People called Howard deserve to have dreadful things happen to them; it's a crap name up there with Timothy and Kenneth in the 'his parents need a good slapping' stakes.
Howard had drunkenly wandered into a room full of posh penguin suit and taffeta gown clad revellers and helped himself to gin and champagne, as you do. He had a great night of it and managed not to throw up over anybody, the latter being a signal achievement as he was known as a chunderer of epic proportions when blootered.
Having free loaded to his hearts content he decided not to waste money on a taxi and trudged off in the general direction of home. Unfortunately he got a bit lost, and then it started to rain. He decided, in a flash of genius, to take shelter in a large gritting bin in which he fell into a drunken stupor.
Several hours later he woke to a dark sepulchral silence with not a baldy clue were he was. After much scrabbling at the bin lid he reached the natural conclusion that he had been buried alive. Fortunately for Howard his whimpering cries alerted a passing policeman who hauled him out of the bin. The policeman was not impressed and told him to "fuck off home" or he'd arrest him for wasting police time.
Burglars should be met with extreme prejudice; we're not talking withheld offers of cups of tea here, we're talking electrocution in bath tubs after partial immersion. That'd learn them, and a good swallow of Radox bath salts after the event would be the least they deserve.
Mice have been troubling me recently, but not as much as the bastard presumptuous youthful piss off merchant Pine Marten who has taken up residence in my office. How the fucker is getting in has had me tapping walls like Basil Fawlty with an inadvertent erection.
This relative of the weasel has been crapping over my towels, nibbling the complimentary minuscule guest soaps, and having his way with the UHT milk cartons and demerera sugar sachets. If he was a Red Squirrel there is a chance that I could be dissuaded from divesting him of his nuts but in this instance I have no alternative but to send in the cat.
Having just devoured a large slice of chocolate cake topped with a goodly portion of butter icing my thoughts have inevitably turned to the Protestant Reformation. As I see it the problem with being Proddie these days is that there isn't much protesting going on. Back in the 'good old days' a bit of Catholic burning would have passed the time, but these days even Catholic baiting is frowned upon so that particular diversion is not an option.
These days the schism in Western Christendom is really only a question of the acceptability of contraception, or more particularly the use of latex prophylactics. Even this issue is a bit of a limp member as I don't think that many Priests are haranguing their parishioners about rubber Johnnies at Mass.
Had one enquired of a heavily tattooed Loyalist in a Shankill Road drinking den during the 1970's what his difficulty was with the Irish Catholic Church a lengthy monologue on Black Mambos, French ticklers, and strawberry flavoured condoms would have ensued. These a days a shrug would be the more likely response.
Secularism has killed off this important debate, and I for one think it's about time it was revived.
The Black Watch will shortly be off to Helmland Province in Afghanistan. It's probably appropriate that a regiment that was formed to prevent the Scottish Highland Clans from causing mayhem should be dispatched to wrestle with a bunch of tribal nutcases whose ingrained code of hospitality exists alongside a homicidal rage against the outsider. The code of the Pashtun has many resemblances to the code of conduct observed by the Highland Clans for centuries.
Before long we will hear the skirl of the pipes as a flag draped coffin is led up the gravel path to the doors of a Kirk. It won't be first time; it's a ritual that echoes down the centuries. War is shite, but it's what the Black Watch do.
I can't claim to be a hair shirt individual, but there are sufficient residual vestiges of Calvinism in my genes to ensure that I cannot splurge or waste without feeling annoying pangs of guilt. I cannot leave food uneaten on my plate (being instructed to think of the starving millions while at Primary School saw to that), I do not get drunk and dance jigs at the crossroads at midnight, and I do not have a sheaf of maxed out credit cards in my wallet.
Apparently we're all supposed to be spending our way out of recession, although how acquiring even more debt in order to dig ourselves out of our debt induced hole is supposed to do the trick escapes me. Still, who am I argue with the big brains at the Bank of England. I have decided to do my bit and shall be spending more on the following:
1) Big fuck off 21 day agedsirloin steaks. These are very tasty but very expensive. I'll be providing much needed relief for the beleaguered Scottish beef farmer and expect at least an OBE for my efforts.
2) Jaguars. My current gas gussler is starting to display the symptoms of old age in failed alternators and squeaky suspension bushings. The old dear will have to be put out to pasture and a newer and swisher temptress purchased.
3) Malt whisky. No more ghastly blends shall be imbibed. Only the fruit of the single malt, aged for at least ten years, shall be permitted to pass my lips.
I'm prepared to selflessly do my bit. I just hope that other people are prepared to make similar sacrifices and prevent a repeat of the 1930's.
Idling my afternoon away sitting in my car at a popular local beauty spot I was surprised to see two young ladies emerge from their vehicle and assemble their packed lunches on a picnic table. This would be an occurrence unworthy of note had not the temperature been -5C.
Al fresco lunches in sub zero temperatures have never appealed to me. The absence of annoying bastard wasps does not compensate for frost bitten fingers. Still, each to their own I suppose. If people want to indulge in bizarre Polar lunches in the depths of the Scottish winter that is their right and I would defend to the death their right to do so (well, up to a point).
The ladies were obviously lesbians as they both had close cropped hair (one brunette, the other peroxide) and an interesting variety of facial piercings. They also drove a bona fide lesbian car; a small nondescript hatchback of either French or Japanese origin.
These lesbians are tough cookies. In fact, they may be at the apex of human evolution. Risking hypothermia by scorning hats and not being pansy enough to wear gloves just goes to prove they are a superior example of Homo Sapien and are destined to rule the earth.
They didn't even throw their crusts to the seagulls, which proves that they have the mental toughness to take the ruthless decisions necessary to get our economy back on an even keel. Were I in power I would appoint them to run the banks. They mightn't be very keen to grant overdrafts, but at least they wouldn't run up huge taxpayer funded lunch expenses when a ham roll and a can of Sprite in the car park would do.
A strange woman came up to me today and asked (rather aggressively) "what does the W H in W H Smith stand for?". I was somewhat nonplussed by this and could only think to reply "dunno, but it used to be called John Menzies".
Odd people are constantly apprehending me in the street for no reason whatsoever. I seem to attract oddballs and borderline pychopaths like flypaper. I'd like to put this down to my magnetic personality, but I suspect that it may be because I look like a soft touch who will willingly listen to monologues about psychiatric wards, methadone, and multiple suicide attempts.
Unfortunately I don't hold the same allure for drop dead gorgeous women. I regard this as grossly unfair, and have decided to start looking mean and shifty. Gorgeous women always go for bastards and it should dissuade the mentally ill from tugging at my coat tails.
If anybody can suggest other surefire methods of keeping the mentalists at bay I'm all ears. They won't leave me alone.