K.

I might be on my own at the weekend.
SO....
Chatted with K. today as we did a dry run of my 'route'. He is a decent enough chap but wouldn't win any awards for his teaching skills. A mumbler... A man who shoots directions when it's way too late. A man obsessed with relationship matters. Lives with his Mother. Not the best passenger. He means well and has a big heart, I mean he must have otherwise he wouldn't have agreed to accompany me.

At any rate we kind of got through it unscathed, he was though silenced by my knowledge of where Quorn Road was. The round is a beast. And that's a fact. And that's why they have given it to the newbie. Everyone knows it's a rotten round, not so much how many clients there are but the distance between them all. I mean to say, I am all over Leigh-on-Sea, up and down hills, over dual carriageways, ducking around impossible corners and to top it all, when I do get out of the motor and approach a house, I have to pray it isn't one with a 'safe key'. These really hold one up.

Anyway come Saturday I may be asked to go it alone...Apparently the woman in charge on Saturday is K., a woman who isn't the manager but thinks she is. Could be fun.
Sunday I'm seeing B., the real pukka manager, who, like with most managers, is blessed with a modicum of 'people' skills.

I might, emphasis might, I might go for another dry run tomorrow... ON MY OWN. Kev, bless him, is all heart but unfortunately for me he's all tongue as well:(
Too many cooks and all that.
We'll see.

Back to what satisfies...
Aaaah cooking. My salvation, my joy...Cooking tonight will be Lemony Chicken, green beans and rice.
Very simples.

Other inconsequential goings on and mutterings...
My hairdresser, Lisa can't do my hair on Saturday. Tuesday she said. Blow you I said and so I whooshed it this morning with some purple foam mousse. There.
David Cameron is getting on my nerves.
I don't like this weather because I don't know what to wear. Clad in over sized jumper and boots today I positively glowed as I got held up by massive delivery man. The man wasn't massive, only his Arctic.
Haven't watched any telly for ages.
Bought another lipstick. Autumn Berries. Makes me want to cut faces into pumpkins.
I had a look at my feet today.
And delved deep into my heart.

Zombies.

A bit of a glurky day weather wise but I soldiered on regardless.

Briefly:
Meatballs have morphed in bolognaise. Patience is required for ball rolling. Me out of.
'The Walking Dead' freaked me out. Watching zombies mid-afternoon is so cool. And sheriff deputies in big hats on big neglected horses trotting through zombie laden cities is my kind of high. The bullets in head shots were particularly well executed.
Cameron's immigration speech had me laughing my socks off. Could his mere mention of the 'I' word agitate extreme parties. Big sigh....
Deep indentation under left eye has had me a) cursing b) moaning c) oiling it. Late nights and me don't mix.
I see 'Britain's Got Talent' is back. More dancing dogs? More 10 year old girls in long frocks singing Je ne regrette rien? :(

Now Bolog basting

David and Nicholas

Columbine and Harlequin in the Palace of dreams.

More like two frisky colts in a stable of muck.

And so it goes on.
The actor's scripts may change, but they're all dressed in the same sickly garb.

The election for a new Labour party leader will be grist for my blogging mill.

A mix of old and young darlings will be up for the job. But only one gal. The ever present Harriet Harman. I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my face. I even know that she likes a Cottage loaf stuffed with minced meat, old family recipe apparently. I know this because it turned up in a book about famous people and what they like to eat! Famous!
Ms Harman is famous for being married to Jack Dromy. And for being around a long time and for being a woman and not for anything else. Although bitching out of the way, she did do well as a stand in for the late Mr Brown at PMQ's. But leadership/Prime Ministerial material? No.
I can't see a lady whose married to a Union man and who comes from a posh background and who enjoys a nice meat and bread pie ever jiggling the keys to Number 10.
But then again...

I just saw Mr Clegg aka Columbine waving a limp wrist outside the aforementioned Number 10.
His manner was one of disbelief. Yes Cleggy, you rotten turncoat, you've wriggled your way into a decent little job and there you are arm in arm with the Boy Wonder. AND YOU CAN'T BELIEVE IT!
Well neither can the rest of the country matey.

The struggle for the Labour leadership will be fought between clean boys...The Milliband Brothers, Ed Balls and, if they decide they want to dirty it up, Mr Jon Cruddas.

Meanwhile a broken but dignified man leaves for the hills. I think that the history books will paint a kinder picture of Gordon Brown.

Now I have to get to work on my floor.

Ta ta!

Election Eve

No snow on the ground, no sherry by the fire, no nuts in my hand but Whizzo! I am so excited...
No gifts wrapped in gay paper, no giggle juice, no ice men with carrots rammed in their faces but Oh my Lord I am so excited.
No warblers with mitts outstretched, no cat felled trees, no runny noses, no knee high boots but Whooppee! I am so excited.
No lights that-go-a-flickering, no tinsel in the bath, no kissing in halls, no dangling balls. But Wowee I am so excited

Father Brown, Daddy Cameron and Pop Clegg are no doubt biting their nails in anticipation of what us the good and trusty folk of Britain will leave in their sacks...

If I was to give a present to Gordo it would be:
Charm lessons.
An engraved reminder saying that the Labour party was formed by trade unionists, workers and socialists to make sure that the British parliament represented people who the Tories and others ignored.
An afternoon with me whereby we could talk about when I met Arthur Latham. Who made Neil Nicknock look like Lord Ashcroft.
A train ticket to anywhere. Name it Gordon and you've got it.
Coco Pops. Porridge sings like a bagpipe whereas Coco pops do a strip.
A hearing aid.

For David:
A glamorous week in social housing with no money and dose of fear.
Nits.
A bike with no pump.
A date with me with no expenses paid to Simpsons in the Strand. I'd eat him under the table matey.
A black short sleeved shirt. No roll ups here sunshine.
A bottle of Ear wax remover.

For Nick:
A kick.
A nice pork chop.
A Union Jack.
An evening with me and my liver.
A pat on the back.
A fresh pair of ears.


Cooking tonight:
I've ditched the Pollack in favour of a steak and for pud a concoction...Chocolate, nuts, cream, I just don't know.

Now get out there you trusty folk of Britain and X in a new government.

Three Cheers for Guy Fawkes
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!

Ta ta!

I Know Which One I'm Gonna Eat!

Today, thank heavens, is the last day of the great banana debate and I for one am bendily pleased.

On the Today programme Mr Humphrys talked to very very ordinary voters and they all said that the televised rows were great for democracy. I concur. I feel this could be the beginning, nay the re-birth of British politics. But hopefully we won't be skinned alive by references to bananas.

David 'look at my rolled up sleeves' Cameron went without sleep last night because he cruised around through the night trying to pick up a dithering voter.
Meanwhile...

Nick ' Gillette Man' Clegg went to sleep as did Gordon 'It's all about fiscals not pecs' Brown.
I very much doubt they slept near to each other.
What a story that would make.

'Old Scot jumps Young Vegan in midnight pact'.

In other news.....

My shopping bill has blown up.
I blame them all.

Cooking tonight:
Pollacks.

I Am Not A Banana. But I Like Playing With Them.

David Cameron could be a banana.
Michael Gove is probably a closet banana.
Gordon 'I have a large hand' Brown packs a big banana.
Nick 'My middle name is Kumquat' Clegg secretly hides bananas.

The Conservative Party and others are obviously watching American Idol where the very blonde babe loving Ms Ellen De Generes is obsessed with banana. Er...Howz zat work then?

I love banana.
But am not not one.
Yet I have spent a lot of time coming up with ideas what to do with one or two.
Usually involves sprays.

My understanding of the word banana is that it's a slightly mushy derogatory term used to describe people who are bonkers. Or ideas so off the tree that they could be deemed to be so absurd as to be plain daft.


On several occasions recently, mainly when addressing ordinary voters, Mr Cameron has made reference to bananas. For instance: If he takes a particular course, he will indeed be a banana. Likewise on the esteemed Today programme Mr Michael 'I'm well into bananas' Gove also slid his tongue over the 'B' word when attempting to maul the BBC's attack melon Mr John 'I eat coal' Humphrys. Gove lost.

The current obsession with the bent fruit is giving me the pip.
But I love bananas.
I blame banana hating Ms De Generes.

Thursday and Counting.........

4 days to go till we, the people, get our chance to pencil Mr Brown out of Downing Street.
39 days to go till we, the England supporters, the most patient of all footie fans, get the chance to cry and sing. More singing than crying I hope.
27 days to go till we, the camp songsters with buckets of popcorn, get our chance to watch the United Kingdom get dozens of douze points in the Eurovision Song Contest.

2 hours to go till I, the most un-fussiest of eaters, have the chance to oooh! and cor! at the sight of a perfectly roasted bird, big jug of gravy and sticky jammy ricey puddingy.
3 hours till I, the most ardent of movie watchers, rent a space on the cat-owned sofa watching something bloody and horrific.


Other things hitting the headlines......
That smarmy John Higgins, the quietest of snooker players is allegedly caught with his greedy mitts in all the pockets.
And there I was cheering him on whenever he played with Ronnie or Ebo or people of that nasty ilk. Never ever again will I trust a man who is too good to be true. Especially when my wonga is depleted. Flipping cheek!

St David of the Cameroon was out yesterday buying pre-ordered broccoli. £3 it cost him. Should have gone to Lidl's.

Yesterday Veganite Clegg sandalled his way around Glastonbury, a place I know very well, (see olde pics) yelling into a mic. I got the distinct impression that he was floundering because his usual excellent oratory. Wasn't. He needs MEAT.


Ta ta!

Debate But With No Broken Ankles

Mr Cameron's eerily spotless complexion out shone the others.
His golden face illuminated like a Fra Angelico painting. He was almost radiant. Make-up is marvellous isn't it? And so is the thought of power.
But it was more than just perfectly applied concealer and a well cut suit, he looked Prime Minister material. At last. Although between you and me I feel that beneath the Bullingham club old sort lies a dirty rough boy who's hiding substances in his draws and an electric guitar in his bike shed.
In comparison milky Cleggy looked like a young sandal wearing teacher giving hope to kids in an inner city school. He means well does Clegg but there's something vegetarian about him, something weedy and worthy. I'm sure he means well but he's young and foolish and obviously isn't listening to the likes of Mrs Duffy and millions of others...His amnesty ideas surely doing damage to the man who would be prince..

Stouty Browny acted, but the gruff, moody, surly man was never far away. His terrible smile at the end making me wonder if he was really fit for high office. To hold power one must grab an audience by the throat and then kiss and lick it. Brown is not a licker. He doesn't know how to please neither does he leave punters wanting, clapping and then wanting more, unlike the very smooth Mr Blair, whose acting ability was second to none.

I think the Labour party have a hell of a task ahead not only trying to convince me and others that they deserve my X but they also need to decide whether or not to keep Mr Brown.. Methinks that whatever the outcome of the General Election men and woman behind the scenes are plotting to gag and bag Mr Brown. Gag and bag remember where you heard it first. And if that does come to pass I feel this blog will bulge with posts about possible replacements.

But back to the programme.
It was a good show, David Dimblebum holding court with the dusty panache of a magistrate. The audience were too well behaved though for my liking I've always wanted to see a bit more cut and thrust from LIVE debates. You know the kind of thing, like when John Wilkes Booth leapt onto the stage breaking his ankle...
I wouldn't want anyone important to get hurt but the idea of one of the electorate losing their rag due to Mr Brown's policies would be televised political theatre at its best.

So to sum up:
Last night...
Mr Cameron seemed to have taken something, possibly 100 mg of Brown's Bigot gaffe. He was a new man last night.
Mr Clegg had probably sipped a glass of kelp tea.
And Mr Brown was sore with self-inflicted thrashings.

I loved it.

Today Eco Man Nick was in Leicester talking to a bunch of students. Cool.
Miserablist Gordon was in Hockley unveiling ludicrous posters. I stood still, teacup in hand wondering which Aide came up with the idea. The posters of desperation.I hated them.
Meanwhile Nice Dave crouched down in front of a load of kids. They don't know you David I said. Go chat up their mums.

In other news....I see Fulham F.C. are doing well. My mum used to clean their offices you know.
and
I spoke to a man engaged in drain pipe analysis.

A Big Night

Tonight can't come quickly enough for me.

Sky is holding the second Leaders Debate where the three would be saviours of the economy and public services will show their mettle when being roasted by the brilliantly suave Adam Boulton. I'm hoping it's a bloody affair. Because although ITV's Alastair Stewart did a good job I felt we, the public, missed out on what should have been a guts and glory chat. No clapping, booing or heckling makes for sanitised slightly Orwellian viewing. Therefore I hope Sky have the balls to allow the blood and spit to fly.

I love public hangings and I also love showmanship so I bow to the person who managed to get the three men to agree to these live television debates. The first one on ITV1 was spectacularly successful for Clegg, I wonder how he'll fare tonight. I'm expecting much more vitriol from Brown and Camiknickers, after all they can't let the new boy steal the limelight again.

Talking of light...There was a great picture of Gordon Brown in Wednesday's Independent. What makes it worth mentioning is that it was Kennedyesque. Reminded me of the famous photo of Jack, Bobby Kennedy and Robert MacNamara when they were outside deep in conversation, their minds concentrated on the enormity of the Cuban missile crisis.

Black suited Brown looked like he had a crisis too as Andrew Grice interviewed him by the window on the train, the sun highlighting all the white in his hair and all the worry on his face. Shades of black, shades of grey and what do we get? A man possibly on the brink of losing something he loves.
It was a picture worth remembering.

So as I ponder the possibilities of tonight's roughhouse I'll do some stirring of my own...


Ta ta!

I Love Pasta, Old People And Thrilling Political Debate...

Oui, oui.

I could have passed for a French lady yesterday, so chic and petite was I. I think it was the black trench coat and black patent shoes that did it.
And as the late train made its hurried way into London I bit my lip in anticipation of what was to come. I do so love popping in to see mum and dad, their upbeat optimism always managing to dispel any negative thoughts I have about myself. And I have many I'll have you know. But seven hours in their company and I'm rejuvenated. Suddenly anything is possible and the doubts which crush and disable me are shot to smithereens not just by their love but by their belief in me. I think people who have that power, that power to rekindle, re-ignite a fading flame should be honoured and loved. So in my own little way I show my affection and gratitude by taking up cakes and pies and trusting without question their infallible advice.

After the necessary shop where I bought fresh pasta and lip gloss, mum and I rattled on about men. How lovely they are for a day or so but how painful their animalistic tendencies can be. They also get so in the way in the house. We agreed, over tea and strawberry cake, that for a woman to understand a man she must think as a man. Dad laughed.

And then after the sex lesson we all went mental whilst yakking about the upcoming debate. I told them that I had to be home in time for it and dad said how pleased he was that his daughter had taken his advice 40 years ago and had taken an interest in the murky world of politics. He also told me how to vote. On that joyously ludicrous note I picked up my handbag and left, getting home with thirty minutes to spare. I sat down with my bowl of pasta and watched Messrs. Cameron, Brown and Clegg fight it out like a gang of intellectual thugs. I knew from the off that Clegg was a winner, his opening ninety second speechlet had me hooked, the other two paled into the background. Brown came across as stuffy, his hand gesticulations reminiscent of PMQ's. Mr Cameron tried to look Ministerial but there was something missing, he lacked gravitas and just sounded like any other Tory boy. No, Mr Clegg won the debate, although I doubt whether he'll hold on to his new found fame as the election gets nearer. I was most impressed by the way he looked into the camera when answering a question so unlike Brown who avoided the camera's eye at all costs. OK maybe he did shoot a glance now and again but over all he side stepped the one eyed monster like a kid facing a headmaster. Too tetchy and evasive. Cameron looked smooth and clean but wore too much make-up.

As the pasta disappeared I just salivated and the debate could have gone on for another hour and I wouldn't have cared. I loved it.
Winner by a mile: Nick Clegg.
Man Trying to be most Prime Ministerial: Cammy Knickers.
Man on the precipice: Gordo.


So glad I sometimes look chic, so pleased I bought the pasta and so incredibly indebted to mum and dad for making me watch Panorama 40 years ago.

Mr Timpson

Crewe's blue. And so is Gordon Brown I would imagine.
Last night was possibly one of the worst in the Labour party's history. The once sexy Labour stronghold has been taken in a most violent fashion and now lies in the capable Tory arms of Mr Timpson, see above, whilst Miss Dunwoody lies on her back exhausted.
What a monumental balls-up..

Poor old Gordo, waits umpteen years to get the top job, then messes up big time. After all his errors I didn't think his political life could get any worse.
How wrong I was.

Labour have had their sublime day on the sunlounger with Mr Blair now they're huddling under a well worn blanket on a chilly beach with a miserable old mate. And this mate is going to ruin what's left of their sojourn into the balmy hot world of big time politics. They have to desert him and quick, and then head for the car otherwise they're all going to get cold.

The reverberating clang of Brown's death knell must be ding-donging in his ears as he works out what to do and say next. And I'd bet my best handbag that Labour M.Ps are busily checking and revising their cv's just incase they're out of a job in a couple of years. Or sooner.

The Conservatives however must be licking the lips and getting wet mouthed at the thought of Gordo lying immobilised, outstretched and stunned on the bloodied pavement outside Number Ten. Whilst David Cameron's wife will be wondering how big the kitchen and bedrooms are.

So unless Mr Brown can turn the party's fortunes around he and his cohorts will again be polishing the opposition back benches. Their bums did a good job for eighteen years, now it looks as if the Mrs Mopps of the political world will be doing it all over again.
But I wonder who their supervisor will be?

I also wonder what Cherie Blair is doing?
A jig I shouldn't wonder.

Thanks to Terry for commenting on Monday's post. Methinks a grand man in entering stage right.