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Monday, 30 September 2013

In which One is harvesting…

There One was, partially submerged and resembling the Costa Concordia, when One suddenly thought, ‘How on Earth is One going to lever Oneself out of the asses milk bath?’

Even the checkout operator at Asda had enquired as to why One was ooohing and aaahing and listing.

Upon being given the explanation that One had lifted the sofa with one hand in order to vacuum underneath with the other, the cove, not dissimilar to everyone else One has told, enquired…

‘Why do you vacuum under the sofa?’

Why indeed.

Has One’s existence come to that? 

One has far more important matters to attend to including the never ending harvesting of super-floo-us hair.

Following yet another Derma-peel, One embarked upon the removal of a small gathering of jet black hairs attempting to group themselves into a smallish goatee.

One has considered the much advertised ‘No No’ but since they are rather small One hasn’t taken advantage of the ‘60 day money back if you’re  not delighted with the results.’

One really requires one the size of a lawn mower with the capacity to shear an average home counties lawn.


The root system is akin to the Japanese Knot Weed!

Any road up, One has a class of rowdy pensioner painter ladies this morning so One should look positively satin smooth.  After all, they’re all growing their own balaclavas!

Sunday, 29 September 2013

In which One does a Nigella and set off the smoke alarm…

There One was minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, watching that odd fat bloke in a tee shirt who cooks up something ridiculous for some disinterested bint every Saturday morning and…
pring pring…
‘Ooooh caller (he even calls me ‘caller’ when it’s he who’s made the call)  I’m in a bit of a quandry re: car tax.  It runs out on 30th and I won’t get to Wivey before the Post Office shuts.’
‘Do it on line,’ instructs One.
‘Oooh well they usually open the Post Office especially for me on a Sunday when I get in this sort of a fix,’ he went on.
‘I bet they bloody LOVE you,’ snorted One, ‘come round here for supper and you can do it on line at my gaff,’ continued One, more as an instruction than a suggestion.
With that in mind One went back to the TV and that dirty mare Nigella was wobbling around in a kitchen the size of Jubilee Gardens licking goo off a serving spoon.
She’s had that face on since 1972 and just kept ladling on the Maybelline ever since, I’ll wager!
AND by the look of her, an urgent meeting between herself and a soaped flannel is long overdue!
Anyway One digresses…
She was whipping up one of her ‘Express Supper Parties,’ after work.
AFTER WORK – is the bint crazed?
If One was joined in Holy Mat with that Satchii oddity, One would be lolling around eating truffles and having Johnny Depp do me corns!
I know – I know – he’s binned her, but PLEASE, she must get more pocket money than me, fer fecks sake!
One biffed off to Asda to see if they’d heard of scallops and acquired the necessary to make chorizo and scallops with chick peas and wilted rocket with sherry and cumin seeds and a Gaviscon Jus.
Pudding was a choclate mousse, the leftovers, of which there are three bucket fulls, are being used to stick the bumper back on Uncle Bert’s van.
One set the fecking fire alarms off twice, rendering Gladys the Wonderdog a gibbering whining mass and Lovely Gordon attempting to stick an enormous foot in each ear.
That kind of thing never happens when Nige is gliding round her gaff, the smug bint!

Saturday, 28 September 2013

In which One is awoken by Lovely Gordon…

Rudely awoken from One’s extended slumber by Lovely Gordon this a.m.

‘I am in Hornchurch, caller,’ came the introduction.

Whoop-de-feckin’-do thought One, as it happens One was just embarking upon an omnibus journey to Wellington to have lunch with Johnny Depp!

Ah well, Lovely Gordon shall have to suffice…

‘How odd!’ opined the great streak, when One recounted the dream.  ‘I’ve just been waiting at the bus stop with a 105 year old retired schoolteacher with a severe case of fungal nail infection protruding from his unseasonably unsuitable footwear.’

Quite what that had to do with the price of haddock One has absolutely no idea!

Anywho, the conv evolved into One recounting the 10 Radio presenter’s meeting in the Silver Street ‘rooms’ (LG has appeared as a guest with One and now harbours desires of us reviving Gert and Daisy on a reg basis.) 

One inadvertently made a grande entrance right in the middle of some young gentleman’s v clever computer generated speech.  

Massive Faux Pas that was met with a hard stare from Princess P.

Any road up, arrived late, left early bla bla

One feels confident that Radio 4 doesn’t suffer the ‘more presenters than listeners’ syndrome, but, well, keeps us out of the pub!

Any road up, Lovely Gordon et Moi are now working on an exclusive fragrance soon to be trialed on QVC : ‘Essence of Wivey’

A top note of abject poverty

underlying aroma of ‘cleanest thing off the top of the dirty linen basket’

More than a little whiff of ‘three for a tenner’ from the co-op wine cellar

all held together by the heady aroma of shed loads of cash wafting in from the outlying hills…

am in the laboratory as we speak Dear Reader…


Friday, 27 September 2013

In which One is in the 57th year of a bad mood…

Is it because the sun is no longer pervading the gloomy depths of the Underground Lair?  Is it because One can no longer continue One’s Pinot Grigio survey of an evening?  Is it because One is unloved and doesn’t have One’s own pussy to pet? Or, is it because One is just a miserable old bat?  Who knows?  Who cares?

Well, anyway, One’s gloomy mood persists and hasn’t been helped by that demon, Mary Berry.  She may look like yer favourite granny ( apart from those ridiculous jeans she will insist on wearing ) but One has found her out.

One followed the twinkly eyed old flour dusted one’s instructions to the letter, spent an inordinate amount of time in the smallest, darkest kitchenette in the whole sodding universe, attempting to construct a lemon meringue pie with which to lure Lovely Gordon through the gates.

Well, the meringue, when cooked resembled dirty snow studded with dog’s doings and as for the lemon layer…

Uncle Bert ate the entire thing in his bedsit before One could offer the lemon sludge as a remedy for the fallen strips of wallpaper in the bog of vile ex husband.

Ah well, shall have to use other wiles to capture a desperate old codger to foot the bill for me lavish lifestyle.  Other than baking – that is!

So, have completed another chemical skin peel of the face and am almost down to the bone now!  Also have embarked upon a severe exercise regime that has rendered One’s back completely shagged and am now bent over the easel even when One isn’t bent over the easel.

Still, at least when One is out in the gutter following the loss of the Underground Lair, One might get the sympathy vote and have a few pies thrown in One’s direction.

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

In which One descends into the gloom…

And so, in for the winter at the Underground Lair.  Misty gloom has drifted in and chased the sun away and left the lonely lair in darkness until the spring.

Or – it could be the fecking great scaffolding tower recently erected by foliage trampling oiks who could only get in via One’s garden.  Yes, of course, there are four gardens, but One’s little haven is ever given the task of admitting all and sundry.  For no thanks of course! AND no recompense for the damage!

What with that and half the population of Lithuania levelling the building plot, it’s an altogether unpleasant place to be at the mo.  Still, the For Sale sign goes up soon and Our Directors can go to hell in a hand cart for all One cares!  The final straw came when One found out that the plot is going to be a mobile home park!

One’s little lessons in civility do seem not to have fallen on stony ground in one quarter…

The Queen of Mean has been observed bidding ‘Good Morning’  and introducing herself to newcomers instead of her statutory ‘You can’t park there’ speech.

Any road up, the mysterious communication via the land line has been cleared up.  Lovely Gordon donned his finest Nancy Drew outfit and offered up a Jolly Tall, bla bla explanation which One found a little absurd but in the absence of any other, accepted.

However, the perpetrator of said cryptic messages was none other then the brother of Uncle Bert – Uncle Cawdor, rendering the unintelligible drivel football related.

HUH!  woken up from me afternoon nap with FOOTBALL!

Sunday, 22 September 2013

In which One is making plans for existing only in cyber space…

One  has made a v important discovery this week, following several unnerving communications from cyber space.  It is…

One no longer needs to be alive, to exist!

Not just ‘One’, One hastens to add,  but any cove – say – any of you, my adoring public.

Let me explain…

One made a discovery earlier in the week that One can programme One’s pooter to answer emails and the like.  One merely informs said device of the parameters of One’s character and preferences etc et voila!


A computer generated postcard with a printed message and a stamp in the form of Boy’s face arrived informing One that he is enjoying his holiday.

Later the same week a strange computer generated voice called with a message from a mobile number. Steven Hawking must have been sucking a Fisherman’s Friend when he recorded that one, since the first garbled section is unintelligible.  It ended by hoping I was well.

(Incidentally, One had one of those irritating calls from a call centre trying to excite me into giving my details in order to be entered into a draw for an ipad.  The annoying bint enquired,’Hello Claire, How are you today?’  One replied…

‘Ill in bed.’   THAT THREW HER)

Any road up One digresses as is me wossname…

A further electronically generated voicemail on the land line biffed up, disturbing me afternoon nap.  This time it said…

‘That was close.’

The thot plickens…

One interrogated an indignant Lovely Gordon upon his arrival, as to the likelihood of his being the mystery messager.

‘Certainly not!’ came the indignant reply, ‘I only EVER leave you messages about white goods!’

(as if this were the most natural thing in the world!)

‘Ooooh, I’ve just thought,’ went on LG, ‘Do you think it could be the ardent, jolly tall, well spoken, elderly gentleman?’


Perchance it is…

One imagines the great streak toppling into a canal Francais, floating away with just the leather back pack and the sensible wakkin bwts visible among the flotsam and jettsam.


Saturday, 21 September 2013

One is about to put up the For Sale sign…


Huh!  Weirdo eh?  Saddo?  Get a life!

You’ll all be laughing on the other side of yer fizzogs now, you blithering eejits!

Just one fun afternoon’s grabber spoils! 


Have just been informed by the Pinkster’s Hubbster that he came away from the grabbers with a bin bag full!!

‘How so?’ gasped Lovely One, back of hand to forehead, and other grasping the side of me stairlift. 

‘Get down there at opening time and they’re piled so high that you can’t fail,’ went on the Beardy Baker Boy.

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!  There’s Lovely One fronting up for a day’s grabbing at lunchtime, up to the gunnels with whelks and Guinness and is lucky to get out with a £2.99 bear that cost me £89.50!


One has just booked up for a small getaway to the home of the grabber as one puts the ‘For Sale’ sign up in the Underground Lair.

Friday, 20 September 2013

In which One is hoisting the Mayor of Saltash by his chain of office…

Cast your minds back, Dear Readers, to the beginning of the summer…

Somewhere in Cornwall, Saltash to be precise, the local Mayor decides he wants one of Lovely One’s masterpieces and biffs into an art gallery, More than Art (in Saltash) to be precise, and puts down a hefty deposit on said masterpiece.

The proprietor, without the express approval of Lovely One, took £100 deposit and the Mayor sidled off, chain rattling.

Many  moons pass, including the August moon by which the town’s elected representative is overdue in shelling out the rest of the payment. Other monies are quibbled over by the gallery and found to be owing to Lovely One, and still the Mayoral type is absent.

One eschewed the payment of the deposit in favour of having the lot all together, never dreaming for a mo that the blighter wouldn’t front up with the cash.   But no, One now hears that…

‘Oh, they’ve got things to pay out for at home, so I gave them their deposit back and they’re not having it.’



Let me tell you, Dear Reader, Lovely One is NOT FECKING HAVING IT!

That painting has been off the gallery wall for the entire tourist season!

One has sent an indignant missive to the fecking Mayor!

And… I don’t like the bloke in the gallery either!!

Thursday, 19 September 2013

In which One is fitting the best and fitting Everest…

Yet another soiled pair of surgical gloves has been found in the grounds!  And they say it’s the young that are unruly and should have ASBO’s.

Not so around here!  Another Council clean-up is underway to remove said soiled surgicals and Sanatogen empties following yet another ‘Pomagne and Prolapse Pop Back’ party held around the bubbling cauldron.

Oft One hears the cry…

‘Is that a bit of cotton hangin’ off the hem of yer skirt?  Oooooh no, I think it’s dangling again!’

And the invites go out for an evening of Aunty Mary maintenance with nibbles.

Just remember girls…

Don’t have the chilli flavoured crisps when it’s your turn to operate!


The sun awning incident gathered pace before 7.30am this morning when One was rudely awakened from One’s slumber by persons unknown who had actually had the cheek to climb over One’s fence, take down the awning and feck off!

I’m with the bloke in number 6 who took me took One to one side and whispered….


But One remains serene as the Pinkster is having the said awning to shelter the Beardy Baker Boy in his outside entertaining zone.

One is otherwise occupied choosing conservatory furniture.

Wednesday, 18 September 2013

In which One is inadvertently being accommodating…

Yesterday was invented especially to annoy Lovely One.

It all began with a scaffolding rattling cove dinging me doorbell to request access to the Underground Lair.  One was reclining at the time being utterly shagged by the inordinate amount of work involved in being virtually the sole representative of Secret Garden Arts at the 10 Parishes Festival.

True, One offered One’s help to all and sundry, but One really does feel that One’s generosity has been extended to a limit that will never, ever be repeated!

Usually a wizard wheeze with BF et al, this year’s nine day sale was a trial to be endured rather than a giddy pleasure.

Any road up, later in the day, when One had One’s face on, thereby rendering One up for a punch-up, a further scaffolding representative dinged…

‘There’s a problem wiv yer garden love,’ came the aggressive yell through the intercom.

‘How so, Dear?’ retorted Lovely One.  One absolutely HATES being called ‘love.’

‘Can’t get scaffolding round yer sun awning.’

Mmmmm thinks Lovely One, a sniff of cauldron stirring hags, methinks.  The Uber Luitenant has been wearing out her Clark’s sandals long into the night pacing twixt the litter trays trying to find ways of disposing of One’s ‘illegal’ awning.

One couldn’t give a Kipper’s Dick if the thing is removed, it’s worn out, but it does grieve One to accommodate Slugatha.

Any road up, it’ll have to go soon, since One is erecting a small conservatory.


Tuesday, 17 September 2013

In which Uncle Bert sews his tackle in for the winter…

Desperate Dollop alert dans le Underground Lair!

Uncle Bert has been observed sewing up the hole in his best keks.  This can mean but one thing!  There’s an internet acquired harlot on the horizon.

A summer of commando going and grosse gonad scuffage of the gusset area has rendered the Sunday best keks unable to cope with the stress.

Observing the needleperson at his toil, One enquired as to the nature of this new found Beau Brummel-esque behaviour.  Following intensive interrogation One wheedled the info that some desperate Devonian bint has suggested tea and a bun in some downmarket Plymouth caff.

One can but hope it’s not one of those establishments that has the tables and chairs bolted to the floor, since even in the unlikely event of himself squeezing his comedy gut in, sure as eggs is eggs, if he inhales a bun, it’ll take the fire brigade to release him.

Even the mere thought of it had One in fits of laughter and the cove took offence.  UB pointed out that One is unlikely to secure the attentions of even the most desperate pensioner.  Particularly if One continues to consume a family sized poulet et leek lattice Co-op pie with me teatime salad.

One did point out the fact that the pie fitted neatly onto a side plate and therefore wasn’t designed for consumption en famile.

In a fit of pique Uncle Bert produced the pie box from the kitchen bin and brandished it threateningly at One.

‘Ah, that’s where One has you!’ opined One, ‘As you see the box is square and the pie is not, thereby being housed in a vastly oversized package.’

After all we all know that Pie R Round.

Monday, 16 September 2013

In which One is a rampant gold digger…

Well, I’ll cock my bow, Dear Reader!

One has been virtually accused of chasing old codgers to relieve them of their pensions!

One merely enquired as to the nature of the possible employment to be undertaken by the Jolly Tall, Well spoken, Elderly Gentleman, and he said, 

‘I thought that would grab your attention.’


As if a successful, globally renowned polymath like Oneself would have to wheedle up to the shrivelled husk of a great streak of pensioner!

Pray, No!  Knackered old codgers various are continually flinging themselves in One’s direction in the vain hope of snuggling their gnarled digits into  One’s gusset vicinity.

Any road up One shall be expecting at least a Burger King deal of the week when the old duffer opens his first little brown paper wage packet!

That is of course if he doesn’t come over all giddy and plunge into some canal Francais!

Saturday, 14 September 2013

In which One is unceremoniously de-kekked…

Having enjoyed such a jolly splendid birthday and being positively showered with expensive gifts, One feels benevolent enough to take this opportunity to proffer One’s sincere apols to all you lesser beings what One has vilified and bloggingly abused on an almost daily basis.


It was good, but it wasn’t THAT good!

And anyway, at least three of you deserve every last drop of bile and antipathy thrust in your gen direc, and could very likely absorb a pail or two more!

Any road up, a chum of mine, having heard One waxing lyrical about the Panda bear One interviewed on Thursday’s 10 Parishes Roundup show, only biffed off to the Bear Woman and purloined the splendid creature for One as a gift!

But the day will be forever sullied by the unfortunate incident…

Being an Autumnul chill in the air, One opted for the lovely snuggly control leggings under me v expensive crepe trosourial devices acquired some seasons ago for a family nuptial do.

Hard to believe, being still such a vast, entire wall obscuring bint, One must have shed an ounce or two in the intervening months since the good outfit has taken leave of the wardrobe, since the aforementioned item plunged to the ground at a most inopportune moment.

Fortunately having just taken a turn round the square One wasn’t actually de-kekked whilst ambling across the street from the Co-op but made it back to the venue and was deep in conv with a prospective customer when a whoosh of gossamer trickled past One’s thighs and One’s kekks fell, attractively puddled around One’s ankles.

Ever the professional One merely observed…

‘Do excuse me, my trousers have just fallen down,’ pulled them up and continued the transaction.

Obv this unusual event took it’s toll and One was rendered a quivering mass and unable to attend the smallest rave in the world at the House of F.

One simply assumed the position in front of Foyle’s War, inhaled a takeaway and make a sizeable dent in the Pinot Grigio that Dear M had presented as a Birthday gift. 

All in all a splendid day!

Pring Pring…

‘Hello caller, ‘tis I,’ began the weekender in the shape of Lovely Gordon, and went on to issue a statement as chilling as …

‘I have to tell you, listeners, that this country is now at war with Germany.’

He said….


Friday, 13 September 2013

In which One is put firmly in One’s place…

Well, it’s official.  One is now entering One’s fifty seventh year of being in a bad mood.


If yesterday was anything to go by. 

Praise be to Gaia, Princess P wafted in to take charge of the Community Show and save One from making a big wobbly tit of Oneself yet again with persons various at the controls.

The deliciously dashing reprobate A was at the helm and steered us through the Festival update, and no doubt the entire morning without allowing anyone’s effing and jeffing to be broadcast to the Nation.  Not that Princess P would utter profanities.  Gracious, No!

‘So, Lovely One, tell us what venues you’ve been to see,’ begun Princess P.

As per – flamin’ zippo!!  One has had the bare minimum of help at One’s venue and has been incarcerated in Boy’s hall way with everyone’s doings on a daily basis, so One’s ‘Festival Roundup’ has been a fecking joke!!

One escaped the studio and repaired to Whelans for a big boy’s breakfast, only to be regaled by that ghastly ‘vehre ist meine mug’ woman who found it necessary to broadcast to all and sundry that she suffered from ‘extreme mucus.’

That fair put One off One’s eggy soldiers I can tell you!  There really are some oddities abroad in dear old Wiv!  In fact One encountered several only yesterday that would most certainly be living in sheltered accommodation were it not for the sheer number of eejits in Wivey amongst whom they can shelter anonymously.

Any road up, One ended the day by being accused of being so very vast that One was utterly obscuring an entire wall of someone else’s art!

One had placed Oneself in said obscuring position so as to be able to monitor the door, thus minding the store whilst all the other contributors biffed about pleasing themselves instead of attending to their doings at our venue.

One had of course enquired if the position was acceptable to the offended article who obv felt it necessary to agree at the time and then email Lovely One with complaint.

One was rather miffed it has to be said since One has manfully manned the gaff like a trouper.  Obv, though One relocated to a cupboard under the stairs in order that as One was informed…

‘you are in front of all my stuff and people need to see my paintings,’

Any persons attending our gaff were only too pleased to embark upon the three mile yomp around the mountainous obelisk that is Lovely One in order to see aforementioned offerings.

But, having pondered the situation in One’s steamy little truckle bed One has alighted upon an even better reason for relocating Oneself.

Sitting in such close to proximity to the obscured offerings innocent observers might think One painted them!  


Thursday, 12 September 2013

In which One gets One’s annual viewing of the Greek God…


One wouldn’t sell him his favourite if he got down on his exquisite knees and begged One!

Ever the tease, The Greek God wafted in with that perma- (I’ve just had the most amazing boff ever) look on his sculpted features and sauntered straight to One’s doings.

Since first One cast One’s doleful beadies in his direc and Kimbleeeee opined in her best Vicky Pollard, ‘Dulike ‘im. Thinks he’s God’s gift!) One has shown the reverence that perfection should be accorded.

Obv when One was at One’s peak and not letting the grass grow under One’s gusset, One would have showed him the jolly good time that One showed such beings in Luton on a Saturdee night following eight pints of Special Brew and a Tiddles Vindaloo.

But, there One sat, hostage to a (56 on Saturday) body propped up on swollen ankles protruding from me control leggings, with feet but a mere smidgeon away from Hotter Velcro Fastening EEE Mary Janes.


OLIVE fecking OYL!  And believe me, she’s NOT Extra Virgin!

One has seen the Greek God through a series of less than suitable hanger’s on…

The not very attractive wife and mother of his children….

The replacement drippy dollop who walked two paces behind the Darling one….


One can bear that One has lost One’s looks and One’s generous attributes have gorn sarf, but the thought that One has been deprived of a go on that by nothing other than a cruel lack of timing, is just that – CRUEL

One has to conclude that the perfect one chooses lesser beings to mate with in order that they worship in a seemly manner.  But,  Oh,  if ‘twere One attending to the trousorial needs of Himself One would have never let him stray far from One’s gusset.

Fate, cruel, fate left One sitting in One’s cardigan, being past it, whilst he floated ethereally out of One’s life with OLIVE fecking OYL.


Obv One would take his money, like everyone else’s!

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

In which One is a complete tit, yet again…

In the words of Terry Thomas, ‘What an ebbsluut shaaaar.’   (Absolute shower) for those of you too dull to catch on.

One is in a right two and eight following yet another debacle of a morning. 

Once again the preceeding bunch in the radio studio spent six and a half fecking hours pulling on fourteen layers of clothing and packing their rucksacks in a leisurely manner so as to gift the next bunch of eejits (me and RO) point five of a millisecond to throw ourselves into the chairs and don the ‘ears’, as we professionals (ha ha) call them.

Speaking of the chairs: One is always fore-armed with a moisture proof barrier layer on which to perch One’s dainty derierre.  There are some suspicious and unsightly skid marks upon aforementioned chairs that One fears might actually render One ‘with child’ if making near contact with One’s twinkle!

Any road up, I digress, as is me wossname, One is perfectly capable of making a complete eejit of meself without the seemingly constant assistance of radio desk controllers various.  There One was, having been told that the ‘engineer’ of the day was going to play some geezer’s tape, making free with the effing and jeffing, and lo and behold, THE GREAT BIG BUFOON HAD LEFT THE MIKES OPEN.  

Princess P will have me guts fer garters! 

And a guest didn’t turn up so One was waffling along like a demented harpie until One was rescued by FH who fortunately hardly ever stops to draw breath.


Uncle Bert, attempting humour, left me a note to say that Woman’s Hour were after me to fill in for the holidays.


He now has a nasty Chinese burn on the willy!

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

In which One ponder the documentary film ‘Serial Mom’…

News reaches One of yet another victim of the Harridans Vile and Angry up the other end of Stalag Malthouse.  This time an inoffensive young person hounded from her home by the most vicious of the Sisters Ugly.   

Lovely Gordon was regaling One regarding a particularly unpleasant Nazi Bint who read her missives from Herr Hitler by the light of a lamp with a shade fashioned from human flesh.  One is forced to wonder what manner of atrocity would be found in the cat’s pee scented den of the Head Harpie.

Any road up, One biffed up the studio with the Yummiest of the Young Yummy Wivey Mummies to entrance the three regular listeners to One’s 10 Parishes Festival Update. 

MB was manning the desk and clearly, from the severe ticking off One got from Princess P, was having trouble knob controlling, as apparently we faded in and out, or were completely cut off on a number of occasions. 

YM and One were also dealing with a plethora of knobs that some humorous cove had found it necessary to draw in the 10 Parishes brochure that we use each day.

When met with a day-glo erect winkie we dissolved into schoolgirl, behind the bike shed giggling, and really found it rather HARD to go on with the show!

But the show must go on, and go on it did with us waffling inanely about gigs various before we repaired to Moorish for a dose of death by Mocha.

How simply divine it was to be in the company of persons so educated and refined that One recalled the Hampstead Village days of One’s youth when One was never without a wedge up One’s knicker leg.

Ah, well, at least One’s actually lived it, rather than some of the toffee nosed eejits round here who simply aspire! 

One’s reverie was rudely interrupted as One dawdled down Silver Street window shopping for a freshly upholstered suitcase (One kids you not) when the Uber Loitnent dabbed on by, plates splayed in the Clarks Sandals circa 1962. 

Ones favorite film is Serial Mom in which a bint is murdered for the sin of wearing white shoes after Labour Day.

Mmmmmm, One wonders if the same might apply to the continued wearing of sandals after 1st of September? 

Justifiable homicide?  Of just putting her out of everyone’s misery?

Sunday, 8 September 2013

In which One almost inhales a crisp white gusset…

Fear not, Dear Reader, rumours of One’s demise have been greatly exaggerated.  One has been up ladder hanging an exhibition in the Wivey Tate, otherwise know as Boy’s hallway.

Two men down thus far.  One a case of living too high on the hog and another due to the untimely death of a much adored hubbster.

Any road up, One manfully stepped up to the mark and has been fort holding in the absence of the third arty type who is ethereal and vague to say the least and is as much use as a chocolate fire guard.

Jolly tall, well spoken elderly gentleman biffed up sporting the new bog brush hairdo and was, as promised ‘holdin’ the foldin,’  Sadly Lovely One was unable to attend to the ardent cove by escorting him to Jubilee Gardens to partake of a musical interlude in the bushes.  Still, all good things come to those who wait until after their holidays in France.

Lovely Gordon fronted up, mercifully sporting a shiny new leather belt to hold up the ‘these were a bargain’ TK Max gravity defying keks. 

Once again he came into his own as a supper companion having purloined a brace of lamb shanks with accompanying veg various.  The desert course was rather a curious affair being the image of some kind of pyrotechnic incident in a Mother’s Pride factory, but posing as a bread and butter pudding.  Or One should give it’s correct title of ‘Bread and One can’t believe it’s not butter pudding.’

‘Look here,’ indicated LG, ‘There’s currants in it!’, all indignant like when surveying the look of abject horror on the fizzog of your very own Lovely One.

The indication of said currants merely pointed One to the image of a charred mess of deceased bunnies having been the victim of an arsonist whilst minding their own bees-tiddly-wax in the burrow and all having gone toiley boiley in their last fearful minutes.

However, One crunched One’s way through a morsel, not wishing to look a Gift Gordon in the Gob, and sadly ingested me last decent molar in the process.

One harkened back to the days when One would observe LG partaking of a glass of ‘3 for a tenner’ up the Co-op’s finest vino collapso from the window of the Big House before One ran away from home.

One always envied his whites and still does as One is ever in close proximity to a carefully laundered gusset dangling on the clothes-horse, circa 1927, as One scarfs down One’s vittles.

As for the white goods – One had the distinct feeling of the electrical items closing in on Lovely Gordon as they were all some way from their original positions under the kitchen counter.  One feels sure they are about to take their revenge for having been biffed back and forth from John Lewis on an almost daily basis, whilst the eejit changes his mind YET AGAIN.

Anyway, on 10 Radio in a couple of hours doing the Festival show 9.00 am, but Gawd knows what One’s going to wax lyrical about since One has had a Lurch located for One and has been left in it”