PMs and PMS

Warning: some may find content offensive.

The wife threw herself into her newfound parliamentary duties.

I threw myself into partying throughout the week, when she was in London, and surviving on takeaway meals.

From Monday to Friday, I was happy and she was happy; we were apart.

However, at the end of every week there’s a weekend.

I sat at the kitchen table smoking a pre-breakfast cigar.

“Oh my God, how can you smoke one of those foul things at this time of the day?” the good lady asked.

“We’ve been through all this before. The process of smoking is actually quite simple. Even you could grasp it.”

“You have no will power.”

“No will power? What on earth are you going on about? I’ve fought the urge to stamp on your face for over forty fucking years. How can I have no will power? And why the fuck can’t you stay in London on the weekends?”

“Because,” she replied, “if I did that, there’d be nothing left of this place. It’s always a mess when I get back. You’re a filthy animal and if I ever come back from London and find it in such a disgusting mess again, I’ll get my sister to stay here during the week.”

It was a hammer blow.

I left the room.

I walked into the Dog and Donkey.

Reading a paper as I walked to the bar, I asked for a large whisky.

“No,” came the reply.

I looked up from my paper. “You’re not Gertie. Where’s Gertie?”

“She’s gone to get Snouty.”

The woman behind the bar was an absolute stunner: all tits and legs. But I was in no mood for any more crap off a woman.

“Right,” I said, “We’ll start again. Tell me who you are, tell me who or what Snouty is and then, for the love of God, give me a large bloody whisky.”

“I’m Gertie’s daughter, Snouty’s a dog and, no, I won’t give you a large whisky.”

“You’re Gertie’s daughter? I didn’t know she had a daughter.”

“Well,“ Gertie’s daughter replied, “she has and I’m her.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Gertie.”

“Do you gobble?” As soon as I said it I knew I was in trouble.

She walked from behind the bar, came towards me, punched me in the face and shouted, “Watch out, mate, I’m premenstrual!”

“I don’t care if you’re premenstrual!” I shouted back. “I want a large fucking whisky and I want it now!”

She punched me again.

Just then, Gertie senior walked through the door, looked at her red-in-the-face daughter, looked at me and then punched me.

“Would you bloody women please stop hitting me! You’re wasting your time; you hit like, well, girls.”

“What have you done to my daughter?”

“I’ve done nothing to your screwed up daughter. All I want is a frigging drink and she won’t serve me.”

The older Gertie looked at the younger Gertie, “Sweetheart, why won’t you serve eez?”

“Mum, you told me not to serve undesirables.”

Fair play, I thought; I pretty much consider myself to be undesirable.

“Sweetie, eez is okay. For sure, he’s the undesirable type, but he’s okay. Why are you red in the face?”

“I’ve been hitting him. I’m premenstrual.”

Mummy Gertie turned to me. “Sorry about all the hits, eez. It’s my fault really. Are you okay?”

“No I am not fucking okay! The cat took a shit in my shoe this morning, I’m married to the next Margaret Thatcher, there’s a very real chance my stench-ridden bitch of a sister-in-law might move in with me, your mad, pre-menstrual brat of a daughter has punched me twice, you’ve punched me once and I still,” I took a breath, “haven’t had a fucking drink! Someone please give me a large whisky!” I screamed.

“Christ, eez, calm down; I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Bollocks! You can both buy me a drink!”

They both hit me again.

“Okay! One will do!” I shouted.

I got my drink, knocked it back and asked for another two drinks.

Nobody spoke for a while and then Gertie’s daughter said, “hey, where’s Snouty?”

(more next time)

Are There Rings Around Uranus?

Warning: some may find content offensive.

As I’ve mentioned very early on in this blog, I am a magnet to misfortune.

I will happily admit that I’ve done well in life, but I can assure you that none of it has been through good luck.

I truly thought that I would be walking the corridors of Westminster in my, by now, trademark banana-yellow suit.

My hangover was colossal. Indeed, looking back on over fifty years of excessive drinking, I found myself unable to recall such a hangover.

Looking back on nearly fifty years of painful marriage, I found myself unable to recall such a look of gloating enjoyment on my wife’s face.

“Are you ever going to stop?” I asked her. “You look like a coked-up tart enjoying a spit-roasting by the Adonis twins. You’re pissing me off.”

“Make the most of it, dear. From next week, I won’t be here on weekdays; by then, my second home in London will be ready.”

“Typical corrupt Member of Parliament.” I remarked. “I suppose the toilet seat from Harrods is already down on the expense sheet as a vital requirement in order to carry out your parliamentary duties?”

Not wishing to go into too much detail, the wife had announced herself as a last minute independent election candidate, had mobilised her female army and had trounced me at the polls. She was going to be an MP.

“How dare you suggest such a thing!” she shouted. “If you repeat that anywhere else, I will sue you for slander!”

“Fuck off.”

“Actually, in order to save taxpayers’ money, I’m taking the toilet seat from here. You can buy a new one; they’re much cheaper in Bogton than London.” the wife proudly announced, as if talking to a CNN reporter.

“Fine.” I said. “Will you be taking the cauldron and sulphur-infused candles as well?”

I sat at the bar of the Dog and Donkey.

“Come on, eez,” Gertie moaned, “you’re not still fed up with your wife winning the election, are you?”

“Yes I bloody am!”

“That was nearly a month ago, eez. Let it go.”

“I’m telling you Gertie, and you know I’ve never been a fan of the wife, but if someone told me that my wife was spawned as a result of the devil coupling with a rabid pig, I wouldn’t disbelieve them.”

“Well, neither would I, eez.” She said, drying glasses. “I have to admit she’s a bit of a shit. But, you’ve been moping about for ages; we’re all getting fed up with it.”

“I don’t care if anyone’s got a problem with a moping eez; they can knob off…she’s taking the toilet seat to London.”

Gertie looked at me in disbelief. “The toilet seat?”

“Yep, she’s taking the toilet seat. Now, tell me, what kind of heartless person would do that?”

She shook her head, again with a look of disbelief, poured me a large whisky and went to her purse.

She paid for my drink, leant over the bar and kissed me on the cheek.

“eez, I’m sorry. I had no idea. You poor bastard.”

“It’s not right, is it?” I asked her. “Using a toilet seat that hasn’t been worn in or, even worse, has had other peoples' buttocks spread on it, is no way for someone in their sixties to deliver defecations, surely?”

Gertie nodded in agreement.

“I mean,” I continued, “I don’t know about you, but I find it a very unpleasant feeling to experience first thing in the morning. There’s probably a technical term for it, but I call it squinge; a mix of squirm and cringe.”

“Yeah, I get the same feeling whenever I have to squat on someone else’s loo seat.” She agreed. “In fact, I even get the feeling when I’m using my mum’s toilet.”

I looked at her.

“I’ve seen my mum’s arse.” She said. “It looks like a prune with an elastic band round the middle. I can’t help thinking of it whenever I sit down to squirt or curl one down.”

I returned the favour and bought her a drink.

Biffy, the doctor and ex-campaign advisor of mine, walked in and joined me at the bar.

He sat down ordered a large brandy, drank it one gulp, ordered another one and took another large mouthful, leaving just a little in the bottom of his glass.

“What’s up with you?” I asked him.

“I eventually had to do a shift at accident and emergency: attempted suicide, blood everywhere.”

Poor Biffy, I thought, only working in an abattoir would have been a worse career choice. I bought him a drink and told him of my toilet seat problem.

“eez, it’s just possible I can salvage something of the day. Let me sort something out for you.”

Next week, the wife left on Monday to spend five ‘working’ days in Parliament and stay the nights at her West End flat.

On Wednesday, she retuned to her proper home carrying a briefcase and an inflatable cushion.

Biffy is the first to admit that he learnt very little of use during his five, drunken years at Medical College. However, he did learn that a sugar and caustic soda solution applied like varnish, does, in fact, when it comes into contact with the heat of a human body, return to a liquid state.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Angels, Fairies, Eagles and Cocker (humour rating:10)

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Biffy and I sat in the hospitality room of the TV station.

Three other candidates for the Bogton by-election, with their campaign advisors, were also in the room.

“How can you be so calm?” asked Biffy, my campaign advisor.

“Why wouldn’t I be calm?” I replied.

“eez, you’re about to be interviewed by Jerry Raxman. You know what he’s like. He’ll rip you to shreds.”

Jerry Raxman is renowned for his interviewing of politicians; he once asked the same question seventeen times to eventually get a straight yes or no from a guest. Everyone considers him to be a thoroughly nasty piece of work.

“It’ll be fine. And I’ve put some of that stuff you gave me in his drink. He’ll be off with the fairies in ten minutes.”

Raxman walked into the room, took a sip from his drink and spoke to us: “Right, I know some of you may be a little worried about what’s going to happen, but there’s really nothing to be concerned about; my reputation is undeserved.”

He took another mouthful from his glass and continued. ”It will be a live broadcast so don’t say ‘can we do that again?’ if you make a mistake. And remember, I’m not as bad as people make out.”

He left the hospitality room.

The others sighed with relief and commented on how nice Raxman had been.

“Well, he doesn’t seem too bad, does he, eez?” said Biffy.

I looked at Biffy. “I think he’s a complete cunt.”

The guests sat around a kidney shaped table and Raxman sat in the middle.

A green light flashed and we were on air.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said into a camera, “and welcome to tonight’s programme where I’m joined by the candidates for the Bogton by-election.”

Another camera panned round the table, filming the candidates one by one.

“We have Bartholomew Puff-Rider for the Conservative Party, Jessica Cumley-Hide for the Liberal Democrats, Joseph Mugabe for the Labour Party and eez, which I understand is how he wishes to be known, standing as an independent candidate.”

He looked at me and said, “Right! Let’s start with you! What on earth makes you think you have the abilities required to represent Bogton in parliament?”

Yep, I thought to myself, a complete cunt.

“Well, Jerry…”

He interrupted. “Come on, let’s face it, you’re just doing this for a laugh: you have no formal educational qualifications, you are currently named in over seven hundred lawsuits and your criminal record reads like Chicago during Prohibition!”

“I think I know where you’re coming from, Jerry, but my electoral campaign in Bogton speaks for itself: I have had one hundred percent support from all the voters I’ve approached; I’m running both a popular and thorough campaign that’s leaving other candidates in my wake.”

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that ‘thorough’ is certainly one way of describing your campaign aides, who others have referred to as the Bogton Brownshirts. Surely, being likened to the actions of Hitler’s henchmen in the 1930s, is not the behaviour expected from a parliamentary candidate’s campaign?”

“I can assure you…”

“Oh, please, just admit to the fact that you’re merely seeking publicity. You have none of the qualities or attributes required of a constituents’ representative. Come on then, give the viewers your informed and intelligent opinion of current members of parliament!”

“They’re all a bunch of coke-snorting, expense-fiddling, lazy fuckers.”

Raxman looked at me for a few seconds. He took a sip from his glass and moved onto the next candidate.

“Mr Puff-Rider do you like eagles?”

The Conservative candidate, Puff-Rider, said nothing and stared at Raxman.

“Come on, come on; say something Mr Poof-Rider!” demanded Raxman.

“Puff-Rider, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Puffy, but come on man, answer the question: do you like eagles?”

Again, the struggling Conservative candidate said nothing.

“Come on! Who knows what tomorrow brings? Do you like the eagles in the sky? Are you in love?”

“eez,” Biffy whispered, “how much of that stuff did you put in his drink?”

“All of it. I tried just one packet on the wife and it didn’t seem to do much.”

“Oh, fuck. He’s got six wraps of angel dust surging through his system. We need to be somewhere else.”

Raxman tore off his shirt, stood on the table and sang.

“Love lift us up where we belong,
Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high.
Love lift us up where we belong,
Far from the world we know,
Up where the clear winds blow. ”

He began frothing at the mouth, flapped his arms wildly and leapt from the table.

On the floor, Raxman started to convulse.

A cameraman, with a smile on his face, zoomed in for a close-up, muttering something about ‘you tube’.

It was too much for Jessica Cumley-Hide; she ran from the studio.

Puff-Rider gave the convulsing interviewer a kick in the groin and followed Jessica Cumley-Hide out the studio.

Joseph Mugabe, the Labour Party candidate, who had been silent throughout, jumped up and shouted, “I know first aid! Give me some room!”

He tried to resuscitate the now motionless Raxman.

I turned to Biffy, “your phone’s been doing its video thing, yes?”

Biffy nodded.

Different newspapers ran with different headlines. Some talked of eloping candidates and some talked of drug taking TV presenters.

My favourite was: ‘Labour Man and Raxman in lip lock’

I was about to become a Member of Parliament.

Corruption (Humour rating: )

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Frankly, I was surprised at Gertie’s reaction.

“You did what?” she asked.

“I put some money in your bank account. Surely you haven’t got a problem with that?”

“How did you do that?”

“I paid a cheque into your account. You look a bit annoyed.”

“How do you know my bank details?” she asked, with a look of suspicion.

“I went through your handbag the other week.”

“Bloody hell, eez! You can’t do that!”

“Don’t see why not. Anyway, you left it open. And stop using your year of birth as your PIN number on your credit cards; everyone does that, it was the first number I tried.”

“You’ve used my credit cards?” She definitely looked annoyed.

“Gertie, I don’t see what your problem is. Most people would have no issues whatsoever having a couple of million put into their account.”

“How much? Did you say ‘a couple of million’?”

“Yep.”

“Holy fuck! We’ll both end up in prison!”

I looked at her. “Why are we going to end up in prison?”

“Because, eez, that’s money gained from criminal activities.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I’ve been involved in dishonest or fraudulent actions!” I replied, feeling more than a little aggrieved.

“Oh, of course not.” She answered, with hands on hips.

I waited for the bollocking.

“Not for one moment would anyone consider selling bibles to recently widowed women to be fraudulent. I mean, the fact that the bibles only contained the Book of Genesis and fuck all else had nothing to do with fraud, did it?” 

“That was a printing error.” I said.

“You,” she shouted, stabbing her finger into my chest, “printed them!”

“Something came up. I forgot about the other sixty five books.”

“And,” she continued, “they were printed in Norwegian! How many bloody Norwegian widows live in Bogton?”

“Well, nobody ever came back to me with any complaints.” I offered in defence.

“You sold them in your dead uncle’s name!” 

“So,” I said, “you’re not comfortable with being a millionaire?”

“No, I am sodding well not! We’ll end up behind bars!”

“We won’t…you might, but I won’t.”

I don’t think I’d seen Gertie so angry since the time Limpy from the other side of town had failed to respond to her attentive customer services in the stockroom.

A little later, Barty was removing a piece of glass ashtray from my cheek, when an extremely large woman—you’ll find little else in the town of Bogton—walked into the Dog and Donkey.

She was pushing a baby buggy and struggled to get through the doors.

“Is anyone going to help me?” she cried out.

Barty, Gertie and I looked at each other.

We turned to her and jointly replied, “no.”

The woman taking the doors off their hinges was the wife of the new police chief.

The new police chief was a shite and his wife was an even bigger shite.

She hauled herself and the buggy to the bar and asked for a diet coke.

“I would like to speak to the manager of these premises.” She said.

“Hey, what a little cutie you’ve got there.” I said, as I tickled the thing in the buggy under the chin.

Instantly, her manner changed. “Do you think so? Only three weeks old. It’s my first. Who’d think it possible for a woman to carry such a big thing inside her?”

I looked at her; she couldaccommodate a meeting of the UN.

“What is it?” I asked, still tickling it.

“It’s a girl.”

“And the species?”

She left.

I turned to Gertie. “So, you don’t want to help me out. You want to see me pass into the darkness, having never fully achieved my potential as a public figure.”

“eez, just give it a rest, will you? I’m not going to have money from corrupt practices in my bank account.”

“Still banging on about the bible episode, then?”

“Shut up. You know as well as I do that you’ve been a crook all your life. For God’s sake, you’ve been registered as unemployed for the last fifty years, yet you have more money than anyone I know.”

“Gertie,” I moaned, “I just want to do my bit for the people of the town.”

I looked at the bottom of my glass. I let a tear well up in my eye.

“Christ, eez, you’re talking as if you want to be the next prime minister. Can’t you just retire and enjoy what’s left of your liver?”

I jumped up and kissed Gertie.

“That’s it! I’ll be a member of parliament. There’s an election in a few months. Piece of piss! Just look at some of the arseholes in government; I can be a bigger arsehole than the lot of them put together!”

“eez,” laughed Gertie, “you have no chance of being elected as a member of parliament; everyone knows you’re a corrupt, thieving, lying...”

Our eyes met.

Jericho

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

The building of my empire came to an abrupt end. It had crumbled around me.

Permission to be a Police Community Support Officer was rescinded and I was told to never again apply for such a position. Losing my law enforcement capabilities did not unduly bother me.

I had been named in over seven hundred civil action lawsuits. Plaintiffs were claiming damages totalling more than three million pounds. This did not unduly bother me.

My license to sell alcohol at the Dog and Donkey had been revoked. This annoyed the fuck out of me.

Throughout, I’d maintained a state of non-sobriety, but, in those brief, halcyon weeks of empire building, I had been neither bored nor retired.

As I sat at the kitchen table, with the wife glaring at me, my only concern was: would I still be able to get a drink at the Dog and Donkey?

“You’re a thorough disgrace!” the wife shouted across the table.

“You’re a thorough cretin. Now, stop shouting, I’m trying to think.” I replied.

“Don’t you care?”

“About you? Couldn’t give a shit, really.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she bellowed, “I meant about you being on the front pages of the newspapers!”

“I’m on the front page? Is there a photo of me?”

She threw some newspapers at me and left the kitchen.

I looked at the photo. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all. The banana yellow suit always brings out the best in me.

Standing outside the Dog and Donkey, looking at the fine establishment I once ran, I considered my options.

I was in the rare position of owning the pub, but not actually being allowed into it due to an annoying court order that prevented me from going within one hundred yards of the building.

I looked up and down the street. The only threat seemed to be a traffic warden slowly approaching as he noted down car registrations. I hadn’t seen this particular warden since I’d told him he’d been born with horseshit between his ears.

As he came closer, I smiled at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There’s an injunction in place that prevents you from coming within one hundred yards of this pub.”

“What place?”

“Eh?”

“Where’s this place that has the injunction?” I asked.

“No, you don’t understand; the injunction has been placed on you.”

“I don’t think it has.” I said, starting to search my pockets.

“No.” He said. “Not on you, but, well, on you…what I mean is, the court has an injunction on you.”

“So, the court’s got it.”

“No! The court made the injunction!”

“Well, if the court went to the effort of making it, it’s likely the court wanted to keep it. I’m a bit like that with my remote controlled submarines; I don’t like anyone else getting their hands on them.”

I gave him my best stupid look.

“You’re still not supposed to be here.” He repeated.

“And you’ve still got bowel contents for brains.”

“I could have you arrested!”

“Look,” I said, “this is not the Dog and Donkey to which you’re referring. This Dog and Donkey is a Vietnamese takeaway. The pub with the same name is on the other side of town.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“If you don’t believe me, go inside and find out for yourself.” I kindly suggested.

“I will!”

He walked through the entrance doors.

A few seconds later, the doors opened, he flew over my head and landed in a heap on the other side of the street.

Barty poked his head out the doors. “How was that one, eez?”

“Barty, it’s not the velocity that’s the problem, it’s the trajectory. Forty five degrees is what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay, eez, I’ll give it another go.” He replied, walking towards the unconscious warden.

“Don’t bother now, Barty, I need a drink.”

I stood at the bar and asked Gertie for a large whisky and soda with a Jack Daniels chaser.

“eez,” she said, “I’d be breaking the law if I sold you alcohol.”

I studied her. Gertie and I go back a long way and I’m one of the few people that has never criticised her oral freelancing. Gobbling Gertie has always been my friend.

“So,” Gertie continued, “we’ve had a collection for you and have raised over two thousand pounds towards an ‘eez drinks fund’. By my reckoning, you won’t have to pay for a drink for at least six days, which means I don’t have to sell you anything. Cheers!”

She put my drink in front of me. I felt quite emotional.

“Thank you, Gertie. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, which should give you an indication of the piss poor life I’ve led.”

“eez, it’s a pleasure. And you might want to buy Barty a drink or two from that fund.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He refuses to accept that you’re no longer in charge of this place and has thrown out anyone that’s said otherwise.”

“Yeah, I thought the doors looked new. Okay, give him whatever he wants for the next couple of days and take it from the fund.”

“By the way,” I said, “you won’t get in trouble with the new license holder, will you?”

Gertie laughed. “eez, he’s married. On his first day I took him into the stockroom and showed him how things could be. You’ll have no problems with him.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to risk what you’ve got going here.”

“Don’t be daft, eez. I’m a grown up girl. I can hold my own.”

“Do you still do that?”

She ignored me.

Barty came to the bar. He didn’t look very happy.

“What’s up Barty?” I asked.

“Well, eez, it’s a bit awkward.”

“Barty, just tell me.”

“The flat above the pub, is it still alright for me and my dad to stay there?”

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? I said you could stay there for as long as you want.”

“Honestly?” Barty asked.

“Yep, honestly.”

Barty stood up. “Right, I’m going to throw something at the council offices.”

He ran out the pub.

“eez,” Gertie said, “the council told Barty the flat was unfit for human habitation.”

“Unfit for human habitation? The flat is fine, they’re talking bollocks.”

Gertie looked at me, “His dad’s Alzheimer’s is getting worse.  Have you been in the flat recently? There’s more shite up the walls than there’s ever been down the toilet. Barty can’t keep up with the cleaning.”

She gave me another drink.

“Gertie, if you take into account drinks for Barty over the next couple of days and a few drinks for me, what does that leave in the ‘eez drinks fund’?”

“Piss all, really.”

“In that case,” I said, “you can pay for the cleaner and the private nurse I’m about to arrange for Barty and his dad.”

“You can knob off, eez! I don’t mind doing my bit, but there’s no way I can afford that kind of money! At the moment I’ve got a dose of thrush and a loose tooth; there’s no way I can take on more work!”

“Just take it from your bank account and stop bloody whining about it.” I told her.

“There isn’t any money in my account.”

“There is.” I answered, “I put some in this morning.”

(Obviously, there’s more to come, but I’m going to stop saying ‘to be continued’ or ‘part one’. I’m sure you’ve got the idea by now)