Carcass Of The Day, Rigour Mortis and The Dukes of Hazzard

I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but I think carverys are the work of the Devil: they cause greed, stress, fear and worse than any of that, roast potato envy. And ain’t dat the truth. Whenever I go, I begin to get anxious the minute I step through the door and catch glimpse of the actual carvery area, as I always spot the nice outsidy bit of the turkey that I particularly like, being lowered on to some other (ungrateful) fucker’s plate. And then I join the queue and begin to panic. Will there be anymore nice outsidy bits left by the time I’ve shuffled along this god forsaken queue. And why aren’t they going faster? And why doesn’t that biddy in front of me get her lacquered bouffant out of the way so I can see what’s occurring on the turkey front. But what will I have if there are no nice outsidy bits left? I don’t really eat red meat and the turkey breast is all dry and bollocks. And I really don’t want to be paying £8.95 just for a plate of cauliflower fucking cheese and the last skanky roast potatoes. And why isn’t ‘anyone’ coming out to check on the veg? And how come that fucker that’s got my nice outsidy bits of turkey has got all the best roast potatoes. And if the old man had just got out of the fucking car when we parked up, rather than checking his Blackberry for the twenty millionenth time today then I could have been where that fucker was in the queue and got the nice outsidy bits instead of the pile of congealing cack I’m about to shovel on my plate. Why is no one coming out to check on the veg? IS ANYONE IN CHARGE HERE???

Fearing she may pass out through the scale of disappointment at finding the beef overcooked,

this bird firmly grips the counter in a futile attempt to support her buckling legs.

Sadly, seconds after this photo was taken, she crashed to the canvas...

You get my drift. And I haven’t even touched on condimentgate.

So a couple of weeks ago, when the old man got cravings for a carcass of the day, we entered the arena that is ‘the carvery’ and I began to twitch and hyperventilate and generally flap about a bit. So I thought ‘bollocks to all this’ and ordered something from the menu instead (a moussaka, that wasn’t a moussaka – it was merely a lasagne that was attempting to disguise itself as a moussaka. A lasagne in drag, as it were. Feather boa and all that…).  

Anyhoo, having relieved myself of any turkey dramas or gravy related stress, I thought I was safe. But hell, no. As we sat at our table (within viewing distance of the carvery), the old man suddenly began to fret and dab at his brow (Louis Armstrong style); we’d got in the restaurant early doors, and as yet, no one had had any beef yet – and he didn’t want the outsidy bits, he wanted the redder insidy bits (give me strength..).

To cut to the chase, for him to return triumphant to our table with the correct pantone colour of beef, involved joining the queue, only to ‘abort’ when the beef wasn’t quite getting to the level of redness required. He joined and left and did this a few times. And even made a song and dance about scoring a couple of soft drinks from the bar when he felt suspicions were being aroused over his continual aborting of the queue. But then, he began to worry that he’d gone too far, and maybe when he got to the beef, all the red bits would be gone and he’d be back to where he started, with the yucky brown outsidy bits.

I’ve told him I’m not going again. Or if I do, I need to engage the services of a counsellor for an unspecified length of time before dragging my sorry ass over the carvery’s threshold.

 This old dear was twenty eight when she first attempted to join the queue at the optimum point.

However, in a cruel twist of fate, having finally secured her meat 'just how she likes it', rigour mortis sets in...

Other culinary delights recently experienced: this is what you get when you order a locally made jumbo sausage in the Warren Pub in Dartmoor (3^rd highest pub in Britain, don’t ya know).

They're taking the piss. I have never had a meal before that involved casual observers snorting and guffawing

as it was carried through the pub to my table. I ate it with the heavy certainty that a viable Doris Day

impersonation was not going to be on the cards. 

Elsewhere, our trip to an M&S ‘Simply Food’ outlet at some services close to Exeter wasn’t for the faint-hearted. Being a dozy bint, I missed this lot on the way in.

One can only imagine the delight the head ponchos at M&S must be feeling...

So when I did spot them, post shop, I got the old man to bring the wagon to a halt so I could take some pics. As I was trying to zoom in on some particularly unsavoury sorts (upper body out the car window and generally fuffing about with my phone), someone shrill-voiced bird began hollering for someone called ‘Frank’. She also made mention of ‘sorting them out’. At this juncture I did not hang around. Instructions to the old man to ‘make it snappy’ resulted in us exiting the services in a style reminiscent of The Dukes Of Hazzard.

I'll be the fucking judge of that...

Meanwhile, back in these paaarrrts, we’re all steadying ourselves for the culinary event of the year. It’s been advertised for quite a few weeks now, so one does expect a good turn out.

By failing to elaborate with full details of 'a drink', I fear this promotion may be 'misconstrued',

resulting in piss-taking and an unprofitable evening.

If I’d tried to promote an event like this when I was in the pub trade, I’d have been marched up that head office and pistol-whipped to within one inch of my life. Dear oh dear....

Lesbian Sandals, Scary Toilets and The Blair Witch Project

If I want to go out for a walk (which I often do), it’s easy; lob on the trainers or lesbian sandals (weather determined), shovel a bit of cash into a pocket, along with my pratfone, grab a bottle of water and fuck off out of it. And that’s what I did yesterday, I boldly walked to the coast, 3 miles or so, in the blazing heat (yet still managing to look like one of those sauce buckets from the Harmony Hairspray ads), no dramas, no nuffin – just me going for a walk.

 This is an untruth. This is not my sandal. My sandal is infinitely more lezza than this.

My sandal involves velcro. It does not, however, involve a moose hair sock.

And when I got to said coast, I had a littly sit down and watched the world go by. Not five minutes passed before I was given a harsh reminder of one of my all time pet hates – and one so severe, it’s right up there with the dreaded caravan (if you’ve not read my ‘Road Rage, Scrotes and Rich Tea Biscuits’ blog, March 2011, I urge you to limp over for a nosey…).

            So my other pet hate (that ranks so highly) are those dreary old fuckers that refuse to go for the briefest of walks without carrying a backpack the size of Scotland (or some crude form of suitcase strapped to them), wearing the ‘Look everybody! I’m going for a walk!” clumpy (and even more butch) bootee things, and sporting the world’s thickest socks. The worse offenders even carry some sort of stick thing to labour the ‘I’m walking’ point. And if the casual observer is still left in any doubt as to what’s unfolding before them, some of these twats have baseball caps (or if they’re closing to snuffing it, one of those floppy efforts) with their Rambling Posse/Crew/Association emblazoned upon it. Or worse yet, some jocular tag line like, “Ramblers Do It For Hours”. (God give me strength).

            But that's the issue I have; when they don’t do it for hours. And they’re just having a stroll along Seaton seafront. And they still have all the kit and caboodle on. Including the heavy boots and the industrial socks. And they look so fucking smug about it all. I mean, come on, exactly how many eventualities do you need to cover to warrant lugging a jumbo backpack around in the heat? Surely, you can only get through so many Trebor Mints in one piffy stroll along Seaton seafront. It’s less than a mile long. And flat. And it’s got loos and kiosks. And a couple of fairly undesirable pubs. And a High Street, but minutes away…so WHAT’S IN THE FUCKING BAGS!!!

 Feast your eyes on this volatile terrain. You'd be a fool to attempt a brisk

walk along here without your full quota of Trebor mints stashed in your backpack.

I mean, really? Look at this bunch of herberts. They're only popping out for 

10 minutes to secure some Jacobs Cream Crackers from the convenience store.  

....and check out the prick sticks....dear, oh dear...

            Now, I do concede, that when embarking upon a ten mile hoof or so, around the moors or similar, you may need to shove a few more things in a bag. More Trebor Mints, more water, a sausage roll, and the caravaners favourite, the dreaded tea flask. So, I’m guessing these pricks are just stuffing these bags with all sorts, willy nilly and terrified of missing out that one item that could ‘save the day’ (back-up undercrackers, every form of Pac-A-Mac in existence, a couple of hefty flares, a selection of old back copies of the Radio Times and a trusty whistle).  But the rest of the time? Ooh, I could chin the lot of them....

Not looking so smug now...this lot have forgotten why they set off...

To add to my woes, I’ve begun to get scared of public toilets. It all began in Newton Abbot a couple of weeks, when I got caught short. We asked a fairly unreliable-looking traffic warden for directions to the nearest lav and he, in turn, steered us towards some crumbling, graffiti covered wreck that looked like it was on day release from the hardest area in the Bronx. Being a grounded person, I immediately feared that a whole Bourneville Selection of muggers, murderers and rapists were lurking behind the peeling entrance door, just waiting for me to rock up for a piss (and not even armed with my ‘I’m going for a walk!’ stick…).

            I took the only course of action I could. I sent the old man in for a reccy.

That's right, love. You check it out.

 I'll wait here.

I don’t have a picture to show of these toilets. And I ain’t going back for one neither. I came out intact, but those lavvies had a heavy sense of foreboding which gave me the heebeejeebies long after I got my sorry arse out of there.

And since then, I've been a bit howsyerfather about public toilets. 

I went to Dartmouth to celebrate my birthday last weekend. They had public toilets.

  I rest my case.

This foul stench-filled shit house lives next to the castle.

Enter at your own perile - you have been warned.

And what about this? Based on this location, you'd think you're about to step down into

some sort of luxury crapper, complete with top of the range tampons, perfumes and

attendant (in attendance)

Nope. It's another festering hell hole.

But it does have a nice view (once you escape).

To get over my toilet trauma, I was forced to go out on the lash. Not because it was my birthday. But because it would take away my 'toilet fear'. So I drank lots of vodka. And I drank lots of vodka in lots of pubs. Very nice. And after a while, it got to being a bit of a blur. But I do remember this chap.

Let me introduce Ollie (not to be confused with Wally Dog).

He must have a similar distrust of public toilets to me,

as here he is, pissing where he stands. Note his guilty expression.

In his defence, I did see him neck some cider earlier from that (now) crushed plastic cup....

And then I drank some more. So I took some pictures of this.

Aah.

Then I drank some more and took these. And by now I was feeling a bit queer.

If memory serves, I may have been pointing out to the old man that

he was my bestest friend in the whole wide world, at this stage...

And here I am, steadying myself to give a rousing rendition

of 'Pearl's A Singer'

So after all that excitement, it was time for peepy bo-bos. The next day, I felt fluffy and fragile and couldn't do anything to make myself feel better. But the old man came up with a cunning plan. He drove me all the way to Kingsbridge and showed me these.

They were so lovely and clean, that I wanted to move in straight away. But the old man

said I couldn't. We had to go home. Oh dear, I sighed. But never mind, I said to him, atleast I am no longer scared

of public toilets. Hurrah!

So off we went. Back to these parrrts. I was feeling so much happier now all that scary toilet business was behind me. But when we got home we found this in the downstairs loo.

We have booked the priest for next Tuesday.

Please pray for us.

Until then, I'm buggering off for a lengthy walk.....

Redhill, Grey Bras and The French Lieutenant's Scrubber

I fear my days may be numbered at the gym – and that a red card could be in the offing. See, there’s some mad old posh moo who’s begun frequenting said gym, and I’ve become rather transfixed with her (in a non-lesbian brillo pad kinda way). For those of you familiar with the sitcom ‘Keeping Up Appearances’ – this tart is the spit of Hyacinth Bouquet/Bucket. I kid you not. She comes complete with the bouffant barnet, a little black bolero jacket over a pristine white vest, loose trousers (elasticated waist jobbies with a drawstring belt) and some ‘casual’ form of boating shoe (by the looks of it – like I fucking know). And bestest of all (and, oh yes indeedy…) she’s got a pearl necklace on (a proper necklace, not the…). And what’s more; I bet her shit don’t stink.

I’ve been trying to surreptitiously take a photo of her for weeks now, (which, in the main, has involved furtively lurking behind various pieces of gym machinery and equipment) so that I could ‘share’ with you all. And take the piss a bit. But, to date, I have been a big wussy failure. But I ain’t done yet…

Hello, Management? Mrs Bouquet here. Some fucker's been trying to

take photos of me doing pelvic thrusts in my finest porcelain slacks...

Other news: I’ve only just got over a recent trip to Redhill for the night. I went with the old man as he had an ‘important’ business meeting the following morning (that didn’t require the presence of my fragrant gob messing things up), so I just tagged along for the epic car ride and to see what Redhill’s like. So I can now tell you (from an informed position): it’s a shit hole. And as someone who’s come from a shit hole (Leyton), I know a shit hole when I see one.

This is where we stayed. Don't be deceived by its dreary exterior -

it was infinitely worse inside...

Our room looked out on this. Oh, how we smiled...

This was not only the town centre - this was, more or less, all of it... 

There should have been bushels blowing across the empty streets – but they’d had enough and fucked off. And even the hoodies we passed (slumped in pissy doorways) were too despondent and lethargic to give us the finger or relieve us of our possessions when we wandered out to ‘take in the nightlife’.

This was as good as it got. People dying of thirst as they attempt to secure a drink.

Well trained staff go through their standard 78 questions in an attempt to upsell a

packet of pork scratchings or an ice cream with your beer, before allowing you to

escape with your purchase...

And when we finally limped back to our seats, I discovered that a Redhill

bird had shat on my jacket. Initally we hoped it might be white paint - until

I discovered its 'epicentre'...

Suddenly I came over all tired, and began to miss Wally Dog and these parrrts... 

After the obligatory ‘night from hell’, the next morning I was deposited in Costa Coffee in a Tesco superstore, while the old man and his business partner went off to fight a small war on their own.

There they go.

Once their Blackberry's need re-charging, they'll be back...



Now, as an ex-publican, I just don’t get these coffee houses. They’re just full of pricks with paperbacks tacking up space and making one drink last 38 days. We used to get the odd ones waft into my pubs, looking all arty and air-fairy as they’d order a frothy coffee with a sprinkle of penguin shit topping. At this juncture, I would give them my famous pained expression. That would normally be enough to fuck them off from asking for a refill – and free up the seat for a proper punter who wanted to get their face in the trough (and furthermore, pay handsomely for the privilege).

That's right, mate - you take your time. Why not spread your shit out

a bit more on the table, so it'll serve as a deterrent for anyone else

looking for somewhere to sit during the busy lunchtime rush.

Prick.

So I got up and had a wander through Tesco. I had 2 hours to kill, so up and down every bloody aisle I went. And by God, they’ve got some dreadful shit in there. My ‘highlight’ was the ‘value’ bras that they were flogging. Interestingly, as a labour-saving device, they appear to have saved the buyer from the effort of turning their bras a soupy kind of grey colour – as they’ve cut to the chase, and already supply them in this classic (and appealing) shade.

I limped back to Costa Coffee, and to show them what a rebel I am, I ordered tea. And then, to further fuck them up, I thought I’d have some more. As it was dead quiet in there (I was in a crowd of three customers) and I had a number of bags with me that I didn’t want to hoof up to the till, I asked a passing member of staff if I could order from them. “No” I was told. Bastards. And me – their best customer in years. Bastards II.

The guys returned with tales of battles won, filofaxes at ten paces and a decision within two weeks. We bundled into our car and roamed the streets of Redhill for somewhere to scoff some brunch. We found a skanky cafe and boldly entered. As it was blowing up a hooley and bit on the nippy side, we asked the proprietor if we could close the door. “No” we were told.

“Why?” We asked.

“In case I get a lot of people pushing buggies coming in – or people in wheelchairs.” 

 “Can’t we just get up and open the door for them?”

 “No.” 

 “Do you get a lot of people coming in with buggies or disabled people?”

 “No. But if they see the door is shut, they won’t come in.”

 “Can’t you just open the door for them?”

 “No.”

 Bastardio.

Upon hearing the news that a cafe in Redhill has its doors open, these wheelchair users

have it on the hurry-up to secure a spot out of the draught and first dibbings on the bacon butties...

So we buggered off and took our sterling to nearby Reigate and ate some shit in shopping centre. And then we pointed our wagon back to these parrrts. And to make up for the ordeal we stopped off here.

That's better. Lyme Regis, innit? 

And I thought I’d give it a bash at looking like this

The French Lieutenant's Scrubber.

But then I realised I didn’t have long red hair. Nor a quivering jaw. Nor a cape. All I had was a jacket with Redhill bird shit on it. So we went back home to this.

Look at this nice young chap drinking his way through the stock in a futile

attempt to steady himself for my gargantuan order...

And that made me feel a lot better. I was so glad to be home. And I told the barman this. There's no place like home I told him.

...and he told me, "You daft cow, you could have come back to these parrts whenever you

wanted, rather than staying in that Redhill shit hole and pissing out Costa Coffee over-priced tea.

Didn't you know, that all along you had the power in your ruby slippers...

I'll be okay...with time...

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?

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.