May 31st 2006

“What do you know about what happened to our fucking dog?”

I had opened the front door to be greeted by an angry-looking Wayne Pollitt. Not a welcome sight first thing in the morning I can assure you. I am an accomplished liar when the occasion demands and when faced with an irate man built like a brick shithouse who could eat me for breakfast I am an even more accomplished coward, so I feigned complete innocence. “Has something happened to your dog?” I said, a picture of concern.

“It’s been asleep for two days. The vet says it’s in a bleedin’ coma.”

“I see.” I thought for a moment, as if addressing myself to the problem of bringing You Twat out of its coma. “You could try singing to it.”


“What’s its favourite piece of music? ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window’ perhaps?” I searched my brain for other dog songs. “Or ‘Old Shep’ maybe?”

His bloodshot eyes bore into me. “Are you fucking mental?”

“Not at all. It’s a proven fact that if you play their favourite pieces of music to people in a coma it quite often brings them out of their coma. There was a case in the papers only the other week. A couple constantly played Cliff Richard songs to their mother and she came out of the coma after three days. Mind you it put the couple and one of the nurses intoa coma but……Anyway, if it works for people there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for dogs too, so….

Pollitt eyed me balefully. “The bloke next door said you were a bit of a twat.”

Our mutual next door neighbour is Mr Jones so I took it he must have meant his next door neighbour on the other side, Mr Pomfret. “So Mr Pomfret thinks I’m a bit of a twat, does he?” I said.

“What? No, the other side, Jones.” I made a note to tell The Trouble to cross Jones of our Christmas card list and not to lend him my hedge trimmers ever again. And probably piss on his bedding plants when he was out too. “So what do you know about it then, Mr Clever Fucker?” Pollitt persisted.

“What makes you think I should know anything about it?”

“Because you’re the twat what complained about it if I know anything.”

“I regularly complain to the window cleaner that he’s missing the corners but I’ve never yet felt the need to put him in a coma for it.”

He made a fist and threatened me with it. “If I find out it was you had anything to do with it I’ll fucking chin you.”

“Very well. But you won’t. Have a nice day.”

Operation You Twat Two

May 29th 2006

After cooking the second of the spiked meatballs, in fact deliberately overcooking it to some degree in an effort to make the missile as sold as possible and thus less prone to disintegrating in flight like one of Barnes Wallis’s early attempts at the Bouncing Bomb, and after allowing it to cool down sufficiently, I took it out into the garden and prepared to propel it into the Pollitt’s back garden. They had gone out somewhere leaving You Twat behind barking and howling its fool head off as per usual and ruining my Bank Holiday. Not for much longer!

As previously I had taken the precaution of going down to the park for half-an-hour’s practice in order to get my range. Also as previously I first tossed a trial pebble before unleashing the meatball. On Friday the pebble had hit the dog. Unfortunately this time it didn’t, leastwise You Twat didn’t start howling any louder. Confident that I’d judged the distance correctly I quickly followed the pebble with the meatball.

The Trouble was out visiting her sister on this occasion and therefore wasn’t on hand at the back bedroom window as my spotter, so to ascertain whether I’d hit the target area I had to go upstairs to take a look myself.  I had; by the time I’d got there You Twat was champing away hungrily at the meatball.

I looked on, content in the knowledge that the delinquent dog would very soon be taking forty winks, or more likely four hundred winks, and I’d be able to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet again.

I got my binoculars out so I would have a better view of the slobbering beast departing for the Land if Nod. But as well as the dog my binoculars picked out something on the ground, near it. At first I thought it was a large dog turd but when I used the binoculars’ zoom facility and brought the image closer I recognised it as the raw meatball I’d thrown on Friday. It must have been there all weekend without any of the Pollitts noticing it, or more likely noticing it and wrongly identifying it as just another of You Twat’s turds, as I had.

Having finished the meatball You Twat stood smacking his lips. Then, no doubt having acquired a taste for Tesco’s steak mince meatballs, surely a more attractive diet than the mysteries of a can of dog food, the bloody thing set about eating the previously ignored raw meatball. Shit, that would make it twelve sleeping pills it had swallowed! Having quickly polished it off the dog then stood smacking its chops and looking around hopefully for another meatball.

Once the twelve sleeping pills had kicked in I expected it to start getting drowsy, and maybe stagger about drunkenly for a bit before giving up the ghost, lying down, and going to sleep, but no; after about thirty seconds it simply dropped to the ground like a stone. There was a single violent twitch from its hind legs as it rolled over onto its back, then no further movement, not so much as a flicker.

I watched it for a good half hour after that and it never moved a muscle. It looked as dead as a doornail to me, which it could very well be after swallowing twelve sleeping pills all at one go. It’s certainly quietened it down though.

It was still in exactly the same position when I looked about four-o-clock. The Pollitts had arrived home by this time but none had apparently noticed the lack of life in You Twat, either that or they’d noticed and didn’t give a shit. Probably the latter.  


Black Footballer’s Wives

May 27th 2006

Am I the only one to have noticed that all the black footballers in England’s World Cup squad are guilty of racial discrimination?  Why? And who are these black men discrimination against? Well black women, believe it or not, for as far as I have been able to determine each and every one of our black footballers has chosen a white wife or girlfriend.How come? Is it perhaps because traditionally black men have been known to choose a bit of white arm candy when it comes to getting the legover and therefore regard a white wife as a trophy? Possibly, and there’s certainly more than a grain of truth in this theory, but this is too simplistic an answer in my opinion.

Personally I think it must be because black footballers realise that white women are far superior at the art of shopping than their white sisters, and thus better equipped to spend the mountains of cash they get paid every week. After all it is by now inbred in white women through centuries of practice to spend money as fast as their partners can make it. Plus they’ve had the shining example of Princess Diana to follow. Conversely it’s not all that long ago that all black women went to the shops armed with a goat and a handful of coloured beads rather than a Barclaycard, and therefore haven’t yet acquired the necessary skills to dispose of vast amounts of money as fast as their partners can make it.

However with the likes of Naomi Campbell showing the way I’m sure it won’t be too long before black women catch up with their white counterparts. So one day in the not too distant future we might yet see a black footballer with a black wife on his arm. But don’t hold your breath.  

Operation You Twat

May 26th 2006

“It’s Friday,” said The Trouble, entering the kitchen.

“All day.”“We always have a Chinese on a Friday, or a Thai.”

“Right, we’re having sliced beef in black bean sauce.”

“Then why are you making meatballs?”“They’re for the Pollitt’s dog.”

“You’re going to try feeding it? In the hope it will stop barking?”

“In the certain knowledge it will stop barking.”

I put The Trouble in the picture as I added the twelve crushed sleeping pills to the pound of Tesco’s steak mince and formed it into two eight ounce balls. I half-expected her to raise some opposition to my plan as she used to be in the RSPCA until she swerved to miss a cat and suffered a whiplash injury, but none came. No doubt she’s as heartily pissed off with You Twat’s barking and howling as I am. “Right,” I said, “you get yourself upstairs and watch out of the back bedroom window and tell me if I hit the target.”

“Aren’t you going to cook the meatballs first?”

“No, they might disintegrate in flight if I cook them.”

“You’ll give the dog worms, feeding it raw meat.”

“It won’t be worrying about having worms, it’ll be asleep. I don’t think the worms will be too active either.”The Trouble went up to the bedroom and I went out into the back garden. You Twat was howling fit to burst. I’d already been down to the park for half-an-hour’s practice to get my range but even so decided to take the precaution of another practice throw in situ with a large pebble of around the same weight. I took up my position and tossed the pebble into the Pollitt’s garden. The howling increased.

“You’ve hit the dog,” said The Trouble, from the open bedroom window.”

“Good.” Having found my range I then expertly tossed the first of the meatballs. The barking stopped. I looked up to The Trouble. “Did it land in the target area?”


“What’s happening? Is the dog eating it?”

“It’s sniffing at it.”

I waited a moment or two. “Well?”

“It’s still sniffing at….no, no it’s turned its nose up at it, it’s turned away.”


“You should have cooked it.”

I had to admit she could be right. After all the meat in tins of dog food is cooked. I decided to leave it for the time being in the hope that You Twat might change its mind and eat it eventually. If it didn’t I’d have another go with a cooked meatball at the next available opportunity.

The barking continued until the Pollitts arrived home so it looks like You Twat continued to ignore the meatball, either that or it ate and its got a stronger constitution than I’d given it credit for.