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Wednesday, 25 December 2013

In which One is having a Merry Christmas…

‘Hello,’ murmured a post Pinot Lovely One into the mouthpiece, having been awakened at some ungodly hour.

‘That Enid has bought me a PURPLE T-shit with Bloody GLITTER all over it,’ was the response.  ‘How can people who’ve know you for fecking years always buy you something absolutely VILE for Christmas?’

Even through the miasma of Christmas Eve dans le duvet farts and Pinot perfume, One felt that Aged P has answered her own question there!

‘I’m just getting in the shower and I thought I’d better phone you in case you phoned me,’ she continued.  ‘ I don’t feel Christmassy at all and I’ve got to make the gravy at Iris’s because her’s is like runny shit.’

‘Oh I see,’ countered One, ‘Have you had any other nice presents?’

‘Men’s soap!  Fancy buying me that Imperial Leather? That’s mens!, and anyway how are you getting here on Sunday?’

‘Well, in the car,I thought,’ went on One.

‘Well what if it’s bad weather again?’

‘If it’s bad weather I’ll come on another day.’

‘Huh, I suppose I shall have to wear that jumper Iris bought me, I’ve got to go now.  Delphine’s daughter is taking her to a hotel for Christmas dinner and it costs £150 per person. What do you think of that then?’

By this time One is taking One’s chances under the duvet and wondering why anyone would spend that much on a roast dinner.

Bon Noelle

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

In which One is full of season’s gruntings…

Hark the horrid angels sing

Glory to Danny Kaye and Bing…

Bla bla fecking fairy light festooned bla…

Glad tidings were delivered to Lovely One.  Boy is putting in an appearance on Christmas Day!

In other exciting news…

One has watched every single adaptation of ‘A Christmas Carol’ that has been screened, culminating in the George C Scott version this evening which is One’s absolute fave.  It is illegal in the underground lair not to do so.

Apart from that One has elicited many a favourable comment regarding the door wreath One has knitted from super-floo-us pubic hair purloined from the bath plug hole.

Off to make sausage rolls now and then scoff the lot in front of the telly.

So like the home life of our very own Majesty the Queen.

Ooooh, Christmas has just been delivered by a fat bloke in a red T shirt.

Monday, 23 December 2013

In which One is in receipt of a crap candle…

There are some things in life that should never ever be tampered with.

One hopes upon hope that no unnecessary eejit will ever invent leather that doesn’t crinkle and tear.

One desperately desires that terracotta pots won’t be designed not to go all green and mossy.

That lovely young men won’t morph into delicious, creased and greying delights.

That full faced beauties won’t suck in their timely cheekbones and wear their beauty like a time worn trophy.

There are, however, some advances that One approves of…

The self clean oven and freezer, the non-fade hair dye, the timely invention of all show-offy photographers bunging their pics online so that lazy old Lovely One doesn't have to stir from the sofa to take her own.

BUT THE PERSON WHO CAME UP WITH THE NON DRIP CANDLE

needs to have at least one inserted up their smedley-botham.

What’s the point of having a fabulous brass candle stick with a festive red candle in it – if it doesn't drip in that delicious Hammer Horror Movie way?

NO NO NO

 

Sunday, 22 December 2013

In which One is fortunate…

One wonders if there was anyone abroad in ten parishes land cocking a lug to Princess P et moi as we reminisced about the Christmases of our childhoods.

At the end of proceedings PP asked One if One would prefer the Christmas of today or the ones of the 1950’s.

One opted for the latter but in truth One would much prefer the Christmases of the 1990’s when One had a small Boy to make a special time for.

One would begin the Christmas preparations in early November with lots of tiny Christmas cakes cooked in baked bean tins.  They would be ‘fed’ regularly with rum or brandy until steeped and solid, ready for a glazed fruit topping and a big red and gold velvet bow.

Having already created bottles of flavoured oil, mountains of chutney, home made truffles and many other seasonal delights, One would make up fabulous hampers for One’s family members who would all congregate in One’s splendid dining room on the day.

The Aged P’s would snipe and snarl at one another over the beautifully decorated table and The Mother in Law and Uncle Paul would pick around on their luncheon plates whilst M in Law entertained One and all with a long list of differences betwixt her cooking and One’s.

When it was all reduced to a hideous mess of leftovers they all cleared off.

How fortunate that One is alone.

Friday, 20 December 2013

In which One is under the Nordman Fir…

‘I don’t think he’ll like them,’ she said after being visibly delighted herself.

I DON’T THINK HE’LL LIKE THEM

I DON’T THINK HE’LL LIKE THEM

One sweated blood over that little stack of Russian Dolls.

One dragged them out to be admired at every possible opportunity.

One was transported to realms of delight with the thrilling gasps and ‘Ooooh aren’t you clevers,’ that One received with the retort, ‘I know. Isn’t it hilarious!’

But according to Princess P, himself is unlikely to favour the items with a grimace.

‘Well he’s a man, isn’t he?’ was the comment following on from the assertion that he ‘has no emotion.’

Oh dear me!  And there was One wishing One could be a fly on the wall at the Princess’s Palace to view the occasion.

Any road up, One biffed up the radio studio this a.m. at some ungodly hour to wax lyrical about Christmas in the 1950’s.

Obv for a great part of it, One was viewing it through the bars of me cot, but One does remember the days of being allowed in the ‘front room’ on Christmas Day and all the delights that ensued.

So now, One is back in the Lair all alone awaiting the arrival of Santa, or indeed any old fat bloke that might like to snog me beneath me Nordman Fir.

Thursday, 19 December 2013

In which One isn’t ready to be Aunt Cis…

Today One shall mostly be exuding the fetid aroma of moist pussy cat.

Having chosen yesterday (rain, gales etc) to go a-delivering of Christmas cheer, One rendered Oneself damp, bedraggled and giving off an unpleasant miasma of steam upon entering various establishments.

Across the border in Devon, One’s first call was to the most delicious of Christmas homes.  The extravagant, booming voiced, tiny hostess was, as ever, examining herself and questioning her marvellous existence. 

There surely is no rhyme or reason as to our lots in life.  How can there be?  When the divine  practically beatific Lovely One is living in such poverty stricken squalor, when those less deserving are looking forward to a season of merry-making and being wrapped cosily in the arms of close and extended family.

Ah well, at least One had an email from Boy informing One that his amour is ‘willing to see me.’  That is the response to One’s invitation to supper during the holidays.

Ah well, One has One’s memories of One’s own thrilling Festive seasons.  Not that One hasn’t had invitations to join in with the celebrations of others.  But, One doesn’t want to be the ‘Aunt Cis’ of the season just yet.

Let me explain…

Aunt Cis, One’s maternal grandfather’s sister, married late, lost her husband following a brief whirlwind coupling and thereafter was shunted from relative to relative throughout the Festive Season.

Sitting, legs akimbo, Babycham in hand, revealing knee-length bloomers Aunt Cis would regale everyone with her rendition of ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree,’ for what seemed like an eternity.

One shall simply hide away in One’s lair, putting off the inevitable ‘Aunt Cis’ experience until next year, or the year after…  

 

Tuesday, 17 December 2013

In which One is diversifying …

IMG_1915

Here is a family painted as a commissioned Christmas present. 

One has to consider painting One’s own.  Not the current family One actually has, but the 1980’s Ribena advert family that One wanted. 

One could be the bouncy Pre-Raphaelite haired ginger bint, Boy could be the curly haired youth blissfully biffing about the grounds and, well, the angelic girl-child would have to be a Pooker.  As for Vile-ex-Husband, well, he wasn’t there – nuff said.

Any road up, One is now soooo vast, One looks like One has actually consumed an entire family.  The more One dwells upon that thought the more inviting it sounds.  Vile-ex-Husband could be deployed as a tooth pick upon consumption of Boy.

BUT NO MORE

One is going full tilt as a non-driking vegan come the New Year and One will be attracting all sorts of elderly companionage forth with.

SO STICK THAT UP YER BUS PASS AND RIDE ON IT

Sunday, 15 December 2013

In which One is stuffing whatever up wherever…

Well the wedding anniversary has passed, so ‘tis time to deck the lair with seasonal mementos.

The scary snow woman is in place and the Tudor costumed china hares are out of their wrapping.

‘Please don’t put them out Mummy,’ came the plaintive cry of Boy, each year when One’s stylish ornaments came down from the attic, ‘They make me have bad dreams!’

Bah sodding hum-fecking-bug!

Any road up, now Boy is off Yule-tiding with his amour and Vile-ex-husband is merry making with the Snaggle Toothed Troll et al, One can stuff whatever One likes up wherever One likes!

‘Tis a salutary lesson to One and one and all that even though One shagged One’s tits off in order for Boy to be secure in the Underground Lair until he had finished being off sick from school, One is the one left on One’s lone-tiddly-ownsome.

Still, all the more Pinot G pour moi!  In fact pour moi one right now!

                                         ~

One shall  be taking to the airwaves this Friday am to wax lyrical about Christmas in the 1950’s with Princess P.  Obv, whilst Princess P was snogging boys under the mistletoe, One was viewing the festive events from behind the bars of One’s cot!

Any road up, One’ll do anything for a mince pie and a small sherry.

Friday, 13 December 2013

In which Lovely Gordon invents the fingerless oven glove…

Today One will be putting out the trash wearing full make-up, eight inch stiletto Jimmy Choos, a diaphanous Chloe Tea Dress, and One’s family diamond tarara.

NOW LET SOME UNWASHED EEJIT ASKE ME IF I’M KEEPING WARM

One is NOT AN OLD LADY – Well not quite yet anyway.

Granted, since One has been incarcerated deep within the Underground Lair on One’s own, One has been mainly ackled up in a soiled Onesie, yesterday’s make-up and often found blowing One’s nose on a discarded Tena Lady. 

On One’s rare appearances without, near neighbours whom One has always considered to be lesser mortals than One have taken to enquiring:

‘How are you keeping?  Are you any better?’ etc

WHAT THE FECK IS OCCURRING?

All these faux concerns are being voiced by persons clearly more elderly than Lovely One.  Has One gorn orf?  Does One harbour the whiff of the Grim Reaper?  Who knows?

AND just to put the tin hat on it the Jolly Tall Well Spoken Elderly Gentleman has disappeared off the radar.  He surely must be deceased.  One cannot sanction any other excuse for the deliberate ceasing of chasing One.

Lovely Gordon is still in attendance immediately upon his arrival which is a relief.

Currently we are working toward an invention that will secure our financial future of pootling around the village antique shops and sunning ourselves on beaches various in our matching knitted bathing suits.

Lovely Gordon, thus far, has come up with: ‘The Fingerless Oven Glove.’  One can foresee the odd drawback there, but God bless the little blighter for trying!

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

In which One is keeping fecking warm…

‘You are suffering from anxiety and depression,’ said the doctoring device.

AND IS IT ANY FECKING WONDER?

After a lifetime of being told…

‘It’s alright for you.  You can cope with anything…’

‘Do come round, I’m feeling low and you always cheer me up…’

‘Oh you’re such a strong person…’

‘You’re a survivor, you are…’

WELL ONE IS NOT FECKING ALRIGHT, ONE ISN’T

One is incacerated in the Underground Lair with only the spiders for company.

Boy is a constant no show and as for Vile-ex-Husband, he doesn’t even tell Boy when I’ve called.

Well – Bollicks to the flaming lot of you!

Lovely Gordon required a home visit late on Sunday night which One was able to provide.  There’s nothing quite as humorous as watching a person with size 14 wakkin bwts keep falling over their own feet.  Not that One laughed!  Oh no, One is never cracking a grimace again.

One has a nasty gash under me nose – It’s me MOUTH

And – fer fecks sake – if all that misery wasn’t enough to make One slit One’s throat – some stchooopid, back-packed up nonentity (who looked like he would benefit from an encounter with a bar of soap) asked me…

‘Are you keeping warm?’

AM I KEEPING FECKING WARM! 

Granted, One had snuck out under cover of darkness to bin One’s trash at the communal rubbish area, and One hadn’t got me face on and me lustrous golden locks were in a ‘Croydon Facelift’ ponytail…

BUT FER FECKS SAKE

‘AM I KEEPING WARM’

That’s what you say to old ladies, not Lovely Ones.

 

Saturday, 7 December 2013

In which One is looking for an angle…

One is currently haunted by the image of an ‘artist’ with a ball of wool stuffed up her twinkle.  Let me explain…

According to this odd bodikin knitting for twenty eight days from the wool within is art. 

At first One merely gagged and averted One’s sparkling eyes.

BUT WAIT…

One needs an angle.  It’s obv…

Pickled sheep   -   tick

Self assembly dots    -  tick

stacked up bricks     -    tick

Twinkle twin set     -   tick

OH NO – it’s all been done!

Perchance a Cerulean Blue tube up the twinkster and a few pelvic floor exercises is the way forward.

Worth a try, since if something doesn’t give soon One shall be in the gutter.

No water required as One has an ‘ooops moment’ now and again.

A soupcon of the Jackson Pollocks methinks!

Maybe One’ll get more than a Tena for it!!

Friday, 6 December 2013

In which One is trending Nige…

Today One has mostly been ironing sheets.

IRONING FECKING SHEETS – if you ever did!

That is the sad and sorry depths One has sunk to.

Still, One’s doings have dropped off the front page of life since the powdery doings of Nige and the death of NM.

I bet poor old Nige heaved that enormous bosom in relief that a bigger story than her hit the headlines.

Like when Kennedy died, CS Lewis shuffled on the same day and some other known bod too.  There you are!  Proof positive!  One can’t even remember the other deceased bod as everyone was reporting Kennedy. 

The same with Princess D.  When she bought it, Mother Theresa croaked on the same day so nobody noticed her shuffling off to inherit the earth.

(One has never quite been able to grasp the divinity of poverty)

Thus it will be with poor old Nige.  Off the front page for the foreseeable.

Sharp intake of breath – though preferably not through the nose Nige, we all know that’s not self-raising down yer d├ęcolletage.

One has succumbed to the depths of gloom yet again, what with there being nobody in the Underground Lair to moan to/about.  One is starkly aware of how lonely little old biddies, kept alive and alone, by the advance in medicine, only to shiver in front of the one bar fire, and when it’s really cold – turn it on!

But wait!  One is one of those medicated biddies.  Even the JTWSEG has sheared following the refusal of One to drive to Bristol on the promise of a cream slice!

One is putting the tree up tomorrow.

Deck the lair with cans of cider,

fa la la la la fecking la

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

In which One is slipping silently away…

There is a dangerous imbalance on the Earth’s Karma axis.

Lovely One, having devoted One’s darling little self to the happiness and fulfilment of others, is shagged all ends up.

‘How can this be?’  You Dear Readers ask yourselves.

‘Fecked if One knows,’ comes the reply.

Having despatched One and One’s only offspring over the road from Vile-ex-Husband before he rendered us homeless and destitute…

Boy now prefers his company, hardly ever visits and never even phones his Dear Mama.

Following One’s careful nurturing of Uncle Bert until he found an institution to live in…

He now regales One with tales of being the sole bloke on the block and is stuffed, on a daily basis, full of cake and tea by toothless old crones desperate for a squint at his duffel bag.

One is hoping for snow this winter in order to slip silently away one night to freeze to fecking death in order not to be a burden.  Not that anyone would notice One’s departure until the spring thaw.

Saturday, 30 November 2013

In which One is filled with mirth…

Just when One is feeling down in the Dumpley-Umpley-Umpletons  some blithering eejit pops into One’s life and cheers One up no end!

In this hilarious instance it was in the shape of Boy and Vile-ex-Husband.

Boy, who for some reason, has been mistaken for le chat and been prescribed a ‘pussy-cat pick-me-up’ for his delicate disposition has taken to clawing the Chesterfield, licking his own smedley-botham and sleeping curled up on a towel next to the bathroom radiator, daned to visit his Dear Mama, but not without the insurance of having Vile-ex-Husband in tow.

The addition of V-ex-H, One assumes, is in order that Mama isn’t too intrusive into Boy’s doings and doesn’t probe too deeply into off limits areas.

Any road up, without the spotlight on Boy, One felt the need to interrogate V-ex-H.

One begun with the innocent enquiry…

‘How are thing in Maison Snaggle Toothed Troll?’

This was met with a one word answer, but soon, having imbibed a goodly amount of One’s Pinot G, V-ex-H was loose lipped re: Dizzy or Dirty or whatever it’s name is.

Apparently the amour has driven a wedge twixt The Snaggle Toothed Troll and Dirty, since Dirty is the former friend of the aforementioned and was introduced to V-ex-H by her.

HA HA FECKING HA – EAT MY SOILED SLOGGIS – YOU GRUBBY LITTLE GNOME

Any road up…

Dirty had taken V-ex-H to a Badger Camp to protest about the cull.  Gawd knows how she managed to get that great streak outside on a chilly eve, it was as much as One could do to coax him into the outdoors in the midst of summer.

I digress…

They had dug their way out of Dirty’s lair (lives like Mr Trebus) and taken to the road with a donkey, no less.

One would have paid a fair few of the Queen’s shillings to have been able to look upon Vile-ex-Husband sitting round the campfire with Swampy et al.  In fact One moistened me gusset with mirth at the very thought of the dozy great streak mixing with alternative persons.

Friday, 29 November 2013

In which One is expected to DRIVE TO BRISTOL… if you ever did!!

Now look!  I know you selfish little articles only read me to laugh at my sad doings, but One has noticed a severe drop off in readers of late. And for that matter a distinct lack of comments.  Do you think One does this for One’s own benefit?  One is selfless in the reporting of even the most trivial of One’s doings.  However, One is entirely certain that this lack of adoration from you, my subjects,  is as a result of One not being…

Amusing

Seeking the company of elderly duffel bag owners

Not reporting the dastardly deeds of Uncle Bert

And generally living the life expected of a Dowager Duchess

Well – SOZ in the extreme

                                     ~

News reaches One that Uncle Bert has been unable to shake off his siege mentality and is still frequenting the cash and carry for shed loads of dirty food and taking advantage of bulk buying from some downmarket online emporium called seductively, ‘Wowcher.’

An email from his man cave informs One that his latest bargain buy has been a two-bedroom bungalow sized container of toiley-boiley-tissue.

Quite where this Bonanza of Bronco is going to be stored is beyond One.

On One’s visit to the aforementioned Man Cave, One couldn’t help but remark upon the unusually large collection of six sizes too small football shirts which have  to be preserved for some obscure reason.  There is also a worrying enormous gathering of resin skulls (One kids you not) displayed on an inferior Argos style cabinet that wouldn’t get house room in the Underground Lair.

And there in the midst of all this is the hound, scratching and flicking fur all over the establishment whilst Uncle Bert, shirtless and (no doubt) commando sits in state on a mound of porous bog roll.

Still, at least he won’t have to get up from watching the football to go toiley boiley.

                                  ~

CAN YOU BELEIVE IT, DEAR READER, THE JTWSEG ONLY WANTS ONE TO

DRIVE TO BRISTOL

There had better be chocolate involved

 

 

Thursday, 28 November 2013

In which One is a fat hairy moth…

It’s official – Lovely One is a BAD MOTHER

One hasn’t even been able to keep a sour dough starter alive.  In fact things are so bad that One has given away the jar it (attempted) to live in and discarded the ‘self sufficiency’ idea completely.

One discovered that the growing of food would mean digging in the dirt and that is completely out of the question!

This will of course, mean actually leaving the confines of the Underground Lair from time to time to stock up on stuff.  (shoes and bags etc)

But wait! – In the distant past when One was too busy to biff about Fortnums One had a nice little man deliver everything!

What am I thinking?  Those days are gone.  One is a fully paid up (well – benefitted up) member of the underclass. 

Any road up, what with the sudden discovery of Parcel Force to collect and deliver One’s doings, One could theoretically slump on the sofa in the Underground Lair imagining One still lived in Hampstead village and drove round in a Bentley.

Or – One could get off One’s fat bottom and rejoin the human race.  Well, One could, but One would come last.

Tis Thanksgiving today, so good wishes to all my American readers, I believe one or two of Papa’s lady friends still investigate One’s doings.  Have a lovely time with friends and family and spare a teeny weeny thought for dear Lovely One, all alone in the dark and cold Underground Lair.

One shall very likely emerge into the spring sunlight in the New Year like a fascinating brightly coloured butterfly.

Or maybe one of those fat hairy moths – you decide Dears.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

In which One is expecting a roomie…

Bore snore bore snore…

Nothing happens any more…

In an effort to save on fuel for the Ferrari, One has enlisted the efforts of Parcel Force to deliver One’s wares, thereby removing, in one stroke, the last reason for leaving the Underground Lair.

As of now, One is fast becoming a hirsute recluse (there being no reason to harvest super-floo-us hair) since One is never seen by anyone.

One simply goes tripping from room to room like a bearded Amazon, naked, apart from the JML comfort bra and tartan leggings.

I know, I know, desire and disgust in a equal measure, Dear Reader.

Even so, One is still being ethereally pursued by ‘Geezer’ and some article called ‘Jonno.’

One may be slightly past One’s prime but One would NEVER EVER entertain the idea of allowing someone called Geezer under me quilt!

However, standards may continue to slide on a daily basis, since One is ill equipped to trundle through life on One’s own.

One had the company of Uncle Bert at the weekend as his boiler has had a skull and crossbones slapped on it and he’s been left freezing in his new man cave.

As soon as he arrived the hall took on the properties of a cash and carry.  What is it with men and their endless carrier bags full of stuff?

When married to Vile-ex-Husband, One operated the fourteen day rule:

If it stayed unattended in the hall for longer than two weeks it got chucked into the garden.

One doesn’t have that kind of power of anyone anymore, sadly.

But, have discovered Spareroom.com and am expecting the arrival of a roomie any day soon.

 

Sunday, 24 November 2013

In which One is definitely not ‘fit’…

‘You’re fit, Claire,’ said the unsolicited opinion in yet another email from some dirty dating site.  ‘Why not flirt with our flirty singles?’

Well, I’ll tell you why not, shall I?

For a start – One is not ‘fit’ in any sense of the word, or for that matter, ‘up for it,’ another delightful phrase that has yet to enter the superior vocabulary of Lovely One.

One is as likely to ‘flirt’ with some T-Shirt wearing ‘Geezer’ as One is to dine at ‘Maccy D’s’ as you disgusting proles no doubt do.

One is completely at odds with popular culture and shall continue to be so.  Why, if One had been lucky enough to live the Princess style life One was obv born to One would behave in the manner of the High Court Judge who enquired, ‘Who are the Beatles?  Are they a musical combo?’

Every day, without fail, another batch of gurning, duffel bag willied losers grin hopefully out of me Kindle as One goes online to check for orders.

One briefly entertained the idea of attempting a relationship a number of years ago, but One was deep in the mire of menopausal madness. 

Since regaining One’s cynical, superior self One has resigned Oneself that swapping one pair of dirty keks on the floor for another is a singularly foolish direction to lean toward.

One is currently auditioning persons various for the spare room so as to benefit merely in a financial sense and looking forward to a Festive Feast for One.

Saturday, 23 November 2013

In which One is pursued by a Geezer fer fecks sake…

Squelching into my inbox came the exciting news that ‘Geezer’ has browsed your profile and wants to chat.  This thrilling missive was brought to One by something called ‘Love Again.’

One’s seductive profile is obv still floating around in the ether and been hooked by some other ‘dating for desperates’ agency. 

One has never heard of ‘Love Again’ and One certainly won’t be loving again unless the object of desire is a ginger cat or an endless supply of Pinot G.

As for eliciting the attention of some crusty old article by the name of ‘Geezer.’  Well – what can One say? 

The ghastly thought of some dermatologically challenged duffel bag willie with a bit of tinsel round it makes One positively gag.

Nonetheless, One couldn’t resist a peek at ‘Geezer’ even though One knows that it will open up the flood gates for many more scabby old men who are desp to get their gnarled digits up me vest.

And there he was – photographed in the oddly popular venue of his kitchen.  Why do they do that?  Is it to lull the prospective duffel bag recipient into believing they know their way around a recipe?  Who knows?

The desp old codgers fall into a couple of categories as far as One can ascertain…

The T-shirt clad oddities standing next the extractor hood, washin mashin, kitchen cupboard etc

And the sad old saps draped against their motorcycles or sports cars that have been purchased with pension funds.

Well – KNOB OFF GEEZER – and any other old sort who’s entertaining the idea of parking his gnarled gonads on me Chesterfield!

Thursday, 21 November 2013

In which One has the wrong sized aperture…

What is it with my frame supplier?  Every time One receives an order there is something awry!  This time the mount aperture is between 5.5 ins and 6ins when it should be 5ins.

In the grand scheme of things, Dear Reader, you may consider this a mere blip.  I know, I know there are poor little donkeys being worked to death and bears in cages, to say nothing of a squillion Africans in desp requirement for medication and clean water, but spare a thought for Lovely One with the wrong sized aperture.

‘You should have checked the order as soon as it came,’ was the helpful response from the first unlucky sap One moaned at.

WHY – WHY should One have to check the fecking order?  One ordered exactly what they proffer and exactly what One required.  Have these eejits got no quality control?  Obv not!

This set back in me Christmas deliveries has left One in a right two and eight and in dire need of a large quantity of Pinot G.

So….

One is launching One’s Christmas Appeal…

Never mind sending two quid to a scabby donkey.  Set up a monthly payment to the Lovely One Christmas Fund.  After all, it looks as if One will be spending a lonely Yuletide on One’s own in the Underground Lair.

Hang on though…

No Aged P farting along with Silent Night…

No Uncle Bert going commando at Midnight Mass…

No Vile Ex-Husband making the sitting room look untidy with his Worzel Gummidge couture…

Just One, a giant tin of Quality Street, a vat of Pinot and the TV remote all to myself.

Sounds good!

But sent money anyway.

Tuesday, 19 November 2013

In which One is invited up the passage…

‘Tis quiet as the grave in the Underground Lair now that Aged P has been dispatched to Lutonistan.  The ozone layer up there will now be severely depleted by the methane emissions from beneath the all over, fluffy blanky coverall that is de riguer for all the old biddingtons up her street.

But – fear not, Dear Reader, the Specials, next door have found an atom of wall that hasn’t had the shite bashed out of it with a mallet and are DIYing their little brains out.  So, One has constant noisy proof of other oomans in the block.

Biffed off through the gate and up the passage to see One’s bosom chum, Lovely Gordon.

‘Come at five for tea and cake,’ ordered the Lovely G when he telephoned earlier.

One had spent an entire day grooming Oneself to within an inch of perfection, so was keen to display a freshly dermo blasted, waxed, exfoliated, threaded, dunked in asses milk, moisturised, oiled and plucked bodzilla to any memb of the opposite that was ready for a gander.

Had to be Lovely Gordon, since the Jolly Tall, Well Spoken, Elderly Gentleman has cleared off to Belgium with the express purpose of acquiring the finest chocolate the chocolatiers can create for the delectation of your very own bon vivuer , Lovely One.

Uncle Bert, no longer in attendance, is busy steaming up the windows in the residences of all the toothless widows in the block.  The absence of elderly men (apart from the chap who has the imaginary friend in his shed) has rendered Bert the stud of the senile. 

The wily old cove has taken to complimenting the old biddzillas re: hair, garden, outfits, hounds etc and has a constant stream of Tenna-ed up, hairy-chinned, toothless old crones biffing up with fruitcake in an effort to get a  go on his old duffle-bag willy.

Any road up, One digresses…

One was smouldering at the door of LG at precisely 5.00pm anticipating an eventual cup of cha and a slice of cake…

‘Knock knock’

No reply – So One shoved the ‘herb of the day’ Parsley, through the letterbox and cleared off.

‘Where are you?’ came the call, some minutes later, ‘I got held up at the shop by an unhelpful assistant and have just flounced out.’

Turned out that Lovely G had an altercation with said shop assistant over some dispersible aspirin. What with that and some strange bod up the passage mistaking him for a janitor and demanding the filling in of an hole outside his residence, Lovely Gordon was in a right two and eight and could only calm himself with a peruse through a white goods catalogue.

Monday, 18 November 2013

In which One discovers the laxative properties of and M&S chicken pie…

‘Just press 3 on the controller and you’ll get Alan Titchmarsh,’ said I.

‘I pressed 3 and BBC1 came on,’ complained Aged P.

‘That simply isn’t possible, you must have pressed 1,’ snarled Moi.

Following a heated discussion regarding the pressing of 1’s and 3’s, Alan fecking Titmash was beaming from the screen with the look of  a self satisfied perv with a toothless grannie attached to his knob.

Any road up, One knows One should just put up and shut up where Aged P is concerned, but following an entire week of it, One had been challenged one time too many.

We repair to the pub…

Aged P     ‘I wish I could see the back of my head.’

Lovely One sat in confused silence.

Aged P     ‘Did you hear what I said?’  Went on the peculiar pensioner.

‘Yes I did, but I really felt that it didn’t require an answer,’ said One.

Face like a crumpled cadaver, she emitted a ‘Huh’ and one of the disapproving sniffs and launched into the daily ‘What are you having?’ discussion.

‘I’m having scampi,’ One replied, eschewing the usual Bear Burger as One is Bear Burger Bunged at the moment and shall be resorting to the psyllium husk with a matter of urgency shortly.

‘I don’t want scampi,’ said the Aged P

‘Well don’t have it then, have something else,’ said One, imagining poking individual gobbets of scampi up her shrivelled jacksie.

‘Well I want plaice, but don’t you think it’s funny to have salad with plaice and chips?’ she enquired.

‘No I don’t and if you don’t want it either tell them or don’t effing well eat it!  They let you get down from the table before you’re finished in here,’ spat One, knowing even as One said it that One should keep her trap shut.

‘There was something in that Marks and Spencer chicken pie,’ she went on.

‘Chicken perchance?’ One mused.

‘Huh!  You know what I mean, I haven’t been off the lav since we had it,’ said Aged P as the lunch arrived.

Bon Apetit!

 

Friday, 15 November 2013

In which One want an OAP cull to save the world…

Boots the Chemist have an offer of BOGOF  on anti stress peel off facial masks.

I purchased thirty five and got another thirty five free. 

Currently One is slathered head to dainty toe in the pink anti stress slime awaiting hardening.

Upon removal One is hoping to enter an om zone of spiritual harmony and be One at one with the universe.

This Zen state of being is unlikely, however, to be achieved before the timely return of the Aged P to Lutonistan.

AND NOT A MOMENT TOO FECKING SOON

Today One will be visiting yet another bastard tea room and sloshing further cups of Ty-fecking-Phoo down as a chaser for a dried up sodding cup cake.

This delight is to follow lunch in the local hostelry which was rendered a fecking nightmare by the silly old bat chipping in with all and sundries private conversations and staring with embarrassing continuity at some poor swine with a facial injury whilst commenting upon it with her hand across her big gob.

How she doesn’t get at least a telling off is totally beyond me!  The rudeness is arse cringing for anyone with her.

Apropos of nothing…

One has discovered the real reason for global warming – it is the heat generated by the millions of annoying elderly people (all kept alive by the wastage of NHS money) sitting sweltering in their ‘snuggly blankets with sleeves in’ clutching their hot water bottles whilst soaking up all my fecking heating!

One is mooting a mass cull of the irritating old shite’s and One would like to begin NOW

Thursday, 14 November 2013

In which One has indigestion …

‘Huh, if I was here at lunchtime I know what I’d have,’ issued the Aged P upon a request to inform Boy et Moi as to her preference for supper at a local hostelry.

‘What would that be,’ enquired a gritted teggied Lovely One.

‘The chefs cheese platter,’ said the AP stabbing a gnarled digit at the desert board.

‘I offered you cheese at home and you said you can’t eat it,’ blurted out the surprised Lovely One before remembering it is better to just go with the flow de la jour.

‘Well I can, but just not at night because of the migraines, and I can’t eat chocolate either.’

This from the woman who has had two enormous bars of 80% cocoa (what else) organic chocolate secreted in her room in order to sneak in for a square and not share.

‘Ok, then if we come again, have the cheese. What would you like now?’ asked the confused Boy.

‘What are you having?’ came the stock reply. ‘That woman over there has got a carafe of wine, I wish I’d had one instead of just this glass.’

‘We could get you one if you want,’ said One.

‘Huh, I’d never drink all that!’

‘OK then, what do you want to eat?’ ploughed on Lovely One.

‘What are you having?’

‘I’m going to have the pie of the day.’  A day with a pie in it is a day to be celebrated in my humble (pie) opinion!

‘I can’t eat pie, you idiot!  I’ll be having reflux and Gaviscon later on!’

‘Well, don’t have pie then.  What would you like?’

‘What are you having?’ to Boy.

‘Lasange.’

‘Can I get a small one of those?’

The pie, the lasanges large and small were delivered after an interminable wait during which the Aged P had the next table under observation and found it necessary to comment upon their alcohol consumption, their outfits and even to remark upon their conversations, behind her hand, in a very loud voice.

Boy et Moi squirmed.

‘Do you want pudding?’ One foolishly enquired.

‘I don’t want the cheese.’

‘What would you like then?’

‘I’ll have creme brulee, what are you having?’

‘I’m having cheese and coffee.’

‘Oh well, you can save me some of your cheese.  I really love brie.’

‘No.  If you want cheese, have cheese.’

‘Huh! You’ve got plenty of cheese and I want some.’

‘Well have cheese instead of creme brulee then.’

‘What are you having?’ to Boy.

‘Sticky toffee pudding.’

‘I don’t want that!’

Rennie anyone?

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

In which One is off to a sodding Tearoom…

Today One will be mostly watching Peter Andre decorating someone’s house, taking a pill box (acquired yesterday) back to the shop and spending a fecking fortune in a sodding tearoom.

All this excitement will be interlaced with the odd bit of painting, with which to get money to spend in tearooms.

Boy, who now earns his own money, (more than me) is now impervious to financial bribery and has seemingly gone AWOL.

One’s bathroom has been found wanting through the lack of a sit down shower and a handle on the wall. 

One’s kitchen is unsatisfactory due to the lack of a ‘dishcloth’ whatever the feck that is and a milk pan.

Food is being served on an almost hourly basis and drinks, wine, tea and coffee are on demand if anyone – ANYONE – PLEASE – would like to visit!!

                                          ~

It has come to One’s attention that one of you, my avid followers, has suggested that One should frequent a low class establishment called Primark.  Is it not enough for you people to realise that One has had to discover Lidling?  Have you learned nothing from my years of recounting my superior existence?

Primark!   NO NO NO

Sunday, 10 November 2013

In which we decide what to have for tea…

Lovely One – ‘What time would you like your lunch?’

Aged P – ‘What time do you have yours?’

Lovely One – ‘I don’t have a timetable, I get something when I’m hungry.  When would you like to have your lunch?’

Aged P – ‘I don’t mind what I have or when I have it, I’m really easy to please.’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll get it at around 2ish then.’

Aged P – ‘ Well I have to have mine at 12 o’clock!’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll get it at 12 o’clock then.’

Aged P – ‘Well I suppose I could wait until 2.00 pm, but I’ll need something now.’

Lovely One – ‘If you want your lunch at midday I will get it then. Would you like a sandwich or do you have a cooked lunch?’

Aged P – ‘What are you having?’

Lovely One – ‘Just tell me what you would like and I will get it and have the same.’

Aged P ‘ I don’t really mind, what do you want?’

Lovely One ‘I’ll get a sandwich then.’

Aged P – ‘Oh! I usually have a hot meal at lunchtime!’

Lovely One – ‘Ok, I’ll get you something hot.  Do you like fish pie?’

Aged P – ‘What are you having?  I don’t mind what I have, I’ll fit in with anyone.’

Lovely One – ‘DO YOU LIKE FISH FECKING PIE.’

Aged P – ‘Well I could have a sandwich.’

She had the fish pie….

Much later…

Lovely One – ‘Would you like something for tea?’

Aged P – ‘Oh yes I eat anything.’

Lovely One – ‘A cheese sandwich and a glass of wine?’

Aged P – ‘I can’t eat cheese, but I do.  I don’t have any  more wine after 6.00pm I have tea or coffee.’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll make you a bacon sandwich then if you can’t eat cheese.  What would you prefer?  Tea or coffee?’

Aged P – ‘Either, what are you having?’

Lovely One – ‘I am having a pint of gin.  Would you like tea or coffee?’

Aged P – ‘Oh I don’t mind, I’m easy.  I usually have it at 6.15pm before I watch the Strictly vote.’

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

 

Saturday, 9 November 2013

In which One is hiding in the bog…

Please somebody – HELP ME

Aged P has been here a little over 24 hours and thus far One has been subjected to something called ‘Strictly’ where washed up C listers cavort about with suspect looking eastern European bints in sequins…

We are now onto radio 4 extra with a delightful composite of wartime radio ‘comedies’…

This follows a trip to Taunton to acquire a Onesie for the Aged P…

Marks and Spencer, despite having a cashmere Onesie, and others, plentiful, in every fecking colour in the spectrum,  were all ‘Shit and I’m not wearing them with my hair!’

Matalan, similarly, despite offering all sizes in all colours, were found wanting.

The fiendish old dollop then decided she wanted a ‘new jumper’ so off we went again to M & S whereupon a pair of trousers were purchased because a ‘Turkwozz’ jumper with a high neck was impossible to locate amongst the six fecking ton loads of sheep wool that had been fashioned into every conceivable sweater design.

‘I ain’t ‘avin that it’s got an owl on and they’re unlucky!’

Continuing in the same vein, a wincyette nightie with short sleeves was conspicuous by it’s absence.

One did attempt to come down on the side of the manufacturer in that ‘winter weight ones usually have long sleeves and summer ones have short.’

This explanation was met with the familiar ‘sniff’ and the face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, so we came home whereupon Boy showed up to alleviate the torture. I bet I’ll have to pay cash for his time!

HELP ME

Friday, 8 November 2013

In which One is Ommming whilst One can…

Cleaned Underground Lair – check

Removed photograph of Deceased Dad to avoid – ‘Huh, what have you got a picture of HIM for?’ – check

Purchased 80% cocoa dark chocolate, weetabix, wholemeal sliced loaf, red wine, instant coffee etc – check

Put on display all the hideous ornaments gathered at Christmas and Birthdays over the years – check

Secreted Prozac, cigarettes and alcohol beneath the truckle bed for emergencies – check

Note; first emergency expected around 7pm –ETA Aged P - 6.45pm

Spoken to Saintly M regarding complete understanding should M open passenger door and shove Aged P out half way down the M5 – check

Superglued right foot to hall floor  (don’t ask)

 

Monday, 4 November 2013

In which One has been finally scuppered…

IMG_1885

Here is a view of Exmouth Marina, delivered yesterday to an eagerly awaiting throng who commenced biffing one another about the old bonce in their frantic efforts to secure the purchase.

Sadly, upon receipt of the masterpiece the silly old gallery owner type just dropped into the conv…

‘Ooooh, I did tell you we’re closing down at Christmas didn’t I?’

NO, GUV’NOR! YOU NEVER FECKING DID!

So – there we have it! ‘ If things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are’, as me Granny used to say.

The gallery world really does seem intent on scuppering me vessel at the mo, doesn’t it Dear Reader?

The Barbican is as dead as a do-diddly-oh-do, Brixham has shunned the delights of ‘Brixham Sunset’ and ‘Brixham Dusk’ and as for that deposit-returning fiend in Saltash, well between the blighters they’re pointing in the direction of a bleak and frosty Christmas in the Underground Lair.

OR – if anyone else collapses afore the event – CHRISTMAS TIDE IN THE GUTTER

NO, No, pray, Dear Reader, ‘tis not the merely the plummeting sales of your very own ‘icon of our times’ Lovely One, ‘tis the general dwindle of the acquisition of art in all of One’s establishments.

So, there we have it, One is shagged!

All donations to The Underground Lair gratefully received…

 

Friday, 1 November 2013

In which One is finally being de-scaffolded…

‘I will let you have the scaffold company details if they haven’t removed it by Friday lunchtime,’ came the missive from Adolphina (no doubt written ‘neath the light of one of the human skin covered lampshades that reside on her campaign desk. 

‘Hoo fecking ray,’ methinks! What is going to be done about the damage that’s been wreaked in my grounds?  Answer me that!  And what’s more to the point…

WHO’S PAYING FOR IT?

Any road up, was disturbed from One’s slumbers before eight this morning by the addition of a sufficiency of oiks thundering about on the lawn.

V V annoying since One was choosing a pair of shoes in Gucci whilst Johnny Depp held me ‘andbag! 

Any road up, a furtive glance through the curtains showed One the leader, he must have been the head oik, he stood menacingly in the middle of the lawn, hands in pockets, bellowing orders at the serf oiks,

‘Git that darn ‘ere Dave, just chuck it,’ and other complicated technical instructions.

One is unsure whether or not to put in an appearance to supervise matters since they appear to be lacking in the ‘Customer Service’ department.

Any way, One has just emerged from a bath of asses milk and has a big blue towel wrapped round me ‘ead and me Andy Pandy onesie on, so if they do require an appearance at least One will put the frighteners on ‘em!

Thursday, 31 October 2013

In which One carves a Seasonal Greeting on a Pumpkin…

fuck off

There it is ready and waiting for any little scrounging feckers who knock me up for money or sweets.  Don’t bother. The Underground Lair doesn’t celebrate ridiculous American traditions. Lovely One will be marking the 5th November instead like all self respecting English personages, and burning an asylum seeker at the stake whilst eating a potato cooked in the fire at his feet.

Any way, One is feeling rejected by the rest of the human race and has addressed the situation by eating all the smarties One bought for any passing thugs.

Am spending the weekend decorating the kingdom of Spare Oooom in preparation for the coming official visit of the Aged P.  All super-floo-us dog hair and man smells have been expunged from the domain and as soon as Uncle Bert gets his white goods sorted, all dirty food from places like Iceland will be transported from the confines of the Underground Lair straight to the new man cave. Thus making room for fois gras and scallops with choritzo, the favoured diet of the Lovely One. 

Last evening was simply divine…

One soaked in the bath, with the door open (it gets a bit steamed up in there), One flollopped about on the sofa, half naked with me smarties and a bottle of Pinot G whilst watching Poirot.

BLISS

But it is weird being on One’s own. It has occurred to One that One hasn’t lived alone EVER.

First it was sharing with the Borilla, One’s flat mate (too big to be a bear and too ugly to be a gorilla)

Secondly – A, who lived with One during the week and returned home to his wife at the weekends. (Don’t ask – One has a chequered career in the man department)

Thirdly – Vile ex Husband and eventually, Boy, then Boy and me

Lastly – Uncle Bert in various guises

And now just the flollopy dollop that is Lovely One, all alone and unable to meet the mortgage.

 

Wednesday, 30 October 2013

In which One is encouraging all and sundry to ‘slap the sausage’…

Am going quietly bonkers…

NDN’s have found a small area that hasn’t been drilled/banged/dug up and have employed the Scotch Banger again.  Currently he is drilling the living shite out of an area approximately two centimetres from my right ear.

Coupled with that, the fecking scaffolders have completely blocked my back door, steps into the garden and rear entrance.   Ooooh Matron!

Sales figures in for October are complete rubbish!  A more correct description would be ‘non-sales figures.’  Still, the bubble had to burst one day and One thinks One has sold the last print of Brixham Sunset EVER -  Have been dining out on that one for six years though!

N has mooted the ‘Stairs of Death’ for One’s doings on the Barbican…

First it’s the window, then the back wall – then – THE STAIRS OF DEATH

Well, as One said, it had to end some time…

Lovely One is not in the least precious about One’s art and is perfectly well adjusted to accepting that you selfish, shite faced, b******s have come to the end of your spending spree where Lovely One is concerned.

SEE IF I CARE

One is carefully considering a whole new career…

One is toying with the possibility of entering the sex trade.

NO YOU FOOLS – Not offering the random use of One’s twinkling device… Pray no, One has been boarded up by the Council through lack of use!

One is going into the ‘phone sex’ world.  A whizz bang idea, One thought and has been practising like a good ‘un on the likes of Uncle Bert and (hopefully the JTWSEG)

‘Mmmmm I’ve got clean pants on,’ was deemed not racy enough and ‘If you rub your duffle bag like that no one will believe you’re washing it,’ has been given the thumbs (and the willies) down.

Still, it does seem the obvious choice as a multi-tasking career…

One can drink a glass of wine, watch Corrie and encourage some poor sap to slap the sausage all at the same time – SURELY

Thursday, 24 October 2013

In which One makes a Lemon Tart…

IMG_1880

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s three good things…

Ha ha fecking ha

One followed all the instructions, his lemon tart came out all deep and squidgy and mine came out – yeah right out of the feckin’ tin and all over the baking tray!

One was attempting to ward off feelings of gloom and doom, what with being abandoned in the Underground Lair by Uncle Bert and Gladys the wonderdog.  Well, abandoned during the daylight hours at the mo, since he has to biff up here for supper til a week on Saturday when some down market emporium will be delivering his white goods.  One does reasonable rates, catering wise.

A rather unfortunate day in all respects.  One decided to take on the scaffold company that have seen fit to deploy my lawn as a storage depot…

‘Hello I live at ……’

‘Oh yeah darlin’ I’s tryin’ t’ get ‘old of yer neighbour all day right to say we’s coming termorra.’

‘Well could you please take all the stuff off….’

‘I’ve told yer darlin’ I’m DOIN’ IT.’

‘I wonder, could you not call me darlin’, my name is Mrs Rice.’

‘Right, that’s it, I ain’t doin’ it nar. You can ‘ave it fer another two weeks …    brrrrrrrrrrrr

Well, what a fecking liberty! and no mistake!

AND  some other article appeared outside the French windows and started rodding me flamin’ drains without a by your leave, nor nothing!

‘Er what exactly are you doing in my garden,’ enquired One

‘Well, ‘ee said you’s out,’ replied the oik pointing toward One’s special neighbours.

Woss goin’ on?

One needs H F-W’s three good things.

1    One

2    Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall

3    A bottle of Baby oil

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

In which One is as sour as the dough…

Well, here One is surrounded by boxes of Uncle Bert’s collectibles that are awaiting removal.  Heaven only knows what delights lay festering ‘neath the chariot in the Spare Oooom.

One will be soaking up the silence for a week or two before the arrival of the Aged P. 

What a joy that will be!  One could barely get through today’s telephone conv without wanting to put a pillow over her face just to get her to shut the feck up!

‘Oh hello, what day was that I’m coming?  Who is that woman who’s bringing me? Do you still do painting?’

‘8th November – Mary – No I’ve packed it in and am planning to starve to death.’

That exchange was followed by a detailed list of what would be required at mealtimes, all essential TV viewing and trips out various.

‘I’m not on holiday, so I will be working most days,’ One countered.

Oh joy, Oh bliss  One can’t wait for this!!

Any road up, One has just made Oneself feel Uncle Dick by scoffing a whole bag of Percy Pigs.  One was going to keep just one to be company for One since shall be alone from Thursday onward.  BUT – have begun a jar of sour dough starter that will need feeding every three days, so One has a new companion after all.

Sunday, 20 October 2013

In which One is fed up with fag ash and dog shite…

Would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader, the flamin’ power was off when One awoke from a restless slumber this a.m.

Obv this sparked panic in the extreme, since One was due to pootle up the town to see the JTWSEG.

Fortunately the Harvest Fest had begun the day before and the plug hole was brimming over with super-floo-us shavings.  But the straighteners hadn’t been deployed, or the ironing done!

Quelle Horruer, mes ami, could One dare to go ‘fluffy’ about the head region?

One lay perusing the dilemma until One was sure to miss the Archers Omnibus and decided, that since comms were down there would be no way of contacting the JT bla bla, so One made the best of a bad job.

One biffed up with hair in the manner of a blue poodle (left the lightest Ash Blonde on for too long), an unironed frock and some hastily applied make up done in the near darkness of the Underground Lair.

One was in such a two and eight that One couldn’t even scarf down the offered Sunday Roast!

One then finds out that the Memsahib had been informed that Stalag Malthouse would be ‘switched off today until at least 3.30pm.’  Why can’t the mouldy old madamoiselles tell us anything important like that instead of whining on about fag ash and dog shite?

Saturday, 19 October 2013

In which One’s Twinkle is all strudel…

‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the bla bla…’

Harvest fest begins at 11.00 hours…

One has all the required accoutrement for the removal of any super-floo-us covering and the disguise of any imperfections…

1    Prune Juice and psyllium husk – check

2    Catering pack of ‘root re-cover’ – check

3    Multi purpose waxed strips – check

4    Tweezerman tweezers back from recalibration – check

5     Invisible, no rustle Tena Lady big pants – check

Obv this isn’t because One is meeting the Jolly Tall, Well Spoken, Elderly Gentleman in the Bear tomorrow at midday.  Oh no, One now devotes at least one weekend out of four to the constant battle against the Japanese Knot Weed sprouting out of One’s chin and the general maintenance of the greying, pastry, lumpen dollop that One’s body has become.

Any road up, all going well until the ‘Home Brazilian’ kit was deployed…

1     Slathered on the hot wax

2     Waited a minute…

3     ‘Tauten skin and rip paper off’

TAUTEN SKIN

Nothing down there, or anywhere else for that matter, has been even approaching ‘Taut’ since 19 sodding 79.

Have been hauling at it for the passing of a number of moons and all that is happening is that One’s Twinkle department resembles the general thickness and surface area of a large strudel pastry!!

Still, every cloud an’ all that…

At least it’s getting a bit nippy so One will be able to disguise any excess by tucking it into the top of me Uggs!

Thursday, 17 October 2013

In which One is miffed…

Am miffed in the extreme!  Have just completely shagged an ink masterpiece by spraying it with too much water.  And as you know, Dear Reader, everything’s for sale!

Not for Lovely One the keeping of a sketch book. One spits upon the sketch book keeper.  Every single item of creation is for sale.

Any road up, One is biffing up the Bear on Sunday lunchtime to knock walk frames with the Jolly Tall WS bla bla…

Maybe One could tap him for a ‘Gastro Pob Dock lonch’ a la Marks and Spencer.  What is it with all this ooop North speak, it gets reet on mee nellies, it doz.

Of course One shall have to proportion time accordingly so as to fit in One’s weekend chum, Lovely Gordon.  Still, even if One has a slap up Sunday Lunch, One will be ready for another scoff up at LG’s supper time of 11 hundred hours.

Just a timely warning to all those expecting Christmas presents from One.  One has begun several knitting projects, mostly garments and One will be expecting all recipients to wear said garments throughout the festive season.

Lovely Gordon will be in receipt of a lengthy scarf in a rainbow of discreet and subtle colours, decorated with hand made pom poms and tassels.  He’ll look a Bobby Dazzler in that!

Uncle Bert will be receiving a hand crocheted, halter neck, gonad sling which should minimise the collatoral damage when taking part in the Andy Stewart Highland Fling Hogmanay Party.

 

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

In which One is cancelling Christmas…

Would be trending Arafat today, but left scarf at Lovely Gordon’s gaff.  He has it wrapped around the water container thing in the airing cupboard in order to perfume the air with the scent of Lovely One. 

Unfortunately the pervading pong in the Underground Lair is that of liver and bacon with a heady top note of despair.

Liver and bacon from one of the last dirty ready meals enjoyed by Uncle Bert and the desperation from Moi, due to the general gloom from still being under the sodding scaffolding.  When are those oiks going to whip off me back fence YET AGAIN and TAKE IT AWAY.

Any road up, am going to attempt to leave the building tomorrow.  As One is sure you are aware, One has been in abs agg for ages and listing to the right since foolishly lifting the sofa in order to vacuum underneath.

One is now destined to a life of vacuuming under sofas in a desperate attempt to fill One’s empty life.

One was going to devote One’s time to organising the pop up Christmas shop in Vile ex Husband’s palatial downstairs hallway, but someone else is doing the same.  One simply can’t risk being super-floo-us to requirements, so One shall simply step aside and hold me breath until I turn blue.

                                        ~

Eleanor Parkinson, that silly old Spotlight presenter is still trending the purple polka dot. 

One has observed that a winter coat (too short, too young) has been flomped on top of it, but it’s hanging out the bottom, Eleanor!  We know it’s under there.  Flippin’ eck that must wang!!

Tuesday, 15 October 2013

In which One is wearing a het…

‘It’s wonderful to be able to pop fruit etc into the little freezer compartment,’ said LG as he sidled around frigidaire numero deux that sits super-floo-usly in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘You are never going to convince One of the need for two fridges and two washin mashins,’ said One, arms crossed over ample chest in manner of Les Dawson when being Lilly.

‘But it’s such a useful little thing,’ he went on, stroking the device, ‘and it hardly makes any noise.’

Now correct One if One is wrong, Dear Reader, but persons residing in bijou cottage residences on their own should really only require one of each white good at a time.

In order to lure One into his web of white good intrigue, LG is constantly on at One to acquire a ‘more suitable oven, an EverHot, an asthetically pleasing washin mashin and a designer kettle.’

‘When living the hand to mouth life of a struggling artist, now without a paying guest, One don’t fix it if it ain’t broke,’ said One, ‘and anyway, much as One doesn’t like to cast aspersions upon One’s own culinary prowess, One is fairly sure it’s not the oven that’s at fault in the Underground Lair, but the novice Nigella.’

                                           ~

Any road up, straying from that hot topic…

One has become aware, of late, that Libby flamin’ Purvis is not the only sort who’s affecting an entirely new language all of their own.

In the current ‘OOp North’ doings of both TV and wireless (everyone saying ‘bath’ and ‘grass’ instead of ‘baath’ and ‘graas’ Marks and Spencer, in order to neither alienate the three people oop north who buy their scran and the masses of southerners who do, have invented another way of addressing the masses…

They appear to have combined the two and now refer to ‘botter’ (butter) and ‘corry’ (curry.)

Fer Feck’s sake, you blithering, lowest common denominator twats, lets revert to the received pronunciation of good old Auntie Beeb.

And – Make jolly sure One is wearing a het!

Monday, 14 October 2013

In which there is no one in the shed…

‘You simply must get an ‘EverHot’, opined Lovely Gordon.

One had listed in the gen direc of Maison LG at an alarmingly slow pace in order to partake of a pot luck supper.

One had been lured in with the promise of a Lamb Shank 7.45pm for 8.00pm.  In fact it translated as 8.00pm for 10.15pm and it was chicken in proscutto, polenta potatoes (of which LG is exceedingly fond) and some fruits various submerged in alcohol in a tupperware container.

‘I’m not sure that one is actually supposed to eat sloes,’ said One as One’s gob was stripped of all moisture and One’s lips took on the pencil sharpening qualities of a cat’s arse. ‘Don’t you think there a little astringent?’

Mmmm methinks the plums and the fig (singular) were scrummy but please, Dear Reader, swerve the sloes!

The fig was singular since the Odd G in the next block has been eyeballed hoiking figs out of L.G.’s tree on an almost daily basis.  Obv., One has permission to go a-figging ad infinitum, but the Odd G has stripped the blighter bare.

Any road up, back to the EverHot, which is apparently a device used for heating up the home, cooking, baking TK Max shreddies on and all manner of other warming duties that slip One’s mind for the mo.

Since One is unable to afford the ‘two tealights in a teracotta pot’ heating system at the mo, an EverHot is but a distant dream.  Even a ‘LukeWarmOccasionally’ is unattainable.

Still, Uncle Bert will be safe and warm in his man cave that One cast One’s beady over yesterday.

Lovely open parkland all around, secure over 55’s estate, pleasant homesteads…

But wait…

‘You F*****g dirty B******d,’ comes the cry from yonder bungalow garden.

Upon further investigation, by waiting in car outside for a goodly amount of time, ‘twould appear that an elderly gentleman was perambulating on a constant basis twixt the bungalow and a shed at the bottom of the garden and yelling aforementioned diatribe through the door.

At first One imagined that an animal of some sort was cowing within, but it soon became apparent that the agitated old G was having an altercation with an empty shed!

Hey ho!  Uncle Bert will be OK, he lives upstairs.

please Note

Elderly Gentleman mentioned is in no way connected to Jolly Tall Well Spoken Elderly Gentleman. One feels fairly sure he has no imaginary friends in his shed or otherwise.

Sunday, 13 October 2013

In which One is 1471-ed…

‘Were you about to plunge into a warm bath, or are you a 1471-er?’ enquired One as One took the morning call from Lovely Gordon.

‘You little Stella Rimmington, you!’ opined LG, ‘Have you noticed the new head of the International Monetary Fund is a ringer for Shirleytosis?’

‘Why no,’ says One, ‘I had no idea that international finance was being run from Stalag Malthouse!  Any road up if Leihmann Brothers had been Leihmann Sisters we wouldn’t all be chin deep in the shite would we?!’

Lovely Gordon went on to inform One about the blackberry crumble that had spent too long in Mrs A’s aga and is now the official material adopted by Camden Council to fill all the pot holes in Colney Hatch Lane.  One countered with a story about smoking out the block with yet another of Nigella’s express suppers.  Why is it that the cardiganed bint never sets off her smoke alarms?  It’s got to the point now that whenever Nige is on TV cooking up some lard based feast that all the little old biddies from upstairs assemble in the car park for a head count because they know Lovely One’s got her pinny on!

One passed on the stories various about Boy (lack of enthusiasm for life in general), Uncle Bert (acquiring a sheltered man cave), Vile ex Husband (living a nightmare) and the continued listing to the right of Lovely One and the twisted spine.

But there is hope upon the horizon…

One hears that WAITROSE IS OPEN AGAIN

following the burning down incident.

As soon as One is able (fully upright and functioning) One will speed over in One’s invalid carriage and press One’s upturned pink little nubby against the window.

Obv., One won’t be able to go in and buy anything now One hasn’t got a paying guest.

One wonders if there’s enough miles left on me twinkle clock to lure in a desperate pensioner?  I’ll do me roots and wax me face just in case!!

Friday, 11 October 2013

One is back on One’s own again…

No conquering the North West Passage pour Moi next week!  Back now soooo bad that One is bent almost double with ag, so shan’t be able to go.

Pain is something that One is v bad at dealing with and therefore enjoyment of any kind is off the menu for the foreseeable.  The only respite is from the copious quantities of Pinot that One inhales nightly.

One is also broken hearted for Boy who is still unable to face the world and will clearly have blown what is probably the best chance in life he will have.  The question is: should One devote the rest of One’s  natch to cossetting Boy and protecting him from the harsh reality of life?  Or should One be brutal and cast him out into the sea without a life raft? Is there a middle ground?

Of course, One will do absolutely anything just to secure the happiness of Boy.  The dilemma of a parent is a difficult one.  One does One’s best, but that best has to have some input from the adored offspring or tragedy ensues.

One will have oodles of time on One’s hands to trawl through all the decisions One has made and beat the shite out of Oneself over and over again, now that One will be alone in the Lair.

A buoyant Uncle Bert has sped off in his LWV to inspect his new home today.

Funny how things work out isn’t it?

                                       ~

Apropos of nothing – One imagines that One’s faithful West Country readers will upon occasion alight upon the regional news on BBC1 at 6.30pm, whereupon a bedraggled article by the name of Eleanor Parkinson has been presenting out of studio broadcasts for the entire summer wearing the same outfit every day!  Now – One wouldn’t normally take agin a reporter, unless they are a weather person,  they really are an aggravating crew! But as One is a license fee payer, One feels quite within One’s rights to question the state of dress of the presenters for which One pays.

The aforementioned EP, who must be at least 55 in the shade, has been biffing up wearing a purple spotted mini dress with a cut off black jacket every sodding day!

Not only must it be toxic with body odour by now, but it leaves open to the elements a pair of ghastly arthritic knees for all and sundry to contend with at tea time!

One has emailed the studio to no avail, so please sign my petition to get the dirty mare a new outfit – FROM MARKS AND SPENCER’S CLASSIC RANGE

 

Thursday, 10 October 2013

In which One owns up to the Original Sin…

That is absolutely flamin’ it!  The fecking tumble dryer shagged itself in the middle of the night with a truck load of Sloggi maximum grip inside and the sodding scaffolding is still outside, so the Underground Lair is now awash with damp shreddies.

Situation normal then!  When was it that One entered the world of the damp gusset?  What did droopy old dollops do before the advent of Tena Lady. Was there any wipe clean seating in Jane Austen’s time?

‘My heart went oops,’ what a load of bollicks that is.  ‘My gusset went squelch,’ that, Dear Reader, is the reality.  All those ‘maybe it’s Maybelline’ gap toothed teenagers had better make the most of twinkle time as all they’ve got to look forward to is ladling copious quantities of mildly medicated Cuticura maximum absorbtion talcum powder down their support leggings ad infinitum.

Any road up, One has pinpointed the exact moment in time that everything started to go awry.  (It also could explain the overwhelming urge to acquire legions of teddy bears.)

It all began thus…

One escaped from the clutches of the hysterical Mama to live in the bottom half of a tatty little terraced house, in order to have fun, One thought.  The cold reality was just that – cold and horrid.  One’s BF of the time, The Animal, (family motto: If you can’t fuck it or eat it – kill it) came round on an almost daily basis to have said ‘fun’ : Lambrusco and Chinese Fish and Chips.

V soon it all became too much for the cossetted and princess like Lovely One, who biffed off back home leaving One’s teddy bear, Edward, behind.

Some time later One saw the discarded and forlorn furry creature in the window of a junk shop.

So that’s it!  Even calling One’s own progeny Edward and collecting a sizeable array of Steiff Bears hasn’t atoned for the Original Sin of casting off One’s first bear.

One deserves all One gets.  Dam gusset and all!

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

In which One is getting the spare room back…

Boring boring boring!!

Damp, dark and gloomy in the Underground Lair and set to be so until at least next May.

But, it’ll only be Lovely One sashaying around in the mist.  Uncle Bert has a new home in his sights at long last.  Gladys will have to shake her smelly fur over yet another establishment and One will be GETTING A CAT.

If One had taken up the drawbridge and stayed at home with a cat some years ago One might have avoided the unfortunate series of events that have led One to the current situation.

Any road up, no matter.  Uncle Bert can limp off into the sunset and lead his life without the aid of polish/vacuum cleaner/windolene etc., and One can diligently spring clean the Underground Lair until there is no trace of another human to be found.

The prospect of One’s own company seems rather alluring at the moment.  Quite how One will be financing this solitary existence is, as yet, unknown, but I expect there must be some homeless old sap out there somewhere who’d welcome a bunk in the lair.

One is sorely tempted to buy a van and take to the road for ever.

Do you know what?  One might do just that!!