Greetings! As you have probably gathered from the sparsity of my posts, things are still rather manic over here. I've been busier than a bee on methamphetamine, except without any of the gurning. Not that I have ever seen a gurning bee mind you, or a bee on methamphetamine. That would be cool. I would put it in a jar and sell it to a circus.
Anyway, I digress. Amongst other things, I tried being gainfully employed, but I broke a fingernail and gave it up as a bad job. Working is well over-rated, a bit like olives and tuna.
Then I undertook some manual labour. Yes dahlink, the patio at the back of my new house was covered in a kind of green algae, and for some obscure reason, I decided to pressure-wash it on the coldest day of the year.
I donned my old motorcycle waterproofs (yep, I used to be into motorbikes in a big way) and stepped manfully out of the back door brandishing my jet-washer.
I tentatively pulled the trigger and BAM! The pressure of the water hitting the tiles catapulted me backwards onto my arse. Arse. This was turning out to be more strenuous that I had originally anticipated.
Suffice to say that it took me over three and a half hours to clean the bastard, and by the end of the saga, I was COVERED in mud from head to toe (because of splash-back), and I definitely had hypothermia. In fact, I am surprised that I didn't have to have any digits amputated. I was colder than a penguin's chuff, and it was only when I took my waterproofs off, that I realised that I had forgotten to put any trousers on underneath.
Not only that, but my trigger finger has been swollen since I completed the task. You know those big yellow foam hands with a pointy finger; the ones that people take to baseball games? My hand looks like that except that it's not yellow.
Naughty George has also been most confused since I jet-washed the patio. Essentially, his browsing data has been deleted, and as a result, he has been pissing and crapping all over the place to re-establish his bookmarks. Totally minging.
So, that was a synopsis of my foray into manual labour and I can safely say, that I rapidly headed back to quaffing Bolly and being hand-fed grapes by a porcupine.
Oh, I nearly forgot. On the subject of Naughty George, the complete git managed to get himself into another right predicament. What is it with my mutt?
The other weekend, I nipped up to Leeds to spend a weekend with my chum, Sarah. We spent a rather marvellous day in York with it's medieval architecture and then headed back to her house to chill out.
It was about 8pm when I realised that I hadn't seen Naughty George for a couple of hours. I ran around the house and quickly established that the mutt was nowhere to be seen.
"Naughty George has gone missing!! I exclaimed to Sarah in a bit of a breathless fashion.
"Again? You are BERLUDDY KIDDING!" replied Sarah, her voice rising to a crescendo, "That little bastard is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE!"
"Sorry," I said sheepishly, "I'll go and look for him."
I mobilised my torch and started a sweep of the grounds. Sarah, feeling guilty because I was out in the cold and dark on my own, soon joined in the hunt.
We spent an hour and a half pounding the streets, and calling his name ....... alas to no avail.
At 9pm, I decided that we should call it a day, and I tried to focus on the positives, like how much money I would save on dog food, which cheered me up a bit.
So we headed forlornly back to Sarah's house. As we went through her garden gate, Sarah suddenly exclaimed: "I haven't checked behind the garage!"
She ran into her back garden and shone the torch down the tiny gap behind the garage.
Seconds later ....... "I'VE FOUND THE LITTLE BASTARD," she hollered back to me.
I ran over to survey the situation, and indeed Naughty George was wedged into the tiny ever-diminishing gap behind the garage, unable to back out because there was a discarded car battery behind him.
"Bloody nora," I exclaimed after realising that the gap was WAY to small for either of us to access, "any ideas on how we can get him out? Maybe we should starve him until he is thin enough to fit out of the other end."
"I'm calling the Fire Brigade," announced Sarah in an authoritative way ignoring my starvation idea.
I know that calling the Fire Brigade is a waste of taxpayers money, but I couldn't leave the little git wedged in situ to die a cold and lonely death.
Sure enough, after a 15 minute wait, a Fireman (hoink) turned up to help us with the NG dilemma. RESULT.
The fireman assessed the situation and sighed, "this is going to be a tricky one."
So for two hours, the poor guy was balanced precariously on the garden wall trying all manner of different ways to coax him out ranging from sausages to squeaky toys.
Then finally success! The fireman applied a firm stick to Naughty George's kak hole, and the shock made the mutt lunge forward into the neighbours garden.
Hurray for Mr fireman! Naughty George was saved, albeit with slightly grazed ears and a sore ring.
Even better, the fireman was going to charge me for the service because it was non-urgent, but because we had made him cups of tea and given him biscuits, he let me off. Kerching.
That mutt has got a lot to answer for.
Anyway, I digress. Amongst other things, I tried being gainfully employed, but I broke a fingernail and gave it up as a bad job. Working is well over-rated, a bit like olives and tuna.
Then I undertook some manual labour. Yes dahlink, the patio at the back of my new house was covered in a kind of green algae, and for some obscure reason, I decided to pressure-wash it on the coldest day of the year.
I donned my old motorcycle waterproofs (yep, I used to be into motorbikes in a big way) and stepped manfully out of the back door brandishing my jet-washer.
Pic.No.1 Talibannie Annie with her amazing big weapon and Zoolander pose
I tentatively pulled the trigger and BAM! The pressure of the water hitting the tiles catapulted me backwards onto my arse. Arse. This was turning out to be more strenuous that I had originally anticipated.
Suffice to say that it took me over three and a half hours to clean the bastard, and by the end of the saga, I was COVERED in mud from head to toe (because of splash-back), and I definitely had hypothermia. In fact, I am surprised that I didn't have to have any digits amputated. I was colder than a penguin's chuff, and it was only when I took my waterproofs off, that I realised that I had forgotten to put any trousers on underneath.
Pic.No.2 BEFORE - This was my patio covered in green slimy shit
Pic.No.3 AFTER - This was my patio once all the green slimy shit had been blasted off
Not only that, but my trigger finger has been swollen since I completed the task. You know those big yellow foam hands with a pointy finger; the ones that people take to baseball games? My hand looks like that except that it's not yellow.
Naughty George has also been most confused since I jet-washed the patio. Essentially, his browsing data has been deleted, and as a result, he has been pissing and crapping all over the place to re-establish his bookmarks. Totally minging.
So, that was a synopsis of my foray into manual labour and I can safely say, that I rapidly headed back to quaffing Bolly and being hand-fed grapes by a porcupine.
______________________________________________
Oh, I nearly forgot. On the subject of Naughty George, the complete git managed to get himself into another right predicament. What is it with my mutt?
The other weekend, I nipped up to Leeds to spend a weekend with my chum, Sarah. We spent a rather marvellous day in York with it's medieval architecture and then headed back to her house to chill out.
It was about 8pm when I realised that I hadn't seen Naughty George for a couple of hours. I ran around the house and quickly established that the mutt was nowhere to be seen.
"Naughty George has gone missing!! I exclaimed to Sarah in a bit of a breathless fashion.
"Again? You are BERLUDDY KIDDING!" replied Sarah, her voice rising to a crescendo, "That little bastard is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE!"
"Sorry," I said sheepishly, "I'll go and look for him."
I mobilised my torch and started a sweep of the grounds. Sarah, feeling guilty because I was out in the cold and dark on my own, soon joined in the hunt.
We spent an hour and a half pounding the streets, and calling his name ....... alas to no avail.
At 9pm, I decided that we should call it a day, and I tried to focus on the positives, like how much money I would save on dog food, which cheered me up a bit.
So we headed forlornly back to Sarah's house. As we went through her garden gate, Sarah suddenly exclaimed: "I haven't checked behind the garage!"
She ran into her back garden and shone the torch down the tiny gap behind the garage.
Seconds later ....... "I'VE FOUND THE LITTLE BASTARD," she hollered back to me.
I ran over to survey the situation, and indeed Naughty George was wedged into the tiny ever-diminishing gap behind the garage, unable to back out because there was a discarded car battery behind him.
"Bloody nora," I exclaimed after realising that the gap was WAY to small for either of us to access, "any ideas on how we can get him out? Maybe we should starve him until he is thin enough to fit out of the other end."
"I'm calling the Fire Brigade," announced Sarah in an authoritative way ignoring my starvation idea.
I know that calling the Fire Brigade is a waste of taxpayers money, but I couldn't leave the little git wedged in situ to die a cold and lonely death.
Sure enough, after a 15 minute wait, a Fireman (hoink) turned up to help us with the NG dilemma. RESULT.
Pic.No.4 This is the garage that Naughty George got stuck behind
Pic.No.5 This is the gap that Naughty George got wedged down (you can see the white battery that stopped him backing out). I couldn't get a picture of him actually stuck because I didn't want the Fireman to think I was weird
The fireman assessed the situation and sighed, "this is going to be a tricky one."
So for two hours, the poor guy was balanced precariously on the garden wall trying all manner of different ways to coax him out ranging from sausages to squeaky toys.
Then finally success! The fireman applied a firm stick to Naughty George's kak hole, and the shock made the mutt lunge forward into the neighbours garden.
Hurray for Mr fireman! Naughty George was saved, albeit with slightly grazed ears and a sore ring.
Even better, the fireman was going to charge me for the service because it was non-urgent, but because we had made him cups of tea and given him biscuits, he let me off. Kerching.
That mutt has got a lot to answer for.
