Friday, 18 March 2011


Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.

In the kitchen, my missus was sitting with a bucket-like object on her head. There was a food timer on the table.

“What are you doing?” I enquired.

“I’m tanning my face.”

“Why do you need a food timer?”

“So I don’t go over five minutes. It’s an intensive sort of tanning.”

The doorbell rang. Turning the timer to fifteen minutes as I passed, I went to open the door.

A weasel of a man stood before me: “May I please see your TV licence?”

“Fuck off.”

I shut the door and went back to join bucket head.

Britain has a corporation called the BBC. No advertising is allowed on any BBC television channel and the BBC is solely funded by licence payments.

On the face of it, this seems like a fair idea, until you learn that you need a TV licence just to own a television. It doesn’t matter if you never watch a BBC channel or if your TV doesn’t even work, you still have to buy a TV licence.

The licence costs a stupidly high amount of money; unless you’re blind, in which case you get something like a thirty percent reduction (?).

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. The weasel was back with a law enforcement officer.

“Greetings, Corky!” I said.

“eez, it’s official business, mate. You’ll have to call me either sergeant or officer.”


“Sir, we know you have a television, but our records indicate that you haven’t purchased a TV licence in the last sixteen years,” stated Weasel.

“If your records indicate that, why are you asking to see something that I don’t have? Seems like a pointless exercise. Don’t you believe your records?”

“We have to confirm it.”


“Well,” he said, “our records might be incorrect.”

“So, you could be here under false pretences? You could be standing on my doorstep accusing me of illegal actions that could be wholly untrue?”

“Absolutely not! The law requires me to ask you if you have a licence. Are you in possession of a TV licence?”


“In that case, can I see it?” he asked.

“How would I know that? They’re your eyes. But if you’ve got problems with your sight, I think you can get a discount on your licence.”

“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight!”

“Then why are you wearing contact lenses?”

“I’m not wearing contact lenses!” he shouted.

To make sure, I poked him in the eye.

“Have you got AIDS?" I asked Weasel, who was holding a hand over his left eye.


“You’ve got a funny spot on your head. I’ve seen that sort of thing before. Do you inject? Have you had unprotected sex recently?”

“Philadelphia!” shouted Corky.

“That’s it Corky! Tom Hanks. He had a funny mark on his head. He was gay.”

Corky and I looked at Weasel.

“I am not gay! And I don’t have unprotected sex!”

“Not even with your wife? Don’t you trust her? Is she on the game?”

“eez,” said Corky, “just show him the licence.”

“Okay, Officer Corky.”

I returned with a TV licence and showed it to Weasel.

He looked at it. “This licence is in a different name to yours.”

I looked at him with a blank expression.

“This is someone else’s licence. This is no good.”

“No good? Is it a fake licence?” I asked

“Of course not!”

“Then why is it no good?”

“For God’s sake!” he yelled.

“You asked me if I was in possession of a licence. I have given it to you. Therefore, please leave my premises and go back to your whore of a wife and stop annoying the fuck out of me.”

“Calm down, eez,” suggested Corky.

“My wife’s not a whore!”

“My records indicate that she is. Could be mistaken, though.”

Weasel took a deep breath and said, “Sir, do you have a valid TV licence, in your name, for this address?”

“Don’t know. What does one look like?”

“It looks exactly like this!” he bellowed, waving the licence in front of my face.

“I’ve got one of those!”

“Thank God for that! Where is it?”

“It’s in your hand. And please stop taking the Lord’s name in vain. It not only offends my religious beliefs, but it is still, as far as I know, an offence under common law.”

“But, you used the word fuck!”

“Indeed I did, but that does not offend me. In fact, if you called me a cunt, I would not be offended.”

“Right! You are a cunt!” he screamed.

I heard the ‘ping’ of the food timer.

“You swear too much,” I told him.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” He turned to Corky. “Officer, arrest this man, right now!”


Weasel and I watched as Corky dived over a wall and ran up the street.

Bewildered, Weasel looked at me.

I shrugged my shoulders.

He looked behind me. Then, he, too, dived over the wall.

I turned round.

She stood in her nightgown. A piece of skin fell from her face.

I didn’t make it to the wall.

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