Idiots

Moron Replacement Therapy

by Enormous on November 6, 2008

I’m feeling murderous.

I have a surgically sharp set of knives in the kitchen. Their very presence makes me want to use them.

People around here are really getting on my nerves at the moment. It isn’t their fault, of course; you can’t blame them for being born complete and utter arseholes.

I wish the relevant authorities would substitute everyone with hairy dogs – something I have discussed at length with Audrey; and, while I find it a rather seductive idea, she still remains distinctly apprehensive about its potential consequences.

Still, it is nearly Christmas. I used to really look forward to Christmas, but allowing myself such optimism these days seems no more than a gesture from a forgotten world.

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Overheard in an English Garden

by Enormous on October 2, 2008

I was in the back garden yesterday, and the young man – I use the word ‘man’ but ‘thug’ or ‘imbecile’ would perhaps be more apt – who lives next door was talking, or rather, shouting, to some of his male friends about girls and fashion.

He did not know I was there because a high fence separates our two properties. I often hear him; his remarks are a constant source of amusement to me.

Here are some of the things I heard yesterday:

‘I’ve had her – nobbed her in t’van. Not be seeing her again, though. A bit thick, that one. Nice t*ts though.’

‘Have you got summat up yer arse again?’

‘What, him next door with that dog with that guitar? Elton John and Lassie?’

‘What are you wearing, yer daft tw*t? You look like a Christmas.’

And my favourite of the day:

‘Her in that black hat job? She is nervous, isn’t she. She’s always saying boo to a goose.’

Comedy gold.

(I’m not worried he will see this post; I don’t think he can read.)

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Hendrix In Nottingham

by Enormous on September 4, 2008

I was in Nottingham yesterday buying some Doc Martens when I noticed a heavily tattooed man cleaning the big front windows of Debenhams department store in Slab Square. It was none other than disgusting punk troubadour Hendrix Sikboy.

Dressed in black leather and sporting a huge peroxide hairdo, he was shouting the lyrics to the Sex Pistols song Pretty Vacant at passing shoppers as he went about his soapy work. I thought he hadn’t seen me but I was wrong. ‘Madman!’ – he calls everyone Madman – ‘Mr Lawrence of Arabia! Dogshagger! Hendrix is a punk rock window-cleaner! Been buying yer new booties?’

‘Hello, Hendrix. No, you can’t book the studio.’

My friend, the drummer Sonny Starr used to play for The Sikboy Federation, Hendix’s old band for whom I once had the misfortune of hosting a three-day recording session. They were a nightmare in the studio: drinking and vomiting, defecating on toilet seats and urinating on visiting black men. Their band motto was We Shag Dogs.

Unfortunately, amongst many other depraved things they did at the time to bolster their notoriety, they actually did abuse Alsatian dogs in this way. They had various video nasties of themselves raping and torturing the poor animals.

‘Bye, Hendrix. I already told Sonny I don’t want anything to do with you.’

‘Dogshagger!’

Many people expect recording studios to be rather glamorous environments, don’t you know.

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Evil Beings In Rural England

by Enormous on August 6, 2008

After our morning walk today, Audrey and I were just going in the front door when a frighteningly ugly bull terrier escaped from its frighteningly ugly female owner and, teeth bared, launched itself across the road in our direction. Thankfully, we made it safely inside, and I was able to close the door just as the snarling beast made its final lunge for my little dog’s hindquarters.

I know it is the owners who are generally at fault in these situations but I still believe that there should be more control exerted by the relevant authorities over these breeds of dangerous and aggressive dogs.

The woman this morning was by no means intelligent or strong enough to control her animal – and was acting very irresponsibly anyway by venturing near other owners and their dogs while whispering in shakily subdued and rising, agitated tones to her vicious charge, ‘No . . . no . . . no . . .’ She may as well have been saying: ‘Get ready . . . get ready . . . here it comes . . .’

Of course, I couldn’t help myself; I opened the living room window and gave her a piece of my mind. She shrugged, offered me a flippant ‘Sorry’, and impatience ignited my fury even further.

‘Calm down, will you.’ She said at last.

‘I am calm,’ I told her. ‘I’m just incredibly furious with you and your horrible dog and very relieved to have narrowly escaped serious injury – and I’m finding it terribly difficult trying to express both emotions simultaneously.’

She eventually won the argument by telling me: ‘Piss off, freak.’

Now I am seriously worried that when she gets together later this week with her colleagues in the Evil-Bastard Dog Club they will decide to gang up on little Audrey and teach her a violent canine lesson or two. But she doesn’t need to wait until the meeting; I’m confident the club’s members will already be aware of what has just happened.

Yes, I know I could be accused of being slightly paranoid but it is such a close-knit community around here that whenever I fart, the telephone will ring and a helpful voice on the other side of the village will say: ‘Pardon you.’

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Kylie Bombshell

by Enormous on July 4, 2008

‘What do you reckon about that Kylie Mine-agog getting the OBE, then, eh?’ I was collared in the street this morning by the moronic fellow from number 16 who loves to share the sound of his car alarm with the neighbourhood. ‘She only got it ‘cos Prince Charles fancies her.’

I humoured him: ‘The whole affair invites speculation to some extent, doesn’t it.’ For once, I tried to make my point with a measured neutrality.

‘Makes me bloody sick,’ he opined, spittle foaming white in the corners of his mouth. ‘All these honest people like you and me grafting day after day with no thanks, and who gets honoured? Eh? Who?’ – I was worried for a moment that he was about to have an epileptic fit – ‘Some bloody Aussie tart who can’t sing – that’s who!’

My only thoughts were of escape. ‘Ha ha, yes. I would love to stand and chat but I must deliver myself of your leave. I need to lie down – I’m afraid I might be about to have a brain aneurism.’

‘Never mind – Star Trek’s on t’telly later,’ he helpfully informed me, suddenly full of joy.

This is what I said in reply: ‘That’s great.’ This is what I was actually thinking: ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’

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Trailer Trash

by Enormous on June 7, 2008

Some detestable moron-cum-idiot was driving away with a large open-backed trailer attached to his flashy Land Rover earlier today from the entrance to the lane that Audrey and I like to wander along towards the babbling brook in the bottom of the Amber Valley. He had just finished dumping on to the wooded path several large bags of building rubble, old furniture and a refrigerator. ‘Well I say! I’m rather disgusted,’ I informed my little dog.

‘So am I, father,’ she barked in reply.

I loathe people who do this kind of thing – they should be gassed at birth. What makes the crime even more despicable in my opinion, is the fact that, being in a car, with the rubbish already in a trailer, why on earth did the culprit bother to drive to this destination – a relatively unspoilt country lane – when he could just as easily have gone to the local dump, the official site managed by the local authority? Perhaps it is some kind of ironic and sophisticated protest against the evils of the world, or an artistic tribute to the works of Tracy Emin.

As we were carefully climbing over the bags and household appliances, two policemen suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. I nudged Audrey with my foot. ‘Quick! Whistle,’ I whispered from the corner of my mouth. (I find it advisable to always whistle when in the presence of Her Majesty’s Officers of the Law, as this will ensure that they will not arrest you should they be of a mind to do so.)

I was about to point out to them the Land Rover that was disappearing along Sporton Lane, when the taller of the two received an urgent call on his radio. He reacted with vim. ‘Ten-four! Ten-four! Received and understood! Received and understood!’ (Why do they say everything twice?)

And with that, the opportunity for me to report a crime against local humanity was, for the immediate present at least, lost. They sprang into action and dashed into a side road like Batman and Robin heading to the Bat-poles.

As Audrey and I sauntered happily down towards the brook, a pale sun rose in the east above the elms and purple heather surrounding Blackwell Church, and, with grim predictability, I began once more to fantasise about my life with Anna Friel.

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Bad Fat Cab Man

by Enormous on May 28, 2008

I’m not usually one to incite hatred or advocate any kind of physical violence but I’m making an exception today.

If you happen to be in an ex-mining village on the Derbyshire/Nottinghamshire border and you see a fat, balding cab driver who looks like the missing link in evolution in a car belonging to Amber Taxis, please stop him and stab him in the eye with a coat-hanger or, at the very least, a cocktail stick.

He has just reversed into Audrey and me while we were quietly making our way past the Spend and Save (a shop for poor people) in the village. If we hadn’t quickly jumped out of his way, we would have been seriously injured.

This is the second time this month this fellow has impeded our egress in such a dangerous fashion and my patience is wearing very thin – with him in particular and with taxi drivers in general. I plan to mount a protest against them. I’m going to run around the marketplace with a gun and a burning flag shouting ‘Death to cabbies!’

On this occasion, I banged on his window and gave him a piece of my mind – if I told you I was slightly miffed with him, I would be indulging in riotous understatement – but he just pretended I wasn’t there. I hope I see him again when he isn’t in his vehicle.

On the way home, we went through the park where Audrey spent a happy ten minutes angering a crow.

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