Dogs

We Have Ignition

by Enormous on December 16, 2009

If I were being honest with you, walking around the village and talking to fellow dog-walkers is usually not too disagreeable an experience – providing one has a high tolerance for mundanity and repetition. (You also get to hear an awful lot about people’s illnesses.) But I was talking to an rather exasperating old chap this morning with a King Charles Cavalier who was so boring – the man, not the spaniel – that I was almost impelled to commit an act of public strangulation.

I had to listen for at least fifteen minutes while he droned on and on about his malfunctioning central-heating boiler and much trouble he has been having trying to get ‘some jumped-up Johnny’ from the district council to come out and fix it for him. ‘I’d do it myself,’ he kept telling me, ‘But those things are dangerous, you know. Health and Safety.’

‘H’m. Sounds like you’re having quite a – ‘

‘Arseholes, them council Johnnies are. Don’t know they’ve ever been born. Get ‘em in the army, that’s what I say. Afghanistan. That would sort ‘em out. Get ‘em out there givin’ the Taliban what-for. Show ‘em who’s the boss. Teach ‘em a thing or two about respect. Queen and Country.’

I stepped back slightly in case he wanted to salute.

‘What’s wrong with your boiler, anyway? Have you tried – ‘

‘I’m not fixing it myself, man. Are you mad? Health and Safety. It’s very easy for a man’s shirt sleeve to just catch fire, you know, and for him to go up in flames.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed, feeling somewhat disappointed with the world.

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Middle English

by Enormous on November 20, 2009

Living in this uninteresting village in the middle of England is not such a bad thing, even though I often complain about it. And about its inhabitants.

The surrounding countryside is beautiful here in Derbyshire and provides agreeable walks for me and Audrey; local people are generally polite and unobjectionable; the weather is mild and temperate, and – most importantly – the area is renowned for its attractive females.

There is, perhaps, a surfeit of villains and murderers residing in the Midlands, but one tends to avoid such people, as a general rule.

And you can’t really blame the area’s youth too much for their negative attitude to life, their casual vandalism and antisocial behaviour; that is more the fault of their parents and of the piteously poor education system in the country as a whole.

In fact, being verbally abused on a regular basis by teenagers in the village has had a positive effect on my vocabulary.

And I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when a boy stepped off the pavement to allow Audrey and I to pass. I thanked him but he merely grunted in reply. Anything else would probably have stretched his manners to the point of injury.

Insulting remarks and general abuse from disenchanted youngsters doesn’t always bear scrutiny in matters of reason or social diplomacy, but I have learned some new swear-words.

‘Dil’, ‘ferjino’ and ‘mo’ are pejorative outbursts I can imagine using for my own means in the future, as are the wonderfully descriptive adjectives ‘vommy’ and ‘cocking’.

Such terms are not even required to make any sense.

‘You’re a f*cking poledancer, mate. You cocking pole.’ (Or was it Pole?)

‘Is yer dog’s dildo up yer arse?’ There really is no suitable reply to such an inquiry.

‘You is goalie for rams, innit.’ (I have no idea – but the term rams is used regularly as a personal insult in Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire.)

‘Is yer dog gay?’ is a question I get asked a lot, for some reason. (She’s not, as far as I can tell.)

And: ‘Do yer lick yer dog’s lipstick?’ was a question which, when asked, had a young girl and her three friends chuckling uncontrollably with mirth, but the meaning of which escaped me entirely.

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Firework Fun

by Enormous on November 12, 2009

It’s a good job the idiot who lives next door to me loves his firework parties.

The one he held last weekend featured some of the loudest explosions known to man. If it wasn’t for him, I would have to resort to other means to make sure my little dog was frightened out of her wits for three hours every November 5th.

Next year I will try to persuade him not to have a repeat performance. To accomplish this, I plan to use the carrot-and-stick approach: I’ll take a huge carrot and stick it up his f*cking arse.

Actually, I was a little more prepared for Bonfire Night this year. There was a programme on  the television a few days ago in which a helpful veterinarian described various methods one can employ to help your dog endure the inevitable terrifying noises.

One of these methods involved putting a children’s t-shirt on your pet, or in fact buying a tight jacket made especially for dogs and cats. Apparently, this instills a feeling of calmness and security in your pet by making the animal more aware of its own body and helps it to ignore the devastating explosions coming from outside.

The only thing small enough that I could find was an old pair of boxer shorts that my ex-wife had bought for me one Christmas. As I struggled to put these on Audrey, she looked at me with her big brown eyes, a little embarrassed, as if to say, ‘This isn’t very rock ‘n’ roll, is it?’

They were not all that tight in the end; I had to improvise further by using one of my favourite paisley-patterned silk scarves to help wrap them snugly around her furry little body. It seemed to do the trick, however. She didn’t seem to be as panic-stricken as usual when all hell broke loose next door around six in the evening.

I looked at her under the sofa dressed in her skin-tight little Calvin Klein boxer shorts and thought: If anyone comes in and sees this, it’s going to look a little weird.

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Clang!

by Enormous on October 19, 2009

So, in my dream last night, I had some free time; no one was ill; Enormous had a new bass player – with hair – and a keyboardist who played piano like Steve Nieve; nobody was depressed; nobody was poor.

As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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All Fall Down

by Enormous on October 6, 2009

The woman with the nasty big black Labrador was stalking us again this morning on the rec’.

I have never spoken to her but I find her rather irksome, to say the least. In fact, she annoys the hell out me – and Audrey. I firmly believe that certain people should not be allowed to own dogs, and she is one of them.

Hers is very large and aggressive. Due, no doubt, not to the animal’s fundamental nature, but to the woman’s lack of proper control over it. The Labrador is obviously a lot stronger than she is – despite her substantial weight – and is always in danger of breaking loose from her grip and advancing menacingly toward Audrey with resolute intentions of canine assault.

The problem is, instead of walking away from us, she stands her ground and waits for us to pass. She even does this if we turn and walk in the opposite direction: she will go the other way around the footpath until we inevitably encounter each other again. To me, this is madness; she is mentally ill. She is certainly a very obtuse individual. I think it would benefit everyone concerned if she were put down out of my misery.

Each time, as we draw near, she keeps up a teasingly hissed set of commands under her breath to the dog that rise in intensity and amplitude. ‘No, no . . . no . . . no . . . . . no . . . . .  no. . . . . . .’ Then as we move past, her voice rises to fever pitch: ‘No, Albert! No! NO! ALBERT! NO! ALBEEEERT!’

This is rather like telling the animal: ‘Wait, wait . . . get ready . . . get ready . . . . . . NOW! ATTACK! ATTACK!’ Excited beyond all bodily control, the dog is straining like a frothing monster, trying to break free and begin its violence.

This pantomime happened again today. But to make matters worse, on this occasion, Audrey pulled so hard on her lead that I slipped and fell on to the wet grass. I landed heavily on my hands and knees and was stunned for a moment. Rain-soaked blades of grass were dancing sarabands before my eyes.

When I stood up, the woman had gone and Reg was standing there in her place. ‘Where did you come from?’ I enquired of him breathlessly.

‘I was watching you, Davy-lad. With the bird.’

‘Bird?‘

‘She’s gorgeous, she is.’

‘That stupid woman?’

‘She might not be your type, Davy-boy, but she certainly boils my potatoes, if you know what I mean.’

‘Boils your potatoes?‘ My voice was getting a little high in pitch.

‘Oh, yeah.’ He enthused. ‘I’d fuck a wall if I thought she was behind it.’ An image sprung into my mind that I don’t thing I will ever be able to successfully erase.

‘Reg!‘

‘Sorry, Davy-me-lad, but that blondie is special. She’s lady-gold.’

I tried to speak and gasp at the same time but found it impossible.

‘Lost for words, eh, Davy?’

‘I am, rather. You amaze me, Reg, you really do.’

‘Oh, I know. It’s difficult to be amazed and speak at the same time, Davy-boy. That’s called multitasking. Men can’t do it. You need a woman for that.’

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On Passing a Log

by Enormous on October 2, 2009

Several old and blighted horse chestnuts trees – providers of conkers for generations of local schoolboys – have been felled on the park recently, and some delightful teenagers were sitting on one of the big trunks yesterday when Audrey and I passed during our evening promenade.

‘Is your dog a bitch?’ This was a question I had been asked before.

I knew, of course, that the regular reader would assume I was using heavy irony when I referred to the filthy working-class peasant children of the village who look like urchin extras from Les Miserables as delightful. They are anything but. ‘Excuse me?’ I sighed.

‘Is your dog a likkle bitch? Do you ‘ave anal wiv her?’ This made them all laugh riotously.

I considered my reply carefully. ‘There are five thousand comedians on the dole in the United Kingdom and you’re making a joke? Shame on you, young fellow.’

‘Eh?’

I delivered next a compliment of questionable sincerity. ‘Personally, I think you are hilarious – a comedy genius. But many would think you callous, that you are doing honest and hard-working comics of this country out of a job with your amusing remarks.’

‘Are you gay?’ Again, much laughter.

I gave up.

We headed home via the footpath that circles the old colliery swimming baths. ‘I fancy a big cup of Earl Grey and one of those lovely scones from the Co-op when we get back to the house. Come on, girl, hurry up.’

Looking at me sadly with her big brown eyes, she seemed to say: ‘I am a bitch, you know.’

‘Only words,’ I reassured her. ‘Only words.’

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Gaiety of Nations

by Enormous on August 28, 2009

Reg has a new friend, a rather disagreeable little man with a penchant for buff-coloured nylon anoraks and greasy hair. Audrey and I bumped into them both this morning on the rec’.

‘This is Nigel,’ Reg told me. ‘He’s staying with me for a while. His wife has turned lesbo.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Lesbian,’ explained Nigel.

‘Oh. Well . . . right ho.’

‘Argh!’ he exclaimed. Audrey, wagging her tail in excited frenzy at the thought of meeting someone new, was trying to leap into Nigel’s arms.

‘I’m so sorry. She doesn’t bite. She’s very friendly.’

‘Get it away!’

‘She just wants to say hello to you.’

‘I hate dogs.’ Nigel was actually beginning to shake quite demonstrably. His small fat face, a puddle of blubbery abundance, was wobbling so much it seemed about to fall from his head entirely and splosh on to the neatly-tended flowerbed beside which he was standing.

Reg, smiling, interjected. ‘Have you heard, Davy? Don’t tell anyone – it’s a big secret – but there’s a new Greek restaurant opening in the village.’ Reg’s idea of a secret is something he tells only a quarter of the people on Earth.

‘Why is it a secret?’ I asked, genuinely intrigued.

‘It’s obvious,’ said Nigel. ‘All Greek people are gay, aren’t they.’

‘Are they?’ I feigned shock.

‘Of course. It’s in the Bible.’

‘Come on Nigel, let’s get going. We need to buy some red Cheddar for tea. Bye, Davy. Bye Audrey!’

I am not renowned for being overly compassionate, but I did feel a definite pang of sympathy for Reg as he led his new friend along Victoria Street towards the shops.

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