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Sorry I'm late. Ned's wife had me fixing the toilet. Some people have no bowel control.
Talking of which the cows have got the runs. The vet has come out and dosed them all up, but the sheer liquid silage coming from them even makes Ned's wife gag, and she's got no nose to speak of.
Ned's wife seems to me to be the bane of my life. I'm quite happy living in my caravan and labouring for Ned, but his wife can deaden the spirits of Jehovah's witnesses. It was only the other week that she recovered from a boil on her ear the size of a Bramleys apple. She would intentionally walk past me, the smell of sweet manure wafting by, and allow her boil to hit me on the back of the head.
"Oops," she'd say before cackling like the witch she is. I'm not sure I need this kind of anguish in my life. A can of Kestrel and a large bag of chips and I'm happy, but even I have my limits.
My limits were nearly reached last week when Ned returned home to find his rotund and foisty wife cooking the remains of the dog. My dog to be precise. Of course, I shouldn't have thrown it on the compost heap - she fills most of her pies from there - and so the fault is partly my own. The old spanial had copped it running at full pelt through a doorway carrying a large stick that was just slightly too big for the gap. The resulting crack of the broken neck I could hear from the pig-pen. The agonised howl soon died away as Ned shot him twice - he'd hit the leg the first shot. Old Barney, my old faithful working-animal. I shall miss him as I'm not sure I have the money for a new one. I shall have to sell some of my old telephone boxes.
Well its nearly that time of the year when I have to spruce up the caravan, air the mattress and clean the sheets. You never can tell when that right woman is coming past in need of shelter and sex with a labourer. It happens quite often I'll have you know. Apart from the sex, of course.... Feel sorry for me as I am allergic to wool too.
But be that as it may, its as me old fatha used to say. "Keep tha pecker of yours to yourself, young un. I'll no pay for any bastards."
And ne'er a truer word spoken.
Thanks for paying your taxes.
Quite when I first realised I was unable and unwilling to give up possession of the Dalrymple Rubicon diamond is still open for debate.
Its that sort of first line that is bound to attract, nay entice viewers of any persuasion. You may, of course, think that it is convoluted and melodramatic and you are, of course, correct. But you see its not so much to do with the effects of melodrama, but the expectation that comes with it. The convolution is quite inescapable I have to admit. I digress. No I don't, I haven't started yet!
I am Indigo and I am....dramatic. At least that was the diagnosis meted out in numerous school reports. And I don't disagree, although blessed with a unique-ish name like Indigo. It takes a lot to get credence these days unless you're called Jack or Joshua or something equally banal and retro. Harking after a kind of cheeky chappy "Ere, guvnor, got a farthing for a starving boy, 'ave ya?" feel to it all. All very quaint, I'm sure.
My plot is not to take over the world, nor even to allow myself to become 'team leader' in the great scheme of things. My aim is to vent, to exhort about the ludicrous, devicive world that beats forever at my door. Out there, in that wildly infinite outside beyond my walls, everything is being kept from chaos by the slimmest of threads. Youths roam, young men in tracksuits attempt to steal everything you have and people treat each other with distaste and selfish agression. The people look at you, judge you. I think I may be agrophobic.
But, hey, I can always whinge impotantly about my life later. I can, instead, be useful and whinge at you about the things going on that you don't realise.
Like the records. Like the cameras. Like the informants networks. Ah, the pain.
But I don't want to scare you off so I think I will stop the flow for now.
Happy thoughts, friends!!! Please note the excaimation marks.
May I thank and thank again all those folks who, either willing or otherwise, contributed to the small but indelible pain in my neck. I mean, of course, the recent and awful election. 'What is your opinion' I hear you ask, and I shall reply with forked tongue that you ought to concentrate more.
Years ago I bled for British honour. I was in Greece on holiday and got into a fight with a German. I allowed him to thrash me within an inch of my life and, to my credit, he was arrested and still now resides at the whim of the Greek government. What I mean to say in such a convoluted and irreverent fashion that the Tory party, thrashed to within an inch of its life in this and the previous elections must finally admit that the end is nigh. Labour, or perhaps NewLabour (to pander desperately for a peerage) is dominant and, quite frankly, in control of their destiny. They also have a hold on the Great British public who have begun to ... believe what they are told ... much to the annoyance of people with brains.
Slowly and with as much ponderous humming as is naturally inappropriate the libs are creeping forward to take their place on the opposition front benches. Of course, its not going to be this decade, nor the next, but eventually the victorian attitudes of the tories shall be cast adrift from the political sphere where they will fester in a green solution similar to a dirty pond.
Thank you for allowing me to scrape the crud from my brainstem and smear it onto the toast of your consciousness.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The Prince, he marries!
Prince Charles is to wed the manly and thoroughly horse-like Camilla. I fear this time the world will not watch with breath baited or with celebrations enthusiastic. Why? Because, and Bunce assures me that the world does, in fact, continue to revolve outside the confines of the Emeritus Library, things just aren't as they used to be.
Such quaint abominations of literature aside, it reminds me with creased brow and furrowed buttocks, of the day our great Queen wed Philip. Ah, she looked like a movie star. Not a tear remained unshed by the beautiful and willing Lady Hydra. She sat at my side as Bunce senior manoevered the aerial for best reception - ah, the regal fortuitude of it all made even me consider the greatness of England....right up until the time I fell asleep in her lap!
Outside all the great unwashed rejoiced and fed each other inedible food in street celebrations of such colour and filth. It was a picture to behold, of course, despite Bunce's assurance that it was not and that it was "ghastly".
But I digress. Ah, no, Bunce assures me, yet again with the politeness of his station, that I do not and I congratulate him on his accuracy. And he hasn't even been to University. But I do now digress with certainty, for Cook has prepared a selection of fondant fancies. I will perhaps donate some to the Kirk. It needs all the fancies it can get. Catholicism getting all the press these days.
With absolute conviction I must away. The Thirkle Philosophical Society awards begin in an hour and I must away to prepare my speech. I intend to astound and admonish in equal amounts, although the poor fellow to whom I will be presenting the award will no doubt be disappointed with my rendition of a popular Lily Langtree ditty.
Remember the best way to world domination resides in posession of Australasia.
Au Revoir for I have been -- Lionel Rathbourne.
I can't be bothered. I seem to be having a crisis of concentration.
I love certain cheeses, but loathe all butters/margarines. Thats an inconsistancy and symbolic of my crisis. Oh, look, I'm back on the introspectic approach. But perhaps theres just a little too much "Introspection" (sorry about the quotes...got excited) in the world today. The problems with the youth of today are probably down to a crappy personal awareness issue early in life. Too early probably. Lock em up till they're 18, I say. Of course, I'd be forced to disagree with myself, but thats just another of those inconsistancies.
Enough. I quail.
Well, Lionel Rathbourne and friends will return, if anyone ever reads this.