Blitzkrieg Rockery
In order for them to convalesce, I am
treating my internal organs to a short break from drink as they are overdue a
holiday. They usually holiday at home but this year they are demanding they go
away; the pancreas favours Biarritz, the spleen Bognor, the heart the newly
part-liberalised Albania, the liver anywhere hot (to dry out) and the kidneys
have a difference of opinion between Falmouth and Pörtschach, Austria (to
attend the World Bodypainting Festival.) By the
time my organs have finished bickering about where to go the break will be over
and they will back in the Flagon & Gorses encased in my body, dutifully
processing alcohol.
The Flagon’s chilli pickled onions are
sublime but after becoming addicted to them a couple of years ago I had to
wean myself off them as I was eating far too many and the problem is that
they have a chronically adverse affect on the freshness of one’s breath,
extending even to the day after consumption. I am now considering taking up eating the
pickles again to ward off the increasing amount of work colleagues who are
invading my personal space during conversations and entering into what American
anthropologist Edward T Hall describes as one's intimate space. It has got to
the stage that when a colleague sits down next to me for a discussion I have to
protrude my knee out at an unnatural angle in front of me to act as some kind
of a buffer to keep the advancing person at bay. The irony of the whole situation is that I
mostly have nil success in my romantic life in luring any ladies into my
intimate space, even though I have overcome the chilli pickled onion addiction.
I should pour the used vinegar from the
Waggon’s Chilli pickled onions onto my garden borders to stop all plants and
weeds growing. I find it baffling that
most people want things to grow in their gardens as this just means more work
weeding and pruning and trimming and the like; I actively do not want things to
grow in the garden to make my life easier.
The King in waiting Prince Charles famously talks to his plants in the
misplaced belief that it will make them cultivate whereas I firmly instruct all
vegetation in my garden to not grow under any circumstances. The plants and weeds at Codger Mansions
repeatedly ignore my desperate pleas and sprout forth quicker than Homer
Simpson’s chin stubble, especially the horrid, stringy weeds in the rockery (rockery
is probably too grand a word to describe what is no more than a load of half
enders randomly assembled in bibble and nub end laden soil.) I should blitzkrieg the damn thing with super
strength weed killer which would then make it a blitzkrieg rockery.
I am sure that the nature loving Prince
would enjoy the proliferation of spiders, beetles, earwigs and other insect
beasties that lord it around Codger Mansions as though they own the place. When I first moved in to the house I used to
expel the insects from the house like a nightclub bouncer evicting troublesome
drunks, but now I just let them roam free around the property as, like the
Prince of Wales himself, they are harmless enough and they at least keep me
company. There are commonly that many
beasties in Codger Mansions that it would put the insect house at Dudley Zoo to
shame and at times there are more spider webs (despite me clearing them out on
a daily basis) than in the Addams Family’s karsy. Given that my dwelling is like a safari
park, on the rare occasions that I have visitors I should charge them an
entrance fee.
Luckily my wonderful son Kenteke is in
the pro-insect lobby and I myself enjoy their company a great deal more than
the aforementioned work colleagues who invade my personal space. If I were to tempt any lady into my intimate
space they would not last long in Codger Mansions as once they encountered the
beer mat sized spiders that tend to lurk in the bath they would run screaming
out of the front door like Little Miss Muffet, meaning no whey-hey for yours
truly.
In order to amuse themselves the insects
often organise games and they mostly favour cricket, which they play in the
games room, which was formerly the dining room until the dining table was
ousted at Christmas to house Kenteke’s pool table. The poor old spiders keep getting out lbw
given the amount of legs that they have and the slow moving earwigs are
commonly run out. I unceremoniously brought
a limited overs game to an end the other day when I accidentally and fatally
trod on a beetle who was fielding down at long leg. The only solace for the late creepy crawly was
that in the last innings before his demise he scored a credible 43 not out in a
last wicket stand of 107 with a free scoring money spider, who only came in at
number 11 as he had a traumatic morning being chased around the garden by next
door’s cat.
Talking of cricket, Willy Mantitt told
me a wonderful story about the competitive nature of my close friend the Imp,
who sadly and tragically died recently.
Mantitt’s work cricket team were short of a man and being the person he
was, the Imp dropped everything and to make up the eleven. In the limited overs league in question if a
batsman makes 35 runs he has to retire but he can return to the crease if all
other batsmen are out and there are overs left to bowl. As the teams in the league are composed of
firms that transact business together the games are usually played in a
Corinthian spirit with all hands observing gentlemanly cricketing civility.
Willy’s team’s opposition had a star
batsman who laid on 35 runs in no time at all and as the game progressed the
opposing team were eight wickets down and needed five runs to win. The last two
batsmen were simply shocking and their number 11 dollied the ball straight to
Mantitt for the simplest of catches and if Willy held the catch it meant that
the star batsman would return to the crease. As the ball was in the air, falling towards
Willy’s cupped hands, a loud shout went up from first slip piercing the tranquil
quietness that often adorns village cricket grounds. The shout came from the Imp who bellowed,
“Drop the f****g thing Willy!”
Alas, observing the correct etiquette Willy
caught the ball and received much back slapping from team mates but the Imp was
not at all impressed. The Imp rushed
over to Mantitt, and pushing Willy’s boss out of the way he exclaimed, “Willy
you are a clueless ****, now we are f*****d.”
Willy’s boss pulled him to one
side and suggested the Imp was not entering into the spirit of things. Within half an hour all were in the bar with
the Imp at the centre of proceedings as always, with everyone hanging on his
every word in laughter, Willy’s boss included.
Willy’s cricketing story of the Imp was
almost trumped by an anecdote that my crony Tom Holliday relayed to me in the
Flagon & Gorses this week.
Holliday’s father, Mr Holliday Snr needed a replacement flat roof at his
property and Tom suggested Unlucky Virgil, a roofer friend of ours. Virgil visited Holliday Snr to give an
estimate for the work and he had his girlfriend in toe, who is Thai in origin
and short in stature. Holliday Snr
offered Virgil and his girlfriend a cup of tea which they accepted. While Virgil was up his ladder assessing the
roof, Holliday Snr surreptitiously slipped Virgil’s girlfriend a chocolate
digestive biscuit and whispered to her the immortal words, “don’t tell your
dad” !!
Postscript
My sincere
condolences go out to the Abdul whose father died unexpectedly this week. It is a very sad time and a deep shock for
the Abdul but I hope that in time he can take comfort from the fact that his
father passed away quickly without any prolonged sufferance.
In happier news
the Pirate is now back home recuperating at the Flagon & Gorses after his few
days of hospitalisation following heart difficulties last Sunday. On arrival at Russell’s Hall hospital on
Monday I found the Pirate to be in a single room in the cardio ward, which was
a sensible move by the medical staff given the rank state of the Pirate’s
flatulence. Mind you poor Ung Pirat, the Pirate’s son, had
to suffer his father’s sulphurous emissions all afternoon and evening. The Pirate’s liver and pancreas must have
wondered what it had done to deserve a few days off from being bombarded with
Nottingham Don’s Pale Ale and cream cakes, which like the Pirate himself, are
naughty but nice.
© Dominic
Horton, 19th July, 2013.
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