Whatever is that awful thing on the TV? Like this advert thing, and this tall willowy girl talks into her little television screen, and asks it if it will rain today? And this Thing talks back to her.
I mean, wouldn't that machine say: Look out of the window like everyone else, or buy a newspaper with the forecast, you lazy mare!
The silly cow don't even have to buy one. She could wait hours outside Richmond station, like me, for a free Evening Standard! Never did Me any harm!
And like this bloke is waiting at a football or rugby game, asking his own gadget "has my brother left yet?"
If I was that thing, I would say : look love, your brother's never going to amount to anything, is he? So there's no point in him leaving the house really.
Or at the very least, it should say : You've got a mobile phone haven't you, you silly sod, phone him yourself. Lazy git!
It's extraordinary this instant type thing. When I actually liked a pop record recently in the Hit Parade, Husband and kids put these little screens in my face with the same said song!
What's wrong with listening to 14 hours of Simon Bates, waiting for this song to come up?
Or getting one of these new-fangled cassettes, inserting it into the machine, and sitting down to the Top Twenty? Admittedly you had to trawl through some real dogs before you get the song you want, but I still don't think this instant thing is all that really.
Ten past one? Sod this! Time for my lunch !
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Thursday, 1 March 2012
And Another Thing!
(Part Two)
And even if that blonde bugger had given me one thought on my 17th birthday, it was still the shittiest birthday I ever had! That, and my forty-first!
After sitting through a double session of English Literature, I went home expecting at least a cake or something. Well, that happened, didn't it! My Brother and his family, as usual, were sitting around talking about some crap or other, while I sat there completely ignored.
My mum, sent my little neice over to say Happy Birthday, but not one word from anyone else. Despite my brother leaving home about two years ago, it was always all about him.
And presents? Don't make me laugh! My mum and dad gave me ten pounds - an awful lot in those days - and my gran sent me some April Violets bath cubes, and a Friendship Book. A bit like the People's Friend, only loads of poems and shit!
Didn't even get a decent dinner that day!
And as I said before, I ended up going to bed in tears, having seen the blonde offender that night.
And don't get me started on my forty-first....!
Why do you always remember the crappiest birthdays. Never the happy and wonderful ones? It's like when the most miserable of Christmases stand out, making the golden ones pale.
Anyway, while we're on the subject, all my childhood birthdays were shit. Except when I was ten, and I bought myself a Beezer Annual with my birthday money (my special day being so very near Christmas and that).
Otherwise, every year, my brother would buy me this revolting pink gloop that you were, allegedlly supposed to make stuff with . A kind of looser playdough. All it did was get in my fingernails, and make my hands stink for days.
And my Gran, every year, sent me a toy post office or sweet shop, which once I ate the tiny sweets inside and was sick, instantly lost it's appeal.
The only highlight was getting egg and chips and birthday cake off my mum. After coming home alone from school in the dark. Birthday parties were rare then. And you had to have friends in the first place.
But when you shed these grim childhood years, you expect something a bit better really.
Phew! Quite grateful that my next birthday is 9 months away!
And even if that blonde bugger had given me one thought on my 17th birthday, it was still the shittiest birthday I ever had! That, and my forty-first!
After sitting through a double session of English Literature, I went home expecting at least a cake or something. Well, that happened, didn't it! My Brother and his family, as usual, were sitting around talking about some crap or other, while I sat there completely ignored.
My mum, sent my little neice over to say Happy Birthday, but not one word from anyone else. Despite my brother leaving home about two years ago, it was always all about him.
And presents? Don't make me laugh! My mum and dad gave me ten pounds - an awful lot in those days - and my gran sent me some April Violets bath cubes, and a Friendship Book. A bit like the People's Friend, only loads of poems and shit!
Didn't even get a decent dinner that day!
And as I said before, I ended up going to bed in tears, having seen the blonde offender that night.
And don't get me started on my forty-first....!
Why do you always remember the crappiest birthdays. Never the happy and wonderful ones? It's like when the most miserable of Christmases stand out, making the golden ones pale.
Anyway, while we're on the subject, all my childhood birthdays were shit. Except when I was ten, and I bought myself a Beezer Annual with my birthday money (my special day being so very near Christmas and that).
Otherwise, every year, my brother would buy me this revolting pink gloop that you were, allegedlly supposed to make stuff with . A kind of looser playdough. All it did was get in my fingernails, and make my hands stink for days.
And my Gran, every year, sent me a toy post office or sweet shop, which once I ate the tiny sweets inside and was sick, instantly lost it's appeal.
The only highlight was getting egg and chips and birthday cake off my mum. After coming home alone from school in the dark. Birthday parties were rare then. And you had to have friends in the first place.
But when you shed these grim childhood years, you expect something a bit better really.
Phew! Quite grateful that my next birthday is 9 months away!
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Dog Day Year
Saw "Dog Day Afternoon" last night, if you see what I mean. Gad! That Al Pacino was a fiery young man. Holding up that bank and becoming an anti-hero and everything.
Reminded me of an Italian bloke I used to fancy at school. One of the few Italians round our way who didn't own a Capri. He was obviously a snob, and shunned by the large local community.
Loads of Italians lived round our way, their dads being prisoners of war and that. And starting loads of nurseries and greenhouses and everything. No food shops though, or nice restuarants, the selfish gits!
But the damndest thing was: I remember the film being released late-ish 1975, and Al Pacino becoming a household name and very big star. This brought me pain. I was at college by this time, and deeply in love with a blonde boy on my course. He was really nice and everything.
When each girl had their birthday in our group, he would buy them a single from Discland, and a card. When it came to mine in early December, he was empty-handed.
"Didn't know what you would want, so..." And he shrugged his handsome shoulders.
I kept a dry eye until I got home (had to wait ages for a lift in those days), then sobbed and sobbed. Returning to college the following afternoon, broken up inside. A wounded woman. I had been 17 for less than 48 hours, and already I had experienced heartbreak. I knew then that this was a terrible and treacherous age.
I was shocked at how something so buried and painful could come to light like this. How any, albiet good, film could trigger something so brutal. I didn't even see it at the time, but Pacino's name was reverently whispered about, like he was some sort of demi-God.
Anyway, that treacherous git bought me a box of Matchmakers the following year, so the wounds sort of healed. And 37 years later, inexplicably, he's still my mate! And often turns up expecting a slap-up meal! The scrounging bloody git! Al Pacino would never do that - would he?
Reminded me of an Italian bloke I used to fancy at school. One of the few Italians round our way who didn't own a Capri. He was obviously a snob, and shunned by the large local community.
Loads of Italians lived round our way, their dads being prisoners of war and that. And starting loads of nurseries and greenhouses and everything. No food shops though, or nice restuarants, the selfish gits!
But the damndest thing was: I remember the film being released late-ish 1975, and Al Pacino becoming a household name and very big star. This brought me pain. I was at college by this time, and deeply in love with a blonde boy on my course. He was really nice and everything.
When each girl had their birthday in our group, he would buy them a single from Discland, and a card. When it came to mine in early December, he was empty-handed.
"Didn't know what you would want, so..." And he shrugged his handsome shoulders.
I kept a dry eye until I got home (had to wait ages for a lift in those days), then sobbed and sobbed. Returning to college the following afternoon, broken up inside. A wounded woman. I had been 17 for less than 48 hours, and already I had experienced heartbreak. I knew then that this was a terrible and treacherous age.
I was shocked at how something so buried and painful could come to light like this. How any, albiet good, film could trigger something so brutal. I didn't even see it at the time, but Pacino's name was reverently whispered about, like he was some sort of demi-God.
Anyway, that treacherous git bought me a box of Matchmakers the following year, so the wounds sort of healed. And 37 years later, inexplicably, he's still my mate! And often turns up expecting a slap-up meal! The scrounging bloody git! Al Pacino would never do that - would he?
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Horses for Courses
Sob! Saw War Horse the other night. I knew I shouldn't have. I knew I'd get emotional and upset! Bloody Pick & Mix coming to £3.10!
Anyway now I want a horse. But its got to be brown with white markings, like Joey in the film. Won't tell Husband, be a nice surprise for him, how he'll laugh!
But where does one get one? I got the cat from the Pet Shop, and my fish from a garden centre. Do they sell these creatures too? I never saw any.
Is there a Horses-r-Us anywhere? Or does one go to one of those cute little farms? I'm sure they're quite easy to keep. I've got an old blanket he or she can put on. And don't they eat sugar lumps? Like Dougal in the Magic Roundabout? And I'm sure a friendly blacksmith will do their shoes.
If anyone's got a horse they don't want anymore, let me know.
Me and Husband went out on Saturday night. Just us being out together is a rare event. Let alone this hallowed time exclusively for babysitting, and the occasional step-family supper.
We went to our local comedy club. It has a very good reputation, and, allegedly really good stand-ups there.
Well, what a load of old shit! Standing outside in the freezing and boisterous queue, despite having booked our tickets, I realised I was too old for this caper. And just one look at Husband's face told me he felt the same way.
It was when I told the nice bloke with the clipboard that he'd ruin his eyes, squinting at names on there under the streetlight, that I should have come home to my cardigan and rocking chair!
We eventually get in there. Loud music, like you wouldn't believe. And could I get to the seated smoking area outside? Could I shite! There was, like, loads of people there and everything. All drinking and talking shit!
Is this what people do then on a saturday? Worse, did I used
to do this on a Saturday? I think I did. And most of the time, I waited for it to be over.
The first comedian bored me to tears, the second one a little better. Then the third, an Iranian woman whose name escapes me, who has been on Mock the Week and that, was miserable and dire. Husband, who had been a big fan of her's, was most disappointed. I guess sometimes they go flat. Some more than others!
We legged it after that. Never again! Next Saturday it's Borgen on BBC4, or even better, Babysitting!
Anyway now I want a horse. But its got to be brown with white markings, like Joey in the film. Won't tell Husband, be a nice surprise for him, how he'll laugh!
But where does one get one? I got the cat from the Pet Shop, and my fish from a garden centre. Do they sell these creatures too? I never saw any.
Is there a Horses-r-Us anywhere? Or does one go to one of those cute little farms? I'm sure they're quite easy to keep. I've got an old blanket he or she can put on. And don't they eat sugar lumps? Like Dougal in the Magic Roundabout? And I'm sure a friendly blacksmith will do their shoes.
If anyone's got a horse they don't want anymore, let me know.
Me and Husband went out on Saturday night. Just us being out together is a rare event. Let alone this hallowed time exclusively for babysitting, and the occasional step-family supper.
We went to our local comedy club. It has a very good reputation, and, allegedly really good stand-ups there.
Well, what a load of old shit! Standing outside in the freezing and boisterous queue, despite having booked our tickets, I realised I was too old for this caper. And just one look at Husband's face told me he felt the same way.
It was when I told the nice bloke with the clipboard that he'd ruin his eyes, squinting at names on there under the streetlight, that I should have come home to my cardigan and rocking chair!
We eventually get in there. Loud music, like you wouldn't believe. And could I get to the seated smoking area outside? Could I shite! There was, like, loads of people there and everything. All drinking and talking shit!
Is this what people do then on a saturday? Worse, did I used
to do this on a Saturday? I think I did. And most of the time, I waited for it to be over.
The first comedian bored me to tears, the second one a little better. Then the third, an Iranian woman whose name escapes me, who has been on Mock the Week and that, was miserable and dire. Husband, who had been a big fan of her's, was most disappointed. I guess sometimes they go flat. Some more than others!
We legged it after that. Never again! Next Saturday it's Borgen on BBC4, or even better, Babysitting!
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Racing Grannies
What the hell's going on here? Haven't been able to get into my account for days!
Belated Happy New Year to all my online pals.
Mum out of hospital now, and zooming around on a zimmerframe akin to Billy Whizz. AND not smoking! Though the Doctor warning her that another cigarette would kill her might have something to do with it!
There are two schools of thought on this. One is to heed this white-coated young man's advice, the other is to think I'm 82, and bollocks to it. Beside, my old mate died recently of two tumours, never having smoked or drank in her life.
But I don't think my mum can face that dreadful hospital again. Neither could I actually.
Me and Daughter went to visit her the other day. She fell in the hallway. It was her own fault, she's trying to do too much, and luckily it was on thick carpet. One second later, my daughter fell too, tripping over the kitchen mat. That was it for me, I pissed myself laughing! So much so, that I fell back too. Don't think I'll have much of a career as a carer really.
The ultimate lesson of course, is that you can never take anything for granted. Things, as in my case, can change overnight.
Been listing my jewellery in a little posh book, and writing down who I want it left to, ie the kids. Is that morbid, do you think?
Belated Happy New Year to all my online pals.
Mum out of hospital now, and zooming around on a zimmerframe akin to Billy Whizz. AND not smoking! Though the Doctor warning her that another cigarette would kill her might have something to do with it!
There are two schools of thought on this. One is to heed this white-coated young man's advice, the other is to think I'm 82, and bollocks to it. Beside, my old mate died recently of two tumours, never having smoked or drank in her life.
But I don't think my mum can face that dreadful hospital again. Neither could I actually.
Me and Daughter went to visit her the other day. She fell in the hallway. It was her own fault, she's trying to do too much, and luckily it was on thick carpet. One second later, my daughter fell too, tripping over the kitchen mat. That was it for me, I pissed myself laughing! So much so, that I fell back too. Don't think I'll have much of a career as a carer really.
The ultimate lesson of course, is that you can never take anything for granted. Things, as in my case, can change overnight.
Been listing my jewellery in a little posh book, and writing down who I want it left to, ie the kids. Is that morbid, do you think?
Friday, 16 December 2011
The Monkey's Tenner
O my brothers, things have changed so very much. In such a very short time.
And I know it's all my fault.
Last week I found a tenner on the floor of the shop where I work. I knew it belonged to some kid or other, as the place was swarming with them, there being a match and everything. And I knew the heartbreak they would suffer when they found it missing.
I kept in my pocket for a while, scanning the crowded floor for some red-eyed or anxious-looking kid. There were none, o my brothers. And the tenner burnt a hole against my uniformed skin, stealing by finding. The very thing my First Year teacher used to bang on about. Mind you, the old cow banged on about a lot of things. But I was trying to be sincere, and would return it to the first brat who hollered. But there was no such sounds. Only whinging about all the small balls being sold out.
So, I resolved to put it into some sort of Poor Box, or to the Salvation Army. You know that one who stands outside M&S. Well, did I shite?! 20 fags, 2 packets of Knick Knacks and a can of coke later....
But the memory of this illicit tenner did not desert me and I began to feel the chill of vengence.
On Monday, when my mum didn't answer the phone, I told my brother, who went round her house and had to break in. Finding her ill and helpless, they called the ambulance. Brother then rang me at 4 am to tell me it was a heart attack (and not the suspected food poisoning), and that she was being moved to The Chest Hospital in Bethnal Green, and that she may not make the transition. The chances are that she could die before she gets there!
I lay back in the bed. Did my punishment HAVE to be this cruel? Because nothing could be more brutal than this. The Monkey's tenner had slapped me coldly in the face. I mean, true, mum was 82 and had smoked 60 a day for about the same number of years, but still I felt responsible. She wasn't ready to leave us yet. I couldn't see her not opening the Christmas present I had brought her. Nor could I see her departing from this world the same time as Ken Russell! While a hero to me, he was odious to my mum. It would be insult to injury!
In less than an hour, bruv phoned again, to say she'd arrived there safely and was sitting up. Now you would have thought my punishment ended there. Teaching me a lesson and all that. But no, it has been relentless. Traipsing to Bethnal Green - WHAT a shit hole! How long has THIS place been here?
Then on to Whitechapel and intensive care. Working my way all round the Monopoly board. She seems to make progress, then takes a step back. They have put a pacemaker in, but she had a very bad night. Do I lose my mother the same way I lost my Dad? In a cold institution full of strangers?
In somewhere I had never set foot in before, and never likely to again?
Of course, my wish came true. I am no longer going to that awful, hot Florida (Husband and kids are tho'). But like the Monkey's Paw, I got what I wanted in such a horrible way. Be careful what you wish for, eh?
Thank God I didn't wish for money!
Not allowed to visit mum, because of the bad night and everything. How dare a load of strangers tell me not to see my own flesh and blood! But I am powerless to argue with such a big insitution. They also don't want relatives phoning all the time, they told my brother, but that's tough shit, if they've got phones, they can fracking answer them. It's a hospital, they're gonna have visitors and callers, aren't they.
Oh dear, this is a grim post, sorry.
And I know it's all my fault.
Last week I found a tenner on the floor of the shop where I work. I knew it belonged to some kid or other, as the place was swarming with them, there being a match and everything. And I knew the heartbreak they would suffer when they found it missing.
I kept in my pocket for a while, scanning the crowded floor for some red-eyed or anxious-looking kid. There were none, o my brothers. And the tenner burnt a hole against my uniformed skin, stealing by finding. The very thing my First Year teacher used to bang on about. Mind you, the old cow banged on about a lot of things. But I was trying to be sincere, and would return it to the first brat who hollered. But there was no such sounds. Only whinging about all the small balls being sold out.
So, I resolved to put it into some sort of Poor Box, or to the Salvation Army. You know that one who stands outside M&S. Well, did I shite?! 20 fags, 2 packets of Knick Knacks and a can of coke later....
But the memory of this illicit tenner did not desert me and I began to feel the chill of vengence.
On Monday, when my mum didn't answer the phone, I told my brother, who went round her house and had to break in. Finding her ill and helpless, they called the ambulance. Brother then rang me at 4 am to tell me it was a heart attack (and not the suspected food poisoning), and that she was being moved to The Chest Hospital in Bethnal Green, and that she may not make the transition. The chances are that she could die before she gets there!
I lay back in the bed. Did my punishment HAVE to be this cruel? Because nothing could be more brutal than this. The Monkey's tenner had slapped me coldly in the face. I mean, true, mum was 82 and had smoked 60 a day for about the same number of years, but still I felt responsible. She wasn't ready to leave us yet. I couldn't see her not opening the Christmas present I had brought her. Nor could I see her departing from this world the same time as Ken Russell! While a hero to me, he was odious to my mum. It would be insult to injury!
In less than an hour, bruv phoned again, to say she'd arrived there safely and was sitting up. Now you would have thought my punishment ended there. Teaching me a lesson and all that. But no, it has been relentless. Traipsing to Bethnal Green - WHAT a shit hole! How long has THIS place been here?
Then on to Whitechapel and intensive care. Working my way all round the Monopoly board. She seems to make progress, then takes a step back. They have put a pacemaker in, but she had a very bad night. Do I lose my mother the same way I lost my Dad? In a cold institution full of strangers?
In somewhere I had never set foot in before, and never likely to again?
Of course, my wish came true. I am no longer going to that awful, hot Florida (Husband and kids are tho'). But like the Monkey's Paw, I got what I wanted in such a horrible way. Be careful what you wish for, eh?
Thank God I didn't wish for money!
Not allowed to visit mum, because of the bad night and everything. How dare a load of strangers tell me not to see my own flesh and blood! But I am powerless to argue with such a big insitution. They also don't want relatives phoning all the time, they told my brother, but that's tough shit, if they've got phones, they can fracking answer them. It's a hospital, they're gonna have visitors and callers, aren't they.
Oh dear, this is a grim post, sorry.
Friday, 9 December 2011
Puff!
Just writing a few words while I still have some Puff left.
Been so busy lately. This thing called Work mainly. How do people DO that thing! What a nightmare!
Teachers' Strike was brilliant last week. Brought back so many memories of 1972. There were a lot more then tho'. Nearly everyone's mum and dad at school were on strike! The buggers were never at work! And don't think they did picketing either, or fight for their cause. They were at home watching telly and that. No wonder so many of my contemporaries wanted to get themselves into factories and labouring.
My birthday was on Sunday. What a load of crap THAT was! Still, my mum gave me £50, so that wasn't bad. Bought a 100 fags and some lipstick. Could be worse I suppose. But don't see why turning 53 is anything to celebrate.
Going to Florida for Christmas. Really don't want to go. Should never have agreed to it. I'm dreaming of the 30th, when we arrive back in Heathrow, especially to outside the building where I can have a fag.
Gotta go. I'm doing supper!
Been so busy lately. This thing called Work mainly. How do people DO that thing! What a nightmare!
Teachers' Strike was brilliant last week. Brought back so many memories of 1972. There were a lot more then tho'. Nearly everyone's mum and dad at school were on strike! The buggers were never at work! And don't think they did picketing either, or fight for their cause. They were at home watching telly and that. No wonder so many of my contemporaries wanted to get themselves into factories and labouring.
My birthday was on Sunday. What a load of crap THAT was! Still, my mum gave me £50, so that wasn't bad. Bought a 100 fags and some lipstick. Could be worse I suppose. But don't see why turning 53 is anything to celebrate.
Going to Florida for Christmas. Really don't want to go. Should never have agreed to it. I'm dreaming of the 30th, when we arrive back in Heathrow, especially to outside the building where I can have a fag.
Gotta go. I'm doing supper!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)