Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Friday, 26 January 2018

In which I'm a darling bud...

Wasn't 'The Darling Buds of May' simply lovely?
My old chum DH used to say that I reminded her of Ma Larkin, and I took that as a compliment.
'You always look as if you've just got out of bed but wouldn't mind going back again' she'd say. Not quite so sure about that one, but she was probably right, since bed is where I either am, or long to be, these days. Just to sleep, mind, the thought of my over 60, time-ravaged, oedema-cursed, used-up old carcass being coerced into chuff-box/twinkle action makes me want to vomit up me Wincarnis.

If only life could be all shiny, bouncy and joyful, like Ma.

If only all chaps could toil in the soil for their home-based, cherished, bouncy companions, whilst they remained up to their nellies in soap suds.

Alas, twas not to be, for me, anyway, and have now slid into a reluctant wasteland of solitary gloom.

Any passing cove who bide-a-wee with me seemed to feel their life's work was done. 

Feeling benevolent, of late, I hereby forgive them all, except one, who I would cheerfully flay alive and deposit in the ocean.


Friday, 19 January 2018

In which I decide to hold on to my arse...

I have it!
What with the propensity of the young for having arse implants, I shall, in order to make some much needed cash, sell my arse!
Although it's not quite as big as it was when me and BF could comfortably fill a five-seater seaside bench,  (see above) there's still plenty to play with.

Just think, whilst I'm scavenging out of the bins behind whatever takeaway I'm parked up next to on a Friday night, my arse  could be farting up a storm in New York, Chicago (West, of course) or even Hollywood.

Last night I fancied an indian, so I waited patiently out the back of a takeaway to collect up the discarded cartons of Friday night revellers who needed a good scoff after fifteen pints of snakebite. If you don't mind washing the sick off it a decent meal can be assembled from the detritus.

Anyway, I digress...

Thinking about it, maybe my arse is too old to get implanted into a young person...

I mean, my arse  might inadvertently find itself at a Kanye West concert, or jig, or whatever it's called, when really, my old arse would rather be at home with it's feet up fantasizing about boffing Alan Titchmarsh.

Just think, my arse might have to get ackled up in one of them unhygenic, sweaty thong type garments, instead of sensible big, breathable, airtex grandma pants.

And as for my arse being taken to the beach, well!...

I can't bear to think of it being strangulated by one of those up-the-chuff-box, what's in it for me (sand at the moment) style bikini bottoms that don't even come with a top so you can show off your gargantuan, plastic nellies to every man and his dog while your taking a selfie.

My arse would prefer to be sat in a good old British deckchair on Frinton beach with it's crimpelene frock tucked in it's pants, eating a ninety-nine.

And just for the record...
My arse, however old it gets, will never, ever lust after the likes of that insufferable, big-headed, it's all about me, me, me, North-country twat, Titchmarsh.

Monday, 15 January 2018

In which I've got a fashionable arse...

I think I might have lived too long...
I've no idea what's going on...

Long gone are the days when it was de rigeur to snigger at six foot, hairy, truck drivers with size 15 feet ackled up in cocktail dresses and sparkly stilettos appearing on daytime telly moaning about being misunderstood.  No, Dear Reader, it would appear we are all required to live in a gender neutral world.

What the feck?

As if I haven't got enough to worry about, now I've got to wring me hands for a couple of years while I decide whether I'm Arthur or Martha!

Is it compulsory? Or do I have to chuck all me eighteen hour corsellettes out and start wearing non-breathable fabric sports wear that identifies what football  team I support, like all the other ridiculous old men.

I read in the paper the other day that teachers had been asked not to call groups of young females 'girls' in case any of them identified as boys.

I don't recall any of this when I was at school. But then I was busy hiding behind the bike sheds having a fag and crying because everyone laughed at my big lips and West Indian sized arse.

But wait, Dear Reader, puffed up lips and huge arses are fashionable now, so it's not all gloom and doom, is it?


Thursday, 11 January 2018

In which I reflect upon my reflection...

I've just been observing a naked, elderly body...
Mine...
Reflected in the moonlit stream where I perform my 'en plein air'  ablutions, having been parked up in a forest clearing for the passing of many a moon...

Still rejoicing in the face of an angel, surrounded by tumbling golden tresses, my poor old body parts, especially limbs, appear to have led a completely different life to me 'boat race' 'cockney rhyming slang) Dear American Readers.

In the words of Leonard Cohen, 'her thighs are ruined,' and indeed they are...

Having alternated twixt fat and thin these many passing years, One's poor old thighs have their very own tale of woe writ large upon them...

Protruding, heliotrope, rope-like veins coil their weary way twinkle-ward like swollen rivers of blood across the milky-white, gargantuan thighs that could well belong to a council estate dwelling, retired, ninety year old ex-production line worker, instead of a privileged upper crust type, like what I was.

As for the bingo-winged upper arms...
Well, were I to wave off a London to Brighton railway train, they'd still be wobbling as the porter shouted 'All aboard ' for the return journey of a day trip.

The envelope -flap nellies that can now easily be tucked in the top of me support tights, look for all the world as though they'd nursed a family of thirteen instead of just Boy, dangle seductively, untethered toward my arthritic knees.

My feet are still Jolly attractive though, so today, having bundled up me revolting torso in a Sainsbury, 25% off winter woolly, I shall tiptoe barefoot through the forest in the manner of Snow White, just in case there's a handsome Prince abroad looking for a toe to suck.


Tuesday, 9 January 2018

In which I am having a baath...

Can someone please explain to me why all and sundry, on tv, are speaking with North country accents?

In particular there's been an unwelcome renaissance of that flat-vowelled annoyance, 'Parky' as he's referred to in that irritating funeral plan advert.

You know the one, Dear Reader, with 'June from next door' and that insufferable, tank-topped twonk with a surfeit of parsnips. June looks in dire need of a parsnip or two up the chuffer. That would remove the inane grimace from her gob!

If all we've got to look forward to is getting our funerals sorted we may as well fling our Hermes head scarves over the rafters and be done with it.

AND that Yorkshire tea advert, giving air space to him. All: 'I'm from Yorkshire, I am'
Hoo -fecking -ray! Sod off back there then and stop dirtying up our television tubes with your unwelcome presence. If you'd put enough in yer pension fund you could be Ilkley moor bar tatting to your heart's content all the live-long day by now.

Where has the wondrous BBC voice of yesteryear gone? All but the valiant few are now taking 'baaths' instead of 'baths '

Well not I, Dear Reader, I shan't succumb to this fascist 'oop north' dictate.

I'm off up the paath for a baath! So there!




Sunday, 7 January 2018

In which I am not the Queue Police...

Meanwhile...
Still in yesterday mode...

'I bought one of your paintings as a Christmas present to myself' hollered Vera from the barge as I darkened the door of the charity shop, 'I hope you're honoured.'

'No more honoured than by all the other festive sales,' says i, showing off.

Poor deluded type hoisted her colours on the most vilified of local masts upon entry into village life and so is virtually black-balled in polite society, so I suppose I should be kind to her. No matter, shall be off with me worldly goods tied in a spotted hankie on the end of a stick in a minute so bollicks to the lot of them!

But not before encountering a shrill mwa-mwa from a shrunken posh sort of my acquaintance...
Yet another enquiry along the lines of... 'Where are you living now?' and 'have you got a man?'

Personally I prefer to confine my inquiries to those of a less personal nature, say, "hello, how the devil are you, old thing?' Obviously not actually requiring a reply other than, 'Jolly fine,' even if the subject has a limb hanging on by a tendon. It's just not British to chunter on about ailments of any sort, is it, Dear Reader.

The queue for fags and wine snaked around the Co op, unlike the other unsavory emporium whose customer base is confined to the downright odd, which is difficult in Wiv, as everyone is idiosyncratic at the very least...
Anyway I digress...
A monied sort clutching a brace of Chablis, barged in front of me...
'Pardon me!' says One, 'the end of the queue is right down there,' I went on indicating with what I hoped was an authoritative digit.
She grimaced and hovered about...
As I was leaving, having waited my turn with patience and fortitude, I noticed that she had, as if by magic, taken up a position directly behind me.
Seething, I gave her a hard stare, which she stoically ignored, a glimmer of a triumphant smile playing upon her lips.

Meanwhile, the displaced queue-ees where muttering ' flaming cheek!' and the like, whilst doing feck all, and shooting plaintive glances in my direction.

Had I still been a full time local resident, I'd have given the bint a severe telling off, but, having been apprehended by the Cheese Police on the previous evening, I passed my Queue Police mantle into the crowd and flounced out.

Saturday, 6 January 2018

In which it is unwise to inflame the afflicted...


Like a criminal mastermind returning to the scene I motored grandly back to dear old Wiv in the homestead on wheels...

Alighting among the shadows of a council estate back street (it doesn't do to let One's public know One's dire financial and habitation standards) it wasn't long afore I was glad-handing all and sundry, what with me being what passes for Kim Kardashian in these parts: ergo: all fat arse and celebrity status...

As I gazed wistfully through the locked gates toward the Underground Lair, wishing I were once more entombed in it's dank gloom, I espied Lovely Gordon in the distance loping along in the manner of a racehorse long past it's prime and looking for all the world like a Bryant and May match, in negative...

'That woman always looks to me like a Mexican cleaner,' opined he, pointing a Dickensian digit in the gen direc of a clinically obese sort, sporting pink hair, accompanied by a v weary looking elderly gentleman, who were wending their way in a non-commital trajectory down Golden Hill.
'Surely there can't be the quantity of Mexicans requiring regular cleaning in West Somerset to render that a lucrative career choice,' countered I.
'I'm off to be 'Ward Sister Lovely Gordon' to look after Sue in East Anglia once I've entertained my neighbours to a sumptuous luncheon,' he continued.
'Never mind sumptuous luncheons,' says I, 'remember how I instructed you to bend from the knee and not with straight legs when sporting your ' carry on nurse' costume. After all, the slightest suggestion of a ' Romford Grimace' peeking from your gusset might well inflame the afflicted.'