Tuesday, 26 April 2011
The protagonists in the latest royal wedding have also had their first names combined to form ‘Watekills’ which sounds like a campaign slogan for a health drive about obesity. I for one couldn’t give an epic toss about the royal wedding. I’m not against the royal family, far from it, I just can’t be arsed with it all. It’s very nice of the numero uno echelon to give us a day off and all but mine will be spent up a ladder doing DIY and looking after the sprogs. Gee thanks. Think I’d rather be at work.
Surely a better present for the nation would be not to foot the bill. Conservative estimates reckon it’ll cost a pound for every household in the U.K. I realize that doesn’t sound like a lot but a quid can buy an awful lot and a lot of awful down at Poundland. I could get a loaf of bread or a multipack of KitKats, or better still a pack of those Chinese lanterns that rise majestically into the sky before falling back down to terra firma in a ball of flames to start endless forest fires.
Here’s a plan, why don’t Kat & Willy sack the pomp and fly to Vegas for a quick in’n’out wham bam thank you maam sorta doo? As they return we could all simultaneously set off Chinese lanterns and make it look really pretty. Chicks dig candles. Christ knows where the future monarchs would land, not after 20+million idiots have filled U.K. airspace with fire. With favorable winds some of the lanterns might make it across the channel and set fire to France, what a gift that would be!
A woman’s wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of her life! Yes if you’re not royalty. I think the happiest day of Ms. Middleton’s life will be getting her new credit card through the post. To ‘Future Queen’ please find your new superdooperplatinum credit card enclosed. You have unlimited funds and zero A.P.R. I suppose if she ever did dip into the red she could always flog off Australia. The lucky cow will want for nowt, except for maybe a husband with hair but that’s a small price to pay for the moon on a stick.
For wannabe queens everywhere the union will break a lot of hearts but it’s far worse if you’re a bloke. The only eligible royal bird left is Princess Beatrice. I think I’ll require the larger of my two barge poles for that one. Zara Philips is a ‘possible’ I suppose but it’s assumed she’ll marry a horse. Nope, the only way in now if you’re a 'bag-me-a-rich-one' bachelor is if one of the knobs turns out to like knobs. Even then you run the risk of being shot by DoE.
I think I’ll stick to slumming it with the common folk, like Al Fayed. You’d never catch him trying to be a royal……or with a passport. Common folk like us couldn’t give two hoots about the social elite, mainly because we can’t afford one hoot let alone two. We don’t need a class system because everyone has their feet firmly on the ground and knows their place.
My place for instance is slightly above you, now stop reading this you smelly peasant oik.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the birdies is?
They’re all bonking in the bush at the end of our garden. The smutty goings on resembles a Roman orgy. I would advise anyone passing nearby to please avert their gaze, it’ll just scare them, especially the sensitive ones. It would appear that the dividing fence between the neighbors and us is now a red light district for our feathery chums. Imagine a back alley in Amsterdam with fewer neon lights and more tits on display.
THAT is our garden.
I should charge admission to the starlings who clearly are just here on a stag doo. Even the resident squirrel takes the long way round. He would clearly rather gobble his nuts in piece and who can blame him. Sparrows aren't very romantic. There are no fine wines and Belgian chocolates. There are no candle lit meals in posh swanky restaurants, not even a takeaway and a bottle of Lambrini. There’s just a lot of noise and feathers with girl sparrows being wooed with boy sparrow chat up line invitations to “sprig my millet”. Utter filth.
I thought I lived in a posh part of suburbia but the feathered foulness outside would beg to differ. If there is such thing as a bird benefit office, then it’s going to get really busy in a few weeks time. Mental note: must follow some pregnant sparrows one day to see if they fly back towards the estate and or Liverpool.
On a happier note the sun came out today. The locals ran for cover thinking the sky was on fire. There was a strange hissing sound as people began to dry out. Natural selection has meant that people in 'tut north' have evolved gills and the ability to see in really low light conditions. It’s quite impressive until you watch them cower at the sight of the fiery sky orb, or ‘hot moon’ to use its local derivation. The braver northerner will actively seek out the ‘squinter ball’ and expose their flesh in an act of defiance. The skin of the Caucasian northerner is so white that initially at least all of the suns rays are reflected back into space thus helping to combat climate change. However after just a few minutes of ultra violet the white flesh turns crimson and then red severely hampering the reflective capabilities. A red colour change is always fiercely resisted by the majority ‘true’ northern folk. They have a natural affinity with being pale blue and lack luster. You know these people as Manchester City supporters.
Several consecutive days of sunshine are dangerous as most of the reservoirs/puddles empty into assorted super soakers and leaky paddley pools across Lancashire and Yorkshire. A week of warmth will cause drought conditions and epic queues in supermarkets with shoppers ramming trolleys full with bottled Buxton water. It’s exactly the same stuff that the people of Buxton have in their taps only about hundred times the price. The fire brigade will be on constant BBQ watch. A&E will be out the door with lobster cases. After-sun, aloe vera and minor burn creams will have to be flown in on Hercules transports to top up supplies.
What would happen if the sun came out for a month?
Well try to imagine Dante’s inferno with slightly more empty Stella cans and burnt sausages and you’re on the right track.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Reason 1: MANFLU
There has been lots of speculation that manflu is just a regular cold that the male species fail to adequately deal with. This is not true. Manflu is on a par, if not worse than giving birth. Days and days of hurty head, sore throaty and a dodgy tum tum. It’s no joke I can tell you.
I’m still not over it but I’m being a very brave little soldier about it all. I’ve hardly moaned at all. The type of manflu I had was highly contagious. It was only a matter of time before the wife and kids got it too but as ever they escaped with a lesser version of what I had. This always happens and I think it’s because germs are like the military. Germs know that if they can topple the dominant force then the other family members will quickly fall into line. As I was the first resistance they encountered they threw their best troops in. I had to deal with the bug fighting-elite who carried a much bigger punch than riff raff light infantry viral ranks behind them. The rest of the family only had to deal with the bug reserves who didn’t really have much fight in them to start with. I deserve a medal really.
I’ve never been a sick person (accept when it comes to drowning kittens) but since the sprogs have arrived sleep and the recuperation time necessary to deal with any bug-ular unpleasantness have become one of lives luxury optional extras. My body it would seem has decided to sub-let my throat and chest to every viral nasty out there.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Tell that to Stephen Hawking and he’ll put a black hole in your face before quantum entangling your nads.
Reason 2: Mersey roots
The other reason I’m late with the new bog is because I’ve just discovered that my great, great, great grand parents were scousers. My new found laziness and penchant for nicking stuff is really eating up my spare time. I’m learning the language of my ancestors as well. Repeat after me:
Glaytt grandpappy kudunt nick carz coz dey addent been invented add dey, soez he ‘ad ta nick da shoez off hersez instead.
It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it.
I should have known I was part lay-about, why else would I instinctively leave the warm sunny south coast for the damp northwest and a town where the River Mersey runs straight through the middle…? But even before my slow journey homeward, as a kid I was forced to support Liverpool FC by my inner benefit cheat (cuz Leaver-pule are glaytt and Evertun arr clrap).
I’m not a complete lost cause though as I also have roots in the eastern block, which means I have a natural affinity with plumbing, electrics and cheap labour. So although my dole-scum in me wants to laze about watching Jeremy Kyle, my cabbage munching alternative heritage wants to fix things round the house while smelling of home made vodka.