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Thursday, 26 February 2015

In which One suffers saucepan envy…

saucepan envy

‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wassnames’

so sayeth the Good Book.

One cannot comply at the mo, since on a recent visit to BF’s gaff One found her surrounded by a fablious set of ceramic saucepans.  A recently acquired ‘love token’ from BFP.

So, Dear Reader, One now has to contend with ‘Saucepan Envy’ as well as One’s never ending list of life traumas.

Let One explain…

In the run up to Christmas it would appear that the nation is hell-bent on acquiring a new sofa (hence all the DFS ads on telly)

In the immediate aftermath of the festive season, ‘Benson’s for Beds’ would have us believe that the road to success is paved with 6ft divans and comfort level ‘3’ mattresses.

No sooner do we sign up for that than we need ‘another ten per cent off our fifty per cent off’ soft close doors, sparkly work-topped kitchens from B&Q

Obv, One is bunged up with envy for all these consumer items as One is seriously deficient in the ‘worldly goods’ department.

One did have a rather magnificent copper pan, with lid, that One polished regularly in the manner of a scullery maid, but, and One knows who you are, you daft sort, a previous tenant saw fit to clean it with a metal scouring device!

Ah well, tis nothing compared to the abuse One’s twinkle appears to have suffered…

The more advanced in years of you, Dear Readers, may recall the ‘Explore your own vagina’ days of the rampant Women’s Libbers who used to sit around with looking glasses between their hairy thighs and ‘fanny ferkle.’

One never held with that sort of ‘dirty’ behaviour and, what with the recreation area being so close to the toilets, One only visited ‘down below’ with a carbolic coated flannel.

‘I can’t do it,’ said the nurse on the third visit to have the womb of doom excavated, ‘you’ll have to come back and let a surgeon have a go.  They wack about in there while yer unconscious.’

One never gave it another thought until just now…

Imagine, if you will, Dear Reader, the tent door-flaps that are tied back to gain entry…

Need One say more…

One shall have to deploy the A of the F with his deep-sea diving, waterproof, head-mounted torch.

Unless, of course, he reads this, whereupon One shall find him in the spare room clutching the quilt around his chin, teeth chattering and feigning sleep.

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

In which One farts and rants in equal measure…


Boy came round for supper…

We shared a four quid Asda Chinese for two…

Following consumption, and indeed now, some eight hours later the bottom burping continues.

One can but assume the main ingredient was three quid’s worth of fart powder.

We fell into a massive rant about the state of the nation…

How can it be, Dear Reader, that the minimum wage, which is what One shall be collecting, is substantially lower than the living wage?

One knocked up a budget plan yesterday and One won’t even be earning enough to meet One’s meagre commitments.  How’s that going to work then?

How come we’re not rioting in the streets?

Why do our political leaders think that the constant announcement that ‘our overseas aid budget is ring-fenced’ is of any importance to the people of this country who are struggling to survive on a daily basis?

Please, somebody wake me up when the revolution starts and if I’ve got the energy after a hard day’s care work, I’ll gladly join in.


Further proof of One’s identity is required for One’s new job…

A bank statement – One can do that

One’s marriage certificate – sadly destroyed in a Black Magic ritual in the back yard.




Tuesday, 24 February 2015

In which One puts the kettle on…

You'd never know it but buddy, I'm a kind of poet
And I got a lot of things to say
And when I'm gloomy, you simply gotta listen to me
Till it's all talked away

Frank Sinatra

It actually is a quarter to three and there’s no one in the place – except me

Not even a ‘Joe’ to set ‘em up, or to listen to One wittering on.

Would you Christmas Eve it, eh?  First – can’t stop sleeping

Now – can’t sleep at all!


Repatriation to the Underground Lair brings the horror of One’s current situation to the fore.

One wonders if ‘crowd funding’ would be considered for a flollopy old has been like One, in order that One could live out the rest of One’s days in a quiet little retirement bung somewhere?

Any road up, should be starting work soon and hopefully able to sort some stuff out.  Who’d have thought it, Dear Reader, that One would be glad to have a job that pays what One earned as a teenager? 

‘C’est la vie,’ well it’s One’s ‘vie’ anyway, or so it would seem.

In the hours of daylight One’s ridiculous Pollyanna attitude is in place, but once enveloped by the dark, lonely gloom of the Underground Lair it’s another story. (I hope it’s one with a happy ending)

See!  There One goes again, reaching for a tiny strand of happiness that floated past and trying to wind it round my chubby little digit.

See, the thing is: One is almost two, and as everyone knows: two can live as cheaply as One, but one on One’s own is struggling a bit at the mo.

Hey ho!  Pass the Pinot.  Oh I forgot, I can’t afford any! ‘Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’



In which One's life is a comedy of errors...

'I'm surprised that no one has approached you to make a sitcom of your life,' said my v clever and talented writer chum from across the Atlantic.
This idea has been vaunted by the many, including the divine A of the F, who, like everyone, wants Miranda Hart to play Lovely One.
'Who's gonna play you?, enquired One.
'Brad Pitt, naturally,' replied he.
'I don't fancy him. How about Ray Winstone, I'd cover him in squirty cream and Green and Blacks grated 80% cocoa chocolate and lick him til next Tuesday.'
'Steady on Petunia!' Said the A, pulling the quilt about his person.
Fortunately for the A, One is still 'under the doctor' in the gusset department, or One would be launching Oneself off the top of the Armoire.
As it is One still requires fourteen uninterrupted hours kip per day, so One is off to the Docs tomorrow for a jump start off a minor.
One did get 467 readers yesterday, so maybe that sort, Sienna Miller ought to dust off her Goks, because as far as One is concerned, she's the one to play One.

Monday, 23 February 2015

In which we are reprimanded by an inanimate object…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, having just awoken from a fourteen hour kip in the manner of Sleeping Beauty, see above.

‘Take it easy for a few days,’ instructed the medical sort, as One biffed off, listing badly to port.

One can’t actually recall acquiring One’s choods and gattels from the Underground Lair, or indeed the journey to the Manor, but here One is, so it must have all come to pass.

Any road up, having made it through Saturday and Sunday in a relatively normal (for One), manner, One has just, as aforementioned, awoken from a mammoth kip.


Yesterday we were sat sitting ‘ere minding our own bees-tiddly-wax when the A of the F piped up, ‘Oh do feck off,’ to his i-phone AND IT ANSWERED HIM BACK

‘Goodbye would have been more polite,’ it said appropo of nothing, I kid you not, Dear Reader, inanimate devices are going to take over the world.

‘Siri’ the sort on the i-phone, will occasionally pipe up when she picks up vocals off the telly, and has oft been told to f-off by the A.  Obv., she has a tolerance level and has got fed up with his profanity.

What next?

Car:   ‘You needn’t think I’m starting up if you get in here with those shoes on!’

Washin Mashin:  ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you washed them sheets, you dirty mare?’

And so it will go on…

Siri irriot!


Sunday, 22 February 2015

In which One is still flollopy in the extreme…

hunt one

Although One was flollopy in the extreme, One didn’t wish to miss the final meet of the season and so off we biffed in our Barbours to observe the splendid spectacle.

Now, One knows that some of you Dear Readers will be against such barbaric sport, and indeed ‘tis a banned barbaric sport, but One simply adores the v English sight of the horse and hound.

Any road up, there we were in the middle of a very windy and cold field…

‘Looks like that big black cloud has moved off,’ opined One to the A of the F, when the heavens opened and a thunderous hailstorm began.

Fortunately One was positioned next an open horse box and nipped inside for shelter.

The A of the F, with an attempt at humour that would have seen him severely admonished if One had have been chipper in the extreme, popped into the horse box, blew on me nose and attempted to shove a carrot like device in between me bit.

Chilled to the bone, we repaired to the hice and quaffed whisky and port whilst rubbing body parts various in order to thaw them out.

One had to be taken home when One began listing to the left and was in danger of falling face first into me sausage roll.

How long does that general anaesthetic last fer fecks sake? 


Friday, 20 February 2015

In which the A of the F is beatified...

He even stopped on the way home to purchase, or otherwise acquire, a plethora of cans of soup various and some ice cream.
'Why so?' One hears you enquire, Dear Reader.
Well, tis like this...
The worst bit of the whole twinkle excavation incident was the aftermath of the tube what they bunged down me throat.
In fact, One coughed and wheezed in the manner of a forty a day Woodbiner and sounded like a Harley Davidson starting up to the extent that the concerned Anesthetist ran back into theatre to make sure he hadn't lugged out a chunk of lung.
'You don't smoke do you?' Says he.
'Not usually,' countered One, 'but I've been droking and sminking like a good 'un since all this began.'
Any road up, One shall reform One's ways forthwith, since 'twould appear One shall survive the passing of a few more moons.
Prior to the removal of Boy's evil twin, BF paid One a visit armed with a delightful posy of evergreens plucked that very morning from her estate.
One, showing off about the tender care delivered by the A of the F, piped up...
'He has even bought me a book to read whilst I'm awaiting excavation.'
'What is it?' enquired she.
'A cookery book,' says One.
This tickled BF, since she has long been on the receiving end of One's culinary disasters.
Does One care a jot?
No, One does not, and plans to spend all eternity perfecting the art in order to please the A of the F.
Today, all being well we are following the hunt. It is the Meet of Mrs Lovely Family.
'Mr Lovely has just messaged me to ask how you are,' said the A, 'and I have had to report that you are doing well, but unfortunately yer gob' s still operational.'
Oh well, I'll let him have that one on One. After all he is the best person I have ever known.

Thursday, 19 February 2015

In which One begins a new day...

One has survived the night with the tender care of the A of the F who really ought to stop behaviing like the indestructible he man for my benefit. Not that One doesn't appreciate it, One does, but since both he and One find it difficult in the extreme to accept help we spend perpetuity in a near combat state.
Not to mention the other marvlious chums who have supported One through what has been oft times a dark place.
BF, even though creaking a bit herself, has continued to be the ever sensible, tiny little rock she always has been since first we met and One put One's hoof in it by enquiring,
 'who's that old bloke you're with? Is it yer Dad?'
'No, that's my husband,' said she, indignant on his behalf but secretly thrilled to have her youthfulness acknowledged.
The Pinkster, her bitch, her Aged P and the Montacutie have lent their unfailing moral support, as have people One has never even met, but who read this drivel on a daily basis.
Dear Little S, Mar and Full Frontal Sister continue to lurk in the dark shadows and leap out as and when a box of Pinot and a guffaw are required.
Aged P has sent financial offerings whilst still pretending to be gaga and not have a clue what's occurring.
There has, of course, been the ever present vitriol and bile spewed out by spiteful old women who'd be better occupied spending other people's money in a more productive manner. Or, alternatively, holing up in the garden shed with a pet Rabbit (known for putting a smile on the nastiest of faces)
Any road up, with A of the F snoring peacefully next One, One bids you 'good day', Dear Reader and shall biff off to make another pot of Espresso.
One shall return later with more side splitting tales of the womb of doom...

In which normal service is resumed...

'Who is your next of kin?' Enquired the stchoopid bint on reception.
' My son,' replied One.
'Is that him?' Continued the sort, pointing at the A of the F.
He's fecking sixty sodding two, you short sighted, idiotic dollop.
I mean, Dear Reader, I know One didn't have One's face on, but fer fecks sake One'll never hear the last of this. The look on his face said it all and he keeps on calling me 'Mother.'
Consequently, One was in such a paddy by the time One got ackled up in the gown, which incidentally would have fitted Bessie Braddock, One could have bitten a nail in half.
Any road up, sans tumour, One called Aged P...
'I've had it done.'
'Has Martin got grey hair?'
'I'm home now and just a bit woozy'.
'Eileen bought me a microwave pancake from Morrison's and Jackie never hoovers under the furniture.'

Situation normal - pass the fags (no Pinot til tomorrow.)

Wednesday, 18 February 2015

In which One thanks Joseph Shivers…

my arse one

Upon awakening, on One’s own, (I hate that) One espied, on Google, that it’s the anniversary of the birth of Alessandro Volta, the inventor of the battery.

‘Volta’ – what a brilliant name for the inventor of the battery!  What came first the Volta or the battery?  One knows not since there is another inventor who is lionised in the life of One…

Any road up, good old Alessandra made it possible for One to have a transistor radio when One was six years old, thereby beginning One’s life-long love affair with the wireless.

The little transistor radio met an untimely end in a puddle outside Nanna Harris’s front door when One was rescuing One’s, soon to be pet, sparrow Harold Warrender.

Harold Warrender lived in a Quality Street tin lined with cotton wool, secure behind the fireguard on the kitchen table, away from the life-threatening danger of Kitty, Aged P’s cat.

As I’m sure I’ve told you before, Dear Reader, One skipped into the kitchen one sunny morning and the Father, standing next to the open window, informed One that Harold had flown away.

Obv., Harold had died (as One finally twigged at the age of twenty-seven) as did Bugs the rabbit who hadn’t actually bitten his way through the side of his hutch.

In fact, One was never informed of the deaths of any of One’s menagerie. 

One can but hope that on the morrow, should One not survive the Fanny-Ferckling fiasco, that a kindly surgeon tells the A of the F that One flew out of the hospital window, thereby lessening the pain of losing his lady-love.

Anyway, One does digress, back to the favoured inventor…

Joseph Shivers.  That is he.  The inventor of Lycra.  (My arse – see above)

‘Twas it not for he, One would be flolloping hither and thither in the thigh/bottom department and, indeed, the bit just above the waist where all the excess thigh/bottom gets shoved.

Yet another marvlious invention has been discovered on a weekend trip to Tesco…

The bum/tum/thigh shaper tights.  It’s like being in a vice once One has struggled into the device.  Fortunately the gussetage is v generous to allow for slight leg movement in order to perambulate about.

Any road up, ‘tis he who gets One’s eternal gratitude today.

Tomorrow, sans lycra, the A of the F will deliver One to One’s fate.

Should One shuffle off this mortal coil, One has instructed the A of the F to inform you, Dear Reader, in order that you may all take a moment to reflect upon the life of Lovely One.

Monday, 16 February 2015

In which One's shrine is proposed...

V early in the morning and One is wide awake. The A of the F is snuffling and snuggling to my port side.
There simply is nothing more lovely in life than to wake up next to the one One loves and if the blighter doesn't stop that infernal snoring One shall smother him with a Tesco Home and Wear Value pillow.
Back to the Underground Lair later to write One's last will and testament.
'Whyfor?' One hears you collectively chorus, 'you will be fine'.
Well, One never knows, does One.
Boy shall inherit One's vast landed estate, obv, and as for the A of the F, he shall be bequeathed One's tumour, so recently hacked out of One by an apprentice Butcher from Morrison's Market Street.
It is to be hoped that the super-floo-us body part shall form the centre piece of the shrine he will erect in One's memory.
He shall lay there a single red rose with a droplet of morning dew, in the manner of a tear upon it's petals each and every morning.
Or at least One hopes he does, because the unromantic, stingy, fecker never bothered sending One any when One was alive.

In which One is a lush born to gush...

And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Byshe Shelley

If that had been penned for One, One's thumbs would have been immediately drawn to One's knicker elastic.
'Get yer cloak Perce, you've pulled'.

One has taken to reading 'Poem for the Day' again.
First introduced to the tome in the splendid drawing room of Lady Milverton at Flete Castle, One quickly became a faithful devotee, One's lyrical routine only to be briefly diverted from whilst in the maudlin company of the chatelaine of the Bung of Doom.

Presently, back to One's romantically inclined, dreamy self, One welcomes a daily recital of a love poem from the sweet lips of the A of the F, as he awakens One on a daily basis with an Espresso and a fag before repairing to the bog.

'You're gushing again,' said the A of the F, barely looking up from his Sudoku, as One delivered his second cup of Earl Grey, with the words, 'there you are my darling, oh sweet reason One draws breath.'
But, there you have it, Dear Reader, One is a lush born to gush.

Exuding romance from every available orifice, One set about deciphering the explanation of today's Poem of the Day, only to be chilled to the core to discover that Percy Byshe had penned the ditty for some gormless bint who was visiting him and Mrs Byshe in Florence.
AND to further inflame One, the selfish shit had left Mrs Byshe at home hoovering and minding the baby whilst he squired the sort round the galleries.

Should the A of the F ever express an interest in ripping the bodice of another, One would be forced to chin the faithless fecker, make no mistake, Dear Reader.

Sunday, 15 February 2015

In which bloody Eileen needs a wee...

'Hello Mother. Happy Birthday,' said One.
'I've sent you a birthday card with thirty quid in it and good luck for Tuesday,' Came the confusing reply from Aged P.
'My operation is on Thursday' countered One 'and it's your birthday. Mine is in September.'
We went on to discuss this afternoon's tea party, being held at a garden centre near Milton Keynes.
Ange, the gang supremo of all the old girls on the council estate has a car and oft rounds them all up for a day out.
'Bloody Eileen will want the toilet before we get to the end of the road,' opined Mother, 'the doctor said to me: Mrs Harris, I've never seen such an enormous bladder as you've got and Ange won't get a man like you've got because she's got so fat.'
'She should go for it anyway' said One, 'there will be loads of old codgers out there who'd love to squire a lovely girl like Ange.
'I've just taken me acid for crumbling bones,' continued Aged P, you have one a week so I do mine on a Sunday so I can lay down while it circulates.'
'That sort of thing is precisely why poor unfortunates like me only get day surgery. Too much money is spent keeping old girls like you going into ridiculous old age,' said One.
'Bloody cheek, you tart,' replied Mother.
'Get it right,' replied One, 'alcoholic slut,' is my preferred soubriquet.
Anyway, it's the A of the F's mother's birthday on Tuesday. She's eighty five as well and we thought that since we're skint that in future we'll get
a seven day bunch of garage carnations between you. You can keep them for three days and then send them on to her.'
'I've got to go. Bloody Jackie's at the front door with her tattoos and a hoover.'

Friday, 13 February 2015

In which One waxes lyrical...

My Funny Valentine has been presented with his hand thrown, fresh cream truffles, minus one, which was tested yesterday by my new 'roomie' the PO
She and One shall get on famously, she's got a cat!
'Oh feck me' said the A of the F upon hearing the news that One has acquired a pussy by proxy.
Upon the additional information that she was also a Special Constable, a further tirade of abuse was embarked upon.
Any road up, they'll have lots to talk about whilst One is ministering to the mog.

One spent a goodly amount of time trawling through me poetry tomes to find a suitable declaration of devotion to bung in with the truffles...

Because today is Valentine's
I'll make sure it's lots of fun
And to end the day
In the nicest way
I'll nip round and give you One

Lord Byron

In which One attempts to capture the A of the F’s heart…

angel me

Following on from yesterday…

One, who was being bashed up on a daily basis by Jonathan Hill, was advised by Aged P to ‘hit him back.’

Obv., being an angel-child, see above, One had to steel Oneself for the task, and lo, one sunny day when the ginger approached One, One kicked the blighter v hard on the shins and ran off homeward.

The following day One was called to the Headmistress's office, whereupon JH, his mother and Aged P were already assembled.

One was given a massive telling off…

Aged P, cowed in the face of authority, wriggled in her seat, giggled at inappropriate moments and duly dragged One off to be smacked!

A valuable lesson was learnt that day…

Don’t always listen to Aged P and exact revenge in a more subtle manner.


Any road up, yesterday, not willing to accept the A of the F’s dictat that ‘We are too old for Valentine’s Day,’ One set about making some fresh cream truffles for the miserable old git…

Four hours passed…

The kitchen looked like someone had thrown a chocolate hand grenade in it…

One was liberally coated with Organic Cocoa powder…

One had skidded on the cream that had dribbled on the stone floor and bashed One’s head on the Rayburn door…

Delia’s truffles were perfectly spherical and unctuous in the extreme.

One’s look like the detritus that the afternoon shift of ‘shit-stirrers’ skim off the top of the sewage works in Letchworth.

No matter, perchance they will  melt the heart of the A of the F and he will declare his undying for One…

Two chances…

Fat and Slim…

Thursday, 12 February 2015

In which One’s storytelling life begins…


One has always been rather keen on spinning a yarn…

As you know, Dear Reader, this very tome contains but a grain of truth…

Awake in the early hours with nothing on TV save Panorama droning on about HSBC assisting it’s v wealthy clients in tax-dodging, One fell into a reverie…

(Like we don’t all know that this country is set up to make the rich richer and the poor die from ignorance and want)

One, for some reason, drifted back to the days of a v young Lovely One…

All blonde curls, huge blue eyes and a powerful right-hander, One was relayed to school by the mother of a class-mate (Aged P had to moon about over the Brother, so didn’t have time)

I believe the other child was called Janice or some such semi-detached name of the day. The Mother was a large ungainly woman clad in Crimpelene, as I recall, who used to push a bicycle along side us as we skipped up the hill. 

Anyway, One, being born aged around 47, and being bored with only the Aged P to terrorise, decided to see how stchoopid adults actually were and embarked upon a lifetimes storytelling to see how far One could go without getting caught.

‘Twas in the days when summer sandals, plimsolls and the like were whitened by those ghastly foam tipped containers of gooey white stuff.  One, sporting Clarks Start-Rite’s suitably ‘whitened’ decided to embroider a tale for Janice and her Mother.

By the time we got to school One had convinced both that One’s shoes had started off life as ‘red shoes’ and One’s Mother had dyed the shoes white.

A silly tale with no reason to be told other than to demonstrate the persuasive powers of a very young Lovely One.

One can recall, even now, the superior feeling One had all day, until, upon being collected by Aged P and ‘The Brother’ in his pram, was given a biff round the ear and marched home to face the Father.

The v stchoopid Janice Mother had been round in One’s absence to enquire where she could purchase the marvellous shoe dye and thereupon One’s jolly jape had been discovered.

Seeing One as a ‘Devil-child’, Janice and Mother never again escorted One to school.

I’ve never understood that.  I should have thought that they would have been impressed by the story telling powers of One so young.

Any road up, it meant that One had to skip to school on One’s own and get bashed up by Jonathan Hill every sodding day…

More on that story later… 

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

In which One is a lucky One…


‘You have an aura of youth,’ opined She who must be obeyed, at the gallery, regarding One…

‘It’s like living with a teenager,’ a previous occupant of the Kingdom of Spare Ooom…

‘How old are you?’ -  the A of the F, in exasperation…

‘You can be a bit childish,’ - BF…

All these things, and more, have been stated about your very own youthful, Lovely One.


One was informed this very weekend, ‘We are too old for Valentine’s Day,’ by the A of the F.

One is grumped up in the extreme about this, see above.

One had been speculating, regarding the doings on Saturday…

Would One’s espresso be delivered by a naked A of the F with a single red rose between the cheeks of his bum (not his mouth, Dear Reader, there’s usually a fag in there)

Would One be awoken by the A gently removing One’s jim jams with his tooth?

Will there be Champagne and truffles delivered on a silver tray?

Sadly, none of the above…

Apparently persons as elderly as us, (me with dub-dubs like envelope flaps and him, growing his own ear-muffs) are too old for luuuurve…

‘We are babysitting for K and D, while they go out for a meal,’ came the instruction regarding the timetable for Valentine’s evening.

Mmmm, fine by One, since One is only ever likely to share the A’s grandchildren in the manner of a benevolent Aunt…

‘You’ll never be a Grandmother,’ informed the A of the F, apropos of nothing, as if One hadn’t already clocked that!

So, there’ll be no chocolates and fabulous fripperies pour Moi…

Mind you, Dear Reader, the A of the F does buy One chocolates every single week and treat One in the manner of a Fairy Princess every single day…

Isn’t One a lucky One?


Monday, 9 February 2015

In which One has gone all Sylvia Sims...

There is something inordinately comforting about being sired by a gentleman wearing a fine leather shoe (or two)
The A of the F, who has proven to be a stylish cove, even whilst ackled up in his 'leisure garments' as he insists on calling them (or Jim jams, which is what they actually are) in repose, still manages to assume an air of quiet elegance.
Why, just last Saturday, he sported a pair of hand tooled brouges that wouldn't have been out of plates* on HRH the Prince of Wales, even though worn in combo with denim trouserage and a Tescos Finest casual, upper garment.
The 'Blakeys' sparked reassuringly against the cobbles as One scampered along at his side, in me Uggs, all the way down the hill to the village hall.
Eschewing the current trends of a throw away society, the A of the F is shod in a sufficiency of quality that renders the requirement for soling and heeling at regular intervals. This, to One, is as sensual and seductive as a knicker-ripping Chippendale is to the less discerning, Lambrusco lashed lush.
The accompanying shine is such that should the A of the F' s toes stray twist One's thighs (when we are in a vertical stance) he is afforded a perfect looking-glass view of One's Gokked-up gusset.
If only One were still such a vision of elegant loveliness, but having just caught One's reflection, on the way to get the A of the F a bone China cup of Earl Grey, tis a sad fact that One has gone all 'Sylvia Sims.'

* plates of meat - feet
Cockney rhyming slang, Michael

In which One shares the ugly truth...

OMG it's happened...
One awoke to espy the a A of the F, with nothing on but the wireless, delivering an espresso to One's bedside.
'And this is of note because?' One hears you enquire Dear Reader, 'surely this is de riguer in the grand scheme of things.'
Indeed it is, especially of late, as One is diseased in the extreme and plugged up with polyps.
Which leads me neatly on to the grave news that, overnight, One and the A of the F, have morphed into cast members of 'Last of the Summer Wine.'
'How so, Lovely One?' You opine en mass, 'when you, at least, remain a vision of youthful loveliness'.
Sadly, tis all smoke, mirrors, and No 7 Protect and Perfect, Dears.
The ugly truth is thus...
We no longer awake to greet one another in a frenzy of ardent kisses.
No, we now spend a goodly amount of time listing our aches and pains various, and administering Voltarol gel to stiff, aching body parts.
And no, when the soothing balm has done it's work and we are mobile in part, we don't ravish one another. No gentle caressing nor sweet nothing whispering occurs (anyway One would be required to holler sweet nothings into the A's good ear) rather, the A plays a few squares of online Soduko, to sharpen his dull mind, whilst One gently Bazukkas his verucca.

Sunday, 8 February 2015

In which One attends a village quiz night...

One spent last evening in a parallel universe, or, as stated on the sign outside, East Down Village Hall.
The day of the much vaunted Annual Quiz and Fish and Chip Supper had arrived. Ostensibly to raise money for the local hunt, the shambolic event also serves as a fitting occasion to get thoroughly lashed.
The evening began with a sub-zero stroll, lit by a million stars, down the lane, with an oft sharpish leap into the hedge to avoid being flattened by a flotilla of four by fours.
We took up our seats, the eight of us, and emptied our alcohol stash onto the table. With enough beer, gin, wine and absinthe to fell the second Panza division, the evening began with a tray of mud and horse shite coated items being passed round for identification.
The Quiz master, whose Devon accent was such that One and the A of the F could only make out one in three words, manfully biffed through forty questions as a herd of village fillies delivered the fish and chips that was being prepared in a van in the car park.
The proceedings took around four hours and consequently the entire assemblage was rat arsed when the time came to announce the winning team.
Having downed our supply of alcohol, it was with much 'hurrahing' that our team won a dubious looking bottle of Latvian Laughing Water, in the raffle that topped us up sufficiently for the stumble down the never ending driveway to the Manor.
The Quiz Master, having spent an inordinately long time asking his questions, inexplicably ran out of momentum half way through the scoring, put on his coat, wished the assembled crowd a fond goodnight and cleared off, thus never actually declaring the results.
Having established that this was par for the course, everyone got ackled up in their Barbours and drifted back to their vast swathes of the North Devon countryside to attend to their beasts until the day of the Sixties Disco, when the tin baths come down off the scullery wall in order to make ready for the next social event on the calendar.

Saturday, 7 February 2015

In which the stairs are cleaned at last...

It has come to One's attention that someone has been taking photographs of One's butt over the back fence.
One's recently 're-bored and reconditioned downpipe features in some Polaroid swinger images too.
'Will your shapely butt be featuring on the front cover of Vogue?' One hears you chorus Dear Reader.
Sadly no, Dear Reader.
One's butt still appears to be the current fixation of the Uber Luitnent even though 'Tis currently disconnected from the fully functional down pipe.
Sadly One, being tumour-ridden and currently unemployed, One hasn't the financial wherewithal to purchase and install a working pipe to replace the current working pipe already in situ, as ordered by a legal personage. To be completed, photographed and proven within fourteen days 'or suffer the consequences.'
One is mystified by all the goings on since One's butt has been there, and known of, for the entire duration of One's ownership of the Underground Lair.
One is forced, therefore, to acknowledge that One is viewed in the manner of an irritating louse in the matted hair of womankind.
In one tiny glimmer of sunshine through the clouded skies: The litigation budget (paid for by all residents, including One) would appear to have been broken into to finally get the hallways and stairs cleaned.

Friday, 6 February 2015

In which One and BF reminisce …


That’s One, that is, Dear Reader, with me Granddad in the Bricklayer’s Arms, up High town…

‘ave you taken our Claire down the pub again Ralphie?’ Nanny Cooper would enquire.

‘I never took her in!’ he would indignantly reply, ‘I left her outside with a Britvic and a pork chop tied round ‘er neck so’s the guard dog would play with ‘er!’

Let me elucidate, Dear Reader…

BF struggled up the hill to the Underground Lair yesterday in order to smoke a couple of fags in the sure knowledge that when she went home, BFP would imagine that her smoky odour was as a result of being incarcerated with One.

We got talking…

‘It’s about time you settled down,’ opined BF (she is sixty-one and I am fifty-seven)

This stern instruction was delivered following the news that One and the A of the F have decided that if it doesn’t work out for us we’re not bothering again. (Enter huge sigh of relief from all retired gentlemen of this parish)

That led on to us discussing our differing childhoods…

One was brung up in the smoky fleshpots of down town Luton, on a diet of Britvic Orange and crisps, mostly consumed in the garden of the aforementioned Bricklayer’s Arms.

BF gambolled as freely as a hedge sparrow through the fields of Somerset gathering berries in the pocket of her knickers.

We were both part of the last generation of women who were expected to leave school, get married, reproduce, say ‘yes’ to everything, apply fresh lipstick before our husbands got home and have ‘tea’ on the table at five-thirty sharp.

We both failed miserably…

It all got One thinking about One’s great grannie, Hannah, who had thirteen children and lived with Edwin, One’s great grandfather (alcoholic) in a two up, two down in the back streets of Luton.

Hannah, who incidentally One is a dead-ringer for in deed as well as looks, used to preside over the enormous family whilst ackled up in a sack cloth apron, whilst brandishing a huge wooden spoon against all-comers.

Edwin, who drank away all the money, was wont to bring home any old tramp or ne’er do well he met in the gutter and demand…

‘Give ‘im me dinner Hannah!’

It must be from he that One inherited One’s penchant for the acquisition of lame ducks…

Any road up, I digress…

Hannah, being a strong, stern-faced type would slap down a pie dish on the scullery table and when Edwin cut through the pastry crust, inside would be an empty beer bottle.

‘That’s where all the money goes!’ Hannah would shriek, wiping her rough red hands on the sackcloth apron and stamping out of the room.

Anyway, my granddad, he of the pub garden crèche, was one of only three of the thirteen to survive infancy.  He said as a child, there was always a little coffin in the parlour.

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

In which One is in line for the Nobel Prize for wobbly thighs…


The good news is: One has made a very important discovery in the wobbly thigh department.

The bad news is: The discovery has sullied One’s perfect feet.

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

In the absence of One’s washin mashin, still being held hostage at the Bung of Doom, therefore running out of clean foundation garments until One avails Oneself of the A’s washin mashin, One was delving in the massive Victorian chest in which One stores One’s shreddies, braziers etc., and One came upon a pair of ‘Sculptz’, purchased long ago in a sale and kept in case One ever shrunk sufficiently to fit into the blighters.

The ‘Gok Wan’ control leggings were previously considered to cease the thigh wobble in an efficient manner, but lo, the Sculptz (a ferociously snug fitting tight) knock Gok into a cocked hat!

One, having shrunk the required amount due to being dragged up hill and down dale by the A of the F all summer, set about encasing Oneself in the aforementioned tights.  Well, I kid you not, Dear Reader, getting ackled up in the devious device fair wore One out!

Gaining access to the super-controllers was exhausting in the manner of a thirty minute Rosemary Conley workout, but the results were sublime.

The resulting silhouette was so marvlious that One’s twinkle triangle was clearly visible,* AND they are so long that One can tuck them in me brazier and effect One’s girlish girth once more!

RESULT! methinks…

One’s dear little feet with their shell-like, scarlet painted toenails are unused to being encased in nothing snugger than an Ugg and One began to throb in the toe department.

Obv, the injury One sustained whilst being frog-marched down a 1 in 20 at Watersmeet, thereby squashing One’s dainty little piggies up the front of those ghastly walking boots the A made One buy, was more serious and life-threatening than One had previously assumed.

One hears you collectively gasp, Dear Reader, so One shall quell your fears and continue…

Upon removal of the Sculptz One’s toenail CAME OFF to reveal another dainty little pink one growing underneath that isn’t nearly long enough to varnish!!

An ambulance was summoned immediately and One was given gas and air in order that an emergency pedicure could be effected.

‘What became of the pinkie nail?’ One hears you enquire, Dear Reader.

Well, One has fashioned it into a heart shape and shall be bunging it inside the A of the F’s Valentine’s Card next Saturday.

* Twinkle Triangle

The little triangle of light, visible through the gap at the top of One’s perfect thighs.


In which One ponder the progeny…


Due to a severe case of advancing age, the A of the F and One are unlikely ever to procreate…

However, One can’t help but ponder on the progeny we might produce…

Imagine, for example, Dear Reader, the astounding good looks, the shock of unruly blonde locks, the amazing intellect, the foul language, the Scotch consumption, the mountains of fag buts, the stamping about in a paddy over this that and the other, and that’s only the best traits of the A of the F…

Maybe not, then…

Any road up, we have adopted a couple of items that have been with us for the duration of our marvellous love affair…

One is Gerald the butterfly, see above, and the other is a gargantuan Verruca-ca-ca-ca on the bottom of the A of the F’s right foot.

One, being at a bit of a loose end whilst ‘resting under orders’ in the Underground Lair, has been researching, on YouTube, verruca-ca-ca-ca removal.

One shared this interesting information with the A at the weekend, whilst changing into me Nurses Outfit with a view to immediate surgery.

‘If you think I’m letting you anywhere near me with a razor blade, you are seriously mistaken,’ squealed the A as he hastily bunged on his sock and made off toward the bog, where he shut himself in and locked the door.

The aforementioned Verruca has been Bazooka-ed on a daily basis to no avail.  One has offered the Lovely One Verruca removal system used in the past on Boy…

Slather on the Bazooka, apply woolly sock, leave overnight, this assures adhesion, rip off sock (with verruca attached) remembering to gag Boy so as not to alert the neighbours to the screams of agony, and Bob’s yer Mother’s brother.

The A of the F swerved that one on the advice of Boy who has had twenty two years of experimental surgery performed on parts various by One.

And so, Dear Reader, the substitute child, in the shape of the Verruca remains intact.

As for Gerald, One accidentally hoovered him up yesterday…



Monday, 2 February 2015

In which Une is une petit bit Francais...

Bonjour mes ami, vous finds Une reclining dans le lit de truckle dans Le Manoir, avec le A of the F.
Une est feeling un petite bit Francais this matin, due to le fact that Une spent last nuit dreaming in France.
One was driving a little van rouge from France to a straw hat factory in Luton, where One was plaiting Boaters under the tuition of Wayne Sleep.
Wassat about?
Any road up, the stark reality of One's scary life smacked One in the gob in the manner of half a house brick in a handbag when One awoke and in a few minutes One shall make the dreaded Womb of Doom appointment.
There would appear to be no swerving the issue since the A of the F seems pretty determined that One should be ''re-bored' as he so delicately put it.
Whilst it is rather heartwarming that One finally has a cove who wants what is best for One, One would deffo swerve the issue at the drop of a chapeau, if One could get away with it.
Biffing off back to the Underground Lair later on today to interview a prospective occupant of the Kingdom of Spare Oom. Let's hope this one actually fronts up, as the last three have been 'No shows' without a by your leave, kiss me arse, nor nothing.
Apparently, Tom-31, is coming out of a relationship, doesn't do wild parties and wants somewhere he can be himself.
As long as he pays the rent and doesn't pooh in me Paddington, he can be anyone he likes, Dear Reader.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

In which One is dinged...

'Let's go for a walk', said One, 'I'm feeling a little more chipper today.'
'Alright, my love, my treasure, oh star of the eastern hemisphere,' replied the A of the F.
He's most attentive to One at the mo, Dear Reader, given all of One's ailments etc.
One Ugged up and deployed the fur hat and coat against the elements.
We biffed off to Ilfracombe and parked in the shadow of Verity.
Rain and seaspray lashed the little red ve-hickle to the extent that One was reluctant in the extreme to disembark.
'Well I'm getting out' said the intrepid A, 'look at that sea!'
'I'll observe from within' countered One, recalling the last time One's furs got a soaking and the resulting 'damp, steaming dog' aroma that exuded from One in the baked goods aisle in Tesco.
Not caring to admit One was correct regarding the weather, the A of the F remained harbourside being buffeted and lashed by the cruel sea until he was moist in the extreme all the way down to his lush little trollies.
'Let's go to Barnstaple and buy some collapsible boxes and dried fruit' said he as he slithered back inside dripping all over me Kelly bag.
'Get on!' said One envisiging a retail therapy experience, only to have One's hopes dashed when we fronted up at a 'cheap stuff' emporium.
The A of the F, being an aquirer of super-floo-us stuff, in the manner of BF, purchased aforementioned collapsible boxes, a meat tenderiser a positively repugnant cruet set, four balls of puce wool and a bell, not dissimilar to those that summon receptionists in hotels.
He now finds it exceptionally amusing to ding his bell for service each time One leaves the room.
One wonders if he'll find it all quite so amusing when One finally snaps and the meat tenderiser makes contact with his gonads.