Lulled By Lullabye-byes

When I was a wee little Keith my mummy-kins used to sing lullabyes to me... ah, fond memories. I sang these to my own younglings. Here is one of my personal faves:

Pissing in the wind some days,
just pissing in the wind
today's a fuckin right off man,
just pissing in the wind
Are you bouquet today?
No, I'm fucking weeds.
Forget your sliming rhyming words
There's no fucking answers here
I'm just pissing in the wind

Wank Song

I like to wank
it is pleasure for free
I like to wank
I does it for me
Get my tadger
in my hand
Play it like a
one-man band
Catch cum in a
wankerchief
stealing pleasure
light hand relief...

Monty Is A Wise Weasel

Monty is a wise weasel, oh yes he is (and don't let him hear you calling him an otter!!!). This is Monty during one of our Sylvanian Family Community days out. He is wearing his best dress. Doesn't he look smart.

Shadows Cast Within the Church

Here stands the church of St Andrew at Great Dunham in West Norfolk. It is one of the few surviving churches in Norfolk, that pre-dates the Norman Conquest. It is dateable through a series of architectural 'clues', which excite Dave and I, but the details of which I will spare you here. I cannot begin to imagine the countless 'invisible' people who have passed through these doors over the years. However, I can be quite sure that this wonderful building has never been witness to such extraordinary scenes as those that took place in there today.

For this is a tale of intruigue, deception and, ultimately - MURDER! No ink is black enough to describe the darkness of the tale involving this little critter here, Binky. I am still too stunned and upset to provide you with a coherent account. However, during the next few days I will try and recount the dreadful end which Binky met here.

Murder in The Church

It should have been just another informative Sylvanian Family Community Day Out. There's Monty the wise weasel talking about the Late Saxon dating evidence in the church of Great Dunham. It should have been a positive educational experience - a harmless piece of Antiquarian investigation followed by tea and jelly in the car. However, just as the clouds drift grey over the sun, this was destined to be a day touched with tragedy. As your eyes shall see, the evil eyeless Binky paid a terrible price for his intrusion upon the Sylvanian's. It should have been us all singing in the car afterwards, not sitting in sullen silence, with Haylett's tiny body lying limp on the dashboard...

Following the discovery of Binky's flattened body, the rural sleuth, P.C. Badger went into action. Monty applied his forensic intelligence to the investigation, and in no time they were interrogating Elvin, who they themselves had caught fighting with Binky a few moments before the long eared psychopath's demise. Following this piece of deductive sleuthing, the defiant Elvin - "Yo Muvverfuckers, leave the dude alone. I'm goin to tha Man. Tha Man'll kick yo sorry asses, dudes!" - was led away by P.C. Badger.

All the while, unnoticed, Haylett Owl slipped off and flew the short distance to the nearby Chief Executive's Oak in Money Maker Woods. It was there that Dave the Dan and I found her sad little carcass swaying lifeless in the branches. We will never know her thoughts. Was it guilt, or was she murdered? Twit-twoo-dunnit, that is the question?

Hard to Explain...

Waiting at the bus-stop the other day, it was a joyously beautiful day. I was rubbing my hands together with delight, which seemed to disconcert other folk waiting with me. Not difficult to explain per se - except that I had my penis between them at the time...

Toying With Reality

Monty the wise weasel - not a toy!

Monty is driving me nuts! Thinks he's a toy all of a sudden...

"You're not a toy Monty, you're a wise little weasel, that's what you are mate," says I. But still he won't be comforted...

"I'm a toy I tell you Keith - a flippin' inanimate, pointless little plaything..."

"No, no, no! You're a..."

"... an object upon which you project your infantile fantasies, you sad little freak Keith!"

Well, that wasn't very nice was it. Still, the eloquence with which he expresses himself only serves to reassure me completely that I'm not having conversations with my daughter's toys...

The Mystery of Dazel Rono Ontago

Today I was revisiting some research I did a few years ago, when I noticed a seemingly random list of words scribbled in my distinctive scrawl on the inside cover of the folder. These are the words:

• Dazel Rono Ontogo
• Eco Boy
• Wankpants
• Poland!

I have absolutely no idea what this is about; no recall about the context or meaning of this whatsoever. If it were not for the fact that it is written in my hand I would've probably assumed that someone else had been scribbling in my books. This has left me wondering - what's it all about? In fact, as I walked along on the way to a meeting this afternoon I found myself absent-mindedly mumbling the incantation - 'Dazel Rono Ontogo, Eco Boy, Wankpants, Poland...' [say it out loud please].

The Snoog & I

Recently, I have developed a penchant for knitwear. There is nothing I like better than to recline in a comfy chair in my knitted body-stocking with hood, and sit in silence with my new pal, The Snoog.

The Snoog has a towling body and a sullen underslung fish mouth, fringed by a blonde roof of hair. We flick through Sixties pattern books together and I occasionally punch him in the gob - a random act of violence which, as The Snoog himself declares, is 'an act of irrationalist randomness sure to crack the edifice of petit bourgeois complacency' (not so random actually - it's comments like this that tend to prompt my rather unbecoming outbursts of physical rage). 

Anyway, gotta go now as I'm absolutely kippered, and I've got to be up early for a delivery of angry dolly limbs which Aunty Gary has asked me to collect on his behalf. 

Concerning Ladies With Large Heads...

Today I realised that I have a liking for ladies with big heads. When I look at them from a distance they look like glamorous tadpoles to me. 

Appraisal

A look can say so much. And there I sat, smiling knowingly as I stared into the eyes of my boss during my appraisal. Looking into those scared eyes, I got the message...

"Keith, to my mind you're a despicable little shit who insists on having his own ideas and challenging mine. What is more, I get the distinct impression that you have blown my cover. I might not be able to do my job, and I might, therefore, make it my business to crack the whip in diversionary displays of petty power-play, but just remember this, you despicable little shit; whatever the rights or wrongs - I HAVE THE POWER."
... blah-di-blah-di-blah... and I have a shack surrounded by weeds; a place of mind where I am free to be ME in all my splendid silliness. 

Alas, bullies and power-trippers; corporate constrictors; puffed-up nobodies full of grim reality. It's like a cancer, they're everywhere. I admit it - there was a time when I tried to play their game. I'd wear my pin-striped bikini for interviews and walk like I had a metronome up my arse, but it wasn't true me. 

... now I have a shack surrounded by weeds; a place of mine where I am free to play and be ME in all my splendid absurdiness. I have that power.

Instead...

I was going to write about how the humidity of this stormy evening turned my milk to cheese. I was going to write about my obsession with Uncle Les' pock-marked neck. I was going to write about the traumatic effect of the under-cooked egg which my Aunty Joyce served up to me when I was a younger being. I was going to write about the time the old lady got her leg trapped in the automatic door of the bus, and how I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her hopping along as the bus pulled away. I was going to write about how a couple of curious children are going to pull George Bush's legs off and roast his stumps in the sun, "because it's just a phase they're going through, bless 'em." I was going to write about...

But in the end I chose to do this instead...