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Tuesday, 31 July 2012

In which the Wivey film buffs…

Pootled off to The Old Fish Shop Gallery to biff out another masterpiece for the Treasury Extravaganza on Sat.  Not usually in harness on a Mon and Tues, but had to swap with the Pinkster so as she could hand wash all the yurts down the stream and pack them away for another summer. 

Actually got rudely interrupted by a CUSTOMER wishing to purchase a v small framed print of Welly.  Stone me – retirement in the Beeharmars is closer than One thought!

Any road up, had the usual plethora of eejits bearing hand woven gonad snoods and the like.  Plus, a v annoying personage intent on telling me her entire life saga, complete with all the bods who’d done her wrong.  Speaking of which, she was in when that weird, foaming at the mouth, type biffed up to invade One’s space, so that was a b in d as he sheared after chapter two.  He only hangs about if he can get the serene One to himself, whereupon One is like a sodding fairground duck trying to dodge the spittle showers.

Late in the day, closing time in fact, WWW fronted up with significant other, to see if One would like a break.  Like a sodding break? It was time to shear to the underground lair and quaff a quart or two of vino collapso to wash down a cow pie!

Oh my giddy aunt!  They’d been to the new Batman film and as always were dressed accordingly – he as the Caped Crusader and she as Catwoman in a freshly torn pelt from a bit of road kill.

One well remembers the ghastly spectacle of the pair attending the Somerset premiere of Last Tango in Paris. 

Shares in Kerrygold plummeted.  But Quells hit an all time high!

 

Sunday, 29 July 2012

In which One considers a career change…

Lovely One generally sets aside the day of rest to attend to: remaining late in the truckle bed, grooming matters and sandblasting the underground lair.  Sadly the persons residing in the attic have a regular visit from small children that disturbs the ritualistic late start to Sunday.

For this gathering, all windows must be thrown open.  Yelps and squeals must be emitted close to the ouvred fenetres so that each and every resident can sigh wistfully…

‘Aaah, bless ‘em,’ or some such saying.

Lovely One does not fall into this category, as I suspect, nor does anyone else.  One simply can’t recall Boy ever requiring to enjoy himself so very loudly!  Unless, of course, One counts the many occasions on which we joined together in a tuneful aria or two from Madame Butterfly.  Come to think of it – that could explain a lot.

Any road up, no sooner do the unwelcome interlopers thump down the stairwell than Lovely Gordon checks in on the telephone for a bitch about Vera up the alley and the recent installation of Chesil Beach by the weekenders next door.  By this time, One has the weekly mud mask in place, and setting rock hard around the jaw line, Lovely One can only ‘gottle of geer’ through gritted teeth.

‘You sound rather peculiar,’ says L.G.

‘I’m going all stiff, so can’t talk properly,’ replies L.O.

‘OOOh, so am I now,’ he goes on, ‘it’s like phone sex!’

Sadly, phone sex is about all One would be capable of in One’s current state of decay.  But – it has given One the germ of an idea for the part time job One is going to have to undertake to support the evident lack of interest in One’s art these days.

One could embark upon a career as one of those phone sex persons.  How hard can it be? 

Having seen a documentary on that very subject, the primo panter extraordinaire was a great big fat old Biffa, not dissimilar to your very own L.O.  There she sat in her chintzy front parlour with her elastic-stockinged, swollen ankles elevated on a pouffe, whilst carrying on the most luridly detailed monologue concerning what she was wearing and how naughty the poor sap on the other end of the line had been.

I COULD DO THAT! 

One could tell the frontal fiddlers that One’s lithe body was encased in black lace, whilst all the time still wearing me Primarni vest, complete with toothpaste stain down the front, and a pair of Matalan leggings that would adhere to the boudoir wall if hurled into a Westerly wind.  Who would know?

The possibilities are endless.  Consider…

One could carry on all kinds of everyday tasks whilst assisting some lonesome old gentleman in the trousorial department.  All One requires is a hands free phone and a fertile imagination…

Saturday, 28 July 2012

In which Lovely One may have got it WRONG…

                 two spires small image

Awoken by the satisfying sound of One’s butt filling up.  How soon after the end of the monsoon season One is glad to have chats et chiens raining down on the vast grounds of the underground lair.

The Pinkster tribe, complete with dog on string, have been v fortunate in the weather for their annual stay in the hand-felted yurt dans le field of sheep shite.  One will be rejoicing on high when she fronts up to The Old Fish Shop Gallery to relieve WWW et Moi.

Had the v first full trading day EVER when not one single would be contributor trundled in brandishing some dire monstrosity fashioned from toe jam and winky goo, or some such delight.  So it is with some trepidation that One has an amazing snippet of information to impart to you, my most humble subjects…

LOVELY ONE MAY HAVE BEEN WRONG

I know, I know, this has come as something of a full intake of breath, hand over gob, earth shattering shock, but, there you are, it may well be a fact! 

Indeed, it is beginning to become clear that WWW’s vision of an Art Cafe Emporium may well be the answer for The Old Fish Shop Gallery.  The answer, that is, to the question, ‘what the feck is One doing bringing a slice of culture to the great unwashed, when all they really want is a slice of cake?’

This staggering revelation has come about, not because WWW has her gnarled digit on the pulse of what’s ‘hip and happnin’ any  more than your very own divine leader, Lovely One.  Oh no, faithful followers, fear not, and continue to emulate my doings en mass.  It’s just that One has had to capitulate to the notion that if the vast swathes of indigenous eejits want their doings on display 24/7, then it would appear that, in the interest relieving them of their little brown pay packetted pounds, One and WWW will have to give the ungrateful blighters what they want!

‘One can take a horticulture, but One can’t make her think!’ 

Any road up, fear not, hedgerow foraging BF and Distinguished Gentleman, and any other of you who happen to hang on me every word, we shall prevail!

However, we might well have to let them join in. If only so as they can biff in with their little special friends for a Cappuccino and a slice of lardy cake (that passes for the height of sophis in this backwater) and nonchalantly point a grubby digit at their very own doings.

Oh well, ‘cest lavvi’ and all that, One is off to show off with dead people, and to entice you proles further, here’s another one for sale. 

 

Friday, 27 July 2012

In which I attempt to entice you to visit me new show…

                    barbican sunset small image

Here is one of the masterpieces, shortly to be appearing at a MAJOR show WITH A DEAD ARTIST, in The Treasury, Catherine Street, Royal Parade, Plymouth, PL1 2AD on Saturday August 4th 2012, 10am to 4pm.

There is a posh drinks party on the Friday, with embossed invites no less, that all you little people are cordially not invited to, but please feel free to come worship my divine self and spend yer spons on the Saturday.

 A dead artist, no less.  Lovely One has arrived!!  Not that you’d know it from the pitiful sales at The Old Fish Shop Gallery in beautiful downtown Wellington.  The dead ‘un is that annoying Lenkiewicz, though, so One can’t have everything!  That is the major advantage of being holed up down Bird Shit Alley in Wellington – not having to enter into long and boring convs about that flamin’ Lenkie with a never ending assortment of Plymouth bods who’s claim to fame was that they’d gone into the bog after him, or shagged him, or some such twaddle.

A v bronzed article fronted up early in the day, biffing in with the ejaculation…

‘Have you got a waiting list?’

A waiting list? Does the poor sap imagine Lovely One is a dentist?  Does he wish to join the waiting list to be Lovely One’s significant other? Is he angling to become one of the many irritating articles on One’s list of ‘Must punch him in the gob when One can find the time?’

But no – yet another would be participant in the long line of locals trudging up me passage with an item of home-made shite in an Asda carrier!

As far as One can recall, and I’ll grant you, that’s not v far these days, One simply can’t remember uttering the words…

GOOD MORROW PEOPLE OF WELLINGTON, PLEASE COME IN YOUR DROVES TO OUR PRISTINE, BRAND NEW GALLERY AND CLUTTER IT UP WITH YOUR AMATEURISH BOLLOCKY SHITE.

Is it a Somerset phenomenon?  It’s not a problem One has met in such a massive manner afore. 

A distinguished gentleman of One’s acquaintance has proffered the suggestion that One should offer to appraise their doings for a fiver, thereby sending them scuttling.  A champion idea methinks!  After all, they don’t seem v interested in the fact that WWW is footing the bill and Lovely One and the Pinkster are manning the operation for free!

Any road up, am biffing off to stay with Ma James now to flog me wares to the discerning Devonians who still appear to want it!

Thursday, 26 July 2012

In which One is getting a bit ‘Groundhog Dayish’…

With a liberal coating of Swarfega grarmed up the inside of me thighs, Lovely One set off in the open topped Daimler for The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

There is more than a sufficiency of adolescent thigh on parade on morns such as this!  Biffing up Waterloo Road, One was confronted by the fortunate: the long limbed, lithe, twinkle-triangled sort, who will never know the ghastly discomfort of the crashing together of the thunderous thigh – Oh lucky things!  And, of course, the petite chubbsters, with their soft, over-fleshed, dimpled knees, protruding from their ‘fat girl’ shorts that are bunching up the gusset in a most unattractive manner.

Any road up, with the condemned back passage door open, along with the shop door, an occasional waft of air rendered Lovely One able to breathe.  That is, until anyone from next door availed themselves of the facilities, thereby releasing the fatal whooshing sound accompanied by a whiff of Taunton Turdage.  Rendering it necessary for Lovely One to clamp a wet hankie over hers, and anyone else’s who happened ins gob!

Minding me own bees-tiddly-wax, was rudely interrupted by the arrival of an invalid carriage bearing a v determined looking aged personage…

In he wandered clutching a Woolworth’s carrier, brandishing a missive that was waved unceremoniously under the nose of your very own Lovely One. 

‘I’ve made a stand for the postcards,’ he began, plonking the missive on top of me, under construction, masterpiece – the eejit!

‘I’m sorry?’ enquired Lovely One, ‘postcards?’

‘You know,’ he continued, ‘the ones I gave you the other day.’  By this time getting a tad agitated.

‘No.  You’ve lost me,’ One went on.  ‘Perhaps it was my colleague the American Lady?’ hazarding a wild guess that the ever accommodating WWW would have taken in yet more detritus.

And it proved to be thus.  In the midst of a sumptuous display of BF’s fabric masterpieces, there lay half a dozen, dog eared bloody postcards deploying pastoral scenes, the like of which, not seen since an unwise visit to Aged P’s art group!

‘You don’t need to pay me ‘til you’ve sold them,’ he v graciously blundered on, by this time brandishing the ‘display stand’ the like of which hasn’t ventured abroad since the early days of Blue Peter: an old egg box and some sticky-backed plastic!

The ghastly device had then been painted with what looked like that old plimsoll whitening stuff and it had enough rough edges for Lovely One to spend a lifetime snagging me cardi!

Lovely One declined the offer of the display device as politely as One can through gritted teeth AND ONCE AGAIN was left to fend off YET ANOTHER  unwanted contributor to the OFSG.

Once aboard the invalid device, the disgruntled Aged person sped up the alley, only to make way for a Mother and Daughter combo, who, it seemed had merely sauntered in to TELL LOVELY ONE HOW CLEVER THEY WERE AND HOW THEY COULD DO BETTER THAN MOST OF WHAT WE HAD ON OFFER.

Emitting a contemptuous sniff, the Mother began… 

‘I’ve got one like that at home that I done,’ pointing at little oil painting.   ‘Auntie June could do them pottery tiles – easy!’ she went on.

‘Do people just bring in their stuff for you to sell?’ enquired the Daughter.

‘Yeah, just bring the feckin’ lot in moosh!  Don’t worry about the quality.  Whack the crap in ‘ere and someone else’ll foot the bill fer the gaff – no danger!’ was what One should have said.

But NO – an inordinate amount of time was once again taken to delicately explain that we are, indeed, a gallery.  Formed for the specific purpose of SELLING FECKING ART TO THE PUBLIC! 

A Bloke, who had entered at the same time said, ‘Wellington people are a bit funny.’

Mmmmmmm

Wednesday, 25 July 2012

In which One may actually have slept through the night for once!…

Twenty flamin’ four minningtons past three and  there’s a fiendish conspiracy abroad to stop Lovely One from getting a bit of kip!  Fat Colon’s alarm, or it could be those other two with the caravan the size of a Party Seven, suddenly shrieked to life and, thinking it was me wired in smoke alarm, One shot out of bed like a jit!

Completely discombooberated, One biffed about the boudoir, careering into antiques various until normal service was  resumed and One came to, feeling a bit peckish.

So, here One is, wide  awake, holed up in the front parlour penning me memoirs, when Uncle B fronts up and wants to watch some nasty underclass sport called ‘Darts!’  Obv, being a guest in the Underground Lair, One obliges, though One’s television is not used to broadcasting the nightscreen.  AND THEN, that bloody Montgomery starts charging about farting with glee thinking it’s going out.

Any road up, back to the miniscule motorhome what’s car-ported at the north-west boundary of me estate.  I tell you it’s the size of an effing iron lung!  How the Dickens anyone gets in it, never mind sleeps in it, is beyond Moi!  AND, when it’s dragged off by the twice-weekly shampooed 4 x 4, up goes a bloody bollard, across the car port, in case anyone parks in it when they’re not flamin’ there!!  How anal is that?

Looks like they’ve taken adv of the ‘phew wot a scorcher’ weather and biffed off in it somewhere coastal, and a critter of some persuasion has sauntered across the booby trapped rear entrance setting off the flamin’ alarm.  Anyway, whatever it is, it’s getting on me wick!

Where so ever the anal adventurers have biffed, One hopes it wasn’t to Bampton, where Lovely One took UB today for am amble up the High Street.  One did, however, have an ulterior motive: ‘tis the location for the next emporium forming part of WWW’s plan for world domination.  Fast becoming the Philip Green of the backwater, WWW is opening up businesses faster than One can say ‘well it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

On telephoning The Old Fish Shop Gallery in order get instruction as to where this latest venture was situated One was told to..

‘Head North.’

Well, ‘bugger my ‘at’  I’d only gorn and come out without packing me flamin’ compass in me Chloe Paddington.

PURSE    -   check

LIPSTICK   -   check

KENDAL MINT CAKE  -  check

ORDNANCE SURVEY MAP  -   check

COMPASS   -   clean forgot it!

Silly me!  Found it anyway, and what a darling little place it is!  Next door to a bloke selling old OXO cube tins, screw-on earrings and leather bags for keeping horseshoes in. (Bin looking fer one o’ them fer ages!) 

Any road up, ‘twas ‘hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum’ and Bert was dripping alarmingly into the gutter, where, fortunately there’s a little gulley to carry away super-floo-us moisture, when we happened upon a blissful oasis in the desert – a fish and chip shop, and cafe!

Bampton Fish and Chips – a MUST VISIT DESTINATION.

Fish and chips, pot of tea AND an ice-cream for a fiver!

AND FLIPPIN’ SMASHIN’ IT WAS TOO!

A massive piece of fish in crispy batter, copious chips and some little green mushington darlings too!  A proper pop of tea – each!  A creamy ice-cream delight (WITH SQUIRTY SAUCE) – it was yummington yum in the extreme! 

Having necked that lot in the heat of the midday sun, biffed back to the underground lair for an afternoon napette.  ‘Twas not to be.  Some fiendish blighter was grinding – up me back passage!

AND NOW – that flamin’ alarm!!

Don’t these little people know One has an empire to attend to on the morrow?

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

In which we hold the annual dead animal charring session…

The hot weather certainly brings out the most bizarrely clad coves hereabouts.  The merest suggestion of the sun having it’s hat on renders even the most modest of articles to reveal body parts that, quite frankly, should remain hidden. 

Massive great Biffas saunter about the streets in those sleeveless, shoulder less, frocks that appear to encourage the beefiest of bints to disrobe disproportionately given the visible back-fat overhang.

Luckily, Lovely One has the courtesy to cardi up.  No one wants to see the upper arms of a fat bird. Take note – woman in Lidls with pleated bingo wings!

Lidls – I ask you!  Didn’t think One would be visiting there again, this side of the grand opening of WWW’s Art/Cafe/Organ Transplant Emporium.  But, no, had to transport Uncle B there to get supplies for the Winnebago before he sets off for the Mumbles sometime, hopefully, soon.  ‘Twould be churlish of One not to allow Aunties Connie and Annie their allotted share of Uncle B’s annual summer progress!

Any road up, in honour of his, and that disgusting bloody dog’s visit, set about acquiring lumps of deceased animals for a celebratory barbeque.

Opted for a frock, given the heat. So deployed a couple of Toilet Duck Fresh Discs up the inside of each thigh to act as an anti-chafing device, with the added benefit of the occasional waft of bathroom freshness when the odd breeze blasted up me gusset.

Set up the disposable barbeques on the parapet and rejoiced at a visitation from Boy, who’d obv niffed the charred scran from his gaff.

It wasn’t long before the billowing smoke had set off the fire alarms in the underground lair and elicited many a disgruntled upper neighbour’s bellowed unpleasant comment before slamming their windows in disgust.  Honestly, it’s like living in the Elysiun Fields of a summer’s night.  Although sadly without Stanley in that vest – yum! 

One has always secretly yearned to be STEEEEELLLLLLAAAAAAA, but sadly grew into Blanche.

A splendid evening was enjoyed by One and all.  With the over-consumption of charred lumps of meats various, washed down with beakers of Cider.  That bloody dog took a fancy to the spicy sausage, which served only to make it fart even more copiously.  I tell you, that miniscule ball of fur emits enough noxious gas to inflate a sodding blimp!

‘Do you ever go to Lidl?’ One enquired of Boy.

‘Me and Dad go there after we’ve signed on’ he replied.

How like the home life of our dear Queen, methinks!!

 

 

Monday, 23 July 2012

In which Bert’s tackle makes an untimely appearance…

Picked up a message from Aged P (curious how she can negotiate her way around the answering machine when she wants too) that held the devastating new that Uncle Bert was on his way to the underground lair…

‘Hello, hello, I’m going to Folkstone on a coach trip with Eileen.  Thank the Lord it’s got an on board lav, or we’d be in every layby from here to there for her to ‘av a flamin piss!  I’m not sitting near it! I’m sitting with that Jean who wears hotter shoes and gets Marks and Spencer ready meals.  She’ll have brown sandwiches and 80% cocoa chocolate, she will!  Anyway, Uncle Bert’s here and so I’m sending him to you – bye!’

Let me explain…

Uncle Bert was a late addition to the clan, being the ghastly result of one too many Babychams at the Festival of Britain, and has long since been airbrushed from the family album. There was no such thing as ‘special needs’ in them days, so he just got bunged at the back with all the other oddities. 

He washes up on his annual motoring holiday to visit any relative over whose threshold he can get his cheesy feet. (Although ‘wash’ is not a word that generally makes an appearance in a sentence with the words ‘uncle’ and ‘Bert.’)

As if by magic, poor dear Lovely One had only just replaced the receiver, grabbed me Kelly bag, pulled on a cardi over me Chloe tea dress, so as me bingo wings aren’t visible to the gen pub, and was making good my escape when the buzzer sounded.

‘Allo, Bert ‘ere.  Is that me favourite little pudding?’ came the gruff voice over the entry phone.

With little chance of escape.  There’s no way Lovely One can shin over the back fence and that b*****d Sister Ug has done for me back gate, Lovely One buzzed him in.

Following a rather extended and clammy embrace that had the aroma of gorgonzola about it, he biffed in with his overnight bag and Montgomery the bloody annoying Schitzu.

Ascertaining that he’d been on the road since we were in the teeth of the monsoon season, he wasn’t suitably attired for the warm weather and begun leaving dangerously moist Hiroshima shadows all over me Parker Knolls.  And so it was thus that we set of in the Winnebago for the nearest Gentleman’s outfitters. 

Montgomery was tethered without, as the little blighter is prone to accidents, not to mention his unpleasant habit of sauntering over to One, dropping his guts, then sashaying off, gazing over his furry shoulder with a ‘Have that one on me Missus’ glance.  And anyway, One hasn’t recovered from the Persian rug shite incident.

Uncle Bert’s unsavoury aroma pervaded the Winnebago to such a degree that Lovely One was turning heliotrope from holding One’s breath as  we swung into the multi storey.

Fortunately, a remnant from the past, in the shape of an old fashioned department store was close by, so One steered him smartly in that direction. 

Following the ‘wet hankie over the face’ aroma pervading the atmosphere of the Winnbago, One felt it unwise to suggest the removal of the Brixham Fisherman’s bright yellow rubber cape. Unleashing the foetid miasma within seemed unwise in a covered shopping centre. And so it was thus that we set off with him ackled up in it, with his sou’wester in his gnarled brown hand.

Uncle Bert made an unseemly dash for the swimwear section and was rifling through the thongs et al when a be-suited assistant minced over bearing a tape measure.  Steering Bert toward the counter with a firm grip of his elbow he made what subsequently turned out to be an unwise enquiry…

‘What can I do for you today sir? Shall we begin from within and work outward?’

‘If yer like’ says Uncle Bert and without warning whopped his wedding tackle on the glass topped counter shouting..

ACCOMODATE THAT – CALVIN KLEIN!

Needless to say we were duly ushered out of the establishment with the sou’wester strategically placed and One left him in the van whilst One grabbed anything marked XXXL from Primarni on me way ‘ome!

 

 

Sunday, 22 July 2012

In which One saunters past Chesil Beach to the Jungle up the alley…

Reclining until rather late in the day dans le truckle bed, Lovely One was rudely interrupted by the pring pring of the telling bone.
Lovely Gordon touching base to tempt L.O. round his gaff that very eve, with promises of stuffed olives and beaker of 3 for a tenner Mozzers vino collapso.
Duly remained vertical following the call and set about sandblasting the underground lair with a fervour unseen since the shite on the Persian rug incident.
Having dashed to The Old Fish Shop Gallery to liberate me forgotten Duck legs I waxed me face, flossed me gusset with a tow rope I'd had soaking in a butcket of Detol, dabbed a smidge of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime dans la cleavage and sheared. 
Let Oneself out of the gate into the alley, like a galleon in full sail, ackled up in me Sainsbury’s frock and clean shreddies.  Whereupon, was met with the ghastly spectacle of a previously plant laden, bird filled frontage of one of the bijou residences, having been stripped of all life and covered in nasty stones.  The frontages are not generously proportioned and the addition of said stones had given it the appearance of a family sized grave, or indeed, the foundation for some bizarre miniature railwaying device.  The addition of this unwelcome Chesil beach served only to highlight the unkempt jungle surrounding Lovely Gordon’s gaff, which incidentally has been mentioned in dispatches as being a tad unruly, since the postman keeps wetting his trousers on the Jasmine.
Fought gamely through the foliage to the frontage and came upon Lovely Gordon poised resplendent as the Quinquireem of Nineveh in a vast wicker chair wedged between his two washin’ mashins.
Bronzed by a recent trip up the Nile in a coracle L.G. had taken on the appearance of a Greek God, apart from the bizarrely massive workin’ man’s boots he has taken to favouring of late.  Still, with plates that size, you couldn’t push him over, he’s simply rock back and forth on his size 16’s ‘til time immemorial.
Much fuss and bustling was being made concerning the roasting of the smallest chicken Mozzers could proffer.  Said clucking device couldn’t be shoved in the ove ‘til it had a lemon stuffed up it’s chuff box, a liberal sprinkling of tarragon and a coating of butter, which was produced, as if by magic, from somewhere behind the wicker throne.
A gardening type personage had called earlier in the day to give advice concerning Lovely Gordon’s overgrown frontage and, in his honour, a truck load of ‘empties’ had been secreted about the town in recycling boxes various, for fear the hired help should question the consumption levels of himself.  Frankly, given the accumulation of vast swathes of white goods and bowls full of peculiar egg shaped devices, ‘found only in one riverbed in India’ One was informed, the deployment of a metal detector was needed to ascertain the whereabouts of the feckin’ corkscrew! 
Not an inch of usable surface was visible and the poor shrivelled chicken teetered precariously on the edge of the oven, legs akimbo, awaiting items various to be bunged up it’s rear end. 
Eventually, the bunged up bird was dealt with satisfactorily and L.G and L.O. settled down. L.G. on the wicker throne and L.O. on top of a pile of washing, squeezed between a circa 1950’s wooden clothes horse, sporting all manner of slogan bearing T-shirts and a teetering tower of toasters.
We began shooting the breeze merrily with beakers of vino collapso grasped in our dainty hands, whereupon one of the entry level washin’ mashins started the spin cycle and, never mind not being able to hear Oneself speak, the very foundations of the alley began vibrating, rattling the miniature Chesil beach next door.
One necked the 3 for a tenner and legged it.

Saturday, 21 July 2012

In which One doesn’t know if she’s on her arse or her elbow…

Oh dear.  Am feeling really unsettled and downtrodden this deep, dark night.  Can’t sleep as ‘matters Old Fish Shop Gallery’ keep bouncing around my darling little head.

Had the usual ceaseless parade of would be contributors biffing in and out all flamin’ day.  The amount of time spent fending off the little blighters is ridiculous and it’s a wonder Lovely One ever gets anything done.

Had to keep nipping out the back to scoff the pastries I’d acquired at the Farmer’s Market on the way in.  Sadly the journey to and from the bag of scoff involved passing a full length mirror which confirmed my suspicions that One is deffo a Circus quality fatso and could be snapped up by Billy Smart’s Circus at any time.  Didn’t stop One from undertaking a mammoth ‘insecurity chow down though!  Will soon be able to acquire all new clothing via prescription a la Homer Simpson.

Any way, back to the annoying stream of canvas carrying Wellingtonians…

One wonders if the same approach is taken with other shops.  Do they biff up to John Lewis with their little hand knitted garments, or Waitrose with their pots of jam? 

Then, there’s the other type of prole who uses the gaff as an amusement park, brazenly informing Lovely One that…

‘I don’t have any wall space and don’t want to buy anything, but you’ve got some lovely stuff in here.’ Presumably they then go off to Asda and fill up a trolley only to get to the checkout and say..

‘I’ve just ‘ad me tea, but you’ve got some lovely food in here I wanted to look at.’

To add a further dimension of doom to the disastrous day, all the blokes who were streaming into the Barbers next door had v thoughtfully brought all their revolting offspring with them, who proceeded to tear up and down outside whilst their dear Papa had a no 1, or whatever it is.

When will people learn that their ghastly progeny are only of interest to them and the populous at large doesn’t find the horrible little things in any way charming! 

WWW is now fired up about the new venture and would seem to have lost interest in the current one. 

Am feeling lost and all at sea at this news and don’t quite know what to do next.

Will ask the Pinkster what she would do when she gets back from a week communing with nature in a bender set up in her field.

Dear Little S had some glad tidings about someone wanting to buy some of my stuff from his gaff, so all is not lost as yet.

As for the OFSG – who knows?  There was a distinct whiff of Taunton turdage in the condemned back passage today.  Or was it the bitter scent of defeat and failure?

Friday, 20 July 2012

In which I deliver an unwelcome reality check…

Checked inbox before biffing off to the Old Fish Shop gallery and lo…  A missive from the Sister Ug numero uno.

‘Hello Claire’ it began, and went on in friendly manner regarding the Malthouse merde currently backed up deep below me beloved Persian rug. 

‘Unusual’, methinks as her communications generally come in the manner of an order…

‘You vill cut sree and one half inches from ze top off your tree immediately, I can’t zee to look in fat Colon’s house viz zee tree blocking ze passage.’

Any road up, it seems like the shite shovelling bloke has told her that Lovely One won’t be sauntering aimlessly round the car park whilst the shite is shifted, and that One will require some sort of bijou residence in which to park her pork during the doings.

LO biffed off a suitably curt reply and, being a clement sort of morn, kick started the Norton, and trundled off to work.

The good burghers of Wellington are keeping their purses zipped up, so apart from a few observers using the place as a drop in centre, no spons changed hands.

‘Pring pring’…

‘This is bla-bla, have you sold my bla?’ enquired the dude.

Now – I had to think for a mo, and then realised the ‘bla’ in question was one of the unsolicited lots taken in by WWW in my absence which was very soon relegated to the floor in the khazi, since it was indeed – shite!

It is a requirement of running a business such as the OFSG to be able to say ‘no’.  This information can be delivered in a friendly manner. It is not necessary to say ‘this is crap, take it away’ even if you want to!  But – WWW with her overly friendly, soft spoken approach has rendered us some kind of ‘vanity project’ for local retirees.  (Think bloody Polish woman’s dolls – fer fecks sake!)

And so it was thus, that Lovely One being buoyed up by the authorative stance taken against the Sister Ug, was just in the right frame (geddit) of mind to eject the blighter and his doings.

When the unfortunate sap biffed up with two further offerings, WWW was briefly in residence. Having spent the morning applying for planning permission to turn the shop into a nursing home,  she positively cantered up the alley leaving LO to do deliver the sad tidings.

The bod expressed some surprise that the previous articles hadn’t been snapped up by Saatchi and Saatchi, and even more dismay when One produced the offending items from the bog.

Unwrapping a fresh canvas, standing well back with folded arms, went on…

‘What do you think of that then.’

‘Thank you for bringing it in, but it’s not to the standard One would wish to hang in the gallery at this time’, said the Tulle clad, brick shit-house, smiling assasin that is Lovely One. ‘Can you manage them all in one go, or do you want a hand?’

BOOOOO   HISSSS  I hear you all chorus…

But wait, pretending to be a professional artist when you’ve just retired from, say, a lifetime with yer arm stuck up a cow’s arse is stchooopid!

AND, I am not in the business of massaging people’s egos to the point where I will give up valuable wall space to any flamin’ crap!

AND – I – AM – NOT – NICE!

The bod sheared, with his face on inside out, and, as he struggled up the alley, even his arse had an indignant aura.

I have never, in all the galleries I’ve worked either with, or in, encountered so many deluded people who seem to think that I sit there, for no pay, all day, just waiting for them to biff up with their amateur doings.

There’s a place for it all – the local craft market.  Take it there, pay rent for yer own stall. 

Wake up and smell the …

Oh god – Taunton turdage sloshing down me condemned back passage…

Got to dash…

 

Thursday, 19 July 2012

In which One has a guest with a runny bottom…

Lovely One has got an egg sized lump on her smooth, unblemished, alabaster forehead today…

More on that story later…

Well, I’ll be jiggered!  Alighted from sedan chair, dismissed today’s slaves and drew back the bolts on the Old Fish Shop Gallery.  And – guess what?  No petting Zoo!  And – No WWW!  Expect One will happen upon her later, having gone off the idea and opted to spit roast the rabbits at the side of the road to sell to weary travellers.

Then she could fashion the pelts into a balaclavaaing device for deployment when she’s biffing about with those great long walking pole things things that, hefty booted, scratchy socked bods use to navigate the terrain around here!

OH, BUGGER MY ‘AT – I’M AT IT NOW!!

(gone off to get dic…)

Shop – Building in which goods are sold by retail.

Any road up, minding me own bees-tiddly-wax, perched precariously on me piano stool in the corner, trundled on with a depiction of Dunster for the great unwashed to Ooooooh and Aaaaah over and then not buy!

Got soooo bored, phoned home to enquire how the houseguest, who’d come for a canter about Somerset, was doing.

‘Am on the flamin’ bog!’, was the strangled reply.

OH NO, methinks, not more Alexanders clogging up Shirleytosis’s sagging pipes.

It transpired, upon further examination, that the guest had concocted a supper dish with the addition of a vessel of sauce that had ‘use before April 1988’ etched upon it’s sachet.  Still, she wasn’t to know that Lovely One’s fridge doubles as a tourist attraction in these parts, in the manner of a ‘Foods of the Past’ experience.

So, not even being able to engage the sufferer in conv to ease me boredom – She’d had to nip off to the bog again – One settled down to production of another kind.

Until, that is…

A Stchoooodent ambled in…

Following thirty minutes of my life that I’m never going to get back, having the tits bored off me, the conv culminated in an enquiry as to whether we might like to fill up the gallery space with – and wait for it – lumps of concrete!

Not just any old lumps of conc though!  These particular lumps had been formed by pouring the stuff into the cavities in packing materials, the sort that covers each end of yer telly when it’s in the box, One was informed.

‘Oh maybe you don’t have enough room for that kind of conceptual art,’ went on the laundry-basket scented article.

‘Listen ‘ere moosh,’ thought LO, ‘If I ‘ad the fecking Millenium Dome at me disposal, I wouldn’t ‘ave room fer that bollocks.’ 

But, ever the smiling diplomat, One enquired, ‘How are sales of conc blocks this lovely morn?’

‘Oh he’s never sold anything,’ offered the bod, in earnest, quite expecting Moi to bite his hand off!

And that is how Lovely One acquired the shiny egg-sized lump on the loaf…

SPENT THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY SMASHING HEAD AGAINST EASEL TO EASE THE PAIN!

In which we deploy Dr Doolittle…

Lovely One has a new found respect for framing personages. Having spent the best part of six thousand hours taping, screwing, picking out bits of fluff et al, One is in total awe of Dear Little S.  Shame the same can’t be said of PJ, who is being v unkind to the little darling.  Still, me and FFS and Ma will bash her up at playtime if she does it again!

Apres framing, the long trawl through the caravan of caravans to Brixham began.  That is positively the last time I undertake that journey this season.  One will be deploying the masterpieces forthwith via a courier. 

Biffed off to the Barbican to make a delivery after that and parked the Ferrari outside Auntie Wainwright’s gaff.  Anal C was behind the counter with her gob screwed up like a cat’s arse tempting the customers in. No doubt shooting the breeze with the Octogenarian  Olympic Muff Diving Team having an in depth discussion on terminal diarroeah and the absorbtion powers of adult Pampers. 

Rumours afoot about the future of the Old Fish Shop Gallery being turned into a cafe and gift shop.  Not entirely sure whether this will require Lovely One to acquire an XXL French Maid’s waitress outfit, or to bone up on me baking skills, which are legendary in these parts.

Wouldn’t surprise Moi if One biffed up to the OFSG this very morn to find WWW had decided to turn the gaff into a petting Zoo, and duly had crates of rabbits and other lap sized furry critters delivered.

Gallery 

Cafe

music venue

gallery and cafe

ice cream parlour

internet cafe and gallery

gift shop

No   -  Petting Zoo – that’s it for today!!!!!

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

In which One is a beavering device…

Should have been biffing off to see Dear Little S today and get all the low down dirt and human interest stories he seems to absorb like a very accommodating sponge.

Any road up, no can do, since have been beavering away like a beavering device for twelve sodding, non effing stop, hours, (well apart from a small amount of snoozeage in the afternoon) framing prints of Brixham Sunset and Brixham Dusk.  They’re exactly the same, except Sunset is all pink and orange and dusk is all blue and violet.  There you are, dear reader, now you know!

AND masses and masses of little Barbican prints for the dear little dripping holiday persons sloshing about in Devon. 

Am doing it Oneself as attempting to save money, since am fast approaching penury and Marshalsea Debtor’s Prison.

As accompaniment to my labours, One has deployed the wireless, whereupon One encountered Woman’s Hour with, wait for it, a cookery demonstration!  Some upper crust article who kept on Ya Ya- ing all over the shop, was demonstrating the perfect way to cook chard.  Well, bugger my ‘at! At one point there was a brief panic-ette when the bint’s calor gas stove went out! 

CALL THE PO-LEECE!

Frankly, they could have been sitting there flicking bogies and scratching their twinkles for all anybody knew!

Any road up, the chard was duly scoffed and we moved on to how to use your voice most effectively! 

Kin Ada!  Welcome back 1959!

In Lovely One’s kitchen ‘chard’ is usually a descriptive word, anyway!

As the day bowled on, deployed the TV to keep One alert and lo…   A prog about toiley boileys.

Shite seems to be following One around, and speaking of it… encountered the chief Sister Ug in the charity shop.  Not a peep was uttered about the festering mound of shite currently residing under the reclaimed oak floor of Lovely One’s gaff. 

Have attempted to speak to the claim’s manager with regard to Dear Little Lovely One requiring somewhere to lay her shiny golden tresses whilst the shite is bucketted out me front door, but no, the Sister Ug has deemed that only she can discuss the doings.

Well, so be it, but whilst am reluctant to be the catalyst for yet another unpleasant odour pervading the life of Shirleytosis - until the Clark’s sandalled one comes a-calling with good tidings, the entire poopage of half the block will continue to back up their S bend.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

In which One is confronted by a woodie…

Am withering away with neglect and decay…

A definite aroma of Chanel No 2 is clinging to the garmentage of your very own Lovely One.  Dans le confines of the underground lair it’s proving nigh on impossible to fully dry anything and it’s not only gussets that are moist and pungent at the mo. 

I know, I know, all you little people are experiencing the same Monsoon season as L.O., but let me tell you the dehumidifier that could imbibe the moisture from down here hasn’t been born yet!

Any road up, ‘mustn’t grumble!’  Why the fecking hell not?  What Royal Family loving, dripping eating, plastic table clothed serf came up with that humble, forelock touching nonsense?

In fact, never mind grumbling, what about a full on, twenty five carat, eardrum splitting effing rant…

And for starters… 

The fecking Old Fish Shop Bastard Gallery…

One is minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, when in saunters a bespectacled, cagouled native.

‘Oooh, a customer’, One thinks plastering on One’s bestest grimace and downing tools.

‘Do you take in other people’s stuff?’ enquires the type.

‘Oh my giddy fecking Aunt, must put the dictionary definition of ‘shop’ in the window to avoid these traumatic encounters’, thinks L.O.

‘My husband turns wood’, goes on the article.

‘Ooooh.  Ideal opening for un petit jokeage’, thinks L.O. But no, perusing the hatchet faced harridan, thunk better of it!

One of my ‘don’ts’ pre Old FSG, was ‘NO WOOD’.

It doesn’t sell, I do know, I’ve done this before!!

Duly, wood arrives, courtesy of the intrepid entrepreneur. 

‘Feel it.  It’s so tactile’, implored WWW.

If ever Lovely One stoops to requiring to rub a wooden pear, someone remind One to blow One’s fecking brains out!

Any road up I digress…

Back to the wood turner’s wife…

So as not to appear a complete miserable old fat dollop, let me explain that when a type comes in attempting to fob off their doings to the Old FS Gallery, if they take the time to at least, have a cursory glance around, L.O. will exchange her valuable time for theirs.

If not, and they biff in, stamp up to Moi and aggressively thrust their doings in me gob, then I give ‘em ‘what for’.

And thus it was today…

Wife of wood turner explained that hubbster was a ‘hobby turner’.  To which One duly replied that as we are a gallery, we take only professional person’s offerings.

W of W T, became visibly agitated and her gob went all cat’s arse-ish as she replied,

‘Well, just because it’s a hobby it don’t make it worse than other people’s stuff!’

One tactfully and carefully explained that it is the Gallery’s policy to deal only with professionals and that she might like to try a craft co-op.

This was clearly not an acceptable explanation to the wife of WT. 

And, while we’re at it, why is the Wife of the WT fronting up, and not the WT itself?  Surely can’t be beavering away turning his woody 24/7.

‘Well we’ve got loads of it now, cluttering up the house and garage and we’ve got to find somewhere for it’, she blathered on. ‘We’ve done a few craft fairs and sold hardly any.’

Now, this may prove something of a clue, methinks, but seemingly not, so One gives the aggressive marketer one of our new forms to fill in and asks her to bring it back for WWW.

‘So you don’t even want to look at it?’, went on the v irritating article.

LET ME EXPLAIN…

THIS IS A GALLERY.  IT SHOWS, AND HOPEFULLY SELLS, PROFESSIONAL ARTIST’S WORK.

IF YOU HAVE MORE THAN A SUFFICIENCY OF STOCK CLUTTERING UP YOUR GAFF, THEN IT’S HIGHLY LIKELY THAT NO ONE FECKING WANTS IT.

MAY ONE SUGGEST

a       A SMIDGEON OF PETROL AND A MATCH

b       LEAVE IT ON THE TREE

 

 

Thursday, 12 July 2012

In which I am yet again baffled by Aged P…

Lunch with Boy was postponed as he had hay fever.  In this rain?  Methinks he was still dans le truckle bed when Mummy called!

Any road up, finally got to the pub in the evening and inhaled a few Thorne burgers and pints of Thatchers Gold.

Prior to the excursion Lovely One took two valium and set about calling Aged P to arrange the up coming visit with Boy in tow.

Me     Hello, it’s only me.  Is everything OK?

AP      I still haven’t heard from him and he said he was coming after Easter. The eggs are still on the sideboard and she’s never rung me since the wedding.

Me     Who?

AP       Huh! Don’t start that pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about!

Me      Well I don’t.  Who?

AP       Richard (shouting): the brother.

Me      Well, I have emailed him to ask him if there’s anything wrong and asked him why he hasn’t been in touch.

AP      What did he say?  Well he’s always been like that, not keeping in touch.

I have to make something up because if I told her what he said I’d never hear the last of it.

Me    Anyway, about me and Boy coming to see you in September before he goes up to Leeds.

AP     Well I’m going to Folkstone on 23rd July you know.

Me     Oh.  How long for?

AP      Five days.

Me     Well that won’t affect us coming in September will it?

AP     You can’t come on Monday, I’ll be packing and anyway that Iris has broken her hip in the garden centre so Norma’s going instead.  I’m pleased really, she’s more my sort: wears Hotter shoes and gets Marks and Spencer ready  meals.

Me     Oh that’ll be nice – a trip away.

AP     I don’t want to bloody go!  Eileen will be wanting the toilet all the time and getting whelks. I’m sick of walking round looking for the cheapest fish and chips.  She’s got money.  Her son’s got a villa in Spain and ever such a good job with Granada. He’s always going to Japan but he don’t like their food.

Me    Don’t go then.

AP     Yvonne wants me to go to Matlock but I’m not going in a B&B on my own because she’s only got one bedroom.  It’s alright for you!  I’m not going on holiday on my own.  It’s bad enough living on my own.

Me (seeing an opportunity to raise the issue of moving into a flat)   Why don’t you look at one of those lovely retirement flats I was telling you about.  Then you’d have company as and when you wanted it.

AP   I don’t want a bathroom with no windows!

Me   They don’t all have bathrooms with no windows.  I’ve been in loads of lovely one’s (geddit – Lovely Ones) when I was arse-wiping for a living.

AP    Well, I’m not going up here with all these old council people and THAT’S IT.  I am not leaving here so they can give my house to Muslins.

Me    OK.  I just think that it would be better for you to choose where you want to live rather than having left it so late that someone else makes the decision for you.

AP    Oh!  I see!  You want me to die do you?

I am always accused of wanting her to die when I suggest moving. So I, at least, move on…

Me    Have the council come and sorted out your decorating?

AP     Huh!  Only wanted to come on the day that I am packing to go to Folkstone. How ridiculous!  I can’t have them all over the place when I’m busy, I’ve told ‘em not to come.  I’ve got one of them things what you put acrylics on and it don’t dry up.  Filipa’s Mother is always doing pictures of the bloody Virgin Mary, if you ever did!  I started a woman and wish I’d done a dog and anyway I always end up doing trees.

Me    Oh.  When would you like me and Boy to come? 

(Heaven help us all if she ever finds out he’s gay)

AP    Where’s he going to sleep? I haven’t got a computer you know.

Me    Would around the 9th or 10th be ok?

AP    I’m going to ask Richard if he’ll take me to Derbyshire in the driving school car to see Yvonne for the day.

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT ONE THEN

   

Wednesday, 11 July 2012

In which Lovely One huddles in the corner like a serf…

‘Eau hiy liy.  What fun!’, was the greeting from one of the two AWOL’s  (awfully well off ladies)

Note to self – compile glossary

‘Fabluss, jest wot Wellington needs, what? 

Eau, regarde Camilla, aren’t they Mr Askew’s ducks?’

Let me explain, dear reader, Mr Askew is an art teacher at Wellington School.  In his spare time he paints.  Therefore he is a teacher who paints in his spare time.  Nonetheless, the good burghers of Wellington do like to ‘own an Askew’.  Thus far, however, they haven’t liked to own one from The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

The AWOL’s twittered hither and thither, not wanting to pass the T of D with poor darling Lovely One biffing away with me paintbrush in the corner.  So, One kept schtum and digested their animated doings for later regurgitation in me blog.

‘What fun’ and ‘isn’t that positively darling’, were two of the worn out posh-gob utterances being completely overused.

They very nearly orgasmed when confronted with the Pinkster’s hand felted baby booties, but concluded that the recently arrived Hugo Smedley-Botham, prob had more than enough footwear.  The tight fisted tarts!

This manner of event happens daily: where one or two Barbour wearing, Waitrose fed, Wellington School attending offspring, bods appear in the gaff and wax lyrical about how;

‘Wellington deserves something lovely like this.’ Or

‘Isn’t it simply fabluss that artists have somewhere to display their works?’

DISPLAY! 

DIS-FECKING-SPLAY!

NO NO NO

You twatticusses are not getting the drift of the aforementioned venture!

We are not running a public effing service to placate all the posh bints who ‘simply HAVE to paint.’

Wellington may well deserve ‘something lovely’ but if the ‘organic, out of season, soft fruit munching, recession’s –not –affecting Piers and Felicity types’,  don’t fecking purchase something, we won’t be there long enough to build up a lime scale stain on the bog!

AND…

Lovely One and the Pinkster to name but four, aren’t ‘compelled to paint’.

We’re compelled to pay the fecking gas bill!

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

In which One encounters a steaming pile of shite on me Persian rug…

In a ghastly ‘upping of the ante’ in the current season of Plague and Pestilence being visited on the divine personage of Lovely One, it has come to pass that the fickle finger of faeces has pointed in the blameless direction of Boy!

In a late night communique with said Boy, the sad tale of Tigerboy unfolded.  The contact with Boy, initiated by the personage of Lovely One, in the capacity of Dear Mama, was actually in the form of utterances rather than the general, ‘Hi Ma, gt 20?’ that usually appears in the inbox.

Any road up, whilst recounting the abominable tale of a heap of steaming dog shite on me ANTIQUE PERSIAN RUG (more on that story later) Boy passed on the sad tidings of Tigerboy, the big fat ginger cat.

Big F G cat, being the other great love of One’s life would appear to be on the brink of shuffling off to kerfuffelee.  Boy always accuses One of inventing terminal complaints for the pussies, but following the diagnosis of dementia, diabetes, possible tumours various and Arthur Ritis, did, or  did not, Fat Sally trundle out from behind the TV and promptly expire on the lino?  Answer me that one, Dear Boy!

It would appear that Tigerboy, of late, has taken to requiring to sit upon a oooman bean rather than his usual kippage of choice: beneath the duvet on Vile ex Husband’s W***ing Chariot. 

Of oooman bondage, on Boy’s lap, as he communed with other Yoof on his pooter, Tigerboy suddenly contorted in a tooth and claw frenzy the like of which has never been witnessed, and he tiddled all over Boy’s Onesie.

‘And before you diagnose the Screaming Ab Dabs, he had a flea’, went on Boy, as if to head off at the pass any veterinary vocals from his Dear Mama.

One imagines you hangers on to my every utterance on the edge of your inferior Argos seats re: the rug shite incident…

Lovely One has recently given succour to a visiting dignitary with a hound in tow.  The Dignitary, better used to laying his superior head in a grander gaff than the underground lair, has made it known that the confines of the Kingdom of Wivvster, are not to his exacting requirements.  One can only assume that the hound is of the same lowly opinion of the dwelling place of Lovely One, since it chose to leave a huge pile of steaming shite on my beloved Persian rug, as it’s calling card.

‘What’s that squidgeing through my dainty crimson polished toes?’ thought Lovely One as she sashayed barefoot across the aforementioned PR to begin another charmed day.

The next event One can recall is waking up in the back of an ambulance, being given oxygen following the Mother of all fits of hysteria.

Back at the underground lair, the Vis Dig made it known that Lovely One was being a massive drama queen about a silly little pile of shite,  (the one on the rug) keep up!

Perchance, on packing up his camel train, the Vis Dig ‘n Dog may find a more satisfactory place to rest their wearies.

Who knows?

Who…

Monday, 9 July 2012

In which One is once again harangued by an irritating ancient…

Despite the exceedingly poor performance of Lovely One in The Old Fish Shop Gallery, all other lucky purveyors of my masterpieces have done rather well.  So much so, that ‘tis necessary to trundle off to Plymouth for more supplies.  Will be taking the Aston Martin, as have been binned by my prospective companion of the day.  Some undisclosed misdemeanour on my part will be at the bottom of that, but since One can’t pinpoint the offence, One can’t bore you with the details.

Blogging of offence, One has once again incurred the wrath of WWW, this time in passing on information given to Moi concerning the ‘write your name in dust’ that gathers on items hither and thither.  One doesn’t think a two thousand word missive can be considered a curt reply, but suffice it to say that Lovely One is duly contrite for not having been in the ‘on guard’ stance with me can of Mister Sheen from day one.

Even in the short visit today, to gather items various for the trek to Deepest Devon, One was confronted by news that a great number of prospective contributors to the happy throng dans le gallery, had been biffing in and regaling the Pinkster with tales of their doings all the live long day. 

In fact, when present, Dear Little Inoffensive Lovely One was presented as the ‘partner’ of WWW in order to offload yet another oddity in my direction.  Although Lovely One is nothing of the sort, and merely the in-house painter, One dedicated a goodly portion of One’s life to placating the toothsome article. There goes another half hour of my life I won’t get back!

Apparently the gnashers, (that had an elderly lady attached to them), had undergone a lengthy diatribe with WWW concerning the prospective sale of art supplies either in her gaff or in another unrelated, yet seemingly rival, business further down the road.

The aforementioned ancient bod appeared to have formulated a cunning plan whereby Oneself, the Pinkster and WWW could acquire ‘all sorts of art equipment and paint’, and sell it from a dusty corner allocated in the aforementioned business down the road.

Struggling with this idea, Lovely One smiled, or did One bare her teeth?  And attempted to point out the potential flaws in the plan…

For example, One attempted to explain, ‘One and the Pinkster are in the business of painting pictures to sell to the public, by way of exchange for the Queen’s shilling which we swap in Mozzers and other purveyors of fine foods, for goods with which to feed our families, and therefore can’t, unfortunately, sit in some other personage’s gaff flogging paint’. 

Obv, can’t speak for WWW.

‘But there’s nowhere to buy art materials in Welly. You have to go to Taunton’, continued the aged visitor, who clearly hadn’t grasped that we are predominantly a ‘shop’ and therefore prefer to welcome the great unwashed in their capacity as ‘customer’.

No matter, on she plodded, regaling Lovely One and the Pinkster about the trials of the paint negative ‘hobby painter pensioner’.

All V sad and all that, but ‘we all buy our stuff off the internet’, One explained.

‘Well you must visit other painters who might be interested’, she went on, miffed to the point of practically snarling at poor dear Lovely One.

‘Well, no,’ One retorted, ‘biffing on with the painting takes practically all day, actually.’

Amazed that One didn’t fall at her feet clutching me pulsating gusset with glee, she eventually ascertained that her spiffing plan had negotiated it’s way up a blind alley, and retreated muttering something about returning to, ‘see the other lady.’  The emphasis being on the ‘Lady’, clearly implying that your very own darling Lovely One was anything but. (Kipper’s Dick? Give One? yeah right)

No matter.  Am sick to the fecking back teggies with bods ambushing from all angles with stchoopid ideas or ghastly wares.

Then, to add insult to injury, the flamin’ Polish Doll Woman appeared on the horizon.  With nowhere to hide, the Pinkster et Moi were duly pinned up the corner by PDW, her smitten hubbster and her supercharged progeny who charges about with a doll’s pram like a thing possessed.

‘Vi iss my name not on my dolls?’, enquired the agitated alien.

Dunno, ask me one about knitting?, was what One dearly wanted to bat back.  But ever the smiling assassin, went on,

‘You’d  better see WWW about that’.

‘I vant to dizplay ze dolls somewhere else, when can I come and collect them?’

‘How about now’ chorused Moi et the Pinkster, in unison.  Which she duly did, miffed as the Queen of the Miff, on Miff Day in Miffsville, casting a stern Eastern European glare in the direction of your ever serene highness, Lovely One.

Tee feckin’ Hee!!

As un petit prologue, One would just like to say that the Pinkster is a bon oeuf for manning the floodgates like a trooper, considering the barrage of irritating Wellingtonions who only want to show her their doings, instead of buying ours, which, frankly, is…

THE SOLE AND ENTIRE REASON WE ARE THERE – YOU IDIOTS!

Sunday, 8 July 2012

In which I watch the bat and ball…

Having been dans le truckle bed ‘til almost lunchtime, Lovely One managed to waddle to the nearest sofa to watch that young Scotch personage playing bat and ball.

One should really have been supporting Princess P who had her public park sized garden open to the great unwashed so that they could ‘oooooh and aaaaah’ suitably at it’s magnificence.

Imagine - having a garden that one could open to the public.  Lovely One must be going about her visit to this planet all wrong.  Have slogged guts out tirelessly for many a moon and would still have to hang a ‘One at a Time’ notice outside at any future horticultural visitation.

And how did Princess P manage to get the only warm sunny day since 1976?  Must be all that Vicar supporting.

Any road up, settled down with some dirty food (having a blackie), tuned in and turned on.  Only to be dismayed by the choice of Andrew flamin’ Castle as commentator.  One knows that everything has to be dumbed down to the lowest common denominator so that the online bingo playing, morbidly obese, X Factor watching great unwashed can decipher it, but, perleeeese, Andrew Castle?

Granted, he was accompanied by dear little Timothy Henman, who he must have gagged and tied to a chair, given the four or five words he uttered throughout the afternoon.  Oh, and that Bozzer Bekker, who still has the ‘Allo Allo’ comedy German accent with which to amuse us all.

And dumb it down he did.  Without much actual tennis commentary, he spent most of the ensuing playtime making sure we all knew which ‘celebrities’ in the crowd had been sucked briefly into the orbit of the star of the afternoon – Himself.

As the camera alighted on one or other of the ‘must be seens’, he felt it necessary to inform us of various banal and irrelevant information concerning those who had sat across from him on the, thankfully, redundant GMTV sofa.

The likes of Petulant Spice sat fiddling with some poor sap’s ponytail, that was sold to buy food, superglued to the back of her head, and no doubt texting Hairy Spice..

‘At the tenis.  Rearly borin.  No bodies lookin at me’. 

The Princesses Middleton were sitting up nice and straight, smiling and clapping politely, hoping no one would see the KFC bargain bucket with extra beans and the cans of Special Brew that they’d got secreted in their Kelly bags.

As the roof went over, Andrew stchooopid Castle informed us that the crowd were ‘breathing out Oxygen’. New one on One And Dude!  Still, better than the shite scented hot air emanating from his smug gob!

And then the inevitable happened.  The toblerone muncher wiped the grass with the hatchet faced, young Charlton Heston lookee likee.

Timothy having disengaged himself by this time, managed a few sensible comments before biffing off for cucumber sandwiches and a little play with teddy before bed.  Whilst Andrew flamin’ Castle was last seen disappearing into the gents with copy of Hello.

  

 

Saturday, 7 July 2012

In which One has two v annoying visitations…

Everything in the underground lair is taking on the bitter stench of damp – or is it failure and regret?  Anyway, it pongs most unsatisfactorily and with the current deluge, Lovely One can’t see it improving any time soon.

As Nanny Cooper would say…

‘If things don’t alter – they’ll remain as they are.’

Am down to the last drop of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime with which to perfume meself. Thus, am currently biffing about with the pungent aroma of ‘damp laundry’ announcing me arrival.  I tell you, I can’t recall the last time I had a bone dry gusset lodged twixt me gargantuan thighs!

Still, ‘mustn’t grumble’, as the saying goes.

‘Why fecking not?’, as Lovely One goes.

One has an amply sufficiency to grumble about, fer feck’s sake!

Am toying with the idea of acquiring one of those de-hoo-middy-fiers.  WWW has got one that is active all night in ‘The Old Fish Shop’ and every morning there is enough moisture to water the mini Kew Gardens that for some obscure reason she has secreted up the condemned back passage.

Speaking of the CBP – the rodding geezer done his stuff with ‘rods’, One assumes, and then biffed off without a word.  On passing on this information to WWW, she strode manfully up the CBP and hoiked up the drain cover.  Visibly distressed by the apparent absence  of a FooFoo Valve which she has expressly deemed necessary to re-route the Taunton Turdage, she stamped off in the direction of Superdrug, to berate the piece in there that has taken charge of the doings.

Any road up, and believe me, it really was any road up this morning on the way through Milverton, as the red mud had cascaded down from the farmland and lay in the manner of vast red lakes, like the blood of the earth itself was spurting out of a ruptured artery.

Luckily, One had garaged the Ferrari and took the Company Coracle, so sailed purposefully through the rising tide of desperation and opened up down a v moist and deserted alley.

The ‘Art Boot Sale’ was well attended.  Well – well attended by artists – sadly no customers!  Not that they were queuing up at The Old Fish Shop.  Except for that weird and annoying strange article that keeps on coming in to tell Lovely One stories various, that are becoming daily more fantastical and alarming.  In fact, LO was out the back doing a bit of framing, and when confronted was out of sight and hemmed in by the curious cove.  Not that One couldn’t punch his fecking lights out, if One felt like it, but still, One must at least try to remember that One is a personage of advancing years.  One simply cannot believe that the cove has the exchange of bodily fluids in mind, given the decaying state of Lovely One.  Let’s face it, in an invasion of rapers and pillagers, I’d only get me ‘andbag pinched!

With scarce an acknowledgment of his presence, he soon tired of boring the bangers off Moi with his latest fabrication.  That, and the ‘invading my space’ with his unpleasant odour, he biffed off, only to be replaced by that annoying Doll Woman with the equally repugnant child who insists on haring around the joint with a toy pushchair, screeching to a perilous halt within a millington of v expensive breakables. 

Why don’t people reprimand their progeny any more?  Don’t they realise that one only ever really finds one’s own offspring in the slightest bit attractive or interesting?  Anyway with One giving off the unmistakeable air of ‘Sod off before I throttle it’, she soon took her leave. 

Even the slightly soiled clientelle next door were conspicuous by their absence, so none of that repulsive sniffing and spitting outside, that seems to be so favoured by the hoodie wearing brigade of no-hopers.

One completed yet another masterpiece for the great burghers of Welly to admire, yet not purchase, and cleared off to the arms of Morpheus waiting patiently in the underground lair.

 

Friday, 6 July 2012

In which you couldn’t make it up…but, fortunately, I could….

Oh my giddy Aunt!  You couldn’t make it up!

And the monsoon jes kep on a’comin’…

And lo… (geddit – L.O.)  Lovely One was fashioning an Ark from some piles of sticks found in the gallery when in strode WWW and informed One that they were in fact ‘pieces of art’ what she’d taken in, in the absence of your very own discerning Lovely One.  Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

Following something of a mammoth clash of ideas on the preceding day’s trading, the bonhomie could have been spread like Manuka Honey on the stoneground bread of life… 

‘Suits Lovely One’, thinks Moi and plods prettily one with latest masterpiece.  After all, even though ‘there is never a situation that violence cannot resolve’, One hasn’t bitten through the jugular of another ooman bean for the passage of many moons.

But DON’T PUSH IT!

Any road up, having been abandoned in favour of ‘working at home’ Lovely One’s reverie was rudely interrupted by a bint from Superdrug, in the company of a strangely memorable geezer in blue overalls, carrying a long stick…

‘Oooh, I remember you’, expounded Lovely One, ‘You’re the one who came to my flat’.

‘Oh yes, missus’, says he ‘You’re the lady with the sagging waste pipe underneath.’

‘Now, steady one’, said Lovely One, with an involuntary clutching movement toward me Tena Lady.

It transpired that in the long running saga of Plague and Pestilence visited, of late, on your very own Lovely One, the very same ‘rodding bloke’ had been dispatched by Superdrug, round the corner to rod out me condemned back passage.  So, in a twist of fate worthy of Henry James, the very same geezer is attempting to remedy me sagging undercarriage! 

You couldn’t make it up!

‘Look!  I can’t leave the shop unattended for long’, interjected the Superdrug type, rudely interrupting me sagging pipe reminiscences, ‘Can we get on with ‘er back passage!’

‘I didn’t know you were a PROFESSIONAL ARTIST, went on the rodding bod’, as if in some way my faeces fiasco was taking on a celebrity status.

The Superdrug type, by this time, was hyperventilating with her ‘ham hock’ arms crossed against her heaving bangers. (Although she did nod suitably in the direction of my newly discovered celebrity status) before dragging the rodding bod outside with the fresh information that…

‘We was told it’s a load of fish guts what’s been bunged down the drain.’

Mmmmm – yum!

Lovely One duly trotted along behind and showed the rod bod how to gain access to me condemned back passage (the SD type having been hammering on the wrong padlocked door, further up the alley!)

And so, with the tumultuous torrent of Taunton turdage plummeting hither and thither up me passage the steady stream of customer came and went.   Wenting much faster than coming, with a wet hankie clamped over his gob.

And just to put the tin hat on the day, Lovely One schmoozed a couple of BF’s groupies into buying yet another belly button fluff collage that I’d only just shoved in her browser!

So, she comes up smelling of roses yet again which is, sadly, more than can be said of the shite scented Lovely One!

Thursday, 5 July 2012

In which Lovely One is visited by plague and pestilence…

The saga of the ‘Torrent of Taunton Turdage’ continues…

With no one taking responsibility for the foul stench wafting through the ‘Old Fish Shop Gallery’ (ooh, maybe there’s a clue in the name)’ yet another dayglow attired cheeky chappie sauntered up me back passage and denied all knowledge of the anal aromas.

The interestingly named ‘Greg Dyke’ (oh how the mighty have fallen) biffed up and scratched his loaf expounding…

‘It’s not my department Missus’, leaving the scene of the crime with a promise to tackle the knee deep guano in me frontal passage: there are pigeons a-plenty in the rotting rafters, pooping merrily on all and sundry.

And so the plot thickens – or in this case the plop thickens…

And lo, it came to pass that Lovely One may have to accept the God Particle, since some naval gazing Theoretical Fizzy-cyst has discovered a Higs Boson (is that it?)

No matter, it has come to pass that Lovely One has indeed been visited by plague and pestilence throughout her blameless existence…

Vile ex-husband used to put forward the theory of this, since we seemed to be inundated with frogs and toads wherever we laid our hats.

Let me explain…

When we resided in Hampstead Village, in our ‘lower ground pied a terre’ we had an invasion of baby frogs in the hallway (room for a pony), and then in our country bolthole, picture postcard cottage (opposite Bob Monkhouse’s house)  (Ooooh, weren’t we posh), an invasion of toads on the terrace.

AND NOW…. it has come to pass that a plague of poop is following your very own dearest Lovely One!

WWW has visited the adjoining shops and offices and quizzed them about their toiley boiley habits re the offensive aromas emanating from her back passage, which incidentally she informed Lovely One has been condemned.  Don’t even go there!   Ooooh, no you can’t, it’s been condemned…

Any road up, back at the Underground Lair – (what is with Moi and living below ground level), there is the ongoing backed up Malthouse merde residing happily below the reclaimed oak floor of me sitting room.

I have been informed that the Sisters Ugly have given carte blanche to some grizzly looking articles to excavate beneath me Persian rug for the offending poop and rod it off to Kingdom Come – or WWW’s condemned back passage with my luck!

However, I think not!  Or at least ‘Not’ until the Sisters Ugly assure poor dear little Lovely One that she will have somewhere suitably refined to lay her lovely head whilst buckets of shite are being ferried out me front door!!

Cackling and spiteful Lovely One does have some sympathy with Shirleytosis, however, who is at the end of the backed up shite, since she has been fatally injured in a tumble.  Though not, I hasten to add, a turd-related tumble.

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

In which Taunton Turdage gets flushed up me passage…

Another day at the gallery, and BF sold yet another one!  All the kagooled Wellington ladies make straight for BF’s stuff like hungry moths.

WWW was patrolling the passage as Lovely One biffed up in the Hummer, laden with paper bags that are large enough for most of our goods, unlike the ones we have which could accommodate something the size of a bogey or a toenail.

The flamin’ plants have made another appearance outside, thereby confusing the great unwashed as to our reason d’etre yet again, since we still have a ceramic fecking fish nailed to the shop front instead of a sign.

Mind you, the ‘sign on wheels’ was teetering precariously on the cobbles advertising the likes of Lovely One et al.

Any road up, whacked on indoors and finished off number three painting for the exhibition in Plymouth on Royal Parade in August.  Lovely One is exhibiting with dead painters now! The supreme accolade!

Minding me own beeswax Lovely One was overcome by the most ghastly pongzilla!  Surely Shirleytosis’s backed up shite isn’t clinging to me Evan’s Outsize crimpelene two piece, One pondered as I bunged me nasal device deep inside me ensemble?

But no, the faint whiff of Cilit Bang Drain and Plughole still clung to the foundation garments of Lovely One.  On emerging from deep within the miasma of scented steam that hangs around fat girls on clammy summer afternoons, the unmistakable whiff of drainage filled the air to the extent that the permed and purple rinsed brigade huddled around BF’s gusset collages ran out with their lace edged hankies over their faces!

‘Have that one on me missus’ shouted Lovely One in their wake, knowing full well One hadn’t guffed in me drawers! No way had me lunchtime pint of Guinness and whelk panini had time to ferment!

Any road up, to cut a long s – s, following a softly spoken, vaguely threatening diatribe from WWW, a Wessex Water man biffed up and started hoiking up drain covers in the alley. 

On being relocated into our adjoining alley, the ‘fridge on wheels’ having been rolled off the drain cover – don’t ask -  the WW man brandished his rodding device and delivered the usual ‘pass the buck’ mantra…

‘Nuffin to do wiv us missus, this ain’t our water.’

It seemed something of a let down, what with the WW bloke turning up so promptly that One can only deduce that there must be a crack team of ‘roving rodders’ out there patrolling the mean streets just waiting to rod out damsels in distress.

Any road up, it transpired that when the afternoon shift of ‘shit stirrers’ come on at the sewage plant they jolly all the Wellington waste up our alley, and the minute that some article in the charity shop drops their guts, the total turdage of Somerset gets flushed up our passage! 

With WWW’s odd propensity to screw fecking wheels on every bloody thing in sight, maybe the answer is to get her to stick wheels on the flamin’ gallery and shove it slightly to the left!