This time next year

This time next year, according to Mark.
I might need to elaborate on that.
Not a lot of folk know this but when I was a guest of Lizzie Windsor at Dotheboys Hall I had a plan for the future, a master plan. I would write a couple of books and that way I would avoid having to run about the streets terrorising the populace doing my money-grubbing thing. However, as we all know, there is many a slip twixt cup and lip.
When I was finally released from durance vile I had enough dosh to live comfortably without any bad behaviour and anti-social activity. Consequently, I did very little in respect of getting things published. Not only that but I had actually written thirty-two manuscripts in total, not to mention a couple of plays and a TV script...
To cut a long story short I was sitting thinking about all of this a few weeks ago and I got in touch with a bona fide publisher and they offered me a contract. I know nothing about contracts so I realised I needed an agent, someone to act for me. I went down the country to see a friend of mine and explained matters so now I have Mark acting as my agent. He came up here the other day and we had a good chat, created a few legal(ish) documents and off he went home with his legal stuff and three more manuscripts.
That's it!
I have got it sorted and Mark is convinced we will earn a nice few quid and we will be wealthy fellows, this time next year.

It can only get worse

It can only get worse.
There I was this morning, lying on the bed having a fag and a cuppa while the little dog curled up on my pillow and the big dog was snoring at the side of the bed.
 I felt quite comfy and content, I was even wiggling my toes!
So, there I am, passing away the time while Lady Godiva snoozed away next to me and little Charlie farted next to my head. I chased her to the bottom of the bed but she just came back, she pleases herself like somebody else I know. Well, there I was, thinking about this publishing thing and staring at my feet.
Then I noticed that they are getting fat.
It's not a thing you would notice normally but when you get older it's not just your belly that puts a bit of timber on, it happens to your feet as well.
So what else gets fat?
Ha ha, I could do with a bit of extra on other parts, but not feet! No wonder some shoes feel tight and need replacing, it's the feet!
And! it can only get worse!

It's Sunday

It's Sunday.
Now, I am no mug and that being the case I am fully aware that today is a day of rest. Mind, according to Nellie the nut cruncher Saturday is handy for a bit of a rest too. She actually crawled out of her smelly little pit at AFTER four o'clock yesterday afternoon.
"Ooo," says her. "Is that the time? You should have woken me up!"
I have tried waking her up before, she gets the hump and walks around for the rest of the day with a face on her that would paralyse fucking steam!
So I don't wake her as a rule.
So, this morning at nine fifteen I groped her sneakily and she woke up.
"Are you thinking about getting up today?" I asked, innocently.
"In a bit," she lies.
So I just got up, gave the dogs some of her favourite biscuits and made myself a coffee.
Has she moved since?
Has she bollocks.
Why should she get up? After all, it's Sunday.

Just me then!

Just me then!
Yesterday there was a party for Slack Alice's sister Olwyn.
"Are you coming to the Railway Club?" Asks she and her barmy daughter.
"What for?" asks me, not unreasonably. Well, I don't like pubs and clubs, full off tossers who get too much drink in themselves and start rows, especially when it's an all-family matter, there's always somebody. Besides that, it is the cost. For what I pay for a round is the same as I would pay for a bottle of whisky. I'm not tight but I don't allow people to take the piss. Not only that, I don't drink, so all I get out of a round is a glass of coke, so fuck that.
"No," says myself, "I am not going. Tell Olwyn that I was going to come dressed as Tarzan but I didn't want her to get excited the poor ould boiler."
It still cost me eighty quid somehow, what with taxis and stuff. Busses are not good enough for Madam Bovary and Helen of Sunderland.
They left and that was me, Charlie and Khan with the house to ourselves while they fucked off to the docks to do favours for sailors as far as I know, or care.
One of them turned up about half one in the morning and the other came back after I had gone to bed.
Call me Shirley if you like but why would anybody pay eighty quid for the privilege of staying awake while a couple of party girls decide to turn up so I can lock the poxy front door?
Does nobody else mind that?
Just me then.

I did it again.

I did it again!
Just in passing, I would like to mention that it has been raining since last Friday and it is Easter Bank Holiday today, still raining. It does it every year! As soon as the kids go back to school again the sun will be cracking the pavement! But until then, it will rain.
All that is beside the point, not what I am talking about, and there are some unkind people who think I never know what I am talking about but we will ignore them, they are just jealous of my youth.
Okay, where was I? Oh yes, I have done it again.
Talking to our Jimmy and Gerry and Gerry is getting on my tits because he knows everything.
Along comes Norman, or as he is better known the forces of the law, Normski.
Now Normski is a gentle sort of feller, easily pleased. So when there is a pause in Gerry's self-serving bollocks I say to Normski, naive child that he is, I say, "Hey, Normski, did you see the telly this morning about the woman with the brilliantly clever pussycat?"
"What cat?" asks our hero.
"This cat," said I. "This woman, lives in Slough or some other undiscovered metropolis has a cat. This cat goes outside every morning into the garden, digs a hole, craps in it and then fills the hole in again. It's brilliant!"
"That's fuck all," says Normski. "All cats do that."
"Ha!" replies me. "Not with a fucking shovel!"
I did it again.

I need to keep quiet

I need to keep quiet, that's the fact of the matter.
What I mean is that I need to learn to kerb my tongue. I keep on finding myself with golden opportunities for rudeness and I haven't got the common sense God gave a duck in keeping a firm grip on my tongue by biting the fucking thing.
We went down to Wash the other day to see some friends and it pissed down all day. The spray off lorries was horrendous and I am glad my wipers were working. However, none of that matters because what I am writing about has nothing to do with rain.
There we were, me and my baby brother Jimmy, strolling down Sea Road, looking good. Up comes a gang of Japanese students ( I suppose)
You know the story, all glasses and front teeth and smiles that look as sincere as Bruce Forsythe's wig.
"Excuse me please," says the one in the front. There were loads of them, there must have been five or six of them.
"Excuse me," says he. "You tell me where Seaburn is please?"
Not thinking I said, "You found Pearl Harbour on your own, didn't you? Fuck off."
Then me and Jimmy strolled off.
Jimmy said, "You can't say things like that!"
"I just did," said I.
I need to keep quiet.