Sometimes going outside of Gnomepants Manor is like running the gauntlet. A simple task, like mowing the lawn, popping the milk bottles out for the milkman, taking refuse out or a crafty smoke in the lane with no name can be fraught with obstacles.
I interrupt my LJ abstinence to bring you some slightly smouldering news:-
At 15:30BST on Friday 25th July 2008 a van containing cylinders of acetylene “mysteriously caught fire” in the Hill Top area of Brierley (which is about 1km from Chez Gnomepants). Of course this being the middle of hicksville doesn’t account for spontaneous hydrocarbon combustion, as you shall see.
Upon the wife and my return from an evening out with the in-laws we were shocked to find a “large” area of Brierley cordoned off by old plod and the FyA boyz kReW. Indeed our diversion back through South Hiendley through to Shafton took us a fair way back on ourselves. (See here for cordon greenery). On investigation of the BBC News website we learned of the goings on.
Saturday the area was still buzzing with Old Plod and da FyA Boyz Kr3w. Rumours were abound and curtains twitched with alarming regularity. People were still evacuated from their homes and even after our return from a day out to Goole (of all places) people were STILL out of their homes and da FyA BoyZ Kr3w were still round in their big red engines. Oh! What a sight to behold!
This morning local chins wagged further as news broke that Old Plod had arrested a 28year old woman on suspicion of having her arse on. Oh the scandal! Nothing this exciting has happened in Brierley since the church had it’s roof lead pinched.
We now return you to the abstinence and the delights of Guestwriter.
|Why I hate living in Barnsley||Why I like living in Barnsley|
|I’ve been a victim of crime in the past||1||There are some good farm shops near by|
|I’ve been abused in the streets by awful children||2||There is hardly any traffic|
|There is an increased population of Neanderthalic people living near by who don’t give a fuck about their environment and 80% of them still think it’s the 1980’s||3||There are trees|
|Too many chavs – The youth have no prospects apart from getting pregnant and wearing Burberry||4||The fish and chips are damn fine|
|Too many piss, smack and crack heads – I’m surprised I haven’t turned to drugs. It’s so depressing round here.||5||There are bees|
|No prospects – Anyone that earns a decent salary commutes to Sheffield, Leeds or Manchester.||6||All my stuff is here|
|If, in the unlikely event, I was to have children I wouldn’t want them to grow up round here||7||Erm|
|Public transport is shit – It can take an hour to travel 3 miles.||8||Oh er….|
|I don’t know anybody – Even the people on my course don’t live near by. Everybody I do know lives miles away.||9||And…|
|There is nothing to do||10||….erm yeah that too.|
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:-
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne
and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts
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.
Some of you lot want to see the bathroom. So I’ve taken some pictures and plonked them here. Bear in mind that these pictures only show the fittings. At the moment there is no floor covering and the walls have yet to be painted (but I can’t start that until all the laundry and tidying has been done) and you’re not allowed to use the shower or sink or bath until tomorrow because the sealant needs 48 hours to set (yes I’m quite aware that 48 hrs have passed since the plumber left but Mrs Gnomepants has instituted an embargo on its use until tomorrow morning)
I can’t be arsed to tell you what the pictures show, so you’ll just have to pretend.
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.
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.
So I get home from work and Mrs Gnomepants is there flapping. “Wazup” sez I
“Flud wer” sez I
“Flud there” sez her
I go into the kitchen (I live in Yorkshire, we enter houses here through the BACK door) and notice the wall under the electric meter is sodden. “O Noes” sez I “Best turn electric off”
On entering the bathroom (which is above the kitchen) I notice the carpet has been lifted and that the floorboards are sodden too. A tiny trickle of water issuing from a pipe which was connected to a radiator only 24hrs previous. So grabbing my spanner and using all the brute force I can muster (which isn’t very much because I am a bit weedy despite appearances) I try to tighten the nut from where the leak issues
It just spins round and round. I tighten it as best I can. Water is still weeweeing out of the pipe. An emergency plumber is called and the soonest they can get there is 2 hours. In two hours my house could be under water. So lifting the floorboards I assess the situation. Somehow I need to capture the water before it goes into the floor…..Then GCSE Physics kicked into gear! Capillary attraction!
Using a careful system of well angled weighted string and baking trays I create a system that requires the minimal effort to bail out.
Note the string going to the left of the picture. The drip travels down the string and into the baking tray.
Looking downward here. Note the careful system of trays used to collect drips during the emptying of the trays.
After further consideration a deeper container was located. Note the ingenious double line of string. This helps capture twice as much water and delivers it to the larger container.
The plumber arrived.
He took the piss out of my ingenuity.
He stopped the leak though.
So yesterday. Making 6 pints last 8 hours is really good going though I suppose having a KFC Variety meal for lunch AND a bowl of nachos for tea helped. Smoked far too much though.
What delights await this weekend? Well apart from work today and Monday, an emergency lecture on Monday and, more than likely the wife going off to the sister-in-laws for a few hours, I have the joys of a 3 year old’s birthday party and all the “fun” that brings.
I have also discovered a nice way of enjoying my home. I do this by sitting in the garden with a cup of tea looking at the horsies in the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” of course the horsies in the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”, not having been around as much lately, kind of make the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” kind of empty. I must get round to taking pictures of the view from the cliffs behind the houses behind the field behind the field behind “the lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” . However I fear for my life when I wander up that part of Brierley. The banjo music is definitely stronger there.
I also suppose I also should do a bit about the field behind the bus stop across the road from the housing estate that backs onto the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”.
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.
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.