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...