Awoke around 0500hrs, and greeted another wonderful day of excitement, jubilation, hopes, dreams, adventure, hysteria, passion and happiness.
Or, if you want the real truth, depression, accidents, frustration, discomfiture, vexation, pain, chagrin, nervousness, fear, loneliness, faux pas and decay. But I wont mention them.
Gorrup and entangled wiv me blog posting graphics and creations.
When I went out to take some stuff to the bins, I noticed the Virgin Media hole in the pavement was gerrin bigger… oh dear!
The cunning step that moves?
Then after feedin’ the birds, on my return to the hovel, I managed to trip ‘Up’ the step to the door. I now have a very pretty scrape down me right shin, and a bruised chin. Oh, that rhymed. Tsk!
Put some cream on me wounds, and while doing so, the tube burst!
Still, it didn’t bleed much, which means me Warfarin level might be a bit low… or is that high? Never mind.
While bending to clean up the antiseptic cream wot I squirted on the floor, Arthur Itis made an appearance in me knees. (Huh, and it had been so good up until then today)
Knees too painful fer meto pick up the seeds wot I split when ups-a-daisying up the door-step wot I swear moved on its own.
Received an email from me mate in America, Andy, with a funny in it that I thought deserved graphicalisating ( I know, no such word, but I like it) a bit:
I wonder who the modelled for the original artist/photographer?
Went off to town to see if HMV had got DVD I ordered in yet. “The Big Job” Made around 1959 I think, can’t find a date on the box. Comedy with Sid James, Sylvia Syms, Dick Emery, Jim Dale and other old comedy actors. Looking forward to watching it later on next week. after a long walk around Victoria Centre looking for the store that had relocated, I found someone official and asked him where it had moved to, naturally had moved to the only part I’d not walked through looking, at the far end of here I stopped and asked the bloke.
Feet humming a bit now, despite this I had a walk around town with the intention of taking some photo’s for putting on here. I remembered to take the camera, but early this morning when I was taking some off of it to put on here, I left the flippin’ thing on and it went flat… oh what a superior nit-wit I am.
Termination of compilation of the days activities at 1610hrs. Will commence tomorrows Inchy Today from that time, providing I remember to, the BT connection does not fail again, and the old laptop doesn’t die a sad death of course.
There was 15 of us, all looking forward hopefully to sampling the Lancashire ales and lassies, as we climbed into the battered old AEC Regal coach – and set out for the ‘Gladstone Pub’ Darts Team Annual Outing – this year, a weekend stay at Southport.
As seemed traditional, we got lost on the way there, and our ETA of 1800hrs, was actually 2100hrs at the hotel on the seafront road.
The place was deserted, not a single person in sight, apart from our motley crew, as we exited the warmth of the bus, out into the, oh so cold wind blowing in from the sea, and we each grabbed our luggage and ran into the hotel foyer.
We were dispersed in three bedrooms, five beds in each, and were soon washed, changed, and back down to meet the others in the foyer, ready and eager for the quenching of our need for ale, as we hurriedly (it was getting late, and the pubs there closed at eleven) walked into the centre of the city, to find a pub to sample.
After my fifth pint, I think our group were playing dominoes, or trying to, things get a bit fuzzy memory-wise, and the next clear but painful recollection was of the next morning.
I awoke, and was gripped by a panic; I could not open my eyes! As I moved to find the edge of the bed, I hit my head on something solid – now I was really confused… then one of the lads said (over the cheering of the other lads) “Hang on, hang on, Christ I’m sorry Inchy, I thought it was a tube of shaving lather…”?)
It seemed that I had opened the door of the wardrobe, and got my head down with my feet sticking out the night before, and one of the lads thought it would be an amusing prank, if he covered my face in shaving lather, but in his inebriated state, he thought the tube of my toothpaste was Palmolive shaving cream, and he covered my face in it, thus I could not open my eyes this morning when it had dried like concrete!
They were now concerned for my predicament, despite their hangovers, and took me into the bathroom, and dipped my head in and out of some hot water, until the toothpaste was soft enough to be picked off in lumps, much to their amusement. They managed to take off a third of my moustache at the same time!
Nipper, as we named him
We all decided it would be a good idea, to go for a bracing walk along the seafront road to help clear our heads, and so in a short while there we were, fifteen of ambling along the centre of the road, shuddering in the wind, with me bringing up the rear – when I noticed the lads in front split up to either side of the road, to reveal this little dog, belting though them, only to stop at me, and decided to have a chew of my ankle, much to the merriment of the lads! I still cannot work out why this beast should run passed fourteen lads, and twenty-eight ankles, to get to mine for his breakfast?
That being the last night there, we set out to enjoy the amenities on offer at the ale providing hostelries of Southport, not at that time concerned that we had foolishly arranged for the coach to pick us up at 0500hrs in the morning!
The Concorde flight simulator
We then entered an amusement complex; There was a massive new machine, that for 2/6d (12.5p), one could test ones skills at trying to land Concorde. There was if I remember right, controls for speed, left right, up, down, braking etc. And a crude map of London to guide you in. A read-out was produced after the game was over, with estimated damage caused in cost and casualties.
A few of the lads had a go, and really made a mess off it, nearly all of them crashing on the landing. This caused the usual gambling instinct among them to come to the fore, and about eight of us put 10/- in the kitty, to go to the lad who had the least number of casualties, we assumed none of us would actually get to land the thing! (And we were right)
I went last, feeling sure I could do no worse than the others had, they produced end figures like, Cost: £1m Casualties: Deaths 75 Injuries 102.
The map, I thought was the secret, I had to use it to guide myself near enough to any airport, (the scenario chosen for me by the machine, was that the plane had to land within so many minutes of the game starting)
I espied a ‘Greenwich sign location early in the game, and tried, even when it was taken off the map, to keep an eye out for it at all times.
As the plane descended, there at the bottom corner of the screen I could see the word Greenwich again, and moved hastily in its direction, turned, and made what I thought was a spot on landing on it!
It turned out to be Greenwich Power Station! (They tell me that even if it was the airport, the landing strips were too short for the plane to land on anyway)
So, with a read-out of Cost: £150 billion (The machine could not record anything higher) Casualties: Deaths 500,000 Injuries 901,808, I did not win the bet.
Afterwards we split into little groups, and again I lose many facts of what occurred after that, again until the morning.
With much effort and pain, we slowly got ourselves up, after the coach driver had been allowed to come up to our rooms to offer us verbal and physical encouragement for us to get up!
ER Statue: Assaulted
As we assembled a sorry looking bunch indeed, it came to light that we were short of two bodies… Clive, and Frank. It later transpired that Clive was in local nick, and Frank was in hospital with something broken, after he’d apparently in his intoxicated revelry thought it a good idea to nick a ladder and decorate Queen Victoria’s statue, with a beer filled condom, and a bottle of Mackeson. His leg was broken in two places as he lost his balance and fell to the ground. The fool!
All I had was a part-missing moustache, a bloodied ankle, and a massive headache. So compared to some of the lads, I’d done well.
That was until it came to alighting from the coach, as I missed my footing on the steps, and joined Frank with a broken leg.
Hey-ho, young and impulsive I was… nowadays I’m just old and repulsive!
I decided, as I haven’t been insulted or sneered at for a while, I’d call in where these antisocial facets would be guaranteed – the local Lidl.
I was in decent form to start with, checked I’d got me shoes and not slippers on, me spectacles on, me hearing aids in, me hat on, me dressings on me ‘Inch’ were secure, I’d got some money wimmie, I locked the door behind me, and checked to see if any local yobs were about before I left the flea-pit.
I hobbled down to the shop, having to take a longer route because the police had blocked off a road due to an RTC (Road Traffic Collision), just behind the New Inn where that bloke got stabbed last Wednesday.
I got onto Mansfield Road, and entered the shop. No baskets again, had to fetch one from the till area, as did other customers.
But I was in a fair mood, so said nothing, and carried on with shopping for me bits.
At the greengrocer stand, I looked at the tomatoes on offer. There was on lot of decent looking tomatoes, but there was no country of origin on them.
I ought to remind you wonderful, enigmatic, attractive readers that; I worked on the food retail business for years, and I thought they might have they disposed with the ruling that the country of origin must clearly be stated on all products nowadays?
There was this young shop assistant, nearly moving to, but I caught up with him while he stopped to chat up a bimbo while she was shopping, and asked him; (Nicely like!) “Excuse me, can you tell me where the tomatoes next to the end come from, as I thought it was a legal requirement to put the country of origin on all produce?” The reply; “Huh?” – I said never mind and carried on.
When I got to the fridges at the back of the store, I observed I was being observed by the security guard.
I couldn’t find the Krakowska meat that I like, and after only ten minutes searching for one, I found a member of staff to ask if they had any in stock. Before I’d got to mentioning the product I was after, she’s said; “If there is none there, we havva gotta any!” and was off like, just like Clivey Boy when he is with 500 yards of a boozer and his nose picks the scent of the ale, fast!
I got to the checkout, joined the queue and the till lady said; “Owston klaird funk poonds ten?” I thought she was going to give me a Hitler salute, but no. So after checking with the reading on the cash register, I gave her a fiver to pay the four pound ten bill. And got ten 1p pieces in the change!
I exited the premises, again telling myself not to go there again (Lidl), and the security guard followed me out. So I turned and walked towards him, and he went back in the shop?!?!
Now I was not in a good mood.
Limped home, opening the door, I saw laying there on the carpet, a letter from the City Homes people.
My heart leapt with joy… Have they got a home for me to go to… No! – It just told me I had been downgraded in the waiting list to classification Five, the bottom one.
Now usually, I would have sworn and cursed a bit at this, but as I lifted the nosh tray off the bin to throw the letter in, I dropped the tray with all the stuff on it…
So I cursed and swore a bit at that instead!
I’ve just read that George Osborne shops at Lidl? In this photo off the web, he isn’t shopping; he’s filling up the cob basket… and without his disposable gloves on too!
It all started, when a work colleague, Horace, invited me to a wedding anniversary meal at his home in Wilford, Nottingham many years ago.
His wife Susan, had also invited her German pen friend, Grizelda Freudenberger from Saarland.
I arrived at his cottage early and soon found myself being accepted within the family, despite my horrendous features and appearance (Just finished work).
Susan asked if I could go and pick up Grizelda at the Nottingham train station in a couple of hours, and I willingly said yes.
An hour or so later, we heard a taxi pull up outside, it was Grizelda, who had arrived early at the station, and caught the cab to the cottage.
Susan and I trotted up the garden path to the taxi. I watched as Grizelda climbed out of the taxi and it rose creakingly by a good three inches higher from the ground. She was a big girl.
Giselda was about 5’11” tall, around 15 stone (solid with it), a lovely dark head of hair (I later found out she had some in other places too!) Gorgeous wide hips, tree trunk legs that I instantly wanted to wrap myself around for a month or two.
Susan and Grizelda were talking excitedly in German, as the taxi driver was struggling to get the luggage out of the boot, I was just about to help him, when Grizelda strolled over and lifted the cases single handedly out of the boot, and placed them on the drive-way, returning to Susan, she cast me a quick glance up and down, and smiled at me!
My inside’s wobbled, and my extremities were girded into action, as I realised this was love at first sight! I had never known such an instant frenzy in my undies before. It actually hurt me.
It was also lust, aphrodisia, and instant arousal, passion, desire, a painful hunger… an itch that just had to be satisfied or suicide would have to be considered.
Such previously unknown to me emotions frenziedly tore away at my innards… and although they confused me somewhat, it felt good!
Horace came out to help carry the luggage in, I took a case, and Horace another, Grizelda, biceps bulging out from her short sleeved pink blouse, carried the other two big ones up the path, and we entered the house.
I sat myself down, and watched as they introduced the kids, and talked and talked about each other so merrily and happily together, as I sat cross legged.
I must admit I concentrated on the shape, words, (I knew a bit of German) actions, and innuendos of Grizelda really – and was sure she kept giving me a sly glance, again looking me up and down, and a discrete smile coming from the scar near her top lip.
Understandably with all the talking, on their first face-to-face meeting, by the time we were ready to eat, the meal was burnt a little, and Horace suggested they go and fetch a take-away instead.
We all agreed, and Grizelda said she would sort out her things in the bedroom she was to use, so Horace and Susan could fetch the food, and she would be ready, refreshed and changed by the time they got back with it.
Grizelda’s next words, were heaven for me to hear, and I knew something was in the air, perhaps romance (And I hoped rampant sex) wise.
“Perhaps Gerry could help me with my luggage and t’ings while you two go for food… yes?”
They took the kids and went off to fetch the food.
I stood facing Grizelda, my nose touching her hairy breasts, and we smiled at each other – no words seemed necessary or needed, and were not used initially.
We almost ran into the bedroom, threw the things out of her suitcases into the cupboards and drawers, and got into the shower together – (and she did not mention the microscopic size of my appendage once all the time I was with her, how sensitive she was!)
We fiddled, fumbled, sucked, and caressed in the falling water, as passion grew between us, she carried me to the bed and threw me on it.
The following explorations of each others foibles, desires, and needs was soon over, and the, fervent activity of intimate copulate followed, as she placed me between her tremendously desirous, muscular and hirsute legs.
It was intense, consuming, poignant and hot-blooded in the extreme. (Although I had to be careful not to catch the boils on her neck during the activities.)
She carried me back to the shower, and who would have thought that washing each other could have been so pleasurable, interesting, and entertaining. She taught me a lot that first day, bless her.
As we were getting dressed after our pulsating pleasures, we realised that Susan and Horace were expected back – we went into the living room and found them there, having eaten their take-away, sat besides our now cold take-away fodder on the table.
They had arrived back and saw our activities taking place in the bedroom, and had quietly returned to the living room, so as not to disturb us – what understanding and kind friends they were.
As I left that night, I arranged to pick Grizelda up on the Tuesday, and with the greatest of expectations and bodily excitement, take her home with me to my flat!
She smiled and gently squeezed my meat-and-two-veg as we departed.
I suffered the pain quiet gladly.
She put me down, and off I went, full of yearning for our next meeting!
As I walked along, full of satisfaction, and realising this was the best time of my life, pondering deeply about the good fortune and sex I’d just enjoyed – I realised I’d gone to the cottage in the car – so went back to collect it.
That woman had certainly got to me in a big way – thank heavens!
Keep an eye out for Part Two of Inchcock’s Beloved Grizelda, as soon as I get over the emotional turmoil and long defunct feeling my body is telling me it needs… Hehehe!
I understand that you are of a superior class, intellect and magnificence, with an ostentatious streak that must be the envy of many a politician throughout the world.
I also appreciate that your rise to become the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom – without a majority vote, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party, representing Witney as its Member of Parliament, has been gained through your troubled upbringing by your millionaire stockbroker father Ian Donald Cameron, your mater Mary Fleur-Cameron, second daughter of Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet, and your Nanny who tenderly cared for you.
I also appreciate that your early childhood was one of nannies, matrons and tennis courts
In further acknowledgement of your standing worth and praiseworthiness, you are a great-great-great-great-great grandson of King William IV and his mistress Dorothea Jordan. This illegitimate line consists of five generations of women on your father’s maternal side starting with Elizabeth Hay, Countess of Erroll née FitzClarence, William and Jordan’s sixth child, your father’s maternal grandmother, Stephanie Levita, daughter of Sir Alfred Cooper and Lady Agnes Duff (sister of Alexander Duff, 1st Duke of Fife) and was a sister of Duff Cooper, 1st Viscount Norwich, GCMG, DSO, PC, a Liberal democrat statesman and author.
Your paternal grandmother, Enid Levita, who married secondly in 1961 a younger son of 1st Baron Manton was the niece of Sir Cecil Levita, KCVO CBE, Chairman of London County Council in 1928. Through the Mantons, Cameron also has kinship with Alexander Fermor-Hesketh, 3rd Baron Hesketh, KBE, PC, and Conservative Chief Whip in the House of Lords-93.
Your maternal grandfather was Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet, an army officer and the High Sheriff of Berkshire, and your maternal great-grandfather was Sir William Mount, 1st Baronet, CBE, Labour MP for Newbury 1918-1922. Lady Ida Matilde Alice Fielding, Your great-great grandmother, was the daughter of William Feilding, 7th Earl of Denbigh, GCH, PC, a courtier and Gentleman of the Bedchamber.
You are also a great great-nephew of Admiral Sir James Hanway Plumridge KCB MP (c. 1788 – 29 November 1863) who was a British naval officer whose career extended from Trafalgar to the Crimean War, and a Liberal Party Member of Parliament.
Your forebears have a long history in finance, which in turn should naturally make you wise and learned in such matters. (Hehehe!… sorry)
Your father Ian was senior partner of the stockbrokers Panmure Gordon, in which firm partnerships had long been held by Cameron’s ancestors, including your grandfather and great-grandfather.
Your great-great grandfather Emil Levita, a German-Jewish financier who obtained British citizenship in 1871, was the director of the Chartered Bank of India, Australia and China which became Standard Chartered Bank in 1969. (No surprise then that you are involved in banking yourself and letting them get away with murder is it?)
Your wife’s great-great grandmother was a descendant of the wealthy Danish Jewish Rée family, whose ancestors originated from Altona, Hamburg, Germany and Głogów, Poland. (Another reason perhaps that you fail to get to grips with the mass immigration?) One of Emile’s sons, Arthur Francis Levita (d.1910) (brother of Sir Cecil Levita), of Panmure Gordon stockbrokers, together with great-great-grandfather Sir Ewen Cameron, London head of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, played key roles in arranging loans supplied by the Rothschilds to the Japanese central banker (later Prime Minister) Takahashi Korekiyo for the financing of the Japanese Government in the Russo-Japanese war. (No surprise then that you are involved in banking yourself and letting them get away with murder is it?)
Another great-grandfather, Ewen Allan Cameron, was senior partner of Panmure Gordon stockbrokers and served on the Council for Foreign Bondholders, and the Committee for Chinese Bondholders (set up by the then-Governor of the Bank of England Montagu Norman in November 1935).
Add to this wonderful history, your own contributions to the country and your excellent missing leadership qualities, no doubt gained in your years being pampered by nanny, and your upper class prancing about learning to be superior at Eton, and it becomes plain for all to see, that you are probably the one man in the country to understand about Cornish pasties, bus-passes, turning off heating because one cannot afford to run it, being made redundant, sick patients who cannot afford private medical bills, being unemployed, and living in comparative poverty! Innit?
In the highly unlikely event that this letter should reach your eyes, I’ll add that the venom with which I hate you has no match!
Your unblinking ability to lie and fail on your promises also has no match, and would currently be of a superior quality, and more frequent than those of Herr Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Tony Blair! At least Blair was voted into office!
If (although highly unlikely in your case) you were wondering how you have managed to get your party through the last few years, the answer might be; A YouGov poll for the Sunday Times found that two-thirds of people think Miliband isn’t providing an effective opposition. And this is very true.
On a lighter note, you can’t live forever despite your inherited wealth and plutomania, your aloof presumptuousness, nihilism and superior conceit, you will croak out one day. I hope to be there to welcome you through the gates… without your privileges’.
I wish you a harrowing uncomfortable remainder of your life. And to those suffering through your monitory actions, I pray for.
Today started off fair – then went pear-shaped and frustrating, then gained a bit of satisfaction.
Me pains were far less than yesterday’s were. No blood from me ablutions (apart from a bit when I cut missen shavin’ – Tsk!)
I spent ages and ages creating graphics for me Political post – then the computer crashed! Restarted. The internet went down. Shit, bother and… never mind, I lost it all. Grrr! Bloody BT!
Inchy’s School Leaving testimonial
I went out to the hospital, calling in the council offices on the way to beg if they could find me sheltered accommodation somewhere nearby to live in, and the nice chap made me an appointment to see another bloke this afternoon. Nice.
Then to the hospital, and got tended to quickly, booked in again for next week.
Then back to town, and caught the bus to ‘Bread and Lard island’ West Bridgford, to see me Sister Jane and brother-in-law Pete. He’s very nearly finished all his decorating now.
I had a dizzy walking from the bus and veered into some trees, opening me wounds on me mush. Double Tsk!
Inchy’s Last school report
Enjoyed me cuppa and natter, then Pete came in with a locked box they had been keeping for me and opened it – guess what, me school leaving testimony from the head master, and me last year report was in it! He took a photo of em, and emailed to me at home. Interesting… or not seeing the low grades wot I got… apart from English where I came top… I say top… first! Yahoo!
Caught bus back home, called in Tesco and Chinese shop to try and get some cheese seaweed, but none available. Treble Tsk!
Got back to the flea-pit, and worked on some posts for a bit, scared the laptop would fail me again.
Jane rang later to see how I was, and that was appreciated.
Ah well, as my Dad used to say: “It’s an ill wind that fails to find too many cooks on a Wednesday afternoon!”
As sent in to us by Gerald Inchcock Chambers (67), currently of The Upper Denture Care Home (Manure Cupboard), The Shed, Top end of Nottingham’s Central Cemetery, Between the graffiti’d Gravestone of Isaiah Milligan and the burnt out Ford Consul Classic at the back of the ice-cream van.
The odd MP will be a Europhile,
The odd MP will be antimissile,
The odd MP will be a bibliophile,
The odd MP will be like a crocodile,
The odd MP will be a homophile,
The odd MP will be erstwhile,
The odd MP will be infantile,
The odd MP will be infertile
The odd MP will be very hostile,
The odd MP will be a paedophile,
The odd MP will be unsterile,
The odd MP will be a technophile,
The odd MP will be versatile,
The odd MP will be unfertile,
The odd MP will be docile,
The odd MP will be verbally agile,
The odd MP will be extremely virile,
The odd MP will be volatile,
The odd MP will be worthwhile,
The odd MP will be invirile,
The odd MP will be fertile,
The odd MP will be a gentile,
The odd MP will be juvenile,
The odd MP will be socially vile.
All MP’s behaviour can bring up your bile,
All MP’s behaviour are full of guile
All MP’s behaviour can make you can only revile,
All MP’s behaviour can be often in denial,
All MP’s behaviour can be often puerile,
All MP’s behaviour can be often futile,
All MP’s behaviour can can make you think ‘Is it all worthwhile?’
MP’s all have a false misleading, PR made profile,
Depicting them as being honest, with a pleasant lifestyle,
Despite their nepotism, nihilism, and fiddling, all the while,
For their crimes of fiddling, and lying and acting purile,
They rarely face prosecution; hardly ever do they get to trial!
I had joined the local pub’s angling club (The Gladstone), and was on my first match. It was on the Yorkshire Derwent. I’d only started fishing a month earlier, and was full of trepidation, but excited about it. The lads seemed a decent bunch. Being a newcomer, as with all of them, I was put in ‘A’ section to assess my skills, against the others. One of them had actually fished for England! Somehow, the smoke emitting old Bedford OWB coach got us all the way there, and to the 2 mile hike along the river bank to our designated match stretch. We dropped off near a pub, and had five match lengths of river bank to walk to get to our allotted section, and that was after a half mile walk from the pub to the river bank!
By gum it fought well, but I gorrit in the end
For the first 5 hours and 50 minutes of the 6 hour match, I didn’t even get a bite! Then, when I did, I struck, and struggled to get the fish out, and it was a tiny eel, and I’d never seen one of them before. Nobody had explained to about how slippery and slimy they were, and I ended up on the grass, grappling with this 3 ounce eel… and nearly losing! The whistle indicating the end of the match was blown as I was putting the eel into a bait box full of water, I looked back up the bank, and there were about half a dozen of the lads who had been watching my embarrassing fight with the tiny eel, and they all laughed and then gave me a round of applause, accompanied with a few loud boos, whistles and selected comments of a injurious nature. Bless em! It turned out at the weigh-in, that only two fish had been caught – my hard-nosed eel, and one Tommy Ruff, so on my first match, I’d won the prize money, and had a challenge cup to keep for a year! Easy this match fishing lark I foolishly thought. My next win was five years later. So we all packed up and took the trek back to the pick-up point for the bus that was conveniently in a pub car park. With only two fish being caught, the weigh-in had taken no time at all, and we were very early for the pick-up, the coach not yet in site. The landlord opened the pub up early for us. I was soon guzzling ale, and listening and watching some of the lads play a game of ‘Tip-pit’, which I’d never seen before, and was fascinated with. After a while, I thought I’d better nip to the toilet before the coach arrives, and off I went to the little boy’s room, where I found I had a touch of constipation, but persisted painfully. When I got back into the pub, there was none of the lads or any of their tackle to be found! They had piled the tackle and themselves on board, and driven off, leaving me behind in the loo! Bless them, I was a new face, and they were rat-arsed… understandable I suppose! There were no mobile phones to use in those days. I rang the Gladstone, leaving a message, and requesting rescue. Then settled into a game of domino’s with some of the locals, oh, and imbibed a few more pints of the excellent ale on offer. It turned out that about an hour or so later, the lads on the bus were sorting out the raffle, and eventually they realised I was not there. They returned to collect me, amid much jibing, Mickey-taking, and the ranting from the bus driver, and picked me up. I fell into a splendid alcohol induced stupor on the way home. Forced out of this wonderful state, I was awoken and kicked off the bus at the end of the road here I lived, and my fishing tackle thrown out along with me. I picked it all up, and made my way to the flat. It had been burgled – Tsk!
Up early this morning, in agony with the cramps in me foot. Tsk!
Cuppa and medications, did a bit of blogging like yer know.
Then got missen ready fer me trip t’ dentist.
Only just moved to this one, I went last week for a check-up, and they booked me in fer a bit of work today.
Booked in fer a couple o’ fillin’s and a spit un polish at ten o’clock this morning.
I set off, givin’ missen plenty o’ time like to hobble there.
At the end of the road, I stopped and limped back to the house cause I realised I’d still got me slippers on, un changed into me weather worn shoes.
Set off again, nice morning, up Mansfield Road, crossed over the other side when I noticed the police trying to drag a chap out of the flats, and the chap seemed determined not to be dragged out of the flats into the police van.
About 15 minutes later, I arrived at the Dentist at 0945hrs.
By the time I’d queued to book in, it were abarht 1010hrs. They insisted I pay fer me treatment then, before I’d ‘ad it like. Do I look dishonest, or like a pauper… maybe a pauper okay…
I sat and read a few chapters of me book ‘Hitler; The Commander’ wot I got frum the Pound Shop, before I wus told to go upstairs to room 2.
The rooms, had been fashioned out the old bedrooms in what was originally the living quarters of a shop owner.
I went in, and found myself alone, so I got out me book again. A few minutes later the nurse came in and went out again, then the dentist came in, told me to sit on the split plastic covered chair thingy and she’s be back in a bit. She a Polish gal, name of Cwik – no I’m not joking.
She inquired if I required a needle of pain killer before she started, I replied in the affirmative.
She left the room again. The nurse returned, picked something up out of a drawer, and left again.
They both returned after a short while, during which time I began to appreciate the pretty patterns the spiders had spun on the ceiling.
They set to work, and before long I’d got a set of top front teeth that I hope I can eat with without struggling.
I set off on me walk home, cheered with the prospect of being able to consume me fodder without pain. Got to ten end of me road… then returned to the dentist for me book, medicines and seaweed I’d left in the carrier bag….
This morning, after he’d filed away the just delivered overdue Gas Bill red letter, took his medications and applied his antiseptic creams, he had another attack of bemusing mental meanderings, which came to him while he was picking his nose, having his breakfast, short dated B&M porridge, eight cups of strong tea. This is the outcome; I hope you can understand where the nitwit intended it to come from, and what he intended to imply and indicate, what his mental musings might have meant.
If so please us know. Please post your comments to Sheridan Chygrynsky SRN, C/O Nottingham’s Ex-Gaslamplighters Asylum Shed, Oil Leak Lane, Nottingham.
His breakfast musings…
I sat in my decaying hovel, tea and porridge for breakfast,
I thought of Politicians, and I felt so aghast,
They seem to have had their compassion genes bypassed,
They avoid punishment for fiddling like mental gymnasts,
They’ve become a superior, pampered, political caste,
Their pay, compared to my £120 weekly pension, what a contrast,
No wonder I sometimes get feeling somewhat downcast,
Their ability to lie and cheat continues to flabbergast,
So many pulling nepotistic strings, and not being unmasked,
They’ll continue to look after themselves first, I forecast,
Even new ones learn how to fiddle very fast,
How long can their cheating and lying last?,
Their greed, and ego, cannot be surpassed!
For the extraordinary phenomenal situation of one finding a Politician who does not have any of the following traits: Nepotism, Greed, Aloofness, Indifference, Covetousness, Insensitivity, or being Self-centred – Please offer him or her, your sympathy, for they must feel so very isolated and lonely in Parliament.