Day 1377 and 1378. This morning, on the door of the shed, there is a sign saying -
YARD SALE EVEYTHING MUST GO.!!!
So, let’s join the busy crowd of one Would Be Investor and his dog, as he goes about the business of picking up a gilt edged bargain.
B.O - “ Come on, fucking hurry up and buy something, you twat, I haven’t got all day!” The Would Be Investor gives a sniff and a bit of a shrug. “ There’s not much here.” he says, looking round. “ WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!! THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO INVEST IN A GOLDEN TOMORROW!!!” yells The B.O. At this point, Mrs B.O appears with a coffee. The B.O looks at her slightly irritably and says - “Put my coffee down on the bench please, Bart, I’m just in the middle of important sale business.” he says. Mrs. B.O looks at him, as though she is having rather murderous thoughts and leaves. The B.O. turns back to The Would Be Investor In A Golden Age “ So come on then, haven’t you fucking bought anything yet!!” he yells. The Would Be Investor in A Golden Age surveys the contents of the sale -
Packet of Peanuts ( slightly used) -£2million
Cat ( bit dead) - £24 million
10 rivets - £500k each or all 10 for £6 million
Garden shed ( recently refurbed with with new bracket) £200 million
The man gives a sigh and turns to walk away with his dog. “ Sorry, mate, it’s a load of old crap.” The B.O looks at his departing figure in amazement. “ WHAT IS THE FUCKING MATTER WITH EVERYONE!!????” he screams. Let’s leave the B.O having a little dance of rage ( nice moves ) and kicking the bit dead cat in his shed, as he reflects on one of life’s imponderables. Those vinegar pissing stupid people eh. He’s still here. Oh fuck...
If there'd been a plate containing 14 chips, he might've had a chance of selling
B.O. sat slumped in his old chair in the corner looking just a little sad. His head slowly swivelled as he took a really good look at his surroundings. At a quick glance he looked like a dalek that had its top half taken off.
He hated waiting.
His beady red eyes finally settled on the new paper cutting on his desk.
How fortunate he was that the old fool RM had left his newspaper behind. How was it that others did not have his insights and vision? he mused to himself. He reached out and picked up the cutting.
English Cricket! A little smile spread across his lips. The MCC should be cheap to buy after losing to Rugby players; and after 5 days watching cricket who wouldn’t want a dance! He was really onto something here.
Just then, his wife gently drop kicked the door open sending a couple of large splinters of wood spinning up into the air. She deftly caught one of them in the cup, looked at him, and smiled as he reached up to take his drink. “Why are you sitting over here and not at your bench?” she asked in an unusually kind voice.
“I am waiting to be taken to the barbers “ he replied. “I have been sat here for 3 hours”
“Why are you going to the barbers dear? You are as bald as a ball you daft twat”.
“You do remember that’s a wig don’t you?”.
B.O. look a bit confused for just a minute. Then his face lit up making his head look like a run over fox caught in the headlights of a car.
“Maybe”, he cried, “but nobody can tell”!
He let out a little chortle.
“They are all saying I need a hair cut! RM flew out here to tell me personally”.
He chuckled again to himself, shaking his little wrinkled head from side to side. “Why am I so great?” he said to himself.
He looked up to see his wife glaring at him.
“You fucking idiot” she shouted (as kindly as she could).
But somewhat surprisingly she did not add anything. She just continued to glare as she struggled to think of the words....as to how she could explain?
She gave up. Her body sort of shrunk as her anger changed to pity. He really was a tosser.
B.O. totally misreading the body language as usual, decided to take the opportunity to explain his plan to revolutionise international Cricket and spread the game to countries across Europe. Her eyes widen as he explaines how the bloke who gets to hit the ball will be given a wider stick so it will be easier to hit - so even the French will be able to play.
She wanted to interrupt. She really did.
No. Much more than that.
She wanted to kick his head in.
But she didn’t.
She just stood and appeared to listen. She nodded occasionally. She smiled encouragingly.
“At last” she thought, “he is forgetting about Football clubs and we won’t have that Alf Garnet type of English yob coming over here and spoiling lunch”. “After all, those cricket type chaps are not passionate about that game....
Beneath damp and gorse and dank A Gremlin King surveyed his realm His avarice had peaked, now sank Of lacking suitors to underwhelm "What have i done" he grumbled on "I tried and tried and tried my best" "My fool intentions they have gone" He thumped and beat a bony chest.
Day 1386. Well, I was half hoping we could get this all wrapped up neatly before Day 1400 and I could go back to my work building a time machine in the garage, but it’s not to be, it seems. He’s still here. Oh Monday morning fuck....
Day 1387. Yes, thank you for your stirring words, Soapy, I have girded my loins ( not easy in these trousers) steeled myself ( ditto), braced the main sail, manned the pumps and put the cat out. I’m ready He’s still here. OH FUCK....
Apparently the recently deceased founder of Ikea drove an old Volvo, flew economy class and bought his clothes in flea markets ... despite being mega rich.
Today we look to the future. ( hopefully some time soon)
The B.O. is sitting in his shed quietly counting a box of rivets as Mrs B.O. brings in his morning coffee and biscuit. But today the B.O merely mutters a half hearted ‘thank you’ and does not look up from his counting. His wife folds her arms and gazes at him for a moment. “ So....are you glad it’s finally all over, and you’ve got rid of it, then?” she says. The B.O does not look up. “ Sorry, my dear........got rid of what?” he says with a slight frown. Mrs B.O gives an exasperated tut. “ The football club, you clod!” she says impatiently. The B.O looks thoughtful for a moment, then looks down moodily and fiddles with a rivet “ I don’t think..... I’ve ever owned a football club, dear.” he says finally, marking another rivet off the checklist and putting it into the box. Mrs B.O looks at him in surprise. “What do you mean? I’m talking about the football club you’ve JUST sold!” “ No, dear, I’m sure i would REMEMBER if I had done that.” says the B.O huffily. “No, no, I think you must be confusing me with someone else. I have no interest in football, I know nothing about it, or anything about running a football club.” “Yes, but that didn’t stop you from just having owned one, did it! Have you forgotten how you fucked it all up and dropped down a league—-“ “ I’m afraid that wasn’t me.” His wife stares at him. “ What about how you appointed more managers than there were chips in a portion of the fries!” “That wasn’t me..” “ How you insulted the fans? ” “It wasn’t me.” ( great idea for a song this eh ) “ How you listened to people with no experience of running a football club, who made mistake after mistake?” “It wasn’t me.” “ How you had the finest set of underground pipes not linked up to a boiler that the world has ever seen?” “It wasn’t me.” “ How you told everyone you were a fucking Visionary.?” “It wasn’t me..........actually.... that might have been me. “ concedes the B.O. He stops counting rivets and looks up at his wife. “ But the point is, do you REALLY think I would have done SO many stupid things? Do I look like I piss vinegar? Do you think I am some sort of complete fucking idiot!!! “ Mrs. B.O. looks at him thoughtfully “Well....what about CARD, then?” The B.O. twitches slightly. “I’ve never heard of them.....whatever that is.” he says. “ Remember, when those nice ladies and gentlemen came all the way over from England to wish you Happy Birthday?” says Mrs. B.O There is now a tic on the B.O’s cheek. “Er...I.... don’t....” “ And what about that political party, that will probably get more votes than your crackpot party ever did!” At this point, The B.O picks up his little amaretto biscuit in the palm of his hand and slowly crushes it into tiny pieces. “AAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHH!” he yells After a moment, he stops and composes himself. He looks straight ahead at the shed wall. “ My darling, I would appreciate it if you left me now. And let us never have any more silly talk about this non existent football kloob ever again.” he says evenly. But then his eyes take on a faraway look “But...... there is one thing.” he whispers. “One thing......that still haunts me now.....about the whole shitty shit fucking waste of my fucking time ....and do you know what it is? .......who the hell was BART?” He puts his head to his hands and takes on a wild look. “God knows I tried to find him! “ he hisses feverishly” But he was elusive, like a shadow, like a strange mist that swept in over the Thames or something......and I thought I’d caught that bastard several times, but after a thousand cunning false winds, I never did find out who he bleeding well was!” He suddenly turns to a garden rake hanging next to him on the wall. “ Was it you!!??” he cries, grabbing the rake in both hands as if to strangle it. “ It was, wasn’t it! YOU BASTARD !!!” Mrs. B.O moves to trying to restrain him. “Darling, please, put Bart, I mean the rake down, you’ll do yourself a mischief!” she cries. Well, let’s leave the B.O accusing all his gardening tools of being the Agents of Satan, and hope that our future is a little brighter than our recent past. For the time being, he’s still here. Oh fuck...
Comments
Sigh ....
Will we get to Day 1400 I wonder?
Prolly, anyway, he’s still here for now.
Oh fuck....
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
B.O. sat slumped in his old chair in the corner looking just a little sad. His head slowly swivelled as he took a really good look at his surroundings. At a quick glance he looked like a dalek that had its top half taken off.
He hated waiting.
His beady red eyes finally settled on the new paper cutting on his desk.
How fortunate he was that the old fool RM had left his newspaper behind.
How was it that others did not have his insights and vision? he mused to himself. He reached out and picked up the cutting.
English Cricket! A little smile spread across his lips. The MCC should be cheap to buy after losing to Rugby players; and after 5 days watching cricket who wouldn’t want a dance! He was really onto something here.
Just then, his wife gently drop kicked the door open sending a couple of large splinters of wood spinning up into the air. She deftly caught one of them in the cup, looked at him, and smiled as he reached up to take his drink. “Why are you sitting over here and not at your bench?” she asked in an unusually kind voice.
“I am waiting to be taken to the barbers “ he replied. “I have been sat here for 3 hours”
“Why are you going to the barbers dear? You are as bald as a ball you daft twat”.
“You do remember that’s a wig don’t you?”.
B.O. look a bit confused for just a minute. Then his face lit up making his head look like a run over fox caught in the headlights of a car.
“Maybe”, he cried, “but nobody can tell”!
He let out a little chortle.
“They are all saying I need a hair cut! RM flew out here to tell me personally”.
He chuckled again to himself, shaking his little wrinkled head from side to side. “Why am I so great?” he said to himself.
He looked up to see his wife glaring at him.
“You fucking idiot” she shouted (as kindly as she could).
But somewhat surprisingly she did not add anything. She just continued to glare as she struggled to think of the words....as to how she could explain?
She gave up. Her body sort of shrunk as her anger changed to pity. He really was a tosser.
B.O. totally misreading the body language as usual, decided to take the opportunity to explain his plan to revolutionise international Cricket and spread the game to countries across Europe. Her eyes widen as he explaines how the bloke who gets to hit the ball will be given a wider stick so it will be easier to hit - so even the French will be able to play.
She wanted to interrupt. She really did.
No. Much more than that.
She wanted to kick his head in.
But she didn’t.
She just stood and appeared to listen. She nodded occasionally. She smiled encouragingly.
“At last” she thought, “he is forgetting about Football clubs and we won’t have that Alf Garnet type of English yob coming over here and spoiling lunch”. “After all, those cricket type chaps are not passionate about that game....
He’s still here.
Oh miserable morning fuck...
Bins out Roland Out.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck....
If we get there let's hope it's the last milestone needed.
Just sell the club
A Gremlin King surveyed his realm
His avarice had peaked, now sank
Of lacking suitors to underwhelm
"What have i done" he grumbled on
"I tried and tried and tried my best"
"My fool intentions they have gone"
He thumped and beat a bony chest.
He’s still here.
Oh off you fuck...
Well, he’s still here.
Oh fuck...
Well, I was half hoping we could get this all wrapped up neatly before Day 1400 and I could go back to my work building a time machine in the garage, but it’s not to be, it seems.
He’s still here.
Oh Monday morning fuck....
HE WILL GO! either of his own volition or dragged screaming by Satans firey imps to the depths of Hades... either way i ain't bothered blud.
Yes, thank you for your stirring words, Soapy, I have girded my loins ( not easy in these trousers) steeled myself ( ditto), braced the main sail, manned the pumps and put the cat out.
I’m ready
He’s still here.
OH FUCK....
Well, perhaps the time is drawing near,
but for the moment the old count’s still here.
Oh fuck....
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
If it's 1403 I will be disappointed.
He’s still here.
Oh fuck...
I’ll even send a box of your favourite biscuits (I’ll eat one a day from now).
“ I know nahhthing!”
( but don’t just take my word for it, James, there are plenty of people out there who will confirm that this is completely correct!
Remind you of anyone?
Today we look to the future. ( hopefully some time soon)
The B.O. is sitting in his shed quietly counting a box of rivets as Mrs B.O. brings in his morning coffee and biscuit.
But today the B.O merely mutters a half hearted ‘thank you’ and does not look up from his counting.
His wife folds her arms and gazes at him for a moment.
“ So....are you glad it’s finally all over, and you’ve got rid of it, then?” she says.
The B.O does not look up.
“ Sorry, my dear........got rid of what?” he says with a slight frown.
Mrs B.O gives an exasperated tut.
“ The football club, you clod!” she says impatiently.
The B.O looks thoughtful for a moment, then looks down moodily and fiddles with a rivet
“ I don’t think..... I’ve ever owned a football club, dear.” he says finally, marking another rivet off the checklist and putting it into the box.
Mrs B.O looks at him in surprise.
“What do you mean? I’m talking about the football club you’ve JUST sold!”
“ No, dear, I’m sure i would REMEMBER if I had done that.” says the B.O huffily. “No, no, I think you must be confusing me with someone else. I have no interest in football, I know nothing about it, or anything about running a football club.”
“Yes, but that didn’t stop you from just having owned one, did it! Have you forgotten how you fucked it all up and dropped down a league—-“
“ I’m afraid that wasn’t me.”
His wife stares at him.
“ What about how you appointed more managers than there were chips in a portion of the fries!”
“That wasn’t me..”
“ How you insulted the fans? ”
“It wasn’t me.” ( great idea for a song this eh
“ How you listened to people with no experience of running a football club, who made mistake after mistake?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“ How you had the finest set of underground pipes not linked up to a boiler that the world has ever seen?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“ How you told everyone you were a fucking Visionary.?”
“It wasn’t me..........actually.... that might have been me. “ concedes the B.O.
He stops counting rivets and looks up at his wife. “ But the point is, do you REALLY think I would have done SO many stupid things? Do I look like I piss vinegar? Do you think I am some sort of complete fucking idiot!!! “
Mrs. B.O. looks at him thoughtfully
“Well....what about CARD, then?”
The B.O. twitches slightly.
“I’ve never heard of them.....whatever that is.” he says.
“ Remember, when those nice ladies and gentlemen came all the way over from England to wish you Happy Birthday?” says Mrs. B.O
There is now a tic on the B.O’s cheek.
“Er...I.... don’t....”
“ And what about that political party, that will probably get more votes than your crackpot party ever did!”
At this point, The B.O picks up his little amaretto biscuit in the palm of his hand and slowly crushes it into tiny pieces.
“AAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHH!” he yells
After a moment, he stops and composes himself.
He looks straight ahead at the shed wall.
“ My darling, I would appreciate it if you left me now. And let us never have any more silly talk about this non existent football kloob ever again.” he says evenly.
But then his eyes take on a faraway look
“But...... there is one thing.” he whispers. “One thing......that still haunts me now.....about the whole shitty shit fucking waste of my fucking time ....and do you know what it is? .......who the hell was BART?”
He puts his head to his hands and takes on a wild look.
“God knows I tried to find him! “ he hisses feverishly” But he was elusive, like a shadow, like a strange mist that swept in over the Thames or something......and I thought I’d caught that bastard several times, but after a thousand cunning false winds, I never did find out who he bleeding well was!”
He suddenly turns to a garden rake hanging next to him on the wall.
“ Was it you!!??” he cries, grabbing the rake in both hands as if to strangle it. “ It was, wasn’t it! YOU BASTARD !!!”
Mrs. B.O moves to trying to restrain him.
“Darling, please, put Bart, I mean the rake down, you’ll do yourself a mischief!” she cries.
Well, let’s leave the B.O accusing all his gardening tools of being the Agents of Satan, and hope that our future is a little brighter than our recent past.
For the time being, he’s still here.
Oh fuck...
Very good
He’s still here.
Oh frosty fuck...