scally walli

It’s worth pointing out to regular readers that since my ‘pyscho’ episode last week in the face of Cunt, I’ve not heard a peep out of him. It’s possible I’ve instilled some concern into his system, that I’ve been at least seen as having the capacity for aggressive irrationality, if we consider that it’s now only a fortnight before his hairy baby and anorexic g/f are due to show, he may have decided the best policy is to not piss me off.

Obviously as far as I’m concerned the damage was done a long, long time ago. I can only be appeased by his demise, nay, death.

After seeing Frank for two pints in the local following another not-worth-dwelling-on day in the office I arrived home and took a bath. Supper had been planned to the minutiae, a combination of fresh salad, potato salad, some of the coleslaw from yesterday and some fresh cheese rolls/buns (look they sound vile when in fact they’re fucking amazing, particularly when split and toasted, so FUKS OFS)

On Saturday I decided to cast my usual sausage purchasing net a little wider and happened upon some Irish celebrity chef’s effort, he’d been around a few years ago and I remembered his wife was quite attractive. Actually, he used to snipe at her during live shows… These were the sausages for me. I checked some basic details, yes, these were from Oirland alright, green pack, Celtic graphics, lots of guff about the Irish countryside etc., ‘press here’ and get back home to Derry…

Just before the bath, I examined the pack again, Pork and Scallion sausages they were, Then I noticed that ‘Scallion’ had written underneath it in capital letters ‘SCALLION IS IRISH FOR SPRING ONION’. The whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin, what cunt doesn’t know that? Moreover, what cunt would buy a pack like this where the consumer needs an explanation of a word on the front of a pack, in capitals, what kind of a tool… the whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin.

After the bath and the sausages and co., (they were delicious incidentally) I’d decided during the day to watch two films. The first, Secret Window, was crap, the second ‘The Last King of Scotland’ wasn’t. I may do a review of the latter on WWM (link right) so I won’t make a big deal of it here. I lazily drunk throughout the evening, I had a can of beer and a couple of G & T’s, in comparison to my recent habit, nothing really.

The latter film was on for fucking hours so by the time it finished it was after 1am and I was feeling ravaged. When I arose this morn I was a little hungover, a wash and brush-up corrected me sufficiently to undertake the journey by velocipede. It’s another beautiful day and the journey in was actually quite, well, okayish. In parts it was definitely all right. This was until I came off the towpath and joined the road that circumnavigates the industrial estate near my office.

Behind me was a maroon Minibus, I needed to turn right so with plenty of room I indicated and moved into the middle of the road. To my fucking horror instead of undertaking me the fucking driver overtook me on the wrong side of the road and gave me a load of mouth. I yelled back ‘I know your boss you cunt’, due to the hangover this came out as a cross between Lemmy and Mark Lanegan having franatic relations with Chewbacca, at commendable volume. The amount of times I’ve yelled abuse and it’s sounded like a blade of grass being blown by a 4 year old girl, but not today.

To make matter worse for the driver I really do know his boss, I called him up before I wrote this to drop him in the cack when I was still feeling vexed. Let’s hope it’s his sole means for supporting his bastard family and he gets fired eh?

Happy lovely day.

mice sauce

On the way to seeing Frank at the pub last night I got to use my brolly. It really wasn’t all I’d cracked it up to be, in fact, I felt a bit of tit. Due to the flooding which has resulted in homeless rodents it’s also hit the cellars of Sarf London preventing any beer from being available on draught. I find this wholly unacceptable and something should be done, I know a few people have drowned, thousands are in temporary accommodation and thousands more without basic utilities, but no beer, fuck off.

I got home and made supper, a pasta bake I knocked up in 15 mins and shoved it in the oven while I had a bath. I’d been in the bath for a minute when down below, Cunt kicked off. I’m now sure that he’s deliberately making unacceptable noise, this was worse than usual, with amplified screaming at 11 accompanied by, and I don’t exaggerate here, a handful of wrong notes on a totally out of tune guitar. I got out of the bath, dressed and went downstairs.

After banging on his door and yelling, he opened looking gormless, but clearly gormless and on some sort of medication. He instantly began apologising, I informed him that it was pointless to apologise if you didn’t mean it, and seeing as he knows it’s fucking pissing me off, the best way to apologise would be to NOT FUCKING DO IT.

He went back into his flat and I mine. An hour later there was a knock on my door. He was apologising again, apparently (not that I gave a fucking shit) he’d been asleep all day (that annoyed me though) and he was really sorry. And could he borrow some tobacco (what a cunt). He stood in front of me wearing a woolly fucking hat and holding an empty chipped cup in his paw like the begging scrounging little ponce he is. I looked down on him and thought of Uriah Heep, and suddenly I remembered the rodent.

Before getting some tobacco for its cunting face (this wasn’t an act of diplomacy, this was about control) I asked him if he’d seen any mice in his grief hole. His response almost caused me to vomit all over his head. When he began the sentence with, ‘they don’t bother me’ I knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Turns out there had been an infestation, that his pencil thin g/f and hairy little baby were actually living downstairs during the invasion. A baby, mice. No.

Clamping shut my jaw to disguise my utter disbelief and to prevent the puke in my throat from cutting Cunt off, I was then told how he and his spare-prick-at-a-wedding dad located the source of the bastards and filled the hole with ‘wood and concrete’. The two last words revolved around my head. How big was this fucking hole?

Cunt still had mice though, just not as many. So Cunt is responsible for the source of the rodents, in addition to poisoning my peace and quiet he’s now gunning for my peace of mind. I think I should get a crime reference number from the police, just to cover myself in case I lose my temper when I see him again.

Yes, I’ll do that. Police.