Monday 26th September 2016


Notes from a Small Houseboy
(Yep, you guessed it, I’ve been lazing in the summerhouse re-reading my Bill Bryson books. My scribblings are nowhere near as brilliant as his, but never mind, they’re better than nothing.)

Sweet Note:
Found a single Oreo biscuit on the drive yesterday morning. I often find odd things on the drive. I once found a pair of shit filled underpants, but never a biscuit before. I have no clue how it got there. Perhaps it escaped from a full packet intending to seek fame and fortune on its own, much like the winkle I found on the bus that time? Who knows? Personally I don’t like Oreos. They are not my biccy of choice. Still, I felt sorry for the lonesome Oreo, lying forlorn in the early morning light. It had made a bid for freedom, only to end up stranded on the drive of three blokes who didn’t like Oreos. Picking it up I cradled it in my hands and spoke to it softly, asking where it came from and what it wanted from life. It said nothing, thank God. I’d have fainted on the spot if it had answered me back. I shoved it in my pocket to feed to Milly, our neighbour’s mentally unstable pooch. She’ll eat anything from fox shit to seeds put out for birds. She once ate a tea towel emblazoned with recipes for various sweet pastries. Maybe she was hoping to shit out a perfectly formed frangipane tart?

Talking of tarts, The Great British Bake Off is back on telly. It’s really grown on me over the years. I love it. Dick and Shane pretend not to be interested, but they’re lying to themselves. Shane took a phone call during last week’s episode and as soon as he came back in the lounge he demanded to know the outcome of the technical bake. I’m keeping a close eye on Dick, he’s a tad too impressed with Selasi for my tastes, and we’re not talking baking skills here. I like Tom because he’s a bit adventurous with his flavours, but they don’t always work out well, so I empathise with him. I was toying with the idea of applying to take part in the next series, but not now Channel 4 has poached it from the BBC. Shame on you C4. How dare you diddle the Beeb out of a hit show? You utter bastards.  As a result Sue, Mel and Mary Berry have decided to bow out. It won’t be the same without them. I was looking forward to sharing a bit of banter and innuendo with Sue and Mel while discussing soggy bottoms with Mary and competing for a Paul Hollywood (old twinkly eyes) handshake of approval.

Gardening Note:
The front lawn is looking pristine once again with no fungus marring its lush green beauty. I’d like to say its down to hard work and perseverance on my part, but to be honest its mainly down to a bout of rampant bad temper. I tried everything to clear the fungus up, from the organic to the chemical, but nothing worked. Shane said I was making a big fuss about nothing and the lawn didn’t look anywhere near as bad as I said it did. ZZ didn’t help. He said he reckoned frost would kill the fungus off over the winter. Yeah, whatever! Matters came to a head one sunny morning when I awoke to find the lawn looking even more distressed than usual. My lovely lawn was being slowly choked to death by an invading alien. I took vengeance on the evil fungus with a lawn edger, hacking and slashing like a maniac. By the time I’d finished the front lawn looked like a gang of marauding renegade moles had attacked it. Of course I kept my loss of temper a secret from the men folk. I didn’t want to put my cute arse in the danger zone. I claimed to have had words with the mighty Monty Don who had told me the only cure for the fungus blight was to dig up the old lawn and lay a new one. So be it. The Don had spoken. We were having a new lawn, at my own expense if necessary. I was sternly reprimanded and bottom slapped for starting such a big project without permission. However, given the fact I’d already ‘started the work’ Shane had no choice but to give the go ahead. On the down side he insisted on employing a company to supply and lay the turf. He reckoned the work would be too heavy for me, even if ZZ helped. I suppose they did do it far faster than I could have done. I was a dab hand with the hose afterwards though. I was out there morning and evening sprinkling and splashing to keep the new turf fresh and help it establish.

Cat Note:
Regarding Horace, Eileen’s demon mog. I think he might be warming to me at last. Twice last week he allowed me to walk past him without slashing at my ankles with his super sharp claws. If this mellowing continues he might even let me stroke his head without growling like a cornered panther, leaving me in fear of my life. Eileen has said all along that it’s nothing personal, he just doesn’t trust men in general. He was abused by a couple of lads when he was a youngster. The cruel bastards used him as a football. Hearing his story made me forgive him a lot of things. I don’t want to sound extreme or anything, but I think people who mistreat animals should be drowned in a vat of rancid horse piss and then their bodies used as railway sleepers.

Nutter On The Bus Note:
Had a scary incident on a bus a few weeks back. It was packed and I was standing. A woman, also standing, took against me and began baying a slurry of vile insults in my face and shoving at me before threatening to bite off my nose. Yes, seriously, she actually threatened to bite the nose off my face. She was clearly mentally ill, probably schizophrenic. She’d been muttering and mumbling to herself since boarding the bus. I tried to placate her, but she just got nastier and nastier, screaming that I was going to hell for being queer while stabbing a vicious finger in my chest. I was terrified to be honest and angry too. My base instinct was to punch her in the mouth and call her a mad cunt. I didn’t of course. She couldn’t help being ill. I just got off the bus well before my stop. What upset me most was that no one helped. No one tried to intervene, least of all the bus driver. I’m guessing most people were just relieved she hadn’t chosen them to attack. I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t follow me off the bus. My own feeling is that the driver should have radioed the police. The woman needed help and the public needed safeguarding from her. I was shaken and upset for days afterwards and kept dwelling on it. Why did she pick me and how did she know I was gay? Was it the way I walked, the way I stood, the way I parted my hair? Dick solved the mystery and gave me comfort by gently pointing out I had a Pride badge pinned on the lapel of my jacket. It’s been there for so long I didn’t even notice it anymore. Shane has always said it’s good to be yourself and to own who you are, but that doesn’t mean you have to advertise who you are to all and sundry. I took the badge off.

Dinner Note:
Served a duff dinner on Friday night, according to the House Masters at least. I made a pea and lemon risotto and served it with salad and crusty bread. Shane was aghast at being served rice without meat. Honest. You should have seen his face. Hell hath no fury like a carnivore denied. He claimed risotto is only good if its stuffed full of chicken chunks. He also claimed the salad was soggy, which to be fair it was. It was one of those pre-mixed, pre-washed bagged efforts and most of the washing water seemed to have been left in the bag. You could have wrung the lettuce out. Shane accused me of serving a slap dash meal and reckoned I must have been out wasting time all day instead of working. I adopted my wounded houseboy demeanour and denied it, but he was right. I’d been out gallivanting with Rob. He wants a new sofa and we just about scoured every furniture shop in the land. It was an arse-parking marathon. I have never sat on so many different couches. We still didn’t find one he liked. He’s fussy.

Naughty Note:
One evening last week, Dick and Shane were giving off vibes that suggested a discussion was pending. I decided to give them the space they needed and cleared out for a walk. I don’t like it when Alpha and Beta are out of synch with each other. It makes me tense. Anyway, I’d walked a fair distance when I got a text from Dick that said, ‘come home, baby, everything’s fine.’ So with lighter heart I headed home. The nights are beginning to draw in now and it was getting dark as I wended my way back to the quasi mansion. Lights were beginning to go on in houses and that’s when I saw it, in the window of a bungalow, a huge glass anal dildo. I kid you not it was massive. I stood, arrested by the vision. Who the fuck had the audacity to display such a humungous sex toy for all to see? Then it lit up and I realised it was a lamp. The owner probably lives a nice vanilla lifestyle and has no idea her fancy glass ‘mushroom style’ lamp looks like a massive butt plug. She probably doesn’t even know what a butt plug is. I continued my journey home, making a mental note never to tell Dick about the lamp butt plug. If he caught sight of it, God knows what would happen. I didn’t want him getting arrested for breaking, entering and sexually molesting a household object.

Random Note:
Christmas stuff is in the shops, right now, in September. Fuck off! It’s too early.

Signing Off Note:
That’s it, diary duty done. Ciao for now, Peeps. I’ve got dust bunnies to chase and a prime piece of cow carcass to roast. Personally I could go vegetarian, but the men folk couldn’t. They’re meat lovers and sausage munchers to a man. What can you do?


Tuesday 27th September 2016

I’m multitasking at the moment. I’m eating a beef and horseradish sarnie while reading the news, typing, and also mentally planning what to make for dinner tonight. Regarding the news. Is it just me or does anyone else think Jeremy Corbyn would be a credible choice to play Pennywise in a remake of Stephen King’s IT? There’s something about the guy that gives me the creeps. He reminds me of a great big sly spider just waiting to pounce. In case you’re wondering, as things stand, I don’t like him and I don’t trust him and I could never bring myself to vote for him. I think he’s a power seeker out to feed his own monumental ego. He’s the final nail in the coffin lid of what was once the Labour Party. Blair started the rot and Corbyn is going to finish it. Thanks to the Corduroy Trotskyite we’re likely to have the evil Tories in power for the foreseeable future. The NHS will collapse and the poor, unemployed and disabled will be thrown to the gutter and all because of Jezza tearing Labour apart with his Stalinist antics.  Sheesh, listen to me, I must be getting old, talking politics or should that be bollocks? Anyway, moving on.

I’m looking forward to the weekend. It’s my turn for a few days away with Shane, just the two of us. We’re off to Bard country, Stratford Upon Avon, so I hope the weather is fair, not that I’ll mind if it isn’t as long as we share some quality time together. It’s overdue.

I’ll leave you with a thought. Cheek bites. What are they all about, eh? I keep doing it lately, and it hurts. I’ve just done it now and it’s put me off my sandwich. See, that’s what comes of multitasking, it leads to careless chewing. Don’t do it, Peeps. If you want to chew then chew, if you want to type then type, but don’t chew and type. It leads nowhere good.


 

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