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Saturday, 27 April 2013

In which One takes up a new career as a wildlife photographer…

Am in dire need of new spectacles or a psychiatrist, or both…

Have just spent an hour or so, as the sun was coming up, staking out, David Attenborough style, a dog turd with a bit of grass stuck in it…

It all began, when One, unable to sleep, had drawn back the curtains and had a quick peer outside into the grounds to see what was occurring in the ungodly hour before dawn…

AND THAT’S WHEN ONE ESPIED IT…

A small black creature moving slowly across the lawn, presumably feeding on the bits and pieces put out for the birds. Occasionally it stood up and looked about, then trundled along it’s way. 

One should have been alerted to One’s error quite early on as when One began to image it were a black rat, One hurled a couple of small items onto the lawn in order to shoo it away.

Nothing happened!

A feisty little forager One assumed, and quietly cleared the window seat in order to stake the blighter out in a professional manner.

Newly inspired by the ‘Bear Stakeout’ on TV this week – Oh One does wish they wouldn’t give animals human names!, One set up with binoculars and a zoom lens camera at the ready.

               ~             

Bear watch summary…

Bears walk about, bears boff, bears catch fish.

               ~

Any road up, One made all sorts of noises in the direction of the fearsome forager and set up the camera.

One now has a brilliant pic of a dog turd with a bit of grass stuck in it.  Oh, and an appointment with an optician…

                                                                                           ~

Having watched ‘Ade in Britain’ last week whilst painting, decided to give that old Rory Bremner a go…

Whilst Ade Edmondson was a joy to behold: a genial man-of-the-people, loved by one and all, RB was a stiff, aloof, fish out of water amongst the ‘people.’

Ghastly chap!  They should have taken him on ‘Bear Stakeout’, hopefully one would have scoffed the blighter!

 

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

In which One finds it difficult to empathise with an aged, racist, bigot…

LO     Hello, just thought I’d call to say that Boy has a start date for his job.

AP     Jackie is finding it very difficult to manage so I’ve lent her some money.

LO     It’s the 29th of April, so that’s a full six months since he first got accepted onto the apprentice scheme.

AP     She doesn’t get any petrol money to take her foster child to school.

LO     I just thought you’d like to know about Boy.

AP     Did Delphine send you some money for the prints she said she’d sent twenty five pounds.

LO     I haven’t had anything.  Anyway, I said she could have those, I’ve got plenty of them.

AP     I’ve got a pain in both my arms and the doctor won’t give me an appointment.  I think it’s from them pills what I have to take.  He said he’d phone me in two days.  I never did!  I shot the full length of the bus yesterday and the driver, b***k of course, wouldn’t stop when I dinged the bell.  I told him!

LO     Have you read the side effects sheet that comes with the pills?

AP     No.  I want to get on with my life without a pain in the arm.

I WANT TO GET ON WITH MINE WITHOUT A PAIN IN THE ARSE!

LO     Well I expect that’s what’s doing it.  I know some of mine give you side effects almost as bad as the illness itself.

AP     I done that block of flats in Spain.  It’s taken me ages!

LO     What block of flats in Spain?

AP     Huh! That’s right you pretend you don’t know what I mean.

LO     I don’t.

AP     THAT PICTURE IN THE BOOK YOU GIVE ME FOR EASTER!

LO     Oh yes.  I know the one.  Is it ok?

AP     That Beryl’s like a bloody spring chicken going around organising the Church and the Guides all the bloody time.  She’s 78 and her ancestors came from Wiveliscombe.  I told ‘er, we could go there and stay in the Bear.

LO     That’s a good idea.  That’s where I sent Abdul when he came to fit my new bathroom.

AP     ABDUL! AB-bloody-DUL!  What’s he doing in your flat?

LO     Fitting a bathroom.

AP     There was a shooting up the road on the left.   Foreign of course.  I don’t walk up the road now and you can’t use the Post Office or the cash machine in case someone is watching.

LO     Why don’t you get your money paid straight into the bank?

AP     I like collecting it from the Post Office. Anyway, I’m going shopping now.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Sunday, 14 April 2013

In which One just doesn’t (and obviously never has) got ‘IT’…

It is an abomination, no less!

The food of Hades itself.

THE BLACK PUDDING SCOTCH EGG.

Admiral Nelson himself loaded his skiff with holds a-plenty of the evil, spherical cannon balls and shot the shit out of the Frenchies and Spans, holing their great warships below the waterline to render the blighters tits up in the Battle of Traf.  (Although how the devil they even got those boats into central London is a mystery to me!)

Even as you peruse this periodical, Lovely One shall still, no doubt have a goodly section of one stuck in me craw.

With most unusual caution, One had sliced a mere morsel of the offending blood based snack item to give it the all clear before devouring the whole.  Just as well, for the hen that squeezed that oueff out of it’s twinkle would have remained ‘bound’ had she foreseen the sacrilegious coupling of it with a fist-full of congealed pigs blood!

With the soubriquet ‘Waste not want not. Pick yer nose and eat it,’ ringing in me shell-like I perambulated forth to Uncle Bert’s domain and flung it in the washing-up bowl he has constantly positioned next his w*****g chariot and fled.  But not before he’d sucked it up the length of down pipe he keeps handily resting on the pillow with which to fetch up any scraps thrust into his bowl. 

Anyway, he gave it a Caesar-esque thumbs-up without even wobbling off the bed where he now spends all the live-long day, and night, for that matter.

The offending foodstuff was a gift, dans a 10p Co-op carrier, with other pyrexxed-up perishables from Lovely Gordon on my departure from a brief visit-ette up the alley, yester evening.

AND AT PRECISELEY 2.33AM ONE AWOKE WITH THE STINGING REALISATION THAT ONE IS AN UNFEELING FOOL OF THE FIRST ORDER…

Let me explain…

Following one of our disjointed exchanges of pointless information upon the telephone, One was urged to pay a visit up the alley at precisely 6.18pm.  One hadn’t wished to appear churlish and speedily dried One’s silken tresses.  One had in fact spent all effing day doing all those beautifying duties that used to take a mo or two in the past, that now, with the general hoovering of all the super-floo-us hair, take a fortnight.  But, no, ’One mustn’t shun One’s chums,’ One thought and with a quick squirt of Cillit Bang Grime and Lime down the d├ęcolletage, One biffed off up through the gate.

One tapped daintily on the door. No reply.

One tapped a smidgeon harder.  No sign of the Lovely Gordon.

One peered up the hill, for he is prone to nip out to fling shreddies into the Wivey Washer.  No sign.

To One’s eternal shame and idiocy, One hammered on the door for a goodly while, and then, having no means of leaving a note, cleared off back through the gate.  Then One espied himself putting out the rubbish through a miniscule crack in the door.

‘Oh there you are,’ hollered the idiot that is Lovely One, and no more ado, shot through the gate and up the passage.

We enjoyed a glass of wine and a catch up without incident, although, given the Rhino-saurus like hide of Lovely One, there may well have been an atmosphere of some cuttable depth.

‘Twas only when One shot up with stark realisation in the Truckle Bed that One finally ‘got it’ that he must have changed his mind, mentally withdrawn the invitation and hid in the broom cupboard until he thought it safe to emerge.

OH WHAT A FOOL I AM

AND

LET ME TELL YOU

thinking about it, it’s not the first time this sort of event has occurred.

But, One shall get that off One’s chest at a later date.  Unlike the black pudding scotch egg which remains firmly stuck there. 

 

Saturday, 13 April 2013

In which One pontificates on One’s stupidity…

A little late to comment on the demise of MT, but anyway…

A very sensible comment was made by Boy, the gist of which was, ‘her being a determined principled woman whose views were unfortunately dangerous and misplaced.’ 

One took advantage of the boom years, One being in a profession at the time and lived it large in every way with narry a thought for the poor unfortunates who were suffering from her zeal.

Was my indifference down to youth, ignorance or just plain selfishness?  Who knows?  A smidgeon of each One is ashamed to admit.

But, the upshot of it all is that the welfare state that DC is always banging on about, was brought to the fore as a direct result of the smashing of industry and society by MT.

Further down the line, idiots like me who never saw an end to the boom times are middle aged, zombie debters who will all be a burden on the state eventually along with the no hopers who would have been absorbed into the manufacturing society.

MT’s was a short term fix for the have’s and that is exactly what DC is doing.

One is not a political animal and I expect Boy will put me right, but, that’s how I see it.

One is off to be a waitress today in a last ditch attempt to bolster up the painting income before One abandons all hope.

Nonetheless, One was horrified to hear all the fireworks going off on the day she died.

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

In which One is deemed more lowly than a house painter…

Picture the scene, Dear Reader….

A personage known to Aged P for the passing of many a moon has been, rather generously if One may make so bold, been GIVEN a splendid selection of Lovely One’s own prints – the small ones, One hastens to add. (One has not entirely been relieved of One’s senses!)

The bod in question has been generous with their time and motor vehicle in ferrying Aged P to and from the local Hospital and thereby One owes her a debt of gratitude.

During a telephone conversation with the lucky beneficiary One rashly offered the original of one of the prints that had been the ‘favourite’ as an option for a significant birthday present for the hubbster of Aged P’s chum.  The offer was made knowing the Birthday Boy in question is a faithful devotee of the genius of Lovely One.

‘Ooooh that would be lovely,’ opined the AP chum, ‘how much is it>’

‘Well,’ begun Lovely One, ‘I would let you have it for £***.  That would be a fifth of the price that one would be required to pay should one purchase the item from one of One’s galleries.’

‘Ooooh, I can’t afford that!  I’m having to pay someone to decorate the house at the moment and he’s charging a lot'.’

Now, One has to say, One’s gast was disturbingly flabbered at this point.

Look at it from the other end up, if you will…

Can you imagine, Dear Reader, the Aged P’s chum offering the option of paying the house decorator a diminished remuneration for his labours in an endeavour to pay a mere GENIUS LIKE LOVELY ONE a fair price for her labours?

NO! ONE BETS YOU FECKING CAN’T!

So why is it that the great unwashed masses deem it acceptable to offer pared down payment for art?

Is it not a noble way to earn One’s daily bread?

Is it not equable to the labours of the humble house-painter?

LET ME TELL YOU, HERE AND NOW, IT FECKING IS.

Only yester-week some stingy Salcombe weekend home owner bashed down the price of Brixham Dusk Revisited at Dartington ‘otherwise we won’t buy it.’

AND THEN ONE LOSES ANOTHER FIFTY PER CENT TO THE GALLERY.

One’s ‘fried er biled’ career thereby offers a more generous hourly rate that knocking out the masterpieces.

HOW DOES THAT GRAB YER?

 

Sunday, 7 April 2013

In which One starts a job, is late and gets sent home sick on me first feckin’ day…

Oh my giddy Aunt!  Cor Blimey Guv’n’r!

Lovely One joined the ranks of the employed today…

Here’s a clue…

‘Fried or boiled? Sugar? Milk?’

Yes, Dear Reader, One is a food peddler, waitress, cook and bottle washer.  TA-DA

Things is so measly in the art world at the mo, it has been necessary to GET AN ACTUAL JOB

                                                                          ~

Got up early

Left in plenty of time

Got me reservoirs muddled up and went to Clatworthy instead of Wimbleball.

Found the three square inch plot in Somerset that’s got a phone signal and applied to BFP for directions.

(Clatworthy.  What sort of word is that fer fecks sake?)

dic def

Clat – worthy ………  Somerset dialogue to describe a young wench

usage ………..   ‘Ooooh I could Clat that.’   ‘Oooooh errrr thar’s Clatworthy!

I digress, as is me wossname…

Arrived at correct reservoir half an hour late on me first day

Biffed about making tea, slicing cake etc

Not to mention flogging a Pinkster Chicken Bag 

(Fancy, One has to get a job to supplement me painting even though One has masterpieces in the cafe AND ONE SELLS A PINKSTER ITEM.  What a poke in the eye with a stick THAT was) 

Then, having settled upon One’s hours for the coming couple of months, the very next day to be tomorrow, One promptly barfed all over the shop and got sent home, not to re-appear within the vicinity of the seething unwashed masses requiring scran for at least three days!

What an inauspicious start!

Friday, 5 April 2013

In which Lovely One decrees that ‘charity should begin at home'…

Today SUMOS  (Society for Understanding of Morbidly Obese Sluts) would like to ask…
Can you, yes all of you not just the odd one, spare just two pounds a month to help a Lovely One in distress.
Every day Lovely One has to walk the 200yds to the Co-op to buy inferior Pinot Grigio and then carry it back in her basket.
Two pounds a month (from all of you) would mean that she can have a superior brand delivered to the door by Waitrose, thereby enabling her to recline das le truckle bed for a goodly portion of the day.
Lovely One is forced to drink ‘dirty’ wine. Who knows when the shame may kill her? 
A regular donation from you, yes ALL of you, would mean that she can have bottles with the ‘Waitrose’ label on them thereby reducing her shame when she drags them out for recycling.
Every day, scores of women in Wiveliscombe (and one that we know of in Milverton) just like Lovely One, are forced into this situation by virtue of the fact that none of them have ‘proper’ jobs and all faff around pretending to be ‘artists.’
Don’t turn your head away when you see us lying by the roadside, surrounded by flies and too weak to get up.
Contact SUMOS today to pledge your support and just two pounds a month.
Remember…
‘Buy a fat bird a bottle of wine and she can get rat arsed for one day…
Give her £2 a month (all of you that is) and she can have her own wine delivered and be lashed 24/7’
Just imagine Lovely One lying in her soiled Truckle Bed in a pool of her own cellulite, with crusty vomit stains down her jim-jam top.  (There are one or two unidentified stains on the jim-jam bottoms, but we won’t even go there)
Lovely One would ask you herself, but she can’t (she’s got a mouthful of pie)
So we’ll ask you for her.
Call now and pledge £2 (all of you) and make a difference in this harsh world.

Thursday, 4 April 2013

In which One recalls how it began to come to this…

IMG_1725

Have just got off phone to AP, having called to deliver the thrilling news that Boy is now an official employee of t’council.

LO    Isn’t it great news?

AP     I’ve just given Jackie some bits of food out of the fridge because she’s ever so short of money.  I saw one of them fires what ‘ee got you on the telly.

(A Kindle Fire, FYI)

No doubt she’s been regaling the assembled masses of the Lewsey Farm OAP Art Club with the tale of One receiving a two bar electric fire for Easter.

Any road up, One abandoned further exclamations about Boy’s glad tidings and just let her tell me about Poor Jackie

But – it did inspire me to delve back into the mists of time in an attempt to ascertain where it all began to go awry…

Above is the school photo of a surly, sullen, six year old, or thereabouts, Lovely One, sporting a tartan pinafore over me school blouse (One was a faithful devotee of the White Heather Club and had long term plans to marry Andy Stewart)

Sadly the picture in question still carries the printed order form with which to buy extra pictures of one’s offspring.  The fact that it remains intact is startling confirmation that Ron and Bet didn’t require any ‘6”x4” copies to give to relatives.’

 By this time ‘The Brother’ had come on the scene with his rosebud mouth, thick blonde curls, massive soulful blue eyes and, to top the effing lot off, a life threatening flamin’ illness!  How the devil could the bookish, snarling Little L O compete with that?

Every day One was placed atop a chair in the childrens ward at the Luton and Dunstable hospital to peer down into the cot containing The Brother who was hooked up to tubes various.

Bet took the Thalidomide drug for morning sickness and it left The Brother with a third arm sprouting and a hole in his neck.

Any road up following one such visit to observe the unwanted sibling, Ron and Bet stopped off at the local newsagents in order to acquire 40 GoldFlake and a quarter of Rileys Chocolate Toffees.

Lovely One sloped off to drool over the girl’s tea sets, thoughtfully placed within the sticky grasp of a six year old prospective tea party hostess.

Some half an hour later the Ford Prefect screeched to a halt outside the shop and Bet flung open the door hollering for the attention of Lovely One.

Apparently they’d regaled the newsagent with all the up-dates about the ailing Brother and then cleared off home completely oblivious to the fact that they had a further offspring!

One is glad to say that One hadn’t even registered their departure and upon their return was deep in negotiation with the newsagent for a discount on the ‘must have’ tea set.

One was brutally hoiked off the floor by one swift underarm grab from Bet and deposited in the back of the Prefect, sadly, sans tea set.

And so, there you have it, Dear Reader, absolute confirmation that Ron, and Bet in particular, weren’t suitably enamoured with Lovely One and Lovely One couldn’t really give a Kipper’s dick about Ron and Bet.

And thus it continued…

Monday, 1 April 2013

In which One clings to the hope that One is a fairy princess foundling…

LO    ‘Hello, it’s me, did you have a good day out yesterday?’

AP     ‘Huh, went to Kent with that flamin’ Eileen and her son to see ‘er brother what they only see once a year.  He’s just bought one of them really old cars what cost him £30,000 you know. He was born in the same week as me and he don’t take any pills at all.   What do you think of that then? 

LO     ‘Oh that sounds nice for you all. What kind of car was it then?’

AP     ‘That’s it!  You be awkward and pretend you don’t know what kind it is!  I TOLD YOU IT’S ONE OF THEM OLD ONES.  Anyway, that bloody Eileen wanted a piss every five minutes so we had to keep stopping so she could get out.

LO     ‘Did you have lunch at Eileen’s brother’s house?’

AP     ‘No, we bloody didn’t!  We went to this posh restaurant and the food was crap!  And it was really expensive and I’ve never seen so many scruffy people in my entire life as there was in that hotel in Folkestone where we went for tea.  They ‘ad one of them cheap Bank Holiday weekends and they was all dressed in jeans, if you ever did.  No one ‘ad a tie on.  Or a skirt.

LO     ‘Boy still hasn’t heard if he’s got that job with the council.  It’s been dragging on for four months now and it’s starting to get him down.

AP     ‘Jackie up the road is having trouble paying her mortgage.  It’s ever such a lot you know.  Still, I saw on the telly that everyone’s getting poorer but it don’t affect me, ha ha!

LO     ‘Yes, it’s really difficult to earn enough to pay for everything lately, and…’

AP     ‘Jackie ‘as got a new foster child and they expect ‘er to take it to Milton Keynes every day to go to school, and they ain’t even give ‘er the money for the petrol.  Well. I said to ‘er I wouldn’t take it.  She goes to the motorbike track at Leighton Buzzard to do sandwiches for £50 you know.’

LO     ‘Shall I phone you to let you know when Boy finds out about his job?’

AP     ‘I seen on the telly about that spare bedroom thing but it don’t affect me’.

LO    ‘Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in a flat with other people around you?’

AP     ‘I’m not moving away from my friends and letting some bloody foreigner get my house!’

LO     ‘It would be the right thing to do, you know, there is a housing shortage and someone with a family could do with your great big house.’

AP     ‘THEY WOULD GIVE IT TO THE M*****S, THEY GET EVERYTHING ROUND HERE YOU KNOW.’

LO     ‘Now you know that’s not true.  Why don’t you make enquiries about one of those nice sheltered accommodation flats that I used to visit when I did care work?’

AP     ‘I ain’t moving to a place with no windows in the bathroom.’

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

One is left clinging to the hope that One was a foundling fairy princess baby, left abandoned by an enchanted fairy queen, by the side of the road in a reed basket.  One just happened to be taken up by Ron and Bet when they’d nipped out for a pint of winkles and an argument in the Ford Prefect.

ONE SIMPLY CANNOT BE RELATED TO AGED P – CAN ONE?

In which One takes a paddle in the poopy pooch’s poop de doop…

‘There’s dog shit all over the hall floor,’ came the ear-splitting banshee hollering from Lovely One.

I wonder if that sentiment has the same lucky effect as saying ‘white rabbits, white rabbits, white rabbits,’ on the first of the month?

Or, maybe it was the dog version of ‘April Fool?’

WHATEVER 

IT’S GOING TO BE BAD LUCK FOR THE FECKING DOG!

IT’S NOT EVEN MY DOG!

If there is a heaven, then Lovely One will have an assured pride of place on a particularly comfortable Designer cloud, what with all my accommodation of persons (and dogs) various.

A veritable beatified beauty, that’s me!  The selfless generosity shown to One’s collection of life’s waifs and strays shall surely stand One in good stead?

Either that, or a man with a sleeveless jacket will come and parcel me up and take me away…

‘A’ve aalways reelied on the kiindness of strangers,’  Blanche Duboir, that’s me.

Any road up, I digress, the shite was removed by Uncle Bert, the owner of the poopy pooch, and Lovely One shot off gagging into me boudoir spraying Chanel No5 around as if it were FE-FECKIN’-BREEZE.

                                                                                                                        ~

A further calamity has come about deep within the jama-bottom region…

One appears to be developing pressure sores on One’s corned-beef arse, due to the inordinately vast amount of time One is spending reclining in One’s truckle bed.

This atrocious anomaly was discovered when One fled ‘neath the duvet to breathe in the night time emissions of Lovely One, rather than the pungent pong of the poopy pooch.

At first, One imagined the crusty attachment to One’s jim-jam botty area to be the remains of the Crunchie that One was inhaling upon the initial arrival dans le truckle bed…

BUT NO – tres horreur! 

The crusty, scabby addition, upon removal and closer examination, appeared to be the residue of a blister, lately come about from the scorching adhesion of the boiling hottie to One’s corned beef arse!

Oh woe!  How will Lovely One EVER lure even the most desperate of toothless pensioner into the Underground Lair?

One is doomed to paddle ceaselessly through the endless hall of dog shite to the Toiley Boiley of doom…