Thursday 10th March 2011


Don’t, don’t, don’t mess my hair…

Such were the words I spoke to Shane this morning when he walked into the kitchen and ruffled my hair (Lie detector says you did not!) True, I didn’t. To begin with he didn’t ruffle my hair and the words weren't spoken, not by me anyway, they were sung by the lead singer of POTF as he launched into a track called 'don't mess with me.' 

Shane gave me a curt good morning before barking a demand for coffee followed by a command to turn off the bloody racket I was listening to, as he wanted peace and quiet with his breakfast. I turned the CD player off without hesitation.

Self and Daddy are not on good terms. I fell foul of him last night on account of serving up a dinner a starving tramp would reject. I must admit it was shite. I did roast pork, but left the joint in the oven for too long. It wasn’t burned as such, but it was, shall we say, a tad overdone and somewhat dry. To be honest it was like trying to carve an armadillo.  The knife all but buckled under the strain.

As I said the pork wasn’t burned, but the roast potatoes were. They looked like coals. They could have substituted for fossil fuel. Had a jeweller been handy he or she might have been able to utilise them as jet and make a range of fashionable jewellery. The gravy was horrible too, but at least it carved better than the pork. Daddies were not impressed.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it was a one off disaster, but it wasn’t. Tuesday night’s dinner was also an insult to good china, and if we move further back in time to Sunday, well, the chicken was a catastrophe. I’d completely mistimed it and it was all but raw towards the centre. No one noticed at first. It was only when Shane carved an extra slice that he noticed the meat was a little bit pink. Investigative probing with a knife confirmed that had a vet been on hand he could probably have resuscitated the bird. We all spent the rest of Sunday waiting for salmonella to strike.

Last night’s triple whammy was the last straw. I was summoned to appear before the judge who found me guilty of gross negligence and sentenced me to a severe paddling without benefit of jeans or underwear. Sentence was carried out immediately. Punishment concluded I was then put into solitary confinement. In other words I spent an uncomfortable night in the single room nursing my sore backside. I'm still a bit tender today.

It’s Lee’s fault. He got laid off from work towards the end of February and with time on his hands has been on his computer more. He got me into playing Call of Duty Black Ops, online multiplayer mode. Once I started shooting and stabbing all else fell out of focus. I became obsessed with the fucking game and consequently was neglectful of my own call of duty.

I’d wash up the breakfast pots and then leap in front of the computer to begin the day’s killing spree. Housework and cooking became something I did in between bursts of gunfire and with a marked lack of attention to detail. 

The game has now been uninstalled from the computer. It’s a relief. Shane banned it not only because he was angry with me for giving more time and attention to it than I did to my job, but also because he said he didn’t like the person I became when playing it.  He said it turned me into a foul mouthed, aggressive and unpleasant man whom he was ashamed to be associated with. Harsh words! Sadly, they're true.

I don't know why exactly but the game did not bring out the best in me. I'd lose my rag at the drop of a hat, hurling obscenities at the computer screen. I'm thankful none of my opponents could hear some of the names I called them, otherwise they'd have tracked me down in order to punch my lights out.

I put all my efforts into housework this morning, cleaning, polishing and making the house spick and span. I'm making lasagne for dinner tonight. I'll serve it with a nice green salad and some hot crusty herb bread. I'm also going to serve affogato for a dessert. I haven't made it for ages. It's a particular favourite with Shane. It's dead simple to make. It's basically vanilla ice cream drowned in hot black espresso coffee. I sprinkle it with shavings of good dark chocolate and serve it with almond biscuits. Hopefully if it all goes according to plan I'll be back in the Daddies good books and my arse will be safe from further retribution.

With one thing and a computer game I haven't spent a lot of time working on my Achilles memoir. I'm going to try and do a bit of writing this weekend.


Ciao for now.



Friday 11th March 2011


Been watching news coverage of the quake in Japan. My heart and prayers goes out to all those affected. The devastation is shocking. Tragedy on such a scale puts all else into perspective.

I'm ashamed to think I returned home from shopping earlier today absolutely seething because the woman at the checkout queried my age and asked for ID before she'd allow me to buy the bottle of wine I had in my basket. For some reason, even though the legal age of drinking is eighteen in the UK, most shops here now have a daft policy of refusing to sell alcohol to anyone who looks under the age of twenty-five. You have to show proof you're over eighteen. I was bloody livid. I had nothing on me so she wouldn't sell me it. I demanded an audience with the manager, but he backed her and I had to leave without the wine. I refuse to carry an ID card. I consider it to be an infringement of my personal freedom to be numbered and catalogued. Shane will just have to go without his favourite Merlot at dinner this evening.



Monday 28th March 2011


How the time does fly. Here we are pulling into the end of the month already.

Been busy with this and that around the house and gardens.

Yesterday was the final day for filling in the government census form or risk being fined. The annoying task fell to Shane. As Dick pointed out he is head of household so the job did fall within his jurisdiction.

Thereafter the rafters rang, as he demanded details regarding such onerous matters as income and religion. I wanted to join the thousands who claim Jedi as a religion, but Shane refused to put it down. I also demanded he put my income down as 'fucking laughable' but again he refused.

He put us all down as Christians, but I'm not so sure it was the right thing to do. After all the majority of so called Christians refuse to acknowledge us as human beings worthy of the same rights as everyone else. Some of the mean minded, cruel bastards would have gay people stoned to death and then go to bed with an easy conscience imagining they're good moral folk. Oooh, that sounded a bit bitter and angry didn't it.

I know not all Christians are anti-gay, but still, they support an organisation that contributes to, and helps justify, hate crimes against gay people all over the world, and all because of its archaic attitude to homosexuality. 

Oh well enough of religion and politics. I suppose I should go and do some work. I'm not much in the mood. The clocks went forward yesterday and it always throws me out of kilter with self and life in general. I'm grumpy, lets face it, today I am Mr Fucking Grumpy and Disagreeable!


Thursday 31st March 2011


I thought March was supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb? In this houseboy's parts the wind is roaring around like an entire pride of lions and by houseboy's parts I mean regional parts and not private parts, though to be honest wind has been known to roar around those too, but only after a hot curry or too many beans. Farting is such an embarrassing function and yet strangely satisfying. Anyway, I thought I'd take advantage of the outside wind this morning to wash some bedding and get it on the line. Yes, I know, how exciting is my life.

As I type I'm having a spot of lunch, a bacon sarnie slathered in Daddies tomato ketchup, Daddies being the brand name and not an indication it's the personal property of the men folk. They aren't so possessive as to go through the cupboards labelling items as belonging exclusively to them. That said Dick is apt to be a bit tight arsed when it comes to Bassets liquorice allsorts. He's been known to hide a packet in his sock drawer in an effort to keep Shane and I from getting our mitts on them. He always knows when one has been snaffled. Brand names are such strange things. I mean I wonder who thought up the name for the ketchup I squirted on my sarnie? I bet the person who coined it was involved in a D/b relationship and thought it an apt name for red sauce seeing as any sauce on his part probably resulted in a backside the colour of said red sauce. Thanks to me you'll probably never look at that brand name in the same way again. There's also a Daddies brown sauce available, but we won't bother looking at possible reasons for the naming of that particular condiment, mentioning farting is about as low as I want to go today.

Enough chuntering. I only popped in for a quick natter while I lunched. I'm off to the dentist for a check up this afternoon. I hate going to my dentist, he's a nice chap, but his hands are massive and he always insists on having a conversation while his fingers are just about blocking my airway. I can barely breathe let alone rely to his questions about the weather and where I'm going for my holidays.  Hairdressers and dentists must both do the same post grad course on 'small talk.'

APRIL 2011


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