Fang Face

Sometimes Truly Scrumptious Lulu stands and stares.

Sometimes Truly Scrumptious shuffles from foot to foot and emits a strange grunty whining noise, if such a thing could possibly exist.

Sometimes she moves a step forward and attacks your foot with a totally scrapy paw.


She won't jump up, god forbid!

She won't jump up because she has an agenda.

She wants to sit in your place and she won't give up until you move.

Move! For the dog!

Is there any need?

Royal Wedding.

At last Fings flower arranging skills have been recognized for the genius that they are.

Fing has been asked to do the arrangements at the latest royal wedding. There he will tweak the roses and prune the privets and a myriad of other florist fancies.

There will be glads and chrysanthemums, lilies and cactus, tulips, daisies, orchids and sweetpeas. Being a genius he will incorporate palms and dates, oranges and bananas, and perhaps throw in a pineapple for good measure.

It will be a veritable cornucopia of delights.

Trotter will be invited along after the main event (in the capacity of professional maniac) to run amok in the marquee pulling all the plants and flowers out of their pots.

Somebody stop me.

Those of you that know me will know that I am in a permanent state of Late.

I am never on time and I run aimlessly through life like a headless chicken.

So, one day I am running late for a job interview in Jericho. As usual I am completely unprepared, not only have I not decided what to wear of course I haven't ironed anything.

I finally decide what to wear, have a bath, get dressed then run into my room for some shoes, only to skiddy all across the room in one of Trotters poo's. In my tights.

Of course, being so late and with nothing else ironed I was forced to put my tighted foot in the sink and wash off the poo then dry it off with a towel.

Martha

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MARTHA!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!!!!!!!

Lots of Love from

TROTTER!, Lulu, fING, Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug Face, TUTZ and FAT BOY FAGGOT!!!!!

HURRAH!

Whats this?

We spent some time living with the derangement that is Trotter before we realised that the only thing he will respond to are the words ' What’s This!?! ' said in a loud and excitable voice.

' What’s this!?! ' can be used in a variety of ways:

1. To stop Trotter barking in the Garden
2. To stop Trotter attacking people as they leave the house
3. To stop Trotter eating the post
4. To stop Trotter chasing Faggot up the stairs
5. To stop Trotter from barking at the doors

One day Martha had taken Trotter out for a walk and decided to try a ' What’s This!?! ' to see if she could get him to let go of a large branch that he was tugging on, trying to pull it off the tree.

' What’s This!?! ' she said in a loud and excitable voice, then realised she was on his deaf side, so very carefully worked her way round to the right.

' What’s This!?! ' she said in a loud and excitable voice, which caused Trotter to let go of the branch, which promptly sprang back smacking Martha straight in the face, very nearly knocking her over.

We have only used ' What’s This!?! ' with prudence ever since.

Faggot, a History

In a former life Fat Boy Faggot was a member of the S.A.S..He felt no fear as he parachuted in over enemy lines carrying his own body weight in provisions and equipment.

He considered it no object to attack tank regiments in extreme desert conditions, or to spend days wading through swamps breathing through a reed.

He has defused bombs, interrogated suspects and rescued fuckwit Christians form horrific dungeons across the globe.

After a career of bravery for which he was awarded the F.C. (Feline Cross) he retired and now lives in a maisonette in Oxford.

Lucas by Day, Duncan by Night

The early bird catches the worm

Fing spent the early hours of this morning practising his jumping.

First of all he did some standard jumps from the bed to the floor, from floor to the toilet top, out of the bath, onto the floor.

He then picked up the pace with some intermediate jumping, from window sill to top of wicker laundry basket to floor. From the top level of the scratchy pole, to the second, to the third, to the floor.

He limbered up and prepared himself for some truly advanced jumping which involved landing with different expressions on his stupid furry face.

When he leapt at the third shelf in the airing cupboard and missed, he affected an air of surprise as he landed on the floor to be covered in clean towels from the shelves above.

When he attempted a running jump with the aim of landing, standing, and balancing on top of my precarious boot box pile, he failed in the balancing and knocked it all to the ground. For this he tried to look innocent as he nonchalantly walked away.

His grand finale was a spring from the far end of the dresser, twitching his tail as his jump gathered momentum. He sprung like a coiled viper! His initial spring brings him to the other end of the dresser at which point he bundles his body into a dive bomb, to land, smack bang, in the middle of my stomach.

I couldn't see the look on his face at this point because the little fucker ran off and hid under the bed.

The Last Kiss Goodnight

It all went horribly awry in the sitting room last night. There we were all watching Holby when Trotter stands and stretches.

Perhaps I should explain that on occasion Trotter will stand, then sit back down and lean against you, resting his head on your shoulder.

So Martha didn't think it unusual to feel a pressure on her shoulder and turned, with a smile on her face, to kiss Trotter on the head.

Tragically for Martha and tragically for Trot he was still in mid stretch and it was his little furry backside that was resting on Martha's shoulder.

I don't know who was more surprised to be honest.

TROTTER AND FING!!!!!!

Fat Boy Faggot

Cephalapod

Captain Skipjack looks out the window and watches the cars drive by.

He Sighs.

It is difficult to be a salty old sea dog when there is no sea.

It is difficult when you are used to having a bitch in every port to have only a potty retriever for company. He looks at Lucas by day - Duncan by night, who has been staring at the wall for the past three hours, and sighs.

It is difficult being renowned for your tuna sniffing abilities when there are no fish. No squid. No whales. No dolphins. No ships cat to chase up the rigging. Sigh.

On the other hand, he thinks, at least here my hips don't creak. At least here I'm not thrown overboard for fun to wrestle with sharks. And of course, I'm over the scurvy, he runs an experimental tongue around his new false teeth and thinks it could be worse.

He gets up from the chair and, all overcome with a sense of happiness and wellbeing, stands and humps the air for a few minutes.

It's a dog’s life.

Trotters Bush

As you may be aware Trotter is a very keen gardener. He is particularly fond of a spot of light pruning and loves nothing better than grabbing any pot plant and vigorously shaking it until it is destroyed.

Trotter loves the garden, he loves to rip up plants and stand at the bottom and bark indiscriminately through the fence. He particularly likes it when the neighbour’s children poke their heads through the lattice and ask if Trotter is allowed to come and play.

But of all his favourite things one thing stands above all others. The green netting that at one point lined the inside of all the fencing. Trotter felt that the green netting had his name on it and was his to do what he liked with. So it was that I found him tugging in a determined fashion on 3 foot of netting that was smothered in sweet peas. What to do? In a flash of inspiration I stood on the netting, only to be jerked across the garden like some magic carpet ride gone wrong.

Who could imagine that a small shabby dog of only 1 and a half stone could of pulled a person of 12 stone all the way across the garden? And he still wouldn't let go.

In the end we had to wave his dinner bowl over his head to make him let go. And so it is such that Trotter now has his pig pen on the porch, where he can stand and look at the garden and the potted plants and the green netting, but not actually be able to touch any of it.

Poor TROTTER.

AAARRRRIIIBBBAAAAA!!!!!

Fing gazes at his favourite samba picture and wonders where one could buy orange beaded slacks and a matching band for a black hat.

He stops to consider if Trotter could be persuauded to don feathers and a g-string but decides against it. He feels certain that Trotters skanky dreadlocks would distract him from the dance as they would definately not be contained by a g-string.

Logo

Spring is in the air

Trotter likes to stand by the open back door and sniff the air. Sometimes the smell in the air will make him mutter to himself in a grumbling fashion and sometimes it makes him bark. Sometimes he just sniffs and sniffs and sniffs as the breeze ruffles his little grey Mohican, he closes his eyes and smells all the lovely smells and stands with his compact little terrier body completely blocking the way.

The cats, needless to say, hate this, as they can't get past him and are forced to sit in an orderly queue behind him and wait for him to move. These cat jams occur quite frequently over the weekend and can end in tears as Fing does not understand or care that patience is a virtue. Fing cannot comprehend why Trotter needs to sniff the air for so long, stupid dog, so he attacks him with a nasty right paw poking him in the back.

Poor Trotter.

Sandwich breakdown.

I was making my sandwiches for work this morning, as you do, and I turned away from the bread board, for like a split second, to get the mayo out of the fridge.

You can imagine my dismay when I turned round to find Fat Boy Faggot and his great big fat furry butt cheeks sitting on my bread?

Well, i've bought sandwiches now. Mind you, it could of been worse, it could of been the time that I went to get my sandwiches out of my bag at work only to find that my boy, Fing, had pissed in it. Vile.

I love your coconuts

Trotter sits and watches Fing as he gets ready for his Samba dancing classes and thinks 'I bet you look good on the dance floor'. Trotter has an epiphany and realises that he really likes the Artic Monkeys and shoot's off into town to buy the CD.

Fing waxes his whiskers, straightens his bandana and practises a few walking samba steps whilst listening to Englebert Humperdink's 'Quando, Quando, Quando'. He wonders if he has yet captured the knee action, body sway and pendulum motion required to make his dancing look effortless and carefree?

He twists and turns, throwing in some slip action, then a turn, forwards, then a back motion! In this crazy like a fox samba dream he holds Carmen Miranda in his arms and he's wearing a large headdress covered in plastic fruit.

Footsie watches from under the bed and wishes Fing would fuck off so she can finish waxing her bikini line.

Thursday morning 1am

It was dead quiet on the estate last night, unusually quiet. All you could hear was the occasional car driving by in the distance. It was so quiet that when someone walked through I could almost feel the vibrations from the tip tap tip of her heels.

So the singing became apparent from very early on, I could imagine that they (whoever they were) must be up by the Westgate somewhere. Whoever they were they were obviously very very drunk and they were getting nearer and nearer the estate.

We get lots of the exceptionally drunk shambling through our estate as it’s the main walkway down to South Oxford. Although most of the time its students that cause the noise, a good part of the time it’s the neighbours, well me and Varne mostley. (Funnily enough, if it’s the neighbours or me and Varne being noisy every one turns a blind eye, but if its students all hell breaks loose.)

So I’m listening to the singing as it gets closer and think Student/Neighbour/Varne? It sounds like they, whoever they are, have stopped outside Varnes to sing under the lamp post. You can’t make out any words, it’s just very loud.

I hear a strangulated 'SSSHHHUUUTTTTT UUUPPPP' from an indiscernible point on the estate and decide to sneak into Martha's room and have a butchers out the front window. Like, the shame.

Its only TROTTER and Fing pissed up on their way home from Bingo.

Can you cope?

Who said romance is dead?

One day Martha decided to read a book. She stood for some time looking at the bookshelves and occasionally pulling one out to read the back cover. She took her time, as you would, carefully choosing.

Trotter stands behind her bristling and almost jumping up and down on the spot. Because Trotter hates paperbacks, not just dislikes, HATES paperbacks, you are not to read them, nor to touch them. On a bad day you can't read the paper either but he never minds a hard back....

So Martha, satisfied with her choice sits down only to have Trotter leap upon her and attack the book.

This might not have been such a messy story if Martha had not injured herself in a freak ironing accident which had bought on her 'Trotter - elbow' which in turn had left one arm completely immobile and encased in tubi grip.

Poor Trotter has lost control of his frenzied attack and is so overwrought that he starts to hump the injured arm, 'Get OFF, Get Off you dirty Dog! Screamed Marth in desperation as she couldn't shake the little blighter off! She hit him round the head with the paper back but still he humped!

Poor Marth was there for 10 minutes before he calmed down.

Poor Martha.

Poor TROTTER.