Dia Uno …. Licensed To Drill

P1010853.jpgAnd here we go again, early start, Super-dude and Mrs Sally Sat-Nav have left us all behind here at the happy ranch out on the isthmus and are heading back to their Motherland.

(Without Prejudice) 

Destination home of the original Dagenham dustbin, the Ford Escort. Where sun-bed tanning salons have more hours clocked up than Marbella has actual sun. The white sock is de-rigueur and there are more pupils in a classroom named after a grape variety than any wine region in the Southern Hemisphere. This Motherland in question of course happens to be Essex, that’s if you hadn’t already sussed that bit out.

(I jest of course) 

In a way I envy the Super-dude, off to see his dear Mum, in another I know how hard it is when a parent gets older. And as a loving child, one does what one has to. Now matter what a four-day visit will put her to ease and her world to rights. I sure wish I could see my Mother again.

Anyway, that’s enough of the maudlin stuff …. back to the day ahead.

The slightest of noise and the four mutts ears fire up, ‘Head-boy’ leads his little rejects straight into choir practice, whooping and Aroo-ing [1] in unison, this has to stop, and stop it does RIGHT NOW. In my big daddy P voice I point at them and shout out ‘I WILL NOT HAVE THIS BEHAVIOUR’ as each one scuttle off to their individual stations, indiscrete grumbles and profanities can be heard as they mutter under their breaths.

The front gate opens, it’s the delivery man, he arrives juggling a large box of doggy dietary goodness for the unruly bunch and his “gizmo signing thingy”. We briefly exchange a few loud nice words over the noise of the frothing mass, the scoundrels are kicking off yet again. Already this early in the morning and I am exhausted, a promise to finish this damned kitchen alteration is paramount, it has to be. After nine weeks of on-off, on-off, and passing crates of dirty dishes over the fence to a neighbourly dishwasher the final hurdle is in sight. I shall certainly breathe a sigh of relief as soon as complete, talk about everything but, and a kitchen sink!

Day of all days, an email pops up, item I listed on an internet auction site reads ‘SOLD’.   So its tools down, a definite change of priorities, time to pack same said item, and get into town to post as promised, quick payers always get priority treatment, as is right and polite.

The BIG rigid book of ultimatum is read aloud to the mutineers “I will NOT be held to ransom AND do NOT even start to think about it.”  Flames shoot out from behind my flip-flops like a hot-rod at a drag race doing the quarter-mile as I head toward Brixham. Small talk from my once school friend now the Post Mistress puts our world to rights too. The ever favoured routine of popping into see the *me* from “and Millie” with my usual very sugary Double Espresso ensures my battery is recharged for the return leg.

Four very happy wagging tails greet me back at the institution.  No guilty faces. No mess. No upturned waste basket. Not a single peak ….. Surprising just what the threat of being recorded can do eh!  … ChewStix all round me thinks.

Kitchen? … pfft, there’s always tomorrow. I know, I know, a day less to complete, but do we have the technology? … Yes we can!

[1] Whooping and Aroo-ing = Howling their tits off.

See you all tomorrow.




Tails of the City …..

Once upon many a long long times ago …..

In the early part of this Millennium, to the west of the great city of London in the county of Middlesex, lies an ancient settlement named Hayes, there the seventh pup of a litter was born, probably of a seventh son, sadly, he was the runt, weak and totally different from his siblings, and, years later still, the same dog is now thirteen years old, going on eighty-four, his name is “Spike” aka Mr Griffin. He bears tiny bow front legs, twisted paws, snow-white coat with champagne coloured patches, his Furmother was a Jack Russell, his Furfather a Corgi …… He himself believes, as we his Daddies also, that he is of Royal descendence, a King in the making, with all the refinements of a true drama Queen.


He would tell you if he could just how difficult his first eight weeks of life were, to be honest, his doggy parents’ humans took no notice of him, he had to fight and scrap his way through for food, this was a tough patch for a tiny and timid weakling. Children constantly wanting to pick him up, the screams from little girls whilst pulling and tugging him who couldn’t get their own way would make him cringe. There was no escape, slowly and steadily one by one the litter got smaller, and then all but one of his siblings were left, …  he thought ….. where had the others disappeared?

Another morn awoke him, his furmother strangely snuggled into him, hugging tightly to comfort his whimper, almost as if she knew that today was the day to say goodbye to her special little baby. Around lunchtime the terrible noise that often broke the silence happened, someone was ringing the doorbell yet again, he knew this was another stranger coming to look at the diminishing circus, this had to be his chance to get out of this hell by being strong. The gentleman visiting had come to purchase his sister, not him, instinctively he knew that this man was very special and very different from the many others, just as he knew himself was.

He had to make an impression, as far as he was concerned, today was his ticket out to his forever home, wherever that was to be. He pulled his cheeky face on and adjusted his charm, his mother nudged him hard and in true showbiz style he strode right out there into the middle of the sodden pee stained pen straight toward this towering man, looking up, his eyes met his looking down, immediately a bond was formed, suddenly the little man was tucked inside his warm coat, the reward for a quick exchange of a few greenbacks ….. “see ya suckers“, he whispered very quietly to his new Daddy, who replied “C’mon then, let’s get the fuck outta here my beautiful boy” …. a sad mummy watched her special baby leave, she turned away and gently cried, … “Your turn next young lady” she said to her remaining daughter.

Not bothering to glance back they headed straight to the train station, the carriage rattled its way East toward his new home, his proud new Daddy showed him off to a few Eastern babes who jumped the train en route, he even stood on the table, he seemed to like these young ladies with beautiful make-up so much so, he even showed them HIS lipstick. This puppy was a showman in the making, he had them in the centre of his paw and in just that short time he had already wrapped his new daddy around his tiny little dew claw. Arriving at Paddington to change to the underground, his Daddy told him how special this place was going to become a big part of his life, as he was soon to be a regular traveller on Mr Brunel’s super railway down to the seaside, little was he aware that, that name was also going to be the name of his new furever friend.

Spike! Spike SPIKE !… what is this strange noise I keep hearing, is it for me? If I do as they say when called, I’ll surely get luffs and treats, biting my Daddy isn’t funny and although I love him a plenty, I really should be nice in return, well, that’s one of the many things my Furmum told me about.

This little bundle of gorgeousness had been given his name many years previous, it was his Daddy’s wish to have a dog called Spike, and now at forty years old, his wish had come and been made true. The tiny terror learned his name quickly and in many routines he showed his Daddies how clever he could be, yes, that is correct, TWO Daddies.

He was given a castle made out of an old cardboard box to live in, a big squishy cushion made comfort for him, and he soon learned, this was his domain, woe betide anyone who tried to invade, it sat beneath the computer, raised off the floor like it had its own moat, and from there he surveyed his land, often when the dialup internet made its connection, he intercepted and made calls to the dog planet.


Living on the south bank of the Thames in an area called Kings Reach, passing the Tate Modern, the wobbly “Minellium Bridge” the Globe Theatre and Borough Market, onwards a replica of the Golden Hind, Southwark Cathedral, under the new London Bridge and down toward Tower Bridge, each and every day he trotted along side his Daddy on his Hi-Viz lead with his Black collar taking in the views, sniffing posts and leaving secret pmails everywhere. He noted all the distractions of life in general and receiving plenty of attention from residents, the many stallholders in the market and the visiting public, he was becoming a local celebrity, and then soon, one evening, his full title was announced.  He was to be known as Spike Griffin, Kings Reach Sir Humpalot, so, you can guess what his daily party trick was can’t you!, after all, you always give the one you love the most, especially, your all.

His new Daddy was a right tough cookie, and could hold his own in any fight or an argument, he had many mates who came to visit and they checked his prized new pup out. You can imagine the surprise when he heard one of them laughing out loud about a skinhead having a tiny puppy. “My daddy is a skinhead?” “Wow ….. They ARE roughty toughty people, hope I get to grow up to be big and strong like him then!” …… “Guess that makes him MY bitch!” <wink>


And so the master class began ….