My Life Oy Vay 14.
MY LIFE OY VAY 14
(DIARY OF A DRUNK BASTARD)
Ah I witnessed a sweet little vignette of working class life today. Just around the corner from me there is a market that happens on a Thursday and Saturday. There’s a guy there who runs a fish stall and he has a great sense of humour. For instance I heard him shouting out “Now if you have a problem with anything I sell you don’t worry: just don’t bring it back here.” We have a large contingent of Moslems around here and a lot of them are quite devout and the women are completely covered. I suppose they’re women. How can you tell? Anyway there was this old cockney woman buying fish from him and a Moslem woman in full black garb was just behind her. The guy said to the old woman as he nodded in the direction of the Moslem woman, “Zat your daughter?” The old woman said “Don’t be daft” but it was the reaction of the Moslem woman that got me. She just keeled forward laughing like a drain. Sweet.
James Blunt comes on the T.V., well I don’t know if he actually comes on the T.V. set, he probably does when he sees himself singing that godawful song of his. I can’t even bring myself to type the title. I suppose it’s the ‘Lady In Red’ for the 2000’s. Did you know James Blunt’s middle name is ‘Whatrhymeswithblunt’? Well if it’s not it should be.
I’ve decided to tart my flat up and am in the process of stripping the wooden flooring. I put a liberal coating of Nitromors last night, on a section of the floor that I’d taped off near the fridge. I thought I’d leave it on over night for maximum penetration. And you know how fond I am of that. I went to bed fairly steamed and got up for my usual 4am ablutions and decided in my stupor to top up my alcohol levels with my Proletarian Pimms (psycho pscider, lemonade and stinging nettles for added bite) from the jug in the fridge. ‘Oooh’ I thought, the floor’s a bit damp, must have spilt some water, or heaven forfend some psycho psider.’
I stumble back into bed and about 5 minutes later I let out a scream. Fuck! The soles of my feet were on fire I dashed to the bathroom and in my stupor inadvertently turned on the hot water tap. Aaaaahhh! More pain. I switched on the cold water and sat there for a good 5 minutes with the tops of my feet freezing, and the soles on fire. I managed to eventually wash the bottoms of my feet, I then ‘necked’ 3 strong Ibuprofen with a slug of psycho psider, and all was well. But I do remember a bit of advice that a decorator gave to me when I asked him “What’s the easiest way of stripping a wooden floor?” “Get someone else to do it.”
BRIT-PLEB AND GOITERED FACES.
Silent fireworks whatever next? Yep some some flippin’ committee has suggested that because of the distress felt by animals on ‘Banger Night’ that fireworks could be made silent. Hmmm, can you imagine what a silent banger might sound like-----------------------------------
quiet wasn’t it? Whatever next? Vitamin free food? Nah McDonalds have done that already. Pleb free high streets? This is my favourite. How uplifting it would be, not to have to face the great unwashed chidden masses, as they drunkenly stagger with their offspring and their pustule ridden faces, that are so pockmarked because they’ve been squeezing their blackheads that gush forth onto and over the mirror ‘til eventually their image is completely obscured. Their parents (and I use the term loosely) stagger from theme pub to fast food takeaway, only pausing to vomit on the rubbish strewn pavement so that they can fill themselves with another flame-grilled bottom-burner, with an extra helping of fries ‘on the side.’ What a stupid fucking phrase! Where else would they go? Underneath? Another stupid Americanism. I suppose that the Americans are so unutterably dense that they have to be told how to arrange their food on the plate. So; filled with disgusting ‘Yank’ food the Brit-pleb then lurches into the nearest hostelry, with their vile off-spring and their goitered faces spouting puss involuntarily like an Arkansas hot spring. Their parents then consume copious amounts of warm beer and cocktails with stupid names like ‘Bash a six inch nail through your head’ and ‘Saw off your knob with a rusty saw.’ Meanwhile their children are setting fire to the drapes in a vain attempt at eliciting any kind of response from there clinically brain-dead parents.
They have with them their flea-ridden dogs that look suspiciously like Pit Bulls, they roam the pub scavenging any food they can, occasionally biting any unsuspecting punter. Their idiot owners didn’t stop to think when they bought the dog for Wayne at Christmas, that this animal would grow and grow and need to be cared for. It would have to be fed and washed (Hah!) which in effect would take time and money. Two commodities that they have no understanding or respect for. Shorten the working week? I’d double it and halve their wages.
Meanwhile their mangy dogs are savaging anyone who comes near - especially children, which gladdens my heart. The poor dogs were probably tormented mercilessly as pups by their sadistic worker-ant offspring. The dogs are then allowed to crap all over the pavements and in the parks causing blindness to any child that is stupid enough to fall over in it. Yes a mass cull of all dogs and their owners is the only sensible option to deal with this problem. Their orphaned children could then go into the factory and workplace (shame that there are few chimneys left) so that they can work off their surplus energy, and at the same time produce cheap T Vs, videos, computers and etc. in return get a mattress and a bowl of gruel at the end of the day.
What’s this got to do with silent fireworks you ask? Well a firework factory that has a vicar as director, were asked to produce fireworks of a silent type by a local fete committee. Because at their last shindig replete with Dresden Starbursts and Hiroshima Sparklers, the noise so upset a farmer’s prize Charolet bull that it went berserk and mounted the farmer’s wife, who had been bending over tightening the wheel nuts on a tractor - with her teeth. Now she was a was a large woman I’ll give you that - luckily, because 9 months later she gave birth to a couple of prize heifers.
She said the only problem was the breast feeding. “They’re greedy little beggars so they are.”
There is a report that a man has been caught wandering the grounds of Buck House. He was understood to have had or was trying to have carnal knowledge of a Guardsman’s bearskin. When questioned the man said that he hadn’t realised the little buggers could run so fast. The palace has strenuously denied that the man arrested was most definitely not the newly investitured Mark Thatcher who had been at the palace earlier to have the honour bestowed. His mother Herr Margaret who had accompanied her son was also bestowed with an honour, she’s now The Lord Harpy of Dulwich. When asked about the incident said that she’d heard nothing and the last time she’d seen Mark he was fondling one of the Queens corgis. A palace spokesman later agreed that, yes, one of the Queen’s beloved canines has had to be put down, and no there are no bearskins missing.
Well the Iraqi war rumbles on with yet another hit on our boys……………….by the Yanks! I’m sure we’ve lost more people from the euphemistically titled ‘friendly fire’ than from Iraqi gunfire. 3 killed this time 2 seriously injured. The Yanks have said they’re terribly sorry. Oh, so that’s OK then. I think we should call in the I.R.A., no not that one they’re disbanded. No I mean the Iraqi Ramblers Association, a society that is hell-bent on preserving its ancient rights of roaming at free will to places far and wide and off the beaten track. To places like, um I dunno, Kuwait?
Well we could let them loose on Oxford St., where they could help keep Yanqui terrorists off our pavements. Where they belch and fart yelling in that grating accent ‘No Elmer, they’re not Morris dancers fer chrissakes they’re Harry Krishna left-wing pinko’s an’ yew ain’t gonna walk around in no goddam dress fer the rest ‘o’ this vacation.’ If this is the new world order bring back the gibbet! We’ll string ‘em up by their pendulous jowls, that look like a cows arse, and make them recite Rule Brittania backwards, whilst informing them that Elvis Presley was John Wayne and Clark Gable’s love child. If this doesn’t make them pack their ridiculous outfits of golfing trousers and Caribbean night shirts then we’ll inform them that Johnny Rotten is running for President.
But it looks as if we will have no need to stoop to such drastic recourse. It would seem that tourism from the new world is down by about 50%. This of course has a beneficial side-effect vis-à-vis the ozone layer, with far fewer gases being emitted by the aircraft and their occupants. I don’t know which aircraft TWA are operating these days, B52s or sumfink but they’re bound to be gas-guzzling. So at least they’ll be disgorging (how appropriate a verb) far fewer gaseous, overweight, overbearing and over here brash stupid colonials, who’s only point of cultural reference seems to be ‘where’s the nearest McDonalds?’
So the war is being fought and lost from what I can gather. A Tet offensive is being talked about, which refers back to the Vietnam war when the Yanks were almost over-run. New world order? Seems like we’ve been doing it this way since time began. When did time begin? About half past three on a drizzly Monday afternoon I’m told. Does time ever get nostalgic I wonder? So, we’ve vapourised a few hundred thousand Iraqis and seen old Zapata strung up and we’ve lost more men to the Yanks than to the Iraqis. I bet the guys that have gone missing knew something their compatriots didn’t.
‘Bugger the council tax they yelled as they bailed out over Baghdad, I’d rather take my chances with a bunch of dog shagging fundamentalists than with a gang of coke snorting fanatics with needle marks on their arms - where any self-respecting squaddy has a tattoo of the Virgin Mary and a skull and crossbones. No, a cold bath in an Iraqi prison with a couple of electrodes clamped to the testicles has got to be preferable to taking your chances with the gung-ho wallahs flying an F14.
POSH TOSH OH-MI-GOSH.
A palace spokesman would neither confirm nor deny that the mother who gave birth to sextuplets in secret after being given a fertility drug, was in fact the Queen. Her Maj was said to be doing well in a private nursing home after purportedly choking on a Spam sandwich whilst attending a ‘Bugger Bosnia’ rally that had been organized by the Leeds chapter of the Royal Masonic Lodge of Rozzers. Osama Bin Bommin denies that the real reason he’s gone into hiding is that he’s the father and wants to avoid paying maintenance. The Queen was unavailable for comment yesterday, a palace spokesman would neither confirm nor deny that she was up to her ears with knitting diamond encrusted Babygro. There are reports that the company who make Posh Tosh Oh-Mi-Gosh are putting their workers on 7 days a week plus overtime.
Prince Philip was tracked down to his taxi rank in Golders Green and agreed to an interview at the Old Bull And Bush whereupon he assailed our reporter with a disquisition on the Wealth Tax, and how he’d been forced into actually working for a living, He said that he’d had that fella from Bosnia in the back of his cab once, and how the hole in the ozone layer was just a conspiracy between communists and mad lesbians from Greenham Common, just to bring down the western economy. Our reporter made his excuses and fled.
A judge gave a young man 2 weeks in chokey when he was heard to wolf-whistle in court. Some unkind people have said that the judge committed the man to prison when he realised that the young man was whistling at a pretty young woman on the jury and not at his Lordship.
There’s a report out today that states that there are dangerous levels of radon in certain parts of the country. Radon is a natural gas that is formed in the inner crust of the earth and then forces its way to the surface. A bit like me dad’s farts after he’s been on the piss and has had curried mongoose and custard filled japatis from the local takeaway. Anyway it’s dangerous, radon gas that is, not me dad’s farts well yes they are too. Especially when he’s feeling playful and bolts the door and you can’t escape.
I think I’m suffering the effects of radon gas. Apparently you get a vague feeling of dizziness and your head hurts and you get a feeling of nausea, well these are exactly my symptoms. This I’m sure has nothing to do with the 8 pints of Guinness followed by Crème De Menthe chasers I had last night. This was then followed by a Biryani Bum Buster from Mr. Howmany’s Wonderful World Of Vindaloo. Loo being the operative word there.