Diary of a Loony (1)

11th December 2004 

My mother came to stay this week, having cozened her way in with the feeble excuse that she needed to recuperate after an eye operation. When I grumbled that she could recover just as well in her boat, or indeed in Timbuktu, my grandmother just gave me a warning glance.

So that was that.

The old bag should have gone after the weekend but lingered on like a bad smell for a few days more. She spent most of the time complaining about her health and general incapacity but I noticed she had no problem swilling copious amounts of gin. 

The second best gin.

She has spent thirty years frittering away the family's money on exotic holidays, substances and men and now, utterly unemployable, faces the bleak prospect of an impecunious old age.  Thus she is on the hunt for someone, anyone, who might throw her a financial lifeline. She is desperately afraid my grandmother will live to be 90 and that she will never get her grubby mitts on the cash.

She is a vegetarian, at least w…

Top Trumps

The President has proposed that teachers should be armed. As a teacher, I agree. Think how much simpler weeding out the lazy students will be: "Haven't done your assignment again, Smith minor?"

Chattin' with my son (12) over a pizza

Dad: so when you were born I left you in the care of mama and nana and didi because they would look after you better than I could.
Son: you didn't want to wipe up the shit.
Dad: don't say shit.
Son: OK, dad.


Son: so you know kids have been warned not to talk to strangers online. Some paedophiles are pretending to be chicken nuggets to groom their next victim. I'm sorry, but it's natural selection, isn't it? How stupid do you have to be to believe that the online voice urging you to meet them in the park is really a chicken nugget?
Dad: (5 minutes of helpless laughter) even so, just because they're dim, doesn't mean they deserve to be a paedophile's victim, does it?
Son: didn't say it did, but c'mon dad, fuckin' chicken nuggets?
Dad: don't say fuckin'.
Son: OK, dad.

A wonderful week

Becky Binz-Comely was having a wonderful week. Formula 1 and Darts had been forced to stop using 'grid' and 'walk-on' girls after pressure from their broadcasters. A great moment for equality and a small step towards ending the disgusting objectification of women!

Not that Becky objected to objectification per se. She always loved the Lady Garden Gala at Claridge's, where gorgeous hunks in skimpy loin-cloths served hard-lunching ladies. Oh!

Becky took a large swig of Chardonnay. But that was different: hard-lunching, decent ladies deserved their annual ogle; not at all the same as those filthy, leering oiks at the darts. Context was everything. 

Had daddy's allowance come through? She must buy a new frock to celebrate!

Meanwhile, in Romford, ex-walk-on girl Jacky Common looked despairingly at the bile of bills on the table. 60% of her income gone overnight. What would she do now? She picked up the kitchen knife and considered those who with a whim and a wish could …

Metoo, Pres Club, gender pay n other yawns

I s'pose we die in minutiae. The Visigoths come and the Senate debates procedure, precedence and etiquette. 

As bees die, insects go, forests chop, seas acid, sperm decays, air chokes, nukes raise, we obsess on which sleaze gropes which bint's bum, or if some bourgeois cunt on 200k should get the same as the fuck on 250.

What an epitaph.

Skypin with my son (cont.)

Dad: Fair enough. Just sayin'. You should also consider that 2% doesn't sound a lot, but for every million men, it means 20000 looked like that.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing i…

Skypin with my son

Son (12):

Dad: yeah, and what do you know about it?
Son: about what
Dad: drinking
Son: I know its bitter as sh*t and makes me throw up




Son: those are the events after ww1. I'm talking about the actual war
Dad: nope, during. Verdun was 1916
Son (a few hours later): dad only 2% of people got shell shock in ww1 so all I have to say is this

That's my boy!