Now I’m sure you’ve seen them before – car-crash documentaries involving complete arses who fully believe they can commune with wild animals.  Not the itty-bitty small wild animals no, the bloody great flesh eating variety or the ones that are so poisonous, that if they fart in a neighbour’s kitchen, you’ll die as well.

It is without doubt the most excruciating form of viewing I find.  And I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve sat in my chair wincing and listened to these self-taught pillocks say, “Look how angry it’s getting,” hoping upon hope that the cocksure twat gets bitten right in the arse!  Jesus!  Of course its getting angry you prat, you’ve woken it up, you’re poking it with a stick, and in a minute you’re going to swing it round by its tail!!! 

How many more times have we got to watch grown men striding about in khaki shorts, thinking they’re Doctor-bloody-Dolittle, and basically showing off their talents on camera?  Oh they get away with their antics for years and years, writing books and even opening their own sanctuaries.  But does it stop there – does it bollocks! 

Then they get a little too ‘up’ themselves, and go on to boast about their understanding of these exotic killer beasts, while raking in a bunch of cash for their retirement fund.  [Case in point: please see post ‘You’ll have to bear with me on this’. (2009/08/09) 

There was once, and I can’t emphasise the word ‘once’ enough, who thought he comprehended the workings and ways of the American bear, he wrote about them, filmed them and eventually camped out in their surroundings.  He did it for years and gained much notoriety and some fame for his efforts.  The notoriety pumped up his already inflated ego and the fame made him believe he was God-sent to be at one with the bears.  What happened?  Yip, they ate him!  So with this in mind, here’s another story of brazen stupidity, and believe me, you couldn’t make this up…

Born the son of a roughty-toughty mechanic, Ron wanted to be a ballet dancer, and right there is where it all started to go wrong for Ron.  His dad was hoping that his son would take over the family business one day.  But no, instead of warming to the look of a grease monkey, he picked up a vat of grease paint, and headed off to France.  Once there, he joined the Follies Bergere, where he starred as a nude dancer – ewwwwwwwwwww gross!

When he hit 30 Ron knew that he had to hang up his tights, as lifting up twiglet-sized females all day can play havoc with your knees.  It was a sad day, but you know what performers are like, they just can’t bloody stop doing it can they.  Give ’em a crowd of no more than a couple pensioners and a goat and they’re off.  All tits and teeth – it’s enough to make you puke.

After months of not knowing what to do with himself, he hooked up with a childhood sweetheart Joy, and between them they decided it would be a great idea to train up big some cats and perform with them, while avoiding a proper job altogether.  This would prove to be his, well another friend, and Joys downfall anyway.

Well, they took the show on the road, with some success, but as time went on, they got more cats and needed another pair of hands.  Enter a lithe and young Chuck.  “Oooh, he was gorgeous,” said a very bi Ron, as bi as a fox with in a tu-tu in fact, but never the less they went on to become a famous threesome, in every sense of the meaning.  In came the cash, up went their status, and they went onto open an animal sanctuary.  Yes folks, we’ve reached ‘that’ part of the tale.

[Before I go any further, I thought I should explain this crucial fact.  Having an in-bred or a cross-bred cat causes major problems in the long run, largely in the eating department.  If a lion mates with a tiger, for example, you end up with a beautiful, but confused offspring.  Half of it wants to go for a swim, and the other half doesn’t.  The result – one pissed off person-eater.]

As with most shows, they needed to be updated to keep the audiences interest, and when the bookings dropped off, our chum Ron, in his buttock-hugging leather shorts said, “We just gotta get a white tiger.”  Enter Jupiter. 

Now, he was a gorgeous beast and no mistake, 600lbs of teeth and claws, but graceful with it.  Chuck raised him and all was well initially.  However, the fact of the matter is this, most white tigers are in-bred, and overall, this leaves you with a very large and unpredictable animal.  Did Ronnie-baby know this fact?  Well, yes he did.  Did he care?  I don’t think so.  All he wanted was the stardom and the fame to continue, no matter what.  Big mistake!  Chuck tripped over some equipment that was left lying about one day, because they were having a new new cage built.  This startled Jupiter, and he jumped all over his trainer, leaving him permanently short of breath.  Shock-horror-gasp!  Man-eating animal eats man!!!

At this point Joy stopped eating, became depressed and then suicidal, and in Ron’s own words, “She was praying to die, she didn’t know how she was going to die, she just wanted to.”  Well poor old Ron, two rutting partners down – one ‘brown bread’ (slang: dead) and one who was suffering from acute melancholia, (the fear of cute melons).

In a bid to rally the spirits of his ailing partner, he woke her up one night and asked her if she’d like to go and see the ‘babies’.  Eventually, she prised herself up from her mattress, went to the fridge, picked up a few meaty tit-bits and followed Ron towards the cat enclosure.

She handed a few piece of one dead animal to a larger living one and received a hug for her efforts, and then Burt the tiger was led back into its pen.  Overjoyed with the outcome , soppy bollocks brought back Jupiter, with the hope of the same success.  Well, you know what life’s like, it’s got that nasty habit of biting you right in the arse when you’re least expecting it.  And unfortunately, Jupiter was a tad hungrier than everyone one thought, favouring a good sized chunk out of Joy’s neck, rather than a handful prime rump. 

What did the surviving member of The Cat Dancers say to the huge in-bred beast, “What have you done to mom?”  As he couldn’t speak yet, Jupiter began crying and sniveling, according to Ronald.  No he wasn’t you prat, he was licking his lips and hoping for a plateful of dessert!

So, what have learned from this ridiculous circle-world farce?  Never, under any circumstances, let a bi-sexual ballet dancer teach a classroom full of students about animal husbandry, never ever think that for one moment that you are a tigers parent, and if you do lose two dear shagging partners to one man-eating animal, at least you’ll get a nice big rug out of the deal if it all does go fun-bags upper most…

Right, I’m off to adopt a crocodile…cab…

 

True story

You know what it’s like, you’re young, the sun’s out and you head towards your local to see who else has come out to play…

Well, by midday Saturday, around 30 of the usual crew had arrived at our second home, and everyone was full of expectations of another daft afternoon.  After the general ribbing was out of the way, and the first pint had been sunk, the inane group-chats would ensue.   I was sitting outside at the front of the pub, at a table, with a dozen other friends around me. 

Just beyond our table was the car park, and it was customary for one of us to open the boot of their car and turn on the radio so we could listen to the Kenny Everett show, on Capital Radio.  (If you’ve never heard of Kenny Everett, look him up on the net, he had a great sense of the absurd, and was the first DJ to give Bohemian Rhapsody, by Queen, airtime.) 

Anyway, during a lull in the banter, two of the crowd stood up with out a word spoken, and walked towards the the roadside.  After a few minutes the rest of us began to wonder what they were up to, and fired a salvo of drunken comments to  that effect, but they didn’t reply. 

Eventually they crossed the road, pints still in hand, and then made tracks towards the edge of Epping Forest, which was literally opposite the pub.  I wasn’t sure if what happened next was caused by the heat of the day or copious amounts of lager or a combination of both, but for some reason they both disappeared into the undergrowth giggling like a couple of school kids.

From our prime position we could hear a whole bunch of high-pitched girly squealing emanating from the forest’s edge, and the overall group thought was, “What the fuck are they up too?”  We still didn’t have a visual on them at this stage, but what we could see bore all the hallmarks of a Benny Hill sketch. 

Branches began to move independently, even though there wasn’t a hint of a breeze.  Twigs and leaves began to fall to the ground, and all of this was interspersed with hysterical laughter, which eventually spread to our table.  Suddenly, two heads appeared above the branches looking indifferent directions, one of them shouted, “GO”, and they both jumped out from behind the tree and made their way back to us stark bollock naked, pints still in hand!  Why?  Only they knew that. 

Fits of raucous laughter broke out immediately as they stopped by the roadside and casually lent against the street sign chatting to one another.  All verbal contact was impossible as they were to far away from us, but from sip to swig they raised their glasses at us and smiled as they took in the view, as did a cluster of cyclist when they shot past them!

As their pints were running low they decide to give us a final performancebefore disappearing back into the foilage to retrieve their cloths, so to finish what they had started, they began flashing their down-belows at as many motorists as possible. 

There was much waving and stretching of wedding tackle, followed by the pressing of warm goolies on the drivers and passengers side windows as the traffic slowed down and stopped.  Well it had to stop, as one or both of them were blocking the road!  It was an unbelievable sight and, again, tears of laughter were shed, and what I found the most surprising was – no one reported the incident to the police!

 

You know what it’s like, it’s a beautiful day, you’ve just finished sanding down a neighbour’s badger, and then you see an article in the paper, the contents of which horrifies you to the core.  The paper?  The Daily Mail.  The subject – a middle class bint who can’t afford Christmas for the first time in her life…

It’s a typical story from this,’Oooh, we don’t want to upset anybody, we’re British after all’ tabloid, and well in keeping with audience.  Yes, they may be death and destruction, violence and war-torn countries around the world, but the headlines in the Mail will read, ‘Hoorah – another Royal wedding’ or ‘Snail attacks pensioner’ or more realistically, ‘Fake green wellingtons shocker’!   

Yes people, this is the tragic story of having, as I see it, a vast and regular income and the ‘trappings’ (More than just a poignant word) that comes with the lifestyle.

Doris A (Her name has been change to protect her from the ignominy of making a complete twat of herself) borrowed and borrowed from the bank, and then found that the recession had taken hold, of what she must have believed to be, the untouchable middle class sector.  How did she do it?  Rather like this…

Bored one day and itching to add something else to her ‘I WANT, I WANT LIST’, Doris started a business with her partner.  Fair enough.  Then they bought a country house, even though they both had properties in London.  (O…kay).  Tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, they moved to the Cotswold and rebuilt their new acquisition.  [Oh I see, spending money is a bit of a hobby then.]  And if that wasn’t enough, the soppy bitch decided to purchase another house while they were down there, as an ‘investment’.  My, my, we were born with a silver ladle in our mouth weren’t we!

Now, how much money do you need to own four houses and start up a business, while using Harrods as your corner shop?  Baring in mind that, they probably had two cars, at least one 4 by 4, a pony for their daughter Jocasta and a quad bike for little Maximus J Pilchard the III.  Let’s say… an even 4 million for argument’s sake.

Then, oh dear, oh dear, the recession hit (caused by the very people that lent them the money in the first place), and shortly after that, the housing market slumped to an all time low.  And what did the caring sharing, ever giving bankers say?  That’s right, “Oi, oi, we want our money back right now!”  And it was this very situation that dropped Doris A and Dave B  in it right up to their guilt-edged bonds. 

Now, of course, things are more than a little difficult for Doris A.  [Excuse me, I’m just opening another box of tissues, sniff, sniff.]  And she and her partner are learning, for the first time, how to pull the horns in.  “We’ve had to completely rearrange our lives,” she said walking into Pound-land.  Yeah, you and half the country luv!  “These days”, she went on, “I’m lucky if I make £500 pound a week as a writer.”  Awwwww!  I’d kill to have that coming in a week.  Call me old fashioned, but I can’t help feel that it sounds like a case of too much credit and not enough hard cash madam.

Please note: I shall be passing a hat round so you can donate to the ‘Save the middle classes from themselves’ fund.  Please, please give generously, as they simply can’t face their friends, family or neighbours or book that third holiday.  

So it came to pass that, after everything she had been through, mostly spending other people’s money on a succession of ‘wants’, she finally realised that: “Yes, Christmas is heaven for the rich, [Well done dear.] but increasingly hellish for the less well-off.”  [Couldn’t ya just slap it!!]

And what did she want now, more than anything in the world?  A perfect Christmas.  No!  What she really wanted was a Christmas like all the other ones she’d had, the ones that had been delivered to her front door by Fortum & Mason.  I have no concept of what that feels like, other than it must be like handing out wads of cash to get other people to run around for you.

That’s not Christmas, that’s just a day to say,”Look how much we’ve spent this year,” to the people that they think are there friends.  I can only assume that the bubble they live in hasn’t got windows.  Well, after all, if you can’t see a problem, it doesn’t exist does it!  Think I’ll pop round to their house/s an’  give ’em a Spursland slap – bloody idiots!

News Flash… 4:241am GMT.

Uganda hit by Raging Banana wilt!             

 

This just in from our BBC News24 correspondent from the warped side, Fitz Snuggly…

Smoking!  Is it a dying art?

What’s green and invisible?  No peas.

Ballet.  What the fuck’s that all about!

Can humans hear when a dog whistles?

If female fish had eye brows, would they use waterproof mascara?

 

Brewery news: barmaids devour their young.  But, on the upside a spokeman said, they always give good head.

Personal news: I was ironing my pet bee’s tabard one day, when my father came up to me and said, “Son, I have something important to tell you.  My father passed it on to me, and I hope that one day, you will impart this vital life-lesson on to your children.”  I sat back and waited to hear these great words of wisdom.  “Son,” he said for a second time, “Never leave to top off a muesli packet”  And I said, “Why not dad.”  And he said, “It’ll go dry!”  It make you proud to be British!!! 

 

The secret thoughts of a manic depressive

Day 11: Thinks?  Better change my boxers I suppose.

DAY 12: Naaaaaah – who’s going to know.

DAY 13: Oooh look, flies!

DAY 14: Could turn them inside out again?

Day 15: Naaaaaah – I’ll do it tomorrow.

DAY 16: Thinks?  Better change my boxers I suppose.

Day 17: Oooh look, a squirrrel…

DAY18: I bet he doesn’t have to change his boxers

Day 19: I wish I was a squirrel!

 

And finally…

This just in from ‘Rustic Weekly’: if pots and pans were ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ there’d be no need for tinkers.  What the hell’s that all about?

 

At the start 2007, here in the UK, a bunch of vote-seeking non-smoking puritans decided that our smoking ban should be extended.  And like all power-crazed maniacs, I can’t help feel that they haven’t looked at the long term effects of their actions.

Some bright spark informed an underling to slap a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door to the entrance of the communal stairway of my flats.  And it says, ‘It is against the law to smoke in the common areas of this premises’. 

Now, at a guess, I’d say that this sticker must have cost around 2p to produce.  Multiply that by the amount of flats in England, and that’s going to work out to a heap of cash – a waste of cash in fact.  I have, on occasions, lit up in this stairwell while talking to my neighbour, who also smokes.  And despite this act of ‘not giving a shit’, neither of us has been arrested by the ‘Smoke Police’!

The ban here began with a no smoking policy on all forms of public transport, and I can live with that.  Not even I want to sit in a carriage full of smoke.  Then the ban was aimed squarely at the pubs, clubs and restaurant, and other public places of entertainment.   Fine, I can understand and deal with that too.  Still, it is a shame to see all those pubs close down, especially in our current financial trend.  You would have thought that Government would be grateful of the extra revenue.  Still, they know best I suppose!!!  However, the way the ‘fresh air freaks’ are heading now; you’ll get banged up for smoking in front of your cat!

So, here’s the latest list concocted by the ‘Anti-smokers Nazi League’, and as you might have guessed, it’s just getting sillier…

If you’re a specialist tobacconist, as of the 9/3/11, you will be forced to rip out your shop front and replace your clear windows with frosted ones.  The reason – so that your wears are out of view of the public.  Well slap my thighs with a bee’s tabard, all the privacy an armed robber needs to turn the place over!  Initially, smoked glass was to be used, but it was deemed to unhealthy for flies.

In April 2012, all supermarkets will have to remove their cigarette cabinet and place the contents under the counter.  And in 2015, all of the smaller shops must follow suit.  This would make cigarettes the ‘new porn’ surely?

And the next stage well, this really is a piece of work.  Every scrape of recognisable packaging is to be removed, leaving you with a plain packet.  Top marks!  No printing costs equals cheaper cigarettes!!!  There may be a little bit of aggravation ordering your stock but, never the less, well done. 

I don’t no about you, but I am a tad pissed off with these faces arses, who earn more money than I’ll see in a lifetime, telling me how to live my life.  I see no plans to drive the wine and Bollinger brigade under the counter, despite the fact alcohol causes as many, if not more, problems as cigarettes!

Get this, the cheeky bastards.  A survey undertaken by another bunch of invisibles profoundly stated that it was the lower classes who smoke more, which obviously make us their problem!  What a bloody surprise!  Who’s first in line for the chop when a firm goes under?  The guys on the bench.  Can we sit back, safe in the knowledge our mortgage payment can be met, and wait to be head-hunted?  No!

If these so-called well educated people think they’ve got a problem with funding hospitals now, imagine how surprised they’ll be when the next wave of mental health patients starts queuing up in about nine months time.  

They could, of course, address the problem of illegal substances.  Oh no, hang on, that’s to difficult police isn’t it!  “Well, let’s have a pop at something we can control, because we know exactly where the suppliers are.  Bang out of order.  There’s no doubt, that this scheme will backfire on the Government, and here’s why…

The unemployment figures will rise to an epidemic proportion never before seen in the UK.  Already ‘Beep, Beep Bloody Beep’ Ltd, a London based smoke alarm factory, has closed down with a loss of 200 jobs.  Less fires – no need  for smoke detectors.  And, the knock-on effect of this will result in job losses throughout the Fire Brigade service.  Already firemen have begun setting fires just to give them something to do.  And what will they do when Guy Fawkes is banned? 

All Catholic priest will be banned from swinging their incense burners about, in a bid to eliminate the chances that tobacco might have been added surreptitiously.  And now the ‘Smoke Nazis’ are investigating third hand smoke.  And if they can prove it’s as harmful as second hand smoke, all crematoriums will be closed down forthwith, fifthwith in some cases!

Then of course, as if they haven’t had a hard enough time of it already, the nation’s fishermen and wet fish shop owners will face a new problem.  Oh yes, you can kiss goodbye to smoked haddock, mackeral, salmon, trout, and herrings and kippers madam, far to dangerous!

The Police force and Army will have to restock part of their arsenal of weapons with Smoke Bomb ‘lights’.  Tear gas, however is perfectly fine.  And the ban is set to hit the drinks industry for a second time, as Smokey Bacon Crisps will be withdrawn as they may be a danger to children.

Working in a nuclear plant is quite safe apparently, but you can’t smoke inside one, as it may give you cancer!!!  And finally, and most critically, you will be hung for smoking at a windswept bus stop shelter.  However, step one pace to the left or right of the wind tunnel, and you will be perfectly within the law of the land…

 

Honestly, if you lot did as you were told, we would all get on so much better!!! 

[Runs away, in case wedding tackle is removed by a rampaging mob in comfortable shoes.]

Hey, don’t have a go at me, I’m just quoting from a piece written in a magazine!  And, it was scribed by a lady-women.  It just goes to show that the modern woman has lost all sense of femininity and how to care for her man.  You can call me what you like, it’s all here in the Housekeeping Monthly from the 13th of May, 1955.  So, take note all you brides to be, this is how it should be done, from an extract called, The Good Wife’s Guide.

Have dinner ready: plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return.  This is a way off letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs.  Most men are hungry when they come home and they prospect of a good meal (especially his favourite) is part of the warm welcome needed.  [Now ladies, what’s so difficult about that?] 

Prepare yourself: take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be fresh when he arrives.  Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking.  He’s just been with a lot of work-weary people. [Again, it’s not hard is it!]

Be little gay and a little more interesting for him.  [Quite right too.]  His boring day may need a lift, and it’s one of your duties to provide it. [See, that’s what I mean ladies!!!]  Clear away clutter.  Make one last trip to through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.  Gather up school books, [if you don’t have children borrow some] toys, paper etc and then run a duster over the table.  [The words, broom, arse and stick come to mind.]

Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for himto unwind by.  [Undertake this in the front room, not in the garden – I’M JUST SAYING!]  Your husband will feel he has reach a haven of rest and order, and it will give him a lift too.  After all, catering for his comfort will proved you with immense personal satisfaction. 

Prepare the children: take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their cloths.  They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing their part.  [WOT!]   Minimise all noise.  At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum.  And try to encourage the children to be quiet. [Or stop breathing.]

Be happy to see him.  Greet him with a warm smile [well that should be easy to do after all that housework], and show sincerity in your desire to please him.  Listen to him.   You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time.  Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.  [Now, that is worth making note of girls!] 

Make the evening his.  Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. [Perfectly understandable]  Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to relax.  [Even if he’s on the dole.]

Your goal: try to make sure your home  is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.  Don’t greet him with complaints and problems. [How sensible she is.] 

Now, I hope you’re taking notes on all of these points, and if you can make sure to instill the last three issues, I can promise that your man will stay with you forever and ever – you lucky things…

Make him comfortable.  Have him lead back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom.  Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take his shoes off.  [Resisting all temptation to smoother the bastard with it.]  Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.  Don’t ask him about his actions or question his judgement or integrity.  Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness.  You have no right to question him.  [And finally…]

A good wife always knows her place. 

Ladies, you have my sympathy…  

 

 

Well, you know what it’s like, I’d just sat down to play three card brag with my favourite pilchard; when the phone rang.  It was a Government official from the department of ‘Fuck me, is it warm out there or is it me’, and it was clear that he wanted my assistance… 

What’s on your mind then big boy, I asked?  Global warming he replied frantically.  Stop right there heart face, I said, I’m already on it.  In fact in the last seven minutes I’ve worked out why the planet is warming up, and it’s all sortable.  The relief on his face was evident, and he sat back with a possum and rocket sandwich and listened to my findings.

Think back to the dawn of time, a time when there were fewer people, animals or Star Bucks on the earth – more specifically, a time when there were no roads, highways or skyscrapers.

What we had then was a well balanced globe rotating quite happily between the sun and the moon.  Now, stone cold logic says, if you add any extra weight to any part of a spinning mass, be it on one side or the other, it will spin on a new axis.  And that right there is your problem is mate! 

As it stands at the moment, on one side of the planet you’ve got deserts, forests, a bunch of ice, and a sprinkling of people, while on the other side you’ve got a whole mess of buildings, extra people and more animals than you can shake your old chap at.  However, this is just part of the issue.

Some say that the earth revolves on its axis because of the gravitational pull between the moon and the sun.  Others will tell you it’s because at the center of the planet, we have a mass of spinning molten lava pushing the world around.  Well, as a cub scout who still has his woggle ‘intactus’, I can tell you that this is a complete crock of horseshit!

For a start, you need three elements to keep a fire alight, a source of ignition, then a fuel and finally a regular supply of oxygen.  Take any one of these three integral elements out of the equation, and a fire you can’t make pal!  So, if you think you can set fire to a bunch of rocks, underground, you give it a go!  If you can so much as achieve a spark, I’ll have your next lovechild!!!

So, what can we do to offset the treat of global warming, if it exists?  Well, I thought it would be obvious.  All of the other planets in the solar system have remained roughly the same since the day that they were formed.  And as a far as we know, it’s only the earth that has been buit on.  All we have to do is redress the balance stupid!  We replicate  exactly what’s on one side of the planet, to the other, and Bob’s yer uncle son!  It’s not rocket science is it!

 

Now me, I like a tree as much as the next person likes a tall sticky-up-standy-thing.  But, when you’ve got an overgrown wall of 12 Leylandii, sixty feet high, blocking any natural daylight in your building, you have to take action…

Well, not straight away of course, I am British after all!  I mentioned it to a neighbour first who lives below me, and he said he had the same problem.  “Don’t fret pet,” he remarked, I’ve phoned the council to see if they can get a man on it.  And as luck would have it, they could, so 10 months later our resident ‘tree doctor’ rushed to the scene of the blockage.

Yes, it was 23 minutes past the hour of seven a.m. precisely, when soppy bollocks turned up!  I knew it was this time, because I was just about to go to bed!!!  (I have a broken sleep pattern)  Anyway, despite the repetitive sounds of a chain saw starting up and cut, cut, cutting everything in its path, I did nod off.

When I came too, but not it three, all was blissfully quiet, and I’d completely forgotten that the manic tree-slasher of old north London had been to call.  However, after a single glance out of the kitchen, from my first floor flat, I couldn’t help but notice that something was definitely missing.

When I ‘hit the pit’ there were a dozen beautiful swaying fir trees, green as green could be.  True they did block the light in two of my rooms, but all the same, they were a gorgeous and hypnotic sight on a windy day.

I looked again, at what was left of the first of the firs to the far left of the line, and it really was quite an exceptional piece of work I have to say.  It as if a recently sectioned patient had been given a free pass for the day, unsupervised, and had been left in charge of the job using a Black & Decker ‘Bastard saw’!  I kid you not, my Nan could have done a better job, and she died last year of ‘Raving root rot’!

In my naivety, I presumed that these beautiful garden privacy features would receive a thorough short back and sides, from top to bottom, by a skilled woodsman.  How wrong can you be?  This bloke was either in a rush or he wasn’t being paid enough.

Shaping the trees, it seems, was completely out of the question.  And from what I could work out, he’d taken his tool of choice, and starting from roughly 20 feet down from the top, had run the chain saw back to the trunk, and carried on cutting right down to the base of the tree.  So, this left tree No. 1, very, very green at the top, bald as a badger to the ground, and a nasty shade of brown to boot.

Now, on one tree, the furthest away from my flat, it didn’t look too shabby, and little rays of daylight had begun to infiltrate my lounge.  Fairly happy with this outcome, I left the building and headed of to the market of great  superness, returning sometime later.

While emptying the contents of my shopping bags, it was clear that ‘Psycho Sid’ had returned while I was out.  There was so much daylight streaming through my windows now; I had to put on my Bipolaroids on!

And what was left of the lush wall of evergreens?  Just a nasty brown mutilated mess really, with what looked like Christmas tree glued to the tops.  The squirrel’s union were up in paws about it, and they’d left placards on the remaining four trees which read, “HELL NO – WE WON’T GO!”  There was a strike an’ everything, and we were knee-deep in nuts for weeks!

A month later there was this noise.  A noise that my subconscious wouldn’t allow me to wake up from, until it was too late to hurl abuse out of the window.  A couple of hours must have passed by and I got up in my usual daze.  I sparked up the kettle, looked out of window, lit the first cigarette of the day and drifted off to the bathroom for a pie and mash (slang: slash)

Well, it took a double take, and the time it takes to make a cup of tea, followed by smoking the rest of my cigarette, letting the cats out of the window to sniff the morning air, and having a casual lean on the draining board, before I realised that the ‘tree butcher’ had most definitely called again.

I believe I said out loud, “FER… FUCK’S SAKE!!!”  How could it be worse, you might asked yourself?  Well, you remember the top twenty feet that were left untouched by human hand or saw?  Well, the son-of-a-bitch had sneaked back and chopped the lot off!  I’ve got so much extra UV light in my flat now, that I can get a sun tan when I’m in bed!

Name check:  Donald Findlater!  (Interview on BBC24) 

Bloody lucky his parents didn’t choose William as a first name!