Sunday, December 10, 2006
Ham Shanks Secret Diary - Part 109
Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 10th December 2006
‘Tis the season to be jolly’, ‘fa la la, la la la’, ‘deck the hall with boughs of holly’, ‘fa la la, la la la’ It might well be the season to be cheerful, happy or even convivial but right at this moment my twin bruv didn’t look very jolly at all. Not unless your definition of jolly is ‘sporting a face like you’re chewing a turd’ The reason for his faecal munching demeanour was not my rendition of ‘Deck the Halls’ although lets be honest that didn’t help. No, it was the large puddle of water on his hall carpet that was causing considerable consternation
He came back through to the lounge where I was reclining on the sofa, my feet propped up comfortably on the arm ‘Fecking letterbox’ he grumbled ‘every time the postie shoves the letters through it sticks open’ I peered out from behind my copy of the Radio Times and nodded my head in agreement ‘yeah imagine putting letters through a letterbox’ I replied sarcastically, ‘very funny, what I meant wa-‘, ‘I mean the complete bastard, what was he thinking of…..’ I continued before trailing off lamely as I felt the iciness of his withering glare bore through the magazine.
‘Anyway’ he continued huffily ‘We are going to replace the letterbox and the carpet’, ‘We?’ I replied in a panicky voice ‘that’s right laddy, you’re helping me lay tiles’. He had anticipated my reaction to the prospect of unpaid work and the doors and windows were already securely fastened ‘so we’ve got some plywood, waterproof membrane…’ he droned on, ignoring my fevered scrabbling at the windows ‘tiles, grout….’ My fingers were getting quite raw as I scraped frantically round the base of the door ‘…spacers and screws’, ‘ok were ready to go!’ absent mindedly handed me a handkerchief ‘now dry your eyes while I set up the workbench’
Ten minutes later I was holding down a large piece of plywood as my evil twin hacked away at the far end with a saw ‘Dunno why you need me if you’ve got a workbench’ I mumbled gloomily ‘because, my cretinous relative, this piece of wood is too big for the workbench’, ‘now shut up and put your back into it, it’s still moving’ Grumpily I leaned my full weight on the board, miming silent obscenities at him as he cut carefully down a pencil line.
He only had a few centimetres of plywood to slice through when my phone went off. Without thinking I straightened up and pulled it out of my pocket ‘Hello Ham Shanks spea-‘ CRASH! ‘-king’…. With mounting horror I stared at the end of the bench. The painful clattering noises which followed the disappearing plywood had now ceased. It was eerily silent. I could see a trembling hand emerge from a cloud of sawdust and fumble weakly for the edge of the worktable. An impatient voice babbled away in my ear ‘Uuum I’m going to have to get back to you’ I mumbled cutting them off as I thrust the phone back in my pocket and ran to my brothers aid.
He was most understanding about the whole incident. He conceded it was a mistake any complete f*cking idiot without a cerebrum could make and assured me that even though there were cheese moulds with greater intellectual capacity than myself he wouldn’t hold it against me. Which I thought was very gracious of him.
As the wood was now small enough to fit in the workbench he continued measuring and cutting without me. I was handed a task ‘within my skill set’ i.e. ‘cleaning up that mess’ and ‘keeping the fuck out of his sight’ until he needed me.
Having prepared the plywood sub floor we had to lay an isolation membrane on top. This is basically a thin sheet of rubber which prevents the tiles cracking after you’ve laid them. After clumsily poking a couple of holes in the membrane as I tried to lay it I was banished to the kitchen to make so tea, but only if ‘I could manage that’
I was becoming a little fed up. After all I hadn’t even wanted to help and now he was berating me and treating me like a five year old. ‘Fine then’ I thought as I prepared his cup of tea ‘treat me like a child and I’ll behave like a child’, ‘that’s milk, two sugars and three teaspoons of max strength senokot syrup’, ‘I’ll fix you good’ I sniggered before shrugging and tipping the rest of the bottle into his cup.
‘Teas up bruv’, ‘Oooh thanks, I’m parched’ he glugged down a couple of big mouthfuls ‘hmmm that’s an odd flavour?’, ‘aye it’s that fancy Chai tea’ I replied politely ‘mmm not bad’ I presssed on with the sales pitch ‘aye it’s got lots of those aunty oxidant thingy’s in it’ I continued cheerily ‘cleans ye oot so I hear’ I thought I’d gone too far but he gave me an approving ‘you’ve actually done something correct’ look and drained his mug ‘right better crack on with these tiles then, times a pressing’, ‘aye ye better had’ I smirked before whispering ‘quicker than ye think’ under my breath.
The bottle had suggested a teaspoon would take effect in a few hours. I surmised half a bottle should work slightly faster….
I was being the ‘labourer’, lifting and carrying tiles, mixing grout and suchlike as my brother the ‘Craftsman’ laid the tiles. He’d arranged about half a dozen before there were any outward signs of distress ‘everything alright bruv?’ I enquired as beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead ‘aye aye ..’ however he sounded uncertain ‘are you sure?’, ‘you look a little bit …. peaky’ I asked in my most concerned voice.
Loud gurgling noises were emanating from his abdominal region and the sweat was pouring off his brow ‘I think I may need to use the toilet’ he mumbled quietly as he very slowly stood up. It was a rather laboured affair as he attempted to get his feet without the use of his legs. All the muscles in the lower half of his body were grimly focused on retaining control of a single aperture ‘something the matter?’ I enquired innocently. There was another agonised groaning sound from his nether regions and his eyes crossed in a painful looking manner. He saw my smug expression and the penny dropped. There was a sudden look of hate before he sprinted for the toilet. A Doppler scream of ‘y.y.yo.o.o.u .b.a..a..a.s.t.a..r..d’ faded into the distance.
Whistling contentedly I strolled through to the lounge and jumped onto the sofa. Kicking off my shoes I picked up the Radio Times and thumbed through to Sunday ‘Now shall I watch Columbo or Casablanca?’ The sounds of multiple toilet flushing and agonised cursing were drifting down the hallway ‘Keep it doon a bit will you’ I shouted ‘I can hardly hear them rounding up the usual suspects!’
Doei
‘Tis the season to be jolly’, ‘fa la la, la la la’, ‘deck the hall with boughs of holly’, ‘fa la la, la la la’ It might well be the season to be cheerful, happy or even convivial but right at this moment my twin bruv didn’t look very jolly at all. Not unless your definition of jolly is ‘sporting a face like you’re chewing a turd’ The reason for his faecal munching demeanour was not my rendition of ‘Deck the Halls’ although lets be honest that didn’t help. No, it was the large puddle of water on his hall carpet that was causing considerable consternation
He came back through to the lounge where I was reclining on the sofa, my feet propped up comfortably on the arm ‘Fecking letterbox’ he grumbled ‘every time the postie shoves the letters through it sticks open’ I peered out from behind my copy of the Radio Times and nodded my head in agreement ‘yeah imagine putting letters through a letterbox’ I replied sarcastically, ‘very funny, what I meant wa-‘, ‘I mean the complete bastard, what was he thinking of…..’ I continued before trailing off lamely as I felt the iciness of his withering glare bore through the magazine.
‘Anyway’ he continued huffily ‘We are going to replace the letterbox and the carpet’, ‘We?’ I replied in a panicky voice ‘that’s right laddy, you’re helping me lay tiles’. He had anticipated my reaction to the prospect of unpaid work and the doors and windows were already securely fastened ‘so we’ve got some plywood, waterproof membrane…’ he droned on, ignoring my fevered scrabbling at the windows ‘tiles, grout….’ My fingers were getting quite raw as I scraped frantically round the base of the door ‘…spacers and screws’, ‘ok were ready to go!’ absent mindedly handed me a handkerchief ‘now dry your eyes while I set up the workbench’
Ten minutes later I was holding down a large piece of plywood as my evil twin hacked away at the far end with a saw ‘Dunno why you need me if you’ve got a workbench’ I mumbled gloomily ‘because, my cretinous relative, this piece of wood is too big for the workbench’, ‘now shut up and put your back into it, it’s still moving’ Grumpily I leaned my full weight on the board, miming silent obscenities at him as he cut carefully down a pencil line.
He only had a few centimetres of plywood to slice through when my phone went off. Without thinking I straightened up and pulled it out of my pocket ‘Hello Ham Shanks spea-‘ CRASH! ‘-king’…. With mounting horror I stared at the end of the bench. The painful clattering noises which followed the disappearing plywood had now ceased. It was eerily silent. I could see a trembling hand emerge from a cloud of sawdust and fumble weakly for the edge of the worktable. An impatient voice babbled away in my ear ‘Uuum I’m going to have to get back to you’ I mumbled cutting them off as I thrust the phone back in my pocket and ran to my brothers aid.
He was most understanding about the whole incident. He conceded it was a mistake any complete f*cking idiot without a cerebrum could make and assured me that even though there were cheese moulds with greater intellectual capacity than myself he wouldn’t hold it against me. Which I thought was very gracious of him.
As the wood was now small enough to fit in the workbench he continued measuring and cutting without me. I was handed a task ‘within my skill set’ i.e. ‘cleaning up that mess’ and ‘keeping the fuck out of his sight’ until he needed me.
Having prepared the plywood sub floor we had to lay an isolation membrane on top. This is basically a thin sheet of rubber which prevents the tiles cracking after you’ve laid them. After clumsily poking a couple of holes in the membrane as I tried to lay it I was banished to the kitchen to make so tea, but only if ‘I could manage that’
I was becoming a little fed up. After all I hadn’t even wanted to help and now he was berating me and treating me like a five year old. ‘Fine then’ I thought as I prepared his cup of tea ‘treat me like a child and I’ll behave like a child’, ‘that’s milk, two sugars and three teaspoons of max strength senokot syrup’, ‘I’ll fix you good’ I sniggered before shrugging and tipping the rest of the bottle into his cup.
‘Teas up bruv’, ‘Oooh thanks, I’m parched’ he glugged down a couple of big mouthfuls ‘hmmm that’s an odd flavour?’, ‘aye it’s that fancy Chai tea’ I replied politely ‘mmm not bad’ I presssed on with the sales pitch ‘aye it’s got lots of those aunty oxidant thingy’s in it’ I continued cheerily ‘cleans ye oot so I hear’ I thought I’d gone too far but he gave me an approving ‘you’ve actually done something correct’ look and drained his mug ‘right better crack on with these tiles then, times a pressing’, ‘aye ye better had’ I smirked before whispering ‘quicker than ye think’ under my breath.
The bottle had suggested a teaspoon would take effect in a few hours. I surmised half a bottle should work slightly faster….
I was being the ‘labourer’, lifting and carrying tiles, mixing grout and suchlike as my brother the ‘Craftsman’ laid the tiles. He’d arranged about half a dozen before there were any outward signs of distress ‘everything alright bruv?’ I enquired as beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead ‘aye aye ..’ however he sounded uncertain ‘are you sure?’, ‘you look a little bit …. peaky’ I asked in my most concerned voice.
Loud gurgling noises were emanating from his abdominal region and the sweat was pouring off his brow ‘I think I may need to use the toilet’ he mumbled quietly as he very slowly stood up. It was a rather laboured affair as he attempted to get his feet without the use of his legs. All the muscles in the lower half of his body were grimly focused on retaining control of a single aperture ‘something the matter?’ I enquired innocently. There was another agonised groaning sound from his nether regions and his eyes crossed in a painful looking manner. He saw my smug expression and the penny dropped. There was a sudden look of hate before he sprinted for the toilet. A Doppler scream of ‘y.y.yo.o.o.u .b.a..a..a.s.t.a..r..d’ faded into the distance.
Whistling contentedly I strolled through to the lounge and jumped onto the sofa. Kicking off my shoes I picked up the Radio Times and thumbed through to Sunday ‘Now shall I watch Columbo or Casablanca?’ The sounds of multiple toilet flushing and agonised cursing were drifting down the hallway ‘Keep it doon a bit will you’ I shouted ‘I can hardly hear them rounding up the usual suspects!’
Doei
