Toys

I went here as a kid nearly every weekend. I suspect Luxuryflatitis. After all the site is in a highly desirable area of Southport. Arsonists should be burnt at the stake IMO.

Today I rushed into uni after pottering about doing little jobs. I had a meeting with the people I’ve been doing 4 films for.

On the way back I stopped off at Halfords to buy a new foot pump. I looked at the digital and electric ones but couldn’t justify paying more than £10 for a load of hot air. I came away with a bargain £9 single barrel analoge foot pump. It appears that my front drivers side tyre has a slow puncture.

With the sun being glorious I decided to finish off looking for that cache I looked for yesterday. You might remember I had incompatible coordinates. Well today I discovered that I actually do have a converter built into the Geocache software. Doh!

I had a good mooch around Howell Wood. Now is it called Howell Wood because there are lots of howls from owls with towels or is it because it is a corruption of Ho’well wood, or Holy Well Wood? I doubt anyone knows. Regardless it was a lovely wood. kingdaveyKinggravy would love it. Very few people about if at all anyone. Most people, it seems, just come to walk the dog or to fish for carp at the little lake they have there. Though I would be a bit worried about flashing my bits in this area.

Yikes!

I managed to locate the it was in a plastic box wrapped in two plastic Morrisons bags. I signed my name and buggered off home.

On my return the house was empty of people. Mrs Gnomepants obviously enjoying her new found independence in her red car. Just as I was updating my Geocache logs in the tranquility of the garden this side of the lane with no name, G, he of the human dog genus, arrived asking if I knew what an orchid looked like. I said I did and he took me to his front garden to look at some plants he has growing on his lawn.

G – Does thar think tha’ is an o’kid?
stegzy – No it’s not, its a blue flower, we have some over there.
G – Ah wor thinkun ah myt ‘av’ sum new kind o’ rare flower. Save me cuttin’ lawn like.
stegzy – Well I don’t think it’s an orchid. Look we have loads here. I think you’re safe to cut the lawn

Hunger got the better of me. So I left G with his mower and thought about dinner. Should I cook enough for two? Or do I just cook for myself? I thought it diligent of me to call the wife. Turns out her new car has an alternator problem and she had broken down. Why hadn’t she called me? Well her phone then decided to lose the network and that was that. By the time I spoke to her she was bound for Rlindz’ gaff. I had cold sausage 😀

So yes, a nice day mooching about in the woods. I took some more pictures and I’m thinking this one as my desktop 😀

Bluebellz
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Throw

Last night I had a fire. It was a small fire. I didn’t bother asking G the Human dog to take his washing in. More confidential waste. Fire. It’s nice is fire. Cleansing. Good way to dispose of things……..

Yesterday Mrs Gnomepants picked up her new car from the garage. It is red. I suggested putting black spots on the paint work so she would look like a ladybird. I fear she took me seriously.

Yesterday I went geocaching. Well, I tried to. I got to the cache only to find it was more coordinates but in a format I can’t use on my current GPS devices. So I had to go home.

Yesterday I had fish and chips for tea.

Mrs Gnomepants’ music is doing my head in. She has about 20 songs which she plays over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. I’m tired of hearing about someone “Shaking ma titties”.

I feel slightly dispossessed.

Scandal in the Lane with no Name

It’s kicking off in the Lane with no name (Lwnn). For those who don’t remember the Lane with no name is the lane that runs along the back of Gnomepants manor and connects the other 4 houses to the outside world without having to use the front steps which nobody uses which are steep. In times past it was also used as access for brewery vehicles to the Village Club but they don’t use it any more as they have better vehicles these days.

Scandal

Sleepses

So last night I donned my tartan pyjamas, picked up teddy and hopped into bed at a respectable hour as opposed to “ungodly o clock because Warcraft is addictive”. The reason behind the early night will become clear after the weekend (because I like to add a dash of mystery to my entries these days). Anyway, I had but just nodded off, the opening credits for the nights dreamingses were starting and went something like this:-

 

Stegzy Gnomepants Subconscious presents
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne

and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts

In

Steamy Sex Orgies on Underground Trains Vs the Binbaggers and that woman with the green poison VIII

In soft focus

Avril Lavigne – Ooh Thelma Blair, Liv Tyler and Hayden Panettiere come and help me rub this olive oil into my pert nipples while I do rude things to Kirsten Dunst with this cucumber. You fuckin bastard I fuckin hate you you fucking cunty bastard sweary sweary bum bum

Shouty Man on street out side – You fucking bitch I fucking hate you I’m going to smack you yadda yadda yadda shouty shouty shouty

Back to real life with a start

At this point I woke up. Very annoyed. I mean just what rude things did she mean? What a point to start and end a dream! Vexxed and annoyance levels heightened by the fact that my bedside alarm clock revealed I had but been asleep for 20 minutes, I looked toward the window in response to the shouty man on the street outside who was still shouting, wtf was going on?

Shouty Man on street out side – I’m fucking gonna slap you just fuck off fucking fuck fuck fuck slap hurt bitch arrgh toilet roll fucking pot noodle
Shouty Woman – Just fuck off you fucker

By the window Mrs Gnomepants was peeping out down onto the street with all the subtlety of a flamboyance of flamingoes in a blizzard. I shuffled grumpily toward the window listening intently. There on the street was a car, the doors wide open and a rather shouty shouty man shouting at some woman, getting rather rough and slapping her about a bit. Obviously drunk (the police in South Yorkshire don’t give two flying fucks about rural drink driving so it is rife) the man was seriously and scarily shouting at everyone in the street that he had roused from their slumber, who had obviously also started to peep out of their bedroom windows, instructing them to “FOKIN MIND YO’ ORN FOKIN BIZNIS”. At which point I shrugged and thought well fuck it then, and climbed back into bed.

Mrs Gnomepants called the police. Not to inform them of my disinterest in local drunks fighting it out on the street, but because she was concerned that a woman had been assaulted (Believe me the woman was giving that bloke a better slapping than he was giving) and that there was a drunk driver on the street and could the police come. Shouty man and Shouty woman went separate ways, shouty woman headed towards Grimethorpe still shouting at shouty man even though shouty man had driven off noisily (and dangerously) toward Pontefract Road.

As I desperately tried to get back to the sticky girl on girl action in Dream Theatre, I could hear Mr Shouty Man squeeling about further up the road and Mrs Shouty Woman screeching like a banshee in the other direction.

Honestly, it’s people like that that give booze a bad name.

Eventually I nodded off:-

Avril Lavigne – (Licking buttercream off her fingers while zipping up the all in one tight fitting pvc catsuit over her rather curiously large voluminous comedy inflatable breasts) Right then Drew, Lets get him
Drew Barrymore – (Brandishing a rather large hypodermic syringe filled with green liquid) Ok but don’t forget to bring those bin bags

Bastards. I always seem to miss the best bits.

Luxury

While not typically one to milk luxury to an extent where it no longer becomes a luxury but a necessity. This afternoon, having finished my 3.5 hours of work for the week, I find myself once more sitting in the garden in the lane with no name opposite the field behind the lane with no name, using the laptop and enjoying a G&T with fresh apple juice. This is also accompanied by a rolling tin of tobacco, some cigarette papers and some filter tips.

Of course, the path to such decadence is not bereft without running the neighbour gauntlet. I am within earshot of the G (he of the human dog persuasion) family also lapping up the late afternoon sun which is dappled through the may and hazelnut trees which bulge with blossom and creak under the weight of the chorus of avian menace. I am also within sight of Mrs Owen who before I sat down to relax regaled me with tales of how the other neighbours cavil to her about where cars are parked (rather than confronting those responsible for parking) in the lane with no name and also how Brierley has succumb to a biblical plague of rodentia. Alas I am yet to witness any brown furry things.

And so my afternoon of idle draws to a close with the imminent arrival of Mrs Gnomepants who’s first question will be “And what have you done all day?”. “Fucked about in the garden” will not be my response.

If You’re Not Clean, I’ll Kill You

It’s funny how we take things for granted. Today I have learnt about 3 granted things.

The first and second being the gear stick and clutch of a manual transmission car. G, of the human dog persuasion, wanted me to take him down to Thurnscoe (a very sinister part of south Yorkshire with weird, out of place council housing estates in the middle of nowhere) so that he could retrieve his dilapidated motorhome from a storage place. This involved me having to drive his beast of a people carrier (a Chrysler) which is automatic. I have never driven an automatic before. I’ll be jiggered if I could find the clutch or the gear stick (yeah yeah I knew there’s no clutch and the gear stick was in the steering column). Cue much swearing and cries of “ARRRRGH HOW DO YOU DRIVE THIS THING?!”

The third thing I took for granted is water. The house is devoid of water ever since it was attacked by water stealing aliens and transported to a distant arid planet since the plumber discovered that the bathroom his the focal point of a labyrinth of mysterious old lead pipes. So here I am, devoid of water (well not me personally; the house. If it was me I’d be like one of them creatures from Night of the Big Heat), with naught to make my tea and wash up with but a pan and a kettle of cold water. Toilet time is fun too. We have to use Mrs Owen’s outside jig (thats an outside loo to you Merrycans. Yes it is outside, in the middle of the lane with no name so that all the people from the club can see me pooing and weeing. No srsly it’s in Mrs Owen’s shed so it’s kind of an outside inside loo only it’s outside not inside, but then it is inside but outside of the house. If you get my meaning. You do? Good. I’d confusing to be hate) which is a nice outside jig but it has no light in it meaning we have to have the door ajar.

So with the plumber here, Gnomepants Manor resembles a building site.

And this is what it looks like now

Iggy pop

Sat to my left are a young couple. They are billing and cooing like a bunch of teenagers. They’re supposed to be working. This is a library not behind the fucking bikesheds. He’s talking in that fucking irritating cute voice and she is clinging to him like some fucking human limpet. I’ve seen them about Uni. He talks on her behalf and she just looks sheepish and docile. I bet they’re members of some weird cult.

Yesterday I was trying to get down the Lane with no name. That irritating ignorant fuck next door but one (the aka Good Life) was trimming his hedge. Mr Goodlife, you may recall, is married to a woman that looks like that woman from the eighties BBC drama Life and Loves of a She-Devil. They give the impression that they live self sufficiently and seem to think they own the fucking Lane with No name.

They don’t.

It is communal which means it is shared ownership.

As well as that they were the only people on the row of houses we live on to not come and say hello when we moved in. Anyway, his step ladder (I say step ladder it was more like a stool) was slightly blocking the lane. Now any normal person on seeing a car trying to get past would get out of the way until the car had passed. Not fuckwit. No. He just acted as though I wasn’t there. Ignorant fuck. Instead I had to turn the car round and risk the wrath of Mr Pritchard (next door but one the other way) and go through his gate. As I turned I noticed Mr Good Life topple over onto his front into a bank of nettles. Serves the fucker right.

I told G the Human Dog this morning who added that he had also had run ins with Mr Goodlife blocking the lane with no name when G had been trying to get by.

“Next time ‘e does it ‘am gunna jus leave me car behind his see how he fucking likes it”

I added that G should get me and I’ll move my car into the lane too so Goodlife won’t be able to get past.

I’m sure Mrs Gnomepants wouldn’t approve though.

Brierley Village Gossip

Imagine if you will a neighbour. An elderly neighbour of about 74. An elderly 74 year old neighbour who is widowed.

Then imagine noticing that same neighbour recieves nightly visits from a mysterious man whom she makes no mention of in idle chit chat.

Now imagine the same man arriving everytime under the cover of darkness. Rolling his car in neutral down the hill that is the private lane out the back. Rolling the car in neutral with no lights on.

Finally imagine the same man leaving very late at night. Again under the cover of darkness and again by rolling his car down the hill in neutral…..

What must the neighbours think?

Saturday

Saturday brought with it soggy but bright sunshine. The previous night’s rain all but an evaporating memory. So I took it upon myself to finish repairing a job I started in March. The ornamental wood fascia on the garage. Having successfully painted the replacement wood some months previous, I removed the existing old and well rotten planks. This was easier than I thought. Further examination revealed I had the issue of four well rusted iron bolts holding the wood onto the prefabricated concrete.

At this I nipped out to Deacon’s Superdec (a kind of poor mans Rapid Hardware/B&Q) and managed to locate 4 similar if not exact bolts with nuts, a set of spanners and a packet of metal cutting hacksaw blades. On my return I set to sawing the bolts off the concrete. I managed to get two of the buggers off before G-homo-lupus offered me the use of his angle grinder. The grinder did the same job as the junior hacksaw in a matter of seconds rather than minutes.

I finished off scraping the age old flakey paint off the prefabricated concrete and then opened the bottle of fungicidal wash required to prepare the surface for painting. After application I read the back of the bottle. And this was the writing that was writ:-

PLEASE ALLOW 24HRS DRYING TIME

The word “fuck” was used.

Mr P from up the lane said “Looks like rain tomorrow”

The word “fuck” was used again.

The tin of external paint said:-

PLEASE ALLOW 24HRS DRYING TIME

The word “fuck” was used for the fourth time that day.

So I gave up and went indoors.