Astrology? It Didn’t Predict This! – By Bob On The Pot

I was round Mum’s yesterday afternoon to put some new batteries in her TV remote control. I’m a dab hand at DIY you see.

After trying for twenty minutes to get the cover off,  I told Mum that this was a bigger job than appeared. I needed to ponder my strategy whilst completing a movement.

On the pot I read my horoscope in the paper. With Venus in the ascendant and Neptune on a bender (or some such, I’ve never really understood Gastrology to be honest).

The horoscope told me to; “Be wary of undertaking complex tasks but prepare for a romantic encounter.”

That knocked the battery change on the head.

After I’d eaten the bacon rolls Mum had made, I nipped home to watch the film my mate Pete the Slip had given me down The Reclusive Monkey on Saturday.

Shirley had gone to the Bingo so I had a couple of hours to kill before she got home to cook my tea. Lovemeat Sandwich had some very good camera work. And the script was very challenging.

Shirley came home early after being chucked out of the Bingo for glassing the caller. She found me in a compromising position on the leather cornerpiece. She didn’t believe me when I told her that I was just airing my rash.

I had to cook my own fish fingers for tea.

Horoscopes. Spooky. End of.

Be Lucky

Bob

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Can Car Maintenance Rekindle Your Sex Life? Aunty Bill Answers

 

Dear Aunty,

My wife and I have been married for over 80 years and are now both in our hundreds. I am happy just to sit by the fire, on fire and file me bunions. However Maude has recently started vehicle maintenance classes at the local college.

Whilst I have no objection, I am disturbed by her constant references to giving my “starting handle a good tug” and checking that my “crank” is in working order. This isn’t the women I married all those years ago.

Any advice?

Henry Ford

Snodland

Aunty Bill Replies;

Dear Henry

Whilst the delights of filing your bunions satisfies your cravings, Maude obviously desires more in the twilight of her years.Show an interest in her new found direction. Tell her if you can buff her headlamps she can by all means give your starting handle a tug. Next time you’re both working on that dodgy gearbox of hers ask if she can pass you the spanners as she tightens your nuts.

With time you’ll see the pleasure she derives from getting down and dirty with a set of jump leads (be careful there though old timer) and use the opportunity to regularly check her big end is in working order.

There’s more to life than Lumbago and bunions (to paraphrase Morrissey)

Toot toot!

Billemina

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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes To Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Ola,

We are on holiday in Spain at the moment. Here is my bulletin from last week.

Since the maintenance man unblocked the toilet (probably caused by the paella, chips, sausages, black pudding, egg, chips and leg of lamb  I had at The Old EDL and Trumpet the night before) everything has been tickety boo!

“Give it five minutes before you go in there mate,” I said. But he was in a hurry. Didn’t carry a gas mask. His pet canary saved his life. Shame the fumes from my evacuation killed it. The Birdman of Torremelinos I call him now.

Shirley’s sister Doreen administered first aid. “You’ve pulled sweetheart,” were her words as she dragged him towards her room.  She’ll have to pay for the new wardrobe though. And his counselling. He had no chance. Must be like making love in a tumble dryer.

We went on a boat trip to admire the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean. I’ve never had sea legs. Life’s about Terra Firma for me.

Family legend has it that an On The Pot did serve 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 his dysentery was the inspiration behind pebble dashing. At least he left his mark. In several places.

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

Sandra drinks heavily. Her and Shirley have formed a bond. Occasionally I can make out the words “Boring Twats,” from the pair of them.

All this whilst Brian advises me on developments in toughened safety glass. Give me strength. How long can a man sit in a restaurant toilet for? 4 hours last night………… At least the waiter passed a San Brobat Blue under the toilet door now and again.

Ole!

Laters and Lids Down Gentlemen

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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes to Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Hello,

Good News! My piles are responding to treatment. Judging from the mail I received on the matter, nobody was interested.

It is a big day in the On The Pot household this week. Not only did we have a bidet fitted, but my son and heir Dinsdale, is getting married!

Yes, the drug taking layabout, who once stole his grandma’s teeth for a phial of crack, has found love. Felicity, his probation officer has even allowed him to go to the Church tag free to marry his long time lover Raymond.

Yes! Britain’s first gay marriage will be between my boy and his fella.

Lovely lad Raymond. Bone idle and opiate dependent. Vegetarian too. But he assures me that his current shoplifting spree is purely to pay for the wedding. Love really can turn people round.

I must admit it will be strange escorting the bride down the aisle, especially as he is six feet four and has a tattoo of Snoop Dogg on his forehead, but if that is what my boy wants to do then who am I to stand in his way? The dress isn’t his colour though.

My lovely wife Shirley has shown distinct signs of excitement about the wedding, even going as far as getting a top up mahogany veneer at the salon. She looks like Al Jolson’s lovechild, but at least she has stopped smearing the futon.

They are going on the hen night tomorrow. The locals at the Old Fallopian won’t know what’s hit ’em! Especially when Shirl’s sister, Doreen gets going. It’s like watching a bulimic Pirhana if she get’s her hands on a young man. Poor bastard, whoever you are……

Me? I’m staying in and playing with the bidet.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes To Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Hello Folks,

At the Doctor’s today for a check up on my rash.

As a result of the butter bean stew, I was using the facilities. I always find disabled access toilets a pleasure.  High seat, roomy, easy to use taps and plenty of toilet roll. Nothing worse than having to use the cardboard tube.

I took in with me a copy of Hello! magazine and was reading about Wayne Rooney’s marriage (it was a doctor’s surgery!) to the lovely Colleen. They looked so happy and clean. Liked scrubbed veruccas.

Memories of my own wedding, to my lovely wife Shirley, came flooding back.

The look on the Vicar’s face when her water’s broke! Shirley’s Dad, Vince gave him a few bob to clean the carpet. And a death threat.

Hard man is Vince.  Has ashtrays made from rival Roofers kneecaps and once had a man nailed to the bonnet of his Jaguar for being tone-deaf. Being psychotic and having  perfect pitch is a difficult combo.

Shirley told me he ate his left earlobe for a bet in 1984. Tasted like chicken apparently.

When Shirley announced she was  pregnant, it didn’t take Vince long to convince me how much I loved her. More gatling gun than shotgun wedding.

So, Dinsdale was born on our wedding day in the back of the horse drawn carriage, with Shirley shouting obscenities at me (somethings never change).

Vince shed a tear! The hardest man north of the Tiber, blubbed like a baby, broke the Vicar’s jaw in an act of joy and said “Fuck me.”

They were Dinsdale’s first words. He was nine when he said them. Proud as punch I was.

Happy Days.

Laters

Bob

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Old Tales Retold – Train Travel Tales #7 – The Obituary

He re-read the notice in the Obituary column, “…long battle with illness…bravely fought…loving wife, mother and grandmother.” The family asked for donations for the Hospice rather than flowers to be sent.

It was easier to count the lost years in decades. At least five of them. Where had the time and life gone? The wraiths of despair and sadness caused his heart to skip a beat and momentarily he felt his soul slip away from him.

He had loved her. Utterly. But he had never possessed the courage to tell her. Now he had lost her. For good.

“Feint heart never won fair lady.” He hated that saying.

The train manager announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now approaching Doncaster station. Please ensure that you take all your belongings with you. Thank you for traveling with Great Eastern and have a safe onward journey.”

It would be another two hours to home. To the town he had moved to in order to escape the broken heart and confusion he had felt.

Her smell and taste lived in him once more. He put the newspaper down.

Why had she bought it? Did she know?

He studied his hands. Finger joints throbbed with arthritic discomfort but he clenched them tightly into fists. Shards of pain filled his mind, but at least it acted as a distraction.

His wife returned.

“They didn’t have any ham so I got you a chicken salad instead. Is that OK?”

“Fine thanks.”

“You look like you have seen a ghost.” She said.

“Just tired from the trip. Nothing to worry about.”

She searched the carrier bag and tutted.

“I didn’t pick any milk up for the tea. Could you nip back to the buffet car for some?”

“OK.” He lifted himself out of the seat, his replacement hip still stiff and uncomfortable. But he was glad to stretch his legs and move. He threw the grief over his shoulder, sagging slightly under its weight.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Just the milk. It was nice to see your sister.  She’s definitely visiting us Boxing Day and staying for a couple of nights. Anita can meet her at the station.”

She picked the paper up and casually examined the front page, “Anything in the paper?” she asked.

“No. Not really.” He made his way to the buffet car.

She hoped he had read the news. His sister had told her when they were washing up after dinner last night.  She was pleased and sad in equal measure. But above all she hoped he would no longer cry out for Audrey in his sleep.

All of them deserved some peace now.

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Ginger Heartache With Aunty Bill

Double Entendres? I should coco!

Dear Aunty,

My wife and I have been married for over 80 years and are now both in our hundreds. I am happy to sit by the fire, rest my lumbago whilst Maude files my bunions. However Maude has recently started vehicle maintenance classes at the local college.

Whilst I have no objection I am disturbed by her constant references to giving my “starting handle a good tug” and checking that my “crank” is in working order. This isn’t the women I married all those years ago.

Any advice?

Henry Ford

Snodland

Aunty Bill Replies;

Dear Henry

Whilst the delights of filing your Bunions must give her untold pleasure, Maude obviously desires more in the twilight of her years.Show an interest in her new found direction. Tell her if you can buff her headlamps she can by all means give your starting handle a tug. Next time you’re both working on that dodgy gearbox of hers ask if she can pass you the spanners as she tightens your nuts.

With time you’ll see the pleasure she derives from getting down and dirty with a set of jump leads (be careful there though old timer) and use the opportunity to regularly check her big end is in working order.

There’s more to life than Lumbago and bunions (to paraphrase Morrissey)

Toot toot!

Billemina

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