Wednesday 5th April 2017

If any of my immediate neighbours are reading this I’d like to apologise for any ear splitting screeches and profuse bad language you might have heard coming from the quasi mansion this morning. Shane wasn’t attempting to butcher me using a plastic picnic knife and nor was Dick attempting to molest me with the freakishly big plantain I purchased on Monday, but only because I hid it away from his lustful eyes. I know my Dick and his kinky ways. It’s better to be safe than sore. No, the screeching and swearing was not of the men folk’s doing. It was all down to a stainless steel vinegar bottle top, which I managed to drop and then stand on at the pointy end. It would have posed no problem had I been wearing shoes or even socks, but I wasn’t, so it did. It hurt like a bastard.  I’ve got a bruise on the sole of my foot. Ouch!

Obviously such trauma required first aid in the form of a mug of soothing tea and a packet of choccy bics. With that in mind I put on a brew and got out the biscuit tin, only to find it devoid of choccy bics. I reckon I eat them in my sleep. All it contained was half a packet of fig rolls. Frig fig rolls! I don’t much like them even when they’re fresh, and these weren’t. They were stale enough to be used as domino tiles, and not by accident or careless housekeeping either. It’s the way Dick likes them. It all goes back to his perverted public schooldays when a stale fig roll smuggled into the dorm was the epitome of luxury. His education cost a packet of money and yet his school refused to provide a packet of decent biscuits to pass round. There was method in such cruel deprivation. It was all part and parcel of churning out the next generation of elites to rule over lesser mortals. Stale fig rolls posed no threat to all those stiff upper lips in the making; in fact you needed one to help break through the rock hard crust. Stale fig rolls were character building, unlike decadent chocolate biscuits. People like George Osborne and David Cameron cut their teeth on stale fig rolls, which might help explain why they’re such evil bastards. Punishing the poor is spiteful payback for all the stale fig rolls they had to endure while reading stories in the Daily Mail about the feckless working class having the audacity to give their kids chocolate biscuits. George and all his nasty Tory chums made it their mission to make sure the working class are so poor they can’t afford bread never mind biscuits. What a pile of twats and all because of stale fig rolls! Anyway, I spurned the friggers and settled for a mug of tea and a slice of toast smothered in lush Cadbury Crunchie chocolate spread. Needless to say, chocolate biscuits are number one on my shopping list today along with a new jar of CCCS. Living with well born posh folks has advantages and I might as well make the most of them before Theresa May brings in a law to have all low born plebs interned in camps for daring to enjoy ‘nice’ things instead of dying in the gutter.

Moving on. I have to say I pulled a doozy of a prank on April Fools’ Day, but I’m afraid the telling of the tale will have to wait as it’s past lunchtime and I’m promised to Eileen for garden centre duties. Bags of compost are waiting to be carted. Ta-ra for now my little fluff bunnies and thanks as always for your emails.

Tuesday 25th April 2017

Dear Diary,

The Tory Twat Party has called a snap General Election in the UK…NO! We’re not even going to go there, not today.

Easter has been and gone for another year. I did intend to pop in and wish readers a Happy Easter prior to the event, but then I started fretting about offending people who don’t celebrate Easter. Taking offence seems to be a big trend at the moment. People choose to be offended by so many things these days. It’s hard to keep up. You can’t comb your hair in a different direction without someone accusing you of cultural appropriation, and forget about taking the piss out of a mate in case someone overhears it and decides to be offended on behalf of the mate you’re joking with, even if your mate isn’t bothered at all. In Chechnya they’re so offended by gay people that they’re interning them in concentration camps and torturing and murdering them. Now that DOES offend me, as does the fact the world will stand by and let it happen without really giving a flying fuck, because you see, they’re just gays after all. What I’m saying is that people need to be offended by what is truly offensive rather than by things that don’t cause harm such as saying Happy Easter or Happy Christmas to someone without checking if they’re rabid Christians first. It’s just a greeting. It isn’t a bomb or a bullet or a fist in your face. With that in mind I think I’ll say a belated Happy Easter anyway - simply meaning best wishes to all, whether or not you’re religious. Thank you very much for the greetings sent to me featuring kittens and also a very grumpy Smurf robin. I’d like to think I look that cute even when I’m scowling and grumbling! Somehow I doubt it.

Easter was kind of hectic as we were hosting. If I wrote down every detail it would make a book in itself, and let’s be honest I’ve got enough outstanding books as it is. Instead, I thought I’d divvy up a random anecdote before returning to my day job as domestic paragon extraordinaire.

Turkey Trot -

Shane isn’t the biggest fan of turkey as celebration meat, so when I suggested we get a nice big free-range turkey for Easter Sunday lunch he turned his nose up and my suggestion down. In his opinion lamb was a more appropriate choice of meat for an Easter feast. I sarcastically said that watching Songs of Praise on a Sunday had obviously given him a pseudo sense of religiosity and if he wasn’t careful he’d be attempting to turn water into wine. He told me to put my lip to better use by partnering it with my tongue to order lamb from the butcher. I was a bit cross to be honest. We’d foregone turkey at Crimbo in favour of beef. I like turkey. To me nothing says festive quite like a roast turkey. I decided to embark on a subtle campaign to change his mind. At every opportunity I put my turkey tactics into operation. They took the form of humming a little turkey buck-buck tune under my breath while enacting a little turkey trot pumping my elbows and jutting my chin back and forth. I did it at breakfast time. I did it at dinnertime. I did it while entering or leaving any room Shane happened to be in. I even did it while getting ready for bed. Dick, bless him, nearly exploded trying not to laugh every time I started humming and trotting. Shane on the other hand was impervious, or so I thought until the evening I added a cheeky little back step and extra arse wiggle into my dance routine after serving coffee in the lounge. It was a provocative cheek too far. I almost shit myself as Shane’s cup hit the saucer with a clatter and he lunged for me. Man, can he move fast. I didn’t even make it out of the room. My turkey impression took a squawky vocal turn as he tucked me under his left arm and landed a powerful smack to my bottom. It stung, but still I couldn’t stop laughing and neither could Dick. I think he’d gotten as big a fright as I had when Shane suddenly made a grab for me. We were both hysterical. Even Shane couldn’t keep a straight face in the end. He conceded defeat and I got my way. We had turkey for Easter lunch and it was delicious, though Leo had to stick his nose in and say he would have preferred lamb. He also couldn’t resist making a comment about Shane still letting me rule the roost too much. At suppertime, by way of retaliation, I presented him with a frozen lamb chop instead of a turkey sandwich. His face was a picture.

We’re off to middle-earth this coming Bank Holiday weekend to venture into Mordor and the lair of the evil Sauron, or Penny’s house, as Shane prefers I call it. They didn’t visit at Easter because the old man isn’t really up to a long car journey at the moment. It’ll be the first time I’ve visited her house since February when I was there on loan. At least Penny wasn’t in residence most of the time, so it was slightly more bearable than it might have been.

At the risk of offending people who don’t celebrate Bank Holidays I’ll say ta-ra for now and have a nice May Day weekend.


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