Friday 22nd June 2018

It’s midsummer already, the longest day has been and gone and the slow descent into winter begins. It’s been a bit gloomy and cold in my portion of Blighty, and in more ways than one. I popped in to have a bit of a moan about it all, but to be honest I can’t even be arsed to do that. If you want an inkling of how I’m feeling then click on the vid. It says it all and more eloquently than I could ever manage. Other than that I want to thank folk for all emails received. The links are fixed, from my end anyway. I have no idea what went wrong. I suspect it might be the host’s way of reminding me that site fees are due and if I don’t pay up on time they have ways of taking me down. So, ta-ra for now and I hope your life is less Nick Cage than mine at the moment!

PS - just to be clear - this houseboy has never punched a woman in his life and does not condone such behaviour, not even when psychotically deranged and dressed as a bear. It’s just not on, Nick.

Update - Video content removed, as it seemed to upset several peeps. Apologies to all offended. Hey-ho, I thought it was hilarious, but not everyone agreed. Some days you just want to scream and kick out at the frustrations of life and no one screams better or more loudly than Nick Cage in OTT mode.

Saturday 23rd June 2018

The national TV weather bods get on my tits. They bleat on about hot weather and glorious sunshine, but they only allude to the weather in the south of the country. They toss in a brief mention of Scotland and omit any mention of the northern kingdom in England, where its cloud covered and chilly, again! The north doesn’t exist in the eyes of the Government (don’t get me started) and has been wiped off the national weather map. What are we, invisible? Do the powers down south think we’re some kind of Brigadoon, appearing only once every hundred years? It was so cold this morning when I got up that I let loose with a crafty burst of heating, but don’t tell Shane. He doesn’t believe in heating, not in June. Heating in summer is a no-no in our house. If you’re cold put a jumper on, or listen to the national weather forecast and imagine you live down south.

Well, what a hullabaloo about Nick Cage eh? It’s funny how what’s funny to one person isn’t funny to another.  I suppose that’s the downside of the WWW, it puts us in touch not only with those who have similar tastes, but those who have different tastes. I was a tad taken aback by the rapid handful of negative responses I got. I still think the compilation was hysterically funny, a perfect pastiche of how I’ve been feeling. There was no dark message, honest. Nick’s mad shenanigans also reminded me of the trick I used to pull when I was a kid - rolling around screaming while pretending to be on fire. It used to crack my mates up, but when I think about it, most adult victims tended to go into shock and didn’t think it amusing at all. Maybe that’s the point? I still have a juvenile sense of humour, and not always in the best possible taste. There was no intent to worry, upset or offend anyone, hence the take down out of respect for readers who were grossed out rather than entertained. If you really want to view the video then just Google Nick Cage Losing His Shit, or watch his remake of The Wicker Man, which is completely mental and has to be one of the worst films ever made. It’s a comedy by default. He spends much of the film screaming stuff like: ‘how’d it get burned. How’d it get burned? No, not the bees, not the bees, aaahhh, my eyes.’ And who could forget the classic ‘Step away from the bike.’

Anyway, moving on. Life, as hinted at, has been downsy in places. To steal a quote from The History Boys film, in relation to history, but also applies to life: ‘it’s just one fucking thing after another.’

We had a great holiday towards the end of May. The destination was to be my choice, in respect of my birthday in June. I initially chose Las Vegas, but it was vetoed because Shane didn’t think LV was the right destination for a person prone to brain fizz. (Too many bright lights.) We ended up in 'tame' Malta. I wasn’t over enthused to start with, but ended up enjoying it a lot. It’s a beautiful place. It has sun, beaches, history, etc, etc. We had a wonderful time exploring. It was, did I but know it, the calm before a storm. On the flight home I started experiencing an uncomfortable sensation in my left eye, the one damaged a few years back after a run in with a hawthorn bush. I thought it might be down to tiredness and didn’t think much of it. Once home the discomfort got worse to the point where I couldn’t sleep for the pain. (Aaahhh, my eyes, my eyes!) I ended up at the eye hospital where I was diagnosed with uveitis, not uncommon in cases of previous eye injury. Fine, lets get it treated. The treatment, steroid eye drops, had an unfortunate side effect in my case. They increased my eye pressure almost immediately, which can be a bad thing. I was prescribed another set of eye drops to bring it down. I was really worried by the pressure thing, imagining my eye bursting like an overripe grape. At one point I seemed to be spending most of the day splashing various drops into my eye. It still feels kind of draggy and blurry from time to time, but is getting better.

ZZ is still AWOL. He’s lingering in Scotland bonding with his grandson. Loath as I am to admit it, I miss his help, as well as his grumpy know it all company. To make matters worse he keeps sending photos and vids of grandbaby ZZ and also of his son’s garden while boasting how good it looks due to his labours. He’s clearly enjoying his protracted holiday. I’m glad he’s having fun with his family, but I can’t help but blame him for some shit I landed in. If he’d been where he was supposed to be then it wouldn’t have happened.

Shane insisted I get someone in to cover for ZZ while he played happy families. I did as instructed, but not in a way approved of by the housemaster. I fell foul of a guy who approached me while I was labouring in the front garden one morning weeding the flowerbeds. He started a chat, confiding he needed cash and was willing to work for it. Could I help an honest guy down on his luck? Did I have any odd jobs he could do? Did I ever!  He seemed like an answer to a prayer, the help I needed without the bother of advertising. I felt like a Good Samaritan, as I set him to work mowing the front lawns and edging the borders, while I did the same in the back garden. To complete my Sainthood I decided a break was in order and went to offer my helper a good lunch. Only he was gone, taking my tablet from the hall table with him, along with an expensive clock from the lounge. He’d also nipped upstairs. My wallet lay empty on the bed, cleared of notes and cards.  He pinched Dick’s gold watch from a drawer and a set of gold cufflinks and a tie bar belonging to Shane, plus a wad of his cash and a Mason’s gold signet ring. All he could grab and carry in a hurry I suppose. To make matters worse, he hadn’t even trimmed the grass or edged a border before fucking off. The shit hit the fan that day folks! 

Shane was livid, and we are talking technicolor ape shit LIVID, when I fessed up to more or less handing a sneak thief free access to the quasi mansion. I can’t say Dick was pleased either. He hardly ever wore the watch, but it had been a gift from his grandparents on graduating university and was therefore special for more than its gold content. I felt so bad about it all, I could barely function for days afterwards. It wasn’t just the thefts that upset me, or the trouble I was in. It was the fact the guy played me for a patsy. Just thinking about it makes me want to indulge in a bout of Nick Cage style hysterics. There is no insurance policy on earth that covers you for injured pride. I felt like a total FOOL. How had I been taken in so easily? Why hadn’t I kept the front door locked? Why hadn’t I checked on him more often, and so on and so on? I further worked myself into a state by indulging in a fruitless search of pawnbroker’s windows in the hope of spotting the watch, clock, ring and cufflinks. As Shane pointed out, no thief with half a brain cell would pawn items in the same locality they were stolen from. They would be sold to private buyers or pawned elsewhere. I had to accept I had fucked up and the stuff was gone for good. He punished me for my lack of sense and good judgement, and that was supposed to be the end of the matter, line drawn, but I still feel upset at being duped so easily. Talk about being suckered.  I wish the bastard had only nicked my stuff.

A weeklong visit from Penny and the muppet added to my general misery. I don’t mind Charles, okay, I still don’t understand a word he says, but we get along fine on smiles and cups of tea. We’ve even been known to chill around the garden together. Penny is another matter. Having her in the house feels like I’m under Madam Guillotine just waiting for the blade to fall. She looks for any excuse to have a go at me, including accusing me of sitting on her reading specs on purpose. She leaves the bloody things all over the place, how was I to know they were on the sofa seat I plonked my arse on after grafting away at making and clearing away dinner one evening. The dark frames blended in with the leather seat. I didn’t notice them. She went mad, said I’d done it on purpose to upset her and demanded I pay for replacement glasses. They say it’s a feather that finally sinks an overloaded boat. I lost my rag, calling her a barmy cow. I said I’d be happy to buy her another pair of reading specs - from the pound shop! Shane gave me a good telling off for calling her a barmy cow. To be fair he also reprimanded her for saying I’d sat on her specs on purpose when it was clearly an accident. We maintained an uneasy truce for the rest of her visit. To be honest, I often fantasise about punching her in the face. She’s a horrible woman and my enemy unto death. When she left I did my usual happy dance.

As a final insult, I got fleas, or at least fleabites, courtesy of Eileen’s demon moggy, Horace. My lower limbs were covered in uncomfortable itchy red bumps. It was hell. My hands suffered many a Daddy slap when they indulged in frenzied scratching to the point of drawing blood. I tried everything from antihistamines to packs of frozen peas in an effort to calm and cool the bites. Fleas are EVIL! I reckon Horace had them specially trained to attack me. Bad cat! Poor Eileen was horrified by fleagate. She’s since upgraded Horace’s flea treatment and had her house thoroughly sprayed to kill off any lingering predators.

So, there we go, the houseboy’s ‘cool’ summer so far. I’ve had eye problems, invited a thief into the house, had a run in with the Midlands Witch, caught fleas and am still managing the gardens by myself. Add to that a misjudged video update and I think it fair to say I’m looking forward to autumn. Ciao for now!


Make a free website with Yola