Category Archives: Culture

Day fourteen: ‘Cracking job Scribbler’

The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for.  That tizzy being a day off work.  Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy!  The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller.  The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.

pg-28-wallace-and-grom-paI avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast.  Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker.  The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink.  The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure.  I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.

This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me.  It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp.  In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile.  I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?

You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.

I am the Scribbler.

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Day thirteen: In the shade of idiots

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That’s a big house.

So is that.

That’s a big house.

Ohhhh, look at that garden, that’s a big garden.

That’s a big house. No not that one- that one over there.

(points at big house over there)

We have been out for a walk in the chipper breeze today. We walked wrapped in wool, like two knitted people.  To cheat the cold we carried coffee, frothy coffee to be precise, a drink that takes liquid and turns it to cloud, a lickable but not very drinkable drink.  It was made at home, with a real take-away cup…The world really is changing.   How we smugly pranced past Costa-lotta Coffee, sipping our home-brew and  burning our lips.  We walked past some big houses too, I believe that is clear, and into the park.  There was a lady training her dog- I didn’t know what she was teaching it (and I couldn’t be 70% sure she was a she).  Her ramshackle face enhanced with a  5-o’clock shadow suggested it was best not to ask. It wasn’t 5 o’clock. This figure was also knitted, but it didn’t look as cosy, knitted with medieval wire I think.  She stood there and glared at young love…her eyes bitter, her tongue hanging out and drooling…I’m talking of the dog now, the Alsatian fixated on two scabby pigeons frolicking in the twigs above.

Perhaps this old goat (back to the woman) thought we were mimicking her due to our milky-lathered lips, albino-moose-tache, not imitating her foaming at the mouth pet, just her bristly upper lip (woman again not dog!). I say this as whilst casually observing, she refused to teach the dog new tricks in front of us.  Top secret training  in an open public space, crafty! Was it to juggle apples? To steal handbags? Could this dog do voices?…I would have loved to hear a Nelson Mandella impression, we all like to think we can do that don’t we?  Try:

In my country we go to prison first and then become President.
Nelson Mandela

Most likely  it was to turd on the path and camouflage it with leaves.  One will never know.  Further down our journey there was a Russel in the shade of the trees.  Well, I never actually asked for names, but several pensioners were hibernating having a flask of tea.  At least that’s what I hope they were doing: strange as there was plenty of picnic tables too choose from yet they decided to snuggle under the canopy of brambles and the undergrowth of weeds.

I don’t like that house.

That’s a shit house.

That’s a shit house.

That house is hideous.

We walked back a different way.

A pleasant enough afternoon in Northern England.

The sleet is now washing our cars and dampening the paths… gracefully descending like baby feathers… this will likely cause mass hysteria in the morning, I for one cannot wait, but my mind goes back to the pigeons in the sky. I wonder if they saw what trick the dog was up too?

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Day twelve: bad timing

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Two pints. Oh I am weak. Not even twelve days into January and water disguised as beer has parted my lips and walked on my tongue: bless me bloggers for I have sinned. I have many meagre excuses and stories of why, some involving Albino Hamster, some involving cat, mostly involving lack of will power and a hot & sour soup…all of which I am looking forward to sharing. My arms still ache due to Wednesdays Tabata, my eyes ache from writing to strangers, my ears ache from Ol’milky red eyes in its wheel. It appears to have gotten louder, the wheel that is, spinning out of control (like the tabloids chasing a celebrity pervert) it picks up momentum and only shows signs of gathering more pace….a noisy guest if ever I have had one.
…A question, whom or who or what/when/why was the noisiest guest you ever had the misfortune of inviting into your abode?

As it is Sunday tomorrow I will pray. I will pray for all the idiots in the world as there are many. I look forward to explaining my lack of will power and planning out some more mid-life crisis.

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Day eleven: Albino chilli red eye

I rubbed a finger in my eye.
Oh eye?
Oh aye!
Shortsighted I had fresh red chilli on my pointer. Longsightednessblindness now….ow! Who knows what I’ll tripe?

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So with red eye like my new visitor…the Albino hamster, chalk white with a weekend pass, we wonder what Saturday will hold. As he canters in his wheel, rut a tut tut tut, rut a tut tut tut…the nocturnal vermin tells me to sleep, this is his time…the night is young, the views are new… this wheel will NEVER get repetitive. Well hang on their fur purse, what about cat? He has never seen a hamster before, only an albino monk named Silas: he got right mad with him, so easy you little fair-haired Dwarf…

Russian…

…Hamster. Cats shits run the mill these days, no more constipation-she don’t want no aggravation.
There will be no bad-blood between these two fuzzy pets, so please readers do not fret.

As for Saturday, when I hope to awake, it will bring a yawn in bed and morning breath. I’ll stretch, I’ll scratch, cat will stretch and scratch, I guess the hamster might too…it’s Saturday for goodness sake, what else to do? The weather is planned chilli…just how I started today my blog , it’s almost gone full circle, like the hamster on the jog.

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Day nine: Flex

Just back from something called Tabata? Oh my Buddha! If I have not posted again for several days call someone, anyone will do, and tell them not to ever partake in Tabata. I don’t even know how you spell it, let alone know why people do it.
The only satisfying element was the realisation this mid-life crisis I have planned is timed just right. Forget fit as a butchers dog, I am as fit as a pork scratching, the butchers dog will gobble me up.
Lunge after press-up after squat after burpee after …I feel frail.

Would I have performed better wearing the tight vest that the old chap with vanishing sweaty hair wore? I doubt it. He was not Popeye. Ga ga ga.
But I need the spinach.

I’m off to slumber, I have ordered the crane to lift me in the morning.

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Day eight: Cats got a bite

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I was in a flap yesterday, not of the cat variety, how ironic that would have been. It was back to work ultramarine blues.  My full wrath of anger and bellyaching will come over the coming weeks, but not tonight: I am letting it swell into a mightier force, a tsunami of ill temper that I will unleash.  Remember this mid-life crisis comes early and it is planned.  No hasty decisions here.  Things on my agenda will include staffroom protocol… my blood boils.

I see the cat had a go yesterday instead of me, did a fair job too, perhaps we should form a coalition and scrawl together.  What do you think cat?… She’s not paying attention, she’s back on the hard stuff today. Biscuits that is, not heroine or smack but to her it’s probably just as good. Moments earlier the biscuits fell into her band-aid coloured bowl, it was a scene from a parachute drop in third world gratuity land – although with a cat and no helicopter, and due to personal preference as opposed to famine and desperation.

Snaffling and biting her way through the meaty atoms with aplomb she screams like a diva:

I-AMS a GO-CAT!

Yes you are.

***I had aspirations to blog everyday this year, but eight days in and already the cat is passing me a white flag purrrring for me to wave it aloft and have done with it.  The beers are doing exactly the same but so far I have been controlled.

I shall depart for the evening.  I am brewing a decaf tea for the other half, her new thing…

both cat and I will be on the look out for withdrawal symptoms.

What’s that cat? You’re passing her the white flag too?  Give her half a chance, she reads this.

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Day seven: The cat taketh over

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He made it then, my owner, made a big song & dance didn’t he?  Anyone would think it was him who had to lick his anus in the hope of jump-starting his bowel movements. He came in all a fluster not long ago, 6PM our time. Looked thoroughly pi hissed off, like someone had farted as he pulled up his socks, that sort of look.  I must admit it was nice to have the pair of them out of the house, they’ve been under my paws these past few weeks, three’s a crowd and when you’re ill you don’t want people encouraging you to take a shit every few minutes.  I can’t believe he’s been wasting time rambling writing scribbling about it on here to be honest, no wonder he was flipping-a-lid last night mumbling  ‘I’m not ready, I don’t wanna go back, I hate it, is it really Monday?  ARHHHHHHH!!! Where are my work pants?’ Pathetic really, I told him as much.

It’ll do them good to work, she went back too, earn honest money to pay for my dentures – which I presume I will receive in due course after having my chompers torn out last week.  I like licking my gums though, you know, where the holes are, kinda painful but kinda nice…you keep going back for more – like Pringles.

I thought about going outside to stretch the joints but just one look at the weather and my nipples went dense, as solid as brass buttons.   I ran a bath and had a long soak instead, thought, whilst the cats away this c…a…t      w…i…l…l    p…l…a……… that doesn’t make sense, must be the dope the vet has asked them to ‘hide’ in my food.  I didn’t even have a bath.

I did really.

I didn’t have bath.

Anyway, after my bath, he returned, looking thoroughly cream-crackered, I don’t know what it is he does but it does nothing for his sense of humour.  I begged for some biscuits, some crunch to work my jaw…
but he said I’m still not allowed.  bastard. I’ve sprayed all over his beer bottles as he lead me to believe he’s not drinking alcohol this month, so if he lapses, …..WHEN he lapses, justice will taste sweet (and the beer will taste of piss).

Considering I only have paws I think I may have done rather well here.  I’m going to log out as I have some hair to strategically place on the pillows and cushions and those trousers he is getting prepared for tomorrow.

Over and Me..owt.

P.S: I have attached a picture of me pre-op (not that sort of op!! har har) sat on the books that my owner was supposed to do something with but had ‘better’ things to do over his two weeks jollies,  like write to you lot.

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