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Monday, 25 February 2013

In which I really do wonder however did it come to this?

However did it come to this?  The eternal question.  If I’ve done the right thing, how come I feel so bad? 

And, what next?

Can barely afford to live for the next couple of months.  Then what?

What do I do with all his stuff?

What can I do with myself?

Will try to paint today and do something constructive.

I feel like giving up and calling it a day.

But I won’t though.  I am a coward. 

Saturday, 23 February 2013

In which I am so very sad…

What an unbelievably dreadful week!

I made an appointment for me and him to go into the bank and separate our finances in order that his money remains his alone. 

He decided not to attend because, in his words, ‘I am up to something.’

So, I summoned up all my courage and said that if that was how he felt, he’d better leave.

I got the usual stock reply of ‘you give me my money back and I will leave.’

So – with a lifetime of him being in a vicious, spiteful mood to look forward to, I phoned BF and asked her to come up for moral support,

What ensued was something that I would never have made happen.

BF marched in and began berating him and when she felt threatened, she called the POLICE!

All my friends have been desperately worried about me for ages now and so they took it into their own hands to extricate me from the situation because they knew that I would never have the strength to do it.

I don’t know where he is now.  But, I hope his family rally around him and look after him and get him the psychiatric help he so desperately needs.

I really don’t feel that spending his entire waking hours shut in a room with the curtains closed is healthy.  Neither for him nor me.  And – he even bought an invalids bottle to wee in so that he didn’t have to come out!

When he did occasionally emerge it was generally in a foul mood and with his usual mantra of having nothing to look forward to but death.

Well – I expect you will all call me heartless and think I should have helped him.

I tried, to the detriment of my health and could try no more.

If BF hadn’t stepped in to liberate me I would have ended my life at some point, there’s no doubt about that.

I hope he is supported by his family.

It is so sad.


He did actually go to the bank, but only to empty the account and cancel the mortgage payment, electricity, council tax etc

thank for that!

Monday, 18 February 2013

In which One applies for a job in Italy…

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

Here One is in Vatican City, applying for the only job in the Western hemisphere that an elderly old article like Moi might actually get – and what happens?

Get to the front of the queue…

‘Take-a a seat-a,’ says the frocked up codger pointing to a  seating device.

No sooner has Lovely One parked me pork, than some lesser priest type shoves his hand through a hole in the seat and man-handles me twinkle!

‘No gonad-a, no getta to be-a de Pope,’ says the other one, and that’s that.  Bob’s yer uncle, Fanny’s yer aunt!  Well, fanny’s Lovely One’s and that’s the problermo.

So – what next?

Having come to the end of One’s savings, One will soon be residing a la gutter – so – phone the council – see if elderly persons get any help with anything.

‘Oooh no, ‘fraid not.  You only get housing benefit if you are in receipt of jobseekers allowance or income support and you live in rented accomodation,’ said the ‘camp as a row of tents’ article on the other end of the line. You could hear him running his finger over the desk and mentally thinking ‘oooh, look at the muck in ‘ere,’ in the manner of Larry Grayson.

‘What, so if you are trying to earn enough money to live you don’t get any help when you need it?’ says One.

‘No,’ says he ‘Have you thought of getting another job?’


Any road up, One is almost at the front of the Vatican Vacancy line again…

So, might as well nip in for another grope…

Let the Cardinal cop another feel.  It’s the only action One will get for the foreseeable…


Sunday, 17 February 2013

In which One communes with planet Aged P…

LO      Hello. Happy Birthday!

AP       Huh! I got bad news yesterday!  I waited bloody ages at that hospital and then he says,

‘Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the bones aren’t both healing and the screws might break off.’ 

What do you think of that then?

The other man said it was healing and I said I’m not having any more operations and that’s it!

LO     What have they told you to do then? 

AP      I’ve got to go back in five weeks and until then I can’t put weight on it. I can’t go out because I’ve got a walk frame and it hasn’t got wheels and it won’t fit in a car. I’ve got a crutch.

LO     Well if you can’t put weight on it, how are you getting up and down the stairs?

AP      I am using the crutch.

LO      On the stairs! You can’t do that!  You’ll fall again!

AP     I don’t reckon I did fall, huh, there!  I think I either had a stroke or it just snapped as I was walking, so there!

LO    Well you didn’t have a stroke did you?  You fell down the stairs, so you really must think about moving to somewhere more suitable for you or you might not be lucky enough to have a choice next time it happens.

AP    It’s these bloody socks I have to wear.  (The support socks)  They’ve weakened me bones and anyway I am walking with a stick. Delphine and Brenda are coming in a minute.  That Brenda hasn’t been round here for two bloody years, you know!

LO    Have you been round to see her?  Anyway, don’t change the subject, you are your own worst enemy.  You must get out of that house before something worse happens.

AP     Anyway, I’ve ‘ad me breakfast and a glass of red wine and two squares of 80% cocoa chocolate.  Bloody Eileen hasn’t been out of her dressing gown for two weeks.  She’s ‘ad pneumonia.  I’ve told ‘er, ‘You wear a hat.’  I gave her a lovely hat and she won’t wear it, so it serves her right!  I got a load more scarves and that horrible soap what I don’t like.  Huh!  I never get anything good!

LO     Did you like what I sent?

AP     Oh yeah, I opened that as soon as it came in case it wasn’t right, and I opened the cards last week.  Boy sent a nice one.  Is he doing that job?

LO     Yes.  I think it was a bit of a shock at the beginning, but he seems to have settled into it ok.

AP     What’s it like there? 

LO     Oh, I haven’t been out for a week, I’ve had a virus or something.

AP     Oh Jackie had that so she hasn’t been in to do me hoovering.  They’ll be here soon with another lot of useless presents – bye


Saturday, 16 February 2013

In which One doesn’t go gently into that dark night…

No I’m not – but thanks for asking!
Strange bruises are appearing all over the creamy white, silky smooth acreage of Lovely One.  The hacking cough, now sounding like a motorbike revving up is still present and One is unable to get out for victuals.
The incumbent lodger is tip toeing out of his slimy pit to whip up tasty morsels (well, what he considers tasty) and poor skeletal Lovely One is left sniffing the air in the manner of Bugs Bunny.
Do any of you devoted readers rush to my side?  Do you feck!
Have also developed an obsession with watching Housewives of Orange County as well as those botoxed bints from Beverly Hills.  As if One didn’t feel suitably diminished and downtrodden without getting a daily dose of vacuous, plastic-nellied, diamond clad airheads.  Fair makes one want to put a tea towel on One’s head and go and smack them around a bit.
Any road up, ‘tis obvious that no one cares about Lovely One, so shall biff into the garden and start eating worms.
Have not, however, become so ill as to not remember how to shop.  Thank feck for online shopping!
BUT – Due to me mind being befuddled with bacteria and lack of sustenance One accidentally bought at least five pairs of Swavspaski (or whatever!) earrings with me wowcher.
Under norm circs, would give away residue to chums, but since no one cares for Lovely One’s wellbeing – you can all – bollicks!
so there!

Monday, 11 February 2013

In which One advocates Lovely One-ism as the way forward…


Didn’t make it to Deepest and the comfort of the Laura Ashley Suite.  Or, indeed, to have One’s likeness captured by Mario Testino at Dear Little S’s bequest.

No – sadly already being struck down by a cough worthy of 40 Capstan Full Strength per day, One developed, throughout the morning, aches and pains various which culminated in a swift canter to toiley boiley whereupon One sat for some considerable, fortunately within projectile vomiting distance of the Armitage Shanks.

Any road up, hope that’s put you off yer Wheattie-Bangs, Dear Reader.

And so it was thus, that Lovely One caught the news of the Pontiff pootling off pronto from his current posish in the old Vatican, whilst lying in me sick bed.

Apparently he’s got holiday owing and so can park the Pope Mobile and get out the Vespa, or whatever elderly popes perambulate on/in.

Since the office is generally vacated feet first, there appears to be no ‘Bide-a-wee,’ Pope retirement establishments and so rumour has it that he’s had a bungalow built on the shores of Lake Como, called ‘Done-Rome-In.’

Any road up, all the other Big Boys in the religion industry have waded in with their two pennorth…

Justin Welby, Archbishop of Accountancy has praised the Pontiff for his ‘reaching out to other religions.’


If there’s more than one – it must be a load of old gonads.


Still, One does have to doff One’s chapeau to a bloke who manages to be both smarmy and hectoring at the same time.

But the most vomit inducing claptrap was uttered by the unacceptable face of Catholicism (not that there is an acceptable one) Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’connor…

Who hopes the Pope’s term won’t be sullied by the remembrance of the repulsive child molesting scandal that was covered up and allowed to continue for so long.


So, Jimmy Savile will be remembered for services to Top of the Pops

Hitler for watercolour painting

Peter Sutcliffe for an unblemished lorry driving license

etc etc etc

But, as per, Lovely One has a solution…

Worshipping at the Altar of Lovely One and the sweet Baby Boy, (see above)

For the can of diet coke and slice of chocolate cake pie One intends to hand out of a Sunday, One merely requires you, Dear Reader, to treat your fellow beings with kindness, except a couple of old dollops up the passage, and sustain Mother Earth.



In which One is regaled by tales from the alley…

Pring pring…

‘Fwa fwa ting tong.  Do you remember Thoroughly Modern Millie?’ came the enquiry…


A long conv ensued biffing off at bizarre tangents william nilliam.

Subjects as diverse as Frankie Howerd’s ten pound cruise (?), a caravanette advertised by Helen Shapiro and, of course, the peculiar fondness of LG for the Memsahib.  (Last spotted gambolling across the tea plantation with her Ayah on a length of twine)

I suppose One can see the attraction of aforementioned Memsahib as a relic of times past in a sadly bad mannered, throw away world.

Of course, a further article came in for a drubbing.  Apparently the fleshy beast in question plants her heels down on the pavement in a manner so territorial that she enrages Lovely Gordon.

No matter, he has many other ladies for tea and sympathy at his disposal.  V, for instance, upon her return from Asda with a sufficiency of Rich Tea fingers ripe for the dunking.

Any road up, Lovely One wasn’t up for an ‘at home’ soiree, being clad in an egg stained onesie and some rather splendid shocking pink thermal ankle socks which keep the tootsies v warm and have the added benefit of polishing up the new wooden floor when One embarks upon a rendition of the dying swan.

And, One was having a ‘blackie’ (sans soap, water, no 5.  And scoffing all manner of stabbable microwaveable, suspect din-dins pour une)  Not, One hastens to add, containing anything likely to be My Little Pony based.

The Underground Lair is in pristine condition following a good bottoming, for today One is firing up the Ferrari and shearing to Deepest for to be worshipped.


Boy begins gainful employment this very morn. 

Saturday, 9 February 2013

In which One reveals the Galia melons…


It all started when One was browsing through Facebook…

Blimey!  That Pinkster must spend her whole life: down (or is it up) loading pictures of her daily doings.  Yesterday it was her posing lasciviously, gob open, with a chocolate cake, nay gattox, what that darling chap A had made for her delight.  She had omitted to divulge that she hadn’t made it herself, but One knows all about how she has her ‘bitch’ enslaved.

Any road up, One biffed onto the page of an old school friend.  A legend at Denbigh High, V did ‘it’ before any of us had finally put away our Sindy and Pauls. 


This has prompted Lovely One to review the photograph One currently has on One’s page…

Initially, following Boy’s insistence that One entered the interweb age and knocked up a page of One’s own, One had used the lovely pic of a young LO and Baby Boy.  Obv this was just because One was showing off to everyone that the likenesses in ‘Cocoon’ were spotzilla on.

One appears to have been labouring under the misaprehension that One is still the posessor of the ‘face of an angel’ of One’s youth.    Not so, it would appear.

Any road up, in One’s luncheon break from the creation of ‘Over Exmouth One’ One, as is One’s wont, cast me rheumy, yellowish, bloodshot, hooded beadies over ‘Older Dating Online.’ 

Fear not, Dear Reader, once bitten and all that…

‘Tis merely a pastime for One’s general amusement.

How can it be that armies of baggy old codgers think that referring to themselves as ‘handsome’ and appearing either wearing football shirts/on board vessels various/astride motorcycles/in open topped cars etc., can render them shaggable?

Who knows?  One has accepted that One bought into all that when One was rendered completely fecking gaga by the menopause.

Menopause:  Time in One’s life when the pause (or preferably ‘off’)  button is depressed in the cock section.

The residue of One’s error is currently residing in the Kingdom of Spare Ooooom, as you know, Dear Reader. 

I know, I know, but would One want to be cast out in the great Metrolopis on One’s jack?  No, One would not…

Any road up, One can but assume that One had been observed whilst codger trawling and in the fullness of time  UB appeared with a Ken Hom banquet for a fiver and offered to share…

Clearly the eejit thinks One is casting me net…

That was all v well, you might think, until One was alerted to the garb of the article…

See above…

One got a prawn ball lodged in me craw…

Friday, 8 February 2013

In which One brings me twinkle up to date…

Just taken Vile ex Husband and boy out for a burger luncheon.
I know, I know – a burger! V dodgy at the mo, but prob not in Wivey as there are more than a sufficiency of horsey dudes biffing about in muddy jodders.
Can’t imag any of One’s huntin’/shootin’ chums mincing up their mounts for burgers and One is utterly sure that Thorne’s burgers are positively 100% moo cow.
Have, however, found unwelcome substances in other stuffs about the Underground Lair:
Pork traces found in Marks and Spencer dressing gown in spare bedroom.
The Pinkster, being that sort of a bint, enquired if it was ‘pork sword.’ 
Oh my giddy Aunt! 
She is deffo leading Lovely One astray what with all her Facebook stuff.  One must have inadvertently signed up to be contacted every time she waxes lyrical on her page because me inbox is stuffed with all sorts.
Any road up she had a picture of some chap with his beard shaven into the shape of a bat.  Lovely One, always one for a fashion statement, nipped into toiley boiley with me pink ‘girls’ razor and transferred the design to me twinkle.
That should arouse interest from some poor old desperate codger – A vampire twat.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

In which One force feeds Boy…

There One was minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, plying Boy with slow cooked Waitrose ribs, in the hope that One would then be able to introduce fruit into the next course, when…

pring pring

‘Hello Lady Rice, Dear little S here.  Can you get to Plymouth by 10.00am next Tuesday to have your picture taken for the tabloids?’

Mmmmm, yumzilla – love a bit of a preen, methinks, foolishly agreeing to front up.

Then the stark realisation gripped One, that One will have to emerge from the Truckle bed at some ungodly hour in order to arrive freshly scrubbed and with me face on.

Taking into account the removal of super-floo-us hair and soaking me gusset flossing rope in a bucket of Dettol overnight, the mission is going to have to be micro managed and planned with military precision.

And then, it came to me…

Book into the Laura Ashley Suite at Mar’s gaff!  I know, I know, One will run the risk of suffering alcohol poisoning and being fed to death with roast dinners, but One is willing to risk it!

But, I digress…

One attempted to pass off a portion of mango to Boy when he’d scoffed the ribs.  Sadly all to no avail.  I swear that Boy hasn’t eaten anything containing vitamins since he was a Baby Boy.


When you were a bambino, your dear mama used to feed you mashed up calves liver with evil green veg – HA HA

That is why you are a handsome, clear-skinned, six footer.

So take heed!  Get a banana or two darn yer neck and chow down on a cabbage before it’s too late!

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

In which One is just like the little baby Jesus…

Lovely One is beatified, due to a remarkable resemblance with the little baby Jesus…

Let me explain…

There One was, minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, meandering around Waitrose, when One was accosted by R and A. 

Quite how A puts up with R has always been a mystery to One.  He is the most irritating specimen of manhood ever to insult Lovely One on a regular basis and that’s saying something considering the motley crew One has bumped bones with over the years.  Not, One hastens to add, that One has bumped bones with R.  Quelle horreur!  Leave that dubious delight to A, who, it has to be said, does usually have a smile plastered to her gob! 

At their age though, One hopes it’s from more than a sufficiency of mint imperials, or whatever she sucks when she takes her teeth out.

One well remembers the first meeting with the annoying old codger…

Apropos of nothing he saunters up to One in the middle of a pop up gallery and pipes up…

‘Blimey, I thought I was big ‘til I saw you!’

For those of you unlucky enough never to have encountered Lovely One in the flesh, and it has to be said there is rather a lot of flesh, think mutant offspring of Miranda Hart and Stephen Fry.  Oh, and One does seem to have contracted Prada Willi syndrome. 

Google it, you poor ignorant Dear Reader…

Any road up, not usually conversing with persons that far down the food chain, unless it’s to say either…

1   You’re fired


2    Start upstairs (cleaning)

One retaliated and crushed the insolent blighter with a couple of lashes of One’s viperish tongue.  Poor embarrassed A took him off sharpish smarting from the encounter.

Have since maintained reasonable relations with the twat, since he has actually parted with cash on many occasions for One’s doings.  And One can’t resist the lure of luca.


He sidles up to the ancient mariner on the checkout at Waitrose and bellows…

‘ere mate. You got a dog?’

Ancient checkout operative, looking bemused says…

‘Yes, actually, I have two.’

‘Well then,’ R continued, stabbing a Cumberland sausage digit in the gen direc of Lovely One…

‘Get ‘er to paint them.  I’m not joking, she’s really good.’

Lovely One, trying to hide behind a Waitrose Pea and Ham soup carton sorely wanted to assault R with me rustic baton, but merely grimaced through gritted teggies until he had been forcibly removed by A.

The checkout operative made a few half-hearted enquiries re: capturing canines on canvas, but One could tell he was just being polite.

And that encounter was one of the many reasons One no longer offers One’s wares on a reg basis to the good burghers of Wivey…

For in the distant past when One was a novice painter and R and A purchased the odd masterpiece, they could be had for a measly few quid.

Not now, however, since the great unwashed from elsewhere are willing and able to part with handfuls of notes for a painting, the inhabitants of One’s hometown still expect it for a pittance…

And there, Dear Reader, is the similarity between Lovely One and the Baby Jesus..

Oh, do at least ATTEMPT to keep up…

Baby Jesus was never accepted in his hometown was he?  You eejits!

Monday, 4 February 2013

In which One has a Hungry Hippo experience…

‘Is that all there is?’ sang Peggy Lee, and I have to concur.  One’s miserable existence is just that: miser-fecking-rable.

Moan, moan, groan and woe is Moi!

Have developed a nasty habit of watching daytime TV in me jim jams and am finding that David Dickinson rather attractive.  

Oh my giddy Aunt – I NEED HELP

I have absolutely GOT TO GET a studio or another gallery to work in.  I can’t stand my own company any longer.

Well, it’s not just mine, it’s the possessor of the gargantuan gonads that gets me goat.

And that fecking dog!

I want a cat.  I love cats. I don’t like dogs or gonads.  They are not aesthetically pleasing and they stink up the underground lair. 

AND they leave hairs all over the place.  The contents of the Dyson are positively pubic.

And it’s not One’s!  One’s super-floo-us hair is kept groomed into pleasing shapes.

On the positive side, One has drawn out three views of Exmouth for the new gallery that wants my stuff.  So today has not been entirely in vain.

Am currently awaiting the face of Richard III

Got a bit of the hungry hippos meself actually, speaking of Richards.

As soon as I’ve seen him, I shall have a swift Vodka and syrup of figs and call it a day. 


Saturday, 2 February 2013

In which One has a political opinion for once…

‘David Cameron has pledged to eradicate poverty,’ said the bespectacled news reporter.

One glanced up from One’s doings, thinking for one glorious moment that he may be reporting from somewhere on our shores.  But – no – the misguided DC was once again talking about Africa.

Apparently there are children with children of their own, starving.

It can be no coincidence that missionaries were predominately of the Catholic persuasion, thereby having a hand, or some nether organ in the two great predicaments.

Any road up, Lovely One is not a heartless monster, despite myth, and does indeed acknowledge the desperate plight of all the ‘starving little children in Africa.’  In One’s youth they were lining up to eat the discarded offerings proffered by Aged P, who’d watched too much Fanny and Johnny.  One is still reeling from the episode where Johnny offered to show us how to ‘make do-nuts like Fannies.’ 

But I digress, as is me wossname…

This very week One was moved to a single bitter tear by a poverty stricken single Mother who was desolate when she was informed that she has to pay more council tax. 

Does DC not know about the food banks all over the country where ordinary people have to go?

And yet – it was with great zeal that we were informed that however bad things get ‘overseas aid budgets are ring fenced.’

Two chums of Lovely One had birthdays this month.  They both got my good wishes.

Everyone who knows me, including Boy, know that when One is minted, they get lovely big presents and when One isn’t they get the aforementioned good wishes.

Perhaps DC should take note. 





‘All in it together.’   I THINK NOT

Friday, 1 February 2013

In which One is infested with cheap toiley-boiley tissue…

Huh!  Have to get the Aston Martin valetted now!  Unwisely trundled off to Taunton with Uncle Bert in tow and he went to ARGOS for pity’s sake!


Lovely One has no truck with self-assembly, flat-pack, medium density fibreboard furniture!!!

Yes – that’s what MDF stands for!  One knows this as One spent a single summer of One’s youth designing Bedrooms/kitchens/bathrooms for any old sap willing to part with thousands for the privilege of having a plastic coated mass of compacted sweepings-up crafted into a fitted monstrosity. 


The raggedy end bits are painted with Tippex!!

Any road up, Lovely One saw this selling of compacted sawdust furniture as little more than a game of wits and as such, got really rather good at it! 

In fact Lovely One’s boss intoned that she was indeed ‘The dog’s bollocks,’ which, rather oddly, is a compliment!

This unusual petit morsel of praise was delivered following a ‘design visit’ by Lovely One to some poor eejit who fell so completely hook, line and stinker for me sales patter and elaborate drawings, that One left his gaff armed with a large order and many thousands of pounds up front – in cash!

I digress – back to the ghastly, white, self-assembly shite purchased by the ghastly, white Uncle Bert.

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!  One does One’s bit for the poor down-and-outs of this mortal coil, and surrenders One’s kingdom of Spare OOm to the ‘orrible obelisk that is UB, and what does he do?  I’ll tell you what he does! He litters up the otherwise sophisticated, tasteful and fragrant Underground Lair with items various from Ar-fecking-gos, somewhere called a Cash and Carry that purveys bottles of sickly looking yellow liquid pus called Banana Yazoo and pallets-full of toiley-boiley tissue that is soooo thin that you damage yer twinkle with yer acrylics every time yer go for a number one!


He fronts up with two polystyrene containers of fish and chips which are consumed in a lay-by in Oake, as a fecking TREAT!!!

Obv, One inhaled the fat-sodden scran as One didn’t want to appear ungrateful.  BUT One was going to nibble delicately on an M&S prawn salad and an iced espresso.

One’s delicate system rebelled – One barfed.  AND THEN had to recline in the truckle bed for the rest of the afternoon.  Re-surfacing to find Uncle B deep in concentration on one of his four televisual devices watching something called; Lesbian Vampire Killers.

Lovely One fainted clean away, and had to be revived with a quick fan from the Times Culture section.

In which One waffles on about nothing…

Mr Trebus came out of the corporation tip yesterevening and we watched Embarrassing Fat Bodies Together.  No – not on TV – we disrobed, got naked and pointed at one another and laughed.

No, just joshing Dear Reader, am mesmerised by bods even fatter and wobblier than Lovely One.  How can these people trundle their gargantuan mounds of lard onto the TV in front of fiendish voyeurs like Moi?

In fact, Lovely One looks positively svelte-like compared to some of the enormous articles.

Any road up, I’m not getting my baby-soft acreage out on national TV, even if I get one of those massive hernias like that bint last night.  I shall just carry it around in a shopping trolley.


Having put my bad luck down to maltreatment of animals, One has been remembering other family members who also had these unacceptable traits…

Legend has it that Nana Harris flushed her budgerigar, Mr Tweetles, down the bog when he stopped singing.


Now, this could be an urban myth put about by Aged P, Nana Harris’s daughter-in-law, but I believe it!

Tibbles, her cat, always had a nervous disposition but luckily he was too fat to shove round the S bend.