so I rejoindered with: 'Oh, I can't stop in one place for too long, not with my legs, I start seizing up.' (Which is a bit true, tho' enhanced).

Then it all went completely and utterly to buggery (note: sounds like that fake butter: 'Utterly Butterly' p.s. it is horrid and part made of coal).

Anyhow, soon as I mentioned I had bad legs, they're man-handling me over to a wooden bench and sitting me down and saying: 'the afflicted need the salve of the Lord more than most,' and all sorts of old cods, and I'm thinking: 'Yeah, afflicted by you bloody kidnappers.'   I tell you, I didn't need salve, I needed a bleeding gun.

Then, they start telling me how the Lord cares about the afflicted, and 'am I a believer?', and 'only the Lord can cure me,' and why don't I 'come along to their Healing Workshop,' blah blah extraordinarily 'Does she take sugar?' type cheeky blah.

By this time, my patience is getting well tried.  So I try to get up off the bench and one of 'em has the nerve to put a hand onto my arm so I can't get up at all.
I've had enough by now, I said: 'Now, I really have to get going,' in a bit of a sharp tone.
Then one of 'em gets shirty and says: 'Don't you realise that the Lord afflicted you for a purpose?'
And by this time, I lost my rag.  I think my mouth fell right open with the bare-fared audacity.  I said: 'What sort of fucking purpose was that then?  So I could get kidnapped by you bastards.  Why don't you just fuck off and go and annoy some other cripple who gives a fuck,' (or something similar with lots of fucks in it, sorry!).

Honestly, I was as cross as two sticks.  Then a nice man and a lady came over and said: 'Are this lot annoying you?'  And I said: 'Yes, they are.  I've got M.S. and that man said god did it.'

Oh ho! And then the bloke and his wife got abso furious and starting going all Roman on them, and serve them right too.  So, they buzzed orf, finally, with a parting shot of: 'We'll pray for you.'

I mean, it was all over and done with inside of 10 minutes and they only kidnapped me about 5 yards from my previous location, but it was the principle of the thing.  Honestly.

Will tell you about the two altercations in next post cos must go for glass of boozington - I've probably got that Post Traumatic Religious Disorder.  (Oh, I'm that mad, I really am - small wonder those atheists get in such a paddy - if this carries on, I'll be bloody joining 'em - I tell you, there can't be much worse than a converted agnostic).  Poor Jesus.

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Kunta Kinte and Fear of Squirrels

This is my giant dog, Connie Brix:

She has passed out cold after going out in the garden and meeting a squirrel who was sitting in the middle of the path, eating a peanut, and staring at her with complete nonchalance.

Connie Brix stood stock still and watched the little blighter till he had finished the nut and buzzed orf to Casa del Squirrel (next door's tree).  Then she looked at me, came back in again and collapsed on the chair - I think it was 'the vapours'.

Then, I was in Waitrose and I heard some commotion behind me in the fizzy drinks section.  There was some middle-aged lady and her young kids (who were being a tad boisterous, but nothing on the Youth Offenders level) and then some much older (and severely more posh) old girl comes up behind her.  Now, the posh old girl looks like she's reaching for the cream soda, but the more common ladie's kids are in the way and not moving to one side to let an older lady past.  I mean, a bit cheeky but nothing that a good poke in the head wouldn't shift.

So, the posh old lady (who is white) goes to the common middle-aged lady (who is black): 'Could you please keep your children under control.'

And the black lady was obviously not in the best of moods and said something along the lines of: 'Why don't you shove it, you toffe-nosed old racist.'

By this time, I'm trying to blend in with the tonic water section.

And the old white lady went all red (!) and looked completely outraged.  She goes: 'How dare you call me a racist, how dare you! I've watched 'Roots' don't you know!'

And then there was a great deal of tutting and huffing from both parties as they went their separate ways.

Honestly, you don't expect this sort of thing in Waitrose.  Well...spose it's better than the fisticuffs you get in Morrisons over the marked-down baked goods.

By the way: I only just realised that Jordi LaForge from Star Trek WAS Kunta Kinte - the things you don't know, eh - there's just so many of 'em!

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Henry V opens hairdressers in Nag's Head

Well, cos of scabby head I decided to give my hair a trim.  So I got the kitchen scissors, went in front of bathroom mirror and intended on taking a couple of inches off.  Trouble was I wasn't holding the scissors at 180 degrees, seems they were more like 45 degrees (I never realised, I think i was singing the Banana Splits theme tune or somesuch).  Anyhow, I did one huge snip and suddenly realise what I've done cos the left side of my hair is shaped like a giant' V'.  So I thought, oh I'll tidy that up and cut the v-shape off.  Then I was left with one side of my head like Henry V and the other side like Johnny Ramone.

So I called in Man Friday to finish it off (in case I made it any worse and veered towards Sinead O'Connor).  He couldn't stop laughing and said I looked like a rather aged boy, thank you very much.

Now, when I cut it, it was wet.  So I thought, oh balls, to the doctor's scabby head advice and blow dryed it.  And then I looked in the mirror.  Dear oh dear, talk about if Henry V had a perm.

Here is the picture of me:

And here is Henry V, apres perm (looking as if he'd lost a schilling and found sixpence); and I'd like to assure readers that he very, very rarely is seen without a full mug of make-up - so no getting scared now:

I dunno about the  armour: not sure if stripey blue and pink knitwear cuts it on the battlefield.

I think I accidentally took off about four/five inches of me hair.  And I've got bloody Man Friday swanning round the gaff, with his luxuriant locks (dropping 'em in the soup and clogging the plughole, moan, moan!).  He's looking so much more like this:

Except wearing a MotorHead tee-shirt.

Wednesday, 21 March 2012

Two doctors, George, Henry and the scabby head

About a week back, my scalp started itching and flaking like mad and being completely non-functional as a head covering.  So I go to Dr Yeung and he has a look at it and says: 'poor old scabby head, eh' (it seems a bit familiar for a doctor, but I've known him since the Chin dynasty).

Turns out I've got the old sebborheic dermatitis again, so he gives me a prescription for a bottle of agony juice (steriod stuff) and that shampoo that smells like coat scuttles and carbolic soap.  And he says to me: 'Now, don't use any products apart from these two on yer head, until it all clears up.'

It's been three days now: no conditioner, no styling creme, no hairspray, no nothing.  I can't even use the hair-dryer, so I can hardly spend any time in  my office/cupboard cos my barnet would freeze up.  Oh, and I can't even wear a scarf to cover it up cos as Dr Yeung said: 'You need to give it a good airing.'

I look like the first Mrs. Rochester.

I just went out to the big dustbins today and, bloody typical, I saw about 8 million people that I know  (well, three).

Brizio pulled a horrified face and put his hand over his mouth.  'Oh no,' he said, 'have you had the nasty shock?'
George (who was walked Henry, wearing his 'Camelot' coat) said to me: 'Are you well, dear? Looks like you've had a nasty turn.'  So, I changed the subject and asked how Henry was and George said: 'The bald spots are getting worse, probably due to the embarassment,' and he looked at old Camelot whilst he was saying it.
Then I saw this odd woman (I think her name is Nita) who's got dyed orange hair and several horrid kids, all under the age of 10.  One of them (a particularly nasty looking oik aged about 5 - I know he was one of the buggers who threw the pebble at me: I saw the little sod!) - is called Norris. 

Now this Nita had told me some long while ago that she thought Norris had a hearing problem.  Well, the doctor sent her to a specialist and the poor person examined the little beast had a word with his mother by herself, after the ordeal.
The specialist said: 'I'm happy to tell you that Norris has perfect hearing.'
Nita said: 'Then why doesn't he answer me when I call him?'
And the poor specialist (who'd probably had enough of ears and kids) said: 'I suspect he's bone idle.'

Now, whether the specialist actually said 'bone idle' or not, it was obviously something that totally incensed old Nita and, apparently, she said to the specialist something along the lines of 'how dare you' but with a lot of swearing in it.
I said: 'Well, at least he's not deaf.'
And Nita said: 'I don't believe a word of it, I'm getting a second opinion.'

I tell you: that kid doesn't need a hearing specialist, he needs a spell in the army.  I don't know why everyone thinks kids are so sweet and innocent; it's like they weren't kids themselves.  Sometimes I think that the only person who thinks like me is William Golding.

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Dog and Bone!

Here's my dog, Connie Brix:

She is fast akip!

And here is my phone (for your delectation!):

The fully functional 'turny wurny' phone!

Oh, Man Friday ran out of spare lint roller 'rolls' and determined to 'make' one for himself.  He took a roll of sellotape and wound it round and round one hand.  Then he proceeded to pat down his black (and dog-hairy) jeans, saying: 'See?  This works just as well, Cal - and it saves a fortune.'  Then he patted himself down a little too hard over the 'ball and winkle' department, cried: 'oh bugger me!' and fell to his knees, tears in his eyes.

I know you shouldn't laugh...

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Camelot, Frittatas and DeBiers

Man Friday has cooked up two huge frittatas in about four days – has eaten 75% of them himself – and was, inevitably, feeling ‘a little bunged up’.

Just to set the scene: we’ve got one of those bathrooms that doesn’t have a window, but has a very powerful and large fan thingie.  Oh, and it’s at the far end of the flat (where the khazi should be.  En suite bathroom – I should cocoa).

So, Man Friday’s on the loo and there’s a knock at the front door, I answer it and it’s only Unusual Brenda, from upstairs and she’s got a big plastic bag with her.  She says: ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m worried about the coat.’

Turns out, she offered to make Henry (the ottoman dog) a coat, to cover up his bald spots.  And fair enough, she’s a very good seamstress.

However, she sits down on the sofa with me, gets the fabric out and dear god, it’s some sort of curtain material with a black background with huge blousey roses all over it.  She says to me: ‘So what do you think?’

I said: ‘I wouldn’t say it screams ‘dog’, Brenda.’  And she says: ‘That’s exactly what I thought, so I had a root around and found this,’ and she brings out a length of gold fringeing.  I didn’t know what to say but, lucky for me, she did – she said: ‘I was thinking this would give it a touch of Camelot.  Do you mind if I use Connie for a model?’

Connie Brix gave me a look that said: ‘No, please no.’  But she’d already sidled up to Brenda (looking for biscuits or such), so it was too late, and Brenda hung the material over her back and tried to arrange the fringeing.

Brenda said: ‘See what I mean?  It gives it more of a Camelot feel.’ 

I thought the dog looked like Divine’s greyhound; but I just nodded.

Next thing you know, Man Friday’s yelling out from behind the loo door: ‘Blimey, I’m cracking the pan here!  I might take some of these down deBier’s for a valuation!’

Now, I’m sitting there with my mouth wide open – but no words came out.  I didn’t know what to say.  Fortuitously, Connie Brix shook herself and knocked all the Camelot gear off.  So Brenda’s busy picking it off the floor and putting it in her bag and saying: ‘Oh dear, looks like I’ve come round at the wrong time.’

So, I shout out to Man Friday: ‘Brenda’s here!’

Then he only opens the bloody door and says: ‘You what?’

And poor old Brenda skedaddles to the front door with me and Connie Brix in pursuit.

I’m saying: ‘I’m so sorry.’

And she’s saying: ‘I didn’t mean to intrude in a time of trouble.’

I’m saying: ‘It’s no trouble.’

And she’s says: ‘It sounds like it to me.  Don’t you worry, I’ll be back,’ and runs out the door.

Man Friday shouts out: ‘Was that Brenda?’

I said: ‘Yep.’

He says: ‘Bugger.’

Brenda popped back down a few minutes later with two tablets in her hand.  She put her fingers to her lips, put the tablets in my hand and whispered: ‘Stool softeners,’ and ran back upstairs.

I made a cup of tea and poured a sherry in it.  Man Friday says he’s never eating another egg; I think he’d be better off not yelling out his particulars.

Also – what has Camelot got to do with dogs?  Did King Arthur have a dog, or something?

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Two instances of shop-lifting and a slap round the chops.

It was all go today, I can tell you.  First off, I was walking past the Santeria newsagents and I saw a long, thin, pigtailed braid laying on the pavement.  It had been cut off near the root and it was curled up, like a pig’s tail.  The first thing went through my mind was: ‘Hullo! Ancient Chinese punishment scene.’

Then, I heard some yelling coming from inside the old Santeria.  I could hear the bloke who owns it, the weirdy high priestess lady and some kid’s voice, saying: ‘I never took nothing.’  Then I hear someone calling my name and Miss Gladiola comes running acrosss the road.  I tell you, since she’s had her veins done she’s like a greyhound and she’s got to be sixty odd.

Miss Gladiola said: ‘What’s going here?  I heard the commotion.’

I pointed to the braid on the pavement and Miss Gladi said: ‘My life, don’t touch it, it’s a totem!’  I took a few steps backwards, well sharpish.  And I said: ‘I think they’ve caught some kid shop-lifting.’

And Miss Gladiola said: ‘Oh!  I’m going in, you stay here!’ (Like I needed telling!  As Miss G. has told me time and again: ‘You don’t have the spiritual stamina.’)

So she goes in there like the Duke de Richlieu, and there’s a load more shouting and suddenly some little lad comes running out, crying his eyes out and legs it across the road.  Then Miss G. comes out and she’s shook up, and she starts manhandling me along the road, saying: ‘We have to get well away from the influences, dear.’ 

Turns out that Miss Gladiola went rushing in, convinced that they were kidnapping the child (‘for their dark purposes, don’t ask me what they are’) but it so happened that the child had pinched a Mars Bar.  AND, poor little devil, Miss Gladiola knew his grandmother – which is why he came running out at such a lick, in floods of.

However, as Miss G. said: ‘It was better to be safe than sorry.  They entice the children with their chocolate, you know.’

I said: ‘Well, they do run a newsagent.’  And she laughed  and laughed and said: ‘What better way to entice children.’

She left me half-way to the shops cos she was on her way home after work, when she saved me from the totem and effected child rescue.

Sometimes, I think the whole sketch is madness, but other times I really do wonder.  I mean, where did that braid come from?

Next, I’m in Morrisons buying dog biscuits and such when an almight row broke out between (I think) a mother, a grandmother and a grandson (aged about 5).  It was one of them families where there only seems to be 10yrs between the generations.  Anyhow, the grandmother is yelling at the grandson about: ‘put that back or I’ll have you, don’t think I won’t.’  Then the kid comes running up the aisle with a multi-pack of crisps that’s bigger than he is and he’s shouting back: ‘You won’t hit me in the supermarket.’  Then the grandmother yells at him: ‘No, I’ll kick you up the arse.’

By now, everyone is standing stock still and silent – face it, it was exciting.

Next thing is the mother comes running, pushing the trolley in front of her and she’s shouting at the grandmother (her mother, presumably): ‘Don’t you lay a bloody hand on him!’  and then, argh, the grandmother rounds on her and says: ‘This is all your fault he’s like this, you’re the cause of all this, you’re the one that needs the slap!’  And then there was a face-off and the mother character’s going: ‘Go on, I dare you.’  And the grandmother character’s going: ‘Don’t think I won’t.’  And then the Morrison’s security guard (poor, poor sod) came bowling up and somehow managed to herd them towards the front door.

So, just as me and the lady in front of me in the queue were saying: ‘What are people like…’, I look over to the far end of the shop, just past the check-outs and there’s about four Morrison’s staff surrounding some old lady with her trolley and all I heard was: ‘Are you sure you bought all these items?’  And the old lady isn’t all shocked (like I’d be) or really upset (like Man Friday would be, say) but she’s all: ‘Oh my goodness, well I just don’t know, my heavens,’ etc etc.  I couldn’t decide whether she was the best actress in the world or truly a bit barmy.  Dunno how it ended cos it was it was my turn thru the check-out and I couldn’t keep standing there staring – I might have looked like an accomplice.

Told you it was all go today.