You couldn't make it up.

You couldn't make it up.
Half past two this morning and Ghengis Khan charges out of the bedroom and goes downstairs like somebody not right.  I can hear him not quite growling but sounding exceeding menacing.
"Shit," said I to me. "Has he got a bungler!"
I jumped out of bed and hurried down the dancers without even bothering to put my dressing gown on. I could do with a bungler, he can have my dressing gown for a start. I put the kitchen light on and he is in the corner with his victim, a tiny, little mouse!
Of course, the idiot can't reach it in the corner but he seems to be doing his best to lick it to death and growling. Poor little bugger is terrified, the mouse, not the dog.
So I walk over and smack the dog's arse.
"Leave him alone, you bully," I tell him.
He looks at me as if to say, "I am only doing my job."
Huh! Pity he can't do his job when Wendy is here, she needs growling at.
"Go on," I tell him. "Fuck off to bed."
The mouse scuttles off, a bit like our Wendy.
Back upstairs and getting back into bed to rub my cold arse on her she says in the dark, "What was all the racket about?"
"You awake, are you?" I snuggled.
"Aaaargh! You are freezing!"
"It's winter," I tell her, "Stop whingeing."
"Bastard," she informs me.
"Ha!" I snigger. "The best bit about being a bastard is I don't have to buy anybody a present on Father's Day."
"Piss off and go to sleep," I am instructed.
No, you couldn't make it up.

She Likes Her Bed

She likes her bed, no two ways about it.
Yesterday was Sunday and I was out of bed by half past seven, I have to be or the dog gets fractious. It's no good expecting her to get up to see to her dog, he can shit on the bed for all she cares. He is my dog when somebody has to get up to let him out. He lets himself back in, I will have to teach him to let himself out.
So, once I am up I stay up, can't get back to sleep anyway.
She rolls downstairs at eleven bells in her onesie and Norwegian boot-slippers, hair all over the place.
"I'm not going anywhere today," says she. "Can't be arsed." Plonks herself next to the fire and turns the telly on.
"What about breakfast?" I ask.
"Make me a cuppa and I'll do it in a bit."
All I got was a bacon sandwich. Then she shoved a chicken in the oven and went back to bed!
She crawled back out about two, made the dinner and went back upstairs to 'tidy up'
About four I went up to see what she was tidying up.
All she was tidying up was her sleep quota, she was in bed.
"Are you actually getting up today?" I asked.
"Sod off," says her. "I'm comfy."
Oh yes, she likes her bed.

they must be kidding me

They must be kidding me. Every day, sometimes several times a day in fact, I see these adverts on the telly for a free credit score for life, so I went onto it. Credit Score .com.
They want my email address, passwords, and all kinds of personal details including bank details. These people must think we are all simple minded. Next thing you know the bank will be stripped bare and the money somewhere in Nigeria.
Fuck That!
Nobody with any sort of sense is going to put that sort of information on the computer.
These people are just bandits and please (if you read this) take me to court or something, the world needs to know about cunts like you.
Bank details! They must be kidding me

It's Too Easy!

It's too easy! There is no other way to put it.
So there we were, me, her and my brother Robert, wandering around B&M. Our Rob went in for whatever took his fancy, I went in for tins of dog meat and Slack Alice went in to look at their Christmas stuff. I have no idea why, she's got tons of the crap already!
Anyway, I have got my dog meat and our Rob had bought crisps and noodles so we were done.
Not her.
She is examining little bathroom bins. What the fuck bathroom bins have got to do with Christmas is beyond my puerile understanding but there we have it. Then I find myself standing next to the shelf bearing toilet brushes and you know me, never look a horse in the teeth.
"Hey!" says me. "Jackie! We need a new toilet brush."
"What?" says she. "Why?"
"The one we have got is no good."
"Why?" she asked. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's faulted," I tell her. "It's broke."
"How is it broke?" she asks.
"It's took all the skin off my arse!"
Yes, she walks into them. It's too easy.

Psychotic Sally

Psychotic Sally, that's what we used to call her.
Allow me to explain.
About three years ago at this time of year, it was really pissing down one day, not much changed there then.
So; I had just moved into the flat on Southwick road and it was located above a shop, Marie McMahon's to be precise. I know Marie and her family all of our lives.
Outside of my front door was a bus stop and on the day in question I was going into the flat and there was a woman standing, huddled really at the bus stop, in the rain, looking the worse for wear. She looked like she was on her last legs in fact.
I remember asking, "Are you alright?"
"I'm freezing," says she pathetically.
"Here," I say opening the front door. "Come and have a hot drink."
Anyway, took her in, gave her a hot drink and let her warm up. Skinny little thing, mid fifties and she was never going to win any beauty contests.
That was it really, she got the bus and was gone from my life, or so I thought.
Next morning at seven bells the dog wakes me up barking, someone is at the front door. I go down to have a look, not best pleased. It is the human disaster from the day before and she has got a daily paper with her.
"I got you the paper," says she.
Anyway, I tell her politely that I don't want her knocking on my door at seven in the morning and she tells me she has no friends. Not my fault so I send her on her way and tell her not to come back.
She stalked me. Hanging around in Marie's shop, following me around the Green and stuff like that. I told my probation officer I had a stalker and that was that.
Well, I don't live there anymore but psychotic Sally (as I called her) doesn't know that. She is still loitering at the bus stop, the sad sod.
Oh yeah, I have still got the magnetism for the wierd and the wonderful, ask psychotic Sally.

PS

And I am doing my own dinner apparently.

A Nice, Freindly Chat

A nice, friendly chat; that's what it was.
This is the picture. I am sitting playing World Championship Poker on the play station and it is about half four in the afternoon.
In she comes.
The dog looks at her, decides that she can come in then goes back to sleep.
She looks like a drowned rat
"Raining, is it?" I ask, not unreasonably I thought.
"You bastard," she accuses, dripping all over the place. "You could have come and got me! But no! You have got your dressing gown on!. Bastard!"
"All you had to do was give me a ring," says I.
"Would you have come?"
"No," I reply, honestly. "It's raining."
"Bastard," says she and storms off.
Oh yeah, I like a nice, friendly chat.

He can't be trusted

He can't be trusted, it's as simple as that!
Our new dog, well, he's not so new and he has got nothing to do with me beyond feeding and walking him. According to Mata Hari he is her dog unless he is in the bad books because then he is "YOUR POXY DOG!"
He is an American Akita and seems to be of the opinion that anything on four legs is there for him to attack. But to be fair, he is ecumenical about it, he will bite two legs too, especially me.
"Freddie!" says Miss Grindon 1956. "Since we lost Tara I think Khan is pining."
"What?" says I. "For the Fjords?"
Right over her head that one, never heard of the parrot sketch.
"I think we should get him a girlfriend."
"Eh?"
"Go on the internet and find one," she orders. "I don't care where. Be a nice day out for us."
We found one in Birmingham.
Phoned the people up, had a nice chat, a five year old bitch, beautiful dog and we all agreed on £250.
Took four hours to get there with him snoring most of the way.
What did he do when we finally reached his new girlfriend?
He attacked her. Two big Akitas fighting like mad, took ages to separate them.
Drove all the way back and he was suddenly my dog again, in the bad books.
"Eight hours driving!" she cries. "I could strangle your poxy dog. She was beautiful!
"Well," says I, narrowly missing a cat as we turned into our street. "What can I tell you? He can't be trusted."

It's brilliant!

It's brilliant!
She just came rolling downstairs wearing her onesie and acting all reasonable. That's suspicious for a start, she only does reasonable when she wants something.
"Do you want a full cooked breakfast?" says Boudicea in her Micky Mouse onesie.
I look at her.
"I'll do bacon, sausages,waffles,eggs, beans and tomatoes."
I grin at her.
"What you grinning for?"
"I'm still not taking you to Shields," I point out reasonably.
She does her best not to punch me in the face. "Do you want a full breakfast or not?"
"Certainly," says me. "Set me up nice for the match that will."
"You could easy take me."
"No I couldn't," I tell her. "I'm going to the match."
"Right," says she. "Make your own fucking breakfast."
It's brilliant!

She walks into them

She walks into them, she really does.
Sunderland are playing Hull today and I have got a couple of tickets. Well, let's face it, they lose every game more or less and they still get over forty thousand masocists turning up to watch them. It's marginally better than poking yourself in the eye with an exocet.
So, she says, "Will you take me to Shields market today?"
"No," says me. "Going to the match."
"If I had a little car I could take myself."
"Don't start that again," says our super star (me). "You can't drive! I got you the driving test stuff for the computer and you haven't even looked at it!"
"Well you take me then!"
"I have told you, I am going to the match!" I tell her.
"Huh," says she. "You think more of Sunderland than you think of me."
I grin at her and say, "I think more of Newcastle than I think of you."
She walks into them.

Ps

Ps.
And if her poxy dog doesn't stop trying to eat my foot she will need a new dog, never mind a car.

A New Car.

A new car, that's what she wants.
"What?" said I.
"I want a new car," says she. "One of them nice little C1's. A pale blue one, I don't want a big one like yours."
"You can't drive," said I. "What do you want a car for?"
"It's only twenty five quid a week," says she. "And you can put it on your insurance."
"You can't fucking drive!" I point out politely.
"Yes I can," says her. "Well, I used to have a provisional but I don't know where it is. I could get another one, a replacement. I want a car."
"You can't get finance without a licence."
"Ah," says she. "You've got a licence."
"Not for long," says I. "If you are going to start defrauding garages."
"I'm not," says she. "I just want a car. You can give me lessons."
She doesn't listen unless it is her doing the talking.
"Get your licence first!"
"I want a car," says she. "Let's go and have a look at one today."
Well, she can sod off. She might want a new car but she's not getting one, not until she gets a licence.

Tossers

Tossers, there is no other word for them.
Let me explain.
The other day I am on my phone checking the tide times for Northumberland so we could go for willicks. Put the right thing in my search engine thingy and got this page up about these mucky women who live nearby who want to show the world dirty pictures of themselves and their cats. Well, pussy was mentioned.
At my age I don't care, I have my woman, so I tried to delete it. I can't! it won't let me!
Why do these people do it? They are just fucking up people's enjoyment of their phones and internet. I could maybe understand if I had tried to find these slappers, but I didn't, so why do they do it?
I am going to have to take my phone down to the Car Phone Warehouse and get it sorted out. Of course they will think I have been looking at mucky websites but what can I do? The kids use my phone to play games and to download shit that costs me a fortune. I don't want the kids seeing such crap and I wish those responsible would pack it in. Tossers.

What a performance II

It's been interesting (verging on traumatic) to say the least.
I moved into my new cottage and all that stuff, repairs, painting etc, it's all going on. I've had more fucking cowboys in here than Warner Bros!
However, that's not what I wanted to say, it's about the internet and those wankers, Talk Talk.
They came to put the internet in at great expense and the hairdresser who did it...(he was no fucking engineer!)...told me it would take a day or so to sort it'self out.
Fine, I can live with that.
Two weeks later, no internet, nothing!
So, young James gets onto them because my manners on the phone to these twats is quite rude.
Five times! twice they promise to send and engineer out and I am still waiting. So! I phones BT Mobile and put it in their hands.
Engineer turned up, a feller I know already.
"Ooo..." says he. "The line he put in doesn't work, it's faulty."
Then he examines the Talk Talk set up.
The box for the phone is eight feet from the floor and doesn't work.
Phoned the bank. "Stop direct debits to T T please."
"No bother," says the bank.
Had a letter off them threatening to charge me over two hundred quid.
Wrote back. "You failed your part of the contract, you will get nothing out of me. Now fuck off."
So, as I said, it's going to be interesting!