Round Robin

Darlings!  Thank you all for your gorgeous reams of letters received over Christmas.  It's just soooo wonderful to hear all your news - although I must admit I was just the teensiest bit confused by the unsigned letter which contained no names, just lots of first person crap achievements and a couple of blurry photos of some fat people. However, I feel I must reciprocate as so many of you have gone to so little much trouble.

So much to tell you - where to begin?

We are all in the rudest of health. My darling husband has excelled this year in his job and has finally been allowed home after I paid the fecking ransom transferred back from Kuwait where he spent 6 months roasting his arse off enjoyed an extended stay at the hottest period of the year.

The children are lazy idle feckers working hard towards their respective exams.  Son finishes his degree this summer and we expect he might scrape a 3rd if we're lucky have high hopes for stellar success in his finals.  Daughter will be taking her A levels.  She is aiming high and hoping to gain a place at the University of Shitsville if she's lucky a leading University as far away as fecking possible in the north of England.

When not studying conscientiously, they both enjoy getting drunk and falling over an active social life.  Son keeps in touch with a variety of plebs and losers local friends who have not gone to University as well as those who have and worked harder than him and ended up at Oxbridge.  Bastards.

Daughter, meanwhile, likes nothing better than dressing up like a two bit trollop following the latest fashions and going clubbing with her tarty TOWIE-like girlfriends.

They are nightmares delightful children of whom we feel justly proud. When asked what they would like for Christmas, they replied "a new car,you stingy old cow" "why mummy, we don't want anything material, we just want to be able to help those less fortunate than ourselves."  Feckers. Bless!  

My job is, of course, busy and demanding but still never fails to piss me off to the nth degree enrich my existence beyond measure.  My colleagues that bunch of snivelling bastards form a warm and supportive community that stabs me in the back at every opportunity cocoons me in love.

Our rustic homestead we don't call it Crap Cottage for nothing charms all who visit.  The Shah and I like nothing better than to have another blazing row in B&Q discuss our latest DIY project.  The fucking roof's leaking again and that idiot said he'd fixed it.  The slagheap out front quaint cottage garden is overrun with vermin tempts a variety of wildlife.

Our darling cat, Paddy, brings rats, mice, birds and any other variety of dead animal joy to our lives.  His hilarious antics if he pukes in the bedroom once more he's a goner keep us all endlessly amused.

Well, that's about it from us.  We are looking forward to an even more smug successful 2013.

Lots of love,
CQ xx

Is it next year already?

Christmas at Crap Cottage – a black comedy in 3 Acts

Dramatis Personae:

The Shah – a dribbling goon, well known to all regular readers.

Moi – underpaid, overworked, under-appreciated, overwhelmed.

Daughter – Teenager – nuff said.

Son – slightly older but no more mature version of above.

Granny – think a posher, stone deaf version of Catherine Tate’s sweary Nan.

ACT ONE

It is Christmas Eve.  Granny is in residence. She is not sure why she is here but she thinks she may be visiting for Easter.  The Shah is now on holiday – he invariably (and inexplicably) becomes irritatingly skittish at Christmas.

Me:  Dinner’s ready – come and sit down everyone!

Children (fighting viciously):  Shotgun not sitting next to Granny.

Shah:  Anyone want a drink?

Granny:  DEFINITELY! (Grabs proffered glass of wine, downs it like it’s a shot. Burps loudly).  WHAT’S THIS? (Pokes food on plate)

Me: It’s Lasagne.

Granny:  DON’T WE NORMALLY HAVE LAMB AT EASTER?

All in chorus: IT’S NOT EASTER – IT’S CHRISTMAS.

Granny: NO NEED TO FUCKING SHOUT. 

(She then spies the Shah doing a hideous parody of a Hindi dance in the corner of the kitchen for no apparent reason.)

Granny: WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HIM? (Refills own glass)

Me: How long have you got?

Children: (snigger wildly) He’s a mad fucker, Granny.

Granny:  I'm not the Pheasant Fucker, I'm the Pheasant Fucker’s son and I'm only fucking Pheasants....ooh, hang on, that’s not quite right, is it?

Children (snorting so hard, Lasagne comes out of their noses). HAHAHAHAHA

Moi: (bangs head hard on wall).  AAAARGH.

Granny:  Refills glass again.  And again.  And again.

ACT TWO

It is Christmas Day.  Hungover teenagers are asleep.  The Shah is once again dancing in the kitchen.  It’s a sort of fish-slapping dance without the fish, he taking the part of Michael Palin.  I ache to play John Cleese.  Like this:-

The rest of the day passes without incident, mainly because I have taken the precaution of sewing a funnel into Granny's mouth which has made everyone a lot happier – especially her.

ACT THREE

It is three days later.  Extra visitors have arrived just in case I haven’t had enough of cooking, clearing up, gritting my teeth and smiling such a rictus grin that there are dried flies on my teeth. 

Granny:  I’m sorry everyone – the hospitality is appalling.  I can’t offer you any-fucking-thing.

Me:  Don’t worry – I’m doing all the cooking.  It’ll be fine.

Granny:  Oh good.  In that case, how do you get a drink round here?

Children:  Snigger

Me: Sigh

Visitors: Would you like to hear our opinion on world politics and medical ethics?

Me and the Shah exchange glances.

Me:  Erm, not really – (scrabbles around hopelessly for a diversion)  Um, where are you going on holiday this year?

Visitors: Blah blah blah blah blah

Shah:  Pulls a face behind their back which makes me and the children snort with laughter. 

Granny (half cut):  WHERE’S MY FUCKING EASTER EGG?

Fades to black.

Happy New Year.  I think.

On the off chance....,

....that anyone is still reading Blogs at this ridiculous hour on Christmas Eve when, by rights, you should be grumpily peeling sprouts and wrapping the last of the gifts you bought your other half 6 months ago but forgot about and just found at the back of the wardrobe.  Now all that's left is a patchwork of High Street Musical and Bob the Builder wrapping paper so tough tits, Shah.

As ever, I am struggling with Christmas.  When the distant past only ever produced massive emphasis on the religious aspects and little of material cheer (childhood) and the more recent past the shitty presents that the Shah thought hilarious, can you blame me? 

Anyway, I am trying my hardest.  Far too disorganised to buy a Yule Log when they were available in the shops, daughter and I resorted to making one earlier this evening.  We had a choice of Mary Berry or Lorraine Pascal.  We went with Lorraine - I'm a big fan.  Unfortunately, I am not a big baker and our first effort turned out like a rubber biscuit with a texture that meant it took hours to masticate (steady...) a mouthful.  When it came out of the oven, it looked like this:-

A bit on the biscuity side...

"Never mind," i said to disappointed daughter.  "It'll be fine when we roll it."

Ahem...

So in the bin with Lorraine's effort (and I followed the bleedin' instructions to the letter) and we started again with good old Mary's recipe.  This version is looking more promising:-

This is it cooling.

Then it got iced.

And the final result...

By this time, I had lost the will to live with it all, so the credit should go to daughter's artistic efforts with a fork, roughing up the icing and sprinkling the "snow".

Happy Christmas to everyone who has taken the time to stop by and read my humble bloggette.  Thank you all - see you in 2013!

CQ x

Barney? My Arse.

I've spent some time considering the title of this post.  There were so many to choose from - 'Bottoms Up'?  Or 'In Which the Bottom Falls Out of My World'? or 'The Bottom Line'? 'From the Bottom of My Heart and the Heart of My Bottom'?  'A Bum Deal'? 'What a Bummer!'? Oh the list is endless and provides yet more proof that I have missed my vocation in life and should have been a Sun headline writer.  In the end, I have gone with a touch of traditional rudeness, chosen mainly because it will mean nothing to you, my invisible chums, but it will make the Shah laugh.

This sorry tail tale begins last Wednesday when I missed my footing on a step into the Living Room (Crap Cottage, for those who have missed previous eye-rolling references to it, is very old and there are steps in and out of every room which can become a little hazardous at times). As my ankle gave way beneath me, I fell backwards - and could I just add (because I know what you're all thinking) that NOT ONE DROP of alcohol had been taken. That came later.  As I fell, I managed to land on my well-padded backside on the edge of another step (I told you there were loads).  At the time, I was more concerned with my ankle which, ironically, turned out to be fine.  My poor bum, however, was not.  

Almost passing out from the pain (no exaggeration) I staggered to the nearest mirror and contorted myself to try and view the damage.  There was a slight red line.  Feeling a bit of a drama queen, I assured everyone I was fine and tried to sit down.  Big mistake.  Big, BIG mistake. There followed a sort of a comedy cartoon moment as I tried to stand up again instantaneously - a bit like Tom and Jerry running in mid-air.  I found some mega-strong painkillers that had been prescribed for the Shah for some sporting injury or other years ago and necked one pronto.  It did nothing for the pain but, boy did I have some interesting dreams!

The following morning, a small bruise had appeared.  I took another painkiller and drove to work, perched on one buttock.  And, by the way, I am pronouncing 'buttock' the Forrest Gump way from now on...

Got sent home from work on the grounds that I was away with the Fairies and no good to man or beast.  Got home, pointed butt at mirror.  Such was the swelling and bruising by this time, that I looked like a woman with two arses, one of them purple.

Waited for the Shah to get home to update him on the damage.  As I said to someone the next day, you can tell you've been married too long when you strip naked, bend over and say to your husband "take a look at that!" and he shrieks "OHMIGOD!" and gags slightly.

This is what he saw.....are you ready for this?  Here is the big reveal....take a deep breath....sit down....okay....now scroll down a bit...

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OH COME ON!  You didn't seriously think I was going to get my purple arse out on the web did you?  Sorry - but I'm not that kind of gal!  

The Shah reeled from the shock of seeing my one entirely purple butt-ock and other, peripheral bruising and was actually quite nice to me for the rest of the evening.  The following day, he even texted to ask how I was - unheard of - as the minute he leaves the house, he completely forgets that he has a wife, a son, a daughter, a cat etc until he's putting his key in the lock again.  Of course, it wasn't all rosy (haha).  His last text went - "I've got a new nickname for you.  Barney!"  Me:  WTF? Shah:  Barney, the purple arse-o-saur!" He's so happy with this level of wit that he hasn't stopped using it since.

All I can find to say in return is, Barney?  My Arse!

The less said the better

Only 24 hours after the announcement of the Royal pregnancy and I have already reached overload.  I guess we could all have predicted the hysteria that would accompany such a reveal – The Sun's ever-punning headline writers have outdone themselves this morning – and the world’s press is camped outside the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers (to give it its full title) in London’s Marylebone.  You would think (hope) that in the wake of the recent debacle over phone hacking by the UK press and it being demonstrated to be a bunch of sharks, rotters and scum-sucking bottom feeders, it might have collectively decided that the less said the better.  But no.

You have to feel for Kate.  Not only is she feeling like crap as most do in their first trimester, she is having to contend with the incessant, uncontrollable vomiting that is hyperemesis gravidarum and do the whole thing in the public eye.  So while she is talking to God on the great white telephone, the rest of the world is obsessing over whether, if it is a girl, will they call it Elizabeth or GOD FORBID – DIANA!!  Actually, what a hoot if it did turn out to be a girl and they do call her Diana and she takes after Uncle Harry and shags her way round the world, getting herself photographed naked on a throne or two whilst puffing on some suspiciously home-made looking cigarettes….  But please God, don’t tell me we are now in for 9 whole feckin’ months of Kate ‘n Wills baby fever.  Let it be twins, I beg you.  Then at least she’s had an heir and a spare and can safely relax and none of us has to go through the whole horrible experience twice.

So all of this and Kate finds herself in the Royal Family’s hospital of choice when I am damn sure she would rather be ensconced in some swanky private clinic.  Not that King Ed VII is a hole in the ground – far from it – and I should know because I worked there for a spell during my nursing days.  I expect it may have been done up by now, but the skanky nets, still at the windows, tell another story.  There was nothing massively wrong with it – it was a good, safe place with decent nursing care but it was a bit, well, bare.  In fact, probably exactly the sort of cell-like environment enjoyed by the Royals at Balmoral or any of their other draughty castles.  I have memories of few pictures on the walls, no carpet – brown lino instead – and everything being a bit utilitarian. I expect the Windsors feel right at home there.

Mind you, that didn’t seem to stop the great and the good from queuing up to be admitted.  During my time, I looked after the grandfather of a famous journalist, a film director and the odd model or two (usually having their wisdom teeth out to enhance their gaunt faces) amongst others.  Princess Margaret was admitted while I was there, but not on my floor.  I heard via the grapevine that she was very nice but quite demanding.  Didn’t like the hospital food and kept sending out for chopped liver sandwiches.  Bleurgh!

Princess Michael of Kent was also admitted whilst I was there.  She was on my floor.  And the less said about her, the better! 

Christmas is coming...

And the goose may well be getting fat but not round these parts.  I'm currently in denial, having done NOTHING about Christmas yet.  I had intended to get up early on Sunday and shoot off to John Lewis but it seemed pointless when no bugger has given me a Christmas list so I have no idea what to buy.  

On Skype the other night, the Shah informed me that he wanted a Boxing Game for the X-Box (I tell you, he's regressing).  But, I told him, the X-Box belongs to son who is skint having spent 99.9% of his money on Hockey and Lager and wild wild women (this is no exaggeration, I promise).  He is planning to sell it to fund more Lager and more women and possibly skim off a few meagre groats with which to purchase minuscule Christmas presents for his ailing parents and arsey sister.

"Fukkit" roars the Shah.  "Now I'll have to buy the X-Box off him as well".
It's astonishing really that someone who is so financially acute, who works in the big, bad world of banks, cannot recognise a false economy when it rears up and bites him on the jacksy.

I am not a great fan of Christmas.  It strikes me as a load of hard work for very little return and I have previously mentioned the crap presents the Shah has bought for me in the past.

However, son and I were reminiscing about Christmases past on a car journey recently and ended up weeping with hysterical laughter when we recalled his father's adventures one year.

When the children were smaller, they attended a lovely little school run by a kind, caring and deeply religious headmaster.  Christmas was a big deal at this school and the Christmas Fair was hotly anticipated every year.  The parents were a supportive lot and many mums and dads helped out in various roles.  One year the Shah, experiencing an unaccustomed burst of initiative, decided to throw himself into the festivities.

"What will you do?"  I asked.  "Man the Tombola?  Help draw the Raffle?"
"Nay!"  Cried his Lordship.  "I'm going to be Father Christmas!"
"Don't be stupid," I said in a warm and loving way.  "You can't be Father Christmas - YOU'RE BROWN."  Duh!
"So what?"  chirped the Shah.  "The kids won't notice!"

He wasn't to be dissuaded and nobody else seemed to have a problem with it, so the whole horrible shebang went ahead.  It was decided that the Shah and another dad - coincidentally a friend and partner in crime of the Shah  - would share the onerous task.  A small "grotto" (more grotty than grotto) was curtained off, costumes were hired and a couple of very unwilling Year 6 boys were press-ganged into being Santa's Elves.  The Shah took the first shift.  Two small children went in hand in hand.  They came out a little while later looking a little shell-shocked and tearful but clutching a gift each.  A queue was building.  I stuck my head through the curtain to ask the Shah Santa to shift his butt as the natives were getting restless.

"Okay" sez the Shah.  "I suppose I could not tell them to give me a hug at the end?"
"YOU WHAT?" I screamed as quietly as I could.  "DON'T START HUGGING THEM FOR FECK'S SAKE - YOU'LL BE HAD UP AS SOME SORT OF KIDDY FIDDLER!"

"Don't talk rubbish!" retorts the Shah.  "Everyone hugs Santa!"

And he continued and everyone hugged him and guess what?  Yep - nothing.  Common sense reigned.

About an hour in, two small boys emerged, one clutching a water bottle.  "Erm, Santa says please could he have some water cos he's very hot in there?" they said in their little piping voices.  I took the water in.  The Shah was indeed very hot, so much so that he had turned a strange Mahogany colour and, always inclined towards hydrosis, was dripping unattractively with sweat.

Enter the Headmaster.  "How's it going in there, Santa?" he asked jovially.  
"Fine, fine," lied the Shah with great ease.  "I'm hoping Jim will be along in a minute to take over."

Enter Jim.  "Oi veh!" he quips, "Mazeltov Shah!" (Jim liked to camp it up at every opportunity). It was at this point that a slow dawning could be seen on the face of the lovely, kind, Christian Headmaster.

Somehow he had ended up with one Hindu Santa and one Jewish one.  

Shortly afterwards, he was seen winning a bottle of Scotch on the Tombola.  He'd been teetotal up to that point...