The Spunk Mallet

Ian and I indulged in our three most ardent passions last night, dear reader:

Reality television
Chocolate
and
Friendship

After lunch, we made a Russian Forest Gateau. By late afternoon, it was cool enough to add the cherry jam and topping, which we did and then headed over to Armadale to watch The X Factor with Alan!

What a fabulous experience. I so adore watching people make fools of themselves which X Factor would-be contestants seem to do with gay abandon. The reasonable to good singers aside, are the other wannabes mad or are there actually people out in the world telling these idiots that they can sing? I don't really care, to be frank - it does make fantastic television.

Not only did Alan furnish us with party food and copious amounts of booze, but also with a Fisher original! Yes, the most fabulous watercolour. A nautical scene, as one might expect from one so salty, executed with flair and resulting in an amazing art work which I shall treasure for the rest of my life.

Last night was so much better than the night before. My neighbour from hell, at gone one o'clock in the morning, was playing loud music, shouting and screaming. At eight minutes past the hour, after lying in bed for well over an hour, I got up, put my dressing gown on and knocked on her front door. After my third attempt, she opened the door.

"Would you mind turning the music down please? I can't sleep for the noise."
"That's your fucking problem."
"I'm sorry?"
"Ah, fuck off you English bastard."
"Listen, you! It's gone one in the morning and I can't sleep for all the noise that you're making."
"Aye, like I say. Your problem."
"It'll be your problem when I call the police, and I shall if you don't pipe down."

At which point, my lady's friend comes to the door and raises her hand to thump me! The only reason for the hand staying aloft and not landing upon my face: my vile neighbour grabbed her pal's arm, saying, "Hang on."

Indeed.

I've never lived next to such a shower of retards, anti-social chavs and inconsiderate cunts. And I've lived in a lot of places.

It was viewing time next door today. I felt like putting a CD on at full volume. I didn't, though. I'd never sink to her very low level and I want that house sold as soon as is humanly possible. The sooner they've moved to Tranent the better. There are a lot of schemies there (they once pelted a visiting Father Christmas with stones and dog shit) who will welcome the family from the sewer with open arms.

From the sublime, my lamb, to the ridiculous and welcome to The Sunday Mallet! It's a word association game played out in the comments section of this post. For the original post and instructions, please click here. Click with caution, though, my love. I say it's a link to the original instructions. It might not be. It might be hardcore porn.

Last week, Salty Sailor left us with the topic of Monica. The first word that popped into my tiny mind: spunk. It's over to you, my love.