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.

qwiz

I got roped into going to a charity pub quiz last night in aid of breast cancer.

It didn’t start until 8 but by 5.30 I was still at work talking to one of my favourite, and indeed, oldest clients. Her beloved daughter was a very well known and respected actress, she died a few years ago, her husband needs 24 hour care yet she still runs a successful business and even has time to natter to yours truly. She natters a lot actually. I don’t mind at all but at 5.30 and with a missed call from Myfwt I could feel my skin prickle with wanderlust.

By 6.00 I was on the phone to Myfwt walking with my bike down the hill towards the towpath that leads to home, she and I chatted for a while and after I mounted my steed and arrived back at the flat hot and sweaty enough to warrant a shower.

By 7.15 I was on the tube to town, I alighted at Leicester Square and walked past Chinatown to the foot of Wardour Street. The cloying smell of miso and MSG cut through the early evening traffic fumes, it was a lovely evening, people drifted past me, I must say that I did notice a few rather charming oriental types as I hurried up the street, past the remnants of The Intrepid Fox, the gay bars with Stretch Armstrong bouncers checking for bigots, past numerous eateries of all possible genre before opening the doors to the awful Slug and Lettuce that sits squat on the side of the street like an elephant turd.

‘It’s for a good cause’ I reminded myself as I pushed past the endless cunts with polo shirts, collars turned, and little blonde twatlets stinking of Dune and Darling. I went downstairs to the function room and got a beer, my colleagues from work arrived in a group Harri, Kit and Lee, and we settled down. After deciding what to call ourselves (‘Double Mastectomy’ and ‘S’only Rape’ didn’t go down well) we settled on ‘Cack Farmers’ and the show got underway. The quiz was presided over by 3 jolly hockey sticks types who’d taken it on themselves to boom out the questions without the aid of a microphone, not that they needed it. One of them was so fucking loud she made my teeth shake in my skull; it was like being yelled at in infant school when ones ears weren’t fully developed.

We weren’t doing badly; it may have been helpful if one of our team hadn’t ordered a sandwich the size of a brickies forearm which required virtually all of her attention for the first half round. I was answering the majority of questions but fell down on film quotes (all from things like ‘Pretty Women’ and the hilarious ‘Three men and a little winkie’ or something) world flags and the shittiest round of all where we had to guess what one of the yar-okay compares had done, i.e., ‘wheech whon of arse hes skydived frorm a pleen?’ Oddly I did quite well on sport, usually the weakest of my quiz categories.

Out of the 17 teams we came 14, not too bad, but not enough to win the fucking wine, which irked me somewhat, it was a fucking tenner to get in…AND more men die of bollock cancer than women of charley cancer.

Still it was for charity. And tits. I like tits.

This has nothing to do with tits, in the literal sense anyway. Take it away chaps…