lullaby

Trotter is still feeling fractious after yesterdays ill conceived trip to the baths.

He is grumpy and sulky and generally morose. He has refused to bark at Giggsey Girl, the stupid slug face, he will not run round the table in a happy and aimless fashion, worst of all, he just watched Fat Boy Faggot sidle past him with no interest of chasing him up the stairs.

Fing decides that drastic action must be taken, and forces a spikey, scratchy, Trotter to lie on the sofa. He sings,

'Rock a Bye Trotter, On the Tree Top,

When the bough wind blows the cradle will rock,

When the

'Why am I up a tree?' asks Trotter.

'What?'

'Why am I up a tree?'

'You're not up a tree, its a lullaby'

'Whats a lullaby'

'look, just shut up and go to sleep'

'THIS ISN'T HELPING!!!'

Shouts Trotter and in a fit of pique destroys a cushion and a jacket left incautiously on the back of the sofa, they storms around the house barking like a thing possessed.

'Thanks for that old Chum', he says to Fing, before chasing Fat Boy up the stairs and making a thorough nuisance of himself in the bathroom.

Hotter than July

It is a lot hotter than the pets thought it would be today so Fing took all the pets to Hinksey Swimming Pools to enjoy the day, splash in the pools and relax in the sun.

Tragically it all went horribly and hideously wrong when Trotter emerged from the changing rooms in his pink spangly thong.

You could hear the screams from the town centre.

On the drive home a sullen Trotter said that he thought it was a bit of an over reaction, it wasn't as if it was fucking Jaws in the water.

crock of gold

Fing and Faggot and pink and green,

orange and Giggsey and Tutz,

I can sing a catbow,

sing a catbow,

Sing a cat bow too.

Audrey

despite his heartburn, Shane is trying to tempt the pets with some silverskin onions.

Fing isn't bothered, with chap's that chafe at dawn he doesn't need further complications.

Guest Pet of the week - Louis Vuitton

Likes: Small woodland creatures, Beetroot and Moths

Dislikes: Anything with 2 legs and black binbags

Age: One and a half with a mental age of an ameoba

Distinguishing features: Beefy Barrow Boy who has grown into his eyes

Habits and problem behaviours: Killing baby rabbits at BBQ's and jumping on you when you are asleep while squeeking 'Its a long way to Trickafairy'

The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul

Trotter and Fing have just had their first taste of the Bat and Ball in Cuddesdon. They were not unduly impressed.

They walked in and the place smelled of fish, Andi and Shane asured them this was not the norm and secured stools to sit on.

Unfortunately the floor is set at a rakish angle and Trotter and Fing felt like they were at sea, as if on the Titanic, all brahms and list. In the end a complex game of musical chairs ensued with much consternation.

All this was watched by a hideous, homophobic crowd, I pointed out to Fing that a large black moustache, chaps and a leather harness may not be the most suitable apparel for a village pub but he was unrepentant.

Trotter supped his stout, Fing downed his small schooner of sweet sherry and the rest of us finished off our wine before we beat a hasty retreat.

Shane is suffering from the most awful Katherine heartburn.

Addicted

'You're just not old enough to understand the lure of a packet of ginger nuts Trotter my friend', says Fing, reminiscing over a cup of tea and a hob nob, 'once, ha! Once, I ate a whole packet in one sitting!'

'that can't be good for you though mate', says Trotter from the doorway,

I'd wasn't under the suggestion of a fitness instructor!' laughs Fing from the sofa, 'I just couldn't stop, dunked one biscuit, then the next! Before I knew it the entire packet was gone and yet still I wanted more!'

'Who would have thought it?' purrs Faggot from the grate, 'Ginger nuts, the crack/cocaine of the biscuit world'

Paradise Lost

It is pandemonium in the house.

The washing machine has flooded the kitchen and a lake of water covers the ground floor.

Trotter races around in a madly excited fashion, taking corners at speed, spraying water over the furniture.

Faggot is being sick on the sofa because he ate all the cat food, far too quickly, and the sick slithers down the side of the sofa to dilute into the flood waters on the floor.

Tutz and Giggsey Girl, the stupid slug face ,have made a raft out of a dustbin lid and are floating morosely, hoping for dry land.

Lulu sleeps impervious to the damp.

And Fing? Fing has pulled all the clean washing off the side onto the floor and now it is soaking wet and smelling of damp. In the sitting room he has pulled the throws to the floor and thrown cushions at Trotter as he raced by, Fing does not appreciate being wet. He has pissed on the clothes and stood by as Trotter savaged the cushions. He has watched as the waves caused by Trotters racing have thrown the cats off course in their dustbin lid raft, into the glass cabinet, knocking over some of Marthas priceless crystal.

All this he has watched with a satisfied smile

He thinks that it is Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

Need?

Fing was very dissapointed with the other pets over the weekend and decided to shown his displeasure by pissing on my favourite red shoes, my umbrella, the Oxford Pride Sponsored Walk forms and my clean washing.

Sometimes I wish the other pets would humour him more.

The Weekend

Fing plans a weekend free from football. Martha is away and as he is the oldest pet in the house he is in charge.

He has decided that on Saturday he will gather all the pets on the grass outside the house and will teach them samba.

In the Evening he will cook everyones favourite food on the BBQ and then they will watch a film (He makes a mental note to avoid Interview with a vampire after the last fiasco with Vampire films, Trotter and black capes.)

Sunday he might take the others punting. It is a weekend filled with coutless posibilities and incredable joys.

Tragically, he has failed to notice Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug Face and Trotter wheel a keg of ale into the house, they have much different plans for the weekend.

There may be trouble ahead.

COME ON!

The pets celebrated Englands win by getting drunk on sweet sherry and doing the okey cokey around the house in a giddy and excitable manner.

I say the pets, I must obviously exclude my boy, Fing, who sat on the stairs with a look of such extreme distaste on his wretched, spiky, face, that one could have imagined he was sucking on lemon concentrate.

Snob.

England

Trotter stands by the back door in his no8 Frank Lampard England Shirt.

"COME ON ENGLAND"

he barks.

Fancy Dress

I tell the pets that they have been invited to a fancy dress party.

"What is Fancy Dress?" asks Trotter, so I show him this picture of a pug on his way to a Harry Potter theme night.



Trotter looks at the picture then looks at me.

"If you try to do that to me, he says, I will chew off your hands and leave you with bleeding stumps"

Trotter will not be going to the Ball.

Thelma

Trotter spent a very disturbed evening at home yesterday and had to be bribed with copious amounts of cheese and chicken pieces to stop him barking.

His arch enemy, Themla, was in her garden next door, Thelma, who would fit in the cast of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' was enjoying the sun. She was talking to her tomotoes, dancing and clapping like a disjointed marionette with most of the strings missing. She was wearing a stretchy headband with bits of dandelion leaves underneath to shelter her eyes from the sun.

Trotter has a seventh sense and knows she is in the garden even if we have all the curtains closed and the TV up really loud. Thelma's mental emanations seep through the floor and Trotter picks it up like radar.

It drives him to distraction and he barks in a frenzy unable to stop. He has to be put on his lead and held like a baby and talked to in quiet calming tones, but unfortunately this is only a short term measure as as long as she's in the garden he barks.

Poor us.

1966

"Are you looking forward to the World Cup FIng?" asks a happy Trotter, stood by the door wagging his tail.

"The World Cup?" hisses Fing, looking at Fing through his bi-focals over the top of his embroidery,"The World Cup?"

"Yes Fing", says Trotter, not taking the hint, "The World Cup"

Fing is so taken aback at the affront to his dignity that he drops a stitch and pricks his paw with the needle.

"How do you think I am?" he crys, horrified, "Have I taught you nothing? Have you not listened to the words of Lucian with me? Have I not read aloud the Masvani to help you sleep? We're you not paying attention when I took you to the Ridgeway and showed you Scutchermers Knob?"

There is silence from the doorway and sudden absence of wagging tail.

"I don't remember the knob" says Trotter.

Where the Streets have no Name

We secretly filmed these ducks jogging through the estate trying to keep fit.

Ducks belong in water, not on concrete!

"Build more Resevoirs" we scream! "Rights for Ducks!"

Quackers

It is not common knowledge that there are more ducks than human beings in the UK.

This is no where more apparent than the streets of Oxford, where the overcrowding has forced the ducks on to the streets.

Here we can see a troupe of street ducks by the Westgate Car Park. When I spoke to them they told me they had been begging for crusts and spare change.

So much for lending a sympathetic ear.

The little fuckers mugged me and made of with my sandwiches.

Once upon a long ago Martha had a bay tree.

Martha loved her bay tree with a single minded devotion that had spanned ten years. She wanted it to be a standard, not a common bush, and for the past ten years had been carefully pruning, smiling lovingly at the tree. She pruned and smiles, smiled and pruned, occaisionally touching a leaf and telling it it was a lovely tree.

Trotter would watch Martha as she stood outside talking to the tree and so it was perhaps unfortunate that one day Fing opened the back door and let Trotter out.

Trotter stood silently and looked up at Martha, engrossed in the tree, and decided that he had had quite enough of her eccentric madness and very calmly lent forward and bit the tiny, slender, tree, trunk, completely in two. Then raced off round the garden with it nearly knocking Martha too her feet.

Princess

How am I supposed to sleep when there is a poohies in my bed?

Philosophy.

After a hard nights stretching Captain Jack likes to think.

Today he is wondering what it would be like to be a giraffe.

Lifes a Bitch

Poochie hates it when the Marks make her sit in the garden and use her tongue as flypaper.