What becomes of the totally wankered?

The weekend passed in a drunken haze.

Milly Pav arrived at 1 and everything disintegrated shortly after.

We sat in the Brewery Gate and drank like prohibition was going to be enforced around mid afternoon.

We drank pints and shooters for some time before deciding that we should go home and compose ourselves.

Trotter was very pleased to see us, inebriated as we were, and started to leap around the table and bark at the chair. Lulu eyed us a bit nervously from the sofa and growled, just in case we needed warning (It wasn't until a drunk Mr Cod arrived much later that her full wrath was unleashed. The 'full wrath' package has resulted in Lulu biting through Mr Cod's nose before now. This is not bad for a small dog with only one tooth)

We ordered pizza as we were ravenous. It arrived with the customary Garlic and Herb dip which proved difficult to open, so Milan took the bull by the horns and tried to open it with his teeth resulting in the pot spilling down his top. It looked like a seagull had perhaps evacuated its bowels on the unfortunate Pav. Not fazed by the dip Milan took off the soiled garment and proceeded to dance around the sitting room topless in the style of a disabled, drunken, pole dancer on acid. This lurid and erratic dancing was warmly received by the cats who always appreciate any kind of floor show, but not so by Marth, who had escaped into the garden to get away from it all.

Milan, never one for niceties, decided that he would go and dance outside in the garden and proceeded to cavort madly around the fishpond. In the distance I heard some one shout 'Put a shirt on you daft cunt!', but Milan was too far gone to care.

It wasn't until I'd had a bath and tried on a few outfits and several pairs of shoes, and was trying to apply makeup with an errant, drunk hand, and had eyeliner everywhere but my eyes and mascara in my hair that Milan looked at me and slurred, 'La. Do you think we might be too drunk to go back out again?'. As I couldn't actually stand up I decided that Mil had a point and so decided to stay in.

Milan, however, got a phone call and went to the Jolly, and god alone knows what happened from there.

If

It is Friday, once again, and nothing much of note has happened on Preachers lane.

Thelma is so excited about the sunny weather we have had of late that she has taken to dancing on the pavement outside her house in a wildly erractic manner, accosting people as they pass to share her sunny love. This has resulted in most of the neighbours peering anxioulsy from behind their curtains to see if she is there before they rush out to do a bit of shopping.

The new familiy has moved in next door and have made their presence known by swearing, loudly and repeatedly, at each other. This is the adults of course, the children have made their presence known by screaming and running amok in the garden, upsetting Martha by throwing balls into the pond and just being generally obnoxious.

We have yet to see how they will tackle with Trotter and Fing and their escapades, will they appreciate Trotters barking and dislike of potted plants? Will they come to understand Fing and his horrid haughty nature, and the fact that given an inch, he can piss a mile?

Will they mind if Giggsey Girl the stupid slug face pops over the fence to have a poo in their flowerbed, as she did that one time when the Sumo family lived next door. (It might not have been so bad but it was a hot summers day and they were all sitting outside having a barbi as she decided to evacuate her bowels in their petunia's. I had to clamber over the fence with a bit of kitchen roll in hand apologising, 'i'm so terribly sorry' I said as they sat there aghast, chicken legs in hands)

Will they mind when Lulu flys her kite, or Fat Boy Faggot comes home late at night from a Sauna, in through the back door, if you will. Will they be irritated by the madness of Tutz and her intense yellow eyes as she peers at them from the upstairs window making her strange 'PPPrrrooooTTTt'ing noises in a demented fashion?

All this remains to be seen.

Trotwear and Fing

I finally told Little about his cap on Tuesday.

I admitted that Trotter had redesigned the beloved cap into something rather unmanageable and unwearable (trotwear does not have to make sense)

I grovelled by text as I knew how much the cap meant to Little, to tell him that I was truly sorry, that I had put the cap up high, in safety, and could only presume that one of the cats must of been having a bad day, found the cap and tossed it to the floor in irritation.

And so I apologised until Little called down and said that perhaps he should not have left his most favourite item of clothing of all time at my house where it was at risk. Perhaps he should have come to pick it up. All things told, he said, he could always buy another.

And so I said sorry, once again, and went to bed.

I awoke the next morning to find a pile of my favourite boots where they should not have been. All out of their boxes in a mangled heap by the bookshelf. At first I thought that they may have fallen from the side, but as I drew near, the awful truth emerged.

Fing had pissed on my boots.

In the pile were the most expensive pair of boots I have ever purchased, the second most expensive, and the most comfortable pair I have ever owned. I raced to the pile of boots and started to sniff them experimentally in abject horror. Please don't let it be the £200 Diesels I whispered to myself as I sniffed then from top to bottom. Then the Fly's, which also seemed to have been spared, until I reached my comfy, lovely, brown suede boots, that didn't need to be sniffed as the pee was still dripping off them as I picked them up.

Thank heaven for small mercy's I thought and put them in the washing machine in an experimental attempt to save them from the bin. You can, after all, pop your trainers in there if Fings had a go at them, so what difference suede I wondered?

Well, they are kind of firmer, and less soft than they once were, but I think they are still wearable, just. At least they don't smell of cat pee, and Fing has not won, not this day.

The Noisy Dogs Home

Trotter is stood underneath the stairs, peeping out occaisionally at the front door.

He is hiding because Fing has told him that the Noisy Dog Inspector is on Preachers Lane.

The Noisy Dog Inspector, he has told Trotter, waits patiently, listening, until he can hear a noisy dog, and then he comes and swoops you away to a dogs home in the middle of Dartmoor where you are forced to live in a small sound proof box.

In the Noisy Dogs home, no one can hear you bark.

Trotter, all in all, enjoys the sound of his own bark, and does not wish to be in a sound proof box miles away from home, so is prudently saving his barks for later, when Martha and Lara will be at home to plead his case should the inspector arrive after dark. What hope has one small shabby dog got on his own against a man with a large net he thinks as he stands there, occaisionally peeking round the corner at the front door.

'woof' he says very quietly, to himself, in a moment of defiance, 'woof'.

Tutz

Tutz hates it when you take photos all close up because it makes here eyes go all peculiar.

The Pidgeon

This is the pidgeon that was rescued from the Chimney at the Brewery Gate last week.

We apologise for the delay in posting the photo.

Weekend

It was a quiet weekend. No one had hangovers, no one was hanging out their arses. Martha went gardening, I tidied up the cupboard under the sink, which in itself was no mean feat, as it has its own bizarre half life and inhabitants.

I scrubbed and polished, boxed up jam jars that had lids and recycled those that didn't. I bleached and disenfected where disenfecting was due.

Not only this but I shopped. I bought food for the week, and food for the pets, I bought cream for my face and cheap jewellery in the Asian shop that is in a perpetual state of 'closing down'.

Filipa was working at the Gate along with a new, strange, drag queen, who was walking like John Wayne in his high heels.

So, a quiet weekend all told.

Death by Ice

We at Trotterandfing hear that there are hundreds of boats containing seal hunters trapped in pack ice off the coast of Canada, where they have become trapped after killing thousands of baby seals for this years quota.

The coastguard is desperately trying to reach them as they are running out of fuel and food.

Perhaps it would be more merciful to club them round the back of the head until they are dead than let them freeze or starve to death?

Birds of a feather

Yesterday Lulu rescued a pigeon from the flu, and this morning I was attacked by a street duck.

On Sunday I was working at the gate when we heard a frantic screechy and scrabbly noise coming from the chimney flue. We edged over there nervously and I started to open the door when Lulu said 'But what if its a rat?', at which point we both backed off and got a man from the beer garden to tackle it instead.

We called up pest control who told us it would be a pigeon, probably a baby one, that had fallen down the chimney by accident. Unfortunately, pest control were dead busy and couldn't come round, so yesterday Lulu and Alex dismantled the fire, sawed off the bottom of the chimney and rescued the stupid pigeon who promptly flew off to sit back on top of the chimney.

This morning I was walking across the car park when an agitated woman clutching her bag to her chest raced past me, 'Quick', she cried, 'It might get us!'

I turned to see an irate street duck hurtling across the Duke of York car park with ill intent in its small beady duck eyes, so I too turned and ran. It chased us across the road and nearly all the way to the Castle, before hissing and walking into a bush. Me and the woman paused for breath, and agreed how unusual that it was to be chased by a duck at half 7, then went our separate ways.

It was as I walked down Rapists Alley that i heard a rustle and a 'quack, quack, quack' from the wall above me. I looked up only to find a street duck had made her nest on top of a brick wall, all covered in Ivy and was watching me with her beady duck eye through the foliage.

What hope is there for the birds of Oxford?

(I apologise for the lack of photo's. Lulu is sending me a picture of the pigeon but I didn't dare stop to take a picture of the angry duck in case she pecked my nose off and the nesting, insane, Ivy duck, was too high up to be photographed)

Duckling Doom

In a harsh and unfriendly world, baby street ducks forage for scraps in a college quod.

Denied an aquatic life, some of them will develop callouses on their delicate webbed feet, some will be forced into a life of petty crime, others will turn to drugs and drink and some may become Big Issue vendors.

It doesn't have to be like this.

Petition the governemnt not to fill Radley Lakes with choking ash from Didcot Power Station, leave the lakes there for all forms of aquatic life, for the swans and the geese, the frogs and the toads, water rats and newts. For Herons, and fish, and most of all, for Street Ducks.

Ducks need water like we need air.

The place the world forgot

It is a lovely spring day. The children on the estate are entertaining themselves with a spot of random vandalising, as is their wont, while the pets find other things to occupy their time.

Fing is outside washing his beloved Ferrari, he is talking to Swetty Netty, who is hanging over her fence watching the vandalising children in the middle distance. They are discussing the time when children had been bought up to be seen and not heard, not let loose upon the world as mindless hooligans with wanton destruction on their minds, well, unless you were the son of a football hooligan, then wanton destruction was probably the only thing on your mind.

So Netty chats as Fing lovingly buffs his beautiful shiny car.

Meanwhile, on the basket ball court, Tutz is hanging out and chatting to the kids as they leap around pretending to be in South Central LA. Tutz cannot determine if she would like to be a blood or a cripple, as neither option seems entirely attractive. She hopes she will not have to kill anyone to be forced to join a gang as she fears she may shoot herself be accident. And so she sits in the sun on top of the railings and watches as the boys leap around with their balls.

Trotter and Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug face are in the front garden, where there are no potted plants to instigate Trotters appetite for destruction. They are customising a shopping trolley into a go kart with go faster stripes, a comfy covered seating area, with a roof top restaurant. They can be seen having a tug of war with a tape measure and squabbling over switches of material for the seats. All they have managed to achieve so far is the go faster stripes, and that is only because Trotter found the tin of paint by accident and shook it in a frenzy, shaking red paint all over the trolley and only narrowly avoiding the Giggs, who leapt out of the way like a gazelle into the relative safety of next doors dustbin.

Truly Scrumptious Lulu and Fat Boy Faggot are in the garden sunning themselves. They are drinking white wine and discussing Jordan's pregnancy whilst watching the children through the fence. The vandalising children are currently dismantling a brick wall and throwing the bricks at each other, Fag and Lulu watch them and agree that in an ideal world an accident would happen, its not like any one would really miss the children, is it?

Fat Boy Faggot can remember when the sumo child from next door got hit in the face with a cricket bat, and how we all laughed quietly from behind the curtains. Lulu reminisces about the time that the mad woman upstairs had lost it and was throwing potatoes at the children, then started throwing over her furniture as well until 6 policemen had wrestled her into a riot van.

'Mind you' says Faggy, 'we haven't had a good Jumper for a while have we?', they discuss the last time someone had threatened to throw themselves off the bridge and how everyone got out blankets and sat on the rivers edge having picnics watching the police trying to encourage him back to the relative safety of the housing estate. 'How we loved to shout 'JUMP!' occasionally, just for a laugh' they smile to themselves and laugh, as a large brick sails through the air on the other side of the fence, landing with a thud in Thelma's garden.

The sun is out, spring is in the air.

Preachers Lane, enter at own risk.

White cats don't wear plaid.

'Fing?', asks Trotter, 'Did you see in the paper yesterday about the white cat in Wolverhampton that, over the course of the last 3 months, has started getting on the bus and travelling 2 stops before getting off at the fish and chip shop?'

Fing looks up from his broderie anglais and sniffs, disdainfully.

'public transport?', he spits, 'only low life scum use public transport', he then gets up, pulls on his leather driving gloves and goes for a spin in his ferrari, just to prove a point.

Our Sympathy to

Street Ducks have returned to the Streets of Oxford.

This lonely fellow was photographed outside my house on his way to Sainsbury's for a pint of milk.

He stopped for a moment and told me that he had lost everything, his wife had run off with a river duck with a lovely mooring down on the canal, his ducklings scorn him as he has forgotten how to swim, and the board of Duck Affairs have revoked his right to quack near open waterways.

With this he sighed and waddled off, and I could any watch with a tear in my eye.

Street Ducks. Can you help poultry near you?

Contact Rights for Homeless Ducks with Sore Feet at this address, if you can offer a Duck a pond to live in, or a bird bath to rest his weary bones in. (Ducks can live in swimming pools as long as you haven't chlorinated the water)

Together, we shall overcome!

Where we have been.

SALUTATIONS FROM TROTTERANDFING!!!!!!

Regular readers will have noticed a lack of transmission, due to me being at home last week and my server being down, for this we can only apologise.

In the past week........

Trotter was calm for a very brief and lovely moment and was very sleepy and a touch confused.



Fat Boy Faggot, who hates the new bath and will not sleep in it, has taken to sitting in random places in the house, to see if he can get a feel for another room in the house. As you can see, he doesn't find the kitchen side particularly comfortable.



Tutz has been practising trying to pop her eyes out her head, without any success thankfully.


Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug face has hired a team of professional polishers to buff her up on a daily basis.


Lulu practised smiling and being happy, which lasted around 3 minutes before Trotter jumped on the sofa, so she bit his ankle.



And Boy? My Boy Fing? After dragging some clothes into a pile and peeing on them, inadvertently peeing all over my favourite white suede Reebok's, and black Diesel trainers, after sitting on the side and pushing a pint of water into the open drawer and soaking all my tee-shirts, after jumping into the airing cupboard, tipping all the clean towels onto the floor so that Trotter could pee on them, after opening the cupboard door and getting the dog iams out of the cupboard so that Lulu ate the entire bag and was sick, after opening the back door and letting Trotter out into the garden, after all these things, he slept as sound as a baby with no hint of remorse.

Boy.