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.