April Gardening Notes

The old oak tree at the bottom of the South facing hill had come under attack from an invasion of crawling ivy, which was strangling the life out of the poor thing, so I made it my mission to grab my secateurs and head down there to see if I could rectify the situation. As I chopped and hacked my way through the scrambling stems, I discovered a thin, red, electrical cable, hidden in the foliage, disappearing upward toward the higher branches. Mystified, I took hold of the cable and gave it a damn good yank.

Much to my horror, as I looked up I realised an instant too late that the cable had been installed running straight through the centre of a squirrel’s nest, or a ‘drey’ as I have since found out they are called. The effect of my yanking was a like a whip crack, and as the cable straightened taut, the drey exploded into tiny pieces. Rudely disturbed from slumber, the mother squirrel was strong enough to keep her grip, but alas her brood of six youngsters were catapulted straight over the wall onto the adjoining railway line.

I ran over to see what I could do, but I regret to announce that the ten forty-seven to Crewe came blasting down the tracks at that very moment. The baby squirrels, or kittens, never stood a chance.

Now I don’t speak squirrel language, but I can’t imagine the chattering and squeaking being levelled at me by Mama squirrel was entirely complimentary. I apologised profusely and swore an oath I would find the identity of the miscreant who put that damned cable there and caused this unfortunate infanticide.

With Mama squirrel hot on my heels, I followed the cable down through the dell, where it lay hidden in a shallow gully, and up and over the fence onto the neighbouring estate. From there it wound its way around several sharp corners, in the direction of the main house. When I realised its ultimate destination, my mouth fell open in shock. The cable ran up a steel post to a video camera, aimed straight through the back window of the lady next door.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. On one side, my land is bordered by that of Marvin Scrote, a somewhat nefarious character, who earns his fortune from internet pornography. On the other lives Lady Mugrunch, a highly esteemed champion of gay rights, and host to the International Naked Lesbian of the Year show.

Goddamnit. That son of a bitch Scrote was surreptitiously videoing the unsuspecting nudists for his website, using a hidden wire tap running straight across my garden. I wasn’t about to stand for this sort of nonsense.

Mama squirrel and I went and banged furiously on Scrote’s door. A small man with slicked back hair and a pencil moustache, he answered and regarded me with cold, reptilian eyes. “What do you want, Smith?”

“I found your cable and video camera,” I snarled. “You should be bloody ashamed of yourself. This poor squirrel’s entire family is dead because of you.”

“Oh yes? And what are you going to do about it?” He flicked ash from a menthol cigarette straight into my face.

“You cunt.” I rolled up my sleeves and went for him. After that, it’s all a bit of a blur.

I was able to piece the story together later from the police report. Apparently, Scrote’s bodyguard, an eight-foot tall gorilla, grabbed me by the neck and administered something of a pasting. But then, as Scrote stood laughing, Mama squirrel leapt up and bit his nuts clean off. She carried them away and buried them somewhere in the garden. They still haven’t been found to this day.

That’s it for my April gardening advice. Check back in May when I’ll be explaining how to prune your evergreens and stumble into a Russian blackmail plot.

Doctor SJ and Mr Smith

Doctor SJ is a quiet and somewhat reclusive fellow. Shunning society, he lives in his castle on the hill, and spends his days writing ridiculous, smutty novels, which no one buys.

But as darkness falls each night, Doctor SJ grows lonely and bored, and stares out of the window at a world from which he is dislocated. This is when he succumbs to temptation and quaffs the magic potion which will transform him.

The potion, known colloquially as ‘Seven pints of lager’, changes the shy Doctor SJ into the overtly gregarious loudmouth, Mr Smith. He immediately takes to the internet, writing complete shite on various social media platforms, making unwanted sexual advances to females, and generally acting like an arse.

By the time morning comes around, the potion's effects have worn off, and upon waking, the fearful Doctor SJ checks his phone to see what havoc his alter ego has unleashed during the night. “Oh no,” he whispers, as he sees the half dozen photographs of his genitals he has emailed to that nice lady who works in Tescos. He has unwittingly given his bank details to a Nigerian general, in the mistaken belief he was talking to a lonely glamour model, and gotten himself banned from a rugby forum by calling the head moderator a cunt.

Sheepishly, the introverted Doctor begins his day afresh, guilt and remorse hammering his befuddled brain, all the time knowing that come sunset, the whole sorry cycle will be put into motion once again.

Proud to be a Snowflake

The world is pretty fucked up at the best of times, but right now things seem to be becoming unhinged at an increasing rate. A quick skim through social media and it becomes apparent America is busy tearing itself in half; those still blinded by patriotism are furiously clinging on to the notion that Trump is a competent leader, while everyone else screams he should be in prison. In Britain, the entirely unnecessary Brexit referendum has given a voice to those we’d hoped had gone the way of the dinosaurs and proved that stupidity is still the dominant factor.

I think it’s fair to say the right wing has had a grip over the western world for at least the past forty years. Ever since Thatcher and Reagan cuddled up and introduced a new extreme brand of conservatism, there has been little trickling down to the masses as the top one percent insist on keeping it all. The working class, as a political entity, has been smashed, stripped of unions and rights, and doesn’t really exist anymore. In it’s place lies a breed of consumers, who live their lives drip fed by advertisements and encouraged throughout their education and beyond toward apathy.

But in 2018 there has been something of an awakening. A group of schoolchildren, survivors of the latest American mass murder, have had the audacity to open their mouths and challenge the status quo. And you’d better believe, the status quo don’t like it one little bit.

It’s easy to tell the right wing are rattled, because the propaganda has gone into overdrive. The usual drool has progressed to outright lies as they desperately try to pull back the tiny slippage of complete domination they have suffered. Some of the crap coming out right now would be hilarious, if it weren’t for the fact there are plenty of people willing to believe it.

For instance, did you know that if only the NRA had been around in nineteen thirties Germany, the Jews could have armed themselves and fought off the Nazis? Or that in the sixties, the NRA armed black folk to help them battle the KKK, a ‘Democrat sponsored terrorist organisation’? I don’t know about you, but when I think of the Third Reich and the Ku Klux Klan, I tend to associate them with being on the right. But apparently not; the GOP and its fanatics are rewriting history to suit their own particular brand of bullshit.

So, from hence forth, a democrat is the same thing as a liberal, which is the same thing as a socialist, which is the same thing as a communist. You hate America and you want to steal freedom. Go back to Russia. Yes, Russia; the same country that Trump is alleged to be in the pocket of, but don’t let the facts get in the way of your stupidity.

And if you think people deserve healthcare, or if you think we shouldn’t destroy the planet we live on, then you’re a ‘Snowflake’. I have no idea where this word suddenly came from, but it’s apparently a generic insult to be thrown at anyone who disagrees with Hitler.

I think we should take the word back. Come on, my snowflakes, let’s stand up and be counted. Let’s stop swallowing the bullshit of brain dead, redneck, Nazi warmongers everywhere, who insist on blindly doing the work of the handful of aging, white billionaires who actually cause all the damage. Jesus was a socialist. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.

Jewish Socialist Accused of Stealing Freedom

Prominent members of the National Gun Association have today launched a withering attack on a prominent Jewish Liberal.

In his best-selling book ‘The Bible’, Jesus Christ, 32 of Nazareth, made the controversial claim ‘it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven’.

“This is typical of the liberalists’ agenda, trying to undermine the fabric of our society,” said NGA spokesman Marvin Madbastard. “They are trying to steal our freedom to make millions in untaxed dollars and use it to buy the favours of politicians. The constitution defends the right of every American to unduly influence democracy while feathering their own bank account.”

Madbastard, who earlier this year stated that any American who does not own a bazooka is a Commie faggot, went on to label Jesus Christ a Freedom Hating Snowflake, adding “If he doesn’t love our country, then he should damn well go back to Russia.”

The Winter Olympics is Bollocks

So, Britain has a record haul of medals from the Winter Olympics in South Korea, and I can honestly say, with hand on heart, I give not one jot. I mean, the WO is great if you’re Canadian, Scandinavian or happen to live in the Alps, but what possible interest could a nation like ours, which gets reduced to a swarm of quivering morons by half an inch of snow, have in such an event?

Let’s be honest. A true representation of a Brit at the Winter Olympics would be a bloke from Birmingham, gazing forlornly down the toboggan run, moaning that the council hadn’t been out to grit it.

My only personal experience of Alpine Sports is tumbling arse over tit down the dry slope at Llandudno, with a pair of skis briefly attached to my feet, and I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve ever met who would choose Switzerland over Spain as a holiday resort. So, the question I have to ask is, where do all these British Winter Olympians come from?

If you’ve seen the biopic movie of the British ski jumper Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, you’ll know exactly where they come from. Edwards was a man whose greatest challenge lay not in summoning the courage to launch himself down a ninety-metre ramp and out into oblivion toward possible death, but rather in getting the British Olympic committee to allow him into their hallowed fold. See, Edwards made the huge mistake of not hailing from a rich family, and the stuffy, stuck up, old boys’ club that ran things didn’t like the cut of his jib one little bit.

British Winter Olympic athletes are the kind of people who can afford to spend half their life on holiday in the Alps from a very early age. Winter sports are extremely elitist if you happen to hail from a country where it only snows once every five years. The protagonists are not required to be any good, only wealthy enough to compete. And once they’ve had their jolly and come last in the giant slalom, they’re made for life as a member of the BBC’s small army of ‘experts’ who get to travel half way around the world to make dumb comments about a minority sport no one is interested in, being broadcast at three o’clock in the morning.

The Winter Olympics is bollocks for any British person who isn’t a TV presenter or a middle-class yahoo. Come the revolution, professional snowboarders from Middlesex should be first against the wall.

My Mate Bob Looks Like a Vagina

I swear to God it’s true; my mate Bob really does look like a vagina. There’s something about the odd, distorted shape of his mouth, the thin, labial quality of his lips, the wispy sprouts of beard and the small, pink, nubbin-like projection of his nose. It all adds up to a resemblance of the female front bottom that is quite remarkable.

He’s gained a certain notoriety in these parts. Cunt Features, they call him. Old Minge Mush. He’s the closest thing this town has to a celebrity, and folks travel from far and wide to come gawp at his pussy chops. Bob is no fool; he knows an opportunity when he sees it. He’s got his own website, has hooked up an endorsement deal. He’s raking in the cash, exploiting his twattish appearance.

And in all honesty, I’ve used his fame to my own ends, too. How could I not? I’m the best friend of a minor star, why shouldn’t I cling on to his coattails and go along for the ride. Oh yes, I tell the ladies. Me and Bob, we’re like that, we are. And I curl one finger around the other to demonstrate our closeness. You want to meet him, you say? Well, I’m sure something could be arranged . . .

Last week I got talking to this girl, a blonde bombshell type in a short skirt, with insatiable eyes and a dirty laugh. I wasted no time slipping into the conversation that I’m best friends with the vagina lookalike.

She almost chokes on her alcopop.  “He’s just an urban myth.”

“Nope. Straight up, one hundred percent, Scout’s honour.”

“No way.”

I sense an opportunity. “I could introduce you to him, if you’d like.”

“Really?” There’s a seriously mischievous grin on her face.

So, we grab our coats and head across town. Bob always drinks in the Red on a Thursday, I know his routine like the back of my hand. Sure enough, there he is, Muff Mouth himself, surrounded by a crown of onlookers. I elbow my way through, dragging my blonde accomplice by the hand. “How’s it hanging, Bob?”

“Not too bad, mate,” he replies, his pink labia lips ever so slightly moist.

“Oh my God,” the blonde whispers in my ear. “He really does look like a vagina.”

I take her back to my place. She’s raring to go and no mistake, and wastes no time getting naked. “Come taste the honey,” she coos, and spreads her legs real wide.

And would you fucking believe it? Her vagina looks just like my mate Bob.

The erotic tension instantly dissipates. I turn away, stare out the window, do anything to keep from looking at the hideous visage of Bob, grinning vindictively up at me from between this gorgeous girl’s thighs.

“What’s the matter?” She asks. “Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you,” I dolefully hiss. “It’s Bob. It’s fucking Bob.”

By the Numbers

I’m loitering on the corner of Glan Morfa and Brenig Lane, just kind of minding my own business, when a gruff voice addresses me from behind.

“Smith. The very man I’ve been looking for.”

I turn and find Dirty Barry’s fat, gross face leering at me. Shit. This is all I need. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?”

He pulls open his lapel an inch, flashing the butt of a forty-four nestled in a shoulder holster. “Let’s you and me take a walk.”

Someone once asked why they call him Dirty Barry, and he only laughed. In truth, it must have been a rhetorical question – either that or the dude who posed it had no nose. Dirty Barry’s ripe odour is enough to make you gag when he gets up close and personal. The son of a bitch hates his wife, so he works every minute of overtime he can get his grubby little paws on to avoid going home and being around her. Thus never gets chance to take a shower.

As well as dirty in the foul-smelling sense, he’s also dirty in the corruption stakes. He takes pay-offs, hands out beatings. Rumour is he once even killed a guy, acting on orders handed down by Cheesy John, owner of the biggest dairy farm this side of Aberaeron. Judging by the fact he’s carrying a piece, I’m starting to worry I could be next on his list.

Who the fuck did I upset this time? I wrack my brain trying to think who I might have pissed off so much they’d want me dead. There was the pants incident, but that’s all blown over now. I sold out, abandoned my principles and took the money; blew it all on a wild weekend in Colwyn Bay.

Or maybe it’s the esteemed Doctor Roberts, General Practitioner and local bigwig; he’s made it all too clear he’s not happy with me ever since I wrote that article exposing his liking for Nazi fetishism. He’s certainly got the motive, plus the cash to stump up for a contract killing. But I made it more than obvious to Roberts that if anything happens to me, the beaver pics I have of his wife will get splashed all over the internet from here to Merthyr Tydfil. Call it an insurance policy.

Surely Roberts wouldn’t be this stupid? I guess I’m about to find out. Dirty Barry is jabbing me in the back with the muzzle of his gun and frogmarching me toward a dark alley, where I assume he’s planning to do the deed.

But there’s one thing Dirty Barry hasn’t counted on. See, this game is all about the numbers; if you don’t add up the numbers, then your number might just be up. Dirty Barry may have a forty-four, but I’m packing a thirty-eight, and three plus eight beats four plus four, any day of the week.

I perform a spin kick I learned from watching Monkey Magic, knocking Barry’s weapon from his hand. I draw down on him. I’m now holding all the aces. “On your knees, pig. Start talking. Who paid you to whack me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Barry sneers.

I kick him in the ghoulies, a medium-weight hoof to the pods, and he crumples like an empty pack of cheese and onion.

“It was Mrs Roberts,” he gasps between distressed intakes of breath.

Mrs Roberts? Now there’s a turn up for the books. Not the evil doctor, but his nympho wife, who once spread her legs for my camera, one rainy afternoon in May. She knows I still have the pictures, and she knows damn well they’ll turn up in highly public places if the Roberts’ make a move against me. What the hell is she playing at?

The plot thickens. Guess I better go see Mrs Roberts and find out why the tempestuous bitch is trying to kill me.