Pop it in then

I have to move on. I was going to pull my jack about the cost of things in London...

...but there are two types of folk. Those who live in London and think that it is normal and those who live outside who think that those who do are stark raving bollocking bonkers. When I were 'up North', a lager and a curry were part and parcel of daily life - like farting and having a quiet scratch of your pubics - and it did not break your bank.
So, I have a Kronenbourg and a fruit juice with my eldest in Soho - £5fucking70p. Then I treat her and her husband to a lager and a curry in a restaurant (where the chairs and tables were multi-coloured painted Salvation Army furniture rejects) £64fucking30p, and she, dear London blinded love says - there's no service on that...

but I won't. No need for an alarm clock - fuckwit has been been in with my cup of tea and his morning need. Lovely old tosspot that he is - the only stupid name he comes up with is 'rumpy tumpy' normally it is 'Hey, let's shag'... ...whereas (ooh nice word Charlene) fuckwit one was full of stupid names.
I mean he used to call my tits Archibald and Mehitabel - Archifuckingbald and Mehitawhatever - what a twat (with literary pretentions). Fanny was 'pussicums' or somesuch and his dick was 'Tommy (would you cunting believe it) Todger'!- sad twannock. I did, for a short while, think that all men were as stupid.
No, fortunately not. Though fuckwit two started our life together being - to my mind, medical, he never said 'penis' again after I laughed constantly and publicly for a week about it. 'Caress my penis' - aw for fucks sake get down the clinic for some preventative treatment. Jeez - what pants men can talk.

Been lazy the past couple of days, cannot be arsed to cook for 'em when they get home from work/school. Frozen quiche, frozen chips, frozen whetever else is on the freezer shelf (apart from fuckwit's homemade seed bread, which clogs up the chip pan no end - how was I supposed to know). Been down in the dumps since Corrie had a happy ending on Monday - this will not do. Before you know it, we viewers will also be expecting good things to happen to us - come on Corrie - time for another train crash!

Hey, time for a poem? 'ere 'tis

My vote is my voice

Michael Howard
Tony Blair
Charles Kennedy
I am speechless


Cheers

God, I have got the poetic flow again - not quite epic, but a smidgin of 'omage to Keats

Poem Clause 4

Tony Blair
To be fair
Has more hair
Than my arse
On his head

- next week

e

e

cummings

Iceland

I did not blog a lot last week because... I was freezing. It all came about when that charming Naked Blog Peter suggested Iceland, the shop not the country, when I banged on about his new fridge. We all have something which drives us and for me it is fridges

For my mate, Anna-Louise, it is - hey before the advertising campaign - washing machines. She gets off on them so much that before she last replaced hers she went round all of her friends to try out their machine. Load up, switch it on and shove her snatch up against it - give that girl a hotpoint and she is in ecstacy - often giving the load a second spin cycle.

Though he doesn't admit it I am sure that Fuckwit has a sex thing with vacuum cleaners - I remember when we bought a portable Dust Buster and he opened it up at home. He looked truly disappointed - 'What's up dear?' 'It doesn't had a round suction tool!' Oh yeah - and how useful is that for getting in nooks and crannies! (better my boy for getting... ...but I was gentle with him).. crestfallen as his fantasy died. This explains why he has moved the old Hoover into the garage now we have the Dyson! New lover's too hard 'on - back to his old mistress

I just love 'em the smell, the feel of the cold, rooting around on the shelves to find little secreted bits of left-over, at night when the light comes on in a dark kitchen - stuff it, it is sad I know. Its not a sex thing - me like Anna-Louise with my duff stuffed up against the veg shelf waiting for the compressor to kick in!!
Back to my theme - I went to Iceland, an orgy of freezers, not just a row or two like Tesco. Peter, I owe you a stiff one - this is the shop! ...Fuckwit and the girls are a bit pissed off with frozen ready dinners and ready puddings to follow and the freezer at home is full to leaking but hey - think themselves grateful - it is years since I did food shopping. You get to lean in the freezers as much as you like, they even have a fridge here and there. Fucking frozen, sad old twat, I fear, I made an exhibition of myself, but hey.
Gold Leith Peter - you don't know the country Iceland... Fuckwit two went to Iceland. He went with a Salford Uni team to visit the island of Chertsey that was formed by a volcano in the early eighties. He summed up Iceland as - cold, full of drunken blokes with nowhere to drive driving their 4X4s round in circles and everything smelling of fish fertilizer. Perhaps unjust (being from Kirkstall he could be blunt - ask him to describe London - one word - 'shite'. Shite, indeed, I loved that man) and certainly not my idea of bliss - give me the shop every time. Cheers Peter

London

Reading Vanessa's trials on London buses and something in her comments

( by the way, a well worthy blog written in grown-up words with spunk - and I don't mean fuckwit milk, I mean attitude - but I am not certain she would have me judge - 'cos I like Tom Stoppard - but that is another story and if I do not stop this phrase thing - this sentence will become A Small House at Allington or some other droopy drawered novel - I mean we are talking deed-poll with a name like Trollope - oh for fuck's sake girl Get A Grip!! )

and then going to London to see my eldest - I decide to play safe and walk. Nice one, old tart fitted out with good walking shoes in amongst the many and varied tourists trekking through each others photo-shoots. There I am, not far off Westminster Abbey minding my own when this hairy 6' something 16 stone

(though he would say 183cm 97Kilo - and don't even think of reaching for your calculator to check my conversion 'cos I am old enough to remember when conversion was the real thing - yeah Towns Gas to North Sea Gas!)

ploughs into me while chasing after a bus.

Now I had thought in my mind's eye (mind's eye?? oh well) that Vanessa was a svelte, chic London Dolly Bird ( ouch - that may not go down well - but I am thinking praise here ) but I was pulled up short, after all - I only read her blog. I mean ? was he Vanessa? I only assume that she... and this hairy flying twat did say something like "..'king blog.. bitchy..popit..I..am..Van..issa" in hefty mid-european. I mean was he - her ? and did he/her recognise me/me or I am displaying that country yokel thing that everybody in London knows everybody else? or did those Tecquila's the night before remove the last neurons in my head?
I just have to get this mind's eye thing off of my chest ( though, it is usually a case of taking fuckwits mind's eye of my chest) - you will not believe this but - if I get off my back and go downstairs without a bra on under my blouse/jumper/coat/armour plating and heave the melons to the left yep his head goes to the left and to the right and yep his head goes to the right - shite and onions the man's a tit driven puppet!

Want him to say yes to anything - you guessed it heave 'em up and down. I will be the first to admit that they have lost some of their pertness over the years for the old bobble 'em yes dear trick but then... so has his neck. Almost felt a twinge of sympathy for the old sod. I ain't begging for comments here - but you boys out there - I am right aren't I - you just can't keep your eyes off 'em can you. Hey, no blame - just nature! Innit ( God I am turning into Glenda Slagg! )

Yeah, mind's eye we have but what about dick's eye (fuckwit in one!), belly's eye (me I am afraid)? Anyway, time to get back in the sack, I've been up for hours!

Ciao! (half a day in London and I'm cosmopolitan - and not the twat's eye magazine.)

Jeez – what an old perv. I know some women come home to find their man in their frocks or underwear but not fuckwit. He has to mess about with my ‘things’. Like when I was expecting – I get some knitting kit and make a start on a hat and jacket – bang! There he goes borrowing needles, ‘Hey you aren’t going to need this wool’ and off he goes whipping up little cardies, socks, hats … the twat.

He even used to knit at lunch at work so you will know what his colleagues would think of me!

Then I get a knitting machine and he was itching to get at it – so I left work on it. I bet no-one ever took seven years to make the front left of a cardigan – gave the kit away in the end!
When I got a sewing machine, you bet – there he is sewing this and that before I even get used to it. New soft covers for his ‘study’ chair - he made a pouffe – he even took the collars off of his shirts and turned them around to ‘get a few more years life out of them’. What!
Now, last year, truly fucked off with them all looking around at dirty floors and carpets, I go out and buy a Dyson (no advertising feature here) – you guessed it – he’s here, there and everywhere with it – the place is so clean that the house mites are wasting away!

They are advertising up and down the village – House Mite Fat Club – come here and waste away those extra milligrams!

I’m sure that if I got on of those vibrating dildos – the shagbutt would do just that and have it up his arse before you can say cross contamination.
What am I to do with him! That’s all folks.

What a day - spent most of it on my back as per usual but then got the cleaning bug and did the downstairs loo, phew and back to the sack. That, should anyone other than me be reading this, should set the reading buds salivating.
For the first time in ages, I went to the movies - "Lost in Translation". Fuckwit didn't want to go said he was tired (gardening, cleaning, cooking and all that other man stuff - dear boy, he did clean the Suzuki for me) so I went with A. We both enjoyed the movie, it was pleasant and funny and the Japanese city/hotel background is striking. Of course, she is studying Media Studies (what? is that a subject, has it a separate body of knowledge, etc) so we had to spend some time in the pub afterwards going through the analysis. (It has always struck me as wholely appropriate that analysis starts with anal). It almost took the fun out of the film - but bless her she works so hard and has such enthusiasm that I would a world class shite were I to dump on it.

Went to collect daughter B from a gig at the labour club - she was full of (knew the drummer in one band and the singer in another) it and half deafened. Daughter A asked why the Labour Club hired out their hall to the gig organizers. 'Well, can you imagine anyone going to the Conservative Club on the edge of town? or the sad little Lib-Dem club?" answered her sister - that's the politics done! and I am feeling that I have failed them.

Hey, there's a somewhat moribund end.

So he has to do a man thing every once in a while - like every two days! First, he has a bonfire to burn lots of garden rubbish and the fence that blew down two weeks ago (two years after he 'fixed' it). So useless, he has to buy two lots of firelighters.. I cannot go on.
Then, yesterday, he wants to 'go walking' and I have to drive him to Porlock - from which he is going to walk to Minehead! No map, no guide - just man and mountain. Well Porlock is cute but there was nothing to do - so, I went to Minehead. Not the place of my dreams.

Eventually found some fish and chips and then went into a pub - The Hairy Dog all familyised for thousands of holiday meals. Almost had my customary Guinness but then decided, having read about beer festivals at Ale Fan I decided to have a bash.

So what do you do? "Have you got any real ales?" - "Yeah - these two" from a little imp behind the bar, wearing the company livery - including a cap. I thought this is going to be like buying a used car from some wide boy - but , in for a penny.. "Which is best?" DUH "Here, try them" and he pours me a splash of each in two glasses. Blood and sand! I try them, and must confess they both tasted like beer - nice beer but beer. No rich malty undertones nor fruity overtones etc

To cut to the chase - I tried a pint of ?? then had a pint of ?? - the 'boy' was starting to look handsome. I had a Guinness to give my tastebuds a reference point. I had another Guinness because that's the word that usually comes out of my mouth when a barkeep asks me and the 'boy' asked me again - was he on commission ( we talked about U2 - what the fuck do I know about U2? ). Needless to say, sad old slapper that I am - I was getting kaylied.

And so - "I've made it" - phones the fuckwit. Two tries to do it because I hung up on him by accident the first time. He bounces in, legs wrapped in socks, big boots on... well the story goes downhill from here. Why get a monk on, just because I found alternative entertainment and am incapable of driving him home? So I don't want to get some fish and chips.
Had a kiss and make up at home, though, as he pulled weary socks off of weary feet a flopped down on the bed - he proudly says " My legs are too tired to shag... but if you would get on... and off we go. I would have to say - he is easy meat, because I wasn't any great performer having slept enough, in the car, to feel more sleepy. But to the fuckwit on his back I was last hump he climbed that day ( ouch - that was sad ).
Oh yeah - the beers - I cannot remember the names - one had a gold label on the pump and the other had a place name in it. Hey, it must be a woman thing.

OK - I've been to the muse again, though I fear some might find this poem a bit derivative. But, hey, I call it emulation not plagiarism.

My Hamlet

TO NY₁ or not TO NY₂
That is the question

1- pronounced 'toe knee' a frequently used collective for 'those things lower than your arse
2- ibid

Been blogging about a bit - found a cool sightwhich has a great section on why a lesbian would be better for us girls than a bloke. One 'reason' leads to a shop of sex stuff (strange how those two words fit together). Girl, I think I have been leading a sheltered life - APPARATCHICKS or what?

Jealous really, the spoiler for me was fuckwit one ( yes there has been more than one - I am on fuckwit three at the moment ). His idea of sex-toys was to get me on the bathroom floor and give my kit a going over with his dads electric toothbrush! For fucks sake - a sensation, yes, but not a tidal wave and every time I saw his dad smile - I fair pissed myself.

Hey, thought the ten reasons were good - the best, for me, was the eleventh in a comment - 'I can dance'. Three husbands and sundry blokes - and have I found one that can dance? Fuckwit has all the grace of one of those science experiments where they put the electric voltage through the frogs leg.
Bye for now - I have got to recover - cleaned the bathroom yesterday - well the basin and the loo. Absolutely knackered, but the girls had friends round and they do pass comment - the little twats.