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Saturday, 31 August 2013

In which One kept me gob shut…

Oh my giddy Aunt, Uncle Bert’s got another date! 

As if One hasn’t got enough to occupy Oneself, now One will have to be on red alert at the door with a pair of articulated shreddies in case he tries to go commando on a date.

Heaven alone know what manner of toothless, gnarled old harridan will be waiting at the end of the A38 for her passport to paradise.  Doesn’t bear thinking about!

Any road up, began the Festival chat on 10 Radio yesterday with Princess P and some professional old cove who could do with the ‘don’t do that in Wivey chat.’

Fortunately, when Lovely One fetched up in Wiv, One immediately came under the supervision of BF who put One straight in the U and non-U ways of Wiv.

For example:

Never, ever bad mouth a Wivey-ite unless you are absolutely sure of their heritage as almost everyone is related in some way to everyone else.

If not, they will either be sworn mortal enemies or bosom buddies.

The professional cove would do well to adhere to this rule as he sat next to One and verbally lashed a bod who’s V dear to One’s heart. (Yes One does actually like a couple of people in the world)

Princess P’s eyes were shooting about like the lottery balls in the bingo machine, but all to no avail as the cove blundered on and on.

For once in me miserable existence One kept me trap shut and merely ingested the bile, with the view to either blackmailing or bashing up the cove in the very near future!

Friday, 30 August 2013

In which Lovely One takes a moment to instruct the Vile ex Husband…

One is V, V busy!!

Yet One still has to concern Oneself with the doings, or, in this case, the non-doings of Vile ex Husband.

How could One ever, EVER have even pondered the poss of gaining another!  Wasn’t that one enough for One’s lifetime?

Well.  I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!  Phoned up the bug infested, filthy, foetid, Snaggle Toothed Troll sniffer’s gaff in order to order the rancid blighter about (he needs almost constant supervision) and GUESS WHAT-  Boy is once again ill in bed. 

Does anyone inform Lovely One?  Do they feck?

‘And what, pray, is the matter with Boy?’ One enquired.

Following a severe interrogation of the V ex H, One finally got to the root of the matter.

Offered up some sterling advice.  Got completely ignored.  Why doesn’t the gert big streak defer to Lovely One when One is so often absolutely right?

Follow this easy to use guide

1    Clean the rancid gaff

2     Wash the sheets

3     Sandblast the bog

4     Buy a new oven (that one will NEVER EVER be clean again)

5     DO AS ONE SAYS

They may run, but they can’t hide from A LOVELY ONE ON THE WARPATH

 

 

Thursday, 29 August 2013

In which One is certainly not ‘Dear’…

THAT IS IT

I AM IN A REALLY BAD MOOD NOW

DON’T VISIT

DON’T CALL

DON’T EMAIL

DON’T TEXT

DON’T TWEET

DON’T EVEN GLANCE IN THE GEN DIREC OF LOVELY ONE

Some stchooopid little fecker in the Co-op just called me, wait for it, DEAR.

Then he said ‘how are you today? Are you having a good day.’

What the feck is that all about?

One grimaced at the cove and shot him a withering hard stare.

JUST GET THE FECKING SHOPPING IN A CARRIER AND PISS OFF!

I hate all this AMERICAN ‘nice day’ bollicks!  I’m not interested in ‘how anyone is, whether they’re having a nice day or the state of their fecking health.’

What’s wrong with snatching yer shopping, thrusting yer Co-op card and the money on the counter and then flouncing off – a la dans Luton?

Anyway, One is bogged off, having had to collect some paintings from Taunton.  What is it with the good burghers of Somerset?  Why can’t they be all over One like a rash, like the coves of Devon and Cornwall?

Just like the tiny baby Jesus, not accepted in his homeland and having to start his own religion.

That’s the answer!!! 

Well, my name is Crice after all!

                                  

Tuesday, 27 August 2013

In vitch ve are being repainted IMMEDIATELY …

Would you Christmas fecking Eve it?  One has just this minute arisen from me sick truckle bed and a missive hits the mat regarding the hanging scaffolding outside the Underground Lair.

‘You peoples may haf zeen zee scaffoldink up zee valls.  You vill be repainted zee first veek in Zeptember.  Any failure to comply viz zee vorkers and you inmates vill die.’ (or at least incur the cost of scaffolding re-erection to finish the job) 

Four fecking days notice.  That’s just about par for the course with the ‘Directors.’ 

‘Zo, you inmates, cancel all holidays, and do not attempt to leave ze car park.’

Madame Tosis has got her gusset in a twist re the bathroom suite awaiting removal from the rubbish area.  Apparently she has visitors coming.  What the feck has that got to do with the price of fish?  Or, are they camping in the bins?

Not that there’s any chance of leaving Wivey in the near future unless you want to take the redirection route whilst the road works is ongoing.  The new route to Milverton is via the Sydney fecking Harbour bridge!

Thursday, 22 August 2013

In which One is researching a tome…

Met a jolly tall, well spoken elderly gentleman yesterday…

Did One’s level best to flog him a masterpiece but the little blighter resisted me fem-I-nine charms and ordered one One didn’t have with One.

Obv this is because he has fallen under the spell of your very own Lovely One and has to invent occasions on which to meet up with One again.

He was researching a guide for unsuspecting old geezers who are looking for luuurve and expects to launch this epistle upon the eager public forthwith.

One, however, has begun a further literary project – yes – One can’t spend every waking moment lecturing you great unwashed eejits!

One is writing a book similar to that amusing little pop-up of the seventies: One Hundred and One uses for a dead cat.

One’s tome will be called – One Hundred and One Uses for a Jolly Tall, Well spoken, Elderly Gentleman.

1    Use as a washing line prop

2    Excellent for rodding out drains

3    Reaching the highest blackberries that One can’t get at

4    Telling One when One’s roots need doing

5     As a supper companion

                                ~

Phone call from Aged P

AP    Exactly what time are you getting here tomorrow?

LO    I can’t tell you that it’s a very long drive

AP     Well I’m going shopping and I didn’t want you to turn round and go home again if I’m not in.  I’m getting a white sliced loaf and some chicken legs and my friend’s sister isn’t well.

Hey Ho – Pass the Vodishka

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

In which Lovely Gordon has biffed off Professoring up the smoke…

Whatever will One do now?  Lovely Gordon has biffed off professoring up the smoke until the beginning of September.

No more supper soirees with Sancerre and sausages. No more in depth discussion regarding white goods various and their spurious acquisition.  No more bad mouthing all and sundry and looking gift horses in the gob.  No more being invited ‘7.30pm for 10.00pm supper.’  No more sitting in the comfy chair with a blankie whilst the Lovely G phones up everyone he ever met in Wivey and then biffs off to the Co-op for Sicilian lemons whilst Lovely One is gnawing the corner of the rug for sustenance.

He was in a right two and eight regarding the John Lewis fridge and, it has to be recorded, that One does feel slightly responsible for the ensuing lather, given that One has been mercilessly ribbing the great streak about the chilling device.

Already being in possession of a perfectly adequate Frigidaire seemed reason enough not to acquire another to One, so, One imparted that information to Lovely G, in One’s sternest terms, accompanied by a hard stare.

Duly, ‘twas arranged that the ever civil, teeth gritted, JL delivery man was arranged to remove the super-floo-us fridge. 

OK so far…

Then, due to the device in situ being stuffed to the gunnels with the Random Peddler’s wares and Thorne’s finest lump of moo cow (and of course more than a sufficiency of Sicilian Lemons) the blighter iced up at the back and rendered the joint inedible.

Lovely G, by this time pacing the rug in his size fourteen wakkin bwts, attempted to forestall the collection and went to the garage to sit with the white good.

All to no avail, the stalwart delivery chaps didn’t get the message (or in One’s opinion probably couldn’t decipher it) and turned up to remove the unwanted device.

Panic set in and the item has been re-ordered for delivery the first week in September.

One is currently tracking down one, or both, of the delivery drivers to offer One’s hand (and other body parts) in marriage.  They must be the most tolerant coves on planet Earth!

Monday, 19 August 2013

In which One is catering to the masses…

An organic veg box has been sourced and collected from the Random Peddler and delivered, with haste, up the cheap end of the passage, to Lovely Gordon.

This weekend persons from London are here to stay and LG, anxious to give the urban blighters a taste of peasant Somerset fare, Lovely One has been charged with catering.

A forraged blackberry crumble as well as a rake of Milverton’s organic finest have been scarfed down by them from up the smoke.

To add to the general delight, some generous cove had left a mountain of organic marrows in the vestibule with a ‘help yourself’ sign on.  Feck knows what one does with the jaspers, but the thought was there.  Although, One seems to recall Deidre off Coronation Street doing stuffed marrow as a signature dish.  One wonders what she stuffed it with.

Off to eyeball the WSEG on the morrow.  Hope it’s not too hot as One shall have to ackle up in me spanx, (vest and pants)

Must remember not to eat too many pies.  Don’t want that fecking elastine vest shooting up like a flamin’ roller blind again. Wondering whether to risk the control leggings in this weather.  Gets a tad moist up the gusset when the barometer reads fair weather.   Still, gives One somewhere to keep me sausage rolls warm till One gets ‘ome.

Sunday, 18 August 2013

In which One has been labelled fecking JOLLY…

The worst has happened Dear Reader, One has been mentioned in despatches.  Well, in itself, not a bad thing, but wait…

‘Jolly helpful,’ that’s ok, but, wait for it…

‘A jolly presence.’

They may as well of called me a big fat dollop, a lardy arsed bint, a wobbly tart etc…

We all know what ‘jolly’ means -   FAT

The next thing, it’ll be ‘a handsome woman.’  That conjures up an enormous bosomed, tweed clad, sensible shoed, hairy matron.

That’s it One is throwing in the towel.  A bath sheet, of course, what else would wrap around the girth of One.

To think, One was minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax doing a further Derma-Peel in preparation to take coffee and buns with the WSEG on Tuesday, when that little missive landed like a bolt from the blue in me inbox!

There One was ironing me best full length prescription smock and practising breathing in, and all of a sudden, One was declared fecking JOLLY.

The two week Pinot detox and fitness regime, (walking to the cake shop and back) along with the all over hot wax and exfoliate may as well never have been endured, if all One has achieved is the status – JOLLY.

What with that and the hair colour situation, the WSEG should keep his good eye open for a fat bird with green and white striped hair wearing a cover-all smock and velcro wide feet slippers.

 

 

Friday, 16 August 2013

In which One imagines gonad scuffage…

As One sits here regarding Oneself in me Louis Cans looking glass is has become apparent that when One ran out of hair dye last night, One had only done one side.

One looks a treat when viewed from the left.

Any road up, One can’t be sat sitting here mithering over that when One is reeling from the scene that confronted One when One burst into the Underground Lair from a hard day’s delivering.

One’s Chippendale sofa bed in One’s sitting room had suspicious looking dark stains on the scatter cushions.

On the seat – two circular damp patches.

On the frontispiece – two further low down damp patches complete with skid marks a la pendulum swing.

Oh my giddy Aunt!  methinks, he’s been in here in my absence, not only commando, but kek-less!

For if One is not sadly mistaken, Uncle Bert had taken advantage of One’s absence and been perspiring all over me furnishings whilst watching Sky Sport.

AND AFTER YESTERDAY…

He kindly offered to help One deliver all the 10 Parishes programmes around Watchet, Minehead and Blue Anchor. 

Watchet passed without incident.

Blue Anchor, no serious complaints.

BUT WHEN ONE WAS WAITING IN THE MAZERATI IN MINEHEAD…

One espied the loping mass that is Uncle Bert, making a meal out of perambulating his bulk up the hill toward the car.

Now, One is not in the habit of eyeballing any old codger’s trousorial department, let alone UB’s, but my attention was grabbed by the trouser front activity: it looked like he’d got couple of water filled balloons swinging from side to side.

‘GET IN THE CAR’ One hissed.

Having pointed out the appalling spectacle, he seemed quite put out, imagining that ‘No one will notice if I go commando.’

NOTICE!  They’d be lucky to escape as collateral damage if they don’t swerve those swingers!

AND…

Heaven alone knows the scuffage one’s gonads acquire when encased in the economy fabric of a pair of Premier Man, 5XL prescription trousers.

I’m off for a lie down

Thursday, 15 August 2013

In which A gallows has been erected…

‘Tis a flamin’ good job Lovely One has got her ‘insect badge’ from the Girl’s Brigade days for One was sorely in need of it on a recent visit for lunch to the Pinkster’s gaff.

A splendid Medieval looking hound was being ‘sitted’ for a chum and One can only assume it had lodgers various for One’s ample, creamy flesh was soon under attack.

‘Rip yer keks off and shake ‘em,’ opined the Pinkster.

‘Too late,’ One replied, ‘I think they’ve reached me twinkle!’

Quick as a flash me Girl’s Brigade training kicked in and I whipped me Tena Lady out, turned it arse about face and dangled the sticky side down me leg.

It made an excellent fly paper and kept the blighters off me quiche all day.

                                ~

Closer to home a further Medieval incident is underway.

A scaffold has been erected by Our Directors and any inmate found parking in another’s space will henceforth be executed.

MLP, still retaining a streak of gentleness, (how could anyone with a ponytail not) voted for the French Axeman a la Anne Boleyn, but was shouted down by the Sisters Ugly who favour the noose, a more cost effective method of dispatch.

Even as we speak they are perched under the gallows macramae-ing the rope.

Wednesday, 14 August 2013

In which the 1924 vacuum cleaner shuffles off to cerfufferley…

There One was, reclining dans le truckle bed luxuriating in an afternoon nap, having read a couple of chapters of Excellent Women by Barbara Pym (and thoroughly annoyed Oneself by the blatant comparison One had been forced to conclude twixt the life of the Excellent Women in question, all biffing about doing the bidding of others whilst having no ostensible lives of their own) and the dull day to day doings of Lovely One…

When Lovely Gordon found it necessary to rudely interrupt One’s reverie with the shocking news that his 1924 vacuum cleaner had finally sucked up it’s last crumb and was off to the Tivvy Tip.

The sorry incident had occurred at Vera’s whilst he had been demonstrating the model by hoovering the rugs on the barge.

‘It brought Vera’s piles up a treat,’ opined the silly old duffer, into the pink shell-like of your very own Lovely One, who was at that moment rather more interested in completing the dream where One had found Johnny Depp in the cupboard under the stairs.  ‘Twasn’t to be and One was reeled in to the sad and sorry tale of 

‘parts no longer available mate,  cor blimey, you still got one of them?’

One wasn’t present at this exchange but could clearly imagine LG beginning his usual rant about how the evil Dyson could suck up the fibres from me Persian rug etc etc…

One drifted back to the land of nod with JD wondering how One might now enter the sitting room of LG’s gaff without having to carefully swerve the deceased vacuum cleaner that would no longer be stored at the rear of the Georgian settle, along with the numerous pairs of wakkin bwts, until One shot upright in the truckle bed in a mode of sheer panic…

A NEW VACUUM WILL HAVE TO BE SOURCED

How will One cope, so soon after the thrill of the German fridge saga…

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

In which One’s chittlins are gnawing…

Called upon to venture through the gates and up the alley for to scarf up the leftovers from Lovely Gordon’s failed soiree.

Fronted up like a trouper with me gnashers filed to a point and a rumbling tummleton.  Having inhaled a couple of pints of pinot was a bit tottery and in dire need of a pie or two.

LG was fannying about like a fart in a Martini bottle with organic meats galore and Milverton grown pommes de terre being cooked in an American saucepan acquired from TK Max.  This presumably, makes them taste better?  On view, was an assortment of similar cooking vessels each acquired for their ascetic quality and superior German/American heritage. 

The offer to view the newly acquired white good nestling in the garage was politely declined by Lovely One.  One has no interest in such goods other than that they work and chill One’s Pinot to the required temperature.  Ascetics don’t figure as highly as cost in the current economic crisis peaking in the Underground Lair. 

A Mole Valley acquired pie was presented which required mustard, so One was re-despatched through the gates to acquire a portion of powdered Coleman’s. No sooner than One had acquired said mustard powder than One was despatched to source a lemon, Sicilian of course.

Uncle Bert, headphoned up, failed to hear the plaintive cry of the malnourished Lovely One, so One had to drag One’s wilting frame down the steps on each occasion to source the required foodstuffs.

Fed and watered in the nick of time, One returned homeward and fell exhausted into the truckle bed.  Too tired even for a game of Angry Birds, (named for One, of course,)

Monday, 12 August 2013

In which One is in a really really bad mood again…

Dear Dear me!  What a v unsatisfactory weekend!  One had made Oneself available to Boy, Lovely Gordon and even Uncle Bert, and guess what? One was up the creekington without a paddlette!

One did have the possibility of a tea/bun event, but had eschewed the doings in favour of spending time with Boy.  Following the arrangement of a civilised Sunday Luncheon in the Bear, One telephoned only to be informed by vile ex husband that Boy ‘has gone off with his friend.’  Not a word, text, email nor nothing from the little blighter.  So, without further ado One thought, ‘I know, let’s go to Porlock to the country fair and sashay around a field in me best frock.’

Blow me down, if Uncle Bert hadn’t got a date with some fetid old lardy arsed matron and even Lovely Gordon had biffed off in a huff for a long walk having been stood up by a large dining party and left with mountains of organic this and that clogging up his white goods.

That’s it!  One is certainly going to dole out One’s company in more measured chunks in the future.  Does this assembled motley crew of articles think Lovely One is lounging around the Underground Lair at their beck and call all the live long day?

Lovely Gordon telephoned later in the day to try to tempt me to the gate with an organic sausage.  But One’s fallen foul of Greeks bearing sausages before and was sufficiently clued up to bat his sausage aside with narry a grimace.

To think One could have been tea and bunned up by now if One had put One’s own selfish desires to the fore.

The WSEG will be cycling off up someone else’s country path if One’s not careful!

 

Sunday, 11 August 2013

Bore Snore Bore…

Uncle Bert has gone on a date!

I kid you not, Dear Reader, yet another unsuspecting female has fallen into his clutches.  Hoo-bleedin-ray! One shall have back One’s kingdom of Spare Oom to do with what One will!

No doubt he will be clogging up her sinuses with his overpowering cheap body splash, whatever the feck that is, as we speak.

The dog has been taken on this expedition too, so clearly the woman is an animal lover which is just as well since UB’s room has the overbearing hum of a hamster cage.

Any road up, One is still in a furious frame of mind and to make matters worse One has broken One’s vow of abstinence and scarfed down a bag of sweets and a quart or two of wine.

And it has come to One’s attention that certain persons who have been following One’s rantings for many a moon have taken up the mantle of recording their doings.

Bore Snore Bore!  Give it up!  It’s not clever. It’s not funny and IT’S NOT LOVELY ONE

Saturday, 10 August 2013

In which One is beset by eejits with Northern accents…

As is apparent from my profile picture, taken at aged around 7, One has been in a bad mood for around fifty years.

One wanders about attempting to spread joy and harmony on a daily basis and is constantly irritated by steaming eejits.

Today’s little anomaly is a statement of account from the Co-op Bank.  Some years ago One took out a loan ostensibly for the purchase of something like a kitchen or a car, which very probably translated into a couple of ridiculously expensive items of couture which are currently residing in the back of the wardrobe awaiting a significant pork loss campaign. 

Any road up, I digress, Dear Reader, following the settlement of said loan, a statement biffed it’s way into the underground lair’s secure mailbox and informed Lovely One that One had got £72.35 left in the account.  Oh, goody, One thought, One shall leave that untouched and render Oneself able to acquire a full set of teeth in the fullness of time, should One require such.

Today, however a further statement has arrived informing One that the entire amount has been rendered ‘interest’ and therefore One has zippo in the tooth acquisition account. 

Oh my giddy Aunt, methinks and immediately telephones the eejits for an explanation.

‘Well, it’s like this Mrs Rice,’ began the cove, in the obligatory North Country accent (what’s that all about by the way) even M&S are at it now, fer feck’s sake!

‘Payin’ off ‘t loan oopsets system, so it can’t cope wi’ information.  Sooo, it sends out letters after a while to set itself right.’

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to correct this anomaly?’ countered Lovely One.

‘Outa me ‘ands, Mrs Rice.  Although loads of customers phone up abaht it,’ went on the sort.

‘AAh could report it if tha likes.’

‘YOU DO THAT,’ hissed Lovely One through gritted teeth.

Fortunately Lovely One has teeth to grit at this present time, although what One shall do  now when they drop out is yet another insurmountable problem One shall have to ponder. 

 

In which One is beset by eejits with Northern accents…

As is apparent from my profile picture, taken at aged around 7, One has been in a bad mood for around fifty years.

One wanders about attempting to spread joy and harmony on a daily basis and is constantly irritated by steaming eejits.

Today’s little anomaly is a statement of account from the Co-op Bank.  Some years ago One took out a loan ostensibly for the purchase of something like a kitchen or a car, which very probably translated into a couple of ridiculously expensive items of couture which are currently residing in the back of the wardrobe awaiting a significant pork loss campaign. 

Any road up, I digress, Dear Reader, following the settlement of said loan, a statement biffed it’s way into the underground lair’s secure mailbox and informed Lovely One that One had got £72.35 left in the account.  Oh, goody, One thought, One shall leave that untouched and render Oneself able to acquire a full set of teeth in the fullness of time, should One require such.

Today, however a further statement has arrived informing One that the entire amount has been rendered ‘interest’ and therefore One has zippo in the tooth acquisition account. 

Oh my giddy Aunt, methinks and immediately telephones the eejits for an explanation.

‘Well, it’s like this Mrs Rice,’ began the cove, in the obligatory North Country accent (what’s that all about by the way) even M&S are at it now, fer feck’s sake!

‘Payin’ off ‘t loan oopsets system, so it can’t cope wi’ information.  Sooo, it sends out letters after a while to set itself right.’

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to correct this anomaly?’ countered Lovely One.

‘Outa me ‘ands, Mrs Rice.  Although loads of customers phone up abaht it,’ went on the sort.

‘AAh could report it if tha likes.’

‘YOU DO THAT,’ hissed Lovely One through gritted teeth.

Fortunately Lovely One has teeth to grit at this present time, although what One shall do  now when they drop out is yet another insurmountable problem One shall have to ponder. 

 

Thursday, 8 August 2013

In which One makes a plan…

Is it worth trying to break in a new one?  Probably not!  What’s the fecking point?

After all, how long is a decent interval before:

Breaking the sound barrier

Appearing without me face on

Staying in me jim jams all day (having a blackie)

Introducing the Pub Singer

Downing a whole box of Pinot

Derma Peeling on view

Arraping me twinkle

Oh it’s endless!  One can’t fanny around in a tea dress all bleedin’ day without burping or farting, can One?

But there’s just the faint hope that Lovely One might find a doddering old codger clinging manfully on to the thread of life.

An afternoon of unbridled bliss ‘neath the satin sheets

A smidgeon of vaseline on the stairs

BOB’S YER UNCLE

Tuesday, 6 August 2013

In which One is sausaged into submission…

As if One hasn’t got enough to fret about, One has had to clean the oven.  Callers various have no sooner entered the outer door when compelled to enquire, ‘mmmmm are we having fish?’  One both recent occasions we were having generous thighs!

So, the deed is done. Dr Beckman has sanitised me goods noir (One has black appliances)

The reigning monarch of the white good invited One for a sausage supper yesterday evening.  Having been counselled by One as to the recklessness of white good acquisition the dear old thing has moved on to footwear.  This is not such a cumbersome item to store so One has sanctioned this little imperfection.  Well, I say not cumbersome, but eleven pairs of size fourteen Chelsea boots dotted about the floor space of a v small cottage can prove the undoing of a short sighted matron such as Lovely One. 

L G had suffered a restless night having feng shued his boudoir: moving the bed to a slight angle, the incline sufficient to store a generous wedge from a truckle of cheddar. 

Quite how someone who finds it necessary to run the gauntlet of the Chelsea Boot obstacle course along with mountains of kettles, toasters etc in order to negotiate a path to the salle a manger, can be so devoted to fung shui is a mystery to the likes of One.

Any road up a cosy Doctor Lucy Worsley evening with sausages was spent until upon One’s fond farewell, One enquired as to the doings of Lovely Gordon on the morrow.

‘I’m taking delivery of a fridge with an icebox’ came the reply.

I give up…

Sunday, 4 August 2013

In which One derma peels away me good looks…

It’s actually quite difficult to eat a Dr Karg Emmental and Sunflower biscuit whilst wearing a half set mud pack.  But One soldiered on since One has been having what used to be referred to as a ‘pampering day’ that is now a damage limitation exercise. So much time is now devoted to the removal of super-floo-us hair etc that One was very nigh faint with hunger, so just had to cram a Dr Karg in without opening me gob so much that me face cracked.

It is now official:  One has lost the last faint remnant of me good looks.  They came away with a Boots No 7 derma peel.  The last smears of caked on make up that has been layering up since 1972 was acid peeled away to reveal a shrivelled up walnut face that looks like a knee.  Seems only fair I suppose since me knee looks like Kim Jong Um’s face.

Close inspection in the 9 times, light up cosmetic mirror reveals a strawberry like nose, a faint moustache and the beginnings of a goatee beard. AND I could see all that without me spectacles on!

Still, at least me feet are lovely, and even more lovely now they’ve been encased in some new ‘moisture socks’ having been slathered with heavy duty moisturiser.

One retired to One’s truckle bed in despair.  I’m not keen on this getting old lark! Of course it’s much worse for me, Dear Reader, having been a celebrated beauty, unlike you lot who have almost all been utter mingers for the duration of yer natch.

Any road up, ‘twas then One discovered one of life’s little bonuses – a few Dr Karg crumbs down me brassiere! So, I fished them out and had a comfort snack.

One is toying with the idea of learning to walk on me ‘ands so as to display One’s lovely feet instead of One’s chewed toffee face.  ‘Twould also mean the added bonus of no crumbs down me dub dubs!

 

Saturday, 3 August 2013

In which One receives a gel filled gusset…

IMG_1852

I left him by the ‘Entrance in Constant Use’ sign while I biffed into the charity shop to spend me month’s pocket money.

‘Village Buildings of Britain,’ a ceramic fish on a shoelace and ‘The history of football,’ later, he was still there, so I escorted him back to the Underground Lair for a porkus pius and a glass of ice cold Thatchers.

A gift has arrived, courtesy of the WSEG.  One foolishly affected an interest in cycling in order to ensnare the wiry old codger, who, even as One writes, Dear Reader, is chaffing his tackle, aboard a vintage bone-shaker on the streets of our capital city.

One recalls an incident of long ago when One, intent on snaring a similar old item, made like One was a veritable Esther Williams in the local baths.  Eventually sufficient time had elapsed and One was duly escorted to said baths (Bath Road, Luton) in order to display aqua-batics. 

One has never been a devotee of entering a hole full of water with a lot of unknowns wearing only me vest and pants, but, needs musted, so I plunged in.

Any road up, One displayed a similar false interest in bicycles and have been sent a ‘gel filled gusset;’

Flowers, chocolates or sparkly things would have been gratefully received, but, well, One’s got to start somewhere.

The aforementioned ‘gel filled gusset’ no doubt used to avoid chaffing of the over used wedding tackle, may come in handy to avoid One’s gargantuan thighs crashing together whilst wearing me favourite Chloe tea dress.

So, off One sashayed to purloin some urban gardener wares from the Random Peddler, only to be forced to shelter in the gun shop doorway while it rained stair rods on the Peddler.

Upon One’s return, One stripped off the good frock and removed a heavily moist package from the interior of me ‘control leggings.’ 

Mmmmm, methinks, the gel filled gusset is a winner!  But then, One espied it still in it’s packaging on the truckle bed, so must conclude that the removed item is a fully loaded Tena Lady.

Oh dear, One won’t be deploying the ‘Entrance in Constant Use’ sign over me twinkle if the WSEG finds out about that!

Thursday, 1 August 2013

In which Uncle Bert’s knee is being re-homed…

There is no alcohol or ‘dirty’ food left in the Smeg. 

Today marks the beginning of the six week abstinence fest leading up to the anniversary of the birth of your leader: The Lovely One.

Obv, One can never now recapture the sublime lovliness of One’s former glory, but, well, One has to make an effort since there will be nine days of merriment from 7th until 15th September to mark the descent of One from heaven.

I know, I know, it’s passed off as the 10 Parishes Arts Festival, but we all know the real reason for the celebration don’t we.

One began the purge yesterday evening by bathing in a luke warm solution of asses milk and Cilit Bang Mould and Mildew.  One finds this removes any trace of Cuticura mildy medicated malcolm power from Twinkle crevices.

It is, however, the divil of a job rinsing the scum from the cast iron Victorian bathtub.  Fortunately the Cilit Bang works just as well on white goods.

Slathered all over with first press Olive oil, liberally diluted with Ylang Ylang and Rose, One positively slithered into me boudoir to carry out a home ‘derma peel’ and super-floo-us hair removal.

One is now so slippery that even if, say, a well spoken elderly gentleman were to make a grab for One, One would slip from his grasp like a giant pepparami.

                                      ~

One hopes that the general absence of alcohol will raise the level of dinner party conversation in the Underground Lair.  The other evening when One was joined by Lovely Gordon the conversation was a little too Turdey for One’s liking.  The amount of Turdage laying about unclaimed has become a source of obsession for Shirleytosis and Our Director and One is heartily sick of hearing about it, as I imagine, Dear Reader, are you.

Lovely Gordon and indeed Uncle Bert were deep in discussion about the recent lack of the white dog turd.  Uncle Bert was of the opinion that the white droppage was as a result of it’s age, whilst LG had always assumed that white dogs issued white turds.

Personally, I couldn’t give a kipper’s dick!  I just wish we could all talk about shoes and handbags.

                                      ~

One the morrow, Uncle Bert is being shown a warden controlled establishment where his needs can be met in a more satisfactory manner than in the underground lair.  One will be taking him due to the condition of his knee, but I bet when they see my Kim Jong Un knee, I’ll get it!