Lost her pocket, Kitty "the Gyppo" Fisher found it. Unfortunately she only found it after Lucy's iPhone and dinner money had gone missing. She was unlucky like that Kitty. Always finding things a bit too late. Like when she found the teachers purse stuffed down the back of the radiator AFTER the Christmas Charity money got half-inched. "It's a Romany curse" said Kitty's Mum. Kitty's Dad didn't say anything. He's inside doing a 12-stretch for kicking a man with a speech impediment unconscious in the queue at Greggs when he asked for "two Pikey pies". An unlucky family really. Still, they've got a nice caravan.
I thought I'd rewrite a few of my own nursery rhymes following the news that kids in school will now be taught to recite Baa, baa, white sheep. How about Wee Willie Winkie ran through the town, upstairs downstairs in his nightgown. He's now being held against his will in the secure unit of a local looney bin under section 24 of the Mental Health Act 1962. Or, little Abdul Horner, sat in the corner, eating a halal pie, he put in his thumb and pulled out a gun, and said...well we don't know what he said actually as he's only lived here for 15 years and doesn't speak a word of the Queen's. Baa, baa white sheep have you any wool? No sir, no sir, at least none that's been ethically sourced in this country. I can do you some nice Peruvian stuff flown in by jumbo jet from the foothills of the Andes this very morning for maximum freshness. Right, I'll have three bags of that then. One for the Master, acquitted of having sex with young boys in 1974, but found guilty of having sex with young boys in 1972, 1973, 1975 and 1976, one for Dame Judy Dench and one for the little boys of same sex parentage that lives in Sir Bob Geldof Avenue next to the Synagogue.
Well, it's not often that I'm rendered almost speechless, but the Septics have really gone and done it this time. What the fuck were they thinking? Watching him deliver his victory speech on the telly last night I was drawn to what I assume was his son in the background, a lad of about 14. He sports a similar "comb over" look to his Dad. The look on his face was a picture. A combination of totally not wanting to be there with one of attempting manfully to hold in a very determined pooh. Did you notice it? His Dad is spouting off about everybody pulling together and the lad is thinking "if you don't get a move on here Pater then my sphincter is going to explode on national TV in front of the entire watching world". I'd have liked to have seen that. And another thing this "Trump pence" that was everywhere, what was that about? Is that the amount he pays for his annual charm school subscription? Or the contents of his hairdresser's tips jar? Wanker. Lord help us all now he's got in that's all I can say.
I fucking love it. An endless procession of kids knocking at the door sets young Tommy Knocker off a treat. Barking, snarling, hurling himself at the door like a demented banshee, the little kids the other side are shitting themselves. "Fuck me, no 74 have spent some money on special effects," they must be thinking, but this is no special effect, oh no, this is Tommy Knocker. He's for real all right. "Trick or treat, Mister," the oldest and bravest one whispers through the letterbox. Crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof. "Do I sound like an American?" says me Dad. "Does this street look like America?" he goes on pressing home his point. "erm, no, not really," comes the timid reply. Crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof. "Well fuck off then." "Come on Mister, it's only a bit of fun," he presses on. (The little ones have already shat themselves and gone by now). "OK, hang on, I haven't got any sweets, but I can give you a biscuit, is that OK?" "Yeah, I suppose." A minute later me Dad shoves a scone through the letterbox. At this Knocker goes completely berserk, thrashing around, crashing at the door, trying to eat bits of scone that have become encrusted around the letterbox (have you ever tries "posting" a scone through a letterbox, it isn't easy I can tell you). His tongue licking through the letterbox so it comes out the other side must have been a treat indeed for the youngster. Crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof.. "That's not a biscuit, it's a scone. "It's a fucking biscuit in America son, now FUCK OFF! I don't think I can hold back the beast of Hades much longer...crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof." I love it round here. Wait until you hear about what he's like with fireworks!
I've got 'em. Me Mum says I must have eaten something "dodgy", which it's a bit difficult to narrow down in my case seeing as around half of everything I consume could be construed as "dodgy" in one form or another. Still, pleased to see that it didn't put the boy off his breakfast this morning. Me Mum thoughtfully put some paper down for me in the kitchen (it's the one thing that the Mail on Sunday is good for), just in case I couldn't make it through the night (which I couldn't). So I duly availed myself of said services and left a nice runny mess there for her to clear up in the morning. The boy comes down first, makes himself some poached eggs on toast and sits down happy as Larry at the kitchen table to eat it right next to my steaming puddle of shite. I kid you not. The dirty bastard. It's like living through an episode of the Royle Family in here some days.
Here we are again then. This is starting to happen with far too much regularity if you ask me. What's the big deal this week then that me and Knocker are confined to the kennels? Me Mum and Dad are getting married that's what. I thought they were fucking married already. That means that Knocker and me are bastards. The shame of it all. I'm not surprised that the Jehovah's Witness lady has stopped coming round. We used to look forward to barking at her and frightening her away as well. Living in fucking sin all these years, the dirty bastards.
What the fuck has happened to his hair? I was shocked to see said slaphead on the news last night. I only recognised him 'cos of Kate stood next to him. She must be distraught poor love, one minute you're married to a dashing prince and the next morning you wake up next to Greg Wallace. What a fucking right royal let down that is.
Watching the news on the Tellybox thing last night, they rounded off this story with "we won't know that until the police have launched a full investigation into the matter" comment from a serious looking reporter. Which made me wonder do they ever say "the police are only doing a partial investigation into this one, to save costs and as they already know who's guilty anyway as some gyppo's live just around the corner from here." Which also reminds me of the BT advert. "And for that, you get our most reliable broadband service ever." Which suggests it should be followed by "unlike those other poor twats who've already signed up. Mugs. We can palm them off with any old shite." And why is it three quid to sponsor anyone, anywhere to do anything? She's all alone in the mountains, hunted for her fur, but 3 quid will buy a snow leopard a detached house and an Instamatic camera which she can use to send you some pics of her and her cubs, Dwayne and Tonya." And I'm not surprised there's no water in some of these places the way they keep wasting it. As soon as they get a three quid standpipe they leave it on all day for the kids to play in. As Ricky Gervais famously once said, it little Moli has to walk 10 miles a day to get water, then why don't her and her family simply move closer to where the water is? Or use their three quid to buy an Oyster Card?
Watching the news last night I thought it was interesting to see that the Syrian building industry works almost identically to our own despite all our differences - one man actually on the shovel, and three others stood around watching him. Ideal for a life in the West. Another things that struck me watching the beginning of Countryfile last night: is me Dad the only idiot who thinks that this week he's gonna be able to see a little bit more of that woman's tits doing the rock climbing at the beginning than he could last week?
Me dad says he's never felt old, at least not until his recent bout of hospitalisation, where the nurses all seemed to be about 13 compared to him. Not only that but they all adopted the most condescending manner, in the style of somebody who knows better talking to a really old person, before me dad realised that that old person was him. "Do you think you can manage a little walk, Dave?" (Me dad: "there's nowhere to fucking go, apart from the end of the corridor and back, you soft bint.) "Let's just say to the end of the corridor and back, could you managed that Dave, I'll be here to support you if you get tired." (Dad: what the fuck are you on about, the end of the corridor, there, fifty fucking bastard cock striding yards away, of course I can managed to walk there you soft shite, it's only 50 yards, and no I don't need your fucking help ta. I tell you what let's race it for twenty quid just to make it interesting?). "Oh, well done Dave, that's it, one foot after the other." (Dad: get to flying fuck will you, I know how to walk, I've been doing it for a lot longer than you. Looking forward to Easter are we, what's the Easter Bunny bringing you then?) "OK, let's head back now, we don't want to get ourselves to tired on the first day." (Dad: Fuck off, I'm not tired, we've only done twenty yards.) "Big breaths, in, out, in out." (Dad: FUCK OFF. I can remember how to breathe you know. Jesus wept. Hang on, what comes after in again? Is it another in, or out? I always get them two mixed up. And that walking lark, is it left, left, left and left again? Oops, I think I've wet meself.)