Crikey & Other Profanities

18th Feb 2013

I think I was a Teeny bit racist

An air of normality has returned to the house. The new sofa has been installed and is indeed a masterpiece of modern comfort. The finance deal that The Cousin had to negotiate to make this purchase was also a masterpiece of modern times. Safe to say that The Cousin will still be paying for it well after it has taken it’s place in the great sofa graveyard/Oxfam. Well it’s like my old Granny used to say, “Don’t piss in the sofa lest you end up having to buy a new one from those awful awful cunts at DFS”. She was snappy like that.

The day we went to church

Disappointingly I had reason to find myself in church recently. It doesn’t seem to matter how long it has been since you last went you inevitably find yourself slipping back into the routine of mass quickly enough. So with that in mind it was no surprise that I was fighting off lovely lovely sleep after only five minutes. Sleeping being routine for me at mass. Church sleep is some of the loveliest and most comfortable sleeps you can get. It’s second only to sleeping during work. I’m not sure why it is so lovely and rewarding but it really is. I’m sure it has something to do with the rhythmic recanting of prayers and what have you. You see this is what Free Presbyterian miss out on what with all the shouting and accusations they have to put up with during their Sunday service. It’s not the content of the prayers and what have you; I’m not bored into to sleep nor am I comforted into a mid morning snooze. It really is just about the way it is said. Honestly they could be reading from the sweary texts of Charlie Brooker, Charles Bukowski or Adrian Mole and you would still find me drifting off after a minute or two. Actually Brooker gives me nightmares, mainly about Nicky Campbell.

Its all the carlsberg’s fault…probably

The Cousin hasn’t come out of the trolls kingdom since the incident, as it is now referred to as. I’m not sure calling it the incident really does it justice. It’s like calling thirty years of bloody murder and what have you The Troubles. It really doesn’t seem appropriate. But then again what do I know I just compared my having my couch pissed in with the death and trauma of the last three decades of life in the North of Ireland. Well what do you expect? Things have been tense round here since the incident. Drumgor tried to coax him down with a very classy bucket of fried chicken. He got as far as the top of the stairs but shuffled hurriedly back into his bedroom when he saw me sitting on an upturned beer crate. Drumgor, egged on by Tully, had gone out of his way to try and negotiate a cessation of hostilities. It’s a little known fact about Wookiees but they are a very peace loving people - they’d rather go to sleep than go to war (well Drumgor would).

Not Shiny. NOT Happy. Barely even people

HA! I dared to hope.

“Oh god I hope things work out for both of them, The Cousin and Drumgor, and by them I mean me. I mean it might calm them down or at the very least get them out of the house more often.”

Was it too much to ask that the three of us could go out independently of each other and it not end in tears? Was I being unreasonable? So just where did that elusive hope of a successful night get me? It left me standing in the backyard at a remarkably early 1.30am with The Cousin, Drumgor West and a crying Ms Tully Muck, that’s where hope got me.

The Cousin in the living room with a Chinese burn PT1

The sense of relief that washed over me on Tuesday was palpable after what had been a very odd few days. The Cousin had gone back to work after a period of “rest” and Drumgor West was out with Ms Tully Muck, his special friend. It’s rare that I get the house to myself so I was going to enjoy it whilst I could. I sat in the back garden listening to the dark and moody electro rock of self harmer extraordinaire Dave Gahan and his merry band of funsters, Depeche Mode. Nobody has been more committed to to self harming nor to lowering the status of this minority pursuit more than Mr Gahan. His constant cries for help bring a life affirming smile to the faces of even the most cynical and angsty of teenagers.

Reasons to be cheerful…(or maybe just a little less pessimistic)

Somehow and quite by accident the fates have conspired to ensure that all three members of this house will be out on dates on Friday night. This is odd for so many reasons. First you have Drumgor West who is a lovely chap when he is in a good mood and not getting on like a well slapped arse but even at his best he is still a Wookiee and well you know….he’s a fucking Wookiee! Can he have intimate relations with a woman? But then again The Cousin is human but feel I could legitimately ask the same about him. Ha. Sorry that’s cruel. True, but still cruel. I only discovered that we would all be out at the same time whilst we were all having tea and mini Toffee Crisp bars the other evening. If I leave the house for anything longer than 4 hours of an evening you can guarantee that Laverne and Shirley will have a party and leave a trail of Baghdad-esque destruction in their wake for muggins here to clean up. I was warning them off that route.

Murder is terribly exhausting

There are very few things that can quite move me to murder more than the uniquely unpleasant experience of sitting my exposed naked ass on a wet urine soaked toilet seat at four in the morning. I had never considered this before, murder that is. Being a somewhat rational and calm person I always assumed that it would take something much more dramatic than the horridness of a wet toilet seat to raise the ugly possibility of familicide or at the very least cousinicide/wookieeicide. I could see myself being driven to murder if the intended target was themselves intent on murdering me or someone close to me or Morrissey forbid making unwanted advances of my precious vinyl collection. But surely that wouldn’t be considered murder, it would be self defense. But I now know that I do have that dark and murderous rage within me, I have the ability to kill. I came to this conclusion one fateful and disappointingly damp evening last week.

Do Wookiees Shit in the Woods?

Mondays are always a day worthy of a sigh or two but yesterday was worse than normal. My line manager, one Mr Dawson Wam, was in particularly snarly form. He’s the world’s angriest man at the best of times but on a Monday he adds new meaning to the word, petulant. I spent most of the day being worked like a mule on the slopes of The Andes. Dawson had mislaid some paperwork and rather than just pony up to the error himself he decided to make me do it again. I had no problem in doing it again for him but I did object quite strongly to his spit soaked ranting and they way he strutted about the place like the hall monitor of an English Country boarding school circa 1907. The threat of sexual assault loomed large in the office all afternoon.

The Accidental House Guest - Introducing the cousin

They’ve gone out! The two of them, the feckless fidget twins, at the same time, on the same day, leaving the house and all it’s TV’s and radios to me. This is a rare and golden moment. I feel like tuning them all to Radio Four just for the hell of it. Anyway where was I? Oh that’s right I was explaining how I ended up living with Drumgor the Wookiee and The Cousin. It’s a tragedy bordering on farce bordering on cruel and unusual punishment, the sort banned under UN law. To understand why this is so you have to have a peak at my life in the happy times, the carefree days before Wookiee hair clogged the bath and my home became the postal address of The Cousin’s obsession and slightly odd organisation: “The Midsomer Murders Fan Club and Reenactment Group”.

Morning George!

I awoke on Saturday morning to the gentle and chummy chit chat of Radio Four and what I thought was the sound of housework. This was as odd as it was unsettling. There was a strange smell too - gone was the usual ass and wet dog smell that hangs in the air and despite your best efforts makes your clothes appear like the unwashed garments of a real ale drinker or one of those people who spends all their time with barn animals and I don’t mean farmers either. No, this was a reassuringly pleasant odour but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. There was the moreish smell of sizzling bacon but also the healthy whiff of Pledge or Mr Sheen or some other household cleaning product. I lay there, stiff as a board, almost scared to moved lest I scare the pleasantness away. I could hear the twit twins talking, quietly, there was reserved laughter and what sounded distinctly like a conversation. It had been so long since I had heard a conversation in this house that it didn’t appear obvious at first. The closest you get to a conversation within these walls, other than with a door to door sales chap, is when somebody is barking their food order for the Chinese takeaway at you.

18th Feb 2013 | 1 note