The Return Of You Twat

June 30th 2006

You Twat has been back for three days now, leastwise it’s three days since I became aware it was back, with not a bark or a howl to inform me of its return. That would make it nine days it had been at large. What it got up to while it was having its taste of freedom I’ve no idea, but whatever it was it certainly quietened it down to some tune because there hasn’t been so much as a peep out of it since its return, despite it being tied to the clothes stump all day while the Pollitts are out, as per usual.

Perhaps its nine days freedom have sated its appetite for the delights of the outside world, maybe now it realises it isn’t such a big deal after all, and certainly not worth barking and howling all day in the hope that it’ll  be given another taste of it. If I had to bark and howl all day in order to be allowed out in it I wouldn’t be doing much barking and howling, that’s for sure.

Atkins Down The Road said, in what I detected as a hopeful tone of voice, that it is the lull before the storm, and it wouldn’t be very long before You Twat is barking and howling again, and at even higher volumes than before to make up for lost time.

If it does I have decided, on moral and humane grounds, to render it more-or-less permanently asleep on sleeping pill-spiked meatballs, until such time as the Environmental Health people have stepped in and put a stop to the whole sorry business. It will mean time and trouble, and it will cost money, but the only other practical alternative would be to let Atkins shoot it, and I just can’t bring myself to sanction that, although Atkins is rather keen on the idea (hence his tone being hopeful when he said it was the lull before the storm, I suspect).

In case the worse comes to the worse I have made an appointment with the doctor so I can obtain from him some more sleeping pills, and I also called in at our local butcher to get his best price for poorest possible quality minced beef in ten pound quantities. “Having a barbecue then, are you?” he asked, which explains the bloody awful beefburgers I get served with whenever I attend any of my neighbours’ barbecues.

Cliff Clarice

29th June 2006

The conversation between Atkins Down The Road and the Flogiteer went like this, or as near to it as makes no difference.

Flogiteer: “I’d like to take a closer look at all the pieces of pottery in both your front windows.”

Atkins: (Very annoyed) “Again? I got them all out for you last week.”

Flogiteer: “Well I’d like you to get them all out again.”

Atkins: “They’re the same bloody things.”

Flogiteer: “No they’re not. That blue teapot wasn’t there last week. And don’t swear at me.”

Atkins: “I’ll just get you the blue teapot out then.”

Flogiteer: “No, there may be other things as well. I want to look at everything.”

Atkins: “Fuck me!”

The Flogiteer having turned down Atkins’  request to fuck him, my friend once again went on hands and knees and proceeded to ferry all the items of pottery out of the windows. Due to the hot weather he was wearing shorts (£2.50 less ten per cent employee’s discount, Age Concern bargain bin) because of the hot weather, which was to have a bearing on events. The process upset Atkins even more than it had last week as this time he contrived to catch his knee on a cut glass inkpot, barking the skin quite badly. As he cursed profusely and repaired himself with a band aid the Flogiteer proceeded to give each piece of pottery the once over.

At this point I had a mischievous idea, and sauntered over to the Flogiteer with it.  “Looking for bargains?” I asked of him, pleasantly.

He eyed me suspiciously. “Just looking generally.”

“Only if it’s bargains you’re after you’ve just missed one, and by only ten minutes.”

“What was that then?”

“Well the man who bought it said it was a bargain. I wouldn’t know myself. Cliff Clarice or something, he said it was. A vase.” 

The Flogiteer’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. “Clarice Cliff you mean? Was it Clarice Cliff?”

“Yes, that was it, Clarice Cliff.” I took him into my confidence. “Actually I’m quite pleased with myself,” I smirked. “Now I know that it was a bargain. Because he wanted to knock the price down but I stuck to my guns and demanded the full four pound fifty on the price tag, every last penny.”

At this his jaw fell open. When he managed to re-engage it he said: “You sold a Clarice Cliff vase for four pounds fifty?”

“Well I didn’t know it was a bargain until after I’d sold it to him, he didn’t tell me until after he’d got his hands on it.”

“Fuck me!”

I no more wished to fuck the Flogiteer than the Flogiteer had wished to fuck Atkins, so ignored his invitation and went on: “Actually, the lady who donated it said she’d be bringing in some more pieces of Cliff Clarice or whatever it’s called once she’s had the chance to sort things out. Her late sister’s effects I believe.”

The Flogiteer all but licked his lips in anticipation. “More Cliff C… Clarice Cliff?”

“Well apparently. When she’s had the chance to sort things out. Soon.”

He didn’t bother carrying on his inspection of the rest of the pottery, just went on his way in a sort of daze.

“What are you up to?” said Atkins.

“With any luck I’m going to get rid of the pest for good,” I said. “Thanks to Helena.”

Swimming Lesson Four

June 28th 2006 

About half an hour before I was due to set off for my next swimming lesson I had a phone call from the manageress of the leisure centre telling me not to bother, as following her altercation with the fat fuck last week the swimming instructor Miss Hobday had been suspended on full pay until such time as the matter had been fully investigated by an independent body and a decision had been made as to her future. The manageress went on to tell me they were trying to find a replacement for Miss Hobday but that she didn’t hold out much hope because ‘you know how things are’.

I said: “No, I don’t know how things are, how are they?”

“Well, it’s such a long process getting a replacement, what with all the vetting we have to do in case the applicants are paedophiles or sex crimes offenders, what with them coming into contact with children and vulnerable adults, that it would be more than likely Miss Hobday will be back with us by the time we’ve done it that it just won’t be worth our while.”

I thought about this for a moment then played what I thought was a trump card. “You do realise you’re discriminating against Mr Leeson, do you?”

“Is he the dwarf?”


“No we’re not. We’ve managed to get the dwarf, the fat man and the gentleman with the hump back in with another group.”

I went berserk. “The fat man? He’s the cause of all the trouble in the first place!”

“Maybe he is, but that doesn’t give us carte blanche to discriminate against him.”

“And what about the rest of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’re discriminating against us as well, aren’t you. You’re discriminating against the rest of us for not being dwarves, fat men or hunchbacks.”

She thought about this for a moment before conceding: “Well in a way we are suppose.” But then added, with a note of relief “But you can’t discriminate against people for being normal.” 

It is impossible to argue with logic like that so I tried a different tack. “And what about the man with the glass eye?”

“What man with what glass eye?”

“Mr Pargeter. You don’t you think he’ll sue you for discriminating against people with only one eye when he hears about what you’ve done for the others?

“Thanks for the tip off. We’ll be getting in touch with him. Well goodbye.”

“I’ve got a club foot!”

Quiet for a moment, then: “A club foot?”


“It doesn’t say anything here about you having a club foot?”

“I don’t like to make a fuss about it.”

The line went quiet for a while, then she said: “Can you make Mondays at 10.30?”

“I think I should be able to limp along to that. God willing.” 


Bladder Examination

26th June 2006 

Yesterday’s post about my prostate problem and the suggestion in the Comments section that a visit to my doctor would sort it out reminded me of what I was rewarded with when I did just that – a bladder examination. In fact I incorporated the experience in my James Bond book Stockport Is Too Much. What happened to Bond is exactly what happened to me, except that I didn’t get to shag the nurse afterwards.