I got myself a ticket

I got myself a ticket.
Yes, I know. A lot of folks, mostly family members will be quite chuffed about that. They will be saying, "Good enough for the flash twat," and they are probably right, but sod em anyway.
Had a good day yesterday because I took Lucretia Borgia and her sister out for the day up to Northumberland where I have every intention of retiring to next year. Sweaty Betty got a large, stuffed gorilla toy. No idea why, but the first thing Khan and Charlie did was try to kill it.
Got back home about eight bells and there was a letter on the mat, chewed severely.
Northumbria police intend to prosecute me for speeding. Proper speed freak, that's me.
I was doing 35mph in a 30 zone. No wonder officer plod is busy, they are wasting their time on a couple of miles an hour while the nasties are plotting acts of mass destruction. Go and lock those fellers up!
Fuck that, speeders are easier, especially those lunatics who go 5 mph over the top, they could have somebodies eye out. They are having my eyes out, a hundred quid for 5 miles over the recommended dose. I might go back to riding horses, you don't get tickets.
Oh well, I suppose I will have to pay it and graciously accept the three points because I got myself a ticket.

I was nearly right

I was nearly right.
It's been a long time since I wrote anything on this blog, either for information purposes or for my own amusement; but it's been a long time.
There have been a lot of reasons for this but mostly it is because I quite simply couldn't be arsed and besides, who gives a shit?
Well, everything and everybody is fine, those that are still speaking to me, and they are few and far between. At least I now have a publishing contract all signed and sealed and it won't be long before I am rolling in the stuff, most of it shit, but it's nice to know I am a successful shit. The part I don't particularly care for is that my pending success seems to be causing a lot of resentment, mostly amongst family members. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"
Where were they when I was locked away for years?
Well, I said in my last post that I would make it in a year, so watch this space.
I was nearly right.

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.

The clocks went forward

The clocks went forward.
Every year the clocks go forward or back depending on the time of year of course. Speaking for myself and let's be fair, I can only speak for myself because I have nothing interesting to say for myself, never mind anyone else, so I speak for myself.
Speaking for myself I have come to the conclusion that moving clocks backwards or forward twice a year is pointless. It all goes back to the days when farmers needed the daylight. Why do the rest of us have to cater to these people?
Save the countryside, strangle a farmer.
I have no axe to grind with farmers and I am sure they do a great service to themselves because apart from making the world smell of shit they actually grow stuff.
Leave the clocks alone and if they need more daylight let them get up earlier or later, who cares?
Oh well, another hour's sleep lost because the clocks went forward.

What's the Craic?

What's the Craic?
 Craic; I am not even going to try to explain it, the meaning is myriad. There I was, sitting with my morning cuppa and I get an email on my phone from someone called Susan.
 I mean, who is Susan?
I know who Alice is, Chubby Brown is the only one who doesn't. But I have no idea who Susan is. I used to have a stalker called Susan but she can't put two words together so I am discounting her.
It would seem that she wants to get together with me. Personally, I think it is one of those scams that we hear about so I told her not to contact me again.
What is going on when these nasty fuckers can just pluck names out of the air and try to con them?
I mean to say, what is the craic? What is going on? What's the craic?

Ha!

Ha!
The living room is lovely and warm, even the dogs are comfy.
Anyway, the door opened and in she came, wrapped for an arctic winter in her Eskimo-type onesie and stood looking at me and the dogs.
"There is no milk!" says her.
"I don't care," was my considerate retort. "I use cream in my coffee. If you want Acker Bilk, go up the garage and get some."
"It's freezing outside!" cries the blot on the landscape.
"Aint it the truth!" I say, grinning. "Nothing I can do about that, it's in the hands of the weather I'm afraid."
"You horrible sod! You'll let me freeze!"
"Why not?" I ask, not unreasonably. "Why would I want to freeze when it's you needs the milk."
"Bastard." says her and flounces out, door left wide open.
I just closed the door, stroked the dog and picked up my hot coffee.
Ha!

It's snowing!

It's snowing!
Now, a lot of people may have looked out of the window recently and if they are as observant as me they may have noticed that it is snowing and apparently most of Europe has come to a standstill. Trains are stranded, cars and lorries are stuck all over the place, roads are impassable, drivers and passengers have been stuck in traffic for hours and the catalogue of disasters seems to be more or less endless. However, what I don't understand is why are we surprised?
It seems to me that every year, some worse than others, it snows and the country collapses.
"Oh!" they cry. "We will make sure it never happens again!
But it does.
Every year it does, some worse than others.
Well, I have got some advice for everyone.
Stay at home where it is nice and warm and safe.
It's snowing!

It's a liberty

It's a liberty, no other way to put it.
Incidentally, if the Roman Empire didn't have an air force, how come Pontius was a pilot?
And...
If all brides are beautiful, where the fuck do ugly wives come from?
Where was I? Oh yes, it's a liberty.
I had to put my car in for it's MOT yesterday and they had it up on ramps for about two hours, I was expecting a problem. However, when it was all over I had to cough up for a light that had gone out on my rear number plate.
They gave me the bill, 77pence for a bulb!
Now, call me Shirley if you have to and as long as you don't want a smack in the mouth, but that's a lot of money to a poor old pensioner like me. Okay, so it's a good car and apart from new tyres last year the bulb going is the only problem I have had in over two years, but that's not the point! The point is I had to pay 77pence for a new bulb and THAT, in anybody's dictionary, is a liberty

It must be legal now

It must be legal now.
I suppose I better be a bit more explicit here.
I was sitting sort of half watching the telly last night and there was an advert on about borrowing money. The bit that got me was when I was idly reading the small print at the bottom of the screen and realised that the interest rate was over 1200 percent!
I don't give a camel's fart what anybody says, that's usury, and as far as I know, usury is illegal.
You see it all over the place, warnings about loan sharks and offers of advice and how to avoid them. If that is the case, why are they allowed to advertise on national telly?
It must be legal now.

I need to listen a bit more.

I need to listen a bit more.
What I mean is that I listen to her, sometimes, but not a lot and not too closely. Well, she never says anything interesting and what she knows about anything is negligible. Mind, according to her she knows everything
She gets up every morning and comes down the stairs wearing her onesie and looking about as attractive as anthrax just not as appealing. The minute she puts a foot in the kitchen she starts;
"How long have you been up? Have you fed the dogs? What have you had to eat? Where are we going today? We need milk, go and get some. I need some money, give me your card before I go out! Has the dog been chewing the draft excluder again?" and so on, on and on, on and on, and I turn her off, it's not worth listening to.
Then she will say, "Are you listening to me?"
I am honest, and like annoying her so I say, "No. I'm not. You talk crap at the best of times."
The stress levels rise promptly. "What!" yells Shirly Temple. "Am I talking to myself?"
"It's the only way you'll get a sensible conversation," I tell her.
This makes matters worse and she is off, slagging me off while I snigger a good deal.
I need to listen a bit more.

Ha! She never stops!

Ha! She never stops!
She just came storming back in. Here's me, sitting here playing with my toys and minding my own business, bothering nobody. Does that cut any ice with Betty Boop? Does it bollocks."When am I getting my new car?"
"When you get your driving licence,"I tell her.
"I've got my provisional!" cries Gert Bucket. "You can get the car in your name and I can have my lessons and practice in it!"
"Right!" says me sarcastically.
"Well, I can!" says she. "And I could drive myself to the shops."
"Drive me to the funny farm," says our hero. "Why not get a bike?"
"Why don't you sod off?" is her response. She is always the same. If she has no connection to reality she resorts to abuse.
Ha! She never stops!

AND!

And!
If she thinks she is getting more money to waste out of me this week she has got another think coming. She has got more chance of seeing Ian Paisley kissing Gerry Adams' arse.

We need some understanding around here

We need some understanding around here, that's what we need.
Let me see if I can elucidate a little bit. Great word that, elucidate. Don't know what it means but I'll see if I can find someone who can explain it. Haha, I just come out with them you know.
Right, let's see.
Mrs Rip Van Winkle upstairs thinks anything less than twenty hours sleep is a deprivation which ought to be taken up by Amnesty International, but never mind. She crawls out of her stinking pit with her little dog some time getting toward teatime and stands looking at the clock with a face on her that would paralyse fucking steam!
"Why didn't you wake me up?" she demands.
"I did!" I lie. "You just went back to sleep. If they ever make sleeping an Olympic sport you are a dead certainty for a double gold. Synchronised sleeping, you and Charlie."
"Bollocks," is her ladylike retort and off she goes to make tea. Two minutes later she is back.
"There is no milk!" she cries.
"What you telling me for?" I demand. "I told you last night and you said you were getting up early to go shopping with Angela. So don't complain if you are too tired to drag your arse out of your pit!"
"Why didn't YOU go?" demands Missus unreasonable.
"I was busy," I lie. "Watching cowboy films. They don't watch themselves you know."
"Why is it always me who has to go shopping?"
She looks very attractive in her onesie, to flies.
"You are bone bloody idle," says her as she flounces out.
See! What we need around here is some understanding!

I'm not going there again.

I'm not going there again.
Let me; elucidate. (a Good word that one, elucidate. Don't know what it means.
It was Bloody Mary's birthday yesterday, she was sixty-one going on twelve. Anyway, it was her birthday and she wanted to go for a meal with her two daughters, a granddaughter and me to pay for it.
"Where?" I asked, fear and miserly intent wrenching my bowels.
"The Grange!" cries Herself and of course the daughters agreed. Where the fuck is Cinderella? I've found the two ugly sisters.
"Alright," says the Saint. "We will go to The Grange."
So we all get ready, even Alyssa got a wash. That kid is waterproof.
All piled in my poor, long-suffering car and off we set.
Halfway there they decided to go to The Grey Horse in Boldon where I had chicken and ale pie or some such crap and when I got it the pie wasn't cooked. Not only that but Angela found a hair in her food, whatever it was.
I left, felt definitely Dissatisfied. Angela complained and the manager gave her a tenner but that's not the point, the food was crap.
I'm not going there again.

It must just be me!

It must just be me! Like everything else that happens around here, it's obviously my fault.
Now, it's a well known medical fact that my two dogs are insane. In fact, they are not even my dogs according to Lucretia Borgia who, as I write, is upstairs lying in her smelly pit and scratching herself for all I know.
Well, there could be a case to be made about the dogs being hers.
A few years ago she said that she wanted a puppy that would sit on her knee and play with her, which is a bit iffy, she doesn't let me sit on her knee and play with myself, never mind play with her.
So I went out and got her a puppy at great expense, I got her an American Akita!
"What the fuck is that?" she demanded as the dog chewed her draught excluder.
"It's the puppy you wanted," said I. "He is called Khan."
"He's massive!" she whinged.
"Yes," said I. "But he will sit on your knee and play all day. What more do you want?"
"I wanted a little one!" cried Herself.
Not many women say THAT!"
"Fuck it," said I. "Some women are never happy."
A year or two passed and by then she loved Khan and his thieving ways and unsolicited violence toward all other creatures he managed to get his teeth into. Then we got Charlie.
We went to see her sister Olwyn and she had two little dogs; A little black thing called Mitzie and a Pachadale rat killer called Charlie. She looked like a miniature Doberman without the sticky-up ears. The two dogs had been fighting and bit BillyJean's finger when she tried to separate them.
"Charlie has to go!" Olwyn cried.
Jackie said, "Can I take her?"
I said, "Don't blame me when Khan gets hold of her and eats her."
Of course, it never happened, Khan loves her and spends his time letting the violent little bastard dive on his throat, snarling and growling. He just thinks it's funny.
I don't think it's normal to have a dog that hates everything apart from another tiny thing that also hates everything and everybody.
"I'll never part with my dogs," says she.
It must just be me.