One of Those Days.

Saturday, March 21.

PITHER: "Hello, building society crone."
CRONE: "Hello, Mr Pither."
PITHER: "Might I withdraw £300 of my earth pounds."
CRONE: "No. Your cheque doesn't clear until Monday."
PITHER: "But I paid it in last weekend!"
CRONE: "Takes six working days."
PITHER: "Tara."

Pither walks next door to the newsagent's.

PITHER: "Twenty Embassy Filter, please."
SPOTTY WORK EXPERIENCE YOUTH: "Soz, got no Filter."
PITHER: "Au revoir."

Pither returns home after his successful outing and decides to phone the man who installed his now broken fishpond pump.

AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "What model is it, Piths?"
PITHER: "Uuurm, uuurm, uuurm, oh, hang on, it says TX1900 on the side."
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: (Sharp intake of breath) "Tsh. They don't make them no more."
PITHER: "Well, can you repair it?"
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "It'll cost a shedload. Best buy another one, eh?"
PITHER: "Thanks for your back-up sales and customer service."
AQUATIC CON ARTIST: "It's a living."

Pither phones electrician about cooker, bottom oven of which is bust, along with the digital clock.

BRIGHT SPARK: "What model is it?"
PITHER: "Anticipating your query, I have the manual which came with it here. It says it is an SK400X."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Yer what?"
PITHER: "It does exist, I promise you. It's over there, against the wall, as sure as I'm sitting in this bucket of piranha sperm."
BRIGHT SPARK: "What make?"
PITHER: "Sarena."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."
PITHER: "I am truly delighted you are having such a fun day, but do I detect some sort of problem."
BRIGHT SPARK: "They'm manufactured in Prague, assembled in Madagascar and distributed by the Wops. You've got no chance. Is the clock working?"
PITHER: "No."
BRIGHT SPARK: "That'll be it. Once the clock's fucked, the whole thing is fucked."
PITHER: "How much is a new clock?"
BRIGHT SPARK: "'Bout £150. Might as well get a new cooker."
PITHER: "But I've looked them up and they cost £550."
BRIGHT SPARK: "Yeah, bummer, ain't it."

Undeterred, Pither phones a local kitchen appliance centre which sells spares.

PITHER: "Hello, I'd like a digital clock/timer for a Sarena SK400X.
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "Sorry, we're closed."
PITHER: "Forgive me pointing out this slight contradiction, but you're there. I know that because you've answered the phone and I'm speaking to you."
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "Kitchen sales, me. Parts closed at 1pm.
PITHER: "But it's only 12.55pm!"
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "S'not. One now."
PITHER: "Well it is NOW!!! That's because we've been chatting for five minutes."
FUCKWIT WOMAN: "They've all gone home."
PITHER: "Bye, take care. Oh, and please don't die in a hideous car crash on your way home."

Pither decides to walk dogs and is amazed when none of them die or contract green monkey disease or get abducted by aliens. He returns to do his washing and ironing and then watch a big of rugby. At 5pm, the phone rings.

MUTANT MATE: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Forest lost. 1-0 to Wolves. WOLVES. Ha, ha, ha, ha. You're gunna get some serious gip from everyone when you come out next."
PITHER: "Thanks for the call. I've enjoyed it."

Having no money, Pither is forced to opt out of an evening at the pub and opts in for a snooze on the settee.

9pm: Pither awakes..........and smells trouble. He discovers the alsatian has crapped in the hall and the collie-cross has peed up against his briefcase. He decides to go to bed. It must surely be safer there.

9.20pm: "Pither climbs into bed, surrounded by dogs, and switches on the bedside lamp so as to read himself to sleep.............Ping! The bulb in the bedside lamp blows. Pither drifts off into unconsciousness. Please Lord, take me now, I'm ready.

Saturday, March 21, 2009 can go to Grantham.

Bye, Bye Mal.

Vene, vidi, bevevi!.............He came, he saw, he drank.

Guess Who Just Got Back Today?

(Pither and the Pig Farmer - pictured at a Biggles Is Best reunion, prior to PF's northern exile.)

Here sooey, sooey, sooey, pig, pig, pig! The whole of Small Town is on high alert. Tongues are wagging, curtains are twitching - the Pig Farmer is coming!

Yes, my little chum Mal Baby, he of the Marge Simpson hair and the Lena Zavaroni legs, is on his way south as I write.

The boy, known to cyberworld as The Edge of Nowhere, has texted to say that he's well on his way. He set off last night with his faithful team of huskies bound for You'llnobefromround'ere, the main settlement on the Orkney island of Westray where he lives. From there it was an arduous coracle journey to the main island where he joined an Innuit caravan of canoes for the crossing to the mainland.

Sherpas then led him to the nearest village with electricity, from where it was an eight-hour mule ride to the Duke of Cumberland Memorial Iron Horse Station. He's currently on the train, passing the time during the 800-mile journey by looking weirdly at other passengers and building a whickerman out of used straws from the buffet car.

He is due at Pither Towers at around 6pm and, after disarming him, I will be taking him out for a meeting with a select team of Mutant pals - oh, what japes we shall have!

The results will no doubt be documented here, and perhaps the boy himself will get a word in. Watch this space.

Geoffrey Boycott

I'm not one to generalise, as absolutely everyone will tell you, but aren't Yorkshiremen arses! (rhetorical).

I have been listening over the last few days to Test Match Special on the wireless. It has been a delightful experience, regardless of the results on the pitch, with one notable exception - Sir(?) Geoffrey Boycott.

Like most of his Yorkshire breed I have come across, he suffers from two main delusions, namely that:

1. Anything he says is anywhere near correct, remotely relevant or justifiable by any evidence.
2. Anyone wants to hear it!



Apropos absolutely nothing, I paid off Lloyds TSB Bank today! Thirty years of banking with these loan sharks has finally come to an end! Lloyds TSB is out of my life forever. I hope, to use a bastardised Holy Grail reference, it burns down and sinks into the swamp of fiscal obscurity (once it has paid back the extortionate charges it has levied on me over the years)!

Lloyds is already there - Boycott can join it in Grantham.