Posts tagged ‘Humour’

February 13, 2012

The Bells, The Bells

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bells, the bells!

There are those who would claim that most of my little stories lack a certain leaning toward the truth; I would take exception to that and accept only that they may contain an element of exaggeration. They are all based on the truth – however loosely.

This little story, anecdote is not quite the right word, is very much the truth.

It is a story about a friend called Fred. Now Fred has been a friend for many years and I have never said anything about him to anyone that I have not said first to him.

Fred is a hoarder, he comes from a long line of hoarders and his home is totally cluttered. Not dirty I would hasten to add! You would not object to having a cup of coffee in his home or a plate of sandwiches – everything would be scrupulously clean, you would not, however, be able to find anywhere to sit to eat, despite the fact that he owns a reasonably large, four-bed roomed house.

Fred is also a full-blown, fully qualified idiot.

An example: He wanted to clean the fishpond in his garden, which has a lot soil in the bottom. To empty it he bought a pump. This was one of those small things, about the size of a washing-machine pump that you attach to a Black and Decker drill. I told him that he would need a filter between the pond and the pump or the grit would destroy the pump. ‘Nahh’, he said, it won’t take long, it’ll be fine ————- the pump lasted about five minutes.

Convinced that the size of the pump was the problem, he bought a larger one. This one was green in colour with cooling fins around the barrel and had to be mounted on a block of wood and driven by a separate motor ————– lasted about ten minutes.

Still convinced that all he needed was more power, the other day he showed me his latest acquisition…

This one is a serious piece of kit. Large, with a powerful motor and all mounted in a tubular-steel frame, it looks very impressive. He stuck some armoured hose on it, put the hose into the pond, still without a filter, and started the pump. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to remove the Koi Carp from the pond first…

I do tend to ramble I know, but Fred is a wonderful friend to visit and a delight to discuss with others as the stories about him are legion. Anyway, to get back to the bells, I am talking doorbells here as over the last couple of years Fred has bought about eight of them. He loves all of the different tones and tunes and can often be seen fitting a new one to his door. In fact, up until two days ago he had two on his door – which tended to make things a little confusing for visitors.

I arrived at his home the other day having been out to buy some new jeans and I found his brother Mike there with him – both, of course, old friends of mine. Mike had the parts of one of the bell pushes from the door in his hand and was asking Fred what had gone wrong with it. The doorbells are wireless and it transpired that Fred had been working at his pond with the doorbell unit in his pocket. Unfortunately, someone had come to the front door and pressed the bell. At the time, he was balanced on the edge of the pond and had such a shock when the doorbell went off that in his efforts to get it out of his pocket – he dropped it in the pond.

‘You dropped it in the pond?’ Said Mike.

‘Yes’, Said Fred.

‘And you are surprised that it doesn’t work anymore?’ Asked Mike to his puzzled looking brother.

Now, Mike is a big man and younger than Fred but some years ago he suffered a stroke so I was a little worried by the obvious signs of frustration that were showing on his face.

The bell unit, water sloshing around in it, was on the table and he glanced at it then at the bell push in his hand.

‘Is this the one that operates it? Did you take the right one off the door’? He asked, while pushing hard on the bell push and getting no response. ‘I suppose I had better check the one on the door just in case…’

He went to the open front door, stepped outside and pressed the bell push that was still there. The bright and breezy sound of ‘The Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ filled the ground floor of the house.

‘That’s one hell of a bell’. Said Mike. ‘It’s all over the house – where’s the unit?’

‘I think it’s somewhere around here.’ Said Fred, pointing at his desk.

I think I should mention that Fred made his own desk out of Contiboard and it is LARGE! Measuring six feet long by 35 inches deep and five-feet-six-inches high with pigeonholes on the backboard, it took him an age to make. It holds a huge amount of stuff: computers, printers, scanners, loudspeakers, disks, books, reams of paper, pens, markers, cups, glasses, screwdrivers, pruning shears, an electric food processor, monitor, radio…

‘What do you mean, somewhere around here?’ Asked Mike. ‘Don’t you even know where the bloody thing is?’

‘It’s here somewhere.’ Said his brother.

‘Dave, I’ll press the bell again, can you stand in the hall and at least see if you can work out which room it’s in?’

‘Okay’. I said, delighted with the prospect of what I knew was to come.

Mike pressed the bell on the door and once more the tune echoed around the house.

‘I think it came from the kitchen, Mike, I’ll have a look.’

‘No, it definitely came from in here.’ Said Fred from the living room.

‘You must know where you put the damn thing.’ Said Mike.

‘Erm… I think it’s coming from me computer.’ Said Fred.

‘How, the bloody hell can it be coming from your computer.’ Said Mike.

‘Dunno.’ Said Fred.

By this time, I had moved some of the mountain of stuff on the kitchen worktops and discovered a bell unit with its own plug shoved into a socket in the kitchen and it was the same colour scheme as the bell push on the door.

‘Found it, Mike.’ I shouted proudly.

‘Switch it off, Dave, while I try it again.’ He called back to me.

I switched the unit off and signalled to Mike that I had done so – he pressed the bell push on the door…

Once again the sound of the ‘Teddy Bear’s picnic flooded the house.

‘I asked you to turn it off.’ Said Mike, his frustration rising.

‘I did.’ I said, yanking the bell unit from the plug socket.

‘Then where the hell is it coming from?’

‘It’s coming from me computer.’ Said Fred, a puzzled expression now permanently plastered to his face.

‘HOW THE BLOODY HELL CAN IT BE COMING FROM YOUR COMPUTER.’ Said Mike, now red in the face.

‘Wait a minute, Mike, he’s using a wireless broadband system, maybe it’s picking it up. Let’s turn the speakers and computer off and try again.’

The push was pushed and once more the ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ sounded around the house.

‘Where in the name of God, is it coming from?’ Said Mike – frustration now getting the better of him.

‘Err, me telephone is cordless.’ Said Fred, trying to be helpful.

‘Turn the phones off, Dave, and let’s try again.’

This latest move worried me a little as I am well aware the Fred is also partial to cordless phones and has bought several sets over the last year or two. Anyway, I turned the phones off and we tried again. Once more the tune filled the house – much to Mike’s frustration, Fred’s puzzlement and my delight – I was going to dine out on this for many a long winter’s evening!

‘Dave, Dave, please pal – the phones have batteries in ‘em, put them somewhere out of the house, please.’ He was begging now – not pretty in such a big man. So, I collected up the phones and put them in the garden. The bell was pressed with more than a little trepidation…

‘Where, where, I don’t get it, where…’ Mike was babbling now and close to breakdown.

‘Dave, the radios, maybe they’re picking it up. Take the one off his desk out of here, along with the Ghetto-Blaster in the kitchen, I’ll disconnect the Hi Fi…’

‘Don’t forget the one in the toilet in the hall.’ Said Fred.

‘What.’ Said Mike. ‘You’ve got a bloody radio in the loo?’

‘I get bored, said Fred.

‘God, ‘elp us.’ Said Mike.

The radios were removed to the garden and Mike prepared to press the bell push…

‘Are you sure that there are no more radios and no more phones?’ He asked.

‘Fairly sure…’ Murmured fred.

‘FAIRLY SURE, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN BY “FAIRLY SURE”. Said Mike, his finger falling away from the bell push.

‘Yerr, know. Said Fred shrugging his shoulders.

‘No, I don’t bloody know you moron – what’cha mean?

‘I think there’s one in me coat pocket.’ Whispered Fred.

I got the little Digital Radio out of his pocket along with the cordless phone and told Mike we were now ready.

‘No, I can’t do it anymore, Dave.’ He said, almost in tears. ‘It was bad enough when we were kids, I can’t take it now I’m not up to it.’

‘Fred, please, phone Joan for me and tell her that I’m on my way home.’ Mike murmured sadly as he was putting his coat on.

‘Can’t do that, all the phones are in the garden.’ Said Fred

‘Use your cell phone.’ Said Mike. ‘Mine’s in the car.’

‘Can’t.’ Said Fred. ‘Mine’s in the pond.’

I left the brothers, to have some time alone together while I went into the garden and gave in to a fit of hysterics before collecting the phones.

My sides sore, my facial muscles only just under control, I was about to go back into the house when I heard the sounds of the ‘Teddy Bear’s picnic’ followed by a raised and angry voice.

Rushing in, I was faced by the sight of Mike with his hands around his brother’s neck.

‘WHERE IS IT, WHERE’S THE F****** BELL YOU DAFT, OLD B******.’

I tore his fingers loose from Fred’s neck just in time. ‘Mike, I think it’s coming form under the desk.’

‘Do you think so?’ He muttered. ‘ I do hope so…’

He got down on his knees and started to work his way under the desk. Two-computer base units came out, then three scanners in a stack. A laser printer that had never worked, followed, then by the head off a Becks Bissell carpet sweeper, a washing up bowl, a car from a scalectrix set, a cookery book, a fish slice, a filter from a Dyson vacuum cleaner, a box of wine glasses, two pairs of spectacles, a half-empty tin of sweeties, a potato peeler stuck in a potato. ‘I’ve been looking for that everywhere.’ Said Fred, picking it up and blowing the dust off it.

Finally, Mike came out with a doorbell unit in his hand – a look on his face of pure triumph.

‘It was plugged in under there at the back, I’ve turned It off.’ He said, puffing.

I strolled to the front door, my fingers tingling, my lips twitching, laughter beginning to rumble somewhere in my chest – and pressed the bell…

I doubled up on the floor, no longer able to contain myself as the sound of ‘The Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ filled the ground floor…

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January 29, 2012

Imminent Insanity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My car is six months old and has done around 20000 miles, it is known as the ‘Marie Celeste’ and is almost legendary where I live. People say that they have seen it pass their window in the dead of night without a driver at the wheel. I tell them, no, that’s not true, it is just that I have fallen asleep and slid so far down the flamin’ driving seat they can no longer see me.

I am in a routine now, where I drop my daughter off at the interview, park the car, then read a book or sleep for the one and a half to two hours that it takes. This does sometimes have to be modified as in a recent example that comes to mind. We arrived at the headquarters of a large, internationally known company, and I stopped in the car park directly opposite the security guard’s booth.

My daughter went over to speak to the guard who raised his head up from his newspaper long enough to tell her how to find reception. At reception the smartly dressed girl told her to take the lift to the fourth floor and the concierge would show her to the office of the director who she was to meet with.

She entered the lift thinking that the concierge would meet her, and with London in mind, imagined a straight-backed ex-military man with a smartly pressed uniform and a row of medal ribbons. At the fourth floor she hunted around until she found an eighteen-years-old girl in a crumpled blouse and skirt, with a row of used tissues and a bad cold, slumped over a desk.

‘Can you tell me where I can find the office of the projects director please,’ she asked.

‘gruffle, sniffle, snort, glumph, me dose, der, downd der,’ the girl said through a snotty tissue as she pointed down the corridor.

Meanwhile, in the car park, half an hour had gone by and the security guard, having finished his newspaper, was staring at me. Being obviously very bored, he thought that he would amuse himself for a few moments by making my life difficult. He got up out of his seat, hoisted his belly up to where it would not interfere with the movement of his knees, opened the door of the booth and headed over to me.

Giving me the very best of his famous ‘Dirty Harry’- ‘Clint Eastwood’ impression, he leaned on the car and muttered through the corner of his mouth, ‘you’re not planning on staying there; are you, sir?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘as my daughter is only going to be about an hour or so, I didn’t think it worth my while to book into an hotel.’

‘Very funny sir, I’m sure. No, I’m afraid you can’t stay there.’

‘Who says?’ I asked, naively.

He sucked his teeth and pressed more heavily on the car as he leaned down to bring his face level with the window.

I must admit that at this point I was expecting him to say something along the lines of  ‘are you feeling lucky, punk?’ However, he didn’t. What he did say was…

‘I’m the head of security for this building and car park and I make the rules – I say you can’t stay there.’

‘So despite this letter saying that we can park in the company car park; you are saying that I can’t park here?’

‘No, I am not saying that you can’t park here, I’m saying that you can’t stay here.’

‘Let me get this right – the car can stay here in the car park but I can’t stay in the car?’

‘That’s right, sir. ‘It’s a question of security.

‘*******, I said, ‘it’s a question of boredom, your boredom. You have bugger all better to do.’

‘Bad language isn’t going to help, sir. I can always call the police, you know.’

Knowing how quickly the police were likely to respond to that particular request for assistance, I invited him to do just that.

To cut a long story short – some time later, after much argy-bargy, my daughter interrupted us as I was about to get out of the car and introduce myself properly. She jumped in alongside of me, looked hard for a couple of seconds and said.

‘What’s wrong with you, why are you in a temper.’

‘Not in a temper.’

‘Yes you are, that little nerve in your face is twitching.’

‘That fat, lazy, jobs-worth of a guard was being a prat.’ I said.

‘Oh, so while I am trying to get these jobs, you are in the car parks trying to lose them for me..?’

I have decided now to call it quits, give up and finally go nuts.

I could use the company, so, if any of you chaps feel like joining me, just put a pair of your wife’s, or girlfriend’s, pants on your head, stick a couple of drinking straws up your nose, put a feather in your ear and roll up one leg of your trousers. I will be waiting for you out at the egg-custard fountain under the purple onion tree. That’s the one on the trail that leads up to the old Molasses mines…

January 29, 2012

Unrequited Thingy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I discovered my sexual category last evening while watching TV. You will no doubt have heard the terms heterosexual and homosexual – I am a Retrosexual.

Apparently this is someone who has had sex but it was so damn long ago that they can’t remember how it went. It fits perfectly and I have had trouble with this condition for years.

I have been thinking about sex a lot lately as there seems to be an awful lot of it about, with all age groups, everybody is at it – except for me. You would think, wouldn’t you, that with so much of it about someone could shove a bit my way – I need to get my share soon before something bursts!

It’s not as if I haven’t tried, I even thought of turning gay. Trouble with that, is that every gay I have seen, usually on TV or movies is young, rich and good looking…

I am not rich or good looking and as for young, well…  The only thing that I might be able to do something about is the rich bit. I thought of a bank loan – – – all I have to do is work out how I am going to explain it to the bank…

All my troubles would end, of course, if the blonde with the legs would stop playing hard to get. I have heard, via my personal grapevine, that with the slightly better weather we have had over the last couple of days, she has taken to walking her dog in the local fields and woods.

Now, the last time she did this was when she first got the dog, a poodle, and I came up with a cunning plan. I watched her for a couple of days then decided that it was an opportunity too good to miss, so, I would take to walking my dog – at the same time in the same fields.

I had a plan, what I didn’t have was a dog!

I had no intention of buying one so the only alternative was to borrow one. The only person who was evil enough to help me with this was a guy called Ron who has a dirty disgusting, flea-bitten, mangy old mongrel called ‘Jip’.

I obtained the dog and took it home in a trailer, as I had no intention of allowing it in the car. This horrible slobbering lump of useless canine carcass is fed on untreated, green tripe and the rest is up to your imagination.

We set off on a beautiful, Autumn Sunday morning on a walk across the fields that was calculated to take me to exactly the right spot, at the right time, where I would bump into her in a copse where a wild rose grows.

I had been practicing for hours in front of the mirror the night before, so, that morning, when my moment came, and we finally met in that copse by the wild rose – I was word and pose perfect.

The copse was dappled with golden sunlight, the rose looked and smelled divine, she was flushed, flustered and beautiful – everything was going as planned.

I started in on the smooth talk while admiring the poodle – in case the flamin’ mongrel decided to shame me by making a play for it. It didn’t – oh, no, nothing that simple!

While I was admiring the poodle and smooth talking the blonde, the stupid-born, mangy, bloody mongrel mounted me leg…

Sometimes I think I should just end it all.  David

January 22, 2012

That woman has gone AGAIN!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Blonde-With-The-Legs has gone again!!!!!

I’m heartbroken; she’s gone, gone to that den of debauchery ‘New York’ for three days supposed shopping with her aged mother – a likely story!

I know what happens there, she’ll meet some rich yank and it’ll be breakfast at Tiffany’s after a night of passion at some swanky hotel (I watch a lot of old movies).

I begged and pleaded with her not to go. I sat in her house watching her getting ready, begging her, my voice breaking…

‘It’s no good sitting on my suitcase,’ She said ‘I’m going and I’ve got to pack. I’m just going shopping, it’s always been something my mother has wanted to do and I’m going…

It’s not as if we’re married, we’re not even an item (that really hurt) and we are never going to be if you don’t start behaving – now give me my tickets and passport back!’

‘You’ll forget about me, I know you will,’ I said.

‘I’m going to have a bloody good try,’ she muttered.

‘Doesn’t the four years I have been devoted to you mean anything?’ I asked.

‘Four years? You were with that Monette woman for three and a half of them.’ She barked at me.

‘That was only part time,’ I said.

‘Yes, and for the rest of the time you were either chasing me or leering at barmaids you have no morals.’

‘I have always been faithful to you in my mind.’

‘What mind? Now let go of my leg and get off the floor, it’s embarrassing!’

Just then I happened to notice the rather elaborate wall clock (very poor taste) and reluctantly got up off the floor and headed for the door.

‘Oh, seeing sense at last, are we. It’s not like you to give up so easy.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s lunch time and the pub’s open.’

She threw a bottle of channel, something or other, very thick glass that actually dented the doorframe! Just imagine what it would have done to my skull! ! !

As any reader of my little tales will know, I have devoted a lot of time to that woman. I have been totally deprived of any sort of love life, It’s so long since I had sex I’ve forgotten who gets tied up.

I had to bare my soul to the barmaid, a woman who does not tell me to get my grubby little eyes out of her cleavage, in fact I have dipped my tie in my drink on more than one occasion while leaning over the bar to get a better look, doesn’t make me clean up every time she visits (she’s never visited but that’s bye the bye) a woman who thoroughly understands me!

Anyway, if she does come back from New York, I certainly won’t be speaking to her!

January 20, 2012

The Blonde with the legs has deserted me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I might as well begin this blog as I mean to go on, detailing my love life – err lack of it – as it lurches from disaster to abject failure and back again. Four years I have devoted to the pursuit of one woman and neither of us is getting any younger. At the moment, well…

I am having a really bad time. I have been driving my daughter around the country in her quest for a job and in the past couple of weeks the ’miles travelled score’ is well into four figures. I get up, have a shower and start driving, I go to bed driving – two o’clock this morning I carried out an emergency braking manoeuvre and fell out of bed.

I have cats in the garden, blue-tits in the wall, mice in the shed and my son has fleas – everything is going wrong. The bread has gone mouldy, milk’s off, we’ve run out of sugar and tea and I had to have sausages for my breakfast, I am going to bed with heartburn.

Which brings me to the blonde-with-the-legs who is being even less co-operative than normal. She saw me yesterday in the road for the first time in weeks and what did she say?

‘Thought, we’d got rid of you – I haven’t had a bruise for ages.’ The years I have dedicated to the pursuit of that woman…

I let her unfortunate remark go by me, flung my head high and ignored her.

‘Something wrong with your neck she asked?’ Again I ignored her, gave her the cold shoulder.

I decided to be haughty, treat her with distain, cold and proud – after a week I realised it wasn’t working. I went around to her house to give her a piece of my mind!

‘I have come to give you a piece of my mind,’ I said.

‘Sure you can spare it,’ She said

‘I have a damn-good mind to dump you and go back to my ex-wife,’ I said.

‘Give her my sympathy,’ She said

‘You have broken my heart,’ I said.

‘I was tryin’ f’ yer neck,’ she said.

‘You have broken my heart. You are the only woman I have ever really loved and you have thrown that love back in my face and left me desolate and alone.’

‘That’s another thing,’ She said. ‘I am never going to the theatre with you again. You’ve been hamming it up ever since we saw Les Mis’ – you’ve been unbearable.’

‘You’re terrified of real emotion,’ I said

‘Rats,’ She said.

‘I’m going and I won’t be back,’ I said. ‘Don’t come looking for me, as far as you are concerned, I won’t be there,’

It was no good, though. You just can’t get real feeling into it when you’re shouting through a letter box.

first posted on the ON/AVN SGIA, Inc. site