Blogfolks, it never ceases to amaze me the large percentage of the public who are idiotic enough to make athletes their role-models.

And quite frankly, I would question if Tiger Woods is an athlete in the true sense of the word - the man hits little balls with a stick.

That's all.

Surprisingly, things are really not Like They Used To Be

1. Look, bloggers, at the mess that is Soho and especially the once-upon-a-time gay microcosm that is Old Compton Street; as if the weekly hen parties from South Bromley weren’t enough to cope with! At this time of year the place is heaving with herds of very straight, very clueless people out on their Christmas work do, gawking at the gay homosexuals like they’re in a gay safari. And the jokes they crack! Are not funny.
My Special lady Friend and I didn’t stick around for too long; it was a clear, crisp night, perfect for walking away from the very full bars.

2. this cat of mine is a disgrace, a renegade, a taint on the name of felines everywhere. Or is my education?
-Pancho, look, here’s bits of real chicken for you.
-Miaow.
-What, is it too hot still?
-Miaow!
-Not enough salt?
-Miaow..
-It needs to be cut into smaller bits?
-Miaow.
-What do you mean, sushi? You’ve never even seen sushi.
-Miaoow!
-Fine. I’m taking the remote control away from you., that’s too much daytime tv, missy. And anyway, what happened to the gratitude cats owed their masters?
-Miaow!
- I’m not making it up at all. In my days, cats dreamt of sucking on a dry chicken bone. So eat up.
- Miaow!
- I know you were abandoned at birth….Sure, I’ll hold it up for you so that you don’t get your whiskers dirty.

I wonder if it’ll work on my Special Lady friend when she gets bored with me (eventually.)

When Pancho the cat gets bored, or sullen in that way that cats have mastered, all I have to do is go out the front door for a minute or two – take out the bin, for instance. Such display of joy when I walk back in! You’d think I’d been away for hours.

Tonight, I took the rubbish bags out one by one. I feel felinely cherished.

iCrisis

1. The iPod pack includes those stretchy little foam covers that take about an hour to fit onto the ear pieces, but protection of my delicate ear canals deserves effort, and patience, a lot of patience. Yes! Got it. Lovely.
2. It takes Pancho the kitten under two seconds to remove the stretchy little foam cover, and to eat it. It’s obviously very tasty, if slightly chewy.
3. I have one left. Precious, precious stretchy little foam thing.
4. itunes won’t let me purchase tracks from the French store; the UK store doesn’t have what I want. Idiots. And then they wonder why people download music illegally? Should I be an Internet Highway(wo)man?
5. i'm annoyed.

Vernaculaire and dairy products

1. I think your cat’s got the ‘ump, my Special lady friend says.
Yes. Pancho has got the hump, I concur.

There is a blank. The blank morphs into a pregnant silence.

It’s not the same with the ‘h’, is it, she remarks.
I was thinking the exact same thing. Thing is, if I say ‘ump’, people assume it’s a French accent. I just can’t win, can I.
Oh.

2. Blogfolks, I was going to tell you about this man I saw last night, who placed his half-eaten yoghurt on the railing next to me, went into and out of a shop, grabbed it back and finished eating it– in the middle of Victoria station; I mean, has he not heard of spiked yoghurt? But now it doesn’t sound so riveting. So, no. Thank you for stopping by.

Damn paparazzi


I'm so cute I can get away with just about anything.


Now, Bloglanders, I can't stay. I'm needed for a major play session.

Chavo, March 14 1999- November 22 2005

1. It’s been a tough day, people of blogland, and the mantra ‘it was only a cat’ hasn’t helped none.

2. He was a wee fluff ball when he got him as a kitten. On the train back from Wimbledon, he was poised; poised but cold. I took him out of the cat carrier and held him inside my jumper. He stopped shaking then.

3. ‘What’s his name?’ a couple of blondes asked. ‘Gustave’, we replied. ‘Good stuff?’ they guffawed. ‘Can we have some?’ It was Gustave -later nicknamed Chavo- because J and I agreed on Flaubert and Malher.

4. Chavo had a good cat’s life. Six and a half years of it. He had a few fisticuffs with the moggy from next door -the one we call Sid because he’s vicious; he also had to move house once, a traumatising event after which he hid behind the washing machine for 24 hours. Not bad.

5. Over the last week, Chavo grew a fat belly. So fat that he was getting stuck between the bars on the staircase. We grew worried. I told him I’d take him to the nice vet lady and forgave him in advance for getting explosive diarrhoea (his favourite vet surgery trick.)

6. Gustave was dying of congenital cysts wrapped around his liver. They had been causing his liver to bleed, which was filling up his belly. I had a choice of taking him home post-surgery and watch him die within days, or two weeks at most, or not letting him wake up after the op. I didn’t think it fair on him to have to be in pain just for the sake of us saying good-bye. So we never did.

7. It was only a cat gorgeous, sweet, lazy fluffball.

8. Sorry about the mood, bloglanders. But this really sucks donkey balls. Hairy ones.

Eliza, Eliza, do not mess with me

1. As a desperate attempt to keep my straying cat at home, I have roasted a chicken, and draped a warm and comfy Moroccan camel-pubes blanket over the sofa. He’s now reclining in comfort, with a full belly. Italian-lady-next-door, do you only know who you’re dealing with? I shall not lose my moggy to a superior feeder, even if it means I have to sit on the hard floor and eat raw turnips.

2. ‘Do you know how ladies in Florence kept their men at home? She asks. Well, every morning, they’d serve their husband a home-made poison, and every night, they’d give him the antidote; so any straying husband would have a very, very uncomfortable night.’ That’s a line of dialogue from a film I watched last night, people of blogland. The Italian-Lady-next-door – she’s called Eliza- does not know that I have my eye on her. But I’ve got to be careful, it’s what the film said.

3. The doorbell goes at 6.30. I can make out a plump shape behind the glass. It’s her! She’s coming to taunt me, wink at my cat, perhaps! Then they’ll probably leave together, pointing at me and laughing.
As I open the door, I’m a perfect picture of dignity and aloofness.

4. But the Italian-lady-next-door is bearing gifts. Hard, tiny green apples from her tree, and cat food! She’s bringing me cat food! Is it a truce? Is it a trap? But why?

5. ‘You’ve been trying to steal my cat away from me’, I do not say as I thank her profusely and close the door.
I’m confused.

Cheat

Like a husband coming home late smeared in some hussy’s red lipstick and smelling of cheap fragrance, my cat has been returning home smelling of fish.

I’m clearly being cheated on here.

Who is the mermaid luring him away?
Perhaps it’s the old Italian lady next door, the One Of The Gigantic Knickers.
Anyhow, the moggy’s got it coming. I shall craft a little pendant thing with the words ‘Do not feed me, I’m a greedy, lying, cheating fat arse’. and possibly make little flyers for people’s letter boxes.
Feel free to place an order if you have a similar kind of spouse.

I have other things to report, people of blogland, but there is coconut cake to be had, so farewell for now.

Quick, call the RSPCA

Key into lock, and finally home.

Miaow!
Nice to see you too, Chavo.
Miaow!
What do you mean, you haven’t been fed since I left?
Miaow….
You mean J didn’t feed you at all?
Miaow..
And he beat you every night with a stick?
Miaow!
And he locked you up in the cupboard, as well? Is that how you got so fat?
Miaow…
What do you mean, you’re a poor neglected moggy and I’m an irresponsible owner leaving you here with him?
Miaoooow.
Oh, and the only thing I can do to make amends is to feed you the entire tin of Kitekat right now?
Miaow!
Fine. Just let me shut the door and take my shoes off.

(Such a lesbian.)

Have fun with your pets

Saucer from pet shop, £1
Soy milk, 750cl, £1.10
Moggy’s face when he realises that it looks like milk, comes out of a carton like milk, but it isn’t milk: priceless.

Wasteful, though.

A story of forbidden love

Warty
This little guy was on the pavement this morning. I think it's a toad. Not quite cute enough and too large to be a frog. Well, maybe seven eighth of a toad, with his right arm missing and all. I crouched next to him and asked: 'toad, how are you feeling?'. Either it wasn't a toad after all, or he lacked the energy to croak. The pavement clearly wasn't the best surroundings for seven eighth of a toad, so I scooped him up and installed him in the garden. I hope that if the cats make a meal out of him they don't do it remaining limb by remaining limb. I suppose that if I find the dead remains of a toad later on, I can bury him in the hole left by the hungry foxes when they dug out the daffodil bulbs to eat them.

---

Update on Toad.
I went to check and he was still there, huddled in a corner under a bush; I wasn't sure he was still alive, so I poked him gently in the eye and he jumped, proving thereby that he still was. So I named him Herman. I'm probably getting too attached. It's always the same problem with me.