Posts Tagged ‘Essex’

I was in Tesco’s rummaging amongst the mangoes with a view to buying one for my pudding this evening.  As I popped a fruit into my trolley, I felt a tad woozy and a touch fey.

I had an insatiable desire to free my people from the yoke of Roman tyranny.

The spirit of Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni had entered me!

I applied Brobat Blue woad and with my wonky wheeled trolley chariot, I sought vengeance on the spotty youth oppressing me with her inability to locate the dried apricots in the Storeroom.

She was no underpaid wage slave of questionable literacy and numeracy skills but a Roman oppressor!

I rented the air with a cry of “Death To The Romans!”

The Romans formed a Shield Wall using tins of Kidney, Baked and Borlotti Beans. The cunning curs!

Sadly my uprising came to an abrupt halt when the wonky wheel of the accursed trolley chariot fell off and I skidded to a halt by the tinned fish shelf (Pilchards on special offer by the way).

Mango anyone?



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We are on holiday in Spain.

Spanish plumbing really has come on leaps and bounds. It is a pleasure to ascend my throne for an hour in the morning and allow the previous night’s paella, chips, sausages, black pudding, egg, chips and leg of lamb begin its momentous journey to the sea. Why David Attenborough hasn’t done a documentary on this still bemuses me. Like that one about the salmon returning to their spawning grounds. Only this would be about turds.

Still can’t get used to the bidet though. Use it to rinse me smalls.

We went on a boat trip.

An On The Pot served as a Tar under Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Horatio On The Pot came to a sticky end. Not in the heat of battle, but sneaking a crafty snifter from the barrel of brandy that Nelson was pickled in. They say the resulting dysentery was the inspiration behind pebble dashing.

We’ve met Brian and Sandra. They are from Basildon. The posh part. He sells double glazing. What he doesn’t know about glazing isn’t worth knowing about. I know because he told me. Often. Very often.

Sandra and my lovley wife Shirley have formed a bond, giggling and glaring at Brian and me as they cane the Gordons.

All this whilst Brian advises me on developments in toughened safety glass. Give me strength. Give me melanoma. Anything but the exciting world of lead beading finishes.



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With warmer weather comes the need to barbecue.

For those of you who are foreign firstly, it is not your fault.  Secondly, barbecues are a recent phenomenonenonenonenon here in the UK. Microwaving is our traditional way of cooking.

I’ve tried to Barbecue with a microwave oven, but the oven melts a bit.

Making a barbecuing microwave oven is on my list of things to do, in between rowing across the Atlantic and visiting the dentist.

We had a BBQ lat Saturday. My lovely wife Shirley, whose topless sunbathing can still be seen on Google Earth despite her writing to the NSA and GCHQ, invited our neighbours Gwen and Martin Slope.

Martin is a food inspector for the local Council. Before you could say, “I’d give the chicken another ten minutes Bob, there’s blood seeping out of this one,” he’s slapped a food safety notice on me and chided me for scratching my nuts whilst handling raw food. Not exactly a barrel of laughs is Martin. Cholera is more fun

“Fat Twat!” Shirley jokingly called me as she poked the snapped cork into the bottle of Estonian Pinot Grigio. Wine with cork bits floating in it always tastes better.

Then she started wailing, “Last Christmas” by Wham. Martin served a noise abatement notice on her. But that’s my Shirley!

A drunkard.

Ever since, I’ve been in the smallest room for hours on end, caning the rolls of frozen Andrex. I should have given that chicken five more minutes.

Think I’ll put the Barbie away. Stick to the microwave. Food you can trust. 5 A Day? My arse!

Martin and Gwen put their house up for sale yesterday.


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Aunty Bill - A Tin Opener Short


Recently my man has been diagnosed with permanent vegetable disorder. His nose is a carrot, arms are leeks, ears are cauliflowers and his head is turning into a giant lettuce.

I love him dearly but when I see him now all I think about is making a nourishing vegetable broth.

Can you help?

Sally, Stockton on Tees

Aunty Bill Replies;


Sorry to hear of your caused in watching your man slowly turn into a human casserole.

However with the onset of the cold weather, now is the time to prune those parts no longer of any use to him. He seems to have most of the ingredients to make a nice stew with the simple addition of a pound of stewing steak and a tin of butter beans and some lentils.

I recommend using a slow cooker to bring out the full flavour of your mans “produce” (leave out the lettuce though). Russell Hobbs do a 6.5 litre brushed aluminium effort for £26 (with vario-thermostatic control) which would be ideal for your needs and provide a healthy and sustaining meal which will last you for several days.

Don’t worry about pruning the limbs as this type of vegetable disorder is that the limbs grow back after a short while therefore providing a constant supply of food! Ensure you keep his lettuce well watered as this is the source of the nutrients that keep the rest of his root vegetables healthy.

I’m sending you a copy of my leaflet “20 Slow Cooker recipes for those living with permanent vegetable disorder (or with someone in the household who does)” – bit of a mouthful but sure tastes good!

Yum Yum!

Aunty Bill

You can read more Aunty Bill here!

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“To You A Bit”

Hello Everyone,

Gingerfightback is proud to welcome Del Springett, removal man and curmudgeon to our roster.

Del recently spent a long time in Fightback Towers, moving boxes around with varying degrees of success before shooting off to see his mate about something. When he finally returned, he recounted this tale.

Hello Fella,

In my line of work every day is different. One day you can be clearing a house, the next day moving someone into a house and the next day realizing you’ve moved the wrong people into the wrong house!

But that’s what the Works Order said, so it ain’t my fault.

Recently I was asked to go an old folks home in Leyton to clear the flat of an old girl who had passed to the great commode in the sky.

Get there and yep you’ve guessed it. Bleedin’ lift was out of order!

So I get the keys from the warden (no offer of a cup of tea) – up two flights of stairs and let myself in.  She’s only gone and left a three-piece suite behind!

This is a two man job I thought to myself. So I went to the pub to get a few tips for the 2.30 at Ascot.

When I returned slightly the worse for wear, an old girl across the way puts her head round the door and asks if there is anything she could do to help?

“Get on the end of this sofa sweetheart.”

She looked a bit put out but, with a lot of wheezing on her part and a bit of puffing on mine (had to stop for a ciggy now and again didn’t I?) we managed to get the sofa down the stairs.

She didn’t look too clever but it did her good. Better than playing carpet bowls and drinking tea all day I reckon.

Suddenly a big yell goes up and she disappears from view.  Her bleedin’ prosthetic has come off!

Dear oh dear. What a palaver.

I had to do the last five yards on my own, load the sofa, pick up the old girl (and her leg)  and prop them up against the gate. Knackered I was.

I gave the gardener the heads up and said “You better get her back inside sharpish mate, looks like rain.”

Anyway, driving down the road I saw a sign asking for firewood. Ideal! Sofa’s burn well. My mate Baz set fire to his when he fell asleep with a roll up in his hand. Didn’t half go up.

Police, two fire engines and an ambulance turned up plus a film crew. An emergency services full house!

I reckon he could feature on the new series of “Police, Camera, Fuckwit!”

He’s still on the sick now. Lucky sod.

Anyway I reversed into the drive, pulled the sofa out and left it strategically placed by the front door so the owner won’t be able to get in.

Job done.

Went for a lie down after. Reckon I earned it.

Until next time

Don’t be a stranger Fella

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