Australian Toilets Bamboozled Me – By Bob On The Pot

Hello Folks,

Well we are back from our trip “Down Under”. I enjoyed Australia. We stayed in the resort of Wollombonggongerianty. The town’s slogan was, “Playground For Functioning Illiterates”.

Oz water swirls in a anti-clockwise direction! Watching a floater bravely battle for survival in an unusal direction fascinated me for several hours.

“Magnetic Pole”, Bruce our taciturn concierge told me. He still mourns the death of Bon Scott.

So ever the one with a scientific mind, when I returned home I sought to place a spoon Geller like, on the forehead of Zgbniew Zzzzzgmrboniak, our local Polish builder. Safe to say the spoon fell off.

Magnetic Poles my arse.

I am back at work.

I was involved in a repossession.

Sir Amethyst Yeast-Gravel had failed to pay his Council Tax. The poor old chap is potless. Should take a leaf out of my cousin Terry’s book and consider armed robbery as a career option.

Anyway before I took possession of goods to the value of what Sir Yeast-Gravel owed, his noblilityness kindly allowed me to use his facilities.

You could tell he was posh because of the a copy of Horse and Hound as the in-store reading material.

I like horses. Legs, Necks, Tails. They’ve got the lot.

Couldn’t ride a horse though. Suffer from Stirrup Ankle.

But at least the water in the bowl swirls in the direction it should. Bloody Australians taking liberties with my evacuations. You can tell a lot about a country by the way it treats its sewage.

My Dad used to say to me, “Your stool is your best friend.” I don’t have a clue either.  Strange man was Dad. He thought he was 3 parts human and 1 part pigeon.

Bob

 

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I’ve learned A New Word Today – Tuesday! – Aunty Bill Profers Tuesday Tips

Hello Aunty

I learned a new word today. Tuesday.

This means that my week is now four days long. Wednesday, Saturday, Monday and now Tuesday. What can I do to fill my time on Tuesdays? The other days of the week I dribble and wet myself.

Damp Dave, The Thickest Man On Earth

Dear Dave

The days missing are Thursday, Friday and Sunday. Learn these by heart as it will make your week complete.

Spend Thursday cleaning up Monday and Wednesday’s dribble and wee in preparation for another bout of bodily leakage, although now you have Tuesday you have the option of option of either cleaning up Monday’s mess or having another day to sit in a mire of your own making on Tuesday and Wednesday and having a bloody big clean up on Thursday (see above for the new days added to your week).

I would advise against this. Best to try and hold back on Tuesday and then have a good tidy up on Wednesday (confusing isn’t it?)

This leaves Thursday free to go to the Job Centre to look for some kind of gainful employment, although I see few openings.

Friday – feel free to either scan the local paper for supplies of Cosifits or revert to type in preparation for the Saturday clean up.

Sunday, if you can control your bowels, visit the local museum to see how your ancestors lived.

Yes Dave they lived just like you although at least they had the get up and go to throw their excretia out of the window into the street below (this may be an option for you in order to avoid your interminable cleaning detail).

Sunday evening settle down in front of “Call the Midwife a Twat” and feel free to wee and dribble to you heart’s content. This  programme has a similar effect on millions of people across the country as they prepare for another week of toil.

At least you’ve got Monday to clean up Dave, eh?

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

Hello,

Thanks to those of you who got in touch about clothing marks on the torso which you can read here

Sometimes a man needs a fry up. As much as I appreciate my lovely wife Shirley’s attempts to prolong my life via roughage, there are times you just need a bit of bacon and egg.

So I nipped into the Corner Cafe and ordered three eggs, three sausages, four rashers, beans, tomatoes, fried slice, fried potatoes, chips, black pudding, white pudding, kidneys. liver, chicken burger, beans, mushroom, burger, fish fingers, toast. And broccoli. Oh and a mug of tea. I like a strong cup of tea and this one could do press ups.

£4.50 – Bargain in anyone’s eyes.

Whilst this snack was being readied I needed the facilities. Whilst on me throne, enjoying the smell of frying bacon from the kitchens, I read about the growing food shortage in the world and how mass starvation was only years away.

After the third flush was finally succesful, I cancelled the toast. I remember my mum telling me to think of the starving children in Africa when I moaned about those fish paste sandwiches.

I like to do my bit. Did a sponsored walk once,  for Athlete’s Foot Anonymous. Played havoc with my rash.

Laters.

Bob

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

Hello

I was at the Doctor’s this morning getting my rash looked at. As usual I had to wait ages. Shirley’s broccoli and cauliflower bake from last night was knocking at the door, so I folded a copy of Hello! under me arm and paid a visit to the facilities (fully adapted for disabled users I am glad to say although the seat was a bit wonky).

In Hello! there was a photo of Princess Kate holding her hat on her head because it was windy. Lovely teeth too. Clean and everything. All her own I’ll wager. That’s why Wills fell for her. Hat control and a good set of gnashers. What more does Royalty need?

Perhaps the capacity to put gloves on. But apart from that?

I like a woman in a hat. Classy. Not balaclavas though – that is just sick. Makes me shudder just thinking about it.

Laters

Bob

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

Hello Again,

I had the morning off waiting for Curry’s to deliver the new flat screen TV with surround sound, radar and sonar and a missile launching system. Naturally they didn’t turn up.

The curly Kale diet was working its magic and I was on the pot reading The Sun. One story grabbed my attention. Andrew Mitchell. For those of you who don’t know him you are lucky.

He is an arse wipe of a Tory politician who swore at some coppers outside Downing Street.

Well actually he called them “Fucking Plebs”. Earlier in the week two young coppers had been killed up north by some psycho.

Why can’t Mitchell just apologise? If I lose my rag after a few pints in the Ineffectual Pilchard all I have to do is pop in the next day apologise to whoever it was I offended and then get my mate Nosebag to rub them out in Grays.

But not this posh boy. Too grand you see. Not like us. Different rules apply. He needs to be brought down a peg or two. I didn’t have any toilet roll. Andrew’s smug features came in handy.

Be lucky!

Bob

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

Bob Lewington here;

I was round Aunt Bab’s this morning adjusting her new chairlift.

I had seized it from a Paralympic hero who had failed to pay her Council Tax. I won’t name names but this individual’s ability to inspire a generation didn’t wash with the Magistrate.

Still Bab’s was grateful for the chairlift, although technically speaking there is nothing actually wrong with her . Being bone idle is not recognised as a medical condition.

The lift does set her new wallpaper off a treat though.

I had the inaugural journey, as I needed the smallest room. Got stuck on the landing and had to walk the rest of the way. Not exactly Neil Armstrong but you can’t have everything in life.

I had a go at that Sudokio in The Sun whilst on the pot. All Those Numbers! In Boxes. Up. Down. Across. Did My Head In. Numbers are bollocks. End of.

So I rolled up the paper and swatted a fly who was banging its head against the frosted window pane.

Bit like me with the Sodokio.

I walked down the stairs. Part of a new Olympic inspired fitness programme. The lads in the Dubious Pilchard were impressed when I  told them. Given up crisps as well. Well, on Sundays at least.

I’m on the road to Rio!

Be lucky fella.

Bob

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

Hello Folks,

I recently had to seize goods to the value of £3,578.78 from an Indian Head Massage parlour in Maidenhead for non-payment of Business Rates.

I’m not really up to speed with all this mystic stuff  – I first ate a courgette when I was 42 and I still don’t understand the concept of a meal without chips. So you see where I’m coming from.

As the chief masseur Eric, a tall lad with a touch of Shirley Bassey about him, scrambled around looking for money, I availed myself of his facilities. My new Five A Day regime is really working.

Naturally, being a place that deals with mumbo jumbo I had a shufty at a three-week old Guardian stuffed behind the toilet radiator. Inside was an article by that bloke from Tibet  The Dalai Lama.  Sounds like a veggie curry to me but there you go.

Old Dilly Dalai was talking about the benefits of meditation for a tranquil and peaceful life. Inspired, I decided to give mediationism a go.

So I assumed the Lotus position on the pot, tricky with your trousers around your ankles, rebalanced my cheeks, closed my eyes and emptied my thoughts.

“OOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhmmmmmm” I cried. I felt good.

“OOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhmmmmmm” I repeated. I felt better. Lighter. In tune with my life.

There was a small plop.

I opened my eyes and there was Eric standing in front of me with 26 pence in loose change. As I had reached a higher spiritual plane I gave him an extra week to get the money together.

I also told him to put a lock on his toilet door.

Be Lucky

Bob

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

Bob Lewington here;

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)  I should; “Be careful today of undertaking complex tasks  involving machinery and instead 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 caught 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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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes To Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Hello Folks,

Bob Lewington here again.

When I’m on the pot, I like to read a lot. It’s a man thing!

I was involved in a repossession yesterday. Sir Amethyst Yeast-Gravel had failed to pay his Council Tax. Sad to see the nobility falling on hard times.

They should take a leaf out of my cousin Terry’s book and consider armed robbery as a career option.

Anyway before I took possession of goods to the value of what Sir Yeast-Gravel owed, his noblilityness kindly allowed me to use his facilities.

You could tell he was posh because a copy of Horse and Hound was the in-store reading material.

I like horses. beautiful creatures. Legs, Necks, Tails. They’ve got the lot in my opinion. I like to spend Saturday afternoons with me mates in The Nervous Budgie supping a few pints of Beater and having a bet.

Never ridden a horse though! Saddles give me the collywobbles and just thinking about stirrups causes my rash to break out.

Where’s the Calamine lotion?

Best Wishes

Bob

By the by, Sir Yeast-Gravel had a very nice antique Blunderbuss hanging over his living room mantelpiece, which more than covered the amount due.

Terry thinks he can find a use for it, in a sawn off, customised version.

Pimp My Musket!

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