When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes To Read A Lot!

Hello,

I was at my Sister’s this weekend to help her partner Darren, creosote their garden fence. I don’t like him.  Several years ago he tried to steal my roof.

But how can I refuse little Sis?

The curly Kale worked its magic, so I tucked a Cosmo under me arm and paid a visit to the facilities.

I learned that corduroy is king this year and also how Blandness is now a recognised cognitive disorder.

There was a story about Melanie, an events planner from Balham, had her life saved by her pet cat Snappy. Mel had fallen down the stairs at home and had broken her ankle, tibia, hip, six ribs and neck.

Snappy dialled the emergency services, administered CPR and prepared a poultice using herbs from the garden.

Melanie has made a full recovery thanks to Snappy’s knowledge of herbs.

I am allergic to cats. Bring me out in hives.

The creosoting went well apart from Darren trying to steal his own fence. He has issues.

Bob

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Huey Lewis And The News Nearly Killed Me! – By Bob On The Pot

Hello,

I was on The Pot  last week, reading an article in my wife Shirley’s Cosmopolitan about a posh woman who overcame her fear of stretch marks by setting up www.stretchmarkmums.com.  Now politicians are desperate to appear on the site because women with stretch marks are a key demographic.

Downstairs, Shirl cranked up the radio as Eric Carmen’s, “All By Myself” was being played. It’s one of her favourites.

As one lump turned to two, I listened to Eric’s lament. This got me thinking.

When I think I get a nose bleed.

I tore off a couple of sheets and stuck them up me hooter. Job done.

As a failsafe I also stopped thinking.

The radio advertised cheap tadpoles and then a minute later expensive toads. As I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t connect the two. Amphibians or a nosebleed? No brainer.

Next up was a god awful slice of pap I hadn’t heard in years. “Hip To Be Square,” By Huey Lewis And The News.

Like thinking, Huey Lewis And The News gives me a spontaneous nose bleed the second I hear their aimless prattle. Soon enough I was spraying platelets like a good ‘un.

I asked Shirl to turn the radio down. She couldn’t hear me.  So I shuffled  – with pants and jeans around me ankles – to the top of the stairs to tell her.

Why I fell I have no idea, probably loss of blood and standing up too quickly.

The paramedics found blood spattered Bob in a pile on the last step. There was a  large skidmark running down the stairs. Carpet burn on the anus is no fun I can tell you.

Shirley whistled “Stuck With You” as I was wheeled out of On The Pot Towers.  I needed seven pints of the old Rhesus negative by the time I got to the hospital.

Laters.

Bob

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