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,
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.
"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.