Ben Hur, Doris Day and A Packet Of Pork Scratchings

Day 3,058 of things collapsing to a heap, waving the white flag and just generally shitting on me for the sheer hell of it – and now, to top all that, the local internet connection has pulled its pants down, waved its jacksie at me, and promptly shut shop. Oh joy.

           

When I was back in London my internet connection was robust and driven along by a load of

strong-thighed men who were headed up by that very nice Ben Hur Chap.

Whereas, in these parrrrts, I have to contend with this little shit sorting out my

internet connection. It wouldn't be so bad, but the fucker's asthmatic... 

            Now all this internet who-hah interferes mightily with the day job, where I boldly help my husband with his business. This (in the main) involves furiously tapping away on my keyboard whilst trying to resemble Doris Day (or some other overly tidy, efficient and anal tart), pointing at things on the computer screen (and knowingly nodding) whilst coming out with enlightening and ‘finger on the pulse’ statements, and skidding my mouse around in such a manic frenzy (whilst ruthlessly multiclicking), that I’m all done by teatime and free to have a bit of grope about on Facebook. Job done.

In the absence of the internet, here's me about to write the fucking obvious on a blackboard.

And here's me serving up the old man's lunch...

            So like everyone else on the planet, my aura gets fucked with when I have no internet connection. But then, here’s a strange thing…whenever I get back online, and I’m slavering all over my keyboard – I always wonder, why? Why am I slavering all over my keyboard like some rabid hound that’s not sunk its teeth into a pork chop for over a fortnight? Withdrawal symptoms? Very probably – after all, we’re all knobbly-cardiganed tarts for our internet. But with me, there’s something else: for some very daffy reason, as I impatiently wait for my selection of inboxes to present themselves in all their glory, I begin to wonder if some new and exotic person has got in touch with me whilst the internet was down, or maybe I’ve won something (of a suitably high Ebay value), or maybe I’ve been invited to some glossy event that doesn’t involve a packet of pork scratchings and a fist fight in the gutter on the way home.

Gutted that I am yet to respond her email request to become her new bezzie mate,

Lady Gaga struggles to make telephonic communication with me... 

           

              And every time I get back online (and like the tit I am) these thoughts go through my head. And then I look in my inboxes.

            
And lo, is there any new and exotic person mailing me? Is there, fuck. No, it’s the usual tidal wave of emails trying to flog me moody Louis Vuitton handbags, every form of insurance known to mankind, Viagra by the crate load and a mountain of rogue messages from FedEx and Ups parcels who want all my details so they can rob me.

           
And sadder than all that, I probably went into slaver mode a mere half an hour after the internet connection buggered off (with no note, no nuffin). Maybe this is just a sign of the times we find ourselves in; where people need counselling if they lose their mobile phone for 5 minutes or are having to be routinely talked down from rooftops over loss of internet connection. Dear oh dear.

Look at this twonk. His 8-year old daughter borrowed his iPad for a bit and he's already at it.

            The internet’s back up now. “No shit, Sherlock!” I hear you cry. And five bloody days it was down for (the swines). Anyhoo, I drafted this (between counselling sessions) last week on trusty old Word (who’s so hard and street, that he don’t need no poxy internet). So now I’ve lobbed it on here. Crisis over.

I end today’s offering with an apology to my buddy, Tuck, who’s a very good chum of mine (and has the balls to be neither new nor exotic); he asked me if I’d write a blog about last weekends (now the weekend before..) Eurovision Song Contest. And it was tempting. There’d have been enough gag material there to lunch out on for the foreseeable. But when it came to Le Crunch, I just wasn’t man enough to sit through a good 3+ hours of bollocks. To those who were up to the task, I salute you. As for me, I limped off to the pub for a packet of pork scratchings and a fist fight (with someone markedly smaller and frailer than myself...).

 Yes, it's was a real poser. Lashings of vodka and me talking bollocks all night

or staying in and watching two tits from Ireland prance around as though someone's

just inserted a small woodland creature up their crappers. Mmm. Sorry, Tuck.

Horseshitgate, Jogging and Branston Pickle

Doubtless, many of you would have spent a sleepless week waiting for the next instalment of ‘Horseshitgate’ after I revealed photographic evidence of what had been unceremoniously ‘dumped’ outside my front door last week. I expect some of you were so wracked by anxiety that you bit your nails down the quick and gnawed on an assortment of old wood (or a random furry woodland creature) in anticipation of today’s update.

            Well, the long and the short of it is; it’s still there.

            And furthermore, when I came downstairs the day after ‘Horseshitgate’ I found this in the kitchen.

My husband's missed his vocation in life.

Surely a career as a stand-up comedian beckons...

            I wasn’t impressed.

            What’s more, upon venturing outside there was evidence that another dog had pissed up the front of the house. This evidence was dog piss up the front of my house. The only crumb of comfort I could take from this chain of events was the fact that I am currently not trying to sell my house.

            I have since sought advice about stopping said dogs pissing up said front of house. And the advice I have received is this: concoct some foul watery substance, perhaps featuring curry powder, garlic powder, pepper (and the like) and bundle it into one those plastic spray bottle things and go out onto the street and (in a brutal and defiant fashion) squirt it over the front of the house, to the upper height that a dog can cock its leg. To date, I have not done this as I am yet to spot a Great Dane, who I could ask to pose with its leg cocked by the front of my house so I could ensure I was getting total piss zone coverage.

Don't be deceived by this character - he may well have cleared
his own shit up,

but seconds later he was straight round my house for a jaunty cock of the leg...

            A few people have asked me how a horse could get to drop its load right outside my house. Now, those who follow this blog will know that I live in the country (home of many things with four legs), so it is not unusual to have horses clip-clopping past my gaff. And when they do, I am prone to shouting out, “Seabiscuit!” in a crude form of Basil Brush voice (I know, I really should get out more). This shouting out of “Seabiscuit!” amuses me. Anyhoo, my road is narrow, my front door opens directly onto the pavement so when two twats in cars try to come down my road in the opposite direction, kerbs get mounted and any Seabiscuits in the vicinity have to hoof it up onto the kerb to get their sorry ass out of the way. Unfortunately, it must have been a jumbo tractor (or similar) thundering up my road last week, as the Seabiscuit in question, shit itself when mounting said kerb by my house. Dear oh dear.

Think I'd drop a pan load if this hillbillymobile came hurtling towards me.

Just look at the fucker, he's out of control - and then some.

            I have all sorts going past my house. Get quite a few joggers too, limping past with their vests and blotchy knees and vice-like grip on a plastic water bottle (if I’d been more on the ball I could have handed out my dog piss repellent…). I’ve never understood jogging so I thought I’d give it a go, at my gym, on the machine thing. So now, after bashing out a couple of miles twice weekly, the mystery of jogging has been uncovered:

it’s something for your limbs to do whilst you think about all the people that have ever wronged you.

Simples. And you heard it here first. Don’t ask my why it is so, but it is. I tried thinking nice flowery thoughts as I pounded the treadmill; I tried to think of buttercups, tea towels and cut price Harmony Hair Spray – but it was no good. Old vendettas sprung to mind, old finger proddings and dewy-eyed accusations. I may have begun muttering to myself, I expect I pulled a few harsh faces – wouldn’t surprise me – then before I knew it my two miles were finished and it was time to get on the rower, or cross-trainer or bike (none of which make me chew the cud over arseholes of yesteryear).

So what can we deduce from all this?  Well, a couple of things really. Firstly, I have mistakenly thought over the years, that all the people that run marathons are sad nutters; well, they’re not. They’re just angry.

"Grrrrrrr!"

"Pfff!"

"I'm sure that twat still owes me a fiver!"

"That was my bloody jar of Branston pickle!"

Secondly, we’ve spent years watching (our) Paula Radcliffe giving it the large in all those marathons, running along with her signature twitch of her head that almost looks painful. Shame! We all cried. Look at her, she can’t run without her bonce twitching all over the gaff (we cried). Well, I’m delighted to now inform you that (our) Paula ain’t got no twitch. She’s just recalling a (bitter and) lengthy argument.

"And he said to me, I wouldn't say you're unfeminine, love, but I've

got an old coat hanger that's got more curves than you.." (twitch)

"And I said to him, unfeminine? Unfeminine? Like how? Like what?

I mean, it's not like I go around pissing in public. (twitch)

And he said to me, actually love..." (twitch)

And finally, for those amongst you who had no idea who/what Seabiscuit is/was - he was a racehorse from the 1930's - and he could run like the clappers. There's an excellent film about him.



This is Seabiscuit dishing it out to his old foe, War Admiral, and giving him a lesson in
how to run very quickly around a dirt track with a small person strapped to your back.

Buggering off now. There's a pile of horse shit outside with my name on it.

Hand Shandies, Smelling Salts and A Council Flat

So there we are; they did it. Married and now the proud Duke and Duchess of somewhereorother. Trees in the cathedral. Some appalling hats. Cherub-faced children who refrained from picking their noses on camera. A couple of kisses on the balcony (sans rogering) and a bridesmaid who half of the male population of the planet seem to be having a handy shandy about. (And maybe some of the female population too). And what’s more, the rain kept off. So not a bad day, at all. Hats in the air and straight to the pub. 

The arse that launched a global wankathon

Certainly looks like she'll go the distance...

            And then a couple of days later, the news came that Ol’ Binny Boy had been taken out. And the images on our tellys were replaced with bulgy-eyed crowds chanting, “USA! USA!” at Ground Zero, Times Square (and the suchlike). A strange few days indeed. Two historic events, so very close together, so very far apart.

            Maybe the planets were in a funny position.

  "Piss off!"

"No, you piss off!"

            Because if all that wasn’t enough to get me into a dither, my house suddenly took on a mind of its own. With random items malfunctioning, playing hard to get or routinely snuffing it. And I name the washing machine as the most ruthless bastard of them all.  With a load of trumpeting, squeaks and thumps, the fucker finally spat out its dummy and came to a grinding halt. Which meant two dreaded things, (a) a trip to Currys and (b) a trip to a nearby launderette to rescue half-washed knickyknackynoos, string vests, thunderpants and horror kit.

            I did (b) first, and was not only reaching for the smelling salts when I found it open (as virtually everything in these parrrrrrts is shut for lunch/half days/work-life balance bollocks) but was further amazed to discover that it had no change machine, no baskets, no kind faced attendant (in attendance) or no drying machine that heated up beyond ‘hefty fart’ mode. And there was no mini bar. I wasn’t impressed.  

            The next day I did (a) with my husband. We nonchalantly strode in, picked out a likely looking machine, thrust a debit card towards a quivering youth in his starter suit, and asked for him to arrange not only to take away our little shit of an old machine, but to ruthlessly install the new one. This was agreed and the transaction was completed.

            Naturally, when the two geezers rocked up a couple of days later, they looked at the sorry excuse of my old machine, looked at each other, duly took some sharp intakes of breath, tut-tutted a bit and then talked a bit of plumbing bollocks, which equalled (as it always does), they weren’t gonna fit it. We needed to get someone in.

Not content with breaking down, this little shit then duffs itself up in attempt

to show the geezers from Currys he's been a victim of domestic violence.



            We had the same shit with our cooker when we first moved here – which escalated beyond Ben Hur scale; it took six weeks to sort, 3billion (at least) angry phone calls, a gaggle of stress and a trip to the Betty Ford clinic.

            Anyhoo, they wouldn’t take away the old washing machine until the new one was lobbed in. Deja vu began to set in at this stage.

            You’ll be griped to hear, it’s been sorted now. We got a chirpy local plumber to limp over, wave his wand and fleece us for thirty notes. And some days later, the geezers came back for our old machine.

To diss us further, the little shit earns more sympathy by having it on its toes

and living it rough up a side passage for a couple of nights. No soup. No Nuffin.

I now understand its been fully repaired and now has a 2-bedroom council flat (with sea views) in Hastings.

            Then my computer went tits up. Then the light switch in the kitchen downed tools and went on strike. Then a tap developed a leak. Then my alarm clock waved the white flag. Then our freezer part of our fridge/freezer ‘combo’ (I am disturbingly partial to the word ‘combo’…) went belly-up – which in turn could lead to another fucking trip to fucking Currys – which in turn….

            And then I went outside the gaff and saw this…

Yes, children. It's a pile of horse shit.

Right outside my front door.

The wall behind this mound of shit is the front of my house.

If you look hard enough, you will also note (and doubtless scoff)

that a dog (for good measure) has ruthlessly pissed on my house.

Just can't wait to see what the next week brings. Dear oh dear...