When I was little my mum would give me sixpence for going to the shop to buy her fags. I would become so engrossed in choosing sweets from the long line of jars behind Jack Wilson’s counter that I would lose all track of time. The jars were filled with brightly shining jewels in myriad colours, and sixpence, spent carefully, could garner a whole quarter of pick and mix. Sometimes I spent so long looking that my mum, desperate for her snout, dispatched my older brother to find me and drag me home. I think I might have wet myself occasionally when the excitement got too much…
Hello dear reader, been a while hasn’t it? I won’t apologise again for the lack of recent posts because quite frankly my promises of improved productivity are starting to sound a bit lame even to my ear. I do intend at some point starting a couple of new sites – one dedicated to my ‘grown up’ writing and poetry and one for kids stuff – because while this one amuses me (and hopefully you too) it’s not necessarily a good showcase for my work, being a bit too tongue-in-cheek and diverse. I’ll still use this site for my rants and randoms though. Talking of which…
While out running today I noticed that there seems to have been a bit of a cull on regular dog breeds, and it appears that Pug-Fuggly Pugs have displaced Chihuahuas as this season’s Pooch of Choice for bat-faced teenage girls to tuck under their arms while walking in the park. Now that’s not necessarily a bad thing – regular readers will know of my distaste for ugly little sacks of yip Chihuahuas – but by the same token I’m wary when any breed of mutt becomes a fashion accessory, because it’s only a matter of time before fashions change. I mean, I saw three or four people daft enough to spend their cash on dungarees last summer after they were tipped as the NEXT BIG THING, and we all know how quickly that idea tanked. And much as I hate Chihuahuas I can’t help wondering where all the yappy little feckers have gone, and how many vile pug farms have sprung up in their wake selling vaguely pug-like crossbreeds at £500 a pop to people who will quickly come to realise they’ve been sold a genetically-compromised and constitutionally feeble inbred pup?
Oh, and I also noticed that dog eggs are on the increase again, and while I hate to point the finger at bat-faced teenage girls with pugs and spotty-little-herbert teenage boys with things resembling pitbulls I can’t help but feel that the two things are related. But I digress…
Coming back to the topic of this post, I realised following today’s run that there’s a gap opened in the ‘Lob-It’ range of dog accessories I launched a few months ago. Addressing that, here are details of the NEW IMPROVED range, including the all-new “PUG-WHANGER”. Available now from all good virtual retailers…
Different year. Yes, the same tired ol’ visual pun recycled yet AGAIN. It’s my memory, you see – I always forget until the last minute and then it’s too late. Still, it’s the thought that counts and even though I only thought of it a moment ago I do heartily wish you all the very best for 2017. Let’s hope it’s a better one than 2016, which was a bit shit.
My plans for christmas postings went a bit off course this year thanks to a telephone / wi-fi outage outrage. Anyhow, here’s a little Christmas poem to wish you all a Very Merry Christmas…
Santa’s Lidl Helper
I’m totally sorted for Christmas,
I popped into Lidl, you see,
A thirty quid ham from Serrano
That’s almost as heavy as me.
A floral display for the table,
A beautiful, natural tree,
No needles, they swear, before the New Year
With a full money-back guarantee.
The champagne’s reduced by a fiver,
Award-winning stuff, don’t you know,
It’s better than bolly for getting one jolly
And under a tenner a go.
Their claret’s an absolute winner,
Not blended – a proper Chateau,
And the Gavi’s divine if you like a white wine
And you fancy a change from Pinot.
The bohos who live in The Village
Have tooled-up with brollies and mace:
A two-for-one offer on lobster,
They’re only a fiver a brace.
You’ll have to fight dirty to get them,
The pushing’s a bloody disgrace,
‘Cos the gastro pub landlords and restaurateurs
Are snapping them up by the case.
They’ve biscuits for cheese by the barrel,
They’ve mince pies and stollen and duff,
Panetone, biscotti, you’d have to be potty
To pass on this seasonal stuff.
Their piggies are pre-wrapped in blankets,
My family just can’t get enough,
And their all-butter pastry’s incredibly tasty
For en croute with plenty of puff.
They’ve turkey and goose by the truckload,
They’ve pheasant and quail and such,
There’s ostrich if that takes your fancy,
But a whole one is prob’ly too much.
They’ve duck and they’ve partridge and chicken,
Or four different birds in a clutch,
They’re all trussed together inside one another
With stuffing the finishing touch.
I’ve bought a guitar for our Henry,
A uke each for Katie and Sue,
A pipe wrench for Bill and an art set for Jill,
Thermal socks for the whole bloody crew.
That wheelbarrow’s sure to please granddad,
For granny I hadn’t a clue,
So I hope that she’s keen on her sewing machine –
She can knock out a onsie or two.
I’m totally sorted for Christmas,
I’ve been down to Lidl, you see,
It took just one stop for my whole Christmas shop
From the cranberry jelly to tree.
And then, as I serve up our dinner,
I wince and recoil at the shouts,
Our wonderful Christmas is ruined:
Oh fuck, I’ve forgotten the sprouts!
We don’t do Christmas cards, so this is a bit of nonsense my son, Ben, and I spent FAAARRRR too much time on this week, just to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and the happiest of New Years…
God bless you, every one…