The shed is on its last legs, so to speak. More felt got ripped off by last night's storm and now it's just a matter of time before the electrics blow or the entire roof gets ripped off by some freak winter hurricane. Let's put it this way, we wouldn't need an October 1987 for there to be a garden catastrophe and what worries me more than anything is the fact the shed is on Fuckwit's side of the garden and is several feet higher than his garden. Look at this and see if you can work out that his garden is lower than mine.
|It's difficult to tell but the garden on the right is about 18" lower than the foot of the shed on the left|
If you can imagine that same roof but all the batons have rotted away, then you'll have a rough idea what my shed roof looks like now (I'd go and take a photo but the sun in shining directly into the back bedroom window and I really can't be arsed to set the camera up for one poxy picture). Fuckwit's garden has 50% less greenery in it now, most of it is covered by wood chip. The shed is about 18 to 20 foot long and I reckon the cost to replace it is going to be cheaper than repairing it; the problem comes when you have to get rid of the extant shed. It was brought round the back in sections, by a former owner who actually was a pal of Fuckwit (so...) and it's now no longer very solid in places, quite rotten and with no guarantee that it'll behave when it's dismantled. The wife seems to think that I'll be able to fix it. I explained that I don't have an O level in woodwork and she doesn't trust me with a saw.
Meanwhile in the Garden
I have to set fire to loads of wood and this weekend looks like a good bet to do it; however, unless I have some petrol in the cupboard under the stairs it's probably going to be a tough job as this is wood that has been stuck up against a fence since the spring and isn't probably that dry. However, it's one of those needs-to-be-done jobs that burning acts as a cure all for; it also puts nutrients and shit into the allotment section of the garden.
I have to admit that I think the above paragraph smacks of optimism because the rest of the garden looks like your fingers do when you've sat in the bath for a week longer than you usually do. Everything is just wet, soggy, wrinkled and nasty - the few days of frozen temperatures at least dried things up for a while, but today we're back with the quagmire that seems to have been there since the end of April.
The front and back have been over run with buttercup plants; it seems they're the only thing that has thrived anywhere; even the bindweed seems to have been restricted in growth, probably by a fear of drowning. There also won't be any January 1st raspberries this year, although as I said yesterday, I'm thinking that we might have seen the last of winter's teeth until March - just a gut feeling.
There's dog shit everywhere and I need to move the rhubarb (still).
Obviously, when I decided to write a blog yesterday it was to call UEFA a bunch of worthless cunts, then the things in the USA happened and it kind of superseded everything else. What I really wanted to point out, which most areas of the press hasn't commented on (now this might be because it's bleedin' obvious or they might have just missed it) and that is the fact that the three English players given bans - Danny Rose (for kicking the ball away in disgust at the referee's reaction to the monkey chants he was receiving and verbal abuse from the Serbian players); Steve Caulker and Tom Ince - are all black or mixed race and were on the receiving end of pretty extreme racism. The fact that UEFA didn't even mention 'race' in its report suggests that they are now the laughing stock of world sport (them and FIFA) and I yearn for a situation where the FA and Football League can tell them to fuck off and stick their pathetic rules in a place where the sun doesn't shine.
Twit, Twat, Twoo???
For two years I have had people nagging me (yes, literally) about getting a Twitter account. "You'll love it", "It was made for you", "It's addictive", "You'll have lots of followers", "Karen Gillan will have sex with you" and other bon mottes, all designed to persuade me to relay my life in 140 characters or less, when my blog is just perfect for my illiterate verbosity. Today, I almost signed up, but held fast. I might do it, but equally I feel like the school kid who doesn't want to ask the pretty girl out in case she says no... Which, incidentally, reminds me of something funny I was told this week by one of my new friends.
There's these two women at work that he rather fancied and after a couple of weeks he was convinced he had a chance with either of them, especially judging by them both always seeming to be really pleased to see him and slightly flirty. One of the girl's was off work for a week, came back on Monday and announced she's got married. My mate, slightly stunned, turned his attention to the other girl, sidled over to her, asked her what she was doing for Christmas and she said meeting up with her boyfriend who's been in Africa for three months building schools and hospitals and they're going to the Maldives for Christmas.
I suggested he try masturbation.
Anyhow; see, I couldn't tell you that story in 87 characters, could I? My cuz Dan reckons I could rule Twitter with my rants, but I'm not even warming up at the 140 character mark and I struggle to do text speak (unless Im txtng the hippy n thats ony bcoz he wudent understand proper english).
We'll see. I might practice for a while and then make a decision.
Snuff & Tonsils
- I set up a Twatter account any how... Dunno what my thing is; @squonkster_uk I think; try it, see if I see anything.
- There are too many cars on the road.
- And so to F