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Wednesday, 28 September 2011

In which I shall never ever email BIG ever.....

Oh my giddy aunt! What a palava! 57 sodding Libby arse-face Purvesing minutes to get here. If the council in Plymouth see a bit of road without a hole in it - they dig one.

The Germans didn't do as much damage to the effing place in the war for heaven's sake!

AND If I have to sit in the traffic with a spotty little shitbag in a £4.50 car doing their level best to pretend not to see me as they trowel on their makeup in the rear view mirror, I shall ram the bastard!

Any road up, finally I get here and my first contact with the pea brained Plymothian public is a menopausal old hag brandishing a rolled up piece of paper that looks like it's been under the bed for fifty years. And lo and behold, IT HAS!

'I wondered if you could tell me if this is a painting or a print?'
Calling it a painting would have led to prosecution under the trades description act, but it was indeed, a hand crafted piece of shit.
'It's a watercolour sketch', says Lovely One.
'Is it worth anything? It's signed.'
I ponder the heap of crap with what I hope is an interested look on me lovely face.
'Hmmm. I haven't seen that signature before,' I muse.
'Well it was done in the 1950's' says woman sharply.

Why is it that everyone and his chien think that just because something is quite elderly it is worth something. The old bat in question didn't look particularly stchoopid, well no more stchoopid than most of the no hope Janners that annoy Moi on a daily basis.
'I should just put it in a frame and enjoy it.' I smiled, handing the offensive scribble back to her.
She huffed off out wobbling in a threatening manner to her bored looking hubbster saying in a voice loud enough for me to hear,
'It's not important enough for her to look at.'
Lady, I don't give a Rat's Fat Arse, or the proverbial Kipper's Dick, just piss off and let me paint a MASTERPIECE.

On a lighter note. Anal C managed to sell the effing Chicken picture that's been littering up the place for eons. So I suppose I should stop moaning about her now she's done that AND taken the Lenkie gloom off the walls.

But will I? Will I bollocks!

ps for those of you who have been reading this diatribe for the past few years, you will remember Big.
He was made flesh some months ago. In the past few months I have been in dire need of some moral support. He knew this and stopped emailing me. What a dissapointment people are.
Then out of the blue I get-
'I hope you find alternative accomodation.'
I have NEVER asked anyone for help and I never will, but to just go AWOL rather than offer the hand of friendship is unforgiveable.
It would appear he is of the calibre of some of my other so called friends.

Sunday, 25 September 2011

In which I wallow in the thrilling miasma of adoration...

Here I am again, darlings, positively wallowing in the seductive and thrilling aroma of adoration. The little blighters in here this morning have been worshipping at my altar and within twenty minuets I'd sold three.


Read it and weep you other inferior painterists!

I am reduced to blowing me own wossname in print at the mo, since Bloke went absolutely ape poo at Darling Little Lovely One the other day, shouting into my peaches and cream fizzog:
'You think you're the big I AM. All I hear about is - I'm off to the printers/framers etc etc.'
Well, of course, I AM always off to the printers etc, an occupational hazzard when One is a painter!
I had absolutely no idea that he harboured such unfavourable views of your very own Lovely One. Well, I keep quiet about me doings now, so there's absolutely eff all to talk about now, given that my interest in the sordid little goings on of his 'assistant' on the van are really not to my taste. He waxes lyrical about her binge drinking and rows with her 'boyfriend'. Since I know neither of them my interest is miniscule. I do tend to listen with a rapt look given that it's the only subject that animates Bloke to the degree that he excercises his vocal chords beyond the usual grunted reply.

Any road up, news reaches me shell like that Shaniqua's dear Mama has a member of the opposite in tow and rumours of a wedding are rife. Hawaii has been mooted. The disturbing vision of the James gang lined up on some tropical beach somewhere, smoking fags and swigging Vodishka makes one quake with terror on behalf of the locals.
I can see it now - Sister of Dear Little S (mother of the bride) in a knitted sarong, fashioned from twinkle hair gathered from the James family plugholes, and a 'ley' is it? made of dandelions.
Poor old Ma James will have trouble staying upright on the sands, methinks. That tottery old trollope has centre of gravity issues.
But then, given that the female members of the James gang have frontal appendages that are the size of a couple of Volvo Airbags to contend with, it's no surprise that none of 'em can stay upright for long. Well that, and the alcohol intake.

Friday, 16 September 2011

In which I offer you all a salutory lesson...

Lovely Dear Little Luddite One has just discovered the 'wall' on facebook. Lots of persons have left birthday wishes for Moi. Wenesday it was. I didn't 'do' anything as I have been slowed down quite significantly with a painful, painting related injury. Before you all rush to my assistance, fear not, I am improving, slowly but surely and the brush has been removed under general anasthetic.

As I'm sure you will be aware, Dear Reader, I have been captured by the paparazzi and plastered all over the Plymouth Magazine for your delectation.

NOW, despite being warned to the contrary, Sister of Dear Little S has seen fit to 'diss' the image of your very own Lovely One.
Regardless of the fact that D Little S shook his head and sucked air through his teeth in a manner to defer the antics of his sister, she went ahead and decided to pass comment on the saintly person of Moi.


Foolish virgin. (I use that term loosley)

On first viewing the charming, smiling picture of Darling Lovely One, I was compared to She Who bla bla (Auntie Wainwright). NOW - Not only is Lovely One, Lovely in the manner of an Angel and extremely youthful looking, but Auntie W is Seventy effing two.
It was also suggested that Lovely One was in possession of a more than sufficientcy of 'super-floo-us' facial hair.

I feel I can't let it pass without offering a window into the life of the offending member of the James gang...

She has of late been brought to book by the Gang Gran who attempted to point out the error of her ways in the food inhalation department re: the aquisition of a fatty liver.
'Mmmmmmm Fatty Liver,' said Sister and bogged off to fry onions.

We shall find her reading this in her bed, methinks. Quite often with a rake of Special Brew and a bag or three of Pork Scratchings. Since bags of scratchings have become smaller, or so she says, (personally I think it's her Cumberland Sausage fingers) she's had a spit roast installed in the bedroom so's she can roast a whole porker of an evening. One or other of her many offspring take it in turn to rotate the 'snack'. Now you may think this is an abuse of small children, but, let's face it she's got twenty seven of them, all under five.
Lovely One has picked up with her very sensitive radar that Sister has made some concessions to her increasing girth.

It should be noted that she does, indeed, have lovely skin. It's just that there's such a vast surface area of it! Currently records of it are available mapped by the Ordnance Survey Department.

Any road up, she's started wearing leggings which One can only assume should reach her ankles, but given the acreage that they have to cover are poised half way up her calves and stretched to the consistancy of gossamer across her thunderous thighs.

Now that the Autumn months are upon us we shall be further treated to her encased in what looks like a vast poncho, with afore mentioned leggings crashing together sticking out of the bottom. Surely a fire hazard given the fear of spontaneous combustion with the friction factor.

This ensemble has rendered her a dead ringer for the mutant love spawn of Demis Roussos and Clint Eastwood.
Somewhere on a Welsh hillside there's a flock of sheep shivering to death, having been shorn merely for the production of said peculiar poncho garment.

Plymouth Council have put out a request that 'Poncho' may be used as a cover for Smeaton's Tower on frosty evenings.

Now I've brought you up to speed, Dear Reader, with the calibre of Articles who choose to take the name of your Lovliest One in vain, I hope you will all take heed and simply continue to worship at my easel - IN SILENCE.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

In which I am emotionally boarded up by the council...

I owe D the Dump an unreserved apol re: the dent in new frame. Twas not he who carelessly slammed me A frame up agin it, but Moist B. Moist B is monikaaed thus as he's one of those persons whose skin looks damp at all times. Not that the silky hand of Lovely One has ventured to touch the organ, mere observation is quite enough, let me tell you, Dear Reader. The moist one, whose sexuality is under review, is the 'Boy' of She Who bla bla... He and his 'partner' keep house for her.
Moist is continually velcroed to an annoying yappy hound that is carried around like a baby. They are further hangers on who regularly visit what I laughingly thought a place of work, but has increasingly become a drop in centre for the dispossesed.

A far more fragrant and desirable drop in is the lair of Dear Little S. In fact, Lovely One is oft to be found plonked on me piano stool just inside having a bit of a moan and whinge. Said piano stool is known as the 'ranting chair' since the Meemster et al are wont to perch upon it and unburden themselves to Dear Little S and Aunties J and Sh. Yesterday's visit found the aunties quivering in their corselettes over a young gentleman in Naval attire. Lovely One was sore afraid that one or both of them was about to depart to the bogs with a tube of KY and a dibber. Lovely One was deemed a peculiar article in that One hadn't even noticed the Navel personage.
The ensuing interrogation of Lovely Moi concluded that Lovely One is not normal. Apparently One should regulary be reduced to a quivering mass in the presence of beauty. Whereas J and Sh are certain that they would slime up in the face of their first loves, I can't even remember mine, if I ever had one. I suppose I must have and that in all probability I quivered with delight at some point, but I don't recall the moment I shut down emotionally. Now the only thing I get aroused by is a chocoate cake pie.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

In which I am not amused by the antics of Twatticus...

I am holed up in the Gallery again. What is the first thing my baby blues alight upon? My whacking great 'A' Frame board leaning against my freshly framed masterpiece 'Spirit of Plymouth'. Obviously that twatticus Don the Dump has just thrust it William Nilliam 'wherever' and has mortally wounded the beatiful frame that Dear Little S bunged on it only two days ago.


Stupid old fart! He broke me effing easel, and denied, it not long ago and I expect he'll be blameless on this occassion. On the plus side the old fool has managed to sell a print of aforementioned masterpiece in my absence.

Honestly, we must be a flamin' laughing stock down here amongst serious art purveyors what with Don the Dump ligging around with his dyed hair looking seriously like a deceased pussy has been superglued to his shrivelled head. Not to mention the fact that even though he'll never see eighty again he totters about in the garb of James Dean, blue jeans and white T shirt. The complete 'Rebel without a Corset' look.
And then there's 'Auntie Wainwright' counting the takings with her bent and twisted digits poking out of her fingerless gloves.

Of course, Lovely One does add a frisson of elegance to the proceedings by wafting ethereally about in a Chloe tea-dress and a haze of Joy.

On another tack - I have located a lovely new home to call One's own. Granted it is on the edge of a military estate which appears to be peopled by articles with scary looking dogs on bits of string and horrid looking children hanging around in shoals. But, Dear Little Socially Mobile Lovely One has plummetted down to such levels over the past few years that One has seriously had to re-evaluate One's existence. The house itself is lovely and cosy and has fantastic views over the Brunel bridge into Cornwall.
Various members of the James gang have recoiled in abject horror when I mention some of the areas in which I have been viewing houses. But - this is what I am reduced to, so I'd better get used to it.
Over the road from said dwelling is a twenty foot stone wall with coils of barbed wire on the top. As yet I'm unclear as to whether this is to stop persons getting in or out!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, bugger my 'at - Dear Little S says that under the huge mound of grassed over earth behind the wall, are buried explosives, so when they go off it's curtains for moi!
So I guess that puts an immediate stop to me 'Apres Tea' entertainment of lighting me own farts.
Still - I may not be able to pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I can pull a hare out of me twinkle!

Saturday, 10 September 2011

In which I wish I could divulge more information...

Oooooh a bit of goss this am on way into gallery/shop/money laundering emporium...

Obviously, Lovely One being the soul of discretiono and all that, One cannot possibly name any names etc...

But, all is not harmonious in the world art. Oh, what a surprise, methinks! They all scamper about trying to outdo one another in the importance stakes whilst Dear Little Lovely One merely floats serenely above it all in an effortlessly superior state of ethereal being. One simply doesn't need to engage with all the silly schoolgirl squabbling since One's limitless and abundant talent does the talking.

It would appear that tears were shed by two opposing gallery owners over the opening of a new art space in the area. Some persons, obviously cannot name them, are so utterly obsessed with their own importance that they find it difficult to engage in a harmonious fashion with their fellow galleristas. We never had any of that at Red Hat. Or did we? I do recall that in The Hat's second iteration, there was a bit of annoyance from one or two difficult old trouts. Funny how One forgets about that isn't it?

Anyway here I am working on a Saturday for goodness sake!! I don't expect any thanks for it though, which is just as well because I won't get any.

Dear Little S made himself chunder by scoffing the fabulous cupcake and washing it down with vodishka - silly boy!

Friday, 9 September 2011

In which I am slighted by an inferior old trollope...

Well darlings it's Dear Little S's birthday. Lovely generous Lovely One commissioned a special over the top ginormous cup cake. Other D little S admirers had bought him inferior cupcakes, mentioning no names (the Meemster) or vodka.
D little S said he'd be a fat alcoholic, but I reassured him that it's never done me any harm.
Being a fat alcoholic that is!

Sister of D little S was jannering loudly into her moby and stamping about for all the world like an SS officer with a silk flower behind her lug. She was fairly fragrant so Lovely One enquired what manner of scent she'd immersed herself in. As you know I favour Cilit Bang Grime and Lime, it masks the scent of fully loaded Tena Ladies coupled with the whiff of desperation. S of D little S had been soaked in something called 'Toilet Door'?

I have been mildy perturbed by a fellow artist bad mouthing me. I realise that you, my adoring public, won't possibly be able to believe it, but some old harridan called Shirty Arsehole, or something like that, has had the infernal cheek to diss Moi!
Apparently she's got an entourage of deceased husbands to her credit (died on purpose, methinks) and a list of ailments as long as Hugh Jorgan's willy.
Any road up, having never encountered the ailing old trout, I should be mightily interested to find out what she bases this totally inappropriate character assasination upon. I sniff the doings of the food stained one, or her hound. But perhaps I am mistaken, maybe I've been found out for the poisonous trollope that I am at last.


Ner, Ner, ner ner, Ner

Sunday, 4 September 2011

In which I am on the move yet again...

Oooooh at last we have sold the rancid stinkpile that is Chez Bloke et ex Mrs Bloke. The most annoying part of it, however, is that, for the very first time I revolted and insisted that S was there when the agent came to show them around, and the bastards bought the effing place!
Of course, Bloke, who is doing his level best to annoy me at every turn of the road, said
'Obviously S said all the right things.'
Oh bollocky bollocky bollocks, I thought, whilst grinning through gritted teggies.

Any road up, the greedy gits were still toying with the idea of asking the prospective purchasers for more money, but luckily, Bloke saw sense at last.

So, off we go again. Hopefully to some bijou seaside homestead which I shall furnish with my usual style and taste rather than the 'sale rail' style of the previous encumbant at Chez Bloke.

In the in box today...
A missive from the vile and spiteful LF, secretary of the residents association at Lovely One's other homestead, requiring Lovely Moi to return some documents that she never sent me. The reason given that she 'has a flat sale going through.' The woman's ridiculous self deception is staggering! She actually seems to think that she OWNS the flats! Stupid old bint! She's made herself so difficult and unpopular that people are really quite uncomfortable in their own homes!

Changing tack rather...

Sales are up up UP!

Sold five yesterday!

Eat my dust!