Day 106: I Love Richmond Council

Regular readers will be aware of my feelings about people who drive 4x4s in London. They are, almost without exception (and if you can think of one, I'd be jolly interested to hear it), selfish, arrogant, thoughtless, status-conscious, small-cocked (or blonde-headed) spazzers who cannot drive, and think they have rights that the rest of us do not have. (Today, for example, I saw a pointless woman in a Porsche Cayenne* reversing up a one-way street. Clever.)

Anyroad up, Richmond Council (led by the exotically-named Cllr Serge Lourie, shown here on the left - doesn't he look sweet?), are making owners of twatwaggons pay more to park in their own streets. If they have more than one twatwaggon, they have to pay even more. Three, and they're looking at £750. Ha ha! (Fact is they can probably afford it, but That Is Not The Point.) It's all something to do with greenhouse emissions and that, which I heartily salute and makes me want to kiss Serge on his lovely face.

But the thing I like most of all is the idea of Fuckwit Twatwaggon Owners sitting around in their over-decorated, over-priced little houses, picking at some badly-executed Nigella number and 'appreciating' a really super little St-Emilion Graham found in France last summer, moaning about it in much the same way that they moan about extortionate school fees, the fact that little Charlotte didn't get a place at St Paul's, and how simply ghastly it is that the council estate's round the corner, because they're sure it's affecting property prices.

Ha ha ha!

Next up: St Ken of the Livingstone (a.k.a. My Hero) imposes special Twatwaggon Congestion Charge of £1,234 per minute, meaning that the wankers have to get public transport like the rest of us. That'll learn 'em.

* The King of Twatwaggons

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Picture 1

Most monkey pictures are rubbish, as it goes. You know, you look at them and think: Oh, am I supposed to think that's funny just because it's a monkey? Some of them are good though.

So today, inspired by this particularly splendid monkey, I have decided to launch Splendid Monkey Gallery, a special on-going occasional series (depending on quality of monkeys, to be frank) displaying monkey pictures that I find amusing.

Here is Picture 1, sent by a particularly splendid chap I used to work with who has the finest surname of anyone I know, and is also quite handsome. We did stuff with Buttons together once. (Not Like That.)

Send your monkey pictures in. (If you think they're good enough.) Rules, regulations and guidelines below.

How To Qualify For Insertion In Splendid Monkey Gallery

1. Your monkey is either funny, or it isn't. If you have to explain why it's funny, it definitely isn't.
2. I decide who gets in Splendid Monkey Gallery. Do not beg, cajole, tell me it's your birthday or offer money. I either like it, or I don't.
3. Only one monkey submission per person per week, supplied in j-peg format if possible. (I break everything else.)
4. Contexual back-story is permitted, as long as it is not there in order to explain why the monkey itself is funny.

Guidelines

1. I don't actually find real monkeys that funny, unless Carl is doing Monkey News on Ricky Gervais' podcast (the only reason I listen to it, ever).
2. If it makes me laugh immediately, it gets in.
3. Quality of illustration unimportant, although Good Illustration (cf. Shelton) has a better chance of catching my eye. Mind you, so does rubbish drawn on a bus ticket, leading me to ...
4. I find bad drawing immoderately funny.
5. Remember: everyone can draw. If you think you can't, Double Reason to try. The drawing will be Splendid.
6. Drawings of monkeys done by monkeys will receive Special Attention.

Publication Times

When a good monkey comes in.

Accreditation

Full accreditation will be supplied (author of monkey supplied; your name and link, that sort of thing. Don't think this is going to drive any traffic to your site, mind: I've only got ten readers, and one of them's in Latvia.)

Prizes

A monthly prize will be awarded for Most Splendid Monkey. The prize will be the honour of being chosen, but I'll have a think. Trophies may be involved, and possibly an Awards Ceremony, depending on how many monkeys come in and how many of you can be arsed to get on a bus to a pub with 'Monkey' in its name.

Day 105: I Consider My Cat, Monster

Regular readers will be aware that I share my plush one-bedroom apartment in London's fashionable Brixton with a stupid fat bastard cat, pictured here. I am reluctant to write about him, for I have no truck with people who think their animals are human, or put pictures of cute animals about the place with gay abandon. But I have decided to get rid of him. He vexes me greatly, and it seems that I have started trying to hold conversations with him. This means he must Go, and Fast.

Last night, for example, I was doing something else (searching "How to extinguish a bush fire ten point drill", since you don't ask), and he just GOT IN THE WAY.

CAT: Squeak
Me: Shut up.
CAT: Squeak
Me: Shut UP
CAT: Squeak
Me: SHUT UP
CAT: Squeak
Me: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

Time passes.

CAT (small voice): squeak.
Me: Fair point. It is supper time.
CAT: Squeak.

Time passes. I remove the low-cal cat food from the Free Tin I got from the deaf Scottish woman on Streatham Hill, and feed the cat. He pushes my hand out of the way. The food goes on the floor.

Me: You could at least show some manners.
CAT: Crunch. Squeak. Crunch.

Look, I hate cats and I don't think he's very happy, especially not since I killed his uncle with Penne al Arrabiata. So I'm offering him up to a new home (one without children in, if you want them to remain unscarred both physically and emotionally).

Basic Information

Fat, astonishingly stupid, evil green eyes. About 14 years old. Weighs about 10 stone. Comes up to the middle of my calf. Clean arse. Cannot make usual cat sounds, will destroy your furniture and try and get into bed with you ONLY if you have a Gentleman Caller in the house. Bites feet. Wakes you up in the morning merely by walking. Can jump.

Only redeeming feature: is called Monster.

3p, or nearest offer. Must collect.

And no, he's not 'sweet' or 'cute' and no, I HONESTLY don't "love him really". He's yours if you want him.

Day 104: I Conclude Business With TwatBoy

The front door closes, and there is a timid knock at the door to my flat. I am drinking the wine and watching Wife Swap, which I could watch indefinitely and forever.

"Come in! The door's open!", I cry.

TwatBoy appears, clasping an Iceland carrier bag and a briefcase. He looks Very Tired, and contrite. I melt immediately, and want to make him a hot water bottle.

"TwatBoy", I say, "I am very sorry I shouted at you last weekend. I know that I am Terrifying when I'm like that, and there is simply no excuse for it."

TwatBoy looks at his feet, and looks at me.

"No. I am sorry. I just ... I just ... had no idea we were making so much noise. I'm so sorry. Joe didn't know either. What is it, exactly?"

"It's the front door. And the stairs. You know, pounding and that. I know it sounds daft, but the acoustics are really weird. And I know you don't wear ladies' steel capped shoes but ..."

TwatBoy grins.

"That's what you think."

To my immense irritation, I start laughing. TwatBoy starts laughing.

"No, but seriously - what else is there?"

"Well, um, building furniture and that, awful banging, all day, and scraping. The floorboards aren't insulated, you see."

"God. I'm so sorry. Now listen, I have to go back to IKEA this weekend. I got all the wrong doors, you know, wanted plain ones and got white ones by mistake ... so there'll be more this weekend. Just to warn you. Is that OK?"

"God of course! And anyway I'm away all weekend. Now then, darling, do you want to come round for supper on Sunday?"

"Love to. Joe too?"

"Of course."

We say goodnight. He goes upstairs quietly. I sit on the sofa slightly deflated, and remember a very annoying woman (who claimed to be a psychic, as well as a stand-up comedian), who once came to a party of mine and said "nothing bad has ever happened here. It is a happy place". But if the twat has a party, I'm calling the police.

Day 104: I Go Running Outside

Christ on a bike. I arrive at the gymnasium and it's not raining, and Anuja-the-personal-trainer is there, and we look around the top floor gym and go: naah, come on, let's go out. We walk for miles. Anuja tells me about something that someone said to someone else and someone else's parents. I stop listening. We get to the park.

She makes me run between lamposts, sometimes up to four at a time, and then walk. We observe my heart rate, and laugh quite a lot. We run some more. We walk across a football pitch or two ("anyway, so then he found out her mum doesn't like him" "Oooh, really.") She makes me run more. I am going purple. The back of my head is running freely with sweat. We walk a bit. I run some more.

"I think you should enter yourself for a 5-mile run". I laugh so much I stumble, twist my ankle and fall over. We spend the rest of the session on a bench talking about ankle supports.