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.


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