Thursday, 24 December 2009

A Christmas Fag

A lonely and lean(ish) figure appeared against the snow on Christmas Eve. Her old coat wrapped tightly around her, clutching the last of her Superkings. A poor (and brave) waif in rags begs for a snout and urged her to remember it was the season of Goodwill.
"Bah! Humbug!", Smith growls, kicking him up the arse.

That night in her old delapilated home, she dismisses Husband for the night and sits by a lowley fire, eating thin pot noodles. Smith lights up her snout in the dismal and barely decorated room. Her watery eyes catch the beginnings of a shadow. It seems to come through the wall.
Smith chokes on her cigarette smoke and drops the ashtray.
"Bugger", she manages.

The shadow gets bored of standing there, not being noticed.
"I am your old friend from the seventies. The ghost of your Christmas past."
Smith looks bored and somewhat irritated. She was enjoying that fag.
"But you're not dead. I was round your house the other day. And you owe me a fiver"
But before another word was mentioned, they were swept back in time to 1977.

There stood before them was a cigarette machine.
Smith melts. "I used to get Senior Service out of there."
Finally her eyes lose their coldness
"Yes, " says the ghost, "And then made random nuisance calls in the phone box outside."
"What wonderful innocent days. I was such a different person. Before I went all hard and
that and started smoking Superkings."

Then without any words mentioned at all, they were swept along to the heady days of 1979.
Two young girls walking through the streets of Soho, amongst all the rubbish from the dustmans strike. One of them lights up a Silk Cut.

'Smith breaks down. How naive and pretty she was then. So fresh to the world with that white box and red writing on it. She turns to the ghost:
"Do you remember the wonderful days of those low tar tabs?"

But her words went unanswered and she was back in her dismal room alone.

Thank God for that, Smith thought and lit up one of her few remaining Superkings.

Another shadow emerged - what the frack was it now? It was like Picadilly Circus in here!

A great fat bloke appeared with a beard.
"I am the ghost of Christmas Present!", he boomed.
"Yeah, yeah. Can we get on with this so I can enjoy my fag in peace. "
"I have come to show you..."
"Dying for a piss," Smith said, "Be right back"
"Not going for a bloody fag are you?", the bearded figure accused.
"Well, the bog seems the only place I can get some bloody peace"

Smith stayed in the bog until that old bore left. Smoking the Superkings, she realised the error of her ways and longed for the good old days of Consulate and Rothmans (blue). Tears filled her eyes.

The fat one may have left but another ghost was waiting for her. A hoody type. Smith had seen his sort before.
"Look, I know what you're gonna say," she blurted out, "But I'm changing my ways. Not yet tho'. Wait till Fatso opens. Now sod off."
"Its alright," the sceptre sulked, "I didnt' want a coffee anyway."
"Good. Now frack off!"

That night, Smith tossed and turned, dreaming of a time before she turned to cold and hard (and cheaper) Superkings and before she knew it, the grey morning and the church bells were creeping through the shutters.

Smith slammed them open: there was the same surly youth of the night before:
"Hey,. you there boy! Yes, you! "
She threw the coins out of the window.
"Go and buy me the biggest box of Rothmans you can find! There's 50 p in it for you if you're quick!"
"Make it a quid or I'll tell everyone your old man touched me!"
Bless the boy! So sharp witted!
"Frack off, you little dunt", she thrilled merrily, "Or there's a good kicking in it for you!"

The youth scampered off and soon Smith was clutching the box of fags and was off to see her neglected family.
"Merry Christmas all!", she came through the doors.
"Uncle Smith!", Tiny Tim on his crutches limped towards her.
And how the family laughed when Smith kicked them away from under the thin little boy.
"Gis a fag!", Tiny gasped, crawling on the floor.
"Yes! My boy!" and she lit it up for him.
"Fags for everyone! Just like in the old days when they weren't so dear and that!"
"God bless everyone!", Tiny Tim coughed and they all lit up in Christmas cheer.

Monday, 21 December 2009

Random Acts

Am getting too much of this human kindness shit, especially when I'm trying to have my fag and coffee at the bus stop (AND I have it under the shelter!). Some poor bastard, posh bloke, slid straight over on the ice after getting off the bus. His shopping went everywhere. And I could see from his face that he really was hurt - although he stood straight up.

I was in a real dilemna. I could put my fag out and walk over to help pick up his shopping. But suppose the same fate awaited me? With a hot coffee too? Wouldn't I make the whole thing worse? All the same I attempted to clamber over the shiny and ultra icy pavements. I thought it strange the bus hadn't gone off tho' and then, the bus driver got out and shouted to posh bloke as to whether he was alright. I was touched by his concern. He hadn't zoomed off to the next stop and kept to his schedule, he was genuinely worried for his passenger.

The man nodded, somewhat embarassed and the bus went off. Leaving me standing there with a stylofoam cup, looking a bit stupid. And then posh bloke turned to me and begged me to be careful on that part of the pavement as he had just slipped up there. My eyes watered in gratitude. Nearly offered him a fag.

Why can't people just be horrible? And miserable like they usually are? I don't need these random acts of kindness interferring with the only two pleasures I know. Can't people understand that i haven't got time to melt at this sort of thing.

It was like when I broke my toe and had to limp for a while. Nearly everyone at the shopping centre opened doors for me or kept the lift open. They took a break from being nasty. I mean good for them and that but really.......

Bloody car's up the creek, kids have lost their bus passes and I'm fracking cold and miserable. Good to be back to normal.

Monday, 14 December 2009

Chilli Sauce?

Well, for fracks sake, look forward to a nice morning clearing up the place when there are five phone calls (all rubbish!), a workman outside keep wanting half a bucket of water and the 95 year old lady next door who had taken a parcel in for me. Good grief! No time for Jeremy Vine or bloody anything! And my lunch I was heating up went all dry. Bastards!

Of course I squeezed in time for a fag.

Yesterday we had Husband's relatives in for our traditional Christmas drink. The burly Welsh faction. Also my mate and her husband and my other mate, Mary. A lovely, four foot tall Irish woman who I wouldn't dare dream of mentioning Blogging to. She would cross herself, I'm sure.

My Tesco Value brandy and vodka causing more laughter and entertainment that any six piece band fronted by Dick Emery, I began to make my own champagne cocktail. A glass of Cava, or any sparkly wine, with a nip of vodka poured into it. (Listen, if its recommended in Woman's Own, it must be alright!). There was also much merriement when these buggers saw me go outside for a fag. Their memories of last Christmas in my old kitchen being but a fug of cigarette smoke. Had a good mind to make them drink outside, who'd be laughing then, eh?

I could only take 3 of my cocktails before I switched to sparkling water. No-one else wanting to go near them. But the damndest thing was that about 4 o'clock as I was sitting on a wooden chair next to Mary, I was so reminded of my childhood christmases. The wintery darkness of late afternoon, the unlovely overhead lights and the bareness of the kitchen and uncomfortable chairs. And sitting talking through the noise. To any nearby cousin or aunt or mate.

Thats how it always was at home. Relatives round without fail, tho' usually on christmas night, and people sitting where they could, kind of squeezed together. Only thing missing was the barrell of beer and my dad getting his bloody guitar out. God, I was dragged up! But it was strange how fate forced my hand through that brief time tunnel thing.

Son's school carol service tonight. His last one. Its the winter equivalent of sports day for us. We go along dutifully, our faces caked with boredom and misery, trying not to look at our watches. However, this particular night, we are going for a kebab afterwards, (Daughter's having chips). Why does this make me so happy?

Does anyone else fancy a kebab? Tell me how much chilli sauce you want and that. Or we could just meet up outside the kebab shop. You know, that really rough one on the high street, with all the fag ends outside. And afterwards we could take turns knocking on the Vicar's door and running off, or have a whip round to buy one half shandy between us at the Barmy Arms. What a night out! Hope you can make it

Thursday, 10 December 2009

Crushed and used!

Well, my brothers, it happened. The 11+ exam at the sought after grammar school in Kingston. I queued up with Son, among a million others, in sheer disbelief that I was going through all this shit again. And once again, I had the urge that I had with daughter, to grab him off some caring prefect and run off into the Christmas crowds. Son's pale, Oliver Twist face looked at me as he and several boys were taken off into some building somewhere. Parents not allowed to go any further.

I go into a well-known coffee shop and catch sight of an acquaintance holding court at a table with a load of mothers. I dimly recalled her son was the same age as mine. Good Grief! She was putting her third child through the exam! I'm finding it hard to do it twice! (Her other two didn't get in). I shake my head in disbelief and go by the river for a good wallow and sulk.

A pair of shoes and a Kath Kidston flannel and a Crabtree and Evelyn bath oil later, I go and collect Son near lunchtime. His face red with misery tells me all and my guts cave in.
"Don't say anything," I tell him, resentful because I didn't want to do this fracking thing in the first bloody place. And we walk along with the crowd of other parents, whose kids actually all looked distraught.

But were the parents dying inside like I was? Son wanted to go to Subway but I'm not sure I could cope with being crushed and that shitty smelly place too. I persuade him to go to Patisserie Valerie. I sit at a table and eat scrambled eggs and feel better. Son has some obscene looking ciabatta thing. He begs me not to go back to school.

Just tell everyone you did okay, I suggest. Its none of their business. Just say it went well. Son opens mouth to speak but I put my hand up, don't say anything it says. I'm more angry at myself that all this shit meant so much to me.

We change the subject. I tell him that all the popstars go to the Soho version of this over-priced cafe. Well, Sparks did anyway. I don't bother explaining who they are.

We go home together and make some fudge. It sticks to the fracking pan. Bastards, all of them!

Friday, 4 December 2009

Santa Baby.....

Hi Treasures. Thought I'd get one on here before the Archers, and sardines and boiled egg. (Listen, its my birthday and i'll have what i want!).

The disadvantage of a birthday in December is that you're thinking of presents for someone else eg the kids. So I' thought I'd take time out to give you all a list of the presents I want at Christmas. This'll give you three weeks or so. And please - no underwear like last year! I mean those rubber basques gave me hell in Tescos - and please do not mention those crotchless knickers. So I'd like more practical presents from you this year. The usual address of course. And don't forget the posting deadline, like you did last year.

List:

Lambert & Butler (200)

Superkings Black (not blue) (200)

Bailey's (prefereably from Nettos)

Bunty Annual

Rothmans (200) (Blue not Red, like you got me last year!)

Molton Brown Bath Salts (nicotine flavour)

Jo Malone perfume (Essence of Tobacco)

Balkan Sobranie fags (taste vile but look beautiful)

I urge you NOT to get me that book about letters to your sixteen year old self. Whoever thought that one up? I mean I don't want to be funny or anything but do you really want to read Julia Swahalia's letter to herself? Or Brenda Blethyn's? I mean perhaps I've got this all wrong but it seems a bit of a polly filler thing to me. I wouldn't dream of writing to myself at 16 - I'd get so depressed. So please please do not send me that frackin thing. Nor one of those little books on Wisdom that line the tills of Waterstones. What a load of old shit.

I hope this is okay. Now what would my lovely pals want?

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Stir-up Tuesday

According to the Archers and My Weekly, you should have made your christmas pudding last Sunday. Advent and all that. But what happens if you can't stand all that shit! That inedible load of dark fruit that you need a machete to get through? And as for brandy butter, don't get me started.... What is that all about? You don't even get sixpences in them any more! The only good bit is when they catch fire! Sadly, it doesn't burn very long. Not long enough for me anyway.

However, the creative side of me (as opposed to the smoking side) wanted to stir up something. And Sunday I was sitting in traffic in the pissing rain trying to get to my mum's. (And don't think she appreciated it because she didn't!) so thought I'd stir up something on Tuesday.

Did a Christmas cake didn't I. Put loads of Tesco Value Brandy in it. And tonight its sausage rolls and mince pies. And tomorrow its orange slices covered in Orris Root and dried out in the oven. (Don't ask me what that one's all about!). I wonder why Christmas brings out the creativity in people. Especially me. This is valuable fag time.

Birthday this Friday. Had coffee with a mate yesterday, one today and due another on thursday and friday. I don't mind having dalliances with outside-world people but I can't do anything else. It buggers up the rest of the day. AND you can't smoke in any of these places! As Dennis Leary said: the reason man invented coffee was that you could smoke even more.

Got a bastard of a head. Its either Jeremy Vine or too much Starbucks. Whatever do they put in all that shit? Time for a fag

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

The Laptop Affair

Sweeties, lovies, once again the treachery of fate has taken me away from the only friends I have ever known. The small crumbs of comfort I have ever been able to pick up from the cold floor. The only.... oh alright, I'll tell you. There have been laptop issues - or baggage as my mate would say.

A stork is bringing a new one. Why can't that bloody Dell have a frackin' shop? Its alright for them looking smug on their advert - lease out a premises, mates, and put a sign on the window. Never did PC world any harm!

So am furtively on this one (Husband's) for now. Bloody pain in the arse.

There was also the Thumb Affair. Bloody breaking Pistachio nuts with me thumbs, suddenly got this terrible and evil pain go through one of them. Bastard was throbbing all last week. I was this close to going to Casualty. NOT that anyone in this bloody house cared! But I am used to lack of emotion and love. Grown up with it.

Anyway, was on the verge of going, then the bloody pain lessened. Just like Rosemary's Baby - spooky!

Got my Christmas booze in. Tesco Value brandy and Tesco Imperial vodka (the small size), this'll do me. Husband has sneered at their cheapness but I bet if he had to put HIS hand in his pocket - well!

My one xmas outing that I'm really looking forward to is : "Its a Wonderful Life" with James Stewart is on at the Richmond Curzon over christmas. Have always wanted to see that on the big screen. Will be first in that queue. Who wants to come? It can be our little seasonal outing. Bit like an office party if you will. I'll bring the fags - hope everyone likes Caption of Strength. Couple of you can bring some Baileys (supermarket brand of course) and someone else can bring the sweets. Let me know when's a good time

Thursday, 12 November 2009

Turmoil!

Been up Richmond, haven't I. The one in Surrey. What a one horse town! I mean, don't get me wrong, if its culture you're after then you're laughing all the way to the - er - programme seller but otherwise what a load of old shit. Anyway it was the scene of a dilema, o brothers.

Had five minutes between Snappy Snaps and Robert Dyas. And had to choose between getting strawberries for the kids (from Waitrose) or a fag by the car park. Oh it was agony! Which one was it to be? I was torn in half, o my brothers, quite literally torn in half.

It was like one of those On the Road films with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby where a little old lady with a harp is on one of Bob Hopes' shoulder and a devil is on the other. And he can't decide what to do! The old lady sternly told me I cannot fob off the kids with a chocolate cookie for dessert again, it was time for fresh fruit! Meanwhile old Nick was tellin me the joys of inhaling that smoke by the A316. I was broken, brothers, just broken.

I like to think I eventually made the fair and right decision. And anyway Waitrose fruit is a complete rip-off.

Had to really smoke a lot this morning. It was Victorian day for year 6 and Son was going as a chimney sweep and was desperate for ash to put on his face. Well, I was happy to oblige. I told you smoking is good for you!

Thursday, 5 November 2009

Eye of the Tiger !

A quick burst on here today, brothers, between fags. Because its that time of year again, isn't it. At least for Son anyway. Its the frackin' bloody 11+ exam. The one where millions of kids try to all get in one school.

Daughter went through this shit and didn't get in. In fact, she bombed it. And yes, loads and loads of heartbreak followed. In fact, it was that that got me blogging and everything. I needed to tell people. But thats all behind us now and she goes to a super girls school down the road and that. So when Son came up for secondary school, we did not want to go through all that shit again and planned to put him down for the comprehensive where all his mates are going. I mean they have sport and maths and shit, don't they? I wanted an easier ride this time.

But oh no, Son wanted to try and get into that bloody school, didn't he. That unobtainable building six miles away. And Stupid here listened to all the advice - it would be a lot crueller if you didn't let him take it, you shouldn't deny him the experience - I should have said Bollocks but didn't. Got on the phone to Daughter's old tutor and it all went from there.

But even then, it seemed safely far away. But not now! Early December in fact. Oh Bloody hell! He won't get in! Unless they have a special exam for kids who do no bloody work - he will never do it. And I'm gonna go through this heartbreak again!

And it does matter, you know. You can tell yourself what you bloody well like - it does matter!

As Liza Minnelli once said about the Oscars - when they're opening that golden envelope, it matters!

Have ordered a hundred fags from Fatso to be collected on that date. That woke the old git up I tell you! And have booked a triple cappaccino from the nearest outlet.

This is a vital time. Why won't he do any work? Why can't it be like Rocky 2 where the wife in hospital tells Rocky she wants him to win? And he goes out training in Philledelphia and all these kids follow him up the stairs and that? Why can't that happen with Son? (Bloody good film that!)

Well thats it. Time for my fag - and my hands are throbbing..

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Cutting Edge!

Applause!

Welcome to our alternative poetry readings. live from the Avant Garde Club.

Now I know you've all come tonight to hear Fatso's new anthology "No Superkings, sorry" - (perhaps his most brutal work of all) but let me introduce our newest and freshest warm-up poet - Jenny Smith

(polite applause amid murmers "but I wanted to see Fatso!" and "I hope he doesn't fall asleep this time!")

JS clears throat:

"This is my most radical piece to date:

Half-term! What a load of shit that is!
Its not even christmas. Or Easter.
And the kids get on your tits
And they hog the laptop all the time
if you're not driving 'em to sleepovers that is!

And don't get me started on Halloween...!

(Sounds of "boos" start to erupt dangerously amid murmers of "doesnt' even rhyme" and
"where's the irony? thats what I want to know...")

Look! Its a work in progress, okay?

When the hell is it Monday?
When I can get rid of the bloody lot of them
Daughter says she's got a sore throat
well, I tell you, she's bloody going.......

Ow! No, stop it! Hey! Thats not very ladylike!
(tomatos and paper cups are being thrown now)

"Fatso! Fatso! Bring on Fatso! Get off, you talentless waste of space!
AND you're not allowed to smoke in here!"

Well, sod it then. Did Philip Larkin ever have this trouble, I wonder.

Friday, 23 October 2009

Quick....!

Just a quick one before I go to work, o brothers. (yes, work, me! With my nerves and aspirations and everything..etc etc. .....)

Went on a train the other night to that O2 place. Got off at Waterloo. Told Husband I was having a fag before we got on that funny Jubilee line thing. Went out the station and opposite was a cage(!) with Smoking Area posted on it.

"I am not getting into a fracking cage to smoke!" I told Husband politely. What is this world coming to? Its a side entrance at Waterloo where lorries drop off things and that. Whyever would you have a designated smoking place there? And I'm tossed if I was entering a buggering cage?

There were a few meek smokers in there and I glared at them, trying to make them aware of their betrayal and stood directly outside it and lit up. I noticed a few others did beside me.
Husband looked worried. Let 'em call the Police, I told him. And who exactly were going to call the police? The porters? The men in the lorries? The man at the Costa stand? For fracks sake! A cage , my arse.

I mean I've gone along with this No Smoking shit quietly so far. Simply because I've had no choice. But there are times when you need to kick out at these bastards.

Will be back soon for part two. This will include not being able to smoke near that dreadful shitty dome thing and how high up I had to frackin' sit. Oh yeah, and about the pop group I went to see.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

Eye of a Needle

Have such a stinking cold, my brothers. Fate is a very cruel mistress indeed.

Have been taking Aspro Clear like it was lemondade and now they've given me the shits. I was telling Son's teacher about my tummy antics just this morning. And do you know, Brothers, I suspect he has the same symptons as me. He kept clearing his throat and had an uncomfortable expression on his face:
"...through the eye of a needle ", I explained
"....yes, mrs Smith, now about Son's algebra...."

Me and education just do not mix. I don't mean just the fancy book-learning stuff either. There was an insufferable 9 months when I was a dinner lady - sorry, I mean SMSA - and do you know, my working space was full of kids! I couldn't talk to the other SMSA's about Big Brother or periods or anything. Some bloody kid was always interupting us blithering on about scraping knees and that. And whenever I suggested a bloody good cuff round the ear, they would look at me funny!

And now I'm back in the frying pan. Just when I thought it was safe to walk by a school. The Invigillators reach out and get me. Yes, I've applied for that at Daughter's school. I thought you only needed 'em for "O" levels in June and that was that! I mean , there's no sixth form!

No, they have them all over the bloody place! And then this lady kept talking about modules. I mean this isn't bloody Brunel university. Anyway, the poor cow needs hundreds of invigilators apparently.

I have hazy memories of my Maths teacher invigilating several exams and smoking a fag under the desk. Even in those very politically incorrect times of 1974, smoking was still not allowed. His fingers were as yellow as the sun. The only person I would swear blind died of smoking. The only one I would concede to anyway.

But no, these teachers can't do it anymore, they need someone like me. They prefer Mums apparently. Well, I haven't even said I'd do it yet - and I remember that when I became a dinner lady. They don't actually offer you a job, they just assume you're doing it. And this lady is sending me on a course without a bye or leave. Did anyone see those invigillators on Armstrong and Miller? Thats what I want to do.

Whoops! Son and Dad back. Gotta go xxx

Friday, 16 October 2009

Bloody cheek!


Would you adam and eve it? Of all the nerve! I mean Really????


Babysitting at mate's house. Dark already! Go outside for a fag don't I . Felt something fall spookily over my shoulder. Screamed - assuming it was a zombie - it was only a bloody spiders web! Walked right through the bloody thing!


Beside me was a spider hastily scrambling up on what was left of its web. It gave me a filthy look. Look where you're going, you stupid cow!, it glared. I told it: Excuse me mate, we'd all love to put down webs where we'd like, haven't you heard of consideration and Council tax? And how much rent are you paying here? I keep forgetting.


Spider tutted and went on making a new web. The cheek of these scrounging buggers! I mean I know they're Gods creatures and that, but really! Anyway I took a shot of the cheeky sod, threatened to expose it and sell it to the Sunday Sport. It went pale at that one, I tell you!


Interfering with my fag like that! Bloody cheek!

Monday, 12 October 2009

Oh Woe!!

They making me go to work AGAIN! Does no-one understand how they're holding me back! Does no-one understand my pain!

Son's birthday tomorrow - he will be 11! Thats my baby boy. He's getting an X-box - the spoilt little git! Do you know what I got at 11? A construction set! Never forgiven my old Gran for that one! Never knew what happened to it. Never touched the bloody thing. And I tell you what else I used to get, year after bloody year. A bloody post office! They still have 'em today I think. A box with pretend stamps and sweet jars and that. What a load of old shit! Never forgiven parents for that one either!

And he's not having a cake - oh no! He's having a box of Krispy Kremes. My mum used to make me one of her fruit cakes with a candle on top! And it tasted vile! Burnt and everything!

(30 minutes later)

Funnily enough that was my mum on the phone! Talk of the Devil! Didn't mention the crap birthdays I used to have though. Funny that.

And now, I have to go to work! Bollocks! Am going to try that foxy thing that Dotterell suggested later .

Parting is such sweet sorrow, Treasures

Monday, 28 September 2009

Crueller Still........

Oh my brothers, they have forced me out on to the streets once more. To a place called Work. Me, with my nerves, having to go there. With my nervous disposition and everything. I have a condition, you see. Husband got it diagnosed for me: its called work-shie - I think its Latin. More commonly, the last word is pronounced Shy.

I begged Husband to go and get some sort of herbal cure while I lay down. And also begged him to phone in sick for me. He returned from the Pharmacist empty-handed. He told me the nice young man advised a verbal cure. I looked at him weakly with non-comprehension. Husband recited the ancient mantra passed over to him from many generations: Get off your big arse and get to work like everybody else, you lazy cow. The insensitivity of it, o brothers, thats what I find hard to live with.

In the stockroom at the sports shop, unloading stuff with some 17 year old boy. Worried about a girl he's seeing. Thinks they might "do it". Scared about his nether regions. Frightened he's too small. I told him every boy thinks that because they saw their Dad's one when they were little. They grow up thinking their's is smaller than their Dad's and inadequate. I mean everyone know's that shit.

He begged me to look at it and give my opinion. He felt he could trust me, he said. So we locked the door and he presented himself to me. He was bloody enormous! The silly bugger. He was huge! These bloody blokes. Put it away I told him. That would satisfy any bloody girl!

Then he had the cheek to scrounge a lighter off me! Haven't I transformed his life enough? Bloody hell! Still, all in a day's work. Back to the stockroom tomorrow - new England shirts arriving. What a load of old shit!

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Being Silly

Well, at last, O my brothers, I'm on my oddy-knocky. But not for long, so I'm getting this in quickly.

Call up some woman who I was good friends with at one point: Bring yourselves and the kids for lunch, I say cheerfully, its been ages since we've got together. Come and see the new house. Well, she falters, Georgina's got horse rangers and George has got some shit or other (this is paraphrasing), perhaps its better if I just pop round in the week.

Call up sister in law - come to lunch and bring the kids and see the house. Well, SHE falters, we've got weight boarding and rugby and..... Me and Paul can pop round for a couple of hours on Friday night.

Invite a mate for Son to go with him to Thorpe Park on his birthday next month. Well, the mother falters, he was sick last time and he hates this ride and that ride.... can he come and not go on any rides????

I won't even repeat my reply to that one.

What is it with these bastards? Why do they have to get silly about bloody everything? Bollocks to it - am having a bloody lunch on my own! Because I don't piss about like people round here! Does anyone wanna come for lunch on Sunday? Please? If you do, let me know if you're vegetarian or not and you can have a courgette or something.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Coming out of the Cold

Oh my Brothers, a nice young man from Virgin called round yesterday to "see me right" - ooer!

A black man, tall and slim. Spoke, and had the same bawdy laugh, like Bob Grant in On The Buses. I half-expected him to have a fag behind his ear. He left me with a square box with Broadband written on it.

Husband went up the wall. Did I not tell him to install it? he demanded somewhat rhetorically. I shrugged. Give it to the Kids to set up, I suggested. Isn't that what we normally do? He went a funny colour. I went outside for a fag.

I have no sympathy. He knows I know nothing about this kind of shit. Even to leave me in the same room as someone technical is a disaster. Don't know what his bloody problem is. We've got thricefold the crap programmes on TV now, haven't we? We've got a landline, haven't we? We've got internet, haven't we? Why should he get het up over a bloody square box?

This bloody technology shit. Two hours in and it causes aggrevation. I wind up my clock and sit down to write a letter like in olden times.

Saturday, 29 August 2009

Out in the Cold

Forgive me, my brothers, for once again straying. But it was not my fault. They have stripped me and abused me and taken the only thing of value I possess. Shame overcomes me and I shake as I tell you, my brothers but I am now off-line. Oh cruel, cruel. And those nasty Virgin people cannot come till next Tuesday, O my brothers and only friends, I am forced to make a life for myself in that nasty and cruel Outside World.

I dragged myself into the heartless High Street, wincing against the snow, rags on my back, my stomach empty, my soul barren, and crawled up the steps of the Dispensary. I begged them to take pity and asked if they could spare some vitalls and some cutter. They got the supervisor: She was harsh and cruel, Readers:
"Look Mrs Smith," the old bag said, " I have told you, you need to book in advance for a terminal. And you are not Alex de Large, you are not dressed in rags and my colleague saw you stuffing a Big Mac by the river an hour ago, you greedy cow!" I shivered and begged for mercy. And assured her, tho' my skirt was from Gerry Weber, it was purchased in a sale. She was unimpressed. She heartlessly continued:

"And incidentally, it is 27 degrees outside and we are a public library. If you call us the St Vincents Dispensary again, the council will sue! You are not Frank McCourt and this is not Angela's Ashes - which by the way, I think is very overrated!"
Not enough bodice ripping in it for you? I suggested meekly.
She went a funny colour. And really, such a barrage of bad language followed. And from a Vicar's wife too!
You see the conditions I have to put up with.

My life is like a large and open void. I am friendless, fruitless, miserable. And I've only got an hour on here! And most painful and humiliating of all is that I can't bloody smoke! Oh my brothers..........

Thursday, 20 August 2009

Forgive me, o brothers and only friends, your humble narrator has strayed and gone over to The other side - the Outside World. And such a wicked cruel place it was too.

Eight months this house selling business has been going on. Decided this week I could not Go On. Put my head in the oven and waited - before realising we were electric. (I know, thats an old one), asked Fatso if he had any arsenic - and would he like to come on this journey with me. I would take comfort from dying with Fatso. The fat Git woke up abruptly and offered me the only ware he could in the circumstances. Extra strong Annadin.

Mind you, they say you look bloody terrible after swallowing arsenic and other poisons. They burn your insides and you go all blue and that. Not serene looking like Snow White and that. And I'm already two stone overweight and lardy, I don't want to look any worse.

My mate's got one of those big paddling pools, quite deep. Considered putting my head under but they say drowing is an awful way to go, your lungs burst and it hurts and that.

I considered running to the kids for support. And in my head, I knew what they'd say to their poor mother - Good Riddance, daughter would say. Sod off, son would say, now we can get a decent stepmother who won't stink of fags and hold us back. And don't expect us to come to the funeral either. Except to dance on your grave! By the way, we want money for Westfield.

The little buggers! It seemed the whole world was against me. I ran to the Cat for comfort and that furry featured little cow just bit me!

Today, drawin on my Polish fag, trying to find a huge building in my A-Z to jump off, Husband texted. We have now exchanged contracts, it said. The sun came out.

Off to a wedding in Holland tomorrow. And even tho' I'm down to my last £100 - I'm having a Beano in Duty Free!

Thursday, 6 August 2009

Lovies, Treasures.......

Thank you for such lovely and supportive comments on my last post. Unfortunately I was legging it to Eastern Europe at the time. Thought it easier to start a new post. Bless you all!

Well, for Frack's sake, Poland went on my Bastard list before I even got there! They've only joined the bloody EU haven't they. That means no duty-free fags or booze within EU countries! Oh, you can buy all their tarty bloody trinkets and perfume and that but no important things! Who the bloody hell does that benefit? Am getting on to my bloody MP about this shit. Vincent Cable - he's always lurking round Twickenham, mouthing off and making a bloody nuisance of himself. This time the idle bastard can do some work. I'm getting that banned for a start.

And what was Poland thinking of? The bloody EU? I had a go at the sods, I tell you.

Camp young man at the till in duty free was sympathetic. Try not to think about your cigarettes, he soothed. Despite my glowering, I was touched by his kindness.

Poland began to redeem itself when we arrived in Warsaw and booked into this super hotel. It had remained standing all through the war, not bombed or anything. Of course it is quite Americanised now but was still impressed. Not impressed with the Zloty though. When I was last in Cracow, it was 20,000 Zloty to the pound. Now its only 5. They need to be saved from themselves, I tell you.

The first afternoon in Warsaw - 32 degrees - we walked the 8 km (5 miles) round what was once the Jewish ghetto wall. There is scarcely anything left of it. But there were still some traces of how these poor people must have lived - so walled away and persecuted like that. And there was a very big momument to the Jewish people but the most moving one was the one where the station used to be and where so many families got on the train to Austwitz and their terrible fate.

A lot of post war appartments were built on the rubble of the ghetto and they were raised very high. I was surprised how leafy the streets were. Almost pretty. I mean I think i expected something grim. Why should it have been though.

Collapsed back at the hotel. Cherry vodka for me and Polish lager for Husband. My flesh scorched by the sun, the skin falling off my feet, my head dazed and confused from another culture and language. I could not begin to know what terror and trauma those people went through before meeting a terrible end. Hopefully I never will. But at least I'd made the effort to try.......

Tune in to part two where I get pissed on cherry vodka and we meet a handsome young Pole called Poiter (an ideal candidate for my gay mate over here) and I buy Polish fags from a kiosk.

Friday, 31 July 2009

This Time tomorrow....

Got a coffee in the park (my normal bench was bloody taken!). A kiosk-seaside-type-stand thing. Does brilliant cappuchinnos. Woman before me creating havoc because the man did not do Baby chinos. You know those little cups of coffee you get for kids in big coffee chains.

"You're opposite a playground," she shrieks, "You should do them!"

Give 'em a can of Fanta, love, I think sleepily. Or sod off to Starbucks. The man does ice cream doesn't he? What more do you want?

Bloody Richmond types! Glad I'm sodding off to Warsaw. I hope Polish mothers don't carry on like that! Mind you, it won't matter, I won't be able to understand a word they say!

4.30 this morning we have to get up for our flight but I don't care. It'll be nice to get away.

Two problems it seems with renting: smoking and pets. Well, the first one I can deal with. Will have to pretend I don't smoke. I have never wanted to stoop to that. I wanted to be like Oliver James, who says he's not proud of smoking but not ashamed of it either. Didn't want to compromise that one. Looks like I've got to - and certainly smoke outside.

The other is pets of course. I can't pretend we haven't got Rose the Cat. And as much as I moan about her, we semi-worship the little cow. And of course all the catteries will be fully booked up. Thought we could shove her there for a couple of weeks, then kind of sneak her in.

Will ask my Mum if she'll have her when I get back. But I bet the answer will be bloody No.


Now tell me who wants Vodka brought back and who wants fags.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Wah!!!

Teacher Man wants to complete mid-August! Wah! We will be homeless! But I don't want to piss the buyer off - and this has been going on since January. I feel wicked about our once-treasured home but I really want to get the hell out of here!

Husband came over all pompous and said its about our convenience , not his. Arsehole! We have lost two buyers - I do not want to lose another one. He agrees to bloody August or else! Stupid sod. Rent city for us.

Went back to the agents of the house we lost. Their move is going badly! Well, what a bloody shame that is! He said he will tell them about our impending move but we've heard bugger-all back. And I tell you one thing - they are not having any more money. (We got a bit more with this offer). The greedy bastards went to another buyer because of a higher offer but it sounds like they've had that one! Thats the thing now. Its all very well making higher offers but convincing the mortgage lenders to give you a higher loan is quite another matter.

Viewing a house tonight. Got to take our shoes off apparently. Gone off that one already.

Cat bit my foot

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Haircut 100

Now don't you laugh! I know they've cut it a bit short but there's no need to snigger.

I mean I'm the first to admit that this harsh haircut makes me look a bit Big Bertha-ish out of a prison but I assure you it will grow (soon, i hope).

Was that someone laughing over there? And you, next to her, in blue, you can wipe that smile of your face too. Now look! Its not that short - ok?

You can really see the grey in my hair now. Oh Lordy! Has anyone got some peroxide? I've got a paintbrush here somewhere.

Whatever got into me? What happened to that nice little trim I was going to have? Why did I get it shorn off like a bloody sheep? Did I think I was on a farm somewhere?

I think I've got a brown paper bag somewhere. Just got to cut out two eyeholes!

Thursday, 16 July 2009

Gawd Blimey!

Three days now I have been trying to post on here! Three days!!

Wednesday we had another surveyor round here (one the third buyer paid for himself). Welsh bloke , nice and that, reminded me of that one in Marion and Geoff - Keith Barrett wasn't it. He told me to just ignore him while he went round the house. Then the minute I touched the keyboard, it was yak, yak, bloody yak. The silly sod.

Kept telling me about the last house he went to, where the woman was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Well, I mean, bless her and all that but let me get on with my bloody posting!!! And then he was banging on about our slate roof. The stupid git! I just gave up and logged off.

And yesterday, we went to a private screening of the new Harry Potter film on Tottenham Court Road. A corporate thing from this bank Husband uses at work. Run all the way up that bloody long road in me best shoes, didn't I. We got a free pack of sweets as we went in, popcorn and a bottle of water by each seat. And the film started promptly.

Now, I don't want to be like that Jonathon Meades and call all Harry Potter material complete shit like he did. (In the Radio Times too!). I think thats very ungenerous of him - and also a bit of Green is in there I think. But the prospect of sitting through this bloody thing.....

However I got lost in it as best I could and then the wonderful climax and highlight of the film suddenly appeared before me. The Fag Break. Daughter said she wanted to go to the loo. Well, how could I miss an opportunity like that? Grabbed my bag and followed her out. And just kept going. I knew I was going to lose the plot. But then I'd lost it about two hours ago!

Puff back here and fell asleep before I even entered the password.

And this morning, I get logged out by the computer itself, telling me its putting in updates or some such shit. Bloody machines - telling me what to do. Bastards!

School breaks up tomorrow. Oh Lordy!!

Friday, 10 July 2009

My Giddy Aunt!

In the words of the great Supertramp - what a day, a year, a life its been.

Monday, our car is fracked and we get screwed for £300 from the garage. Wednesday, the tap won't turn off and the (quite nice ) plummer charges £230 for his trouble. And yesterday, we find out we have lost our potential and dream house for good! (3 toilets!).

What is it with this ill-fortune? I try to be good and God-fearing and that. Why is the world punishing me like this?

Ironically our third buyer (!) has a survey booked for Monday. Well, he needn't rush now, need he??

Hoovering the bloody carpet then I'm off out to get a double strength cappucinno and a pack of triple strength fags! Anyone wanna join me? I'll be at the park bench in about an hour!

Anyone see that Pyschoville last night?

Friday, 3 July 2009

Phobias



What is it with this work shit??? I'm back there again, at the sports shop, stocktaking again!!!


Why??? Why am I stifled like this???? Why am i being held back as an artist - again!!! Tho' I suspect the £8 an hour has something to do with it.




But I have a phobia about work and that. I've had the tests and everything. A bloke in an office in Hounslow High St told me that I'm scared of work. Had to pay him £50 first tho'. Funny, i can't seem to get hold him lately. And they're very unimpressed at work with the certificate he wrote out.




Got a photo published in the local rag. As above. Bloody twats chose the worse one! Shit-for-brains two penny publication! Not even good enough for bog paper.




Am miserable. Time for a fag. And a drink. The cat bit me.

Saturday, 27 June 2009

What a scorcher!


Sorry to borrow a headline from the Sun. Couldn't think of anything else.

At least it wasn't the one about eating the hamster.


Still suffering and really sick of this woman pissing us about. Put the house back on the market. Cracked up about it on thursday and Husband said Enough Already!. And if we lose the house we want, then sod it, I'm miserable of being miserable - if you see what I mean. And I hear sheltered accommodation is very nice these days.


Have mixed feelings about Michael Jackson's demise. That bugger stood us up in 1992. All day long we sat in that Wembly bloody stadium and then this fat git who called himself a manager announced at 7.30, the time he was due to come on, that Michael had flu and wouldn't be appearing.


We're going to Have the Git - I think were the words me and my sunburnt mate used at the time. Had to trudge back to that shithole 3 weeks later to see him.

But I didn't know it would be THIS sort of revenge! Oh Lordy!


I really liked him at the time of Billy Jean and Thriller. He really had it on board then. None of this going white shit and bubbles the chimp. He was healthy looking, black and slim and talented. That must have been his peak now I think about it.


Went to Richmond park to do some more suffering. Photographed this old thing and told him all about the house move problems. His eyes look a little glazed as you can see.


Do they have problems with nests and nest-viewers and that? guess I'll never know.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Our Two Additions



Here are our two little additions to the family. Picked 'em up in a sale at some posh design company down the road. I really relate to them.


Now, am I that desperate for comfort? Or have I really cracked this time?

The only dogs I've only ever related to before this dynamic duo are : Henry the Dog, Snoopy, Gromit and Scooby Doo.

I wonder what the Vet will make of them. I don't have any names for them yet. Answers on a postcard please and the winner gets awarded a Polish fag that I will purchase in Warsaw - (will talk about that another time) - but please note they will almost certainly be out of date. Gives it that sort of authentic feel.

Tried to get you a night out with Fatso but the lazy bugger was asleep watching the cricket so I couldn't ask/tell the stupid sod. Should set these dogs onto him.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

Thanks a bundle .......

Well, as if my life isn't in tatters enough.

It was McDonalds night at the Smoking household - our fortnightly treat - when my chip-loving daughter announced she didn't want one! They'd been showing that Super Sized Me film at school. The one where this bloke lives on McDonalds and exposes the fast food corporations.

Well, thanks a lot, Morgan Spurlock - or whatever your stupid name is! I had to bloody cook instead! Look mate, if you want to stuff yourself with McDonalds to prove to us what we already know, thats up to you, you fat git. But Please keep it to yourself ! I go with Nigel Slater that there is no such thing as bad food, just everything in moderation. Whatever you do in America is up to you! But please don't flaunt it at my vulnerable daughter!!!

Bastard. Gonna find out what food gives him an easier time and will write a dry and humourless book and get it financed as a film - see how he bloody likes it!

Don't get me wrong, I don't like big greedy corporations either. I don't like to see them dominate our towns and change their characters. I was saying this to someone in Starbucks just this morning. But I was very sad when our local McDonalds was closed down about five years ago. What people really didn't get is that it was the only place to meet in our dead and alive high street. Yes, the food was shit but the sense of community flourished.

They say there's a community here but there isn't really, only if you know who to ask. Where McDonalds, everyone and anyone walked in there. And you spoke to virtually everyone. It was a bit like that place in Grease where Danny and Knickie used to meet for sodas with their birds and everyone. There isn't anything like that now since its become a Superdrug.

Now answer me that, Morgan Spurlock, eh?

Where's my fags?

Monday, 15 June 2009

Forgive me....

Sorry I haven't been on for a while, O brothers and only friends, there is so very little to say. And yet so very much. Well, if you count whinging. And no, we have heard frack-all about the house. Why is God punishing me like this? I know I've hit rock-bottom when I start blaming The Man himself. But what is going on?

Went to Brick Lane yesterday to the Car Boot Art Fair. What a load of old shit! Where did all those people come from ? And that loud music! I'm just too old for all that shit. In the eighties I used to walk through Camden Lock without a qualm - and it was just as noisy and just as crowded. My poor mate and her boyfriend and mum were really going through it, standing under that gazebo all day, that loud noise penetrating them. While Boyfriend did charcoal portraits for £25. Didn't make a penny all day apparently. Why am I drawing comfort from someone else's misery?

Saw Peter Blake there. And Gavin Turk. The only two contemporary artists I really know.
Wanted Peter Blake's autograph. Too scared to ask! Forget what an old man he is now.

Got the hell out of there as soon as bloody possible. What a shit-hole!

Son announces at bloody 8 o'clock tonight that he has to do a powerpoint presentation for tomorrow. For this Critical Thinking thing he's on. The little bugger, leaving something like that at the last minute. Was furious with him. So once again someone else hogs the computer and does a big project that eats into Adult time. Can't remember where husband's gone - a brothel probably. Or an opium den. He's probably at Brick Lane.

Cat's birthday today. She's 3 years old. The little cow didn't like her new basket or her card or her catnip toy. Ungrateful brat! Worse than the bloody kids!

Going to Brentford tomorrow. Don't ask me why. I just feel it calling me somehow.

Sunday, 7 June 2009

Carry on....where?

Am at my wits end. Lady buyer was supposed to have paid for a surveyor a week ago. Have we heard anything? Have we shite? Why are they being so slow? So absolutely terrified we are going to lose the house we want. So absolutely terrified we will be stuck here forever.

And once you have the survey done, it doesn't stop there. The buyers have to ooh and aah at all the shit things in this house that need to be done. That would slow things up too.

Saw a house for sale that I've always liked up the main road. Cheered me slightly, thought we'd go and look at it. Until I looked up the price - £454,0000 - yes, I know. Three bedroom, fifties semi detached. So prices are creeping up again. Well, thats us screwed! There might be a one bedroom flat in Feltham we could afford. Am so broke up.

To comfort myself I watched Carry On Loving on BBC2. People generally slag off this film but I think its great! Nearly every line has a double-entendre! My top three are Carry On Camping, Carry On Cleo and this one...

Son walks in in the middle of it. What year was this film? , he asks. 1970 I reply. Oh, he says , are they still alive? (bless him). And everyone I point out - I realise that no, they're not.
Tell Son Charles Hawtry was an alcoholic and presumably died of drink. Sid James had a heart attack and Kenneth Williams killed himself. Don't know how any of the birds died - was too depressed to think about it by then.

By the time the credits came up, I was suicidal Syd. Bloody kids!

What a rotten sunday! Next week I'm off up to bloody Brick Lane, I tell you!

Monday, 1 June 2009

Return of the Bastard List

Another bloody rugby match this Saturday. When will this madness ever end?

Anyway Lady Luck fell into my lap (or so I thought) and I got a position on the Tills in the shop. However Bitch cow assistant manager spotted me and put me on bloody security! The old whore!

If popular fiction is to be believed, in a prison, the top and most privilleged job is in the kitchens - and the lowest of the low is in the Laundry. Well, the Tills are the former and security is definitely the latter! And they made me wear a green top! Bastards! Don't they understand how unlucky that colour is! And it wasn't even a nice soft green, it was a cheap and brutal dark and deadly shade! I read recently that Belle Ellsmore, Crippen's wife, recoiled in horror at the colour Green and regarded it as ill luck. Well, she had bloody good reason to, didn't she.

And don't think there was any violence either. I didn't get involved in one good kicking. Not even a bloody strip search! Bastards! Are they on my list or what???

Inset day today. Will this half-term ever end?

Thursday, 28 May 2009

What Time is it now?

Well, its been a long week. And only Thursday already!

Have sneaked out to the library to print some things off my memory stick - only to find the informations' not there! What have I done This time?
Was really stressed and hot in this subdued and closed in room so lit a fag. Do you know they gave me really dirty looks!

Husband off this week as well as the kids - so thats made it more stressful than ever. Doesn't he see that its too much ? And don't think he's any help either - he always wants a lie-down or is always moaning. I know that sounds a bit mean but from having the house to myself, I've suddenly got the 3 of them there!

And he's mad. I would have taken the time off when the kids were at school! Anyway told him I wanted to go out for a couple of hours. And now the fracking memory stick won't do it - whatever its supposed to do, that is.

Half terms are funny things. At least for me. You make preparations for the actual holidays but this funny week stuck in the middle can get you by surprise. I remember such lonely half terms: the one in 1973 was probably the stinkiest. Went to a party on Saturday at my mates, got off with a boy (one snog) and then the rest of the week went dead. No friends about, not one word from The Boy, nothing. Spent it laying on my bed and a trip to the library - bit like now really.

And then there was a terrible one in 1976, that terrifying heatwave around the corner, and likewise I lay on the bed all frackin' week. What a miserable cow, why do i only remember the stinky ones. I'm sure there were some good ones too - I think........

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Slum Landlords

Nothing to say these last few days really. Just been buried in hopelessness.

Went to Fatso's for sympathy about the house. Told him all about my crushed dreams and disappointments. He looked at me intently. Some would say blankly.
"You want carrier bag?" he said in the end.

This was the only kind of comfort he knew how to give.

I walked out the shop, shoulders hunched.

Go the young Poles' shop next door thats quite good for vegetables and that.

"You have room?", he says to me
"Do what?", I say
"You know room I can rent?"
What? I'm Rackman now am I?

If I wasn't a better person I would say: yeah, I've got a house round the corner going for £269,999 but we're open to offers!!
Instead I merely said: "Where are you living now?"
"Its ok," he replied, "I'm married."

Well, for fracks sake.

That afternoon a woman from Northern Ireland made an offer on the house.

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Screw you Copper....!

Sacked the worry dolls. Told 'em I was kicking their arses all the way back to Mexico.
Phoned the Home Office - didn't know what to do about deportation. They told me they were up to their eyes in it and to go to my local copshop and give those idle sods in blue something to do for a change. "Crime won't crack itself", they chortled as they put the phone down.

After handing the dolls in over the desk, the Policeman told me it could be a few years in "chokey" for me for harbouring illegal immigrants. I said You'll never take me alive, copper and legged it as fast as I could. They gave chase in their police cars. Regan and Carter in one and Gene Hunt in another. Luckily I managed to dog them before I got to the bus stop.

Apparently the dolls made an appeal - something to do with swine flu. They are in temporary accomodation in Harlesden - and they told me I was a "marked" woman now.

Husband said would I like to give it a few weeks before we have viewers round again. Was I up to it? I told him I wasn't Miss Haversham! The silly sod! I'm not ill! Of course I want bloody viewers round.

Off now to the park with my cappucino and fag. Going to think about Life. Better go in disguise.

Friday, 15 May 2009

What a week...!

What a week this has been, my readers and only friends:

On Wednesday, Son didn't get through the football trials and today, our Buyers have pulled out. Made redundant - what sort of excuse is that? Their Lenders have immediately withdrawn their offer.

We have lost at least 1500 quid and we've got to go back to viewers tramping all over the fracking house. And of course, our dream home, a quarter of a mile away is sailing out to sea as I write.

Oddly enough, according to our gutted Estate Agents, the original builder of this house has also had a property fall through today. He is going to tell him about this one. But whyever would the bloke want to come back? He built it in 1985, thats it for him, isn't it.

AND I've got to work all weekend at that fracking rugby stadium! It doesn't bear thinking about. Oh Lordy!

Have any of our readers got a worse weekend than this one? A Superkings fag will go out to the most grimest and miserable of prospects.

Heard on Jeremy Vine that some MPs may consider suicide after this scandal about living expenses and second homes and that. So things aren't all bad...........

Monday, 11 May 2009

Forgive me....

Treasures, forgive me for not appearing on here recently. How I've missed my loyal mates. I sort of lost my way last week. I kind of floated and didn't get anywhere. Walking in Space - wasn't that a song in the musical Hair?

Been working at that wretched rugby ground shop. There's been a match virtually every weekend. And last week, 2nd May, I had a bit of a spat with the supervisor, left me feeling wretched all last week.

Have always had a good relationship with this woman but since she's got her best mate a supervisor's job too, she's been a nightmare. I don't know why. Its like we're back in school and she can act Big when her mate's around. Or its like at my kid's school, when an angelic little girl can be a bitch when she pairs up with the class show-off. Anyway, complained didn't I. By e-mail, the cowardly way. But it didn't stop me feeling bullied and wretched.

Spent the week pacing around, wondering whether to quit or not. I took my turmoil to church the next day. Did i get peace of mind? did I shite! 3 christenings that day! There wasn't room for inner sanctum! That idle bloody vicar! Go back to doing 'em in the afternoons!!! Not sure that man's ever been ordained!

Not much else to report. Bought some wooden coat hangers from John Lewis. Its my dream to one day have a warderobe and cupboard full of wooden ones - making the nasty metal and plastic hangers a thing of the past. They laughed at me - told me it couldn't be done - but I'll show them! I'll prove them wrong one day! Then who'll be laughing then, eh?

Er - thats enough ambition for now.

Friday, 1 May 2009

Bloody Doctors ........

Sneezing and coughing this week, have a hell of a chest (ooer!). Convinced its Swineflu - tho' my mate suspects its Wine flu. But she doesn't understand. I was too scared to tell her I went to Mexico in 1994, I am potentially at risk.

They were bloody filthy over there. They boil their kettles with the hot tap and they sneeze without putting their hand to their mouths. And God knows what else - i was too afraid to look. And I reckon this has all crept up on me slowly!

Took Son to the doctor yesterday because of his (nit-free) itchy head. Didn't want it to get all painful and inflamed like mine did. Appointment was 9 am and despite a quiet surgery with two patients waiting, we still didn't get to see the old cow until a quarter to ten. Right in the middle of Son's head consultation, her phone rings and she tells us to wait back outside. 10 minutes we were bloody stuck there till she called us back in. I really had the hump by then. Had a go at the old bitch. Its been chaotic today, she said by way of explanation.

Now listen, i've worked in Tescos, i've seen and experienced chaotic. There was nothing remotely chaotic in that tin-pot surgery and i suspect the old whore took a personal call. Wrote a bloody letter to the practise manager and gave it in today. Get the old bag struck off! If nothing else, it'll give the cow a kick up the arse. Bitch.

Going now. Hungry.

Monday, 27 April 2009

Where is it?

can't find Son's Nintendo DS - along with the game he got on Friday for Daughter's birthday. Always been incredibly careful about that thing due to its size and now its slipped away from us.

Am devastated. I mean really heartbroken. Where the flip could it have gone?

It brought back interesting memories of 1967 when I was playing Sindy dolls with a girl up the road. We were playing outside her block of flats and i went away for a moment. I return and a little girl told me a dog had run off with my Sindy doll. Floods of tears and crying myself to sleep. My heartbreak was raw, with permanent red eyes.

My Mum, desperate herself, put an advert in the local shop appealing to any dogowner who may have brought home a strange doll. She put our full address - well, you had to then, there was no email number nor phone - and coming home from school one day, I found my little Sindy tucked behind our empty milk bottles.

Now why can't that happen with son's Nintendo? Has anyone seen it please?

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

Bloody Football!

Haven't posted for a few days, my hand is killing me. Swollen up with veins standing up bright blue. Woke me up the other night. Its obviously a terrible curse put upon me. I bet Fatso knows something about this.

And don't think i got any sympathy from him either. He was looking a bit dejected when i went in there today. His last two novels "My trips to the Cash & Carry" and "There's no bloody Barcode on this one!" have not been well received. They can currently be found in the bargain basket at Wilkinsons. And his Groucho club mates have been seen wooing and flirting with the Polish Grocer up, the road. If you ask me, he's better off without them, all that bloody twittering from Stephen Fry and Jonathon Ross. But he hasn't asked me so i'll keep quiet.

Got wound up this morning. What a surprise! Some Dad at the school gates told me my Son was good at football but not exceptional. Bastard. And how funny this Dad should get such insight. And what a coincidence that his own son never ever gets picked for the school team like mine. How strange that is. Oh Lordy! Can't they just play lacrosse instead?

Hand hurts. Going for a fag.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Remember my name......

Well, what a day I had yesterday! A brilliant one in fact ! No moaning for a change.

Took Son to his football course at the local park. Mate was picking him up afterwards with her own boy. So after a leisurely cappacino walking round the park, got home, did handwashing - do not get that Kath Kidson detergent stuff for delicate fabrics - £ 6.00 and its a load of shit! Mind you, it looks bloody nice sitting there on the draining board with the decorative bottle and everything - sort out Daughter's room while listening Alan Ayckbourn's play Man of the Moment on i-player.

Stroll up to that brilliant cafe by Strawberry Hill for a slap up feast of Thai stir fry with pork and cashew nuts (£5.95 including drink), read my Woman's Weekly Fiction Special, stroll back with fag in time for the Archers.

Sort out more stuff. Have a cuddle with the cat. Phone goes at 10 to 6. Its Son. Mummy, can i stay for a sleepover? Bless him, of course he could. I don't know how parents can do that. I mean an afternoon of a child coming to play is one thing..........You think they'd be desperate to get rid of 'em at bloody 6 o'clock.

Childless night of supper with Husband (Daughter is away in Sussex) and watching the channel 5 documentary on Dr Crippen. What bliss! I dare any reader to top that one.

Of course this is where i start paying in sweat as they used to say in Fame (so much better than that High School musical) because i've got the little buggers this afternoon. And are they gonna be in a good mood after a sleepless football fueled night (Chelsea won thank God). So a quick trip to Hounslow then i'll pay my dues.

Sunday, 12 April 2009

Point of No Return ?

Well, my Mum wrote out a cheque as if she was making out a shopping list. So it seems we can conquer our dream house after all. All we can do now is just sit here until we hear something.

Have been talking to my Worry Dolls a lot. They seem to be badly needed this week. I got them in Mexico and they're tiny little peg dolls in a little box. You have to tell them your worries at night and then put them under your pillow. And they will solve your problems for you. And I tell you what, they really come up with the goods. Every problem i've had since 1994, they've worked on it.

I told 'em i was worried about asking Mum that money thing. They fixed it. Told 'em i was worried about helping with the wine after the Easter service yesterday. Went like a dream didn't it. I'm now worried about Daughter's party on Saturday, i really hope they don't let me down. There's no specific reason for worrying about this, I just happen to dread every party we've arranged for the past 13 years.

Mind you, they get a bit stroppy these dolls. They've started demandin things like visas and the right to vote. And now they want me to take them to Westfield - and pay! So you've got to watch the little sods.

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

Disillusionment

Well, Fatso may be disillusioned with show business but not as disillusioned as I am about bloody houses.

Go to see one, don't we, last Saturday. Fall in love with it. And i mean head over heels, loss of appetite, everything. Husband too. Puts in an offer. They say No, higher offer been made. They contact us again. Could you "up it" slightly? Husband goes in there today to see one of their wiz-kid mortgage brokers. Enormously high mortgage. I tell him to say Frack off. He tells me to borrow money off my mother. My newly widowed, will-benefiting mother. I still say Frack off. There's cheaper houses.

How did i get into this? Less than a week ago, I was blissfully unaware of enticing houses, my only worry being how to taunt Fatso. Now, I feel the world is on my shoulders. How the Frack do i ask my Mum for money? I mean she's lent me money for fags before and that.... but this is so much more sinister.

When our offer was initially turned down, we went to see another house to lift our spirits. Well, it did in a perverse sort of way. What a load of old shit! £412,000 for some mid-terraced 50's house - all open plan and a recording studio upstairs! - those poor neighbours! You can build up in the loft, the estate agent says cheerfully. Oh I mean, thats alright then isn't it. I was worried there!

I mean does the Credit Crunch not apply to Twickenham then? They're still free to take the piss house-wise?

Estate agents emailed another house to us. Looked lovely. A chalet style thing with lots of character and room inside. Husband said he wouldn't dream of living in that "shit area".
He can be such a snob sometimes.

Wednesday, 1 April 2009

The Real World

Have had to spend time in the real world this week. Didn't like it much.

Went to go into Coffee Republic and some chunky kid closed the door in my face.
"Thanks Chubs", I mumbled to him as I re-opened it.
South Park are quite right. The fattest kids are indeed the meanest.

The posh woman he was with succumbed to his whinging for a cheese sandwich and then
demanded a receipt for it. I bet if that had been her own money,
he would have had to bloody well wait till he got home.

There was also a mean kid in the chip shop. Well, he whinged a bit anyway. And his mum was
telling him he had to share his chips with his sister.

I smiled nicely at the little..... boy. I conveyed my thoughts to him:

"When i was your age, i never had to share anything. I had chips all to myself. And sweets
and ice cream, I could eat it all by myself. And i was a lot poorer than you. All your life, you'll
grow up with tight-lipped people and will have to share everything. You'll never knew the pleasure of a full plate!"

His face screwed up and went red. I think i have ESP.

Why am i being so mean to kids suddenly? My own child is only 10 - it wasn't even that long ago for me. And here i am waging a war on them.

Still scarred from my encounter with the old woman last week, I watched warily as a senior citizen stood behind me in the M&S queue. With one item in her hand. Well, what could I do? The poor cow. I asked her if she wanted to go in front of my unashamedly extravagent and full basket. Of course then I was stuck making conversation with her, wasn't I. She asked if I knew if a certain restaurant was still open in Hampton Wick. She'd been there 25 years ago and it was very good. Well, I mean, bless her. I wouldn't know a restaurant if it lived next door to me! And then, just before she got scanned, she leaned up to me confidentially:
"Don't ever get old," she breathed, "its horrible!"

So I'm not old yet? Not according to her I wasn't. A smile spread across my face. My young face. What was I saying about old people? That they were the best? Bless her heart. She can go in front of me anytime. Even if she had two trolleys!

Friday, 27 March 2009

ASBO City

How many more shops am i going to walk out of? At this rate i'll be getting an ASBO.

Shop near Son's school. Run out of parking vouchers don't I. Go in. This really awful Asian woman glares at me, says they don't do them anymore. Fine. Ok. Especially as I see that the old voucher parking spots are now Car Club spots. Someone did explain about them but i've completely forgotten what they said.

Two days later, with only 4 fags left, I go back in the shop. The old bag was there again. Behind her, the white display shelf only has a yellowing sticker for Marlborough.
"Don't you sell fags anymore?" I venture.
"No." she glares.
"Well, this is a pretty f...... * useless shop then, isn't it" I explain as I walk out.
I think it was the way it was said.

Now say what you like about Fatso. Say what you like about the useless fat idle indifferent Git, he will come up with the fags. And if he doesn't have my brand, he will mumble some explanation. Admittedly i don't really listen but at least the fat lump offers one.

And he doesnt have to. Stock my Superkings or explain i mean. He could hurt me in the only way he can. But no, he doesn't. He's loyal in that respect. A bit like some lazy fat labrador that no-one really goes near.

Incidentally there's white people working in Fatso's shop. I can't have that! No telly blasting out the Namaste channel, no talking shit with numerous dodgy-looking relatives. This is not good enough! I don't want that type in my local shop.

I have a theory that Fatso's book - How I was Pursued by Some Crazy Bloody Woman - has been well received. Rumours are it got a good review in The Times Literary Supplement. And that Max Clifford has been sniffing around. Also there is talk in the Launderette that Fatso is now close mates with Stephen Fry and Tony Parsons and He now divides his time between The Ivy, The Groucho Club and Hugh Hefner's mansion. (They'd need a bloody huge hot tub there, I tell you!).

And funny, the last time I saw him heaving out of a posh car, he didn't look angry with me anymore. Why?


* answers on a postcard please

Monday, 23 March 2009

Bulging.....

In the words of the great Ken Dodd - what a lovely day for the Bastard List.

And for the first time, the top two are big corporations - and i mean really big ones. The first is the Church. Yes, I know , i know. And the second is the RFU.

Go to a bloody meeting about the Church fete. Some dreadful woman says to me in front of everyone else that she is not helping me on the hoop-la stall because it was quiet and no good last year. Fracking bitch. And anyway all she ever did last year was to relieve me for half an hour, then I didn't see the cow for dust! She's one of those that seem ever so virtuous and willing to help but the truth is she does frack-all. So i've got to do hoop-la all by my bloody self! I mean, When - oh When - am i going to have a bloody fag that day! Didn't like to bring that point up at the meeting.

Sorry, dropped off there. That subject even bored myself. But its true you know. The nastiest and the most hurtful are the God botherers or people of God. I don't know which category i fall into. Probably the Smokers of God -- or something.

And as for that RFU! bloody manager on Saturday completely ignored me - the old whore - and said a bright hello to the bird behind me. I hate bastards who do that. Our old Vicar used to do that (oh bloody hell! i've got back on that again).

So screw them! And the third on my B list is this gereatric old cow who collects her grandaughter from school. Whenever i talk to a teacher or a mate, she always so rudely interupts. I got really pissed off with it today and queried to my mate whether that old bag should be out on her own and which Care Home does she belong to? Anyway I looked round and the bloody woman was behind me! And the look on her face!

I was so ashamed afterwards. She can't be much older than my Mum - and i shouldn't joke about Care Homes - especially as my Dad died in one 18 months ago. And she looked so old and vunerable there in the rain.

But people round here do do that sort of thing. They are so unbelievably rude and snotty. I mean you couldn't get rougher than my old school. You really couldn't. Tattoos, fights - the lot (yes, and that was just the teachers!) but none of them would have dreamt of behaving the way this woman and many others do.

So am torn. Silly old bag - or wronged older woman? Who bloody cares?

Miss Fatso. Going round there for some fags.

Saturday, 21 March 2009

Out of hand....

Had to work in the shop at the rugby match today. Was really pissed off. What is it with this rugby shit? I mean who really cares? Apart from the 82,000 who attended that is. Bloody feet are killing me and had to do bloody 12 till 8 pm. I mean sod this!

For some insane reason I walk home. Its actually less hassle than trying to get a bus in the high street thats full of pissed rugby fans urinating by Waterstones. Whats the point of drinking all that bloody beer?

I walk along the main road yearning for 10 smokes. But it has to be Smokes from Fatso somehow, or they would lose their significance. I haven't seen Him all day and feel he deserves
a kick up the arse.

Disappointed to see that Fatso was not in residence, the idle git. It was his Son who, I must say, was not remotely fat, in fact he was extremely svelte. This scores points against him from the start. I scowl at him for this reason, the selfish git and he, in turn, scowls back.

"Where's that fat...your Father," I ask innocently.

Son gives me a deep and significant look.
"upstairs resting. Suffering from mental and physical exhaustion"

"Oh? Had to fill up an extra shelf did he?"
(And i bet he even did that wrong)

"If you must know," he hissed, "The shop was innudated today with Movie fans and Bloggers. One even brought their bloody dog for Gods sake!"

"Oh?" I ask innocently "And how is Fa....your father now?"

"Fat... I mean Dad is in a state of delirium . Muttering things about that Bloody Woman and
Restraining orders.."

He gave me my change coldly. The silence like a huge weight between us.

"And how did you do?" , I venture tentatively.

"Not bad. Tenner a photo, great demand for White Sliced and Superkings, and 3 coach parties booked for next week!"

I go back out into the street. Broken glass crunches beneath my worn cheap soles.
They'd need a bloody wide-angled lense, I tell you.

Thursday, 19 March 2009

Deep Conversations with Fatso

After my self-loathing trip to Westfield, I am staying local. I am Milly Molly Mandy going up the village shop. Yearn for Fatso's. I don't remotely know why.

While he is scanning my white sliced in stony silence, I comment that he has got to stop cracking all these jokes and let me get a word in edgeways, I mean I love a chat and everything but.....
He looks scared again.

The only crumbs I can treasure is the deep meaningful (and only) conversation I had with him last week. His watery puffed-up eyes had looked into mine and he said: Look, I do not know Danny Boyle, I have never worked with Danny Boyle, I didn't even know who Danny Boyle was till this bloody film came out. I have never been, nor am I likely to be, in any sort of film. I am not that useless fat policeman in this Slumdog thing that you seem to think I am . Neither have I been to Bombay or Mombay or whatever the Hell they call it now. Nor would I. My family are from Pakistan!

I tell him that was a great pitch and was he setting his sights on Oliver Stone or Tarrantino now. He seemed to sit down heavily. He wasn't used to all those long words. He wasn't used to words at all actually.

The phone goes. I tell him that could be Danny for him now with a new script. I think I saw tears.

Monday, 16 March 2009

What a Load of .........

This 24 programme, whats that all about then? These 10 Guerilla types from a small country, it seems, can break into the White House, probably the most protected building in the world, and completely take it over and shoot hostages and that. Why don't the SAS go in there and get the bastards? I ask Husband. Where's Louis Collins when you need him?

I ask Him why they don't shoot that crashing bore who seems to avoid death every hour of the day. Husband, rather snappily I thought, told me that was no way to talk about Jack Bauer. I really don't get this at all.

Jon Voight is in this episode as a guest star. Well, I was expecting him to be in cowboy gear fresh from New York City walking to that soundtrack by Harry Nilsein. Not this really old looking bloke. Will have to watch Midnight Cowboy again. He was so gorgeous then. Before that sulky daughter of his was born and grew up.

Went to Westfield today, to that awful Holister shop to get something for Daughter's birthday. Virtually pitch black with deafening music, I felt for the nearest objects in front of me before I tripped over something, longing for the security of Fatso's shop, when an anorexic young thing appeared in front of me and asked if I was looking for something for myself. I mean Bless Her! As if I would remotely contemplate buying this overpriced shit! Assuming i could fit into it in the first place.

Groping for a blue top and shorts for Daughter's 13th, i struggled to the till where the cashiers looked fresh from London Fashion week. I began to reflect that i had come all the way here just to get these two expensive items and something else from Boots. And that was that really. This was how futile my life had become. It all came down to shallow little trips like this.

Going for a long bloody walk tomorrow to re-think my life. - well, maybe the day after, I've got ironing to do .......

Friday, 13 March 2009

Defiled!

My legs are wobbling! My eyes are glazed. A terrible sense of shame has crawled over me like a second skin. How could I have done it? That Thing I said I would never do! If only I could turn the clock back! But I know its too late. I will have to bear this burden for the rest of my miserable life. I was going to save this for Confession but I will confide in you as friends. I used a Debit card in the Newsagents.

When they started taking cards, these small shops, I swore I would never be a part of it. Small shops should have cash only - or a slate like with papers and that - because they're not frackin' Tescos. Why can't people have enough money for their fags and chocolates and that. Why should they live by a swipe of a card?

I mean I have done it at Fatso's occasionally. I have bought a few groceries on the credit card. But He doesn't count. Fatso is like a cheap whore. One of those really - and I mean really - cheap types you pick up at a place with sawdust on the floor. You can defile him all you like and forget him afterwards. It really doesn't matter how much you misuse him. He likes it.

But not my Hallowed newsagent next door. Who I treat with such reverence and respect. Leaving Him pure and untouched. Keeping it traditional with fivers and loose change. I mean i've run out of fags before - of course I have. But when your Oyster cards' dried up too - it can push a person with the most purest principles over the edge.

When I put my card in His rented pin machine, I felt another side of me - the dirty side - had been revealed and my hands shook as I put in the Pin number. I looked at him with tears in my eyes. Will He ever forgive me? I have treated him on the same level as that scrubber Fatso.

If I didn't know better, I would have actually said that the Newsagent rather enjoyed this degrading act. In fact there was a big smile on his face throughout the whole perverted and filthy procedure. It just shows you never know anyone!

The Cat bit my foot.

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Step One....

Decided to salvage some advice from the discarded magazine. Haircut. Need one anyway. And now and then I allow myself to "stray" from my usual hairdresser. My Korean girl has her salon down the road just past Fatso's and colouring there is great but her haircuts aren't so hot. So it was time for a bit of adventure. Play away from home, it was kind of exciting.

Go into this salon in the high street. Loud music, bloke on reception looking like he should be on a catwalk, and everything sparse and gleaming. Should have taken in these warning signs and legged it. But that would have been undignified - wouldn't it?

Its a well known hairdressers, part of a large chain, whose name is on a large section of hair products in Boots. Never touched 'em before. But wanted to look younger and if anyone can do it, these buggers can - or should.

Relieved to see i wasn't getting this young trendy stylist bloke with a stupid goatee beard. Like, we'd have so much common! And I mean no offence, dear, but i doubt if he'd even seen an older woman, let alone do their hair. Got a young girl instead , felt a bit better about that. At least we had the same sex in common.

But i noticed an alarming thing. When the last customer left, the hairdresser kissed her! I mean when did hairdressers ever kiss? I can't remotely imagine kissing old Fatso's neighbour and i'm sure the feeling's quite mutual. And as for my mum kissing Vera - or whatever her hairdresser of 20 years is called - she'd rather spit!

When did hairdressers get theatrical all of a sudden? Oh God, i don't have to kiss her , do I? I'll pay double! or anything! Mind you, its a better deal than the goatee beard. I'm not intactile, and i love greeting my pals with a kiss but this just seems odd.

As it happend I was spared. And she asked if my grey hair was a part of my highlights. Double tip for her I tell you! And the very young never believe the age you are! I mean i know she was butterin me up and i know my kind of age is far beyond her young horizons but its bliss just the same.

Which is more than can be said for the fracking haircut. What a load of old shit! Back to me old china plate next time I tell you. Still, it was an adventure and I got off lightly with the price (comparatively - old goatee beard would have charged far more).

Got Son's teacher this afternoon for the Parent Teacher consultation. I suspect he's gay - going to ask him (had you going there!)

Monday, 9 March 2009

Monday Monday

Got up this morning. So spectacularly depressed even I took a step back. I didn't get this. I've had much worse Monday mornings in my lifetime. Why should this one go sour on me? Son walked to school, I didn't even have that school run shit.

Feel old. Look through a magazine. Botox, it said. That makes you look younger and better. But I'm no Patsy Stone. Next page. Forget Botox, it said, a scary looking serum will lift years off you - £65!

Next page, forget Botox and Serums, a new haircut and brow pluck will take years off you instead. Now this was progress. But at what cost? Next page, a self-made bloke with a chocolate business gives advice on money: Don't spend any! Am confused.

Get an idea. Stop buying magazines at £3.20 a pop that talk shit, that would save money wouldn't it.

Higher offer for the house. Husband accepts. So Stamp Duty is under £250,000 - now I get it! I think.

Friday, 6 March 2009

Oh My Giddy Aunt....

Bless you and thank you sweeties for your concern. Sorry, yes, I have been off the rails but not in an "Easy Rider" sort of way, more of a "for Flip's sake" sort of way.

Got an offer for the house - nice couple of Balham. Too low, Husband says, can't accept it. Disappointment sat in my stomach like a stone. They're first time buyers - they probably can't find the money. So back to indifferent viewers tramping over the house. I really thought we'd caught a live one there.

Go to London to cheer up. Meet mate outside Cineworld Chelsea. Phone goes. School. Son is ill. Leg it all the way back up the Kings Road. On the train home, Husband phones, he had collected him after all . Come home, have a bloody lie down. Bollocks to it. Cat bites me.

Then work. Stocktaking. What is this work shit? I hate it.

Son been off for three days. Yesterday he drove me mad lying on that bloody sofa. But today I feel much better about it for some reason.

Went to see Fatso in his shop. He seemed in good spirits. Probably had Danny Boyle on the phone. And the miserable git actually said Goodbye as i walked out. Took his bloody temperature I tell you! He'll be smiling next!

Missed you, sweeties

Friday, 27 February 2009

Thank you

Lovies, Treasures, I am honoured to accept this award from my dear pal Suburbia. Bless you and thank you.

Oh no, the eyes are welling up already , the emotions are sitting tight in my throat. I am choked with kindness and love, excuse me a moment.........

Phew! Much better after that fag - I mean breath of fresh air.

This pancake day business. What a load of old shite. Now, no-one likes a bit of a pancake flip more than i do. But when the frackin' thing splashes everywhere and that eggy batter stuff lands in the neighbouring carrots ......! AND on my Laura Ashley dress....!

And then - everybody pigs out on them with sugar and lemon - and do i get one? Do i shite! The greedy buggers! I'm lucky if i get a bit of squirty cream! Common and souless I know but I love it!

Have been amazed at the number of people (husband included) who is full of wonderment that I make my own pancakes "from scratch" and not buy the ready made mixture. What a reflection of our times. I mean its only an omlette with flour in really isn't it. Why do you need to buy that shit for?

For all my swearing and smoking, i do try to serve as fresh as food as i can and cook from "scratch". At the moment I hate Tescos and them 'cos they sealed the sad fate of Woolworths so have sent them to coventry. And i've been traipsing up the local shops for eggs and bacon and fruit and veg and that. But i feel sadly alone in this venture.

There's the local grocer , I shall call him "Fatso" because he's a useless gormless lazy git but say what you like about him, he does come up with the goods. Actually he looks exactly like that fat policemen in Slumdog Millioniare. I asked him the other day if he went to the BAFTAs and what was Danny Boyle like and do you know, he just looked at me blankly. I mean the modesty of the man!

Now when i go in there , i give him a conspirital wink. He looks scared and gets his wife to serve me. Why?

Monday, 23 February 2009

Darlings....!

Bless and thank my lovely pal French Fancy for giving me this super award. And this time I was able to cut and paste the alma mater thing that goes with it. This is an achievement in itself.

"This award acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write. Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It’s a way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.”
This is a super award and a great honour and - yes, you know whats coming - I am going to pass it on to five lucky loves out there:
(By the way, this could not be done in Hollywood or BAFTA style like last time because of all the mobs and that. They had to call the army in and everything last time. I tell you, the flak I got! So it has to be "in camera" on this occasion.
And anyway, we don't want Kate Winslett muscling in with her "Oh God, i'm so sorry" ramblings and embarassing everyone do we. This is a classy place):
The Dotterell - for being a great read and no doubt, i will be pestering him with a technical question very soon
Suburbia - my lovely lovely friend
Mean, Moody, Middle-aged Mom - What can I say? She's great
(Getting hankerchief out)
Confused Take That Fan - classy or what?
and
Liebfraumilch and Lipstick - for being a good friend and to give her something for her new home
(Breaks down - shoulders shaking, has to led out by bouncers and medical staff and everything)
(A Hits of the '70s CD is hastily put on )

Thursday, 19 February 2009

Lost it! Again!

Well, its day 4 in the Big Brother house and housemate Jenny has "lost it" with housemate Daughter demanding this and demanding that. The Diary Room has called for Jenny to talk to them but she has told them to Frack off.

What a load of old rubbish this half term business is. What a waste of space!

Son and Daughter so popular. "Can Son come over to us..." "Can Daughter have a sleepover..." And guess who has to ferry them about in the car - yes, Moi. I mean sod my broken toe, that doesn't matter does it. Just get in the car with sweets and sleeping bags and Wii games.

Gawd, when i had half-term as a kid, i was lucky if i got one knock on the door to play out in the street. And that was only if no-one else was in. And what was wrong with that? I loved just being with my Bunty comics and Sindy dolls. Not that i had any friends anyway but thats irrelevant. What is it with this playdate nonsense. Am tempted to buy them each a palmtop so they can arrange their own bloody social life.

And when they're home, its "can i have this..." and "Can i have that...." And have i spent a fortune up the local shops or what?
Why can't they go into a dark room all week and do their homework - thats what i'd like to know.

And now i have to go up the park to meet god knows who. (have lost track). And where's this nice day we were supposed to have eh? Tell me that!

The Cat bit me.