Razzamatazz

May 19^th 2006

It had all gone swimmingly until Harrison shit in Atkins’ trousers. Harrison, and his friend Hargreaves, from nearby Disley, had taken advantage of my offer of the 11th of May and had joined Atkins and I on our trip yesterday to the charity shops of York.

The shops in Goodramgate were all that John Laithwaite had promised, and more, and the four of us had a great time. I spent about fifty pounds on ‘new’ clothes, including a superb black and white hound’s tooth-check sports jacket from Age Concern, which complemented perfectly the pair of charcoal grey Daks slacks I had acquired from SCOPE (Atkins said I would look like a bookie but I think he was a bit jealous because I’d spotted the jacket before he had), and the others spent about the same.

Happily we experienced no problems with students so Atkins had no need to use the cricket stump he had brought along to poke them with should they happen to go for the same item of clothing one of us had our eye on; much to his disappointment, I might add, as he said he quite liked the idea of poking a student as it was a student who had recently poked his granddaughter and got her pregnant before going off to university and leaving her in the lurch.

Ironically the only problem we had in this regard was when Atkins and Harrison both went for the same pair of trousers. Harrison claimed that he had laid hands on them first, a claim Atkins hotly disputed. The matter was resolved only when Atkins pointed out that not only was he the driver of the car that had carried us all to York, but would not necessarily be carrying all of us back, but that he also had a cricket stump that he was itching to use, whereupon Harrison reluctantly let go his grip on the trousers and Atkins bought them for £3.50, a bargain.

After we had gorged ourselves on the charity shops and stowed our purchases in the boot of Atkins’ car, Atkins and I made our way to the Jorvik Viking Centre, as planned, but Harrison and Hargreaves didn’t join us, claiming they’d had more than their fill of Scandinavians with ABBA, so we agreed to meet back at the car later and went our separate ways.

At least one of the separate ways that Harrison and Hargreaves went led to a pub because when we met up with them some three hours later both of them were worse for drink. Another of the separate ways that Harrison and Hargreaves went was to the banks of the River Ouse where, no doubt due to his inebriated condition, Harrison had tripped and staggered into the river almost up to his waist.

If he had fallen into the river headfirst and wet his top half it would have been fine, for Harrison’s purchases from the charity shops had included a variety of shirts, sweaters, waistcoats, jumpers and jackets. However he had not bought any trousers, the only trousers he fancied having been bought by Atkins, as explained above. Atkins, who can be quite uncompromising if you get on the wrong side of him, was all for making Harrison travel all the way back home in wet trousers until I pointed out to him that if Harrison were to do this he would leave the back seat of the car wet through and smelling of the River Ouse for weeks, something which Mrs Atkins might have a thing or two to say about. Atkins, Harrison and myself had all purchased charity trousers so clearly a loan of a pair of them to Harrison was the solution. Hargreaves was a much smaller man than Harrison so any trousers he had purchased would clearly be unsuitable, and both Atkins and I, whose trousers would be the right size, were reluctant to loan them to Harrison. In the end we tossed-up for it, and Atkins lost.

All went smoothly on the return journey until we had been travelling for about an hour, in fact Hargreaves and Harrison, the latter now clad in Atkins’ trousers, had been sleeping off their booze for most of the way; then, about a couple of miles after passing through Penistone and entering the bleak moorland of that area, Harrison awoke, farted, and shit himself. Atkins and I in the front seats knew he had woken up because he made waking up noises; we knew he had farted because we heard it; and we knew he had shit himself because he said: “Fuck me, I’ve shit myself!” The smell was immediate and appalling. Atkins stopped the car and turned to Harrison.

“You dirty, smelly-arsed fucking bastard,” he said. I couldn’t have put it better myself, although I might have added a few more expletives.

“Sorry,” bleated Harrison. “I’ll pay you for the trousers.”

“Too fucking right you will,” said Atkins. “Now get out of the car and take them off, I’m not putting up with that stink for another twenty odd miles.”

“I’m not sitting here without trousers,” protested Harrison.

“Nobody’s asking you to,” said Atkins. “Now just do as I say. Get out of the car. Take off the trousers you have shit in. Go to the wall at the side of the road and throw them over it. Try not to hit a sheep. Then go to the boot of the car, which I will open for you, take another pair of my charity trousers, put them on, then get back in the car.”

Harrison got out of the car and did exactly as Atkins had instructed him until he got as far as going to the boot of the car, whereupon Atkins, instead of opening the boot for him, set the car into motion in a fair imitation of the driver of a getaway car in a bank robbery, leaving Harrison stranded and trouser-less in the middle of the road.
“That’ll teach the bastard to shit in my trousers,” said Atkins.

Hargreaves, who by now had also woken up, protested. “You can’t just leave him in the middle of the moors!”

But Atkins could. And did. Like I said, Atkins can be quite uncompromising if you get the wrong side of him and shitting in his trousers is definitely not the right side of him.

Apparently, according to Hargreaves, who I rang later for possible news of his friend, Harrison had eventually been given a lift back by the driver of a passing car, but only after about fifty cars had refused to stop for him, presumably because he wasn’t wearing any trousers and thus attired represented something of a risk. Even then he had only managed to obtain a lift after assuring the driver of the car that he wasn’t a sheep-shagger, and after offering him twenty pounds for his trouble. Serve him right too.

May 17^th 2006

All the Pollitts went out early this morning; Wayne Pollitt and his wife Liz presumably to viagra online canada pharmacy work, their children Keanu and Catherine Zeta to school, or more likely to hang about the local shopping arcade dealing drugs, and the baby Nectarine probably to a childminder, or possibly a kennels, which would be more fitting. It would certainly be more fitting if their dog You Twat had been placed in kennels instead of being left out in the garden to howl and bark like a demented Dervish all day.

Some years ago Atkins Down The Road had a problem with a neighbour’s dog barking all day. As I told it the Environmental Health people eventually sorted it out, but not until Atkins and Mrs Atkins Down The Road had been subjected to weeks of barking, howling every time the dog’s owners went out of the house leaving it home alone. Atkins said it turned his wife into a nervous wreck, although having to put up with Atkins’ peccadilloes she was already halfway to being a nervous wreck in the first place in my opinion.

I’ve certainly no intention of putting up with You Twat’s sundry canine noises for a moment longer than necessary and intend to get the Environmental Health people onto the case as soon as possible, but what to do about it in the meantime? Perhaps if I were to sneak up on it and cut off its dreadlocks with a sharp knife it would quieten it down a bit, rather like Delilah quietened Samson down when she cut off his hair? A nice thought, but improbable. Far better to cut off its bollocks with a sharp knife (as Atkins Down The Road attempted to do before the dog got its retaliation in first and bit a chunk out of his leg); there’d be more and louder howling initially but it wouldn’t last for long.

In the end I decided to reason with the Pollitts, so when they had all returned to their lair that evening I called round.

Pollitt answered the door, a picture of surliness. “Yes?”

“I’m Terry Ravenscroft, your next-door-but-one neighbour. It’s about your dog.”

“What about it?”

“It barks and howls all day long.”

He cocked an ear. “I can’t hear anything.”

“That could be because it isn’t barking and howling now. It only barks when you’re all out.“

“Nobody else has complained.”

“That’s because everyone else goes to work during the day. They wouldn’t be able to hear it while they’re a work. Unless they’re unfortunate enough to work within five miles of your back garden.“

“What?”

“Anyway I’d like you to put a stop to it.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“”Well one way would be to keep it in the house, not out in the back garden.“

“It shits in the house if we do that.”

“Well train it to shit somewhere else.”

“We have, we’ve trained it to shit in the back garden.”

“But if you leave it in the back garden it barks and howls all day. Probably because it’s up the arse in shit. But whatever the reason it’s not good enough and I want you to put a stop to it.”

“Tell him to fuck of and mind his own fucking business, Dad.” Catherine Zeta had joined her father. She continued, lest her father hadn’t heard her. “Fuck off and mind your own fucking business.”

“You heard the little lady,” said Pollitt, and closed he door in my face.

 

 

 

May 15^th 2006

I’ve found out the names of our new next-door-but-one neighbours. Mr Pollitt is called Wayne. His wife is not called Waynetta, although she might well be, but Liz. The boy is Keanu. The girl is Catherine Zeta. The baby has been saddled with the name Nectarine. The dog is named Shane (although I will call it by the first name by which I first heard it addressed, You Twat, since it clearly is a twat.

Pollitt is probably from Manchester, his wife from London, the kids from Hell. I didn’t have to ask their names. They could be heard clearly by anyone within a half a mile of their back garden yesterday morning, even the deaf.

Mr Pollitt: “Liz, for fuck’s sake give Nectarine her fucking dummy.”

Mrs Pollitt: “I’m tryin’ to wean ‘er off it, ain’t I Wayne.”

Catherine Zeta Pollitt: “Keanu’s just fumped me again, Mum!”

Keanu Pollitt: “She was tickling the dog’s bollocks.”

Catherine Zeta Pollitt: “Shane likes ‘aving ‘is bollocks tickled.”

Mrs Pollitt: “All males do, Cafferine Zee-ah.”

Etcetera etcetera.
Mercifully they all went out in their yobmobile in the afternoon. Except for You Twat that is. He spent half the afternoon in the back garden, barking. He spent the other half howling.

I could see You Twat, tied to a clothes-line pole, from our back bedroom window. In an effort to shut him up I opened the window, took a small ornament I had never liked from the window bottom and threw it at him. My hope was that even if I missed You Twat he might take it as a warning and stop barking in case the next one hit him, or, if it hit him, it would at least give him something to bark and howl about. It landed about a yard away from him. He ate it. Or at least he attempted to eat it, before spitting it out in disgust. Then he carried on alternately barking and howling until the Pollitts returned.

If this sort of thing happens again something will have to be done about it.

May 14^th 2006

In the way of a change, here are my all time three favourite jokes, in no particular order –

 

A woman complained to her husband about her small breasts, telling him she wished they were bigger. He said: “Just rub between them with a piece of tissue paper every day.” She said: “Will that make them bigger? “ He said: “I don’t see why not, it worked for your arse.”

 

The Chief of a tribe of Red Indians always named the new born papooses. In his forty years as Chief he had named over five thousand. One day one of the Indian Braves asked him how he went about choosing a name. “It easy,” said the Chief. “When baby born I look around me. See deer running in forest. Call baby Running Deer. See white cloud in sky. Call baby White Cloud. But tell me, Two Dogs Fucking, why you so interested?”

 

A man was released from Strangeways prison after serving twenty years. What he needed, and fast, was a woman. Any woman. A prostitute would be fine. A prostitute would be preferred in fact, because you don’t have to bullshit them first. But all he had to his name was ten pence and a pair of plimsolls. On the streets of Manchester he approached a prostitute. ‘How much do you charge, love?” he asked. “Five pounds,” she replied. “I’ve only got ten pence and a pair of plimsolls,” said the man. “Ten pence and a pair of plimsolls?” scoffed the prostitute. “I’m not doing it for that; what do you think I am?” The man pleaded with her, explaining that he was newly released from prison and desperate for the comfort a woman. The prostitute softened to his story. “Well all right then,” she said. “But there won’t be any passion. You can’t expect any passion for ten pence and a pair of plimsolls.” But the man wasn’t bothered that the liaison would be passionless on her part, he had enough passion for the both of them. She took him to his flat, and without ceremony, but with a condom, they got on the bed and started to make love. After a short while the prostitute’s arms came up and around the man and her legs rose off the bed and wrapped round him. The man smirked and said to her “I thought you said there wouldn’t be any passion?” She said “I’m trying on the plimsolls.”

 

So there they are. If you know of any funnier jokes I’d love to hear them.