Sunday 5th July 2015

Notes From A Harassed Houseboy:

What is it with Sunday morning TV presenters called Andrew, as in Andrew Marr and Andrew Neil? They must have a nationwide TWAT drive to dredge up the people who appear on their programmes. Some of the most bastardly fuckers on planet earth show their spiteful smug mugs on the Andrew shows. I said as much to Shane this morning. He promptly landed a slap to my arse and evicted me from the lounge, barring the door against me. He said I was not spoiling his Sunday morning enjoyment of politics and current affairs with one of my incoherent, nonsensical rants against people who happened to hold a different worldview to me. He told me to put sugar on my sour mood and sweeten it, or else he'd make sure I couldn't sit down for a week.

It’s true. I have been a bit sour of late. It’s Shane’s fault. He’s the one that insisted that Jakob, the Norwegian vegan, stay with us. I'd have stuck him in a Travelodge. I’m the one that has to deal with him on a domestic level. I swear to you, if he questions the vegetarian purity of the food I serve him one more time I’m going to gouge out his eyes with a melon baller and flick them into a pan of lentils, which I will then shove up his veggie arse with a brush shank.

He doesn’t just moan about food either. He moans about everything. It’s getting to the point where my hands twist into murderous claws at the sound of him speaking my name. I know a complaint is sure to follow.

‘Gillibran, what is that music you are listening to? I do not like it. It’s too loud. It is giving me a bad headache.’

‘Gillibran, the towels in my bathroom are not to my liking, please change them. I keep telling you, white towels only. I cannot use coloured towels, they give me a migraine.’

‘Gillibran, what did you use to wash my clothes? I do not like the smell.’

‘Gillibran, why is it so hot in here. I cannot sleep with this heat? Why is there no air conditioning, why do you English never have air conditioning?’

Regarding the latter complaint, I told fiord face to take up the matter with Shane. Dick and I would also like a bit of air conditioning in the summertime. Shane refuses to consider it. In his opinion, English summers aren’t hot or long enough to warrant the expense of installing air conditioning. If opening a window is good enough for Master Shane then it’s good enough for the rest of us.

Things just about boiled over on Friday when Jakob flung a hissy fit because he discovered black ants crawling on his bedroom windowsill. He didn’t appreciate my joke about them being company for him, seeing as he was an animal lover. Insects, apparently, do not count as animals. He does not like bugs, especially ants, they’re unhygienic and they can bite. Did I want them to bite him was that it? Had I let them in on purpose so they could bite him? Resisting an urge to slap his face and tell him to get a fucking grip, I sarkily offered to cover them in vegan chocolate and serve them as a dessert for having had the temerity to invade his room. He was not amused and went tale telling to Shane about my manner. I got a ticking off for upsetting a guest. A dusting of ant powder soon sorted out the pest problem, on the windowsill anyway.

If the meatless moaner doesn’t leave soon, this may well be my last ever entry, as I’ll be on trial for aggravated assault, if not actual murder.

I also had sharp words with beta Daddy Dick this morning. They were regarding the amount of antiperspirant he uses after showering. Walking into the bathroom after he’s been in and spraying is like being subjected to a mustard gas attack. You can’t breathe for the fumes. I mean for fuck’s sake, it’s not like his armpits leak a tsunami of sweat. People can die from inhaling antiperspirant. It’s dangerous. Shane’s just as bad. He sprays his pits with enough deodorant to fill a fucking lake. I told Dick that he and Shane should swap to the roll on variety instead of the spray variety. It would be safer for everyone concerned, but mainly for me as keeper and cleaner of the bathroom.  I was fucking sick of inhaling their second hand fumes into my lungs.

Dick swiped a hand at my rump and told me I was a crabby little bastard. I told him he’d be crabby if he had to deal with what I have to deal with on a daily basis: hordes of houseguests, ant hating vegetarians, being chucked out of my own lounge, and clouds of toxic fumes, needless toxic fumes. He pointed out that I might have time to stand around half-naked with my arms in the air waiting for roll on antiperspirant to dry enough to put a shirt on, but he and Shane had work to get out to most mornings. Huh, there’s always an excuse with Daddies!

Time to prepare tea. Fuck knows what I’m going to feed to Jakob. I wonder if a grass sandwich will suit him if I pick all the snails and bugs out of it first.

Ciao for now, Peeps, and as ever, ta ever so much for your nice emails.

Wednesday 22nd July 2015

Hello, houseboy fans, ‘tis I, popping in to christen a page with chit and chat while I polish of a mug of morning coffee and a nice slice of Eileen’s yummy lemon cake.

Life has pretty much returned to normal after a period of hectic activity. The quasi mansion is a guest free zone once more and amen to that. I was knackered for a while there. It’s hard work catering to guests in the home. I always feel responsible for their every need from the practical to the emotional. Jakob has gone back to his fiord, thank heavens. What a pain in the arse he is. Dick reckons he and I don’t get on because we have similar personalities, or as he put it - you’re both high maintenance, petulant, attention-seeking brats. I reject his hurtful allegation. I am nothing like Jakob. I’m much younger and prettier for a start.

Anyhow, like I said, life has pretty much returned to normal. Though there was an ‘incident’ a week or so ago, let’s call it the ‘snail affair.’ I was, on reflection, a bit naughty. I would try to explain, but I don’t have much time today. ZZ Top, the garden handyman, is due to land soon with his strimmer in hand. I like to be on scene to ‘supervise’ him. ZZ Top isn’t his real name by the way. I call him that because he’s got one of those long straggly beards and wears shades pretty much 24/7. He looks like a reject from a ZZ Top tribute act. Obviously I don’t call him ZZ to his face. I’m a polite houseboy I am and besides, he’s quite big and burly. He wouldn’t look out of place in a bear booth at a BDSM fair. I suspect him of a secret past with a drug dealing biker gang. His brief is to keep the lawns in good order, but he’s not above interfering at a border level so to speak. It’s bad enough that Shane commissioned him to muscle in on my territory and take over lawn care duties. I won’t have him dallying with my dahlias and taking credit for them. Me, a possessive little bastard? Never! I do keep the greenhouses locked when he’s around though. I don’t want him handling my cucumbers. He thinks he’s Alan Titchmarsh. I wish. He could handle my cucumbers no problem if he was Alan Titchmarsh.

Coffee done. Cake finished. Time to go watch out for ZZT. I like to catch him as he arrives. I think it unnerves him to see me hovering on the drive. I shall return soon with details of the snail affair. Watch this space, Peeps!


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