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Thursday, 31 October 2013

In which One carves a Seasonal Greeting on a Pumpkin…

fuck off

There it is ready and waiting for any little scrounging feckers who knock me up for money or sweets.  Don’t bother. The Underground Lair doesn’t celebrate ridiculous American traditions. Lovely One will be marking the 5th November instead like all self respecting English personages, and burning an asylum seeker at the stake whilst eating a potato cooked in the fire at his feet.

Any way, One is feeling rejected by the rest of the human race and has addressed the situation by eating all the smarties One bought for any passing thugs.

Am spending the weekend decorating the kingdom of Spare Oooom in preparation for the coming official visit of the Aged P.  All super-floo-us dog hair and man smells have been expunged from the domain and as soon as Uncle Bert gets his white goods sorted, all dirty food from places like Iceland will be transported from the confines of the Underground Lair straight to the new man cave. Thus making room for fois gras and scallops with choritzo, the favoured diet of the Lovely One. 

Last evening was simply divine…

One soaked in the bath, with the door open (it gets a bit steamed up in there), One flollopped about on the sofa, half naked with me smarties and a bottle of Pinot G whilst watching Poirot.


But it is weird being on One’s own. It has occurred to One that One hasn’t lived alone EVER.

First it was sharing with the Borilla, One’s flat mate (too big to be a bear and too ugly to be a gorilla)

Secondly – A, who lived with One during the week and returned home to his wife at the weekends. (Don’t ask – One has a chequered career in the man department)

Thirdly – Vile ex Husband and eventually, Boy, then Boy and me

Lastly – Uncle Bert in various guises

And now just the flollopy dollop that is Lovely One, all alone and unable to meet the mortgage.


Wednesday, 30 October 2013

In which One is encouraging all and sundry to ‘slap the sausage’…

Am going quietly bonkers…

NDN’s have found a small area that hasn’t been drilled/banged/dug up and have employed the Scotch Banger again.  Currently he is drilling the living shite out of an area approximately two centimetres from my right ear.

Coupled with that, the fecking scaffolders have completely blocked my back door, steps into the garden and rear entrance.   Ooooh Matron!

Sales figures in for October are complete rubbish!  A more correct description would be ‘non-sales figures.’  Still, the bubble had to burst one day and One thinks One has sold the last print of Brixham Sunset EVER -  Have been dining out on that one for six years though!

N has mooted the ‘Stairs of Death’ for One’s doings on the Barbican…

First it’s the window, then the back wall – then – THE STAIRS OF DEATH

Well, as One said, it had to end some time…

Lovely One is not in the least precious about One’s art and is perfectly well adjusted to accepting that you selfish, shite faced, b******s have come to the end of your spending spree where Lovely One is concerned.


One is carefully considering a whole new career…

One is toying with the possibility of entering the sex trade.

NO YOU FOOLS – Not offering the random use of One’s twinkling device… Pray no, One has been boarded up by the Council through lack of use!

One is going into the ‘phone sex’ world.  A whizz bang idea, One thought and has been practising like a good ‘un on the likes of Uncle Bert and (hopefully the JTWSEG)

‘Mmmmm I’ve got clean pants on,’ was deemed not racy enough and ‘If you rub your duffle bag like that no one will believe you’re washing it,’ has been given the thumbs (and the willies) down.

Still, it does seem the obvious choice as a multi-tasking career…

One can drink a glass of wine, watch Corrie and encourage some poor sap to slap the sausage all at the same time – SURELY

Thursday, 24 October 2013

In which One makes a Lemon Tart…


Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s three good things…

Ha ha fecking ha

One followed all the instructions, his lemon tart came out all deep and squidgy and mine came out – yeah right out of the feckin’ tin and all over the baking tray!

One was attempting to ward off feelings of gloom and doom, what with being abandoned in the Underground Lair by Uncle Bert and Gladys the wonderdog.  Well, abandoned during the daylight hours at the mo, since he has to biff up here for supper til a week on Saturday when some down market emporium will be delivering his white goods.  One does reasonable rates, catering wise.

A rather unfortunate day in all respects.  One decided to take on the scaffold company that have seen fit to deploy my lawn as a storage depot…

‘Hello I live at ……’

‘Oh yeah darlin’ I’s tryin’ t’ get ‘old of yer neighbour all day right to say we’s coming termorra.’

‘Well could you please take all the stuff off….’

‘I’ve told yer darlin’ I’m DOIN’ IT.’

‘I wonder, could you not call me darlin’, my name is Mrs Rice.’

‘Right, that’s it, I ain’t doin’ it nar. You can ‘ave it fer another two weeks …    brrrrrrrrrrrr

Well, what a fecking liberty! and no mistake!

AND  some other article appeared outside the French windows and started rodding me flamin’ drains without a by your leave, nor nothing!

‘Er what exactly are you doing in my garden,’ enquired One

‘Well, ‘ee said you’s out,’ replied the oik pointing toward One’s special neighbours.

Woss goin’ on?

One needs H F-W’s three good things.

1    One

2    Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall

3    A bottle of Baby oil

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

In which One is as sour as the dough…

Well, here One is surrounded by boxes of Uncle Bert’s collectibles that are awaiting removal.  Heaven only knows what delights lay festering ‘neath the chariot in the Spare Oooom.

One will be soaking up the silence for a week or two before the arrival of the Aged P. 

What a joy that will be!  One could barely get through today’s telephone conv without wanting to put a pillow over her face just to get her to shut the feck up!

‘Oh hello, what day was that I’m coming?  Who is that woman who’s bringing me? Do you still do painting?’

‘8th November – Mary – No I’ve packed it in and am planning to starve to death.’

That exchange was followed by a detailed list of what would be required at mealtimes, all essential TV viewing and trips out various.

‘I’m not on holiday, so I will be working most days,’ One countered.

Oh joy, Oh bliss  One can’t wait for this!!

Any road up, One has just made Oneself feel Uncle Dick by scoffing a whole bag of Percy Pigs.  One was going to keep just one to be company for One since shall be alone from Thursday onward.  BUT – have begun a jar of sour dough starter that will need feeding every three days, so One has a new companion after all.

Sunday, 20 October 2013

In which One is fed up with fag ash and dog shite…

Would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader, the flamin’ power was off when One awoke from a restless slumber this a.m.

Obv this sparked panic in the extreme, since One was due to pootle up the town to see the JTWSEG.

Fortunately the Harvest Fest had begun the day before and the plug hole was brimming over with super-floo-us shavings.  But the straighteners hadn’t been deployed, or the ironing done!

Quelle Horruer, mes ami, could One dare to go ‘fluffy’ about the head region?

One lay perusing the dilemma until One was sure to miss the Archers Omnibus and decided, that since comms were down there would be no way of contacting the JT bla bla, so One made the best of a bad job.

One biffed up with hair in the manner of a blue poodle (left the lightest Ash Blonde on for too long), an unironed frock and some hastily applied make up done in the near darkness of the Underground Lair.

One was in such a two and eight that One couldn’t even scarf down the offered Sunday Roast!

One then finds out that the Memsahib had been informed that Stalag Malthouse would be ‘switched off today until at least 3.30pm.’  Why can’t the mouldy old madamoiselles tell us anything important like that instead of whining on about fag ash and dog shite?

Saturday, 19 October 2013

In which One’s Twinkle is all strudel…

‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the bla bla…’

Harvest fest begins at 11.00 hours…

One has all the required accoutrement for the removal of any super-floo-us covering and the disguise of any imperfections…

1    Prune Juice and psyllium husk – check

2    Catering pack of ‘root re-cover’ – check

3    Multi purpose waxed strips – check

4    Tweezerman tweezers back from recalibration – check

5     Invisible, no rustle Tena Lady big pants – check

Obv this isn’t because One is meeting the Jolly Tall, Well Spoken, Elderly Gentleman in the Bear tomorrow at midday.  Oh no, One now devotes at least one weekend out of four to the constant battle against the Japanese Knot Weed sprouting out of One’s chin and the general maintenance of the greying, pastry, lumpen dollop that One’s body has become.

Any road up, all going well until the ‘Home Brazilian’ kit was deployed…

1     Slathered on the hot wax

2     Waited a minute…

3     ‘Tauten skin and rip paper off’


Nothing down there, or anywhere else for that matter, has been even approaching ‘Taut’ since 19 sodding 79.

Have been hauling at it for the passing of a number of moons and all that is happening is that One’s Twinkle department resembles the general thickness and surface area of a large strudel pastry!!

Still, every cloud an’ all that…

At least it’s getting a bit nippy so One will be able to disguise any excess by tucking it into the top of me Uggs!

Thursday, 17 October 2013

In which One is miffed…

Am miffed in the extreme!  Have just completely shagged an ink masterpiece by spraying it with too much water.  And as you know, Dear Reader, everything’s for sale!

Not for Lovely One the keeping of a sketch book. One spits upon the sketch book keeper.  Every single item of creation is for sale.

Any road up, One is biffing up the Bear on Sunday lunchtime to knock walk frames with the Jolly Tall WS bla bla…

Maybe One could tap him for a ‘Gastro Pob Dock lonch’ a la Marks and Spencer.  What is it with all this ooop North speak, it gets reet on mee nellies, it doz.

Of course One shall have to proportion time accordingly so as to fit in One’s weekend chum, Lovely Gordon.  Still, even if One has a slap up Sunday Lunch, One will be ready for another scoff up at LG’s supper time of 11 hundred hours.

Just a timely warning to all those expecting Christmas presents from One.  One has begun several knitting projects, mostly garments and One will be expecting all recipients to wear said garments throughout the festive season.

Lovely Gordon will be in receipt of a lengthy scarf in a rainbow of discreet and subtle colours, decorated with hand made pom poms and tassels.  He’ll look a Bobby Dazzler in that!

Uncle Bert will be receiving a hand crocheted, halter neck, gonad sling which should minimise the collatoral damage when taking part in the Andy Stewart Highland Fling Hogmanay Party.


Wednesday, 16 October 2013

In which One is cancelling Christmas…

Would be trending Arafat today, but left scarf at Lovely Gordon’s gaff.  He has it wrapped around the water container thing in the airing cupboard in order to perfume the air with the scent of Lovely One. 

Unfortunately the pervading pong in the Underground Lair is that of liver and bacon with a heady top note of despair.

Liver and bacon from one of the last dirty ready meals enjoyed by Uncle Bert and the desperation from Moi, due to the general gloom from still being under the sodding scaffolding.  When are those oiks going to whip off me back fence YET AGAIN and TAKE IT AWAY.

Any road up, am going to attempt to leave the building tomorrow.  As One is sure you are aware, One has been in abs agg for ages and listing to the right since foolishly lifting the sofa in order to vacuum underneath.

One is now destined to a life of vacuuming under sofas in a desperate attempt to fill One’s empty life.

One was going to devote One’s time to organising the pop up Christmas shop in Vile ex Husband’s palatial downstairs hallway, but someone else is doing the same.  One simply can’t risk being super-floo-us to requirements, so One shall simply step aside and hold me breath until I turn blue.


Eleanor Parkinson, that silly old Spotlight presenter is still trending the purple polka dot. 

One has observed that a winter coat (too short, too young) has been flomped on top of it, but it’s hanging out the bottom, Eleanor!  We know it’s under there.  Flippin’ eck that must wang!!

Tuesday, 15 October 2013

In which One is wearing a het…

‘It’s wonderful to be able to pop fruit etc into the little freezer compartment,’ said LG as he sidled around frigidaire numero deux that sits super-floo-usly in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘You are never going to convince One of the need for two fridges and two washin mashins,’ said One, arms crossed over ample chest in manner of Les Dawson when being Lilly.

‘But it’s such a useful little thing,’ he went on, stroking the device, ‘and it hardly makes any noise.’

Now correct One if One is wrong, Dear Reader, but persons residing in bijou cottage residences on their own should really only require one of each white good at a time.

In order to lure One into his web of white good intrigue, LG is constantly on at One to acquire a ‘more suitable oven, an EverHot, an asthetically pleasing washin mashin and a designer kettle.’

‘When living the hand to mouth life of a struggling artist, now without a paying guest, One don’t fix it if it ain’t broke,’ said One, ‘and anyway, much as One doesn’t like to cast aspersions upon One’s own culinary prowess, One is fairly sure it’s not the oven that’s at fault in the Underground Lair, but the novice Nigella.’


Any road up, straying from that hot topic…

One has become aware, of late, that Libby flamin’ Purvis is not the only sort who’s affecting an entirely new language all of their own.

In the current ‘OOp North’ doings of both TV and wireless (everyone saying ‘bath’ and ‘grass’ instead of ‘baath’ and ‘graas’ Marks and Spencer, in order to neither alienate the three people oop north who buy their scran and the masses of southerners who do, have invented another way of addressing the masses…

They appear to have combined the two and now refer to ‘botter’ (butter) and ‘corry’ (curry.)

Fer Feck’s sake, you blithering, lowest common denominator twats, lets revert to the received pronunciation of good old Auntie Beeb.

And – Make jolly sure One is wearing a het!

Monday, 14 October 2013

In which there is no one in the shed…

‘You simply must get an ‘EverHot’, opined Lovely Gordon.

One had listed in the gen direc of Maison LG at an alarmingly slow pace in order to partake of a pot luck supper.

One had been lured in with the promise of a Lamb Shank 7.45pm for 8.00pm.  In fact it translated as 8.00pm for 10.15pm and it was chicken in proscutto, polenta potatoes (of which LG is exceedingly fond) and some fruits various submerged in alcohol in a tupperware container.

‘I’m not sure that one is actually supposed to eat sloes,’ said One as One’s gob was stripped of all moisture and One’s lips took on the pencil sharpening qualities of a cat’s arse. ‘Don’t you think there a little astringent?’

Mmmm methinks the plums and the fig (singular) were scrummy but please, Dear Reader, swerve the sloes!

The fig was singular since the Odd G in the next block has been eyeballed hoiking figs out of L.G.’s tree on an almost daily basis.  Obv., One has permission to go a-figging ad infinitum, but the Odd G has stripped the blighter bare.

Any road up, back to the EverHot, which is apparently a device used for heating up the home, cooking, baking TK Max shreddies on and all manner of other warming duties that slip One’s mind for the mo.

Since One is unable to afford the ‘two tealights in a teracotta pot’ heating system at the mo, an EverHot is but a distant dream.  Even a ‘LukeWarmOccasionally’ is unattainable.

Still, Uncle Bert will be safe and warm in his man cave that One cast One’s beady over yesterday.

Lovely open parkland all around, secure over 55’s estate, pleasant homesteads…

But wait…

‘You F*****g dirty B******d,’ comes the cry from yonder bungalow garden.

Upon further investigation, by waiting in car outside for a goodly amount of time, ‘twould appear that an elderly gentleman was perambulating on a constant basis twixt the bungalow and a shed at the bottom of the garden and yelling aforementioned diatribe through the door.

At first One imagined that an animal of some sort was cowing within, but it soon became apparent that the agitated old G was having an altercation with an empty shed!

Hey ho!  Uncle Bert will be OK, he lives upstairs.

please Note

Elderly Gentleman mentioned is in no way connected to Jolly Tall Well Spoken Elderly Gentleman. One feels fairly sure he has no imaginary friends in his shed or otherwise.

Sunday, 13 October 2013

In which One is 1471-ed…

‘Were you about to plunge into a warm bath, or are you a 1471-er?’ enquired One as One took the morning call from Lovely Gordon.

‘You little Stella Rimmington, you!’ opined LG, ‘Have you noticed the new head of the International Monetary Fund is a ringer for Shirleytosis?’

‘Why no,’ says One, ‘I had no idea that international finance was being run from Stalag Malthouse!  Any road up if Leihmann Brothers had been Leihmann Sisters we wouldn’t all be chin deep in the shite would we?!’

Lovely Gordon went on to inform One about the blackberry crumble that had spent too long in Mrs A’s aga and is now the official material adopted by Camden Council to fill all the pot holes in Colney Hatch Lane.  One countered with a story about smoking out the block with yet another of Nigella’s express suppers.  Why is it that the cardiganed bint never sets off her smoke alarms?  It’s got to the point now that whenever Nige is on TV cooking up some lard based feast that all the little old biddies from upstairs assemble in the car park for a head count because they know Lovely One’s got her pinny on!

One passed on the stories various about Boy (lack of enthusiasm for life in general), Uncle Bert (acquiring a sheltered man cave), Vile ex Husband (living a nightmare) and the continued listing to the right of Lovely One and the twisted spine.

But there is hope upon the horizon…


following the burning down incident.

As soon as One is able (fully upright and functioning) One will speed over in One’s invalid carriage and press One’s upturned pink little nubby against the window.

Obv., One won’t be able to go in and buy anything now One hasn’t got a paying guest.

One wonders if there’s enough miles left on me twinkle clock to lure in a desperate pensioner?  I’ll do me roots and wax me face just in case!!

Friday, 11 October 2013

One is back on One’s own again…

No conquering the North West Passage pour Moi next week!  Back now soooo bad that One is bent almost double with ag, so shan’t be able to go.

Pain is something that One is v bad at dealing with and therefore enjoyment of any kind is off the menu for the foreseeable.  The only respite is from the copious quantities of Pinot that One inhales nightly.

One is also broken hearted for Boy who is still unable to face the world and will clearly have blown what is probably the best chance in life he will have.  The question is: should One devote the rest of One’s  natch to cossetting Boy and protecting him from the harsh reality of life?  Or should One be brutal and cast him out into the sea without a life raft? Is there a middle ground?

Of course, One will do absolutely anything just to secure the happiness of Boy.  The dilemma of a parent is a difficult one.  One does One’s best, but that best has to have some input from the adored offspring or tragedy ensues.

One will have oodles of time on One’s hands to trawl through all the decisions One has made and beat the shite out of Oneself over and over again, now that One will be alone in the Lair.

A buoyant Uncle Bert has sped off in his LWV to inspect his new home today.

Funny how things work out isn’t it?


Apropos of nothing – One imagines that One’s faithful West Country readers will upon occasion alight upon the regional news on BBC1 at 6.30pm, whereupon a bedraggled article by the name of Eleanor Parkinson has been presenting out of studio broadcasts for the entire summer wearing the same outfit every day!  Now – One wouldn’t normally take agin a reporter, unless they are a weather person,  they really are an aggravating crew! But as One is a license fee payer, One feels quite within One’s rights to question the state of dress of the presenters for which One pays.

The aforementioned EP, who must be at least 55 in the shade, has been biffing up wearing a purple spotted mini dress with a cut off black jacket every sodding day!

Not only must it be toxic with body odour by now, but it leaves open to the elements a pair of ghastly arthritic knees for all and sundry to contend with at tea time!

One has emailed the studio to no avail, so please sign my petition to get the dirty mare a new outfit – FROM MARKS AND SPENCER’S CLASSIC RANGE


Thursday, 10 October 2013

In which One owns up to the Original Sin…

That is absolutely flamin’ it!  The fecking tumble dryer shagged itself in the middle of the night with a truck load of Sloggi maximum grip inside and the sodding scaffolding is still outside, so the Underground Lair is now awash with damp shreddies.

Situation normal then!  When was it that One entered the world of the damp gusset?  What did droopy old dollops do before the advent of Tena Lady. Was there any wipe clean seating in Jane Austen’s time?

‘My heart went oops,’ what a load of bollicks that is.  ‘My gusset went squelch,’ that, Dear Reader, is the reality.  All those ‘maybe it’s Maybelline’ gap toothed teenagers had better make the most of twinkle time as all they’ve got to look forward to is ladling copious quantities of mildly medicated Cuticura maximum absorbtion talcum powder down their support leggings ad infinitum.

Any road up, One has pinpointed the exact moment in time that everything started to go awry.  (It also could explain the overwhelming urge to acquire legions of teddy bears.)

It all began thus…

One escaped from the clutches of the hysterical Mama to live in the bottom half of a tatty little terraced house, in order to have fun, One thought.  The cold reality was just that – cold and horrid.  One’s BF of the time, The Animal, (family motto: If you can’t fuck it or eat it – kill it) came round on an almost daily basis to have said ‘fun’ : Lambrusco and Chinese Fish and Chips.

V soon it all became too much for the cossetted and princess like Lovely One, who biffed off back home leaving One’s teddy bear, Edward, behind.

Some time later One saw the discarded and forlorn furry creature in the window of a junk shop.

So that’s it!  Even calling One’s own progeny Edward and collecting a sizeable array of Steiff Bears hasn’t atoned for the Original Sin of casting off One’s first bear.

One deserves all One gets.  Dam gusset and all!

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

In which One is getting the spare room back…

Boring boring boring!!

Damp, dark and gloomy in the Underground Lair and set to be so until at least next May.

But, it’ll only be Lovely One sashaying around in the mist.  Uncle Bert has a new home in his sights at long last.  Gladys will have to shake her smelly fur over yet another establishment and One will be GETTING A CAT.

If One had taken up the drawbridge and stayed at home with a cat some years ago One might have avoided the unfortunate series of events that have led One to the current situation.

Any road up, no matter.  Uncle Bert can limp off into the sunset and lead his life without the aid of polish/vacuum cleaner/windolene etc., and One can diligently spring clean the Underground Lair until there is no trace of another human to be found.

The prospect of One’s own company seems rather alluring at the moment.  Quite how One will be financing this solitary existence is, as yet, unknown, but I expect there must be some homeless old sap out there somewhere who’d welcome a bunk in the lair.

One is sorely tempted to buy a van and take to the road for ever.

Do you know what?  One might do just that!!

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

In which One is Auntie-ing…

Lovely One has been informed that One is viewed, in certain circles, as a benevolent Auntie.  What the feck?

When did One cease femme fataling and begin Auntie-ing fer feck’s sake? 

There’s One, albeit casting only the occasional cursory glance in the looking glass, thinking One still has the allure of a young-ish Elizabeth Taylor, and One has morphed into flamin’ Joan sodding Plowright!

I know, I know, One is almost bent double by the sofa lifting incident, but surely One’s angel face is still intact?

One still deploys the straighteners. One still squirts a sufficiency of Cillit Bang Grime and Lime down me vest.  One is so ackled up in Spanx various and control leggings that One can barely perambulate.  So – what’s going on?


That’s what’s going on.

One is not keen on this dreadful ageing thing.  One is slathered on a daily basis in No 7 age defying substances and constantly touching up One’s roots, yet One cannot keep the tide at bay.

One is taking to One’s truckle bed in alarm.  Don’t wake me up unless anything happens in Coronation Street!


I do believe, as a certain person told me, that a plant has been invented that grows tomatoes and potatoes at the same time.

Should any of you, Dear Readers, happen upon a cheese and pickle plant,  start buttering and come and give me a gently shake.

Monday, 7 October 2013

In which One is fecking cheesed off…

Next week One will be mostly finding a brick wall and banging One’s head against it.

Following the mediocre performance of your very own Lovely One at this weekend’s little adventure, One has resolved never  again to enter into a performance with ‘crafts.’ Should One feel the need to attend W.I. craft fairs, One will join!

Much like actors who eschew the addition of children and animals, L.O. and at least one of the other contributors, won’t be biffing up again, next ‘the stalls.’

One cut One’s gnashers on markets and fairs and if One can’t play with the Big Boys now, One isn’t playing at all!

Any road up, One rested securely in the knowledge that someone, somewhere was buying an original, and indeed they were! (just had an email)

How refreshing it was to encounter the young and enthusiastic newcomers.  How long will it be before they are seasoned Pinot hags?  Oh how they bounced with joy and anticipation, the eejits!

It was of course, the JV show.  More space than anyone else, yet again.  One fancied stamping off and holding One’s breath until One turned blue, but now no one wants to boff One, One is invisible.

Note to self:

Start wearing plastic trousers and setting fire to things!

Anyway, Jolly Tall, Well spoken Elderly Gentleman and Lovely Gordon are still fully paid up members of the Lovely One Fan Club.

But they are so old that they can’t see properly!

Wednesday, 2 October 2013

In which One can’t stand that Libby flamin’ Purves…

Huh!  Here’s One, just about to frame a few masterpieces, expecting Melvyn Bragg and some navel gazing boffins to bamboozle One with facts historic or scientific, and it’s WEDNESDAY.

That entirely super-floo-us bint Libby Purves.  How boring is she?  A gaggle of equally dull, hooray henrying guests surround the fair isle clad Matriach, fwa fwa-ing like good-uns!

She doesn’t do the ‘thing’ anymore that really gets One’s goat (must have read HDICTT)

Let One explain…

Pick any random word…

The word will be used by all other persons in the studio…

They will all pronounce it in exactly the same way…  (correctly)


Who will bowl on with her own unique interpretation of the English language no matter how many times the others slip the word in question into the mix.

You may think, Dear Reader, that this is hardly a crime of International importance, but to One who is a seasoned Purves Persecutor, it is at least akin to the devastation of the Hundred Years War.

Any road up, this morning One is being mesmerised by that other annoying article Emma Thompson, talking about Beatrix Potter.

One is beginning to see the attraction of daytime TV.

The only other stirring, or sound, is emanating from the bedsit of Uncle Bert, who judging by the prolonged squirting sounds reaching One’s lugs, has some kind of infestation.

One has espied several cans of Fly Killer being shipped into afore mentioned man cave.  Who knows what lurks in there?  The walls are painted navy blue, the carpet is bottle green and the curtains are rarely opened.  There could well be the decomposing carcasses of the last three desperate dollops UB met off the internet!

I’ll just nip off and pull the door to…

Tuesday, 1 October 2013

In which Andy fecking Pandy isn’t coming to play…


No, Andy Pandy is NOT coming to fecking play!

And YES, One has got a plastic comedy tummy under me Onesie for comic effect, before you ask!!

This is what it’s come to, Dear Reader, One listing to the side and completely unable to carry on a normal existence.  How simply adorable that One can still titter at Oneself!

In the Underground Lair it’s not exactly ‘Under the Dome,’ more like ‘Under the sodding Scaffolding.’ 

Each time One dashes aside the curtains of me boudoir, some cheeky chappie painter sort is eyeballing One in me Wincyette Baby Dolls, so One has resorted to the current garment of choice the Onesie.

‘You vill be haffink your paintink done on ze first veek of Zeptember,’ came the cheery missive from the Uberluitenent.

Correct me if I’m wrong, Dear Reader, but when One opened One’s baby blues this a.m. it was Oc-fecking-tober!  AND still the scaffolding is in place!  Maybe there’s going to be a public hanging of someone who’s hound has shit in the communal garden.

It really has been quite disconcerting having more than a sufficiency of young men lolling about One’s grounds, trampling down plants and wearing a downtrodden path across the cammomile lawn. 

One is quite seething with ire!

AND NO – I’m not getting back in me fecking basket!