When I walk to the garage I prefer to walk on the adverse side. The puddles are fewer and I can see what’s coming. Plus, it’s only right and proper.

Today is NYE and I have wished everyone a HNY and all that cack. Good for me that I keep my eyes open. I saw the fag-end coming out of the car and I nutmegged it.

For those who do not care a whistling fart about foopball this is where the ball goes between the legs of a defender. How I know this I’m not sure but I sure did see the fag-end and, no, it did not hit me. It wouldn’t really have done me any damage, even if it had, but at least it prevented the scummers in the car shouting ‘GOAL’ or something stupid like that.

So today is NYE. I’ve tried to be nice for once and then this happens. I’ve found out some very interesting things which might explain how odd I am. You wait until my brother comes back from Egypt and then there will be some talking to do.

Throwing lit fag-ends at me as I walk along is not so very bloody funny at all. I wish the carful all that they so richly deserve for the coming year.

In the meantime, may I wish my readers a very happy 2010 and send my love and gratitude to each and every one.

Have a good one.

Love,
H.

I have been learning a lot. I spent 11 years at school looking out of the window and I don’t think that I learned a single thing. I am an auto-didact and everything that I now know I have picked up for myself. University? No way. I find it hard to be interested in anything for 3 weeks, let alone 3 years. My mind doesn’t work like that and, with exception of boating (which is life-long) I have always stuck to the same regime; things are interesting until they become uninteresting. I’ll do the Times crozzy for a while and then I won’t buy a newspaper for 3 years.

Then I met the Compaq lappytoppy. Hmmmmm. Not having an 8 year old technical supporter I realised that I would have to do all this myself AND I’m getting there. No one here to help me but I did have the usual boatmanly tools of brute-force and ignorance. Once you have these, there is very little that can get in the way. If all else fails use bloody great nails.

The Compaq will die before I do and it had better realise the fact.

As regards the neighbours…
Upstairs I have the Creeper and his mates. It does kick off but only once in a while (although I must admit that the water coming through my bathroom light was a bit strong).

Next door I have another neighbour. He’s the one with a dog the size of a Shetland pony.
One night the Creeper and his mates were having a noisy party and at about 02:00 the doorbell rang. Outside was dog-bloke and he was actually shimmering with rage. I just shrugged and pointed upstairs to where the Creeper lives. What can you do? Dog-bloke turned on his heel and went.

Next day I felt a bit cross so I rang his bell…
“I’d rather that you didn’t ring my bell at 02:00 and give me the evils”
“Well, I said sorry”
And with that he shut the door in my face.

All well and good BUT no, he did NOT say fucking sorry; he didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t say anything to the Creeper because I would have heard it.

This morning I was loafing about kicking ice off the puddles and attending to my Parishional Nuisencical duties. I started to wonder why Dog-bloke hates me so much. And then I had it. He doesn’t like me because he has to go to work yet I do not.

That must really irk him.

To him, I must look perfectly normal. To him I must look like some workshy benefit scrounger but I’ve seen pools of blood that would make him spew. He might think he’s hard but the shouts that I’ve been on would make him wee his panties.

Now all I have to do is make the Compaq see sense and, maybe, we’ll all be happy.

I’m no longer in the mood for the ‘C’ word. In fact it makes me angry to hear it or even see it written. No, I’m not talking about Christmas, I’m talking about something far, far worse; that’s right! C***luters.

Well, what happened was is that I bent the familial ‘no presents’ treaty and I thought I might try to drag my Mother into the 21st C. by buying her a ‘C’ word. She could e-mail and look at prawnography; that sort of thing. I bought a Compaq lappytoppy and got charged the wrong price for it which saved me a lot of money. I am therefore reluctant to take it back - in fact I won’t.

It’s very nice, shiny, shiny, and so, when she invited me for a post-festivalian lunch I revealed the wretched thing. It works off Windows 7 (whatever that might be) and we got it all plugged in and fired-up. Oh dear, it hasn’t got a mouse (which she has used before at my sister’s) and the loudest I could get it to go was barely audible, to her, as she is a tad Mutt and Jeff. Also, she has no ISP so she couldn’t use it for anything much. She thought that the screen was nice and clear though and started rubbing her fingers on it.

I made the Oliver Hardy face.

Now my electronical, candle-powered, telly typewriter on which I bang out this message in a bottle is about 7 years old, runs on Windows XP and, frankly, belongs in a museum.

Sometimes decisions have to be made, difficult though they may be. I took the sorry ensemble home with me (and the robdog cabby charged me 12 quids for the pleasure - it was only a Saturday).

I spent a great deal of Sunday on the phone to Mumbai - 8 calls, something like that - but whenever I got to a difficult bit like, ‘How do I make this work?’ the line mysteriously disconnected.

So.
I have a c***luter that should be on the Antiques Roadshow but which works. It is connected to the router by a yellow cable. I can unplug the cable and plug it into the lappy but the lappy is not AO Hellified and all I want it to do is BE THE SAME so that I can use it.

Thinking caps on, please.

In the box, and it’s an ammo box, goes a birthday card, some weird minihighlighters (although I’m, not sure about them. because they smell), an eraser and sharpener set, a pen, a crazy kite, sticky notes and a notebook.

This is where the problems arise. Will it get blown up? My printer is blown so I can’t put anything inside but what would be the point in that? There isn’t much point in sticking a sticker on the outside, come to that.

Yes, I did swear that I would not put the heating on.

However, the sub-Arctic nature of the weather made me rethink.

The half-hour of heating of last year was but a test to see if it all still worked. This year, as I sat in my many layers, I did start to wonder a bit. What if a pipe split?

There is a difference between ‘accept’ and ‘inure’.

So, using my skillful skills I set the heating going. As a boatman there are things that have to be done. My fingers got burned but I still got things going. Consequence: No pipes split (as yet), and I feel a tad warmer.

My resolution to turn my back on the Festival has now slipped and I feel bad about that but today is the shortest day of the year.

One day I shall tidy up this slum and get back to painting and writing. But, today, I gave in.

But, just for today, I gave in.

Sometimes I think I must have gone a bit bonkers.

At the just about end of the film, which I saw again the other day (SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!) is a lovely quote.

Replicant Roy knows that he has to die; it is built into him but he doesn’t know when.

Is the Blade Runner, himself, a Replicant? He has fallen in love with a Replicant but none of us knows what is around the corner.

A great film. Don’t miss it.

No, it’s not all that cold here, but I refuse to put the heating on.
Have you seen the size of a gas bill of late?
My cunning plan is to use the layering technique.

I have my jim-jam trousers underneath my jeans and, should it get much colder, I shall find another jumper and build up my top layers from three to four.

My cycle gloves from the boat are a boon and I have a hat, fleeces, and a couple of puffa jackets.

Call me stubborn and you would be right. I have two duvets and a blanket on my bed but I will NOT have the heating on; I would rather freeze to death.

I have been reading about Scott and Shackleton and I would rather that they thought me no weakling. I mean, it’s not exactly minus 40 in my Parish. Yet.

It is a bit chilly but I prefer cold weather to hot and, if push comes to shove, I shall use newspaper, much like a Harold Ramp, to keep the frost off.

It is nearly the shortest day of the year and the weather should start to warm. The hypothermics who used to live downstairs must have moved out and that’s a shame because, as sure as the sparks fly upwards, so did their heat.

Never mind. I am the greenest of Green and my carbon-footprint must be virtually nil.

Layers are the secret plus a bit of swig and to not break any more of my ribs which I did, yet again, the other day.

Go on, wear more jumpers until you look like Bibendum.

Compliments of the season,
Frosty the Snowman.

This morning I got a telephone call from a certain police station.
Apparently my report of an offence had been written off.

‘Nah, leave it, H., it’s not worf it!’

Oh really? Well we shall see about that.
See, I am rather Old School and, as trivial as this offence may seem to some, it actually means something to me. Once the rot sets in it can only get worse.

I reminded the person who had the hard luck to phone me that the government’s intention is that if anyone reports an offence they should be visited and so on.

They can come round anytime they like. Yes, I will give a statement. Yes, I will go to court if I have to. Seeing as how I have already provided all the evidence they need the ripe smell of ‘Can’t be bothered’ came wafting down the line.

He said he would send them (Bone-Idle squad up North) a fax saying that I was not dropping anything and that I suggested that they had better get a move on before the Crimbo holidays started.

A fax? What’s that?

He would have been better off beating something out on his trusty Remington and sending it on the first steam train headed for the Midlands.

Honestly, these days we have COMPLUTERS and they work a bit better. What I suspect is that he was trying to was build the Friday into the holiday and fob me off. But I don’t get fobbed off. What I get is annoyed when people who are paid to do a job don’t just get on with it.

Anyway, that’s for another day.

In a recent blog, Rick informed that the Roman God of Farting was one Crepitus.
I shook my head because I knew that I was right. I just knew it. And guess what? We both were, in our ways.

Thank you for the card, Trouty. I wish you all the best and hope you have a good one and that there isn’t too much snow around you. I hear that Kent took quite a hammering.

Happy whatever you believe in,
H.

My pursuit of Mr Shit has to continue.
I have done just about all that I can think of but I won’t give up.
It really is quite amazing what you can find on the interweb and, having read the whole thing over, twice, I’m getting a bit better at it.

The trouble for Mr Shit is that he is nailed. A lot of information is there, in the open, so I now have sat. photos of where he is, I know who his ISP is, I know his first name and I know that he has been busted from other sites for sending offensive messages.

Now then, I am old and grey and I probably know some ruder words than he seems to.
I swear a lot on my blog but that’s only about Tony Bliar.

I have done my best but keep bumping into the Data Protection Act. However, never mind about that because it is now in the hands of the police. What they do with the information that I have passed on is up to them but I wasn’t a copper for nothing.

The more information that you can provide then the tighter the net closes.

Happy holidays to all and, especially, those in The Job. May it be a quiet one.

Love,
H.

As everybody well knows, I am allergic to Christmas.
But today I did a GOOD THING and I’ll tell you what it was.

My pursuit of Mr Shit still continues and I have got so close that I can just about touch him but that is by the by.

Today I was up the garage buying the usual and there was a woman in front of me at the till. Her bill came to over 20 quids but all she had was a score (that’s 20 quids) and she wanted to hand back some choclit and things so that she could pay.

Ahem.

I may be allergic to Christmas but I am also allergic to poverty. I said to till-man, “You take her twenty and I’ll cover the rest".

Of course, I didn’t want to embarrass her but I wished her the compliments of the season and she left.

How did I do this? Well, I had a pony in my pocket thanks to the brotherhood. Last meeting some cards came round and I thought ‘Oh, Nora’ but I opened them and in one was a pony (that’s 25 quids) and the card was simply signed ‘The Lodge’.

What goes round comes around.

Today, as usual, is Doc Holiday day. I went and moaned about depression and my aches and pains. A little while back I had yet another fall, hit some bedroom furniture, and either cracked or broke two of my ribs. It hurt ( and still does) like bloody hell but there’s nothing that can be done about it. I just took to my bed and cried (situation normal) but when I was talking to Doc Holiday about it today I described some symptoms like when I roll over in bed and I can feel and hear the crackling. “Hmm", said he. I said, “I know, its crepitus or crepitation” and he looked at me.

Sometimes I am really glad that I pay attention to things that interest me. I shouldn’t think that he has one patient in a thousand who knows what crepitus is. We talked about Concorde for a bit and agreed to meet on Crimbo Eve.

Later on, while I was waiting for my script to be filled, I went to the bank and then to Expensive-rose. In my basket was oranges and some sushi and an apple. Oh Lawks! who should be coming the other way but Doc Holiday himself. In his basket he had a lot of cakes. I held mine up and said, “Look, health food!”

I like to think that he was pleasantly surprised.

In the meantime, here is the best Crimbo song ever. Poor Kirsty, Gawd bless yer…

“Author : shit (IP: 92.43.64.70 , 92.43.64.70)

E-mail :

URI : http://piss off.com

Whois : http://ws.arin.net/cgi-bin/whois.pl?queryinput=92.43.64.70

Comment:

suck a fat one you fucking prick AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

This charming comment came in today. It was in response to my blog entitled ‘OI BALDY’.

I shall not remove or alter it in any way. Everyone has a right to speak as they wish; even Tadpole Brain. Should anyone who is more compluter literate than I wish to reply to my Christmas messenger I have kept the message and will happily pass on the full details.

Never mind, I’ve got Buffs tonight and quite a lot to do.

It is usual to start a sentence with a capital letter but Happy Christmas to you, Mr Shit, and I hope that the festive season brings you all that you deserve.

Regards,

H.

As we all know Tesco Baiting was outlawed in the 19thC. but I, however, do allow myself the occasional game of chance.

Having spent the day in bed with my old chums Diazepam and Zopiclone (the very NAME of it makes you want to sleep) I realised that there were certain foodstuffs that I required. A lot of it frozen in case I get snowed-in. Plus, I also like to buy some things that don’t make me turn up at the till with a basket of cider like some washed-up alcoholic.

‘Me? No, I’m going to make a punch for all my friends with this cider, a tin of pineapple chunks and some fishfingers!’

Now I, and Trouty will agree with this, am not a bad shopper. Doesn’t matter to me where they put the decimal point, I can still move it IN MY HEAD. Here’s a tip; it’s where I live! Ha ha. No, here’s a tip; buy frozen mushrooms.

So, I was wandering about in the frozen zone when something rather strange struck me. In the glass-fronted compartment was the sweet, sweet cheese pizza that I had had before. It’s not called ‘Edge to edge’ for nothing. Mmmmm deeee-lish.

£2.59

But, stuck on the door, like some mad estate agent’s cardboard sign, was a big deal stating these things were only half price. Well, fetch me my Orgasmatron because I can feel one building.

Having filled my little trolley with the usual rubbish (why do Bags For Life always stay at home?) I went to the till. At the till they should have a mini-bar full of Super Lager and Shrieking Witch so that as you watch your tab go up, you can cool yourself down (drive safely!).

Do you know why they sell cans in packs? Have you seen the new ones on Spesh? It would take you a fortnight with a craft knife and an angle-grinder to get into one. Merry bloody Christmas to you too.

It’s because it makes them more difficult to steal. Unless you have a big pocket and want to steal four.

Where was I? Oh yes, I queueueueueued at the till but I had positioned my pizza most carefully upon the belt. Up it came; ‘£2.59′.

Yesssssssssssss, Goal, Get in!

I paid up and went straight to the Customer Services desk.

“Psst, Hoi, Scuse me but there’s a great big notice on your freezer saying this should be half price".
“I see. may I see your pizza , and your bill?”
“Why, of course”

Golden Rule of Tesco Game is to make sure that you have the correct product and WEIGHT. They’ve caught me before like this.

Eventually he came back with the ripped-down sign. Then got a calculator out. Now even I can work out what half of £2.59 is but I think it was the .5 that stymied him. He took my receipt and wrote £1.25 on it (?) and gave me some money. There was a two-pound coin in it so I didn’t check or argue. I just beat a hasty retreat.

The Tesco Game lives on!

Wednesday. It is Wednesday, isn’t it?
I spent yesterday evening talking with a man I know. He is having a lot of trouble with his wife because she denies him the old rumpy-pumpy.
He maintains that marriage is just legal prostitution; the man earns the money and the wife spends it. The other day she came home with a lappy and it didn’t make him happy.
It was on HP, which cheesed him, and she still denies him bunk-up procedures.

On the whole it was rather a sad discussion. I advised him not to leave the home because then he will have made himself intentially homeless and he will have to live under a bridge on the cut. All he wants is a little studio/bed-sit kind of thing. He’s a nice man and works very hard but he can’t understand why women use sex as a weapon. Well, it’s the only weapon that they have got, isn’t it? My advice was to get to get as much help as he can from the council (it’s a council house) and from the C.A.B. and not to go to a solicitor because they will rob you blind. He’s a nice man and doesn’t deserve the way he’s been treated.

Anyhow. I’ve got a shredder. It cuts both ways but look at this:

The other day I got the vacuum cleaner out and look what it did!

I don’t think I need bother with the shredder anymore. Just get out the masher and then dustpan and brush (no, Hutters, not the brush and dustpan) and Hey Presto, everything smashed to bits!

Love,

H.

I have got the worst earworm ever:

Horsey, horsey don’t you stop,
Just let your hooves go clippety clop,
Tail goes swish,
The wheels go round,
Giddy up, we’re homeward bound.

I think you will agree that THAT is a pants earworm.

Now then, have you ever heard a doctor say “bollocks"? Well I have and he wasn’t talking about my anatomy.

As you well know, I have led a very interesting life. I have done many things and seen things that no one should see. But I have never before heard a doctor say “bollocks". He wasn’t even talking about me or anything that I had said. Still, I found it hugely entertaining. I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with it and I certainly wouldn’t even think of reporting him for it. I love my doctor and he saved my life and, after all, what is life? Isn’t it just a load of bollocks?

Love and kisses,

H.

At the surgery, they know that I don’t know what day it is. I once lost a whole week in 24 hours.

Today I turned up for Buffs 24 hours early. AND I’d bought a pineapple for the raffle.

I have been asked to contribute my monumental skills to a play in Woking which is all about the Ockenden Venture. A tribute indeed but seeing as I don’t know the difference between Monday and Tuesday I’m not so sure.

Bloody brain atrophy. Do you think I want to be like this?

When I was up the shop yesterday and spotting bargains (Fray Bentos pies for only 1 quid, half-price pizzas etc) and I came round a corner and was presented with a JOKE OPPORTUNITY!

I can do quite a good Rob Newman impression but without trying to make it overly pervy.

What happened was that there were bottles of Bailey’s dreadful slime drink but it was done up all Christmassy with all bows on and that. They were on quite a low shelf and a little girl was gazing at them in wonder (this is getting worse, like something out of Dickens or the Little Match Girl) and she obviously thought they looked really special.

This was on a display at the end of an aisle and her Mum was half-way down it, buying some baked beans or bogroll or something.

Girl: “Mum, what’s this?”
Me (hobbling past): “That’s a special drink, for children".

I love to think of the repercussions of that one; I made myself laugh.

When I saw the scummers coming off the train I just KNEW that something was going to kick off.
Looking out from my twitchy-curtained porthole I reported what I could see; ten drunken scummers and I SAW them chase two boys down the road and under the bridge and come back rubbing their hands.

I SAW one of them kicking a bicycle to death. Yep, I saw all this. After a few hours I reported that they were headed North and, eventually, two Happy Shopper Coppers did turn up.

I met them outside and I was smoking a fag. When I flicked the dog-end into a puddle they didn’t blink an eye although I did see them look at each other.

Now, this is when I revert to job-talk.

They had caught up with the scummers who said that they had been to a party but had been turned away. What a surprise. Luckily my advice had been followed and the group had been split up. They had the name of the bicycle-kicker (who had run away) but the bike was obviously stolen. Repainted and knackered. Why it takes me to point out the obvious I don’t know but I did.

Oh for a stab-jacket and the last thirty years back.

When I go to see Doc Holiday he eyes me up. No, not like that, he eyes me up to see if my eyes are yellowish or if I am fat or thin. It’s doctorally stuff which you probably wouldn’t understand (how I’m not qualified I don’t know).

As he admired my traffic-stopper (a.k.a. my walking stick) he was eyeing me up. What I THINK he was trying to do was work out if the handle thingy was level with my hip joint.

When I told him of its magical powers he said that everyone should have one. So where was his? He told me that when he was 50 someone gave him a traffic-stopper with a bicycle bell attached to enable him to be a nuisance - just like me!

When I asked him where it was he said it might be in the garage or he might have thrown it away. So much for presents then.

If you really want to know why I use a stick (which I doubt) it’s because whilst I was attempting to enjoy the luxury of my boudoir I fell over (yes, again) and either cracked or broke two of my ribs. It hurt like bloody hell and still does and the traffic-stopper helps me walk a bit better.

LATE NEWS:
While I was hobbling back from the shop a train came in. Out of it got a load of scummers and they were shouting and Lord Mayoring and were suggesting a fight might be a good idea.

999

I can hear the two-tones as I type.

The man is a genius.
There is a programme about him on the BBC iPlayer and I suggest you watch it.

As you know all too well, Thursday is Doctor day. He admired my magical stick and professed it to be the right size. When I told him about its magical powers I could see the wheels in his mind going round and he was wondering about getting one for himself.

I asked him what he was going to do when he retires next year.

“Nothing", said he.

After a bit of prodding he said he would paint the window frames and mow his lawn and wash his car. I suggested that, like Sherlock Holmes, he should keep bees but he said he didn’t want to run round after them. I don’t think he has quite got the hang of apiary.

On the way home on the train I was dribbling and licking the window as is my wont when I saw something quite extraordinary down on the cut. What the frying pan is that? I got home and reached for my trusty 9mm Kodak Luger and headed for the Navigation.

This bag of old sh1t has been dumped, or it should be. I wasn’t even sure which way round it was at first. It’s parked under the Electric Bridge on the other side from the towpath. I hope to Him Upstairs that no one is trying to live on her. She has a nasty list to port at the bow and must be filling with delicious canal water. The stern, weirdly, seems fairly regular. Maybe the back is broken.

We live in troubled times.

Can someone give my daughter a job?

She’s as bright as a spark, takes after me, and as surely as the sparks fly upwards she will go.

She is 19 and doesn’t want to spend her life filling shelves or anything like that.

Life is hard; we all know that, but she is sick of working for a couple 0f months doing data-inputting and then getting redundified. Can’t say that I blame her.

Please, if you can think of a proper job that might be offered to the daughter of the House of Thirst then do let me know.

Don’t ask me what qualifications she might have (I have none) because she doesn’t talk to me. But she needs a job, a PROPER job, not a contract or temp cobblers.

Let me know. eh?

You know I was born in Hemel Hempstead (seek out the film ‘The Bargee’ where the anti-hero, played by Harry H Corbett, was called Hemel Pike because he, like me, was born in Hemel) well, scuse me if I’ve bored you with this one already…

You know that programme, ‘Pie in the sky’ where Richard Griffiths plays the highly unlikely combo of an overweight restauranteur stroke sleuth? Well, that was filmed in Hemel and the place that they used is still operating under the same name. I don’t think that Griffiths still works there though.

I could take you right there, right now, and I’ll tell you why.

When I was but a mere sproglet that very same place used to be called ‘The Spinning Wheel’. AND my ancient Ma used to work there. AND my ancient Pa did too. This was in the days of using a gas-poker to get the coal going in the fireplace. I did check on Google (other search engines are available) to see what had happened to the Roman Bath. It still looks like a field so that’s alright then.

The other thing that I had to catch up with was my magical stick. It’s a bit rickity but so am I. It’s been in the damp too long and the curve on the handle is slighty non-curved. It really needs to be put in a steamer and re-bent but what the hey? It cost me nowt because it was a gift from a Brother and I’m well pleased with it. It stops traffic and people hold doors open for me.

PLUS, unless the Prevention of Crime Act of 1953 has been superseded (the only word that ends in ’seded’) then an offensive weapon goes something like this…

Place to which the public have access whether paying or not.
Forgive me, this was 30 years ago.
The alledged ‘weapon’ has to be made, adapted or intended.

The advantage of the magic stick is that none of the above applies. And now I will tell you how to do it.

Don’t, whatever you do, start waving it about like some mad Colonel from the Home Counties. What you do is pick it up to about waist-height and ram it, as hard as you can, right in the guts. When they go over, which they will, you can apply boot to head.

Here endeth the lesson.

Sweet dreams.

On account of me having cracked or broken two of my ribs and being arthriticalised I blagged a walking stick.

Here’s a funny thing.

The stick helps me to walk better, obviously, and because I am an unqualified doctor, I know how to use one.

Let’s say your left leg has gone a bit crap. What you have to do is walk with the stick in time with your right leg. It’s easy peasy Lemon Sqezy (Yes, I do know how to spell Sqezy).

Ah, but what I didn’t know was the magical powers of the stick for stopping traffic. Usually I could be stuck there for aaaages waiting for a gap to cross in. Thanks to the powers of the magical stick all the traffic stops. I wave my thanks.

It’s like a wand - I recommend you get one too.

My back is feeling a lot better thanks to Co-codamol.