Thursday, 23 July 2015

I've No Oojah to Put Me Doings In


Her Indoors went to the dentist this morning. She doesn’t mind that. It’s the one place where’s she’s told to open her mouth. Anyway, she asked me to see to the weekly shop at the supermarket.
They say there’s no such thing as a victimless crime, and they’re right. Any shop claiming that twelve sausages are ‘great value’ at £2.00 is guilty of misrepresentation and daylight robbery and should rightly be prosecuted.
In an effort to keep an eye on the bill, I’ve taken to shop and scan. It’s dead easy. You pick up your little ray gun and wander round the shop scanning the barcodes, and it adds up your bill. That way you can weep as you go round rather than bursting into tears at the checkout.
Naturally, you have to be careful where you aim it. I have a bad enough reputation as it is without taking home a slinky nighty which would never have suited my hairy chest.
The scanner doings is quite bulky, but with malice aforethought, making certain you don’t get out of it that easily, the shop has designed some of its trolleys, with a little oojah on the handle where you can put your doings.

Trouble is, my brain was coasting when I got to the shop, and I chose one of the other trolleys. I didn’t notice until I was half way round the shop, but I had no oojah to put me doings in.

I ended up carrying it in my pocket and like a fool, I never checked the bill, only the final amount. Judging from that, I think I must have accidentally scanned the serial numbers on a couple of tenners.

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Smartphone Dumb Phone


Careful readers will note that I picked up one of these smartphones a couple weeks back. Why do they call them smart? It’s not smart at all. It’s totally dumb.

I send a lot of text messages. It’s cheaper than phoning and the deal gives me 5,000 text per month, free. My favourite word. But this thing is fitted with the predictive text oojah, and it keeps getting things wrong. When I want to tell someone to piss off, I mean piss off, not puss off. It’s not like we even own a cat, and if the phone is so smart it should know that. There are no pictures of cats in my albums.
My mate, Jim, was really puzzled when I replied to one of his texts and I said, “You are a daft bustard.”
But it got much worse. I overheard this bloke in a pub saying as how he fancied “shagging Jim’s wife.” For readers not familiar with British vernacular, “shag” is a euphemism for fornication.
I thought I’d better let my best mate know about this, so I sent him a text telling him what I’d heard.
Imagine my surprise when I got a text back saying, “It’s all right, Flatcap, everyone does it.”
What was he saying? Half the world is having his wife while he’s working? It’s not like she’s an oil painting, either. She wouldn’t be too bad if she kept her wig on and both her eyes looked in the same direction. But, hey, I ‘m not exactly the thinking woman’s hunk, so who am I to criticise? And according to Jim, she makes a belting Yorkshire pudding.
Still puzzled by Jim’s reply, I checked my original, and instead of reading, “He fancies shagging your missus,” it read, “He fancies slagging your missus,” and again for the benefit of overseas readers, “slagging someone off” means you’re, er, well slagging them off, I suppose. Calling them names, running them down.
At this point, Jim’s text made more sense, so I sent him another message replacing “shagging” with “fucking”… or “ducking” as the phone thought, and he replied, “I wish someone would duck her. Preferably under five cubic yard of concrete.”
I gave up.

Obviously, I’m persevering with the phone but it may be a week or two before I have it properly trained… or property drained as the phone would have it.

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

A Fallen Man


So there I was pottering on the computer, scribbling away, when I had an urgent need of the lavatory and hurried up the stairs. I was almost at the top when I fell.

Wearing only a pair of shorts, I rattled and grazed my shin. For a moment I thought I’d broken my foreleg, the pain was so bad, and I was screaming in agony. As luck would have it, it’s a language I speak fluently.
Naturally, at that time of day, Her Indoors was still in bed. I’m laid there, at death’s door and she’s snoring her head off. At length the bedroom door opened and she stepped onto the landing. She was wearing little but a knee-length nightie, which gave me a grand view of those areas usually reserved for nightmares. Trust me, when your leg is hanging off, it’s not a sight to inspire.
“Did you fall?” she asked.
“No. I’m auditioning for a part in the next production of Hamlet and I wanna get the death scene right.” I glared up, then averted my eyes again. “Of course I fell.”
“Unusual for you,” she said. “You generally fall down the stairs.”
“Only when I’m full of ale.”
She nipped back in the bedroom to check the clock. “It’s early enough,” she said when she came back.
By this time I had managed to drag myself upright, and was hobbling towards the bathroom where, after dealing with the matter which sent me scurrying there in the first place, I inspected the damage. Not too bad. Some bruising, skin stripped back, specks of blood, but nothing life-threatening, even if the pain told me otherwise.
“Get me the first aid gear, will you, and while you’re down there, bring me up one of those elastic support bandages. It’ll help keep the dressing in place.”
She went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with the box we keep all such gubbins in. I rooted through it, and could not find any lint pads.
“We’ve run out,” she said when I asked. “The dog’s eye was sore, so I used them to bathe it.”
At that point I lost it altogether. “Here I am with a busted leg, in need of treatment, and you’ve used everything on the frigging dog?” I gestured at my gammy leg. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Well,” she said, “There’s some Bob Martin’s in the cupboard.”
“What am I supposed to do with that? Crush it, soak it in water and rub it on the wound.”
“You could do. You might end up with a glossy coat and cold nose, which would make a change from a scruffy ragged jacket and a runny nose.”

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Normal Service Has Been Improved


It’s over a week since The Empress came back from her niece's hen weekend in Benidorm, and broadly speaking, things are back to normal.

She’s not talking to me and I’m annoyed as hell. Mainly because we’re going to Benidorm in September, and she’s lost interest because she’s already been. On top of which there was that picture of her snuggling up to some young stud.
“What are you gonna do when we’re in Benidorm and you find some young dolly feeling my crown jewels?” I demanded
“Send her to Specsavers,” was the tart reply.
There was also a hint that the theoretical dolly would need small hands.
I couldn’t argue about the photos of her with the bar’s resident tramp. According to her, she can be seen with a tramp seven days a week... me.
Communication was difficult while she was away. At the prices some of these mobile providers charge, I wouldn’t phone her. I could get a flight cheaper. So we had to rely on texts. We both had those old muppet phones where you press a key several times to get a specific letter. I could cope, but Her Indoors is to technology as Pol Pot was to human rights. I could go twenty-four hours waiting for a reply, and when it came it often read, “PGPP MDD.”
It took me a while and a close study of the phone’s keypad to work out she was trying to say, “Piss off.”
So while she was away I scotched my contract, and decided not to put anymore credit on her PAYG and signed a double contract with smartphones.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, that’s it. Flatcap has fallen for the big sell; the must-have toy; the thing man must not be without.
Wrong. The deal saved me near on a tenner a month on what I’ve been paying.
Composing and sending texts is a lot easier with the onscreen, QWERTY keyboard, so the next time she’s away when I text her to ask what’s good for cleaning scorched wallpaper and wall tiles in the kitchen, I should get an answer.
And it should be a lot less threatening than, “Blood. Yours.”


Thursday, 9 July 2015

Self-Sufficiency


There is a scurrilous rumour that Flatcap cannot look after himself. Well, with Her Indoors in Benidorm last weekend, the time came for me to shoot those naysayers down. I can take care of myself, and I was out to prove it.
I saw her off in the middle of the night, came home and went back to bed. Getting up a few hours later, I felt a bit peckish. At this point, I could have nipped down to Tesco and bought breakfast, but I thought, no. I’ll do it myself, and I opted for beans on toast.

The first problem I came across was how to stop the beans sliding off the bread in the toaster. Toasters tend to operate vertically, and no matter how hard I tried, the beans slid down and sank to the bottom.
Being of a mechanical bent, problem-solving comes quite naturally to me. Over a cup of tea I tossed the matter around my head, and came to the conclusion that I should lay the toaster on its side.
Not a good idea. The side get too hot for the MDF of the worktop. It’s a wonder the kitchen didn’t catch fire before I went back to the drawing board.
Then I realised that I didn’t have to use the toaster. We have a perfectly good stove with a grill and while it’s not quite as efficient as a toaster, it could certainly do the job.
This time I did get flames, and the one solid conclusion I reached was that while fire-extinguisher foam may look like clotted cream, and set like a tasty meringue, it lacks somewhat in the taste department.
Chucking the beans on toast in the bin, after breakfast in Tesco, I came home with the minimum groceries I would need for four days alone. This included a tin of spam, a wedge of Double Gloucester and several packs of McCain microchips. They taste like shit but you can hardly go wrong warming them up in microwave, can you?
Well, you can if you press the wrong switch on the wall and put the washing machine on instead. I only learned this after digging out the tool box and taking the wall plug to pieces, by which time my three-minute microchips had defrosted without any assistance because they’d been out of the freezer so long. The upside, if you can call it such, was that next week’s underwear had been thoroughly washed and Her Indoors only needed to iron it all when she got home.
By Saturday, suffering from near malnutrition, I decided it was time to open the Double Gloucester and put together a cheese and tomato sandwich. Even I couldn’t get that wrong.
The bread was fresh, the cheese was superb, as I anticipated, but the tomatoes… they were garbage. They were just like a red pulp.

Now, I know what you’re gonna say. It was me again, but you’re wrong. They were like that when I emptied them out of the tin.

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

The Benidorm Belle


Her Indoors cleared off to Benidorm last weekend for a few days. Hen party.
How I coped on my own will keep for another day. Since she got back on Sunday night, I’ve had all the gory details, and safe to say I’m certain they’ll come in useful the next time I’m in the doghouse.

Cosying up to a tramp is only the beginning, but it’s bloody annoying. When I go out dressed like a scruff, she tries her damnedest to dissociate herself from me. The pub comedian pulls the same stunt in Benidorm, and he gets a round of applause from her. She even put on his bonnet and bins.

Apparently they all went to see Sticky Vicky and they were not impressed. But it didn’t stop her cuddling some young buck in another bar.

Note: on orders from Her Indoors, this photo has been cropped but it doesn't take a genius to work out was going on. 

I said to her, “You never hold me like that.”
And she replied, “The one time I did, I couldn't get my arm round you.”
Nice to have a supportive wife, isn’t it?
So finally, she’s telling me about this middle aged bloke who approached her in a busy bar and suggested, “How about a fuck for a fiver?”
Naturally, she declined.
“Quite right,” I agreed. “Stick out for a tenner at least.”