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Sunday, 24 July 2011

In which I am in the maison de chien yet again...

Whatever was I thinking, dear reader, when I booked a coach tour for Bloke et Moi? Arriving at the first pick up point One felt positively jeune against the assembled octagenarian mob.

Amongst the gaggle was a vociferous hennaed matriach who determined to be heard above all others and, frankly, who never stopped emitting drivel from her pinched up little gob until we reached Bristol, whereupon we changed.

True to the luck of Bloke, or so he would have us believe, our ongoing vehicle was circa 1950 and exceptionally uncomfortable unlike the other lined up luxury modes of transport. In fact, Lovely One has bruises on her triangular knees having been crammed into a space designed for someone under 4' tall. Speaking of which, was what we had sitting in front of us for the entire hideous ordeal, in the person of, Troll, see above.

Troll and Trollina communicated with one another by reading out any printed material passing by.
Such as...
'Morissons', or 'Car Wash', met with 'Mmmm Morissons' from the other Troll.
Now this became hysterically amusing and murderous in turn.
When stopped alongside empty buildings we were treated to
'Empty building, shame' or even 'I like them bricks'
In fact any empty space had to be filled with the sound of Troll's voice, from start to fucking finish!

At feeding times, (all scoff was included in the price) Troll and Trollina ambled repeatedly up to the carvery and returned with overloaded plates of anything that was going.
Them being... 'entitled, since they'd paid for it.' The despicable little worms!

The first day out was a tour around the Peak District which is aching with interesting places such as Haddon Hall and Chatsworth, which we positively sped past, being dropped of for a shopping opportunity in Bakewell.

One high street being much the same as another, that was rather boring, although most of our time was spent searching for a belt (Bloke had forgotten his and was intending to spend the entire break wearing grey jogging bottoms) Believe Moi, he does indeed have a 'jogging bottom' and the larger gonad of the gentleman of advancing years is not served in the asthetic department by being encased in said jogging bottoms!

We tried Burtons and M & S but to no avail. Nothing they could proffer would go anywhere near encircling the girth of Bloke!
Oh joy! Oh bliss! I espied an Evans! The home of the fasionable fat bint! And indeed, they didn't let me down, having a four yard faux leather trouser holder-upper that went round him a treat!

Being completely shagged by the first day out we fed and watered and retired to the room, such as it was, to watch TV
Bloke divested himself of his attire and reclined in a mass of undulating flesh on the bed wearing just his Primarni shreddies and what I thought was a 'come hither' stare that I later found was indigestion.

Other discomfort centered around his 'bad knee' and this was duly attended to by raising and lowering his right leg in a scissor like movement which apparently eased the pain. An unfortunate side effect of this therapy, however, was a portion of shiny gonad peeking out of his knicker leg at alarming intervals.

I attempted to diffuse the situation by making conversation about the film we were watching, 'Clash of the Titans' (an Omen, or what!)
'I always wanted to look like that Judi Bowker when I was a little girl', says Moi, 'you know, when she was in Black Beauty'
'Shame you look more like the fecking horse', he replied, giving me another flash of past it's sell by date wedding tackle.
Pot - Kettle

Day 2 was a trip to Chester. Off we went, trundling along, with everyone full of Full English. Or at least full for a while.
Dashing down the coach ailse came a scraggy looking old girl, closely followed by a stream of puke.
'He's never sick! He's never sick!' shouted the attendant wife of the Pukemeister.
'OH YES HE FUCKING IS' methinks as partially digested bacon, egg and fried slice sloshes past me.

And so it went on...

We did have a trip to Liverpool which was acceptable since we were dropped at Albert Dock and were able to visit the Tate. When asked where I'd been by the driver and I divulged this information he looked stunned and his mouth fell open. Most people went to John Lewis.

Bloke accused me of 'moaning' and 'thinking I'm better than everyone else'. That is simply not the case. We just enjoy different things and I AM different to people who enjoy coach trips and have a 'herd' mentality. Not better - different. We can't all be the same.

I don't want to holiday with people who go around on frames with wheels and are disgorged from groaning coaches for shopping trip after shopping trip.

Bloke does and he's going without Moi next time!

Friday, 15 July 2011

In which I do the Fucky Chicken ...

I tripped in this morning full of the J of S when I espied it...

Fan dabby donuts methinks! Anal C, trout extraordinaire, has FINALLY accepted that I don't want the egg laying bastard on the wall. Tossing aside my emergency saffron buns I skipped out to the Masarati and unloaded today's masterpieces.
Floating in and out for ten or so minutes in me chiffon Chloe Tea dress, I smiled the beatific smile of the unsullied Lovely One.


A fucking chicken print - right in the front of me browser - obliterating everthing else!

Bugger my 'at I muse, stamping my tiny Lanvin clad tootsie and reaching for the saffron buns. (They bastards are difficult to neck without liquid, I can tell ya) Nonetheless I managed four.

She Who must bla bla interrupts me reverie to phone and tell me that Anal C is depressed. DEPRESSED - the woman is completely ga ga - two vodkas short of a piss up.
Frankly, looking at the day sheet I thought we were closed yesterday given the fact that we had absolutely no effing sales. I should think anyone crossing the threshold was put off by her miserable scrunched up fizzog.

Of course, since Lovely Moi has been here we've had a succession of customers who all bought something - a big one of mine included - and went off happy and smiley following their encounters with Darling Darling ME ME ME.

Dear Little S just made contact to say that Swastika is on her way out.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

In which I am accused of being spotty and having super floo us hair...

I sashay in all ready to start another masterpiece and bugger my hat the fuckin' chicken is back on the wall.If I have to tell Anal C not to put the bastard thing on the effing wall once more I'll shove it up her arse!

I KNOW, I KNOW my chickens, hares, woofty bark wows etc are MASTERPIECES in their own right, but I don't want them in the same place as my signature pieces. Is that soooo difficult to grasp? I need a 'nomme de paintbrush' so that they aren't identified with Lovely One. Granted, they sell like gateaux chaud, like everything else I put my talented little mits to, but I don't want the effers on the wall - RIGHT!

Once again I find my entire area blocked in with Beryl Cook cards and that ridiculous Sara nonsense - old lady, cheap student paint K wrap. She just likes putting it next to mine to wind me up - and guess what - it's working today!
Now I've had to eat four saffron buns and I don't even like the bloody things! How am I ever going to get thin if people keep annoying me? Lucky I'm gorgeous in every other way, isn't it?

Although you wouldn't know it yesterday when I wobbled in to visit Dear Little S. There he was 'en famile' beavering away getting assistance from la soeur S, who was ackled up in some sort of massive romper suit from Primarni. She had the infernal gall to accuse Lovely One of having spots and 'super floo us' hair! Bitch!
I'd like to see what cascades out of that particular romper suit if given a sharp tug - then we'll see whose hirsute and whose not!

Any road up, dears, I digress, there was also another romper suited member of the James gang, positively ready to pop with yet another one inside, fighting to get out. Having strange cravings she'd got a pork pie and a tub of clotted cream up her knicker leg to pacify 'Swastika' or whatever it's going to get called.

Then along comes Ma James, the diminutive leader of the gang, fresh from a fortnights arse wiping and herds them all off to get 'tea' for Dear Little S.

Lovely One, meanwhile, has produced yet another work of art that will shortly be coming to a sitting room wall near you - watch this space.

Friday, 8 July 2011

In which I explore the wonderful science of the fax machine...

Anal C has moved all my paintings from whence I shifted them at the weekend. I put them where She Who must bla bla wanted them, but no, Anal C had to move them all yet again. I did meander past on Monday and caught a glimpse of her sweaty little brow flashing back and forth with a feather duster up her arse, but thought better of going in. The entire window was empty and the whole place was in disarray. When I returned later my easel was stuffed up a corner in front of all my paintings.

She Who bla bla was apologetic but daren't upset Anal C who she fears would suffer an apoplectic fit if she were challenged in any way.

oops - here comes the anal one...

I return some days later...

Well, Anal C has lost it big time!

'How are you' I enquire, hoping it's nothing trivial.
'I am still bunged up' she nasally informs moi,
'Oh goody' methinks
'My head is stuffed full of all sorts and it's all green' she goes on.

I'm fairly unsure of what that means, unless she's referring to snot, so I just busy myself and hope she goes away. Which after a while she does, only to be replaced by Don the Dump who wants to send a fax.

Now, when D the D was active in the work arena message sending involved pidgeons or persons on horseback, so Lovely One takes charge. Half way through the episode She Who bla bla phones up to see what's occurring re fax.
This means I have D the D on one side shouting instructions, She Who bla bla on the phone in the other ear and the fax in engaged.
Faxing a document is no longer considered a miracle of science, or voodoo, as it seems to be to D the D, who rips the paper out of my tiny hand and shoves me aside.
'What's that noise I can hear', says She who Bla bla...
'It's the elderly gentleman' says me 'and he won't let me get on'
With that he phones her on his mobile to her mobile, so now we have a four way conversation with everyone shouting instructions to me on how to use the fax.


'The next noise you will hear is me slamming the effing door on the way out' I say to She who must be... 'If you don't call off the old gentleman.'

During the course of the fracas the fax has been sent - yippee!

'Has it gone, has it gone, HAS IT GONE' yells D the D (old gentleman)
'It has, and so are you' says me through gritted teeth.

OOOh - got to run - some chancer outside it taking a photograph of one of me masterpieces through the window.


I accosted him and made him delete it - he pretended not to speak English but I'm fairly sure what I said was universal!

Sunday, 3 July 2011

In which I realise it's me...

Poor dear little Lovely One was feeling a bit horrid yesterday. Probably One's own fault as I laid in too long in the morning and didn't scoff any brekkie so went off to mind Dear Little S's with only my vast amounts of drugs (legal) rattling about inside. By the time I got home I shoved down anything I could get me 'ands on since I felt just about ready to comatose. Unfortunately I alighted upon some crackers, cheese and crisps with a pork and egg pie garnish. Too fatty, too salty too everything, and by the time it had all gurgled down I felt fit to chuck.

I awoke some time later to find Bloke, eyes shut, on the sofa.
After having enquired for his day - no good - as per, I said I wasn't feeling on top of the planet.
This was immediately taken as my making an excuse so as not to go to the theatre that evening.
He suggested I went back to bed, which having been met with derision on asking if there was anything wrong, I did.
I sat around a bit, not really knowing what to do, when I heard his shower start working and assumed he was going on his own, which he sometimes does.
When I finally plucked up the courage to go downstairs and meet the gloom, I found the theatre tickets torn up and thrown around the room.

If I hadn't wanted to go I wouldn't have bought the tickets.

Bloke seems very unhappy and I don't know what to do about it.

Is it me? I do seem to make people, well, Blokes, miserable.

Is it my reletless optimism in the face of adversity?
Is the suppers I cook?
Is it the way I paint?
Is it the way I look?


Any comments would be greatly appreciated.

Saturday, 2 July 2011

In which I meet a genuis...

Oh dear, Dears, it would seem as though I shall have to stop minding Dear Little S's empire entirely.
This very morn I sallied forth in the horse and buggy and tied up outside the place expecting to have a reasonably quiet morning in order to paint.
First of all I am greeted by the most objectionable old git who had come to collect a framed splodge that was apparently going in for a competition.
I shall eagerly await the arrival of the winner's cup for that one!
He was arrogant in the extreme. What is with people, well, MEN? Just because I'm a lumpen old trollope that nobody wants to boff, why do I get treated like a minion. Well, being treated like a minion is a treat, usually it's like a dog turd or the like stuck to the sole of a shoe!
I suppose that when people come in here they assume, just because I'm such a lovely mild mannered little Lovely One, I must be way down the food chain.
Maybe that's why J stamps about and talks in a very loud voice. It must convey power. I shall have to try it.

Only yesterday in the other gallery, I encountered possibly the most arrogant artist I have ever met.
He strode in, slapped a catalogue down on the counter, and said;
'Give that to Anal C' (well he didn't say Anal - but you know who I mean)
'I'm looking for someone to market and promote my work. I'm at the European Parliament you know.'
WHOOPDY FUCKING DO methinks, not quite knowing what to say. So I say 'congratulations.'
He goes on and on visibly puffing up as he tells me how it would be an accolade for us to have association with his work.
It is very well executed and way superior to my offerings, but, and it is a big but (like mine) there is a very tiny market for paintings of current Royal Naval vessels. In fact, so small, it extends only to the Captain of said ships.
Still, he clearly enjoyed talking down to me, that made his day and off he strutted.
I curtseyed and put a hex on him that he would get run over.

Friday, 1 July 2011

In which I go off in yet another huff...

I really do enjoy going in to Dear Little S's place and gossiping with him whilst I paint. We enjoy a bit of a bitch and whatnot and as long as Lovely One is under observation, I get a good days painting in. However, I fear I may have to abandon the idea since, not only am I finding that J's students are 'getting inspired' by my work, but it would appear I am required to fulfil certain obligations in order to go in and chat to Dear Little S. I'm fine with that and have indeed offered to 'mind the shop' on occasion, one occasion being tomorrow morning.
BUT that means I'm there on my own, thereby defeating the whole object of my being there at all, which is having a bit of company whilst I paint.

But that's not the worst bit - J had the supreme audacity to offer me up as an exhibiting painter alongside one of her students.
Do I look as if I need someone to take charge of me?
Rhetorical question, darlings. NO I BLOODY WELL DO NOT!
Nor do I wish to to exhibit alongside a student of someone that I do not in any way, shape or form consider my superior!
I know exactly what would happen because it's happened before.
I have exhibited with J before. Seemed like a good idea since her offerings are the opposite end of the spectrum to mine own. It was upon my arrival in Devon and the whole evening turned into the J show, mainly due to the fact that she'd invited all her 'students' and I didn't know anyone, being new in town. I placed myself behind the counter in order to observe the goings on and was quite content about that. I wasn't introduced to anyone or included in the evening in any way, but I wasn't perturbed since I prefer to weigh up new situations before entering the fray. Other people were put out on my behalf, though, insisting that J should have included me in the proceedings.
Personally, I couldn't have given a Kipper's dick, since I sold all my stuff that week anyway.
I do believe most of hers is still taking up wallspace in Dear Little S's place, gathering dust.

All of this I can brush aside - but assuming I will exhibit with anyone now, least of all a gaggle of talentless, no hope, little old lady daubers - is BEYOND THE PATIENCE OF DEAR LITTLE LOVELY ONE!

What a cheek - Would you Christmas Eve it?

I felt it necessary to put J in the picture, figuratively speaking.

'I have spent years getting to the position I'm at now. I have worked as part of a Co-op. I have worked as an art therapist to violent, mentally disturbed adults, I have 'wiped arse' as a part time job to pay the bills etc etc


Thank you very bloody much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!