Mr Grumpy....23rd January, 2020
I like the Queen. I’ve never met her, but she seems like a nice sort of nanna and sort-of reminds me of my mother, who actually looked a bit like her (but with a smile).
When she (my mum, not the queen) came up to visit and got off the train with her retarded and untrained dog somersaulting on his lead, she always reminded me of a cross between her Majesty and Mary Poppins, not least because she had a carpet bag that was like a Tardis.
It contained her clothes for her stay, treats for the kids and assorted dog biscuits, including his own bowl.
She insisted he “likes to eat from his own bowl” which is the sort of remark only an elderly lady could come out with.
I pointed out that he would happily jump on and rapidly consume a dead pigeon at the roadside and not pause to wait for it to be transferred to his bowl. The dog even ate his own poo and — again — didn’t politely ask for it to be served from his bowl.
His ashes are in the garage (as are mums – whoops!) so this is a reminder I need to do something more spiritual with them, not least because we have mice in there and ….doesn’t bare thinking about.
I feel sorry for Lizzy (if she wouldn’t mind me addressing her as such) because a fair portion of her family have let her down.
Son Edward (remember him?) sort-of disappeared, I think after he went for a walk around Balmoral and it was 22 years before anyone noticed he hadn’t come back.
I remember he had a most awkward bald patch (the sort one cannot stop staring at) and chickened out of the army because the other boys were too rough.
He tried his hand at producing films, but Mr Blobby Meets Hammy Hamster wasn’t a huge hit and the proposed sequel Mr Blobby Meets Rambo and Has A Fight failed to get Lottery funding.
Daughter Ann rode horses and then an army captain did an episode of Blue Peter and had an unfortunate experience with a rouge hairdresser who superglued a beehive to her head. She’s been grumpy ever since, and no-one invites her to open new village halls because she scares the children.
Son Charles turned out quite well if you ignore the fact he committed adultery and has an unfortunate fixation with his shirt cuffs, at which he constantly tugs.
Doctors say this represents sexual frustration but on the basis he was married to Diana, I think his problems run deeper. But I do like it.
He has hair issues too, in that he has very little and he combs it over like Bobby Charlton. He drank beer in a pub in Congleton although rather predictably, it was in The Prince of Wales and I suspect he didn’t pay for the round. He will probably be king one day and will look ridiculous with a crown.
His own kids have turned out 50/50. William seems ok (but is also bald early: I think the family needs to eat more broccoli) but his brother Harry is a right numpty. It was obvious to me that Megan Mirtle or whatever she’s called is a bad ‘un, and the mess has already started to hit the van. I keep shouting: “I told you so — I said it would all end in tears!” as each chapter of the farce unfolds.
They want to become part-time royals and split their time between a castle here and a 15-bedroom mansion in Beverly Hills. Get a grip: the very concept shows how removed they are from reality.
“As it’s a draw, we’ll have a tie-breaker….what’s 2+2?” –Love Island final.
Talking of people with tiny brains and reality, are you watching Love Island Pakistan (or wherever it’s coming from)? I most certainly am not, and if you are, I demand you stop reading now: we can never be friends. It’s the most brainless, objectionable, offensive insult to the intelligence this side of Jeremy Corbyn’s election manifesto. I’ve refused to watch it or even be in the same room.
When I went in to book the television to watch the last episode of Dracula, I couldn’t help but notice a young lady with exceptionally large breasts, who seemed to have been let down by Next, who had sent her the wrong size bikini top.
That wouldn’t have happened if she’s supported her local high-street and had a fitting by a trained specialist.
I’m writing this from my hotel in London — I came down on the train, and it has cost me more to park at Macclesfield for two days than the train ticket itself.
The toilets on these trains must have been designed by one of the numpties on Love Island because once again, I pressed the button and the door slid open to reveal a woman sat on the bog doing her business.
Same thing happened last time, and I’ve had nightmares about Koala Bears ever since.
Once inside, the process of closing then locking the door is not clear, requiring sequential pressing of three buttons; just the top one (to close the door) does not lock it.
Alas, the natural reaction to the resident sitter upon seeing a rough Mancunian bloke stood silhouetted like James Bond in the doorway is to stand up and scream. This only makes the situation worse, visually (for me) and alerting the rest of the coach as to what has happened, maximising embarrassment for the incumbent when she finally emerges.
Now if we could only recreate that on Britain’s Got Talent …