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Sunday, 28 August 2016

In which One works for One's chum...

That's where I'm going to jump in, Dear Reader...

After all, what's the fecking point?  I don't know.  One more week at the Shit-Face and then, without time to turn around and smell the contents of a yellow bucket, off to tend to the Demented and the Dying.

'Oh, go on, it won't be that bad, will it?' I hear you chorus.  Maybe not, but One should be cosied up in a little home for the bewildered and have done with it, shouldn't One?  After all, One has varicose veins, wrinkles and thinning hair (only on me 'ead, not on me face)

Yesterday, by way of a change, One biffed off to the Previously Owned Stuff Emporium to help out a chum. 

'But it was your day off, Lovely One!' you shriek.  Yes, I know it was work of a fashion, but it was a splendid departure from One's usual 'earning a crust' day.  Nobody bit/kicked/spat at/grabbed/scratched or hollered at One. - Result!

AND - One was suitably adored by One's public in the manner of a proper artist, with all and sundry oooohing and aaahing at One's offerings.  One was even visited by a collector of One's work and it did One's black heart good!  Didn't sell anything of One's though.  Oh well, can't have everything can One?

One's chum has a plethora of charming chicken garden ornaments on sale...
'got any butterflies?' came an enquiry from a prospective purchaser.
'No.  Only chickens.  Sorry,' replied One.

Then in waltzed a trio of sorts who hovered about a particularly desirable, rustic table and four chairs being practically given away.  (One had One's in-progress new masterpiece on the table)
It never ceases to amaze One, the blatant flamin' cheek of the public, they proceeded to caress aforementioned table, actually placing their chip-fat covered digits on ONE'S DRAWING.
And then, one of them picked up One's watch, gave it the once-over, mumbled something to a companion and slapped it back down on the table!
Fer feck's sake!  One and One's doings are not actually public bleeding property, I'll have you know!

Nana and Lovely Gordon came in at various points throughout the day to chat to One and lift One's spirits.
Lovely Gordon had been bottoming his gaff and appeared to be taking object d'art to the charity shop, one by one, in a Co-op carrier.  One appropriated a posh looking corkscrew and is currently saving up for a bottle of wine to deploy the item.
One lay in wait throughout One's shop work in case he ambled up the square with one of his saucepan collection which One could divert to One's own kitchen in the Underground Lair, but it was no good, the handsome hoarder obv couldn't bear to part with such items.

'Got any real antiques?' enquired a cove.
'This isn't an antique shop,' countered One.
'I know, but have you got any real antiques?' continued he.
'No.  This isn't an antique shop,' repeated One.
'Well, when it was a different shop I bought real antiques in here,' he went on, 'are you sure you haven't got any real antiques?  Like maybe a carriage clock or something under the counter.'
'THIS ISN'T A FECKING ANTIQUE SHOP.'

One gave up and biffed off down the road to the Underground Lair to espy Lovely Gordon sauntering down the hill with a saucepan in his hand.
Following a surreptitious observation of the hill, and obv not noticing One bringing up the rear, he took off the saucepan lid and proceeded to empty the contents down someone else's drain.

'Oi! I saw that,' shouted One, 'Whatever are you doing?'

'I've just boiled up some beets that someone left on my doorstep,' says he, 'but they don't look awfully good, do they,' he went on, shoving the gnarled items under One's nose.

'You are positively odd!' said One and shut Oneself behind the gate that keeps out oddities from the Malthouse.



Friday, 26 August 2016

In which we've all gone mad...

This week the Shit-Face has been the scene of another bloody and brutal battle: The Scone Skirmish.

'I want to make the scones'
'No. I want to do it.'
'Why can't I do it?' came the cries from the worker bees.
As long as nobody expects One to pinny up and get baking!
They can bollicks!

Why the feck are they bothering?
A Garden Party.
What a ludicrous waste of time and effort. The inmates would rather be inside shitting in the sink anyway.

'Come and look at my bunting,' called a recently shipped in Polish shite-shifter.

Look at her bunting.
Look at her fecking bunting!

WE'VE ALL GONE FECKING MAD

It's going to piss down anyway.





Sunday, 21 August 2016

In which I'm still pissed right off...

I think I'll move...
Into the pages of a Rosamunde Pilcher book...
I'll probably turn up around chapter three carrying a smart red leather weekend bag, be wearing a silk blouse and pale pink jeans.
I'll be on holiday from my job in publishing and meet, by chance, a retired Wing Commander, who will marry me and whisk me off to a life of chintz, supper parties and sweeping lawns with no weeds in them.

Alternatively I could spend the next two weeks shoving shite down a sink plughole (call me old fashioned, but if you can poop in a sink, you could use a lavatory) and then move seamlessly into the community to do more of same, without the aid of a safety net or, indeed, a fecking holiday.

Misery reigns...

Saturday, 20 August 2016

In which I'm pissed right off...

Still reeling from the utter devastation of not being able to kiss the life of shite goodbye.
I know, I know, I was happy about getting the other job, but I wasn't really. Who, in their right mind, would welcome getting up at five in the morning to go, alone, to someone's house to tend to the sick and dying for under eight pounds an hour.
Each day consists of working seven a.m. to two p.m. and then four p.m. until ten p.m. and every other weekend.
'But you get a car,' I hear you chorus.
Whoopee! They take it off you if you're off work for more than three days.
'But you won't get bitten/punched/scratched/spat at/kicked every day will you?' I hear you exclaim.
If that's all I've got to look forward to I'm off to jump off Beachy Head.
Oh, that's right. I can't get there I don't have a car any more.
And I must try not to complain. I gave the Admiral a horrible day yesterday.

Friday, 19 August 2016

In which One is doomed to wipe arse forever ...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

For a few brief, but wondrous days, it really looked like One could hang up One's wet-wipes for good.  No more shite!

'How so?' I hear you chorus...

Well, as you will be aware, should you be following One's doings with great interest, One was invited by the assistant Manager of the Albemarle Centre in Taunton (a life skills organisation for the person of needs special) to nip in for a bit of a go at life-skilling and ingratiating Oneself with the persons therein, and an interview. 

All went swimmingly and One was led to believe that One was, indeed, the one that they want oo oo oo honey!

Following an interview with the actual manager One left with a spring in One's step and the promise of an application form to be forwarded, and returned by One, that very day and a formal interview on Friday.

The deputy manager phoned One and told One to attend at one of the clock for a half hour formal chat and a half hour on the floor with the service users.

'All I'll say,' says she, 'is just do exactly what you did the other day.'

One, realistically One thinks, assumed this to he the heads up, so you can imagine what a shock it was when One received a phonecall telling One that the position had been filled internally and to not attend the interview. 

The phonecall wasn't even from the manager or the deputy but the girl on reception and was made to One not two hours before One should have been there.

One is crestfallen and pissed right off at the mo...


Wednesday, 17 August 2016

Fer Feck's sake...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, a burro collopsing under the burden of what you bastards expect of One...

Not even one of them three quid donkeys off the telly that you send yer money to so Gideon Cholmondley-Smedley-Botham can spend his gap year filing donkey's toenails in between rogering Tamara Brown-Gusset...

Oh no, One is merely a beast of burden...

It's not enough that One gets up at sparrow's fart to tend to sick and needy at the Shit-Face, One has to constantly supply works of art for your ungrateful delectation.

And lo it was thus...

Some sort contacted One through One's website asking if One had perchance painted a seaside village (population 7) 
NO ONE FECKING HASN'T WHAT WOULD BE THE POINT OF THAT

One did get mildly animated when aforementioned sort enquired re a commission of Second Homesville by the Sea...

One informed the sort that commissions start at two hundred quid.  A small one mind, with a bespoke frame.

Sort couldn't possible pay more than that and 'what exactly would she get for it?'

'Perhaps we could meet to discuss the possibility of a commission?' she went on.

MEET TO DISCUSS THE POSSIBILITY - LIKE FECK

Oh, I just had a thought...

Not that I guard my milli-second's time off for R and R at all, so I'll spend my own time walking barefoot (my car is shagged and I can't afford to get it fixed) down to Cornwall and sit outside painting the fecker on the offchance she might like to pay for it.

Fer Feck's sake!

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

In which you, Dear Reader, must ask the universe...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

Finally the old ve-hicle has died.  Obv One had no fecking idea what to do, so leant against the thing, trying not to attract too much attention to Oneself, until help arrived.

One had just delivered the Admiral to his bowling club, with his super-charged bath chair in the boot, when the bastard clutch decided to shag itself, leaving One stranded in fecking Wellington on a Sunday afternoon...

With brute force One managed to slam the fecker into third and, without stopping, (feck knows what One would have done if anything had been around each bend) got back to the Underground Lair, parked the bastard, kicked it and had a large glass of lighter fluid in the back garden.

Now I'm just off down the tip
to throw me whole life in a skip...

Or, I was, until, purely by chance, One happened upon One's spiritual home...

One, having had enough of being used as a human punch bag, accepted a job arse-wiping in the community.  For once in One's mis exis, by a stroke of good fortune, the job included use of a company ve-hicle, so no requirement to fix the four hundred year old Volvo, (not that One has the cash so to do)
Not actually looking forward to it though...
getting up at five every day to wipe arse for the minimum wage - yet - a - bleedin' - gain!

When....
One espied an ad for a 'life-skills' tutor  to the challenged.

THAT'S ME THAT IS, DEAR READER.  I CAN DO THAT!

Yesterday One went for a visit and, lo, One's spiritual home.

Formal interview - Friday

All join hands and ask the universe for One's every whim!



Thursday, 11 August 2016

In which Fluff Freeman rides again...

Good Morning plop-pickers...

Why, just the other morning One and a fellow plop-picker were confronted by a naked man strutting his stuff for all and sundry...

'He's beach-body ready,' sniggered One...

And this set in motion (geddit?) the plop-pickers chart for the week...

 Number two:   They're all number twos actually.    

'Walking on the beaches, picking up the faeces.'

The Stranglers

                                                                                ~ 

Oh the Deadhead Stage is coming on over the hills
Where the pasta's soggy and a twit's dispensing the pills
Twenty-three turds we've smothered today
Oh Shit-crap away, shit-crap away, shit-crap away...

Dozzer Day

                                                                               ~

'Ave a poo poo poo
Drop them bad boys in the sink
Even though we know it'll make the whole house stink.
'Ave a poo poo poo
You revolting mucky pup
Then some poor old sod will come in and mop it up
'Ave a poo poo poo
Seize the moment whilst you can
Then we'll take you out to do wee-wees in the van

Black Lace?

                                                                                ~

and one for the night shift...

Strangers in the night
exchanging wet-wipes
It turned out so shite
for strangers in the night

'Ole brown hands

Disclaimer...
Several support workers were harmed during the making of this blog



Monday, 8 August 2016

In which One aquires a saucepan with a handle aching to be clasped...

'How large is your ring?' enquired Lovely Gordon as One macheteed One's way through the holly bushes up his passage.
Not an enquiry that had been made afore, that day, Dear Reader, and then One remembered an encounter with the cove, adjacent to the cash machine at the Co-op (his balance enquiry included six zeros and One's was three, separated by a decimal point: 0.00)  No matter, Dear Reader, 'tis pay day today, hurrah, and One shall have to decide whether to eat or pay the mortgage yet again.

'You remember that sweet little saucepan you admired?' said LG as he secreted a wad into the pocket of his jeans. (Double denim again!)
One had no recollection of aforementioned saucepan what with One having a full and exciting life, but unwilling to offend, uttered some suitable 'saucepan envy' noises.
'Well, it's yours,' said he with a flourish, 'come round at six and we'll see if it fits your ring.'

One arrived on the dot brandishing a quarter of a Victoria Sandwich for the cove and plonked down on the Eames to await the arrival of a chilled flute of Bolly and a dish of Waitrose sweet chilli crisps.  The snacks at LG's are superior to the Asda Smart Price cheesy nibbles proffered in the Underground Lair.

'When I was in Wales I made a complete inventory of my saucepans, with diagrams, completely from memory,' went on he, 'guess how many I've got.'
'Thirty-Severn?' offered One.
'No, but close,' said he, 'twenty-nine. I'd recorded twenty-seven and forgotten about a couple.'
Several of the saucepan selection were displayed on the sitting room rug and One waxed lyrical about the handle of one of the little blighters that was aching to be clasped.
'You shall have it!' said he and hopped over a Wedgewood Lady Godiva to retrieve it from it's resting place.
'How is the dear old Admiral?' went on he.
'Jolly fine, I imagine,' said One, 'I haven't encountered him for a couple of days. He spends an inordinate amount of time at the bowling club these days being given the once-over by the sprightly widow women.'

'I had to visit Matalan with a damaged casserole dish,' said he, with a wounded expression haunting his Greek God fizzog.
'I'm not leaving this shop with this dish,' I said to the girl on the till,' he went on.
'Got proof of purchase?' she enquired.
'I've just eaten the Teflon lining with me Chicken Chassure,' said he indignantly, and flounced off to retrieve the receipt.

Like the time he accidentally imbibed a glass full of non-biological washing liquid, nothing shall stick to his inner tube in the near future.
Quite what a glass of non bio washing liquid was doing on his bedside cabinet, One never did find out.




 

In which One abdicated...

One was just sauntering down to the Shit Face to abdicate when One encountered a pair of sorts viewing some type on a digger excavating waste ground next the Underground Lair with a view to whacking up a rake of dez rezzes for incoming Polacks who wipe arse for the minimum wage.

'Who's responsible for this road?' enquired a soft.
'Well,' said One 'it's a private road, owned by The Malthouse shareholders and you're standing on my bit.'
They never laughed. There just aren't many funny women abroad are there, Dear Reader?

Any road up, One expects you're curious as to why One is shearing from The Shit Face, Dear Reader.
They've had their pound of flesh from One!
Quite literally, in fact, under the fingernails of yesterday's charge, who saw fit to claw lumps out of me decolletage and rip me favourite frock off me.
That put the tin hat on it and I'm off!
Especially since One got five minutes outside to recover and the perpetrator got a trip to the seaside.
Go figure!

One was on the cusp of organising a viewage of a shiny new Motability vehicle that had appeared in the car park at the Shit Face.
After all it'll be the only fecking time we get to see it, or any of the others owned by the residents yet driven by their parents.
These cars are handed out, at the expense of the taxpayer, for the transport of our delicious charges to their lunch dates, shopping trips and visits to their families.
What a joke! If they see the inside of 'em more than once in a blue moon I'll mange me chapeau.
Instead we ferry them to and fro in a fleet of urine soaked busses

We must be an inordinately wealthy country,  must we not Dear Reader, but seemingly not quite wealthy enough to pay care workers a decent wage.


Friday, 5 August 2016

In which One is bitter...

'It could have happened to anyone,' appealed One.
'No! It fecking couldn't!' exclaimed the Admiral as One dabbed at the chiffon skirt of One's Norman Hartnell ball gown.
'Why don't you look at what you're doing, you clumsy great Bison,' continued he as he tip toed through the broken glass to assist One, 'Now, you'll have to change.  You can't turn up at the Bowling Club for an evening of 'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers' looking like that!

'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers,' Dear Reader is the highlight of the month, when a Snorker Supper is held following a sing song during which the more musical of the old codgers sport instruments various and serenade the seniors who can still hear out of one ear or the other.

The Admiral does a turn on his ukulele with a selection of George Formby numbers: obv 'Leaning on a Lamp post,' which it has to be said doesn't have quite the same resonance when performed from a commode.

Bless the old stick, though, he turns up regular as a morning dump following his Fybogel and turns the heads of the more mobile widows who constantly trawl the assembled company looking for an unattached gentleman with an index linked pension.

For, as we know, Dear Reader, a gentleman in possession of a large fortune is in need of a wife.

'How did One get drawn into this life of revelling?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'why it seems only yesterday that you lived in Hampstead village and drove around in a Bentley.'

Yes, doesn't it just, but an evening out at the opera on a lawn at Kenwood, supping Bolly from a cut glass flute and nibbling on a caviar laden blini is but a million miles away Dear Reader.

How times change.  Not that One is unhappy, oh no.  One is quite content to spend the day delivering One's charges to lunch at locations various, taking them for massages/relaxing soaks in spas/shopping for clothes/horse riding/swimming etc.
Yes, Dear Reader, it is a mark of a civilised society that we cosset the less fortunate. 
Do you know anyone who goes out to eat at least three times a week?  I fecking don't!
Then, home to swat flies with an iPad Air, or to hurtle their new clothing out of an upstairs window in the rain.
An interesting use of tax payers money, don't you think?

Then, home to the Underground Lair, for an exhausted One, to make ready for a snorker supper and to empty the Admiral's commode.

Bitter?  Who?  Moi?


Monday, 1 August 2016

In which One is a human library...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, requesting silence for One, The Human Library, free to the people, that's you, Dear Readers...

                                                                                 ~

Yesterday One biffed off to a superior home care company to offer One's services, having been worn down to the bone by One's current employment...

'I think you can say, without doubt, that an offer of employment will be with you shortly,' said the delightful person who interviewed One.

'Phew,' thought One, off on the road again for as long as the valiant Volvo can function.

Even so, at present One doesn't earn enough to keep the Underground Lair functioning.  One still has no hot water and, this month, has been utterly unable to pay the mortgage.

                                                                                ~

                                                                            
On Saturday, One was visiting One's chums emporium when in biffed a pair of Wivey-ites...

'We want to buy Claire's picture,' said the female of the species.
One, being aforementioned Claire, turned to reveal Oneself to One's public.
'Oh, look, there she is,' beamed the prospective purchaser.
'I'll get it out of the window,' said One's chum, and proceeded to clamber over items various to retrieve the masterpiece.

'Oh, not that One,' continued the customer, 'we want the bonkers one with all the bright colours in it.  We've been admiring it for ages and I want to buy it for my husband's birthday.'

The painting in question had been sold a while back.  You people must realise that One's offerings do not hang around indefinitely.  They are specifically priced for the Somerset pocket and their sale represents the removal of the monthly dilemma of whether to eat or pay the bills.

The coves perused the current offering...
'Oh we would have bought it had we not just bought two chairs over the road,' said she.
'I spit upon your chairs,' said One, 'Don't come in here bemoaning your fate when you've been over the road (the competition) buying sodding chairs.'

One delivered this monologue with One's customary beatific smile, but really One meant every word.

'How much would you charge to paint me one like the one that's been sold?' enquired the double-denim husband.  (Double denim is a mistake, especially in the over 55's)
One quoted a figure that was four times less than if One was quoting for one of the high end galleries One supplies.  Still the cove looked nonplussed! 
'I'll think about it,' says he.
THINK- A- FECKING- BOUT- IT.
What the feck do these stingy blighters want from One?

One positively flounced out vowing to paint the piece, double the price, and hang it tantalisingly in the shop.

                                                                            ~

So, 'tis with this dilemma in mind that One returns to the fact that One is a human library, free of charge to the people of the world.
Why, if even just the 675 Russians that read about One's doings yesterday, Crowd Funded One, One would be able to sup the Ambrosia of life, pay the mortgage on the Underground Lair and write with one hand and paint with the other...