Bared Teeth, Throttled Weasels and A Spot Of Lunch Up The Moors

It’s all been go in these parrrrts (I can tell you) and to be frank, I’m still reeling slightly from the sequence of events that unfolded last weekend.

            Firstly, some fucker thrust a Bank Holiday upon us. Bit harsh. So on the Friday night I despatched myself to the pub to partake in a quaffing session to help me get over this ‘interference’ with my routine. And I must admit, I was doing very well with this (I’d got to the horror stage where I’d begun to mistakenly think my gob was amusing all and sundry within a 10-yard radius), when an unknown man of Mediterranean appearance (who unknown to me had just been lobbed out another pub just down the road for exposing himself) suddenly loomed up beside me and begun chatting away in broken ingleesh.

            Anyhoo, the long and the short of it was, the bloke was - 1) pissed (no crime in that) 2) Tunisian (ditto) and 3) under the illusion we were in some iffy holiday camp disco in Hammamet, because after a couple a minutes of (mostly) incoherent babble, the fucker put his arm around me and pulled me to his Tunisian chest. Plus he breathed on me at close range. I wasn’t happy.

Just to prove this man was not representative of all things Tunisian, here's a

picture of beautiful Hammamet. I have been there twice. I have also taken my suitcase to Sousse.

Look at the fun this lady is having with one of the locals.

Now, I'm no expert in body language, but I'm sure you get the jist... 

            At this point, I invited said Tunisian to ‘do one’ and I bared my teeth to make the point. And my husband duly invited him to ‘jog on’ before he ‘donnered him’. All very civilised and Brideshead Revisited. And ‘jog on’ he did. And that was the last we saw of the exposing Tunisian.

 We do things a little different in these parrrrrts (I'll think you'll find).

The blokes seem to get more value exposing themselves to anything with four legs...

Now in the days that I ran pubs, I had to deal with two billy bunters that chose to have a hand shandy (not simultaneously, you understand...) whilst in the Holy Temple of Alcohol Dispensing. One had the vague manners to prop himself up against the wall in the men’s toilets to strangle his badger, whilst the other chose to position a chair at the top of some stairs facing the main bar (for maximum viewage we thought at the time) whilst he throttled his weasel. But that was in London where you expect (and get) anything. While this exposing Tunisian was in these parrrrts. How rude.

The next day I was fragile and pathetic and unable to deal with the gym. So we leapt into the wagon and buggered off. But after a while the wagon needed feeding, so we limped into a petrol station. And as the old man was feeding said wagon, he noted a car zoom past him to nowhere in particular a high speed. And then he heard a loud crash.

Yes folks, it's another one. This coffin dodger flattened the car vacuum cleaner before ploughing

up the kerb and into a mass of green things with leaves. Annoyingly, some keen and overly helpful

fucker put the vacuum cleaner upright(ish) again before I could get a photo of it in the 'prone' position.

This (I feel) would have added some much needed humour to this photo

I think we're agreed, in saying, 'Fair Effort'...

The old duffer being led away from the scene of the crime.

He may be all right, but I don't hold out much hope for that vacuum cleaner.

Throw away the keys, I say!

So on Sunday, we ran for the hills (Dartmoor) for safety and met up with some friends for lunch (yakey dah), and we spoke bollocks and then we went for a walk so we could point our fingers at things. And we found this poor sod.

 Now I'm no expert in sheep shearing - but surely some drunken fucker's

set about this one with an old blunt machete and a pair of nail clippers...

It gets worse. Obviously halfway through sorting out this one, the pub opened.

(NB. note that the sheep is so ashamed it does not wish to have its identity revealed and

has therefore turned its head away from the camera)..

Bank Holiday Monday. And this was it. The Big One. What we’d all been waiting for. What all the fuss was about. Yes, folks…it was the Colyton Tractor Run. And it was for events like this, that we moved our sorry asses to these parrrrts for. Feast your eyes….

The crowd's whipped themselves into a frenzy.

(Although I may be correct in saying that the bloke to the left is waiting for the chippie to open

and the one to the far right could just be waiting for a bus and has unwittingly been caught up 

in proceedings..).

Steady yerself - there's more... 

Yep. That's about the strength of it...

So the moral of this blog? Don’t ever let any fucker tell you it’s boring living in the country. Capiche?