Posted on by JonnyB

Clunk!!!

A small block.

Bofffff!!!

Some wedges.

I stood back, utterly alarmed. A confrontation between builders is a frightening experience. The Methodical Carpenter was clearly extremely upset and angry, and the wood was flying.

In front of me, the Methodical Builder tried vainly to calm things down.

“I’m taking my fucking tools!!!”

Crash!!! More wedges.

I did consider some form of intervention along the lines of: ‘Excuse me? This is my cottage. Please stop throwing wood and shouting “fuck” in front of my baby. I’m sure if we all sit down, perhaps with a cup of tea, we can come to some form of amicable arrangement.’

‘Or I will speak to the Syrians, and they will stop this shit’.

But my sense of self-preservation kicked in – the one that constantly prevents me from poking my penis into the food processor.

I’d walked in too late to see the first spark of the argument. But as far as I could work out, the Methodical Carpenter and the Methodical Electrician had been engaging in some form of simmering feud, which had reached a head the previous evening with the electrocution of the Methodical Carpenter. The Methodical Builder, whilst nominally in charge, appeared to have a totally ineffective set of HR policies and procedures to deal with this sort of event, and things had escalated.

Drawing myself up to my full height, and determined to take charge of the situation, I decided to quietly leave, after handing the Methodical Builder his usual cheque for thousands of pounds.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be sorted,” he hissed, in a miserable voice that was almost Shakespearian in its unconvincingness.

I got in the car and drove off. The cottage is almost completed, anyway. Except the stairs, doors, cupboards, wooden floors, skirting boards and everything else remotely related to wood.

Posted on by JonnyB

I travel to an Important Meeting.

Particularly good timing, I curse, as I wait on the platform for my underground train on the hottest day in the world, ever. It takes five minutes to arrive!!! Reeling from my tube hell misery, I step out into the streets of the big city.

As I have some extra time, I decide to have my hair cut. I have lived in Norfolk for some years now, and still have not quite managed to appoint a local barber with whom (grammar) I am comfortable. Instead, I tend to wait until I visit the big city, and then I go to the place to which I have always been, where the people do not scare me. This is not an ideal arrangement for one who wishes to remain at the cutting edge of style.

I wander down the road, a haystack perched atop my head.

I do not think that women realise how traumatic it is for a man to change barbers. Whilst women tend to choose a hairdresser for facile reasons (quality of hairdressing skills, mutual chemistry etc.), for a bloke the important factor is that they will not laugh at you when you walk in, will not suggest any other possible form of haircut than the one you have already and certainly – certainly – will not attempt any form of conversation whatsoever.

Plus mine employs girls with sort of jiggly breasts, which is also good, although not a factor in my continued enthusiasm in travelling over a hundred miles in order to get a simple wash and trim.

I sit and reflect, as her smooth and dextrous Slovakian fingers softly massage shampoo into my compliant scalp.

The situation is not sustainable, and I know it. I need to bite the bullet. Of strolling in through a shop door to find that the average age of the other customers is double mine. Of realising three minutes into a cut that I will be walking out of there with a basin cut and being able to do nothing about it. Of the conversation about holidays.

Of the conversation about holidays.

This troubles me for the rest of the day. I drop in to stay with my mum and dad on the way home. Being old people, they have the central heating on.

Posted on by JonnyB

I promised to update people on the POST 8 Save the Post Office campaign.

It has been just over a year since it started, and valued commenter Ric Locke mentioned that he ‘hadn’t seen me make much of politics’ via Haloscan a while back. But he was wrong!!! The Village Post Office has not closed!!! What’s more, Mr Blair and Mr Crozier haven’t even mentioned that they were thinking of closing it.

This is a famous victory for us political bloggers. It was an issue that was not even touched by the so-called ‘MSM Media’ who cosy up to politicians from the Parish Council upwards via the discredited lobby system, existing in a mutual interdependency that is unsustainable in the internet age. Meanwhile, a handful of influential bloggers such as myself have developed a new communications paradigm, bypassing the timidity of the institutionalised and biased print and broadcast media.

Oh Andrew Neil, Neil, Orange Peel!!!

I am therefore very pleased to announce that the campaign, and JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary, has been officially endorsed by the UK Independence Party (scroll down to the foot of the page).

This official endorsement by a major political party is excellent news, and can only help in the quest to draw attention to the impact on our communities of the politicians’ sinister plans.

(Link via Claire)

Posted on by JonnyB

“When did you say you’re moving back to the cottage?”

“Hopefully the end of the month.”

“Well I’m going to break your windows,” he hissed. “And then I’m going to park my caravan across your drive, so you can’t ever return.”

I threw a consoling arm around his shoulder.

“Hard lines, Wallace,” I said. “You had some bad luck there.”