Friday, 8 April 2016
That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Or, rather, it will be when One gets what is now rightfully One's...
Surveying One's image in the looking glass this very morn, One has to report that even with the application of the Matalan control pant and the old ladies 'Doreen' brassiere, One is a flollopy dollop in the extreme.
One's weight has fluctuated wildly throughout One's chequered existence and One now resembles Bibendum (google it, you brainless, unwashed twerps)
One can live with the ghastly deterioration of One's once nubile, undulating acreage, but for one thing...
One's tits are like envelope flaps when Doreen is removed.
One recalls the Admiral telling One that he once 'treated' his ninth wife to some plastic nellies. Apparently the poor, insecure sort 'didn't feel like a real woman.'
'That's it!' methinks, get custody of the plastic nellies (which now are rightfully One's) and whip 'em in One's sagging flesh. Result!
Following a bitter feud, the ownership of aforementioned nellies was in the hands of the judge, who declared that the warring factions should have one plastic nelly each.
One dashed homeward with the nelly in a Co-op carrier and stuffed it up me vest.
The Admiral, suitably abashed, at not gaining custody of the pair, now feels a right tit.
Apropos of nothing...
One has now seen it all...
Whilst One is all for the comfort and wellbeing of the persons in One's charge, One encountered a situation that One felt compelled to question...
One happened upon a cove yesterday, who, with soothing whale song in the background, was, with a look of deep concentration about him, hovvering his gnarled mit over the head of a v small personage who looked deeply unimpressed.
One was agog and questioned the validity of such a spectacle.
'Haven't you ever had Reiki?' enquired One's leader.
One, with a sceptical grimace, hissed, 'what do you think?'
The small person, clearly bemused by this unorthodox practice, cried out...
'What's for lunch?' shrieked and kicked the blighter full in the gob.
Perchance not the result the cove has anticipated, but, hey ho, fifty quid please - kerching!
Tuesday, 5 April 2016
That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Or, it will be, since the Government has effectively stolen over £30,000 from my state pension fund by raising the retirement age. In fact, since One is sixty years old next year (I know, can't believe it either) One doesn't even know at what grand old age One will actually be freed from the Shit Face. Prob sixty-seven or some such ridikkerously ancient age. Not that One shall even live that long given the twelve and a half hour shifts One currently works.
Great unrest at the workplace currently, since with the introduction of the new national living wage, gargantuan anomalies have arisen. Each person One encounters has a different gripe. All involving money, or the lack of it. Has the company actually taken on-board that it is now A LAW!
Will anyone actually do anything? Or will we just take it on the chin and soldier on, disrespected, abused and poorly paid.
One has joined the union.
'Tis many a long year since One, as a naive young thing first sauntered into the drawing office at Kent Instruments in Luton to begin One's apprenticeship...
'You in the union?' enquired a fag wielding Thelma.
'Wassat?' queried the young Lovely One.
'Everybody out!' yelled Thelma in the manner of Miriam Carlin in the Rag Trade. (Google it)
Upon entry into the Underground Lair, One espied a newt sitting in front of the TV.
Tempted to keep it as a pet, One gazed into it's mournful eyes, picked the fluff off it's delicate little feet and biffed over to the French Doors to liberate it.
On the way, One inadvertently stomped on a massive spider, seemingly with child, as it's abdomen disgorged a massive one of those white fluffy balls like the ones that are currently residing between the panes of double glazing in the door.
Any road up, the liberated creature joins a long line of unusual critters found ligging about in the sitting room. Frogs, newts, lizards and slow worms saunter in and make their home in the Underground Lair.
'My mum had her tariff cards read the other day,' began one of One's delightful young co-workers, who went on to give One a lecture re: ghosts/afterlife/general things what go bump in the night.
One is fully aware, Dear Reader, that One should eschew the vagaries of The Shit Face and return to One's far more lucrative career knocking out masterpieces, but, I ask you, with such a rich seam of comedy to be mined..... I JUST CAN'T BEAR TO LEAVE