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Monday, 16 January 2017

In which it's the thought that counts...

There's One, minding One's own bees tiddly wax, innocently marking down some moist bloaters, whilst perched on the step in the Emporium of Fine Foods, and, beginning to take on the acrid aroma of a back passage in Grimsby, when who should sashay in but Lovely Gordon in his new guise of Wivey Superhero about town...

'I've just had to apprehend a woman with two wolf hounds who was shitting in Silver Street!' says he frothing at the gusset with indignation (a moist patch on the rear of his Superhero costume where he'd sat on the kerb to block her passage.)

One, ascertaining that it was the wolf hounds and not the woman who was caught shitting-up Silver Street, led the blighter to the rear of the shop and pointed out the doggy doo bags for his delectation.

'I sent her up the Co-op for pooh bags' says he 'she said she'd just used the last one, a likely story, and do you know, she kept me waiting for twenty five minutes sitting on the sodding kerb minding the dogs!'

One let the lycra clad cove alight on the step and mopped his brow with £1 basics duster...

'When she came back she was brandishing a toilet roll and some handwash and with tears streaming down her cheeks she set about scrubbing the pavement,' he went on, 'so I went up that posh shop where the woman looks like Olive Oyl on Berocca and got a v small container of soapy water to assist her.  I was starting to feel guilty about accosting her.'

 'Well I know it's really annoying to see these ill-educated, web-footed locals letting their ghastly hounds crap all over the place, but you've got yourself in these kinds of jams before by poking yer beak in haven't you.  You should learn by experience and nip back later with a pressure washer and blast the shite down the drain,' offered One, frantically attempting to shut up shop and shear.

After a little breathe into a brown paper bag, One calmed the blighter sufficiently to send him on his way, hopefully to reach the calm of his cottage without further aggravation.

Just as One was exiting the Emporium, up slopes the shit-shovelling superhero brandishing a single item from a box of Famous Names Liquors - a miniscule Gin and Tonic.

'A small gift by way of thanks,' says he pressing the item into One's hand, 'but don't have it until you've finished work.'

Well really, One would hardly be rendered incapable by the amount of Gin it would take to fill a cavity in one of One's loose back teeth!  But still, I suppose it's the thought that counts.

Sunday, 15 January 2017

In which One eschews the telly...

Actually, all you Hampstead Tristrams at the BBC, dogs don't make me laugh out loud...
One can but conclude that the out of touch twonks who put together the TV schedules, don't watch TV.

This septic isle of ours has long since been ruled by a privileged elite who have absolutely no idea how the rest of us live, but when they start messing with me telly, well, it's really too much.

There are three iterations thus far of 'Dogs make you laugh out loud'.


Nor do I care a jot about the secret lives of kittens/four year olds/celebrities with plastic tits/tattooed oompah loompahs from oop North, et al.

Oh well, at least it's the Archers Omnibus today...

Thursday, 12 January 2017

In which they simply don't know if it'll snow...

What the feck is going on with those ridiculous, sillington-billingtons who read out the weather forecast?

In particular, one rejoicing in the unlikely monika of Shagger Knacker, or something remarkably simliar...

Waving his fat little arms about like a demented windmill, he's been 'forecasting' that there might be some snow.


And! There may, or may not be, ice/rain/sleet/fog, or, there might not.

The understated, elegant ladies who forecast the West Country weather on TV haven't fallen foul of the SK effect, however, and remain delightfully vague about the whole thing.

This morning the silly sausages at the BBC were broadcasting from parts various of the country where there had been a slight flurry of snow, and were 'bigging up their parts' for all they were worth.

So, to briefly summarise: It may snow, it may not.

After all, even the most ghastly of destinations visually benefits from a covering of forgiving snow. So, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

In which One is getting the bus...

Have totally shagged back...

Could it be lugging crates of beer/wine/cider up the winding stairs? Or is it when One hurled the defunct Chrimbo Tree through the French doors to await nudification of pine needles (not that the bastard hadn't shed most of them on me rug) that has rendered One a shuffling Bison.

Anyway, whatever it is, One is well and truly bogged off with listing to starboard.

Perhaps a more sedate way of earning a crust should be sought. After all One is rather elderly now.

Haven't seen Boy for ages, the Admiral is bed bound in the home for bewildered jolly tars, I haven't got a cat, I don't smoke and I can't afford to drink myself to death.

What is there left, Dear Reader, but to hurtle Oneself off Beachy Head? But I haven't got a car so I'll have to get the bus...

Monday, 9 January 2017

In which One adopts a hard-line policy...

One's current and new policy of non-lame-duckage collection is satisfyingly paying dividends.

'She must be your friend,' opined One's youthful co-worker, when an unidentified sort in the Purveyor of Fine Foodstuffs conversed with One in a most intimate manner.

'Well she's not,' retorted One, 'I've not the slightest idea who she is.'
'Did she buy a painting from you?' pursued he.
'If she did it can't of been a big one. I always remember anyone who's given me vast sums of money.'
'Everyone knows your name,' continued he.

One simply shrugged One's shoulders, not caring to explain.

One is no longer a fully paid up people-pleaser, good listener, helper-outer. In fact One now utters the unthinkable 'no' without explanation should One choose to be unavailable and regularly bins unsolicited telephone details of persons One does not wish to have coffee with.

Time, or anything else for that matter, shall always be in abundant supply for Boy, the A and BF, but the great unwashed needy of this parish can feck right off, One is not at home.

Friday, 6 January 2017

In which One is forced to sell One's organs...

Have had to cut down One's working week, as am complete wreck...

'How on earth shall you prevail, Lovely One?' I hear you collectively chorus as you wring your gnarled hands.

Well, have splendid plan of selling off One's organs one by one.  After all, there are several that can be deployed elsewhere with no adverse effects, are there not?

Tonsils, for a start, and even though One was a martyr to tonsilitis and tonsil stones in One's youth, One still has the useless blighters cluttering up One's throat.

'But what could anyone actually do with them?' you enquire, 'little fatty, lifeless, ovoids that they are.'

Perfect filling for Scampi, old chaps, in fact One is fairly sure that's what One imbibed at The Halfway House in Lutonistan when supping with Aged P. The 'Scampi' had surely never formed part of a langoustine tail, and if it had, some other diner had chewed it first.

Anyway, I digress...

One has a brace of spare chins, that One is certain to be able to flog to one of the chinless wonders in pink corderoys that One is forced to humour when they swagger into the Fine Foods Emporium for their Famous Grouse and fags.

Or, indeed a yard or two of spare skin to re-cover a couple of singed Syrians.

One won't even bother offering a kidney on the open market as One expects they're shriveled and hard as lacrosse balls.... now, there's a thought!

One shall start slowly with the sale of One's ever increasing, super-floo-us hair, being harvested as we speak...

Just think, Dear Reader, as you recline on your DFS, buy now, pay on the knock, chaise, it might well be stuffed with One's recently harvested goatee, or even the furry outer-coating of One's 'condemned by the Council',  aged, over-used, cavernous, Twinkle.

Wednesday, 4 January 2017

In which it's boring...

Even the stalwart drunks of the town have forsaken the Purveyor of Fine Foodstuffs and all there was to be done last night was polish the grimy fingerprints off the glass doors and clean away the mud and shite walked in on farmer's boots.

It's all a frightful bore, Dear Reader...


On a lighter note, a couple of AP isms...

'I hate that bloody wet room. My bath mat gets soaking wet'.

One did try to point out that a bath mat wasn't required in a wet room, but was sworn at.

'I like that stair lift. Even if I'm upstairs and its at the bottom I can press a button and it comes up.'

One did enquire as to how she'd got to the top without it and was informed that she'd crawled up.

Go figure!

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

Feck it...

I'm not entirely certain whether I'm struck down by SAD or am a naturally miserable old bat.

But then again, what is there to look forward to? More of same until I croak.

Eight delightful hours yesterday humping beer/cider/wine like a fecking donkey.

And when the shelves are stocked, there's a jolly bit of cleaning and mopping floors.  I'm too old for this crap.

Still, only another seven years of it unless I drop dead before then.

Monday, 2 January 2017

In which One is pissed off as feck...

Just watching TV before dragging my varicose carcass to the shop to begin the year's toil.

Sorry to see that there's to be yet another X Factor style heap of old shite to tantalise the mouth-breathers.

One cannot be alone in One's distaste of these ghastly oiks seeking fame and fortune and the title of 'celebrity'
Their hideous, chavvy family members, with their acrylic fingernails  and painted on square eyebrows squeal approval from the wings and sweat into their lycra in anticipation.

One can but hope there are some young persons out there who aspire to actual professions, but let them not fall into the trap of One, who chose unwisely and found the world had moved on and left One behind as fodder for Care or shop work.

Yes, One is dissatisfied and pissed off as feck.

I do have a plan though...