Friday bloody Friday

Well there was nothing unusual on the school excursion today apart from the grand daughter being whisked off on a trip to a local garden centre. I don't know what a bunch of four year olds get out of that unless it's part of a cunning plan to turn them all into green activists in years to come. They're wasting their time with mine whose greatest pleasure in the recent spell of fine weather has been to scour the garden for 'pretty ladybirds' as she puts it and, having found such creatures, crushing them under her dainty little boots.
The Friday morning shop was an extremely light one in the nearest Tesco, a store not usually favoured with our custom as we consider them to be a two faced, lying, back stabbing organisation who are ever nuzzling too close to whatever set of morons currently hold the reins in Westminster. The car needed its weekly influx of petrol so I enjoyed twenty minutes of observing pump rage amongst the panic buying middle classes of the surrounding areas. I just put my usual twenty five quids worth and had fun in berating the acne riddled Tesco car fuelling assistant about his company profiteering by putting the price up by three pence a litre. In retrospect this was very wrong of me as I don't think he knew what profiteering meant.
The cheap offer Boddington's loaded into the car along with a loaf and milk I couldn't help remarking how empty the store was. Serves the bastards right for screening off the cigarette and tobacco display counter. I don't smoke now but I might have some fun soon by asking them to check if they stock different brands of ciggies and pipe tobacco. Should keep the assistant busy opening and closing the shutters and I could then complain to the management that I caught a glimpse of named tobacco product!

Nearly the school holidays so the blogging vein will have to change over the next week or so but, before I continue to this weeks view of the school run , a word about our dear leader David Camermong.
A man who pisses off smokers, drinkers, calorie lovers, Gregg's Bakery and fat cat potential donors to the cause in less than a week must be THE BIGGEST POLITICAL CUNT THAT EVER EXISTED. Following on from Blair and Brown that is one MASSIVE achievement that can only have happened because the man is a total and utter penis polisher with no understanding of morality or reason. Still the thousands of mentally challenged voters whom he managed to scare into bumping up his VAT income on petrol will undoubtedly vote either him or the creep Millipond into power at the next election.

The continuing fine weather has seen more shedding of apparel by the mixed community that head in the direction of the school each morning. I followed one pushing a pram that had the briefest pair of cut-off denim jeans I have ever seen. ( Believe me I do keep an eye out for these things) To say that the cheeks of her arse were virtually on full display would be a conservative description and the only thing missing was a little sign saying 'knock twice and enter if I'm using my mobile.' The accompanying walking brat wasn't exactly intelligent as it walked in front of the pram causing the mother's head to tip forward and the arse point towards a nearby chimney top. I did notice that the vision presented caused three crows to vomit in the house guttering and a black Labrador to run howling up the street with it's owner being dragged along behind. There are some mornings I'd rather be admiring the views in Afghanistan.

A couple of  things  before writing of events on the school walk;

Front page headline in The Sun yesterday;

MUAMBA SPEAKS

What's next?

SPHINX FARTS !

It's like a line from a 1950s biblical epic.

Much as sympathise and wish the lad well I shudder at the mindset of the twat arsed journalist who came up with that headline. The MSM stinks.

The weather has been very mild and the resultant shedding of outer clothing by the mothers and grandmothers ( remember that in this village it's normal to be a grandmother at 30 ) has led to some interesting and even horrific sights in the school playground.
The first one that almost literally hit me in the eye was of a twenty something mother whose partly cardigan covered left tit had appeared to have the word' ham' tattooed  on it in a vaguely vertical design that meandered slowly down in the direction of her naval. Not so. The bloody word, revealed in it's cardiganless glory, was Northampton, with the final N verging on a confluence with the nipple that was barely restrained by the purple, scallop edged bra that proudly peeked above the line of her extremely cropped top.
Barely thirty seconds later the benighted women's brat fell down whilst playing at the other end of the playground and she set off at a trot to the screaming child's rescue. I swear that she almost went asymmetric as both breasts began an uncontrolled pitching that destroyed her ability to pursue a straight line to her objective. The zig zag pattern that emerged would have done a Second World War Atlantic convoy proud but also had the fortunate effect of causing a last zig to veer her around the weeping brat otherwise the ensuing damage may have required a fleet of ambulances and the entire budget of the local NHS to remedy.
Enough for now, I still feel dizzy even thinking about the scene.

School Playground

Been a little busy this week  as it was time for my monthly pub crawl with an old friend, so the blogging had to take second place to the pleasures of alcohol and fine conversation. Still, the hangover seems to have cleared a little so I can share my thoughts on the strange scenes from the school playground.
Regular readers of this blog will be aware that, for my sins, I have the duty of convoying two of the grand children on their daily visit to that state institution known as school. As their are several schools in the complex, nursery,infant and junior, it makes for an interesting collection of adult accompaniers milling around in the school playgrounds and each adult has its own particular characteristic.
As the weather has been reasonable this last day or two the young mothers have skipped from winter to full summer clothing with,in many cases, a very interesting display of tattooed flesh. Now a decent tattoo is best displayed on an ample area of flesh and the young women of this village have attacked the body increasing capabilities of lager and kebabs with a fervour that should make each one eligible for a medal for increasing the profits of  British Takeaways and cheap lager breweries. As you know dear readers the increase of flesh tends be in the areas the medical profession refer to as the three Ts. Tummy, Thighs,and Tits.
 This morning, the weather being fine, I decided to do a quick count of the various types and numbers of the tittoos tattoos on display and the sum was very interesting. I counted four displayed on right tits and five on the left hand mammary. All the tattoos were of different designs with the most prevalent being variations on a butterfly theme, although there was one that to my untutored eye resembled a vagina shaped poltergeist escaping in flames from a flatulent cows arse. It must be said that the displayed body disfigurements didn't simply rest upon the upper curve but continued downwards to the area where the nipple snugly resides  inside the wearers bra.
I can only conclude that the tattoo 'artist' must on many occasions be privy to sights that only 'partners' and the Saturday night customers of the local pit club have viewed in their entirety. I sincerely take my hat off to their bravery and dedication. ( tattooists not tits)

School Convoy Pt. 2

A little further down the road from Krypton's encounter with the dog shit stands the very pleasant lady with the school crossing lollipop. Always greeting each child by name with a cheerful quip to the escorts about the weather etc. she is relic of the happier days when this country was still fairly civilised and stands apart from other high viz users as a wanted and useful member of society.
Unfortunately after leaving her presence the next two hundred yards lead through the pedestrianised area of the dreaded *** **** estate whose 1930s designed layout was stolen from Moscow by a British secret agent in the expectation of showing a cheap way to build houses in the economic climate of post war Britain. As the estate is mainly pedestrian it enables the plod to zoom past in their taxpayer funded mobile offices without bothering to investigate what happens on the streets, and the result of their indifference is laid out for all to see,
It's two hundred bloody yards of avoiding discarded needles, ( few) empty lager cans, ( many) used condoms (ribbed) and various items of female lingerie which would be fatal to sniff. Luckily an increase in walking pace soon gets us through and, like a sunbeam piercing a malodorous cloud, we cross another road and come upon the school, with all it's attendant humanity thronging the playgrounds in eager anticipation of the day ahead.
To be continued.

School Run

Wasn't sure what to pass comment on today as plods, politicians, the F.A. and Christianity are all vieing for headlines at the moment and are, from a bookies point of view, running neck and neck. I know that I've said some unkind things about the police in the past and I'm sure that the black clad, shaven headed thugs will provide plenty of more reasons for comment on their misbehaviour so I'll just concentrate on what has become my daily job. The School Run.
It must be understood that by 'the school run' I am simply referring to convoy escort to a couple of my locally residing grandchildren and the method of said conveyance is on the hoof. The village is a desperately poor area both economically and mentally so the only motor vehicles delivering to the school are, unlike the middle classes of the leafy South East, comprised of the BMWs, Mercedes, Chelsea Tractors, and Transits from the local Pikey enclave a couple of miles down the road. To be fair they're mainly Papists and only park near our school as the Catholic prison up the road has more parking restrictions than ground zero in New York. I may as well admit that some of the parents who live just over 400 yards from the school also use vehicles, mainly fourth hand Fords, to enable them to sit more comfortably whilst watching their uncontrolled foul offspring creating mayhem in the school yard before incarceration time.
Right! back to the escort duties. As it's about a half mile walk I usually muster the GCs about twenty minutes before the school kick off time of about 0845. I say about because the school clock hasn't worked properly since six thugs on detachment from The Met mistook it's flat ticking sound for a Yorkshire accent and gave it a good kicking back in 84. Also modern teachers being both illiterate and innumerate have trouble figuring out what the big and little hands on the clock are actually pointing to and have to have a meeting before ringing the bell.
Walking having commenced I usually take up a shepherding position slightly behind my charges which enables me spot any casually discarded dog turds in good time to order an avoiding change of course. This can be a problem with the legions of Mongol cavalry numerous children who,following government keep fit guidelines, use the pavements as a risk free racetrack for their varied high speed scooters and bicycles. This morning I was pleased to see one of these machines, piloted by a young moron named Krypton!!! plough its front wheel into an epically proportion pile of shit that stood about eight inches tall. The resultant skid saw the off balance Krypton drag his left leg through the turd from his knee to ankle. I confess that I took great pleasure in hearing his foul mouthed mother castigate him in language that would have made a naval Petty Officer blush. I was going to suggest she re-named him Crapton but thought, in the circumstances, I'd better remain silent.
Tomorrow we continue the trek as far as the School Crossing lady.