Monday, 27 October 2008

Monday 24 March 2008

I have learned that there is a price to be paid for one's pleasure. In my case, the debt was repaid with a gippy tummy early this morning.

For yesterday, being Easter Sunday, I received the bonus (ha ha) of a big roasted lamb bone (from my people) AND a canine Easter Egg (from Maisie). Observe:


During the wee small hours of today, I was forced to wake my partner with my fidgeting and expulsion of gas, in what she deemed to be "unacceptable levels". I was swiftly escorted to the garden, where I jettisoned two loads of matter in rapid succession, followed not long after by a third. (sigh) I feel MUCH better now.

My partner's recovery continues apace, I am happy to say. Her summons on Tuesday was owing to the build-up of unsavoury matter within her ear chamber which needed to be suckered out. Happy days. Otherwise, things proceed well and she anticipates a return to work tomorrow. I have to say, however, that her illness and recuperation period have proved educational for us both. In my partner's case, I refer here to BC. Yes, him. Throughout all her time in hospital and her lengthy recovery at home, my partner did not receive ONE message of condolence, concern or good wishes for health from him. Nothing. Even if I don't like someone, I'd still send them a get well message - EVEN if I couldn't wait for them to snuff it so that I could feast upon their succulent flesh. Well, it's the thought that counts. My partner doesn't seem too upset, just resignedly annoyed. She has a picnic rug belonging to BC in our little Green Corsa, which she says she will return to him sometime (or to his mother, if the mood takes her...). But not before I have wiped Little Jasper (my trusty winkie) all over it, heh heh.

The second educational matter I refer to concerns myself. As my partner has been spending much of her recovery at home, under my care, I have inevitably been exposed to the horror that is daytime television. Once was enough. I should say that neither my partner nor I am in any way addicted to the television. My partner likes comedies and documentaries andI must have my cookery programmes. But, apart from the news, we don't watch much. But, one boring day, my partner switched on our television set and went to make a sandwich. I settled in my chair to watch and was confronted by the most risible tripe I have ever encountered (with only a few notable suggestions). I refer, of course, to The Jeremy Kyle Show. Who thinks that this drivel is quality entertainment? Individuals - some of whom obviously have parents that are a little too closely related - scream and hurl abuse at each other while a sanctimonious goon spouts pompous cod-psychology at them. It made me feel positively sick. I blame Jerry Springer. His show is equally offensive. It is the modern-day equivalent of the cruel Victorian "freak shows", where people with problems who were either too poor and/or too weak to resist were paraded in front of jeering crowds for "entertainment". Jerry Springer: The Opera got it right. Audiences queueing up to shout at trans-sexuals, people with bizarre sexual peccadilloes or mis-matched couples getting lie-detector results. Why? It even occasioned a nightmare for me.

It was an edition of Jerry Springer, though it could equally have been Kyle or any of the other misery-mongers. On the "stage" sat my wife Isolde and my favourite girlfriend Candy, squabbling over who should have me (no problem in real life, incidentally: they BOTH can! Everyone's a winner). Then, Jerry winked at the audience and said "And now let's welcome Jasper to the stage." Out I strut, to jeers and catcalls from the onlookers, and sit between my ladies. They fight again and have to be forcibly separated by Steve the burly security guy. "Now Jasper," continues mein host, looking knowingly into the cameras, "these girls thought they were here to sort out their relationships with you. But you have something that you'd like to tell them. A secret that you have been keeping from them BOTH."
"Woooooo!" crow the audience, right on cue. I pretend to be nervous.
"Uh, yeah Jerry." I say, (I seem to have acquired a southern-USA, Alabama-style accent. Oh well, on we go.) "The thing is, Jerry," I continue, "I used to be a CAT."
"WOOOOOOO!" scream the audience. Isolde and Candy pretend to look shocked (HOW could they not have known?!) and hug each other. Instead of shouting "Chick with a d**k!" at me, the audience are yelling "Cur with a purr! Cur with a purr!" and all the while I encourage their shrieks by parading up and down the "stage", shaking my sweet furry booty and calling "Talk to the paw 'cause the snout ain't list'nin!" Candy and Isolde have to be dragged off by Steve to prevent them beating on my sorry a**, to the delight of the baying audience. Except that, when I look up, Jerry has turned into a Buzzard with a microphone. The audience is made up of squirrels and hedgehogs and Steve seems to be a Stag. Before I can reveal my pole-dancing ambitions, my partner has thankfully woken me up and switched off the TV. "Are you OK, Jazz?" she asks. "You were going a bit mad there." And then she sat down to eat her sandwich. PHEW! That was one dream I do NOT wish to have repeated. I shall go easy on the lamb-bones and doggie-chocolate next Easter, I think.

And now for my final thought. Sometimes we make decisions in our lives that - oh b*ll*cks to it. I'm going out for my walk. Take care of yourselves - and each other (unless you are a cat or squirrel).

Good day.
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