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Saturday, 30 November 2013

In which One is filled with mirth…

Just when One is feeling down in the Dumpley-Umpley-Umpletons  some blithering eejit pops into One’s life and cheers One up no end!

In this hilarious instance it was in the shape of Boy and Vile-ex-Husband.

Boy, who for some reason, has been mistaken for le chat and been prescribed a ‘pussy-cat pick-me-up’ for his delicate disposition has taken to clawing the Chesterfield, licking his own smedley-botham and sleeping curled up on a towel next to the bathroom radiator, daned to visit his Dear Mama, but not without the insurance of having Vile-ex-Husband in tow.

The addition of V-ex-H, One assumes, is in order that Mama isn’t too intrusive into Boy’s doings and doesn’t probe too deeply into off limits areas.

Any road up, without the spotlight on Boy, One felt the need to interrogate V-ex-H.

One begun with the innocent enquiry…

‘How are thing in Maison Snaggle Toothed Troll?’

This was met with a one word answer, but soon, having imbibed a goodly amount of One’s Pinot G, V-ex-H was loose lipped re: Dizzy or Dirty or whatever it’s name is.

Apparently the amour has driven a wedge twixt The Snaggle Toothed Troll and Dirty, since Dirty is the former friend of the aforementioned and was introduced to V-ex-H by her.

HA HA FECKING HA – EAT MY SOILED SLOGGIS – YOU GRUBBY LITTLE GNOME

Any road up…

Dirty had taken V-ex-H to a Badger Camp to protest about the cull.  Gawd knows how she managed to get that great streak outside on a chilly eve, it was as much as One could do to coax him into the outdoors in the midst of summer.

I digress…

They had dug their way out of Dirty’s lair (lives like Mr Trebus) and taken to the road with a donkey, no less.

One would have paid a fair few of the Queen’s shillings to have been able to look upon Vile-ex-Husband sitting round the campfire with Swampy et al.  In fact One moistened me gusset with mirth at the very thought of the dozy great streak mixing with alternative persons.

Friday, 29 November 2013

In which One is expected to DRIVE TO BRISTOL… if you ever did!!

Now look!  I know you selfish little articles only read me to laugh at my sad doings, but One has noticed a severe drop off in readers of late. And for that matter a distinct lack of comments.  Do you think One does this for One’s own benefit?  One is selfless in the reporting of even the most trivial of One’s doings.  However, One is entirely certain that this lack of adoration from you, my subjects,  is as a result of One not being…

Amusing

Seeking the company of elderly duffel bag owners

Not reporting the dastardly deeds of Uncle Bert

And generally living the life expected of a Dowager Duchess

Well – SOZ in the extreme

                                     ~

News reaches One that Uncle Bert has been unable to shake off his siege mentality and is still frequenting the cash and carry for shed loads of dirty food and taking advantage of bulk buying from some downmarket online emporium called seductively, ‘Wowcher.’

An email from his man cave informs One that his latest bargain buy has been a two-bedroom bungalow sized container of toiley-boiley-tissue.

Quite where this Bonanza of Bronco is going to be stored is beyond One.

On One’s visit to the aforementioned Man Cave, One couldn’t help but remark upon the unusually large collection of six sizes too small football shirts which have  to be preserved for some obscure reason.  There is also a worrying enormous gathering of resin skulls (One kids you not) displayed on an inferior Argos style cabinet that wouldn’t get house room in the Underground Lair.

And there in the midst of all this is the hound, scratching and flicking fur all over the establishment whilst Uncle Bert, shirtless and (no doubt) commando sits in state on a mound of porous bog roll.

Still, at least he won’t have to get up from watching the football to go toiley boiley.

                                  ~

CAN YOU BELEIVE IT, DEAR READER, THE JTWSEG ONLY WANTS ONE TO

DRIVE TO BRISTOL

There had better be chocolate involved

 

 

Thursday, 28 November 2013

In which One is a fat hairy moth…

It’s official – Lovely One is a BAD MOTHER

One hasn’t even been able to keep a sour dough starter alive.  In fact things are so bad that One has given away the jar it (attempted) to live in and discarded the ‘self sufficiency’ idea completely.

One discovered that the growing of food would mean digging in the dirt and that is completely out of the question!

This will of course, mean actually leaving the confines of the Underground Lair from time to time to stock up on stuff.  (shoes and bags etc)

But wait! – In the distant past when One was too busy to biff about Fortnums One had a nice little man deliver everything!

What am I thinking?  Those days are gone.  One is a fully paid up (well – benefitted up) member of the underclass. 

Any road up, what with the sudden discovery of Parcel Force to collect and deliver One’s doings, One could theoretically slump on the sofa in the Underground Lair imagining One still lived in Hampstead village and drove round in a Bentley.

Or – One could get off One’s fat bottom and rejoin the human race.  Well, One could, but One would come last.

Tis Thanksgiving today, so good wishes to all my American readers, I believe one or two of Papa’s lady friends still investigate One’s doings.  Have a lovely time with friends and family and spare a teeny weeny thought for dear Lovely One, all alone in the dark and cold Underground Lair.

One shall very likely emerge into the spring sunlight in the New Year like a fascinating brightly coloured butterfly.

Or maybe one of those fat hairy moths – you decide Dears.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

In which One is expecting a roomie…

Bore snore bore snore…

Nothing happens any more…

In an effort to save on fuel for the Ferrari, One has enlisted the efforts of Parcel Force to deliver One’s wares, thereby removing, in one stroke, the last reason for leaving the Underground Lair.

As of now, One is fast becoming a hirsute recluse (there being no reason to harvest super-floo-us hair) since One is never seen by anyone.

One simply goes tripping from room to room like a bearded Amazon, naked, apart from the JML comfort bra and tartan leggings.

I know, I know, desire and disgust in a equal measure, Dear Reader.

Even so, One is still being ethereally pursued by ‘Geezer’ and some article called ‘Jonno.’

One may be slightly past One’s prime but One would NEVER EVER entertain the idea of allowing someone called Geezer under me quilt!

However, standards may continue to slide on a daily basis, since One is ill equipped to trundle through life on One’s own.

One had the company of Uncle Bert at the weekend as his boiler has had a skull and crossbones slapped on it and he’s been left freezing in his new man cave.

As soon as he arrived the hall took on the properties of a cash and carry.  What is it with men and their endless carrier bags full of stuff?

When married to Vile-ex-Husband, One operated the fourteen day rule:

If it stayed unattended in the hall for longer than two weeks it got chucked into the garden.

One doesn’t have that kind of power of anyone anymore, sadly.

But, have discovered Spareroom.com and am expecting the arrival of a roomie any day soon.

 

Sunday, 24 November 2013

In which One is definitely not ‘fit’…

‘You’re fit, Claire,’ said the unsolicited opinion in yet another email from some dirty dating site.  ‘Why not flirt with our flirty singles?’

Well, I’ll tell you why not, shall I?

For a start – One is not ‘fit’ in any sense of the word, or for that matter, ‘up for it,’ another delightful phrase that has yet to enter the superior vocabulary of Lovely One.

One is as likely to ‘flirt’ with some T-Shirt wearing ‘Geezer’ as One is to dine at ‘Maccy D’s’ as you disgusting proles no doubt do.

One is completely at odds with popular culture and shall continue to be so.  Why, if One had been lucky enough to live the Princess style life One was obv born to One would behave in the manner of the High Court Judge who enquired, ‘Who are the Beatles?  Are they a musical combo?’

Every day, without fail, another batch of gurning, duffel bag willied losers grin hopefully out of me Kindle as One goes online to check for orders.

One briefly entertained the idea of attempting a relationship a number of years ago, but One was deep in the mire of menopausal madness. 

Since regaining One’s cynical, superior self One has resigned Oneself that swapping one pair of dirty keks on the floor for another is a singularly foolish direction to lean toward.

One is currently auditioning persons various for the spare room so as to benefit merely in a financial sense and looking forward to a Festive Feast for One.

Saturday, 23 November 2013

In which One is pursued by a Geezer fer fecks sake…

Squelching into my inbox came the exciting news that ‘Geezer’ has browsed your profile and wants to chat.  This thrilling missive was brought to One by something called ‘Love Again.’

One’s seductive profile is obv still floating around in the ether and been hooked by some other ‘dating for desperates’ agency. 

One has never heard of ‘Love Again’ and One certainly won’t be loving again unless the object of desire is a ginger cat or an endless supply of Pinot G.

As for eliciting the attention of some crusty old article by the name of ‘Geezer.’  Well – what can One say? 

The ghastly thought of some dermatologically challenged duffel bag willie with a bit of tinsel round it makes One positively gag.

Nonetheless, One couldn’t resist a peek at ‘Geezer’ even though One knows that it will open up the flood gates for many more scabby old men who are desp to get their gnarled digits up me vest.

And there he was – photographed in the oddly popular venue of his kitchen.  Why do they do that?  Is it to lull the prospective duffel bag recipient into believing they know their way around a recipe?  Who knows?

The desp old codgers fall into a couple of categories as far as One can ascertain…

The T-shirt clad oddities standing next the extractor hood, washin mashin, kitchen cupboard etc

And the sad old saps draped against their motorcycles or sports cars that have been purchased with pension funds.

Well – KNOB OFF GEEZER – and any other old sort who’s entertaining the idea of parking his gnarled gonads on me Chesterfield!

Thursday, 21 November 2013

In which One has the wrong sized aperture…

What is it with my frame supplier?  Every time One receives an order there is something awry!  This time the mount aperture is between 5.5 ins and 6ins when it should be 5ins.

In the grand scheme of things, Dear Reader, you may consider this a mere blip.  I know, I know there are poor little donkeys being worked to death and bears in cages, to say nothing of a squillion Africans in desp requirement for medication and clean water, but spare a thought for Lovely One with the wrong sized aperture.

‘You should have checked the order as soon as it came,’ was the helpful response from the first unlucky sap One moaned at.

WHY – WHY should One have to check the fecking order?  One ordered exactly what they proffer and exactly what One required.  Have these eejits got no quality control?  Obv not!

This set back in me Christmas deliveries has left One in a right two and eight and in dire need of a large quantity of Pinot G.

So….

One is launching One’s Christmas Appeal…

Never mind sending two quid to a scabby donkey.  Set up a monthly payment to the Lovely One Christmas Fund.  After all, it looks as if One will be spending a lonely Yuletide on One’s own in the Underground Lair.

Hang on though…

No Aged P farting along with Silent Night…

No Uncle Bert going commando at Midnight Mass…

No Vile Ex-Husband making the sitting room look untidy with his Worzel Gummidge couture…

Just One, a giant tin of Quality Street, a vat of Pinot and the TV remote all to myself.

Sounds good!

But sent money anyway.

Tuesday, 19 November 2013

In which One is invited up the passage…

‘Tis quiet as the grave in the Underground Lair now that Aged P has been dispatched to Lutonistan.  The ozone layer up there will now be severely depleted by the methane emissions from beneath the all over, fluffy blanky coverall that is de riguer for all the old biddingtons up her street.

But – fear not, Dear Reader, the Specials, next door have found an atom of wall that hasn’t had the shite bashed out of it with a mallet and are DIYing their little brains out.  So, One has constant noisy proof of other oomans in the block.

Biffed off through the gate and up the passage to see One’s bosom chum, Lovely Gordon.

‘Come at five for tea and cake,’ ordered the Lovely G when he telephoned earlier.

One had spent an entire day grooming Oneself to within an inch of perfection, so was keen to display a freshly dermo blasted, waxed, exfoliated, threaded, dunked in asses milk, moisturised, oiled and plucked bodzilla to any memb of the opposite that was ready for a gander.

Had to be Lovely Gordon, since the Jolly Tall, Well Spoken, Elderly Gentleman has cleared off to Belgium with the express purpose of acquiring the finest chocolate the chocolatiers can create for the delectation of your very own bon vivuer , Lovely One.

Uncle Bert, no longer in attendance, is busy steaming up the windows in the residences of all the toothless widows in the block.  The absence of elderly men (apart from the chap who has the imaginary friend in his shed) has rendered Bert the stud of the senile. 

The wily old cove has taken to complimenting the old biddzillas re: hair, garden, outfits, hounds etc and has a constant stream of Tenna-ed up, hairy-chinned, toothless old crones biffing up with fruitcake in an effort to get a  go on his old duffle-bag willy.

Any road up, One digresses…

One was smouldering at the door of LG at precisely 5.00pm anticipating an eventual cup of cha and a slice of cake…

‘Knock knock’

No reply – So One shoved the ‘herb of the day’ Parsley, through the letterbox and cleared off.

‘Where are you?’ came the call, some minutes later, ‘I got held up at the shop by an unhelpful assistant and have just flounced out.’

Turned out that Lovely G had an altercation with said shop assistant over some dispersible aspirin. What with that and some strange bod up the passage mistaking him for a janitor and demanding the filling in of an hole outside his residence, Lovely Gordon was in a right two and eight and could only calm himself with a peruse through a white goods catalogue.

Monday, 18 November 2013

In which One discovers the laxative properties of and M&S chicken pie…

‘Just press 3 on the controller and you’ll get Alan Titchmarsh,’ said I.

‘I pressed 3 and BBC1 came on,’ complained Aged P.

‘That simply isn’t possible, you must have pressed 1,’ snarled Moi.

Following a heated discussion regarding the pressing of 1’s and 3’s, Alan fecking Titmash was beaming from the screen with the look of  a self satisfied perv with a toothless grannie attached to his knob.

Any road up, One knows One should just put up and shut up where Aged P is concerned, but following an entire week of it, One had been challenged one time too many.

We repair to the pub…

Aged P     ‘I wish I could see the back of my head.’

Lovely One sat in confused silence.

Aged P     ‘Did you hear what I said?’  Went on the peculiar pensioner.

‘Yes I did, but I really felt that it didn’t require an answer,’ said One.

Face like a crumpled cadaver, she emitted a ‘Huh’ and one of the disapproving sniffs and launched into the daily ‘What are you having?’ discussion.

‘I’m having scampi,’ One replied, eschewing the usual Bear Burger as One is Bear Burger Bunged at the moment and shall be resorting to the psyllium husk with a matter of urgency shortly.

‘I don’t want scampi,’ said the Aged P

‘Well don’t have it then, have something else,’ said One, imagining poking individual gobbets of scampi up her shrivelled jacksie.

‘Well I want plaice, but don’t you think it’s funny to have salad with plaice and chips?’ she enquired.

‘No I don’t and if you don’t want it either tell them or don’t effing well eat it!  They let you get down from the table before you’re finished in here,’ spat One, knowing even as One said it that One should keep her trap shut.

‘There was something in that Marks and Spencer chicken pie,’ she went on.

‘Chicken perchance?’ One mused.

‘Huh!  You know what I mean, I haven’t been off the lav since we had it,’ said Aged P as the lunch arrived.

Bon Apetit!

 

Friday, 15 November 2013

In which One want an OAP cull to save the world…

Boots the Chemist have an offer of BOGOF  on anti stress peel off facial masks.

I purchased thirty five and got another thirty five free. 

Currently One is slathered head to dainty toe in the pink anti stress slime awaiting hardening.

Upon removal One is hoping to enter an om zone of spiritual harmony and be One at one with the universe.

This Zen state of being is unlikely, however, to be achieved before the timely return of the Aged P to Lutonistan.

AND NOT A MOMENT TOO FECKING SOON

Today One will be visiting yet another bastard tea room and sloshing further cups of Ty-fecking-Phoo down as a chaser for a dried up sodding cup cake.

This delight is to follow lunch in the local hostelry which was rendered a fecking nightmare by the silly old bat chipping in with all and sundries private conversations and staring with embarrassing continuity at some poor swine with a facial injury whilst commenting upon it with her hand across her big gob.

How she doesn’t get at least a telling off is totally beyond me!  The rudeness is arse cringing for anyone with her.

Apropos of nothing…

One has discovered the real reason for global warming – it is the heat generated by the millions of annoying elderly people (all kept alive by the wastage of NHS money) sitting sweltering in their ‘snuggly blankets with sleeves in’ clutching their hot water bottles whilst soaking up all my fecking heating!

One is mooting a mass cull of the irritating old shite’s and One would like to begin NOW

Thursday, 14 November 2013

In which One has indigestion …

‘Huh, if I was here at lunchtime I know what I’d have,’ issued the Aged P upon a request to inform Boy et Moi as to her preference for supper at a local hostelry.

‘What would that be,’ enquired a gritted teggied Lovely One.

‘The chefs cheese platter,’ said the AP stabbing a gnarled digit at the desert board.

‘I offered you cheese at home and you said you can’t eat it,’ blurted out the surprised Lovely One before remembering it is better to just go with the flow de la jour.

‘Well I can, but just not at night because of the migraines, and I can’t eat chocolate either.’

This from the woman who has had two enormous bars of 80% cocoa (what else) organic chocolate secreted in her room in order to sneak in for a square and not share.

‘Ok, then if we come again, have the cheese. What would you like now?’ asked the confused Boy.

‘What are you having?’ came the stock reply. ‘That woman over there has got a carafe of wine, I wish I’d had one instead of just this glass.’

‘We could get you one if you want,’ said One.

‘Huh, I’d never drink all that!’

‘OK then, what do you want to eat?’ ploughed on Lovely One.

‘What are you having?’

‘I’m going to have the pie of the day.’  A day with a pie in it is a day to be celebrated in my humble (pie) opinion!

‘I can’t eat pie, you idiot!  I’ll be having reflux and Gaviscon later on!’

‘Well, don’t have pie then.  What would you like?’

‘What are you having?’ to Boy.

‘Lasange.’

‘Can I get a small one of those?’

The pie, the lasanges large and small were delivered after an interminable wait during which the Aged P had the next table under observation and found it necessary to comment upon their alcohol consumption, their outfits and even to remark upon their conversations, behind her hand, in a very loud voice.

Boy et Moi squirmed.

‘Do you want pudding?’ One foolishly enquired.

‘I don’t want the cheese.’

‘What would you like then?’

‘I’ll have creme brulee, what are you having?’

‘I’m having cheese and coffee.’

‘Oh well, you can save me some of your cheese.  I really love brie.’

‘No.  If you want cheese, have cheese.’

‘Huh! You’ve got plenty of cheese and I want some.’

‘Well have cheese instead of creme brulee then.’

‘What are you having?’ to Boy.

‘Sticky toffee pudding.’

‘I don’t want that!’

Rennie anyone?

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

In which One is off to a sodding Tearoom…

Today One will be mostly watching Peter Andre decorating someone’s house, taking a pill box (acquired yesterday) back to the shop and spending a fecking fortune in a sodding tearoom.

All this excitement will be interlaced with the odd bit of painting, with which to get money to spend in tearooms.

Boy, who now earns his own money, (more than me) is now impervious to financial bribery and has seemingly gone AWOL.

One’s bathroom has been found wanting through the lack of a sit down shower and a handle on the wall. 

One’s kitchen is unsatisfactory due to the lack of a ‘dishcloth’ whatever the feck that is and a milk pan.

Food is being served on an almost hourly basis and drinks, wine, tea and coffee are on demand if anyone – ANYONE – PLEASE – would like to visit!!

                                          ~

It has come to One’s attention that one of you, my avid followers, has suggested that One should frequent a low class establishment called Primark.  Is it not enough for you people to realise that One has had to discover Lidling?  Have you learned nothing from my years of recounting my superior existence?

Primark!   NO NO NO

Sunday, 10 November 2013

In which we decide what to have for tea…

Lovely One – ‘What time would you like your lunch?’

Aged P – ‘What time do you have yours?’

Lovely One – ‘I don’t have a timetable, I get something when I’m hungry.  When would you like to have your lunch?’

Aged P – ‘I don’t mind what I have or when I have it, I’m really easy to please.’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll get it at around 2ish then.’

Aged P – ‘ Well I have to have mine at 12 o’clock!’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll get it at 12 o’clock then.’

Aged P – ‘Well I suppose I could wait until 2.00 pm, but I’ll need something now.’

Lovely One – ‘If you want your lunch at midday I will get it then. Would you like a sandwich or do you have a cooked lunch?’

Aged P – ‘What are you having?’

Lovely One – ‘Just tell me what you would like and I will get it and have the same.’

Aged P ‘ I don’t really mind, what do you want?’

Lovely One ‘I’ll get a sandwich then.’

Aged P – ‘Oh! I usually have a hot meal at lunchtime!’

Lovely One – ‘Ok, I’ll get you something hot.  Do you like fish pie?’

Aged P – ‘What are you having?  I don’t mind what I have, I’ll fit in with anyone.’

Lovely One – ‘DO YOU LIKE FISH FECKING PIE.’

Aged P – ‘Well I could have a sandwich.’

She had the fish pie….

Much later…

Lovely One – ‘Would you like something for tea?’

Aged P – ‘Oh yes I eat anything.’

Lovely One – ‘A cheese sandwich and a glass of wine?’

Aged P – ‘I can’t eat cheese, but I do.  I don’t have any  more wine after 6.00pm I have tea or coffee.’

Lovely One – ‘I’ll make you a bacon sandwich then if you can’t eat cheese.  What would you prefer?  Tea or coffee?’

Aged P – ‘Either, what are you having?’

Lovely One – ‘I am having a pint of gin.  Would you like tea or coffee?’

Aged P – ‘Oh I don’t mind, I’m easy.  I usually have it at 6.15pm before I watch the Strictly vote.’

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

 

Saturday, 9 November 2013

In which One is hiding in the bog…

Please somebody – HELP ME

Aged P has been here a little over 24 hours and thus far One has been subjected to something called ‘Strictly’ where washed up C listers cavort about with suspect looking eastern European bints in sequins…

We are now onto radio 4 extra with a delightful composite of wartime radio ‘comedies’…

This follows a trip to Taunton to acquire a Onesie for the Aged P…

Marks and Spencer, despite having a cashmere Onesie, and others, plentiful, in every fecking colour in the spectrum,  were all ‘Shit and I’m not wearing them with my hair!’

Matalan, similarly, despite offering all sizes in all colours, were found wanting.

The fiendish old dollop then decided she wanted a ‘new jumper’ so off we went again to M & S whereupon a pair of trousers were purchased because a ‘Turkwozz’ jumper with a high neck was impossible to locate amongst the six fecking ton loads of sheep wool that had been fashioned into every conceivable sweater design.

‘I ain’t ‘avin that it’s got an owl on and they’re unlucky!’

Continuing in the same vein, a wincyette nightie with short sleeves was conspicuous by it’s absence.

One did attempt to come down on the side of the manufacturer in that ‘winter weight ones usually have long sleeves and summer ones have short.’

This explanation was met with the familiar ‘sniff’ and the face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, so we came home whereupon Boy showed up to alleviate the torture. I bet I’ll have to pay cash for his time!

HELP ME

Friday, 8 November 2013

In which One is Ommming whilst One can…

Cleaned Underground Lair – check

Removed photograph of Deceased Dad to avoid – ‘Huh, what have you got a picture of HIM for?’ – check

Purchased 80% cocoa dark chocolate, weetabix, wholemeal sliced loaf, red wine, instant coffee etc – check

Put on display all the hideous ornaments gathered at Christmas and Birthdays over the years – check

Secreted Prozac, cigarettes and alcohol beneath the truckle bed for emergencies – check

Note; first emergency expected around 7pm –ETA Aged P - 6.45pm

Spoken to Saintly M regarding complete understanding should M open passenger door and shove Aged P out half way down the M5 – check

Superglued right foot to hall floor  (don’t ask)

 

Monday, 4 November 2013

In which One has been finally scuppered…

IMG_1885

Here is a view of Exmouth Marina, delivered yesterday to an eagerly awaiting throng who commenced biffing one another about the old bonce in their frantic efforts to secure the purchase.

Sadly, upon receipt of the masterpiece the silly old gallery owner type just dropped into the conv…

‘Ooooh, I did tell you we’re closing down at Christmas didn’t I?’

NO, GUV’NOR! YOU NEVER FECKING DID!

So – there we have it! ‘ If things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are’, as me Granny used to say.

The gallery world really does seem intent on scuppering me vessel at the mo, doesn’t it Dear Reader?

The Barbican is as dead as a do-diddly-oh-do, Brixham has shunned the delights of ‘Brixham Sunset’ and ‘Brixham Dusk’ and as for that deposit-returning fiend in Saltash, well between the blighters they’re pointing in the direction of a bleak and frosty Christmas in the Underground Lair.

OR – if anyone else collapses afore the event – CHRISTMAS TIDE IN THE GUTTER

NO, No, pray, Dear Reader, ‘tis not the merely the plummeting sales of your very own ‘icon of our times’ Lovely One, ‘tis the general dwindle of the acquisition of art in all of One’s establishments.

So, there we have it, One is shagged!

All donations to The Underground Lair gratefully received…

 

Friday, 1 November 2013

In which One is finally being de-scaffolded…

‘I will let you have the scaffold company details if they haven’t removed it by Friday lunchtime,’ came the missive from Adolphina (no doubt written ‘neath the light of one of the human skin covered lampshades that reside on her campaign desk. 

‘Hoo fecking ray,’ methinks! What is going to be done about the damage that’s been wreaked in my grounds?  Answer me that!  And what’s more to the point…

WHO’S PAYING FOR IT?

Any road up, was disturbed from One’s slumbers before eight this morning by the addition of a sufficiency of oiks thundering about on the lawn.

V V annoying since One was choosing a pair of shoes in Gucci whilst Johnny Depp held me ‘andbag! 

Any road up, a furtive glance through the curtains showed One the leader, he must have been the head oik, he stood menacingly in the middle of the lawn, hands in pockets, bellowing orders at the serf oiks,

‘Git that darn ‘ere Dave, just chuck it,’ and other complicated technical instructions.

One is unsure whether or not to put in an appearance to supervise matters since they appear to be lacking in the ‘Customer Service’ department.

Any way, One has just emerged from a bath of asses milk and has a big blue towel wrapped round me ‘ead and me Andy Pandy onesie on, so if they do require an appearance at least One will put the frighteners on ‘em!