Friday, 18 June 2010


If I were to marry a sheep, people would laugh at me, but I think if you make a promise to someone, or something, you honour that promise. So, if I got blind drunk on a farm and asked a sheep to marry me, I might regret it, but I’d go back the next day to confirm my offer. Yes, it could be difficult to find the exact sheep but I don’t think so, I think she, or he, would be standing slightly away from the others. We’d be married in a registry office, nothing fancy, my friends on the left, sheep on the right.

Actually, I don’t have any friends.

Sunday, 13 June 2010

For sale.

Due to the credit crunch I'm selling one of my Squirrels. His name is Alan. You'll be amused by how we got together. I was clearing up the utility room when I saw Alan in a spot of bother. He'd got a big lump of congealed porridge attached to one leg and was having difficulty getting around. I managed to detach the porridge and he went on his way. Thirty minutes later I was watching CSI when he appeared on the arm of the chair and started waving his leg around as if to say, Look, no damage done. A real character.

Saturday, 12 June 2010

The binmen

Thursday is always exciting because it's the day the binmen come. They arrive about 11.30, sometimes a little later. I'm very careful with recyclable waste, I think they appreciate that.

They're rather a rum bunch and, unusually, one of them has a beak. His name is Malcolm Snead but most people know him as,The Man with the Beak.

Pat from next door has given me some cooking apples so I've decided to make an apple pie. No hurry though, I put up a shelf once without reading the instructions properly and it fell down in minutes. After the excitement of the binmen I'll make some tea and treat myself to a chocolate biscuit or perhaps chase a squirrel. Not sure yet.

Autumn is my favourite season. Some people say they don't like it because it means winter is on the way. These people are fucking vermin. Why can't they see things for what they are?

Last night I had a very strange dream. Dark and frightening. I would probably be haunted by it for the rest of my life if I could remember what it was about.


A confession.

A few months back I found myself watching Midsomer Murders.
I'd had a few drinks and thought no more about it. Then, one Monday night, I watched New Tricks, 9pm, BBC1. Before I knew it I was tuning in every Monday. I was hooked. I didn't tell anyone, I wish I had. You read all this stuff about how soft drugs like marijuana lead to amphetamines, cocaine and heroin. I didn't think it could ever happen to me but it has. I'm deeply ashamed. Perhaps by going public I can help prevent others making the same mistake.

Once New Tricks had taken hold there was only one possible outcome and last night I watched Poirot. There, I’ve said it, Poirot. You wouldn't believe the state I'm in. I got up this morning, looked in the mirror and saw a gaunt, unshaven, pathetic addict staring back at me. A loser, a filthy piece of animal excrement. I walked into the lounge and realised I'd gone to bed without even plumping the cushions. I've been a bloody fool. Luckily, I've got good friends who will stick with me, people like international showjumper Korky Von Trapp and my cousin,Flight Lieutenant John Walberswick.

In a strange way, just by reading this, you're helping me too, even though I don't know who you are or what you're wearing.

Thursday, 10 June 2010


Whwre would we be without geese? People witter on about how the internet has changed everybody's lives but I think geese are just as important. It can cost as much as £160,000 to have a conservatory built and the final structure is often a terrible disappointment. I've just ordered one from a firm called Conservatories put up by Geese and it's only costing £35.

The workforce flew in this morning at nine o' clock sharp and they're already pecking away at the footings. Normal builders would have the bloody Chris Moyles show blaring away on Radio One but not these boys, apart from the occasional quack they're toiling away
in silence.

You might think that communicating with geese could be a problem but it's not. You just have to be clear and direct with sounds and movements. For instance, two quacks and a firm shrug of the shoulders means, That wall needs to be further over there.

During their teabreak I'm going to give them a laugh by taking out some cream crackers and calling them 'cream quackers'.

On the farm.

There's a lot to do on the farm at the moment, Guy looks utterly worn out, he's up past midnight and back on his tractor by 6.30. It doesn't leave much time for bedroom action. All part and parcel of being a farmer's wife but I'm gagging.

Thank goodness we're off for a break soon, a week in our holiday tepee just outside Staines. People ask me why we go there every year and I always give the same reply, Because we love it!

A good book, a game of split the kipper, it also gives Guy a chance to indulge in some crossdressing which really helps him relax. He could pass for a very attractive woman if he didn't have a beard and once he becomes Pauline it's Goodbye sexual wasteland. I just hold up his favourite blouse and he's as stiff as a flagpole. By the time we get home my arse is like a ripped out fireplace.

Last night I made a shepherd's pie but Guy wasn't hungry so there's loads left. I keep forgetting the boys are in prison and always do too much. They should be out in October.

Twelve years, just for shooting someone!


Wednesday, 9 June 2010


I'm in Tombstone, Arizona and all hell just broke loose. A bunch of ugly cattle rustlers hit town with money to burn and in the ensuing drunken gun battle more than twenty people died, twenty one to be precise. I manged to avoid much of the gunfire by disguising myself as Lulu but it made me realise I've been out of ammo for weeks and need to restock as soon as possible, I also need socks.

Last night I was having three fingers of redeye in Lucky Pete's, on the outskirts of Dry Gulch. Pete's is a dangerous place, more than twelve people have been killed there in the last fortnight, thirteen to be precise, but they do lovely bar snacks. I took my drink outside to feel the cool night air and looked across the street. A wizened old cowpoke sat hunched over a dead fish, a pike, I think. It was Deputy Allcock, he was crying. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pierrot appeared and asked him, Why so sad? Deputy Allcock said nothing, lost in a dark tormented sadness. I know how to cheer you up, exclaimed the pierrot, I will do a dance for you. Without further ado, well not
much ado, he texted someone first, the pierrot began a dance of mesmeric beauty, based, as far as I could tell, on the life of the Welsh trumpeter, Anne Formby. Sadly, it was to no avail and after
a little over five minutes, six to be precise, Deputy Allcok shot him through the heart.

In fairness, the pierrot was quite annoying.