Why Would There Be A Button for That

Apologies to anyone who witnessed the scattershot gobbledyhate of yesterday. It published itself while I was waxing my toes and having it deleted caused me a great deal of relief. Basically it was a cavalcade of reputational besmirchment. My hairdresser will never speak to me again and the daytime regulars are exuding frosty auras. The phone hasn't stopped being silent and my housemates won't look me in the eyes. The rain avoids me and the forks all refuse to be wielded. My clothes have stopped fitting and the man in the shop is pretending he's sold out of samosas.

Bafflepig Surplus

We've started paying the TV Licence again. We don't watch it. We're the maverick idiot platoon. They haven't thanked us, they've just stopped threatening to fist us to death. They were sending two letters a day and they all said things like if you don't give us cash now then Graham Norton might have to start paying for his own snacks. Obviously the guilt became unbearable and every knock on the door caused nauseating premonitions. So it's worth it just for the relief. I have requested itemised bills so we can know where our money is going. We don't want it spent on anything twatty. But they have other incomes so I imagine it's hard to pinpoint exactly who's paying for what.

Oi Oi Oil

I threw three people out using only language. I had to abandon subtlety. While I was bellowing I was thinking of Top Trumps. There was a pause and I re-bellowed the one demand in case they thought it was negotiable, which it wasn't. Their faces were all marshmallowy and they were very young. They left in a meek huff. If they'd been older and had faces made of oak or marble I wouldn't have had the Top Trumps score necessary to throw them out. It takes ages to throw older people out because they stand there saying things like come on man and what have I done, to which the answer is always you were being a cunt, but you can't say that because no one ever takes it the right way, for some reason they always feel insulted, it would be nice if when you said it the other person winced and went oh cripes I must've had one too many, I shall leave forthwith, just let me find my shoes. But they always want a detailed explanation of their faults, and when you give them a brief rundown of the fifteen least acceptable things they've done since they arrived they try and put together some kind of round-table discussion. So I usually just squirt lime juice in their eyes until the police turn up. Most people are largely nice.