Wednesday, 20 April 2011

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.

4 comments:

cyclonic111 said...

Onya mate, if they had drinking in the Olympics, you character would be a champion. I admire your efforts mate. Very well done. cyc.

Count Sneaky said...

A 10, mate, a 10!

Anonymous said...

4.5

Anonymous said...

^^^^Only joking i thought it a worthy 10, hope you're keeping well EEZ?