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Wednesday, 25 December 2013

In which One is having a Merry Christmas…

‘Hello,’ murmured a post Pinot Lovely One into the mouthpiece, having been awakened at some ungodly hour.

‘That Enid has bought me a PURPLE T-shit with Bloody GLITTER all over it,’ was the response.  ‘How can people who’ve know you for fecking years always buy you something absolutely VILE for Christmas?’

Even through the miasma of Christmas Eve dans le duvet farts and Pinot perfume, One felt that Aged P has answered her own question there!

‘I’m just getting in the shower and I thought I’d better phone you in case you phoned me,’ she continued.  ‘ I don’t feel Christmassy at all and I’ve got to make the gravy at Iris’s because her’s is like runny shit.’

‘Oh I see,’ countered One, ‘Have you had any other nice presents?’

‘Men’s soap!  Fancy buying me that Imperial Leather? That’s mens!, and anyway how are you getting here on Sunday?’

‘Well, in the car,I thought,’ went on One.

‘Well what if it’s bad weather again?’

‘If it’s bad weather I’ll come on another day.’

‘Huh, I suppose I shall have to wear that jumper Iris bought me, I’ve got to go now.  Delphine’s daughter is taking her to a hotel for Christmas dinner and it costs £150 per person. What do you think of that then?’

By this time One is taking One’s chances under the duvet and wondering why anyone would spend that much on a roast dinner.

Bon Noelle

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

In which One is full of season’s gruntings…

Hark the horrid angels sing

Glory to Danny Kaye and Bing…

Bla bla fecking fairy light festooned bla…

Glad tidings were delivered to Lovely One.  Boy is putting in an appearance on Christmas Day!

In other exciting news…

One has watched every single adaptation of ‘A Christmas Carol’ that has been screened, culminating in the George C Scott version this evening which is One’s absolute fave.  It is illegal in the underground lair not to do so.

Apart from that One has elicited many a favourable comment regarding the door wreath One has knitted from super-floo-us pubic hair purloined from the bath plug hole.

Off to make sausage rolls now and then scoff the lot in front of the telly.

So like the home life of our very own Majesty the Queen.

Ooooh, Christmas has just been delivered by a fat bloke in a red T shirt.

Monday, 23 December 2013

In which One is in receipt of a crap candle…

There are some things in life that should never ever be tampered with.

One hopes upon hope that no unnecessary eejit will ever invent leather that doesn’t crinkle and tear.

One desperately desires that terracotta pots won’t be designed not to go all green and mossy.

That lovely young men won’t morph into delicious, creased and greying delights.

That full faced beauties won’t suck in their timely cheekbones and wear their beauty like a time worn trophy.

There are, however, some advances that One approves of…

The self clean oven and freezer, the non-fade hair dye, the timely invention of all show-offy photographers bunging their pics online so that lazy old Lovely One doesn't have to stir from the sofa to take her own.

BUT THE PERSON WHO CAME UP WITH THE NON DRIP CANDLE

needs to have at least one inserted up their smedley-botham.

What’s the point of having a fabulous brass candle stick with a festive red candle in it – if it doesn't drip in that delicious Hammer Horror Movie way?

NO NO NO

 

Sunday, 22 December 2013

In which One is fortunate…

One wonders if there was anyone abroad in ten parishes land cocking a lug to Princess P et moi as we reminisced about the Christmases of our childhoods.

At the end of proceedings PP asked One if One would prefer the Christmas of today or the ones of the 1950’s.

One opted for the latter but in truth One would much prefer the Christmases of the 1990’s when One had a small Boy to make a special time for.

One would begin the Christmas preparations in early November with lots of tiny Christmas cakes cooked in baked bean tins.  They would be ‘fed’ regularly with rum or brandy until steeped and solid, ready for a glazed fruit topping and a big red and gold velvet bow.

Having already created bottles of flavoured oil, mountains of chutney, home made truffles and many other seasonal delights, One would make up fabulous hampers for One’s family members who would all congregate in One’s splendid dining room on the day.

The Aged P’s would snipe and snarl at one another over the beautifully decorated table and The Mother in Law and Uncle Paul would pick around on their luncheon plates whilst M in Law entertained One and all with a long list of differences betwixt her cooking and One’s.

When it was all reduced to a hideous mess of leftovers they all cleared off.

How fortunate that One is alone.

Friday, 20 December 2013

In which One is under the Nordman Fir…

‘I don’t think he’ll like them,’ she said after being visibly delighted herself.

I DON’T THINK HE’LL LIKE THEM

I DON’T THINK HE’LL LIKE THEM

One sweated blood over that little stack of Russian Dolls.

One dragged them out to be admired at every possible opportunity.

One was transported to realms of delight with the thrilling gasps and ‘Ooooh aren’t you clevers,’ that One received with the retort, ‘I know. Isn’t it hilarious!’

But according to Princess P, himself is unlikely to favour the items with a grimace.

‘Well he’s a man, isn’t he?’ was the comment following on from the assertion that he ‘has no emotion.’

Oh dear me!  And there was One wishing One could be a fly on the wall at the Princess’s Palace to view the occasion.

Any road up, One biffed up the radio studio this a.m. at some ungodly hour to wax lyrical about Christmas in the 1950’s.

Obv for a great part of it, One was viewing it through the bars of me cot, but One does remember the days of being allowed in the ‘front room’ on Christmas Day and all the delights that ensued.

So now, One is back in the Lair all alone awaiting the arrival of Santa, or indeed any old fat bloke that might like to snog me beneath me Nordman Fir.

Thursday, 19 December 2013

In which One isn’t ready to be Aunt Cis…

Today One shall mostly be exuding the fetid aroma of moist pussy cat.

Having chosen yesterday (rain, gales etc) to go a-delivering of Christmas cheer, One rendered Oneself damp, bedraggled and giving off an unpleasant miasma of steam upon entering various establishments.

Across the border in Devon, One’s first call was to the most delicious of Christmas homes.  The extravagant, booming voiced, tiny hostess was, as ever, examining herself and questioning her marvellous existence. 

There surely is no rhyme or reason as to our lots in life.  How can there be?  When the divine  practically beatific Lovely One is living in such poverty stricken squalor, when those less deserving are looking forward to a season of merry-making and being wrapped cosily in the arms of close and extended family.

Ah well, at least One had an email from Boy informing One that his amour is ‘willing to see me.’  That is the response to One’s invitation to supper during the holidays.

Ah well, One has One’s memories of One’s own thrilling Festive seasons.  Not that One hasn’t had invitations to join in with the celebrations of others.  But, One doesn’t want to be the ‘Aunt Cis’ of the season just yet.

Let me explain…

Aunt Cis, One’s maternal grandfather’s sister, married late, lost her husband following a brief whirlwind coupling and thereafter was shunted from relative to relative throughout the Festive Season.

Sitting, legs akimbo, Babycham in hand, revealing knee-length bloomers Aunt Cis would regale everyone with her rendition of ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree,’ for what seemed like an eternity.

One shall simply hide away in One’s lair, putting off the inevitable ‘Aunt Cis’ experience until next year, or the year after…  

 

Tuesday, 17 December 2013

In which One is diversifying …

IMG_1915

Here is a family painted as a commissioned Christmas present. 

One has to consider painting One’s own.  Not the current family One actually has, but the 1980’s Ribena advert family that One wanted. 

One could be the bouncy Pre-Raphaelite haired ginger bint, Boy could be the curly haired youth blissfully biffing about the grounds and, well, the angelic girl-child would have to be a Pooker.  As for Vile-ex-Husband, well, he wasn’t there – nuff said.

Any road up, One is now soooo vast, One looks like One has actually consumed an entire family.  The more One dwells upon that thought the more inviting it sounds.  Vile-ex-Husband could be deployed as a tooth pick upon consumption of Boy.

BUT NO MORE

One is going full tilt as a non-driking vegan come the New Year and One will be attracting all sorts of elderly companionage forth with.

SO STICK THAT UP YER BUS PASS AND RIDE ON IT

Sunday, 15 December 2013

In which One is stuffing whatever up wherever…

Well the wedding anniversary has passed, so ‘tis time to deck the lair with seasonal mementos.

The scary snow woman is in place and the Tudor costumed china hares are out of their wrapping.

‘Please don’t put them out Mummy,’ came the plaintive cry of Boy, each year when One’s stylish ornaments came down from the attic, ‘They make me have bad dreams!’

Bah sodding hum-fecking-bug!

Any road up, now Boy is off Yule-tiding with his amour and Vile-ex-husband is merry making with the Snaggle Toothed Troll et al, One can stuff whatever One likes up wherever One likes!

‘Tis a salutary lesson to One and one and all that even though One shagged One’s tits off in order for Boy to be secure in the Underground Lair until he had finished being off sick from school, One is the one left on One’s lone-tiddly-ownsome.

Still, all the more Pinot G pour moi!  In fact pour moi one right now!

                                         ~

One shall  be taking to the airwaves this Friday am to wax lyrical about Christmas in the 1950’s with Princess P.  Obv, whilst Princess P was snogging boys under the mistletoe, One was viewing the festive events from behind the bars of One’s cot!

Any road up, One’ll do anything for a mince pie and a small sherry.

Friday, 13 December 2013

In which Lovely Gordon invents the fingerless oven glove…

Today One will be putting out the trash wearing full make-up, eight inch stiletto Jimmy Choos, a diaphanous Chloe Tea Dress, and One’s family diamond tarara.

NOW LET SOME UNWASHED EEJIT ASKE ME IF I’M KEEPING WARM

One is NOT AN OLD LADY – Well not quite yet anyway.

Granted, since One has been incarcerated deep within the Underground Lair on One’s own, One has been mainly ackled up in a soiled Onesie, yesterday’s make-up and often found blowing One’s nose on a discarded Tena Lady. 

On One’s rare appearances without, near neighbours whom One has always considered to be lesser mortals than One have taken to enquiring:

‘How are you keeping?  Are you any better?’ etc

WHAT THE FECK IS OCCURRING?

All these faux concerns are being voiced by persons clearly more elderly than Lovely One.  Has One gorn orf?  Does One harbour the whiff of the Grim Reaper?  Who knows?

AND just to put the tin hat on it the Jolly Tall Well Spoken Elderly Gentleman has disappeared off the radar.  He surely must be deceased.  One cannot sanction any other excuse for the deliberate ceasing of chasing One.

Lovely Gordon is still in attendance immediately upon his arrival which is a relief.

Currently we are working toward an invention that will secure our financial future of pootling around the village antique shops and sunning ourselves on beaches various in our matching knitted bathing suits.

Lovely Gordon, thus far, has come up with: ‘The Fingerless Oven Glove.’  One can foresee the odd drawback there, but God bless the little blighter for trying!

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

In which One is keeping fecking warm…

‘You are suffering from anxiety and depression,’ said the doctoring device.

AND IS IT ANY FECKING WONDER?

After a lifetime of being told…

‘It’s alright for you.  You can cope with anything…’

‘Do come round, I’m feeling low and you always cheer me up…’

‘Oh you’re such a strong person…’

‘You’re a survivor, you are…’

WELL ONE IS NOT FECKING ALRIGHT, ONE ISN’T

One is incacerated in the Underground Lair with only the spiders for company.

Boy is a constant no show and as for Vile-ex-Husband, he doesn’t even tell Boy when I’ve called.

Well – Bollicks to the flaming lot of you!

Lovely Gordon required a home visit late on Sunday night which One was able to provide.  There’s nothing quite as humorous as watching a person with size 14 wakkin bwts keep falling over their own feet.  Not that One laughed!  Oh no, One is never cracking a grimace again.

One has a nasty gash under me nose – It’s me MOUTH

And – fer fecks sake – if all that misery wasn’t enough to make One slit One’s throat – some stchooopid, back-packed up nonentity (who looked like he would benefit from an encounter with a bar of soap) asked me…

‘Are you keeping warm?’

AM I KEEPING FECKING WARM! 

Granted, One had snuck out under cover of darkness to bin One’s trash at the communal rubbish area, and One hadn’t got me face on and me lustrous golden locks were in a ‘Croydon Facelift’ ponytail…

BUT FER FECKS SAKE

‘AM I KEEPING WARM’

That’s what you say to old ladies, not Lovely Ones.

 

Saturday, 7 December 2013

In which One is looking for an angle…

One is currently haunted by the image of an ‘artist’ with a ball of wool stuffed up her twinkle.  Let me explain…

According to this odd bodikin knitting for twenty eight days from the wool within is art. 

At first One merely gagged and averted One’s sparkling eyes.

BUT WAIT…

One needs an angle.  It’s obv…

Pickled sheep   -   tick

Self assembly dots    -  tick

stacked up bricks     -    tick

Twinkle twin set     -   tick

OH NO – it’s all been done!

Perchance a Cerulean Blue tube up the twinkster and a few pelvic floor exercises is the way forward.

Worth a try, since if something doesn’t give soon One shall be in the gutter.

No water required as One has an ‘ooops moment’ now and again.

A soupcon of the Jackson Pollocks methinks!

Maybe One’ll get more than a Tena for it!!

Friday, 6 December 2013

In which One is trending Nige…

Today One has mostly been ironing sheets.

IRONING FECKING SHEETS – if you ever did!

That is the sad and sorry depths One has sunk to.

Still, One’s doings have dropped off the front page of life since the powdery doings of Nige and the death of NM.

I bet poor old Nige heaved that enormous bosom in relief that a bigger story than her hit the headlines.

Like when Kennedy died, CS Lewis shuffled on the same day and some other known bod too.  There you are!  Proof positive!  One can’t even remember the other deceased bod as everyone was reporting Kennedy. 

The same with Princess D.  When she bought it, Mother Theresa croaked on the same day so nobody noticed her shuffling off to inherit the earth.

(One has never quite been able to grasp the divinity of poverty)

Thus it will be with poor old Nige.  Off the front page for the foreseeable.

Sharp intake of breath – though preferably not through the nose Nige, we all know that’s not self-raising down yer d├ęcolletage.

One has succumbed to the depths of gloom yet again, what with there being nobody in the Underground Lair to moan to/about.  One is starkly aware of how lonely little old biddies, kept alive and alone, by the advance in medicine, only to shiver in front of the one bar fire, and when it’s really cold – turn it on!

But wait!  One is one of those medicated biddies.  Even the JTWSEG has sheared following the refusal of One to drive to Bristol on the promise of a cream slice!

One is putting the tree up tomorrow.

Deck the lair with cans of cider,

fa la la la la fecking la

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

In which One is slipping silently away…

There is a dangerous imbalance on the Earth’s Karma axis.

Lovely One, having devoted One’s darling little self to the happiness and fulfilment of others, is shagged all ends up.

‘How can this be?’  You Dear Readers ask yourselves.

‘Fecked if One knows,’ comes the reply.

Having despatched One and One’s only offspring over the road from Vile-ex-Husband before he rendered us homeless and destitute…

Boy now prefers his company, hardly ever visits and never even phones his Dear Mama.

Following One’s careful nurturing of Uncle Bert until he found an institution to live in…

He now regales One with tales of being the sole bloke on the block and is stuffed, on a daily basis, full of cake and tea by toothless old crones desperate for a squint at his duffel bag.

One is hoping for snow this winter in order to slip silently away one night to freeze to fecking death in order not to be a burden.  Not that anyone would notice One’s departure until the spring thaw.