Continue the story.....

[itsmeagain]

bovver boy outfit straight out  of the 1970s, like a scene in Queersabeenia, that Rockers n mods thing involving the Who. If I ever regain my composure I'll be seeing my MP for cake and tea at Mrs  Crimefest' s flat in Rushmond to blot

Edited November 4, 2024 by itsmeagain

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out the trauma of it all. I expect the perpetrator of this depravity to be dealt with in the harshest fashion and for our esteemed Barrow county councillors to ensure that a repeat of such shocking conduct is never allowed to transpire.

Yours,

Ira Green (Ms)'

The Tinsel Star, the editor of which had caroused with the best of them, conveniently ...

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omitted all mention of Freda Halitosis, whose tryst with he, Mick Subplot, had tongues wagging around Cheam for about a week  , back in 2007.

When Ms Green read the article in Tinsel Star, outrage wouldn't even cover 50 per cent of her feelings. Such a harridan was she that, one October Saturday, she rang the Old Bill to say there's no way the Kumars at no 56 are actually genuine immigrants, they are just lying and if it's drama you want, go to USA and you'll find drama. I mean, see, we in this great country take peace, such as I see it , for granted. We are in a massive catch 2 doesn't one acknowledge? When every man

 

 

Edited November 6, 2024 by itsmeagain

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in the neighbourhood feels he's entitled to behave in any way he sees fit, irregardless of the law.  We're being overrun by illegal immigrants, taking our jobs, our houses, committing all sorts of heinous crimes. A defenseless lady like me isn't safe to sleep in her own bed at night, let alone walk the streets.'

PC Peabody muttered under his breath, 'Any self-respecting criminal would run a mile after listening to her for a couple of minutes. Either that or ...

 

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hand themselves in . Sarge, find out the silly crow's address and I will pay her a visit..arsekin  er to stand on town centre whittling..to make no  goods quake...'

'Certainly not..can you not see that such deplorable conduct, by you or any associate of the Met police, is entirely uncalled for and damnably unconscionable", said the stern, chic sergeant Moira Blueapple ,43, whose claim to glory..

Edited November 8, 2024 by itsmeagain

[poppy]

(the one and only) was winning in an eating competition by downing three large deep dish Chicago pizzas, a dozen peanut butter whisky cream doughnuts, four pints of John Smith's Newcastle Brown Ale, a jar of pickled gherkins, one pavlova topped with whipped cream, strawberries and chocolate sprinkles, a whole haggis and ...

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a cup of tea topped with chocolate powder. 

PC Peabody was  a standard bloke of standard temperament..a Yorkshireman  with true Yorkshire values. He believed in what's right being right, reward for hard work, disliked peace campaigners, animal rights, vegans, and men who do knitting. Yet he had nous enough to know , that the Met was organising a clampdown on anti social police officers ( wouldn't you when two murderous woman haters had made the news in the past two years for their acts of cruelty while at the same time being trusted to carry guns outside the palace?]

He decided to be reasonable, and so one rainy day on Kensington Drive, he thought two youths were acting suspiciously outside a block of flats.'Nah then, are you two lads awkaay?', he asked, Yorkshire drawl....

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to the fore. 

'We're doin' nowt!' said Freddy Flintoff defensively. 

'Ar didn' sair thee wur, Ar wur just askin.'

'Wats it t'ya?' asked Archie Cockerill, as cocky as his name.

'I were actually on t’lookout fah a Miss Ira Green.'

'That auld crone! She'll 'ave thee for breakfast, she will!' and the two lads ran off laughing uproariously.

He wished he'd boxed their ears when he had the chance, but remembered ...

 

('Men who do knitting.' That'd really be the thin edge of the wedge for PC Peabody 😂 )

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Sergeant Blueapple and so he  felt obliged to toe the line pretty much , for now. 

So it was that next day on Brixton High Street, Peabody espied a rather strange cavalcade consisting of a blue bicycle, a bloke with black and green tufts of hair, a deep purple mackintosh, and orange plus fours, whistling the Marseillaise with a cat on the

Edited November 11, 2024 by itsmeagain

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or rather in, the bike basket. It looked suspiciously like Johnny Revolting, he thought. And he was correct, it WAS me. I'd just rescued a bedraggled moggy from a drain, where it appeared to have fallen and stuck fast. With a lot of manoeuvring, involving me laying flat on my stomach on a filthy pavement and sticking my arm down a disgusting drain, I'd managed to pull the poor little mite out.  Despite being cold and shivering, it still managed to lick my hand and give a faint purr. I wrapped it in my yellow and blue scarf (I liked to be colour coordinated with my accessories) and made a beeline for ...

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the premises known as Jacqui's Cat Palace, 🐈 a shop where kittens  ran freely, abetted by happy members of the public , all too keen to give money to Save the Cats, as well as buy bedding, food and vitamin supplements for our feline buddies.

Peabody entered the shop, whistling Who says You Can't Go Home, a Bon Jovi blockbuster. 

'Hi Sir, just wanted to say hello and to let you know your hair is amazing.. you resemble one of them punknrocker types that used to do the rounds in the 70s..are you available for a cup of tea..my expense..?'

Jumping at the chance, in Nero we explored the lives of great...

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risk-takers, but first I needed to check in Lickety Split, as I had called my little rescue cat. Unfortunately, they had no room for further animals.

Kitty Catchpool, the manager of Jacqui's Cat Palace, was a little perplexed. 'Why don't you take him home to your cafe?'

'Well,' I said ...

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'Lickety can survive only on raw biltong'. 

Meanwhile, Peabody answered a call to a phone booth in NW1. A Mr Farrakhan was trying to ring his sister when Jack Jagger, 23, from Isle of Dogs, asked how long he will be.

'As long as a piece of

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DNA.'

As PC Peabody had no clues what DNA was ( he suspected it was something to do with TNT) let alone how long it was, he gave up and wandered off.

'There's a shop down the road that sells pet foods, I suggest you call in there, grab yourself some biltong, and head for home, lickety split!' said Ms Catchpool. 

I didn't think Rosie was going to be too thrilled about another cat, we were already bursting at the seams. That dratted Clyde Piper was followed back to our cafe with a mottled menagerie of strays and pampered pets every time he ventured out. Reuniting them with their owners took days and nearly ate us out of house and home in the meantime. Shoulders sagging, with a heavy heart and furrowed brow, I ...

 

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returned home 🏡 with Lickety, who incidentally is an utterly beautiful kitty cat.

Then Clyde Piper reared his absurd head again ( we were forced to live with this odd boy under our roof) to propose a joint letter to the council, asking for special measures in favour of cats. He took up a special Parker pen, silver nib, and 

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electric green ink which I felt was downright pretentious and taking eccentricity a bit far.

I left him to it with the stipulation that he showed the letter to me before he sent it off.

Cuddling Lickety and feeding him snippets of biltong, I went off in search of Rosie. It seemed an age since I'd seen her, so much had happened in the interim and I hoped ...

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the silly Piper hadn't got hold of her and inculcated into her his ludicrous brand of sentiment, with worldly wise proactively, creepy crawly sentimentality, blushing effusiveness to Rosie, an over attachment to the cats, an utter obsession with work and being the best. What a twit, I 

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thought, rolling my eyes. Spare me from the earnest, woke younger generation wearing tshirts with gag-making slogans like 'When You Care Enough To Be Your Very Best.'

Today Clyde was wearing one saying ...

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'In time of Crisis..choose chocs', with a picture of a gigantic chocolate pudding swimming in sickly brown chocolate 🍮 custard.

Where does the twerp get his oddball ideas?

Consumed by such a reverie, I was unaware of a force

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to be reckoned with lurking in the shadows.

'So you've deigned to return, have you?' demanded who but that cursed, loathsome Major Flowers.

Ignoring his question I asked where Rosie was.

'Rosie needed pampering after all your neglect so I've sent her off to a spa retreat. It's the least you could do, considering what my poor girl has to put up with. Ever since she met you she's ...'

I didn't hear the rest, I slammed the door on him, locked it and went off to ...

 

 

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lie down with a tea in one hand, a Chekhov in the other. 

It was only when I woke , shivering and soaked in cold tea, a book nestled on my face, that I began to think  I had made a poor decision. 

I mean , truly, would it be

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better to concentrate on books that weren't so soporific? The same thing happened every time I attempted to delve into an Ibsen or Dostoevsky. I'd no sooner read 'Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov ,..' and my eyes started to glaze over. Perhaps I needed to try something a bit racier. It would save a fortune in spilt tea, laundry bills and first degree burns. But my musings were rudely interrupted by a loud pounding noise coming from the office. Time for me to ...

 

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start perusing novels of a raunchy nature, did one surmise? In my experience, there was a profound risk of 

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disappointment. Forty pages into Lady Chatterly's Lover and I'd nodded off from boredom. The writing in Fifty Shades of Grey was so abysmal and trashy that I'd rather get a prostate exam than go anywhere near it. No, I'm going to stick to my Tom Clancy's and Lee Child's, thank you very much, when I need a little excitement in my life. Talking of excitement, it now sounded like the Major had taken to the office door with a sledgehammer. All the cats were going berserk.  And who should walk into this pandemonium but my darling Rosie, looking very ...

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crestfallen, announcing she's had a call from Frank Bott, chief taxman in London, asking for 2.5k in spondoolix pronto, or court proceedings will implement themselves before you  could say even 'Jack Robinson ' and hey, what was it she heard in the hairdresser's today?

Mrs Blotch was saying how handsome her youngest Labrador was, and asking Rosie if you'd  

Edited November 23, 2024 by itsmeagain