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Sunday, 31 March 2013

In which One is rather up-beat for a miserable old moo…

One does rather feel a tad churlish following the recording of yesterday’s gloomy narrative….


The perfect Easter gift for One.

And, One feels a tad mean, since the reciprocative gift was a chicken…

Not even a chocolate chick, or a fluffy Easter chick, nay, an actual oven ready (part of a 3 for ten quid deal) chicken.

No matter, One is mesmerised by the new toy and have already accidentally signed up for Amazon Prime, bought some expensive apps and downloaded the Artist magazine.

The generous benefactor of the device has already been on the phone trying to get the extortionate amount of app spends refunded.   He thought it would be ok since lately, parents have been able to get refunds from understanding service providers.

The plan, however, went slightly awry when asked how old the child was…

‘she’s fifty-six,’ was the reply.



Went to Sainsburys yesterday evening with the sole intention of buying up all the end of date scoff, imagining there would be loads, considering the SHOPS AREN’T OPEN TODAY

What’s that all about?  Didn’t the baby Jesus like shopping?  I bet his mum did!


Imagine the scene at Whitby Abbey…

‘Right come on then everyone, let’s decide when Easter is going to be.  Make sure it’s early in the year so it’s feckin’ freezin’, and, yeah, let’s shut all the shops so the irreligious little feckers have sod all to do.’


Any road up – no bargains – no Easter-sodding-Eggs!


Had to buy Boy a fluffy chicken and a box of Eclairs!

Am off to cook a leg of lamb a la Heston Bloomineck.

Saturday, 30 March 2013

In which One descends into the vale of Bank Holiday gloom…

Dear Lovely One

You are cordially


to any of life’s rites of passage

Not for you the dance classes that all the other little girls go to – you will be too fat

You won’t even like parties, you will be afraid of balloons, and anyway, you will be a miserable, sullen little creature who’s not often invited

You will be so much taller and bigger than all the other little girls, boys will ridicule you and bash you up on the way home from school

Your mother will cut your hair so short that you are often mistaken for a boy

You will, however, be cleverer than the others and feel the need to conceal this fact so that no one will notice

You won’t even know that your parents are supposed to like one another since they will scream at each other all the time

You will have no plan when you leave school

You will have no college place

You will have no exam passes

You will walk out of the building alone

At home, the adults will have their own agenda

You will live predominately alone

You will have affairs with other women’s husbands

You will be met with horror when you are expecting a child

You will watch that child with his palms pressed against the glass as other children go to parties

You will attract the attention of ‘Social Services’

You won’t have a white wedding – you will go shopping to Tesco instead of having a reception

You will make the wrong decision at every turn

You will be alone

You will stay in bed all day to avoid being alone

You will record your descent into madness in this diary



Friday, 29 March 2013

In which One is bogged off…

I tell you, Dear Reader, if this goes on much longer I shall start looking for a proper job!

Pootled off yesterday with a wagon load of masterpieces and a rake of framed prints for the good burghers of the West to spent their spons on over the Egg Holidays, and MAN, was One shagged upon return, or what?

First, off to Dear Little S, who was rakishly perambulating about the prem wearing a pair of spandex shorts in preparation for his up-coming trip to Florida.  Oh how the other half live!  Oh how EVERY FECKING ONE lives, except the poor dear Lovely One.

A brief foray into Taunton is the best One has to look forward to in the near future.



Even though One is religiously bunging One’s every scrawl on Facebook as instructed by Boy and the Pinkster, hardly anyone ‘Likes’ One. 




Thence to Modbury to attempt to get paid – No such luck!  Occasionally One would like to remind shop assistants that they are ‘exactly that.’

Off to Dartington…

They’d sold out so grabbed another batch gratefully…

Mucho Stressarino being manfully suffered by the bod in the works.

‘Would you like a picture of Dartmouth Boat Float?’  came the enquiry from the seriously flagging Lovely One..

‘Nah’ came the wrinkled nose reply, without even fecking looking at it!

‘Another Datington Hall?’

‘Dunno, I’ll have to ask.’

FLAMIN’ ‘ECK!  I wouldn’t mind if they didn’t sell the things – but they DO DIDDLY OOO DOO

No matter – One thinks – off to Exmouth…

A bod opening a new estab had lured in Lovely One having seen me doings at Dartington…

Last time One graced Exmouth with a visit it was to go sailing with an Aircraft Carrier Commander – what a flamin’ disaster that was!

Any road up, biffed in the new prem with 10 prints and an original.

There were no originals over £100 in the entire gaff! 


Anyway – am thinking of taking up some other pursuit – any ideas?

One is going round Lovely Gordon’s to eat Easter Eggs til I’m sick!


Wednesday, 27 March 2013

In which One is deteriorating in a most ghastly manner…

A further sinister and ghastly metamorphosis has taken place whilst One was gently snoring in the Truckle Bed…

The suet pudding, formerly located on the outside of One’s right thigh, has distributed itself twixt the elephantine pins and relocated for the Spring to One’s formerly finely shaped ankles.

One now looks for all the world as if One has been at One’s extremities with a bicycle pump. 

Oh, woe!  Whatever next? Male pattern baldness?

Any road up – swollen ankles – how cruel and unjust is fate?

What lies ahead?  Fabric, Velcro-fastening XXX-wide slippers from one of those ghastly newspaper-print ‘Bargain’ brochures favoured by the entry-level Uncle Bert for his ‘medical’ supplies?

No matter – One has never ‘fitted in.’   Or, indeed, pondering thus, had anything that actually ‘fitted’ One…

‘Look at the size of that child’s thighs!’ came the cruel, finger-pointing, jibe from Nanny Cooper, to Aged (then young) P.

One distinctly remembers trying to yank down the hem of the vile fluorescent orange crimplene, zip-front, ‘A’- line monstrosity, fashioned for the chubby little One by the neurotic Mother.  The vast, visible expanse of sturdy, ten-year-old leg that lay between the hem of the frock and the way-too- short long socks must have been enough to send even the most stalwart paedophile scampering for the hills.

AND, while we’re on the subject…

One’s long socks were contravention of the ‘Trade’s Description Act,’ as they were NEVER, EVER long enough!

How on earth that came about is a complete mystery, since almost ever other garment fashioned by Neurotic Mama, or a peculiar seamstress One was occasionally deployed to, was designed to be ‘grown into.’

One is currently bordering on the delightful description of ‘morbidly obese’ and yet One would indeed have to gain at least a further six inches in height and four stones in weight to EVER reach the mammoth proportions to adequately fill out the final Denbigh Girls High School Blazer!

One distinctly remembers the garment utterly obscuring the remainder of the uniform and indeed, Lovely One, within it’s serge encompassment.

Were they expecting Lovely One to be seven feet tall?  Who can tell?

Any road up, As one grew and grew, taller and taller, and indeed thinner and thinner, One was squeezed into the too short, ric-rac braided, dirndl- skirted cotton frocks made from the left overs of Mama’s couture.  All this neatly propped up upon revolting summer sandals from which One’s white-socked enormous feet protruded, straining at the leash for a larger size.

‘You can’t possibly have bigger feet than me!’ was the general shriek from Neurotic Mama, who had clearly wanted a dainty daughter to display to the world, as she crammed One’s plates into yet another pair of ‘one-size-too-small’ Clarks sandals.

One well remembers the delirium with which One entered Chelsea Girl, clutching One’s first pay packet, vowing never again to be kitted out by the Dear Mama.


And, well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, One STILL doesn’t ‘fit in.’ One is an outcast, both social and in every other manner.  So if One has yet another poor trading month One will be ripe for the casting out and a life in the gutter…



Sunday, 24 March 2013

In which One takes up Home Baking to lure a man in…

Have plummeted several miles down the slippery slope of age during just one night.

Awoken by an earth-shattering fart, impossible to blame on anyone else, as One sleeps alone –( AND upstairs is unoccupied,) to the stark realisation that One is NEVER EVER GOING TO HAVE SEX AGAIN.

After all, what with the unappealing fart, One looked down and One had inadvertently got One’s jama top on inside out and back to front – AND – due to the washin mashin having had a seizure and galumphed across the kitchen floor to die, One was wearing the least crusty jim jam bottoms out of the laundry basket.

Hardly an inviting prospect for a potential suitor, is it? 

AND – how come twinkle fur starts to deplete, yet One is growing a fair-to-middling goatee?

Any road up, having taken on board that One will require other skills to snare a suitor, One has embarked upon a plan…


That Nigella seems to have done alright out of it, so move over Nige, Lovely One’s got ‘er pinny on!

Lack of cash put an immediate constraint on me doings, so with a couple of carrots, half a tub of fromage frais, an orange and the ‘cupboard essentials’ Delia told me to get, One set about a carrot cake.

The first problermo was that the scales had perished, the mixing bowl was full of unidentifiable brown slime and the cake tin was ‘sans bottom’, but One mustered the Dunkirk spirit and biffed on!

Determined to salvage at least one irresistible feminine trait, One set about the task of luring some unfortunate pensioner in with a whiff of me gateaux, hopefully masking the aroma of me unlaundered jim jams!

Had to guess the flour, sugar and butter, what with ‘no scales’, but then – DISASTER – where was the grater?

That set back very nearly rendered the mission impossible until – One recalled that earlier in the day, One had been giving Oneself a well needed pedicure with me Ped-Egg!

No one would ever know, if One soaked it in a bit of Fairy Platinum.

AND, as an added bonus, One got to observe Uncle Bert chomping through a slice, completely unaware that he was imbibing some lovely grey, cracked heel skin fresh from Lovely One’s dainty hoof!


Saturday, 23 March 2013

In which One is tired of waiting…

Oh blimey, O’reilly!  All flamin’ day One was pacing the parquet deep in the Underground Lair, nervously chewing me toenails in wait for the flamin’ frames – THAT DIDN’T EFFING SHOW!

Halfway through the live-long day One phoned the blighters to ascertain whether One had to sign for the delivery so as to at least be able to make a foray into the outside world, but no, a monika was required so One remained static.

‘Is that claire rice?’ came the enquiry when One phoned.  Ah – methinks - word has circulated throughout the company regarding the wrath of Khan’t. (star trek ref)

Why lie to me?  Obv the shifty shceisters haven’t sent them out on ‘next day delivery.’ 

Any road up, didn’t spend the entire day in a state of advanced miffington, but rather got on with me work. 

That is - following a detailed inspection of the general wear and tear and deterioration of me parts…

Am particularly concerned about me thighs…

Yuk – yuk – yukkety yuckster!

Still, the likelihood of One wrapping them round anything other than a hot water bottle is looking slim – unlike the thighs!

As Leonard Cohen said – ‘her thighs are ruined.’  That’s me, that is.

They no longer crash together when perambulating, creating a real possibility of spontaneous combustion when wearing leggings. Now they are as if welded together at the upper extremity in a ghastly fusion of grey moist pastry.

And as for me knees!

They don’t even match anymore!

The left one has an inner attachment like a kneaded sour dough which is decorated with heliotrope broken veins in the manner of the London Underground map. Whilst the right one has it’s mutant add-on on the the outside edge giving the impression of One wearing a pair of stockings containing a suet pudding for emergency snacking purposes.


One’s pork pales into insignificance in relation to the troublesome knees of Uncle Bert…

Uncle Bert’s knee has a life and personality of it’s own…

‘How’s the knee?’ come the enquiries from the Brothers, as if the knee exists independently from the remainder of UB

‘Have you been able to get out with the knee?’ is another favoured top of conv.

But, no matter, the knee is now ‘Off Sick.’  From what, exactly, is yet to be ascertained.


Wednesday, 20 March 2013

In which One offers Oneself to secure employment for Boy…


An update on the old ‘Cocoon’ pic when Boy was tiny and One was able to force feed him brightly coloured vegetables and GREEN things.  Sadly this situation changed for ever following the ‘Tomato’ incident in Milton Keynes…

All One did the other night was put a smidgeon of, da da da! – EVIL CARROTS, on the plate and, well, the look on his face! 

Any road up, he finally taught One the error of One’s ways with facebook and henceforth One knows what One is about at last!


Tomorrow, Boy is off to jump through the final hoop of the selection process for hid J-O-B at the Council.  One hereby offers One’s soul to Mephistopholes in return for Boy being granted gainful income.


One appeals to Gaia and all the spirits of the earth to – for pity’s sake – GET BOY A JOB

One has already spent a goodly amount of this nippy night hopping around the sitting room of the Underground Lair like a demented Shaman, doing all sorts of tribal dance moves to awaken any powers that might tip the balance in favour of Boy!  The shaman like dancing could, however, be a result of having to take those festering statins that are supposed to lower something or other but seem only to facilitate the most limb twisting and painful cramp.


One is also issuing evil incantations about HHJ, my frame supplier at the moment…

Order in on the 5th – promised notification of delivery in 10 days max.

One had the temerity to enquire ‘where the feck is my order,’ to which the reply was…

‘It’s a really busy time of year, what with the show and then Easter coming up.  Might be able to deliver by the middle of next week.’



Why oh why, can’t people just let you know what’s going on?  That way One could make alternative arrangements. 

‘I might be able to do something by Friday,’ went on the emails.


As yet, have heard nothing – BUT THEY TAKE THE MONEY FAST ENOUGH!!


Had a V disturbing phone call from K, an old friend of the deceased Aged P.  ‘Twould appear that the errant Brother had been tapping the pater for cash for some goodly amount of time before his death.  When the pater ran out of dosh he had been acquiring the required spons from K to pass on.   But that’s not the best bit – following Aged P’s demise – the Brother had been going straight to the bank of K

K had called me to say that he’d pulled the plug.  Obv One had no idea what had been occurring.  I’m not really sure why he told me – I hope he doesn’t want me to pay him back!

All very sad and strange.



A weekend of unbridled lust, with fish paste sandwiches thrown in, to any one who can secure Boy’s employment with the council.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

In which One is running off to the Forest of Dean with Will Self…

I will drown and no one shall save me…

I shall drown and no one will save me…

Either way, One shall drown.  The murky waters of debt and despair are bubbling at around dub-dub level and shortly to surge above One’s lovely angel face forever.  Unless, of course, someone comes to save One in the manner of the sinewy sailor what saved The Pinkster when she foolishly volunteered to help out on a school trip to Wimbleball Lake.

Setting sail in a flimsy Coracle type vessel with two terrified children the Portly Pinkster biffed off toward the middle of the lake and managed to capsize the boat. Having spent a goodly amount of time squashing her ample bosom into the lifejacket the saviour on the shore was already keeping a sea-eye on the land blubber, and so as the ship went down he’d already launched the rescue vehicle and managed to pull the traumatised toddlers to safety.

And it is at this point in the story that the saving of Lovely One from drowning is in some doubt, as when the Wimbleball Lifeboat crew reached the Pinkster, bobbing about like a Minky in the briny, the trouble began…

In fact to build up momentum to winch the wench from the deep, they had to keep shoving her under like a corpulent cork until she shot out far enough for them to lasso her with the equipment last used to capture Mobington Dickens.

Any road up, this extreme boating adventure has led One to render One’s saving a complete impossibility as One is even more corpulent than dear old Pinkington! AND, there is NO WAY One can sanction getting me hair wet – so shall have to surrender to a watery grave.


Got caught out Guerilla Gardening the other night…

Poking around Lovely Gordon’s undergrowth, looking for a suitable place to plant the violets (in memory of Lovely Gordon’s Magnificent Ma) One was rudely interrupted by a large doggster romping out of a cottage opposite. 

Given the strange circumstances of One’s discovery One mumbled something about gardening to the doggster’s master, making a suitable Guerilla Gardening type jest and withdrew forthwith.

The following morning, would you Christmas Eve it?, the self same dogginton lumbered out as One was digging the hole and peed all over the passage, splashing One’s Uggs!  The master, following closely in the wake of the hound was most apologetic until he realised that it was the very same One that had been loitering with intent the evening before.  One felt further explanation would be of no use and so sidled up to the gate with me trowel and sheared leaving the bod looking utterly bemused.


Just awoke from a lovely dream where Will Self was begging One to run off to the Forest Of Dean with him to live in a yurt.  Even in the dream One was worrying about unleashing me gargantuan thighs in front of a new male member of the species.   Something MUST be done!!

Monday, 18 March 2013

In which One is planning for the worst…

A splendid evening celebrating Lovely Gordon’s birthday!  Gave the old blighter a pot of violets, dug by Old Tom, the gardener, from the estate grounds, two knitted pussies and a print of Southside Street.

The pussies were really quite dreadful!  The first example, premiered afore on this diary, and a chat noir with the face of a mouse and the body of a puma.  ‘Tis unlikely that Lovely One will be abandoning the paintbrush in favour of the knitting needle in the near F.

Any road up, acquired some lovely ‘corned beef’ shins from the log fire to match the corned beef arse, courtesy of me hot stuffed down me jams.  Unlikely that either will be short lived given the arctic conditions both in and outside the Underground Lair.

Still, prob wont worry One given that poor sales will render One homeless within the next month or so and shall be ackled up in the Sunday Times Culture supplement in the door of Waitrose for time immemorial. 

What to do?  What indeed?  Have the distinct feeling that One has made some shite decisions throughout One’s carcrash existence.  Am now too old and lumpy to be rescued by Knight in Shining, so shall merely fade away into the ether.  Prob shall have to have specially made XXL cardboard coffin with reinforced bottom or be given a double dose of flames to melt all the cellulite packed onto One’s gargantuan thighs. That is, if One is claimed from the doorway of Waitrose at all!  Could just be eaten by a pack of urban foxes I suppose, or wild dogs.

Any road up, you, Dear Reader, shall have to suck the blood of some other poor unfortunate in the absence of Lovely One, whilst you are gathered around your cosy fire snuggling up to your loved ones.


Information for male readers…

It is a myth that your knob will wither and drop off IF YOU WIPE THE WORK SURFACES IN A KITCHEN 

Friday, 15 March 2013

In which One knits a special needs pussy…


It didn’t look like that in the ‘Knit your own Cat’ book!

In the book it was sitting upright, looking cute and alert.  This is something of a disappointment, but will be as nothing to the crestfallen Lovely Gordon who is expecting a knitted companion for his ‘special’ day on Sunday.  Still, the cat has ‘special’ needs, clearly.

Lovely One can still remember the moment when Auntie Connie taught One to knit in Nanny Cooper’s rarely used ‘front room.’ 

Picture the scene…

Lovely One, all chubby thighed and white socked, wearing some godforsaken miniature, homemade, identical copy of whatever Aged P has constructed from pale peach crimpelene (or some such manmade yardage) for herself.  Lovely One appeared condemned to a life of garments fashioned from offcuts and leftovers.  Maybe that goes some way to explaining One’s propensity for shagging other people’s husbands in times to come.

Any road up, there we were, Aunt Ada, clad in a black crepe two piece, lisle stockings and Edwardian lace-ups, so shiny they mirrored her long johns, sat on one side of the coal fire with Nanny Cooper on the other side, Embassy (with two inch long drooping ash) permanently adhered to her bottom lip, furiously knitting yet another Royal Blue school cardigan, that Lovely One would ‘grow into.’

Aunt Ada, the teacher of ‘Cat’s Cradle’ to Lovely One, had developed a permanent nervous tic accompanied by the never ending nodding of her head, followed by a lifetime of working as a nanny to rich people’s badly behaved offspring.  Never married, she lived alone in Southend in a little, front onto the road, terraced house that was for years a popular holiday destination for other members of the extended family who resided in Luton.

Auntie Connie married late in life, as did Aunt Sis and a few more matronly chested Coopers, including your very own Lovely One.  Anyway, I digress, Auntie Connie (who lived with Auntie Anne – who only had one leg) on the Mumbles.  Until – on a trip to the Post Office, she encountered, the soon to be, Uncle Hubert.  Uncle Hubert (to be) already had a wife, who then mysteriously and v conveniently croaked.  Legend has it that this timely dispatch of the current wifely incumbant had happened before, on more than one occasion, but he must have found his heart’s desire with Auntie Connie, for she managed to outlive him, despite nursing his Mother and then him for the rest of her active life.

Any road up, back to the knitting – the curly topped Lovely One finally mastered the favoured occupation of the Cooper women and LEARNED TO KNIT

Subsequent amours over the years have been presented with sweaters various, which the more canny of the species opted to actually wear in public, thereby ensuring the lack of a headache following fourteen pints of Mild and a Vindaloo.

But, I fear the passage of time has played merry hell with me knitting capabilities, which is a bit of a bummer for the Pinkster who asked One to show her how to knit socks.

Anyway, the mutant pussy will be duly presented for Lovely Gordon’s birthday on Sunday.  Let’s just hope it’s a ‘special’ birthday to go with me ‘special’ pussy.

Tuesday, 12 March 2013

In which One goes all Martha Stewart at Lovely Gordon…

Well, well, well -----  The story of three holes in the grounds   - or

A rather productive day for your very own Lovely One.

Got in at a new gallery, have been asked to set up a new art shop and have sold a biggie at Dartington Hall.  TA DA!

Picture Lovely One preening Oneself and leafing through me address book to phone everyone I’ve ever met to show off.

Oh, and nearly forgot, asked for a dozen pieces by yet another gallery. 

Read it and weep, losers!  Kiss my dimpled, corned beef arse!

But, the supreme accolade belongs to the Pinkster, who has actually SOLD a load of stuff to a gallery! It’s soooo unfair!  Why wasn’t it me, me, lovely meeeeee!  Anyway, best of luck to the garlic scented, fat bummed old dollop.

Am knitting a cat for Lovely Gordon’s birthday on Sunday.  I feel a knitted companion will be a boon for the Perfect Professor.  It won’t need feeding, washing, taking out, shagging nor nuthin.  He can just carry it around in his trouser pocket and take it out for a snuggle whenever he wants.  AND, mentioning his trousers, they are far too low down on the smedley botham for an educated gentlefolk sort.  Every time I go round there he’s brandishing a new pair of designer kecks from Matalan at me or yet another pair of size 15 walking boots, that no doubt will remain in the hall, unworn and gathering dust.

I tell you, last time I nipped round there and peeked through the letter box, all One could see was a line up of enormous boots, and an odd looking black and white photograph of Cathy Kirby.

Any road up he’s escaped my clutches for another working week so One will have to store up all my ‘handy hints for the homemaker’ until One biffs round there for a Birthday Pie next weekend.


Saturday, 9 March 2013

In which One is denied another exclusive Mother’s Day…

‘I’m bloody sick of it! This effing walk frame!  I’ve phoned that bloody Eileen six times this morning and she hasn’t answered. Serve her right if she’s dead.  She would ‘ave been if Ange ‘adn’t bin round there last bloody Wednesday.  Still – I bet she’s gone down the town for a cooked bloody breakfast.  Well, when you go to bed at seven o’clock you can do what you like!  Fancy,  missing all the telly!’

That was the response One got to the telephone enquiry to see if the Mother’s Day parcel had arrived…

‘Woss that drug wot you got?  Porzac or something?’

Oh no!  One expects that Delphine (her daughter’s got ever such a good job/villa on the Costa Del Bollicks/massive salary/husband with an enormous cock etc) now has all the information required to file Lovely One under Loser/Victim whilst preening on behalf of offspring.

‘I’ve ‘eard nothing from ‘im!’   (meaning the brother)

‘Well you won’t will you.  We’ve been over this a thousand times haven’t we? And frankly, I’ve got enough going on in my own life without constantly having to dissect his with you’.

‘Oh well, it’s alright for you.  You can cope.’

Hold phone away from auditory device for the ensuing rant and then bid farewell…


Well, this over fifty does anyway!  When will One get the chance to revel in me litany of life-shortening illnesses without having to monitor the minor ailments of the ‘orrible octagenarian from Lutonistan?

There’s flamin’ hordes of sprightly old biddies being disgorged from Wallis Arnold coaches all over the sodding Cotswolds having free bars and running buffets till they fart their duvets ceilingward.

I put it down to the austere wartime diet and cycling to work. 

Powdered egg and ration books have a lot to answer for in the shackled world of the fifty-something eternal daughter.

Now the old harridans can tick over eternally with a cocktail of free, life extending drugs, whilst there’s no hope for the diabetes raddled, fat fed fifty-something of the white sliced generation.

MOTHER’S FECKING DAY!  Lovely One is one!  Yet even at One’s advancing age One is still required to front up as the failed daughter instead of being coddled by Boy.  Thereby letting him off the misery.

All these never ending old biddies barging about Garden Centres with their standard issue walk frames bashing into the swollen ankles of their processed food fed, morbidly obese, Pinot swilling divorced daughters.

One is thinking of starting a flabby armed posse of sharp shooting, cat mourning, internet dating, post menopausal, pitted thigh, gun wielding, damned daughters to pick the silver haired little shites off, one by one as they dismount from the Majestic Coach Tour bus.


Closely followed by the obligatory two surviving, beige kagul-wearing, slightly soiled widows who are anxious to give their crinkly old, duffel-bag willies an airing after a Cinzano soaked free bar.


In which One appears in a fetish brochure…


From One’s previous revelations regarding the Riviera Swingers…

About a year later, a slimy old lothario sidled up to the still nubile and scrum-diddly-umptious Lovely One and, with the obligatory hand round the midriff high enough to brush me dub-dubs, and with stale beery breath mumbled…

‘I’ve got a picture of you without your clothes on.’

Turned out that One was featured in the holiday brochure for the afore mentioned shag-fest camping holiday company.  Oh well, them were the days!


Any road up, hope Lovely Gordon got the postcard featuring a massive set of drawers what One bunged through his front door.  Having macheteed through the vast forestry that keeps unwanted callers at bay, One felt One should explain the absence of One at the ‘fish pie supper’ One was cordially invited to.

What happened was…

Abdul the Brummer Plumber was holed up in the khazi for two full days putting in the new twinkly white suite and had barred the way to me boudoir. So with no afternoon nap for two days, One was on the cusp of nighty-night when at five of the clock L.G. called with his offer of scran and a general chit chat about the neighbours.

Back to the bog, figuratively speaking, IT IS FAB

The entire underground lair is worth about fourteen and six, but the bog is a £150K-er at least.


Just had a call from a new artist acquaintance of One’s with the most outrageous story of piccy nicking ever!

One of her customers just phoned to say that she would have liked to buy a print, but wasn’t happy with the way the canvas was wrapped on the frame.  After further delving it would appear that the pic has been printed, another’s signature bunged on it and is appearing william nilliam all over the planet!

What’s to do about that?  One would have been fair incandescent with rage.  After all One gets a fit of the screaming ab-dabs when One hears about that flamin’ woman from Moonsliver who keeps copying One.

Got a commission to finish by Tuesday, so shall stop ranting and moaning for now….  Ooooh, sold two to a collector who’s got twelve now, yesterday and on the cusp of entering a new, v difficult to get in, gallery.  So cross everything Dear Reader, maybe One’s on the up instead of me uppers!


Friday, 8 March 2013

In which One accidentally goes on a Swingers Holiday…

Whilst shooting the breeze with Dear Little S and FFS the other day we strayed onto some v weird topics of conv…

One was waxing lyrical about me new bog/bath/basin put in by Abdul the Moroccan plumber when FFS shot off at a tangent with stories various of toiley boiley tales so vile as to render Lovely One very nigh on the cusp of barfing when they pop, which they continually do, into my otherwise empty head.

One concerned a customer who, without fail, has to use Dear Little S’s toiley boiley for numero duos upon the occasion of every visit, leaving the otherwise pristine porcelain spattered and stinky.  (merely recounting this tale is making One feel queasy, but, trust me, ‘tis essential to today’s diary.) 

This led on to what One dearly hopes is an urban myth: the story of a city gentleman caught on CCTV wiping two slices of bread around a public toilet bowl and then scoffing it!  Oh my, One can hardly keep me larks tongues in aspic down now!

Any road up, one thing led to another and before long we three were speculating about dirty habits various and the subject of ‘swinging’ reared it’s ugly…

‘I accidentally went on a swinger’s holiday,’ piped up Lovely One.

FFS and Dear Little S, who was manfully attempting to give his full attention to a customer (not number twoing in toiley boiley) refused to believe this affirmation and so here is the tale in full…

Aged 19, Lovely One and One’s BF at the time, The Animal (so called for her family crest ‘If you can’t f**k it or eat it, kill it) espied in a girl’s publication of the day a two week camping holiday to the Carmargue for £17.50

‘Woo Hoo’, think the racy gusseted duo, and The Animal was dispatched to book the jaunt, forthwith.

The person taking the bookings suggested that as we were young things we might prefer another of their coach/camping trips which would be peopled by the younger holidaymaker.

And so it was thus that we fronted up at Victoria station to be met by a holiday rep bearing a banner that read…


Following a gruelling 23hour coach ride we disgorged into a field full of tents with a makeshift shower block at one end and a rickety bar/clubhouse at the other.

Lovely One being a slender, giggly airhead at the time was pounced upon by the ‘manager’ of the site who plied One with Pernod to the extent that One was rendered semi conscious until rudely awakened by the weight of a camp site manager directly on top of One.

Fortunately One created such a screaming and hollering din that some chaps nearby dragged the offending article out of the tent and biffed him about the head.

Subsequently the ‘manager’ was escorted off the site, fired and sent packing in disgrace.

‘Did you hear all that screaming in the night?’ was the enquiry on everybody’s lips the following day.

Lovely One made like the innocent angel that she looked and when asked by the management if One wished to press charges, One went for a free bar for the remainder of the holiday instead.

And thereby hangs the tale…

The seventies were another country.

Indecent and inappropriate behaviour and even rape were ignored.

Just ask Jimmy Savile and all the other men who abused their positions to take advantage of silly young Ones.

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

In which One’s printer takes a fecking liberty…

Road tested a new printing establishment this week…

One’s usual printer had welcomed the acceptance of a new order with the stunning information that,

‘Well, we are expecting a lot of work in from the university this week so we won’t be able to do it for the next couple of weeks.’

KIN ADA – thinks Lovely One – Now, One is at the rear of a fecking queue that hasn’t even formed yet!

Any road up, the newly tested printer, Carly Press, in Wellington, were so blase about the possibility of a weekly order and so inflexible in their exorbitant prices (not to mention their blatant disinterest in One as a new customer) that One is once again hostage to the blighters at Breton Side.

All the way down, One was forming the response to the order not being fulfilled to the point that, when it appeared on the counter as One flung open the door to the establishment, One was very nigh downcast.


One needn’t have taken umbrage, as yet another body blow lay in wait for your very own Lovely One…

‘P was wondering if you’d let us print off some of your images to sell as cards in our shop,’ came the enquiry from one of the minions.

‘Which Ones?’ enquired the placated L.O.

This exchange was followed by the whipping up on the pooter screen of the desired images and the approval/disapproval of your very own Lovely One.

‘Pray tell how you will recompense One for the sales thereof,’ said One, or words to that effect.

‘Well, what we were thinking was, that we would invoice you as usual for them and then pay your cut as and when they are sold’, said the cheeky effing J. Arthur Ranker.

Lovely One steps back in amazement and positively guffaws with mock glee…

‘Let me impart an useful piece of information to you,’ began L.O., ‘What happens is this:

I come in here.

I tell you what I want.

You do it.

I pay.

‘Oh, I thought you might say that,’ said the stchoopid twonk.


‘I know I’m easy going, but you are taking the piss,’ said the, by now, raging Lovely One.



Saturday, 2 March 2013

In which One and Bert reach a truce…

Having strayed inadvertently into a Jeremy Kyle production last week, the Underground Lair returns to something akin to normality of late. 

Uncle Bert, renamed for the aforementioned period, ‘Bert the Dip’ took to the road with Montgomery, renamed, ‘Fang’ for the duration.  When on the road they foraged for sustenance in bins and slept outside Morrisons wrapped in the Daily Mirror sports pages.

Obv., should Lovely One ever resort to life on the streets, One would be snuggled down in the doorway of Waitrose under a copy of the Culture section from the Sunday Times.  Given the sudden slump in sales that may be sooner than One would like!

Any road up, Bert and Fang took to the life like a couple of pros and were soon drinking their Banana Yazoo out of a paper bag whilst slumped on a bench in the local park. 

When apprehended by the rozzers it all came out that Bert was the mastermind behind the lesser known ‘small train robbery’ and had been the unsuccessful lookout for the gang attempting to nab the Caterfood delivery to the restaurant car of the 8.20am from Penge.  Distracted by the pungent aroma of a passing box of floured baps, Bert had taken his eye off the ball and rendered the other gang members ‘a fair cop.’

BF has emerged as the unlikely star of the ensemble, in that she has been taken on by Frank Warren and heads his stable of over 55 boxing ladies.  She looks quite nice in the shorts now she’s lost a shed load of lard, but the image is ruined by refusal to remove her liberty bodice, complete with camphor pack in the pocket.

Bert is seeking medical advice for his woes and it turns out that he slumped into a deep depression when he had to give up the cat burgling due to the fact that he can no longer wriggle in through a fan light and has to rely on people leaving their patio doors open.

Any road up, it turned out that Lovely One and Uncle Bert decided to give it one more go so as not to make another two people miserable.


The law courts in Plymouth want a rake of Lovely One’s masterpieces, so One shall see that as a blind eye turned to any future abuses of Bert’s tag.