Thursday, 17 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.

I was on the computer and Bunty was hacking up a furball, when the good lady ran in shouting, “the gardener’s cut off his fingers!”

Other than smoking, drinking, gambling and collecting submarines, employing a gardener is one of the few luxuries in which I indulge.

“I’m busy,” I told her.

“Take him to hospital!” she hollered.

“Go and find his fingers, then I’ll take him to hospital.”

“They could be anywhere! It was the lawnmower!”

“Oh, God, alright then, I’ll help you look.”

I returned home in time to take Bunty to the vets.

I don’t like vets. They’ve got you by the plums. If they say something has to be done to the wife’s cat, I’m not in a position to argue. They’re a bit like car mechanics.

I put Bunty in the cage that I’d commissioned from a metalworking friend of mine and threw him in the boot of the car.

The vet commented that Bunty must be very well looked after, as he hadn’t been back since his neutering.

He examined Bunty and told me that the poor animal was in pain and would need an urgent operation.

“How much?” I asked.

“I think the pain’s severe.”

“I meant, how much bloody money?”

“Four hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Holy shit!”

“Perhaps, I should call your wife and see what she thinks?”

“Oh, go on then. Do the sodding op’. I’ll pick the fucking animal up later.”

I went to the pub. I was in a foul mood.

“Large one please, Gertie”

“You’re in the right place, from what I hear,” an unknown voice shouted from along the bar, laughing.

I ignored him.

Biffy walked in with a black eye and bruises all over his face.

“Christ, Biffy, what happened to you?”

“I wouldn’t sign a patient’s sick certificate for his employers. He said he had a bad back, but I didn’t believe him. And then he threw me around the consultation room.”

“That’s harsh. What do you want?”

“Sounds like some balls wouldn’t go amiss. Grow some, doc!” said the unknown voice, again followed by laughter.

“Hey! Spunk bubble! I was asking him what he wanted to drink. Now, piss off!”

I have an intense disliking of people who habitually laugh at the end of everything they say.

“Gertie, what day is it?” I asked.

Before Gertie could answer, “It’s Tuesday…It’s Tuesday, all day.”

Enough. I told the stranger that he was as funny as an anal wart and broke his nose.

“You in a bad mood, eez?” asked Biffy.

“Yeah, Bunty needs an operation.”

“I thought I saw him the other day,” said Biffy, “but it was a patient’s cat. It was identical to Bunty. It even hates men, just like Bunty.”

“Don’t be daft, Biffy, there can’t be two cats like that.”

“No, honestly, eez, I was doing a home visit. The guy’s wife has pissed off with a solar panel installer and left the cat. I’m telling you, nobody would be able to tell them apart. The guy hates the thing.”

“Come with me,” I said, pulling Biffy towards the door.

I walked into the guy’s house and, sure enough, ‘Bunty’ started hissing at me.

I went to pick up the cat. The cat clawed me. I backed up and looked at the thing. Biffy was right. This cat was identical to Bunty.

I gave the bloke fifty quid, threw a blanket over the cat, dragged it into the street and shoved it into Bunty’s usual travelling place.

I called the vet: “Cancel that operation. You can keep the cat.”

We went back to the pub for another drink.

“eez,” said Biffy, “you can’t leave the cat tied up in a blanket in the back of the car.”

I suddenly recalled the time Bunty had eaten my car: “Oh, Christ! You’re right!”

I ran to the vet’s surgery, told him that I’d only said he could keep the cat, grabbed the metal cage and ran back to the pub.

Just in time, I managed to stuff Bunty II into the cage.

Back in the Dog and Donkey, I sat with Biffy discussing the recent tragic event of Dagenham Dave’s demise.

“It was awful, eez. I had to fill out the paperwork. There was blood everywhere.”

“Blood? Why did the police call you? Why didn’t they get another doctor?”

“All the others were on a piss up down the Kings Head.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“They’re boring. You know what they’re like; they’re all just out of medical school and going to save mankind between smoking joints and listening to music that doesn’t sound like music.”

“They don’t sound that bad.”

“I know, but when they’re sober, they take it all so seriously. You’d think they’d actually taken the Hippocratic Oath.”

“You mean they haven’t taken the oath?”

“Don’t talk bollocks, eez. Nobody believes in that shite anymore.”

I went home. The wife was out.

I let ‘Bunty’ out of the cage and poured a drink. I’d saved £400.00.

‘Bunty’ walked to the corner of the kitchen and, just as the real Bunty would do, turned his back, stuck his arse in the air and started to puke up a furball.

I looked: Oh shit, Bunty had grown some.

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