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Wednesday, 31 July 2013

In which One’s left knee is the leader of North (or is it South) Korea…

Unable to make the Yealmpton show today, as may be mistaken for an entry in the heiffer class.  One has puffed up like a zeppelin.  Well, that’s not strictly true, One’s left knee has taken on comedy proportions and requires elevation whilst watching re-runs of Come Dine With Me.

One did barge into a decorative piece of cast iron kitchenalia on One’s progress around the village yesterday and One imagines this to be the result.  One really is growing into a gert big lummox with no in-built sense of balance.  One has always been a clumsy great oaf, much to One’s dissatisification.  Whilst all One’s chums were drifting about, wraithlike, in cheesecloth maxi dresses looking like filleted whispers, One maintained a healthy, almost farm-girl like bloom and girth. 

That, of course was back in the seventies when it was de riguer to be small, slender and undernourished looking.  One had all the gear, what with One’s Papa having a sort of boutique kind of affair in the centre of Luton.  So One had more cheesecloth frocks and pairs of loons than One could shake a stick-like chum at.  But, all to no avail.  One never did acquire heroin chic. 

Any road up, it’s too late to blather on about all that. One shall have to be content with being a feted later-life beauty, when One’s knee returns to normal size.

Lovely G has biffed off on the train to Exeter in the pursuit of white goods, despite my lengthy pep talk yesterday.  One will be on red alert for the John Lewis van later on and attempt to head them off at the pass.

Sales are a bit crap at the mo.  Still, it’s nice to see all this bad weather blowing in for the start of the school hols.  Now all the little stinkers will have to be dragged round the shops with their desperate Ma’s and Pa’s.

Now, Dear Reader, don’t all rush to the Lovely One worshipping alters I know you all have in your hovels, and offer a quick prayer for more work to come One’s way in order for One to maintain One’s lavish lifestyle.

No, fear not.  One’s bloated left knee has taken on the appearance of Kim Jong-Un.  One is in the process of applying a couple of boot buttons for eyes and then we’re off to Korea to audition for a looky likey position.

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

In which One is reclining with the sheer exhaustion of being Lovely, lovely One…

Late checking in today, Dear Reader.  Have been snuggling dans le truckle bed following an exhausting photo shoot for The Times Culture section, up the Comms office.  Princess P was wafting about like a fart in a Martini bottle organising the massive crowd of three artists and a couple of organisers in order to hold this week’s frontispiece.

We then repaired to the Moroccan gaff over the road for a Mocha and a chin wag.

One was up late last night entertaining LG and what a jolly jape was had.  LG arrived bearing gifts:  A bottle of posh wine, a punnet of cherries, a Tesco finest Prosecco trifle, an open bag of watercress and a size fourteen pair of ‘wakkin bwts.’

NO, NO and thrice no!  Lovely One is not a size fourteen!  One believes the boots were brought round in order that LG might receive absolution for making the unnecessary purchase.  TK Max have a lot to answer for where he’s concerned!  One can hardly enter the premises for walking boots various stacked behind the Georgian settle.  And, worse was to come.  It was, BOGOF! So, in fact, another two pairs will be residing, unworn, for unsuspecting callers to go arse over tit across.

As for the White Goods dependency problem:  it gets worse!  One was required to access the Baumatic site in order to research fridges. (All this whilst Chet Baker was manfully funnying his valentine in the background.)  One has already been ordered this week from John Lewis, but now he’s gone into a complete fluster wondering whether the purchase was not required.

NOT REQUIRED!  I should say so!

‘Tis a universal fact that one person needs one fridge, washin’ mashin’ etc.

Why does he have multiples?  One has been attempting to find a ‘white goods dependency group.’  Something in the manner of Alcoholics Anon, but for person’s lusting after fridges, ovens etc.

One’s pathetic little stove noir was taken to task last evening by LG.  It being a v small device and one that bellows out clouds of steam upon opening the door.

‘I shall take you to John Lewis for a new one,’ he hollered above the extractor fan.

Meanwhile…

‘What’s that stink?’ enquired Uncle Bert, from his bedsit.

‘Are you cooking fish?’ exclaimed Lovely G

Flamin’ Nora!  That’s just what you want to hear when you’re slaving away on a Gordon Blew menu!  And anyway, it was crispy chicken thighs with roasted garlic vegetables and cous cous!

Ungrateful little Jaspers!

Monday, 29 July 2013

In which One is miffed by the Wiv Mess…

Even as One writes, Dear Reader, One has a generous portion of thigh chilling in the Smeg.

Lovely Gordon is taking supper in the Underground Lair.  One is preparing a feast par excellence in his ‘coming down’ honour. 

But wait!  Tragedy struck!  Some dastardly blighter has torched Waitrose!  One went all of a tiz and was forced to down-shop with all the Tiffanys and Shaniquas in ASDA.  But all was not lost.  The subsequent amusement factor made up for the shame when One was confronted by a brace of Jocastas looking flustered, pawing the ground in their riding boots, searching for larks tongues in aspic and ready peeled oranges.  The lissom darlings looked incongruous trotting alongside the arse-slapping Primarni clad Asda housewives.

One may very well call again, as One can still get three bottles for a tenner in there!

Back in Wiv, the heavens opened and One was marooned in the Bugatti for a good quarter of an hour before One dare alight and go in search of a Wivey Messenger.  The atrocious news has reached One that One is on the front page.  Well, One’s picture of the hunt leaving the square is on the front page,

ATTRIBUTED TO SOMEONE CALLED CLAIRE FISHER

DON’T THESE PEOPLE KNOW WHO ONE IS FER FECK’S SAKE

Any road up, One will now have to make light of it and advertise Oneself with this nomme de paintbrush, or One MIGHT LOSE SALES.

Beginning as One did with ‘even as One writes’ and what with Gordon the Lovely (you’ll have had yer tea) coming round, One was reminded of a Christmas epistle sent to LG from across the pond…

Please read in an American accent

‘As I write this Christmas card to you I am looking out over the lake.  The lights make it look just like fairyland.  When I’m done I will be putting the finishing touches to a decorated stool.’

Flippin’ ‘eck Caruthers!

Sunday, 28 July 2013

In which it rains on One’s parade…

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‘Tis a universal truth that the stalwart British determination to ‘have a jolly good time whatever the weather’ is what won us an Empire.

Fitzhead Carnival took place yesterday and it was raining chats and chiens (nod to WSEG) but, undeterred we sat, outside, scoffing cake and sipping tea, under our brollies of course.  A dear little man flew out of the tea tent with a cloth and wiped One’s chair before One sat daintily down. 

All the while, rousing British Empire type marching music blared out of the speakers and was interrupted from time to time with a tremendous holler of who’d won in the booze raffle.  Each time that happened elderly ladies very nigh shot out of their bath chairs and clattered their teacups about until they spilled tea all over their best frocks.

Darling A was there in his jumbly tent mwa-mwaing like a good ‘un.  One was enticed to purchase yet another china pot with a marmalade cat on it. One is v happy to report that A, and indeed A’s sibling are fervent readers of One’s doings! 

BF and BFP did a brief Royal progress through the tents various.  Obv we all curtseyed and doffed our wossnames in deference. Then they shot off to the bung to have a nap in their his ‘n’ hers thrones.

One won an individual pot of peaches, a tin of peaches and a tin of tomatoes on the tombola.  Boo Hiss!  The Scottish Landscaper, him what’s doing the grand excavation next door, won a flamin’ bottle of Pims and judging by the merriment drifting over the fence, they’re ‘aving it now!

The rain continued to bucket down and had a rather unfortunate effect on One’s chosen afternoon frock.  The weight of the water caused the sophisticated little number to grow and grow until One was walking up the inside of it and One’s decolletage was visible down to me spanx.  Being British One just tucked it up me knicker leg and soldiered on.

Having got a taste for the outdoors, One trundled down to Minehead in the Hummer and indulged in One’s one and only vice:  The grabbers. See above.

One must have used up One’s entire month’s spends attempting to grab a giant giraffe that resolutely refused to get it’s arse down the chute.  In fact, following the usage of many of the Queen’s 20p’s it took up a final resting place against the glass giving One a hard stare of triumph.  So, One eschewed the big cuddlers and went for the above pictured Teds, one of which was soon nestling against the bosom of your very own Lovely One.

One sauntered along the prom brandishing the prize Ted in utter triumph and presently passed the Ted grabber again where two young ladies were issuing expletives at their failure to grab.  One helpfully sidled up to them, Ted proudly thrust forward, and offered grabbing technique advice.  The ungrateful little blighters just looked at One with a mixture of amusement and terror and promptly turned away!

Undeterred by the rain, and the acreage of soggy frock, One motored on to Watchet for a fish supper which was enjoyed in a hut on the marina with a lovely view of two grubby little oiks having a snog in the hut opposite.

There One sat with just the scraggy pigeons for company, oh, and Ted of course.

Saturday, 27 July 2013

In which One breaks out the double zip squall parka…

A lizard in the sitting room.  Would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader? 

One can’t possibly extract humour from the situation though, since ‘twould require references to ‘lounge lizards’ etc, AND as One constantly points out to you ill-educated, inbred dollops – LOUNGES ARE ONLY IN HOTELS AND AIRPORTS.  Yet you continue to biff about referring to ‘the lounge’ or, even worse, ‘the front room.’

Any road up, back to the lizard in the SITTING ROOM…

It was petrified, not as in afraid, but stiff as Hugh Jorgen in his latest blockbuster.  The poor critter had become entangled in a giant spider web that was also clagged up with Gladys fur and all  manner of detritus in a seldom visited dark corner.  In the manner of David Attenborough One sucked it up the Dyson forthwith!

As if that wasn’t enough excitement for one day, One appears to have attracted the attention of a well spoken elderly gentleman.  On the premise of purchasing a masterpiece said EG has suggested a liaison during which tea and buns might be taken.

Last time One looked that sort of arrangement was called a ‘date.’  AND, Dear Reader, we all remember all too well how the last one of those turned out.  You don’t recall?  Well, allow One to refresh the memoire…

One was but a novice in the dating website world when One encountered a military gentleman who enticed One to a local hostelry for the evening.  One was thrilled to hear that the bod was previously married to a tap-dancing Vicar.  Oh Joy, Oh Bliss, One mentally logged that one for the blog!  All was well until One was escorted back to the Bentley, whereupon the aforementioned Military Bod pounced upon One with such force as to disengage the first of the double zips on One’s Lands End Squall Parka.

‘Twas a hard lesson to learn.  In future One always avoids the gentlemen who refer to themselves as ‘tactile.’

One always wondered why the cosy confines of the Lands End Squall Parka required the security of a double zip.  Now One knows!

Still, surely One can’t come to any harm with a cup of tea and a bun. Can One? 

Still, never say die.  Let us just hope that the lizard One sucked up the Dyson was the only One one will encounter this week.

Friday, 26 July 2013

In which the shit hots up…

Have just this min returned from One’s morning patrol of the grounds.  I tell you, in the summer months, it gets more like the Elysian Fields round ‘ere every piggin’ day.  (in the manner of Streetcar, you illiterate nonentities)  Well, that’s not strictly true one or two of ‘em can read, but not without pointing at the words and moving their lips.

The morning coughing session is One’s absolute fave with the hacking and hoiking like a peculiar morning revalle.

Sashayed through the gates to partake of a cafetiere with Lovely Gordon yesterday.  He’d planned a thrilling day’s outing to the North Devon railway with all sorts of culinary stops and shopping opps along the way.  One was booked up already though, having promised to lug the seething mass that is Uncle Bert to Asda to replenish his supply of ‘dirty food.’  Until One encountered the rotund reprobate One was a stranger to pre-prepared scoff, but now One’s Smeg is busting at the seams with sausage rolls, sliced white and own brand porkus pius.

A strange incident appears to be developing in the dog shite department around here.  The offensive notice put up by Our Directors has been removed, which is jolly good.  We now have one of those ‘Keep Wivey Tidy – Wivey Deserves Better’ ones which One heartily approves of!  It replaced the prior Director generated instruction:

Please pick up your dog poo, or better still don’t use this private garden.  You are been constantly surveyed by CCTV and will be instantly photographed by your Directors and reported to the police.  The fine is one thousand pounds.  Can you afford this?

It is pretty de riguer round ‘ere to be in receipt of all kinds of unfriendly missives on an almost daily basis.  The ‘smoking man’ had one complaining of his fag ash drifting into the plant pots at the front of the building.  He threw such a fit One thought he was going to have a seizure, One did!

Any road up, I digress, as is me wossname, Dear Reader, back to the dog shite…

ShirleyTosis, who tippy-toes round with her mutt, confronted Uncle Bert and Gladys the Wonderdog one morning about the aforementioned Glad dropping her guts on the hallowed turf of the communal garden.  Uncle Bert was incensed, and rightly so, since he may be a fetid old fart himself but he keeps Glad in pristine condition and always disposes of her doings in a manner befitting a royal corgi.

Following that incident: he now no longer lusts after ST in her shorts, a ‘poo bag’ has appeared tied onto the garden gate, AND according to Lovely Gordon, there’s one on the gate of Jubilee Gardens, up the village!

But it gets better!  Some wag has tied a bit of bog roll on the gate with the poo bag!  I wish I’d thought of that!

Thursday, 25 July 2013

In which nothing funny has happened for ages…

My butt is full!  Oh joy, oh bliss!  No more dragging the hose through me boudoir to liquidate the estate.  No more Uncle Bert clinging manfully onto the tap connection to stop it flying off.  Well, the kitchen ceiling needed a wash anyway.

Not a lot of dozing in the truckle bed though, since all the overflows and the fecking leaky guttering (reported to our Director months ago) have still not been attended to.   It was like trying to get a-kip under Tallulah Falls. AND that article on the top floor has been flinging his disgusting little dog ends onto my pristine patio again.  He’s been undeniably orfish since the day he yelled out of the window that his daughter is a really good artist and wanted me to sell her stuff in the shop.  Why do parents always think there offspring are talented?

Despite the poached egg incident, the bod with the holiday lets has taken a shine to me masterpieces and wants a goodly amount to flog.  Goodo!  Maybe another month away from the gutter then.

Lovely Gordon is down!

One envisages evenings being wined and dined sitting in the Eames chair or peering out of the window to the doings in Golden Hill.  He will insist that directly opposite his gaff they keep a goat in the sitting room that eats the curtains. I’ve never seen it, but there was a bloke doing a poo in the middle of the road one night.  Well, it is Wivey.  And, last time Boy fronted up he said there were wee stained sleeping bags hanging on the bushes in the alley.  One seems to miss all this now One is incarcerated in the Underground Lair.  When One was at number one all of life passed the window, now all of life just passes One by.

 

Rumour reaches me that the adorable B is being taken ooop North.  Who will cut all the grass?  Who will play with BK?  Who will biff about in his truck wearing those shorts? One wishes the pair of them all the joys that love can bring.  Even though One has been short changed in the amour department it doesn’t mean One is a dried up, vicious, bitter, miserable old trollpe.  Oh all right then, it does!

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

In which One is in a sombre mood, yet again…

One is definitely not doing that Facebook thing right.  One referred to someone as a ‘dozy old dollop’ yesterday and the d o d in question has taken umbrage.  One had previously imagined this to be a term of endearment, but, not so, according to the Pinkster, ‘friendships are won and lost’ on Facebook.

Maybe it’s a generational thing?  Maybe One is just too flippant?  Maybe One couldn’t give a rat’s fat arse?

Any road up, it is blatantly obv that One is not the sort of person to consider the odd random comment from strangers the basis of ‘friendship.’ 

And, it’s all so flamin’ serious!  I just don’t get it!  That is because in One’s misspent youth it was actually necessary to at least eyeball someone to consider them a chum.  Now, One merely sits in front of One’s pooter and reads and sends random messages to the great unwashed and his uncle and that seems to be enough.  I just don’t get it!  I still crave the company of other humans, to have a giggle with and the odd pint of pinot.

One is swimming against the tide, yet again, Dear Reader. Slap me all over with an ice pole and call me Daphne. God I’m bored…

This mood of misery is prob because Lovely Gordon hasn’t come down for the season yet.  At least when he’s in res One is fed vast quantities of Waitrose scoff and treated in a suitably Queen like manner.  And One was really looking forward to him coming to the field, at least for a day, to cast a beady over the Turdis that has been specially constructed now that the chest of drawers toiley boiley has rotted away.

Great fun is being had by one and all, according to Facebook, with persons charging out of their yurts and straight into the river every day.  These things all sound like fun, but are much too outdoorsy for One. 

Actually, come to think of it, One is a little too high maintenance to spend an actual night in a yurt.  How does One plug One’s ‘big hair brush’ in?  Yes, One is better of in the Underground Lair with hot and cold running lodgers.

One’s happily communing with nature in the back garden by growing One’s own salad.  At least that can be achieved without getting One’s hair wet or having to use a communal toiley boiley.

                                                                                            

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

In which One is not joining the Shrivelled up Sisterhood…

One has just been having a gander at that Facebook doings.  What’s that all about?  Obv, One has got a page in order to flog items various to the great unwashed of the world in order that One can maintain One’s Pinot Grig habit.  But, I’ll be blowed if I can understand all this absolute shite that people bung on there every day.

Fer instance: Today there is yet another, ‘I’m fat, got wrinkles, stretch marks etc’ notice with the mantra ‘love thyself’ at the end. What a load of bollicks!  If One had the spare money for surgery One wouldn’t be sitting here with me bingo wings flapping about whilst I type and me envelope flaps dangling on me jim jam bottoms, fer feck’s sake! 

All this old Feminist rubbish gets right on my wick.  One really feels it’s put about by hatchet faced old dollops who’ve been craving that great leveller, ‘Old Age’ when we are all discarded like dried up old husks. How they must relish the thought of growing facial hair and pulling up the twinkle drawbridge for the last time.

WELL NOT LOVELY ONE

Lovely One is clinging manfully onto the remains of One’s former glory.  It’s alright for them lot, loving their decaying bodies and inviting all and sundry to do the same. 

WELL, ONE’S NOT ‘AVIN’ IT

One refuses to join this shrivelled up sisterhood.

AND…

While we’re on the subject, One spits upon the little shite who menaced One with his nasty little shoe-sized ve-hicle whilst One was attempting to reverse me Sherman Tank out of the spaces outside the gallery in Exmouth.

One offered up apols and a lovely smile all to no avail.  After all, when you’re no longer considered boff-worthy you might as well forget about being treated with anything other than contempt.

Thank goodness for the likes of Lovely Gordon, who incidentally hasn’t ‘come down’ for the season yet.  One was looking forward to being able to take him to ‘the field’ to try out the Turdis.  More on that story later…

Any road up, can’t sit ‘ere whingeing all flamin’ day, got to get me Union Jack bunting out.

 

Monday, 22 July 2013

In which the Postie feels a right tit…

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For many a passing moon the Wivey postman (as above) has been biffing about on his bike delivering seed catalogues and poison pen letters all over the shop.  He has a key to the hallowed gates even, in order to bring little parcels of hair removing cream and haemaroid  medication.  Obv not for Lovely One, One has One’s fan mail and begging letters delivered by Yodel in sacks, but for the older and much less lovely old harridans up the block.

Any road up, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Oh my giddy Aunt and all that…

Until, that is Saturday morning…

One was pushing out the zeds (One doesn’t snore, actually) pay no heed to the complaints of Uncle Bert.  Anyway, how could he hear me, his bedsit is at the other end of the Underground lair, so One would have to snore really, really loudly and I’m sure One only makes little kitteny purring sounds (from both ends.)

So, anyway, the buzzer went and disturbed One from a dream where One was as One is at the mo, but back at school, where all One’s school chums were lithe and young and tanned and One was wondering how One hadn’t progressed in life, when One awoke and wondered why One hasn’t bla bla soddin’ bla etc…

One was ackled up in the remains of the special black jim-jams that One had acquired upon the first attempt to ensnare some old codger into One’s web. So obv the aforementioned jammers are in tatters and the lycra content has long since been exhausted.The upshot of the shot shirring, as it were, is that, upon movement, the little black upper garment swivels from side to side and exposes a gnarled old envelope flap dub-dub, or two.

Under normal circs, One dons an outer, or Genzelling Garment (see below) so as not to alarm the fee paying porker that is Uncle Bert, but not so on this particular a.m.

One stumbled from One’s truckle bed in a moist little bundle, going full pelt through the darkened corridors of the Underground Lair, just in case it was Boy delivering his laundry.

Well, I’ll be jiggered, it was a parcel for Uncle Bert that required a signature, which One duly provided to the accompaniment of a jabbering postie who hopped from one leg to the other whilst attempting to avert his gaze, which proved futile as he had to pass the wassname for a signature.

It was only after he’d gone that One realised One’s right dub-dub was completely exposed. 

I am holding out the vain hope that postie thinks One is in the Masons!

note-  Genzelling Garment – A dressing gown, preferable Ladybird pre 1960, with the ladybird buttons.  Used for snuggling into, or Genzelling.

 

Friday, 19 July 2013

In which One is all moist around the hairline…

Dear dear me.  Will they never learn, Dear Reader, to treat Lovely One with the grovelling respect One demands.

No – Obv not as FFS has found it necessary to refer to One’s charming little ringlets beneath One’s sophisticated chignon as ‘ginger pubes.’

How utterly vile that creature is when tanked up with nine cans of Special Brew, AND, in the daytime whilst operating sharp instruments!

Obv, is utter jealousy on the part of the over made up dollop, since her own hennaed candyfloss, when scragged up into a 5p ponytail reveals all her bald spots which are, in this weather a blistered mass of puce.

note to readers-

A 5p ponytail is what you get with thin lustreless scraggy hair…

unlike -

A £2 ponytail (coin size) of, say, the lustrous, thick, shiny, healthy locks of LOVELY ONE…

Any road up, the barely clothed bint spent a goodly amount of the day remarking upon One’s tiny imperfections:  the fact that One was very nigh melting in the heat and the aforementioned short and curlies, due to the oppressive heat.

At least One’s gentle olive hue has been gained from the odd brief stroll in the grounds of the Underground Lair and not the ladled on gravy browning that the streaked old trollope has used!

There she is flapping about like Dita Von Teese in a trance, with brown rivulets coursing down the front of her Primarni, age 8, boobus toobus.

Well I’ll be jiggered!  One had a jolly spiffing student who appeared to enjoy his lesson, throughout which One learned he was the proud owner of a holiday let on the Barbican.  Lovely One, being all ‘OK YAH’ managed to secure the hanging of One’s masterpieces for the purpose of parting unsuspecting holiday makers from their pocket money.

All was well, until, thinking the bod had departed One remarked to Dear Little S, ‘One could poach an egg on me Tena Lady.’

Sadly, bod was still there directly behind One.  Still, might not have put him off me paintings, but One would venture to suggest that he never eats another poached egg!!

 

Monday, 15 July 2013

In which One is wined and dined…

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How jolly nice of Uncle Bert to step in at Paddy Power’s hour of need when their balloon went off pop!  His vast skid marked shreddies saved the day and six adventurous bods were soon winging their way across Devon under his gonad encasements.

Lovely One had occasion to deploy the chiffon wide leg evening trousorial garments this week upon the event of a soiree at the residence of Lovely Gordon through the hallowed gates. Freshly scented with India Hicks Spider lily and with an extra layer of disinfecting talc up me gusset, One made One’s dainty way through the riff raff gates and up the alley.

‘Tis a disconcerting sight to see, yet again, the under garments of Himself on display in the alley on a circa 1955 wooden clothes airer for all to survey.  This from a man who won’t put his settle opposite the sitting room window ‘in case anyone sees me looking all alone waiting for someone,’ who is quite content for all and sundry to get a bird’s eye of his trolleys.

One fought One’s way through the ridiculously enormous plants impeding One’s progress up the garden path and, having squeezed past a vintage hoovering device (the last of the soft bag kind) plonked down in a comfy chair and awaited scoffage.

Plied with vino collapso for some several hours One would have considered consuming the shreddies with a modicum of the rhubarb and ginger jam what One had bought from the Porky Pedlar as a gift, had a cremated chicken not appeared forth with.

And V delicious it was, Dear Reader!  What a treat to be wined and dined by Lovely Gordon!

One did, however, have to clear a goodly amount of super floo us baking vessels off the dining room table in order to make room for us to dine.  One has offered, with the best of intentions, to give Gordon’s gaff a good bottoming before he ‘comes down’ for the season, since Mother would have slapped the back of his legs had she espied the state of the nation.

A jolly nice weekend all told and with the added bonus of the absence of Minger the Merciless!

 

Sunday, 14 July 2013

In which One wonders the wonders of a mini break in Sharm El Sheik…

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There is Lovely One floating above you earth dwelling devotees…

Any road up, ‘twould appear that Our Director has biffed off to foreign parts to terrify the natives.  Not before paying a Fuhrer like visit to the NDN’s to view their Billy Connelly Gardening doings.

‘You vill reqvire ein hammer drill to get through this vall,’ she helpfully pointed out to the (no doubt) professional person who was carrying out the work.  He was miffed to say the least and upon her departure, having informed the NDN’s that they hadn’t purchased the property, but merely the lease, launched into a diatribe about ‘not being told what to do.’

Oneself was, at this point, partaking of a vat full of pulverised carrot and celery before beginning another arduous painting session.  One smiled, or was it snarled to Oneself, and recalled a similar incident when Lovely One was even more Lovely…

As a young Lovely One, overpaid and over confident, One purchased the most expensive and exclusive apartment for Oneself.  Knocking the present down market residence into a cocked hat.   Anyway, having moved in, a similar busy body, male, fronted up at my door, barged in, clipboard clutched and informed me that I would never own the outside walls, don’t leave your car outside the garage etc etc., before announcing that he was the Secretary of the Residents Association.

Lovely One, being young and impressionable was rather frightened and worried about this officious older person and mentioned it to my Uber Posh Solicitor, who instructed One thus…

‘Miss Harris, if this person comes to your door again, open in and tell him to PISS OFF!’

Let this be a lesson to you all

Tuesday, 9 July 2013

In which Uncle Bert bares all…

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Just whipped this one of:  Sizzling Salcombe

Had already done one last week.  A more grey and wintry look to which Boy commented ‘ Oooh, wouldn’t want that ‘anging on me wall Mum.’  So, suitably chastised I wanged off another which will be for sale in a V posh retail emporium nowhere near you, my unwashed subjects.

The noisy little blighters next door are still excavating the grounds with a fecking pneumatic drillington or some such.  I did enquire of the Billy Connelly one if he had any quiet toys he could play with, but to no avail, he is still intent on removing all the earth from the top of the garden and moving it to the bottom.

Worryingly, a large raised area has been erected at the top of the garden enabling a bird’s eye onto the patio of your very own Lovely One. 

Well, if they want an eyeful of L O in me leopard skin teeny weeny and Uncle Bert in his camouflage Mankini then so be it!

HOT ENOUGH TO BOIL A MONKEY’S BUM ISN’T IT!

Monday, 8 July 2013

In which One would bash someone up if it wasn’t so bleedin’ ‘ot!…

Well, would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader, no sooner than One is annoyed by one eejit than two more step up to the mark…

Firstly One would like to excuse Oneself for a mo or two during which One will be beating the living beejeebers out of that twonk Andrew Castle.  What an annoying, ingratiating, boring, fatuous, slimy, fecking Hello magazine on legs he is!

Why oh why is he allowed in the commentary box with serious tennis boys like Bozza and that nice little Timothy?

All you ever hear from the eejit is ‘OOh look there’s Tamara Farquhar Smellington Botham, sitting next to the Price of Sodding Bleedin’ Arabia.’ 

Or…

‘ Andy Murray has been using Bronco bog roll since 1998,’ and other useless pieces of non-tennis related twaddle that must make that dear little Timothy froth at the gusset with embarrassment.

No sooner does One decide upon his punishment than – guess fecking what? – One only runs into the Snaggle Toothed Troll in Lidls!

‘Hello stranger,’ piped up the mildewed midget.

‘Yes, let’s keep it that way,’ retorted Lovely One, ‘you hooverer-up of discarded husbandage.’

‘Oh V ex H,’ she went on with a mere wave of her wrinkled arm, ‘ I haven’t seen him for ages.’

The treacherous trollope, the sly, septic slattern, the dastardly dwarf, the vertically challenged viper, the stained strumpet, doesn’t she understand that a person NEVER EVER should move in on the abandoned hubbster of a chum.

Well, One wasn’t really her chum, so to speak, One merely cosied up in her direction in order to relieve her of her retail premises for my beloved Red Hat.

Well then, One hears you chorus, ‘Serves you jolly well right!’

NO NO NO

Never mind all these reinforced gussetted trollopes biffing one another about for a lick of the Vile ex Hubbster – One might need him again one day!

Any road up…

Then – upon dropping Boy off at work a sweaty saddled Wiggins type appeared from nowhere and One almost winged the wanker!  I don’t know!  They biff along at a rate of knots with their meat and two veg steaming in their lycra shreddies and woe betide any other road users pootling along.  He gave me a hard stare, like they own the road, the cycling cretins.  All One can say is that One hoped they all have a certificate to prove they can’t afford cars!

Sunday, 7 July 2013

In which the Specials continue the archaeological dig…

The ‘Specials’ are back.  They rise early, and when they’re up, every fecker’s up, believe Moi!!

Judging by the rasping Scottish twang drifting over the fence, accompanied by guffaws from Special 2, they have employed Billy Connolly to dig the garden.  Nay, excavate the fecking garden!  For the amount of huffinton and puffington and thwacking and biffing that’s gone on over the past week, One imagines they’re expecting to find the lost city of Atlantis.

Following all this pavlova One would imagine the job’s a good un, but no, Dear Reader, Special 1 felt the need to deploy a vintage excavating tool to the top of the garden.  He thwacked the bejeebers out of a single square millington for hours, whilst offering up a running commentary of events to Special 2 who was slumped sur le patio in a knitted bathing suit.

Any road up, it V nearly interrupted me afternoon nappage!

Bolstered by a quart of Pinot, One dialled the Aged P…

One       How’s things up there? Hot enough for you is it?

AP         No!  It don’t get warm in ‘ere till the night.  And just let me tell you about Eileen.  She’s had sausages four times this week that I know of!  Once in Morrisons, then she’s had two of them all day breakfasts, AND she’s had some at home AND she ‘as them hash brownies as WELL!  What do you think of that!

One       Perhaps she likes sausages.  (have a distinct feeling of deja vu at this point)

AP         Well what about getting all her vitamins and fruit and veg.  That lot’s not in sausages, NOW IS IT?  She goes down that cafe in the town nearly every day and has that breakfast!  They know her in there and she gets two eggs and everything.  She’s eighty-seven you know!  She should be having what I have: one glass of red wine, loads of salad and two squares of 90% cocoa dark chocolate a day.

One       Maybe you should try the sausage diet.  After all if she’s 87 and she goes into town every day she must be doing something right;     

AP         That’s it, you take her side!  I’m not eating sausages and beans and all that rubbish, I ‘ave to ‘ave 90% cocoa and wine, the doctor said and anyway that Jackie still hasn’t trimmed the hedge or cut the grass and I’m sick of it!  Anyway I can’t stand here in me pants talking to you I’ve got to find something to wear for the highwayman……….

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

GO FIGURE!

Saturday, 6 July 2013

In which One is aghast at the doing of Vile ex Husband’s harem…

Boy was in the market for a free lunch, well supper, yesterday as vile ex husband was off ‘mending someone’s computer.’  That is v ex h speak for attempting to get boffed whilst cadging a free scoff.

Rumour has it that the snaggle toothed troll introduced him to some old dollop called ‘Giddy’ or some such silly monika.  Any road up, now the two of them have been positively skirmishing over his favours.  True, he is an amiable old codger and still has all his own teeth, but puleeeeease, fighting over him!!

The image this conjures up is positively ghastly!  Picture if you will, Dear Reader, the midget sized Snaggle Toothed Troll, possibly having undergone a cursory wipe with a soiled face cloth, and wearing this month’s undergarments topped with some circa 1960’s cheesecloth creation not even fit for the deserving poor, and ackled up in some thonged sandallage to best display the gnarled and fungus ridden curled toenails – and the as yet un-observed Giddy, going at it hammer and tongs to be awarded a night time fumbleage from Vile ex H.

How his standards have plummeted since he chose his life of idleness over the immense privilege of funding the extravagant lifestyle of you very own Lovely One! 

Obv, One has not the merest inkling of the conditions in which Giddy resides, but Vile ex Husband and The Snaggle Toothed Troll were a match made in the Heavens, what with their suspect cleaning regimes.

Both favour the open kitchen bin look in order to attract the attention of blue bottles.  Not sure why Vile ex H adopts this particular tactic but the Snaggled One deploys the un-lidded look in order to distract egg laying insects from her moist gusset area.

And as One sits here reviling the dirty old desperados, One is serene in the knowledge that every inch of the Underground Lair has been Cilit Banged to looking glass shine.

And – me gusset is as fresh as a daisy!

Friday, 5 July 2013

In which One’s in the shite again…

There simply cannot be a single atom of The Malthouse that hasn’t been sawn off or bashed with a hammer of late.

I kid you not Dear Reader, the bloke upstairs, whose flat is ferzackerly the same size as the Underground Lair, has been beating the living shite out of it on a constant basis since I moved back in eighteen months ago.

What the feck are they doing up there?  AND all their sawing and dust producing activities are indulged in on the stairs which, since they are open tread, results in something akin to a fecking beach scene outside the Underground Lair.

Not only that, but the ‘special’ people next door have fecked off on their hols (holiday from what exactly is unknown, since they do feck all) and left some antagonistic Scottish personage belting seven shades out of their patio. The current state of affairs has rendered a raised platform area to the top of the garden where presumably they will be sitting in their ghastly plastic chairs peering over into the manicured grounds of Lovely One!

IT CAN’T GO ON

One’s afternoon nappage has been disturbed to the point where One is positively sashaying around with the back of me hand to me forehead sighing in the manner of a pre-raphaelite, consumptive siren.

Any road up, finding a brief sliver of time with which to tread softly over the camomile lawn, One donned a diaphanous tea dress and sashayed forth barefoot across the grounds.

Only to be brought to an abrupt halt when One inadvertently trod upon a freshly deposited Alexander.  There’s nothing quite like the feel of warm dog shite squidging up through One’s recently manicured (or is it pedicured) toes.

Ooooh the things that happen when One has left One’s Kalashnikov in One’s other ‘andbag!!