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Thursday, 24 November 2016

In which the Admiral turns chef...

One, now arriving home at some ungodly hour, on a nightly basis from the Purveyor of Fine Grocery Items, has afforded the Admiral a key to the Underground Lair in order that he can pursue his love of turning fine ingredients into unpalatable gunk...

Having been party to the hissy fit that ensued, upon One and the wife of one of his chums, offering our advice on the manufacturing improvement of his legendary Shepherd's Pie, One feels it unwise to offer further gems of wisdom re any fecking foodstuffs actually, One has taken to leaving notes containing explicit instruction and then legging it, tout sweet.

Having previously prepared and part cooked a sumptuous beef stew, One left instruction as to the addition of the, two ingredient, dumplings to be flopped in before One's return.

Leaving out the Atora suet and self raising flour, One imagined the instruction: 'make dumplings' would suffice.

Like feck it did!

Upon entry into the outer foyer, a delicious aroma wafted under the door of the Lair.

'Mmmmm, all is well,' thought One, but no, upon entry, One found the Admiral staggering about the galley with grey slurry dripping from the front of his spectacles...

Upon further investigation the aforementioned slurry was dripping from the walls, the ceiling and covering sundry items within a two yard residence.

'What on earth are you doing?' enquired One, lugging off me Uggs.

'Making the dumplings,' countered he, brandishing a balloon whisk that had been beating the be-Jesus out of the slurry being concocted in my painting-water jug.
At least the fact that he'd used my paint stained water container explained the other-wordly, blue hue of the dumpling slurry.

'You only need to lightly mix the suet and flour with enough water to form little balls,' offered One.
'Well, I didn't know that,' huffed he, returning the balloon whisk to the vessel and continuing the massacre of the ingredients.

One retired to the drawing room with a fag and Vodka laced Red Bull.

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

In which chips are consumed...

That rarest of occasions...

Lunch out!

The Iron Duke: a Wetherspoons in Wellington.

Previous experience of such venues have been the roof garden in Ilfracombe, overlooking a curious construction, purporting to be a theatre, but resembling a giant pair of nellies, quite incongruous with it's surroundings.

I digress, Dear Reader, back to the present day and the impromptu luncheon with The Admiral.

'Tis a value for money establishment, if you like chips and burgers. As you know, One is at odds with the great unwashed and favours neither.

Rude not to though and scoffed same anyway.

'Ave yer finished' enquired the sturdy thighed waitress. Oddly, since One was still masticating the reasonably priced item.

'No' said One and buried One's nose in the Arts section of the times.

One did sympathise with the type though, since she was visibly keen to see the arse end of One and the A, since, for some obscure reason, he kept whistling Torreador and beating time on the table with his telescope.

One, used to the peculiar behaviour of the cove since he tipped over the edge, sometimes forgets that the assembled populous may not be familiar with such erratic behaviour, attempted to divert his attention by pointing out a vast tapestry of The Duke on his mount Copenhagen.

All to no avail, since the A was intent on capturing the eye of the thick thighed waitress.

He proffered a toothless grin in her gen direc as she fled toward the kitchen and he was either extremely pleased to see her rear view or he'd stored the remains of his Cornetto on his lap under his blankie.

Wednesday, 2 November 2016

In which One can't be bothered...

When I left The Shit-Face I fully intended to expose the shameful waste of tax payers money on the ghastly inmates, whose own families can neither be bothered to look after them or pay others so to do.

Similarly, I was once of a mind to tell the story of my time incarcerated with that vile old harridan at Langley Cross, exposing her manipulative, self proclaimed, victim status.

Instead, I just can't be bothered.

Suffice it to say that the horrible old woman completely cured me of my propensity to  collect lame ducks.

The ghastly inhabitants of the Shit Face, closely followed by the equally dreadful and ungrateful old women being cared for in their own homes, have put the tin hat on my time in 'care.'

No, it is with a tremendous sense of relief that I now wipe down shelves instead of arses various.
I can shoot the breeze with persons acquiring pints of milk (no one ever buys anything else), bid them farewell and forget about them.

As yet not one has bitten me or shit themselves and expected me to clear it up.

However, the SFO had a severe farting problem last night, which is hardly surprising since he stuffs his fat face from the moment he gets to work, interspersed only by trousorial dipping, playing on his phone or reading the newspaper.

The distribution of labour is interesting to say the least: 95% in my direction.

I'm sorely tempted to tell him which way 's up but it's difficult when breathing through one's ears.