Yack 2

© The Totton linnet. All Yack stories are now subject to copyright 

Whang’a’ wasp  

Whang'a'wasp

I am pretty sure that I will never drive a car, I simply can’t imagine myself behind the wheel of what would almost certainly be a lethal people knocker over cum squashing machine, I am simply too much of a day dreamer, at present I’ve got plenty of friends and since we do everything all together a lift is assured, the trick is to so ingratiate yourself on everyone as to make yourself indispensible, you have to mould and shape how people think of you, not so much a passenger as a most honoured travelling companion to be fought over. I have a secret hold over my friends in as much as I am the gang cook moll. So if they want feeding after a night’s shameful shenanigans they had better come good in transportation department.

All of this of course does not cover normal everyday to-ing and fro-ing, for that I am reliant on the bus. At this time of year, beside the normal run of the mill respectable fare paying passengers, there is a very good chance the bus will contain at least one if not more terrorists, they are not very large terrorists it is true [ I'm not referring to the denizens of the local primary school] no these terrorist are not usually longer than 1 inch in length and are very pretty in their yellow and black striped jerseys but there is a sting in the tail. People simply can’t relax when there’s a wasp about. Me, my philosophy is live and let live but in order to fully implement such a philosophy unity of opinion and action is essential, there has to be a broad consensus in the matter, for however honourable and common sensical your attitude may be there is always some twerp occupying a seat ahead of you who believes that non-fare paying wasps ought to whanged and that with the utmost savagery in a backward direction, so what had been an almost harmless insect suddenly becomes a ferocious missile every bit as deadly as a yellow and black stripéd bullet from hell and he’s coming in your direction and is not feeling very much overwhelmed at the human species, in fact he has an almighty chip on his shoulder as well as the print marks of the Sun newspaper up his arse, he is not happy

Whang'a'wasp.2

Whenever my cousin came over to stay for a week-end it was always a time of mischief, one day we discovered a wasp nest at the bottom of the garden, now if wasps did not have such a bad reputation for being such a bunch of nasty pantzzez we would probably have left them alone but to our way of thinking such ill natured fellows are just begging to be riled and rassled up and we found just the implement with which to do it in me mums old clothes line prop. For some inexplicable reason best left unexplored my mum was extremely proud of the family’s underwear or so you would think by the way she used to hoist them so very high in the air on the clothes line, the clothes line prop was a good 10 feet long.

So the battle scene was set and numerically speaking the forthcoming melee was set heavily in the Jasper wasps favour, tens of thousands of them versus two little girls at the same end of a 10 foot pole. We took a few paces back and “charge!” we yelled aiming our parliamentary pike at the unsuspecting camp of the cavalier wasps. An unbelievable cloud of wasps arose in the air like a pillar and we watched in some wonderment. After a surprisingly short reconnaisance they obviously decided there was nothing doing and the pillar of wasps collapsed downwards as they went back to their normal daily jaspery duties “charge!” the roundheads yelled again and we watched in delight as the pillar arose once more into the air, only this time they did not give up after a brief reconnaisance quite the reverse in fact for they had spotted the business end of the clothes prop and had come to the conclusion, quite correctly, that this was the cause of their peace being so rudely disrupted. Even more alarmingly than this they spotted 2 little girls on the other end of the afore mentioned prop, it was time for the Cromwellians to beat a hasty and ignominious retreat and this we did with all speed, an innumerable army of outraged royalist wasps in hot pursuit, for all we fled we were soon caught by the vanguard of the swarm and because I was behind my cousin I was the first to cop it, I got 6 stings on my legs, Tracy got 2 and one on the back of her neck before we made it into the outside lavatory and slammed shut and locked the door, we stuffed our cardigans along the bottom of the door, Trace who was always more of a wimp than me started to cry as we leaned against the lavatory wall and watched in horror as thousands of wasps battered the gravel window with the force of hailstones. We were there locked in the loo for an hour and quite a long time after the cavaliers had given it up as a pointless exercise, before we dared to emerge and make a bolt for the house where we could treat our wounds with something  a bit more scientific than water. My dad cleared the nest that evening when he came home from work and needless to say I have always had a healthy respect for those jaspery fellows in yellow since. 

*

STENCHO

Gentle people how often have you heard it said? you have even said it yourself, if you want a job doing properly, you had better do it yourself. However this may be a true and most wise saying and full of sagacity, the fact remains that there are some jobs that fall outside the normal female capabilities by reason of her deficiency in the realm of pure brute strength and ignorance. she needs a man.

In the place where I work there is a delightful little ritual which takes place every year after April the 1st which is the beginning of the new financial year. It is a requirement of the law that all companies keep a hundred per cent record of every single financial transaction large or small for two years, this is so that Her Majesty’s tax inspector may come along with his ready reckoner and his baseball bat to calculate how severely he can bludgeon and beat a corporate business without leaving them so broken and bruised that they would be rendered incapable of continuing to line the coffers of the inland revenue in the months and years ahead, it is called controlled fleecing. Now the paperwork for these afore mentioned transactions may range from the humble till roll to receipts and debit and credit notes of an enormous variety and complexity both in size and shape and colour, these will be stored in a cardboard box the size of an egg box capable of holding 20 dozen eggs. A box of this size containing paper will be the equivalent in weight to half a tree trunk. This is where the ritual comes in, for every year at the beginning of the new financial year one box of transaction notes will be added and one will be disposed with, the box to be disposed of is the one containing documentation prior to 2 years previously, this is then moved into a separate spot all by itself so you have 2 boxes together on one side of the cellar, where they are kept under lock and key, and 1 box on the other side of the cellar. Now what could possibly be more simple than that? Gentle people I ask you to consider, such a system carefully explained must surely be within the mental grasp of the stupidest, dumbest most blithering nincompoop of any porter who ever lived to count his toes. The 2 boxes on one side na ah, you don’t go near or even breathe on them, the 1 box on it’s own on the other side, this is the one which Her Majesty says we may dispose of in any way we may feel fit to do so.

Girl in a dumpster

My little luvvies do you think the porter who was so stupid enough to throw out the wrong box would be capable of retrieving them from the dumpster? oh no, it requires a clerk from the office to be able to sift and sort and decide what must be retained and what can be safely disposed, do you think this afore mentioned clerk will be a senior member of the clerical community? oh deary me no, there is only ONE person to whom this most happy and soul cheering job could fall, YES once again you have been sharp enough to discern who this lucky, lucky young lady might be, ME, ME, ME.  It’s for me to climb into a dumpster full of 5 days worth of putrifying meat, decaying fish, and rotten eggs and vegetables. Oh woe worth the day, even though I wore wellies up to my knees and rubber gloves up to my elbows, oh the stenchy, stinking, reeky, sludgy meat with 2 inches of hair culture on it,shall I lie to you? I had a little cry, yes, yes I did, I felt so utterly sorry for myself.

The burping man

It is almost two years since Ron Purse died, sadly he has burped his last burp and no more will his dulcet tones be heard encouraging eveyone “never mind it’ll soon be christmas” resounding in the streets and alleyways of Winchester, hang on, did I say dulcet? that’s a laugh for whatever Ron was no-one could ever accuse him of that, in fact many people believed he had his own inbuilt megaphone. When Ron would speak to you in his most confidential manner he could be heard from one end of Winchester high st to the other, he didn’t so much greet you, he shrieked at you in a manner that made old King Alfred’s hair stand on end [his statue that is] Ron was not quiet. Neither was he polite, he thoroughly earned his nickname, the first thing he ever said to me was “BELCH” when he saw me waiting for a bus, but when he saw my uncertain look he was quick to follow up with his cheery message to all comers “never mind, it’ll soon be christmas.” That’s what made Ron lovable, his utterly rude manners were never intended to offend you or intimidate you for Ron genuinely loved people. Although he lived alone he was never a recluse, he loved to be out and about, wherever there were people gathered together, whether it was the town hall or church or even youngsters hanging about in the parks or streets there would be Ron in the midst of them all. He was a people person, but that isn’t to say he couldn’t be upset and that is what I want to tell about, because although I had known Ron a couple of years and he had gotten used to me as much as I had to him there was never any taking Ron for granted, after all he was eccentric.

It was my lunch break and I just had time to whizz around Sainsburys and get back to work in time for a quick coffee and as I beetled around the first aisle there was Ron standing motionless [I think he was playing statues] he was side on and holding his old pram in front of him, Ron was inseperable from that pram often containing a plastic doll among other things. The thing is as he was stood there, and he wasn’t speaking either, there was not so much as a centimetre space either side of him or the wretched pram “hello Ron” no response maybe he was playing at being dead, I made an exaggerated feint to his left which I am sure he saw although he did not so much a bat an eyelid, I was on a whizzer and I was desperate so after making another equally exaggerated feint this time to the right, or to the “pram end” I very gently nudged the front of his pram at an angle thereby making a few precious inches space and sped on through to the checkout.

My next encounter with Ron came 3 days later as I was swinging away happily down Winch High st. It was a verbal encounter and he was far at the top end, with a volume and resonance that Pavarotti would have been proud of I heard “SHE KICKED MY PRAM!”  dammit, I pulled my collar up and steadfastly marched forward, why should anyone know he meant me, “HER WITH THE BLUE JACKET, SHE KICKED MY PRAM,” even the briefest reconnaisance told me that there was only one female out in Winch High st that day who had what could remotely descibed as a blue jacket on and that was me, mercifully the High st has many a side road leading off it and I was able to scuttle down one like a hunted rabbit.

http://archive.basingstokegazette.co.uk/2006/12/16/109531.html

The next time I saw him was in the market place, I was making my way towards the fountain to sit with a coffee I’d just bought and I looked across the road and Ron was sat on the taxi rank seat doing what he loved to do best, watch the world go by, he had spotted me too and was giving me the dead eye. Gentle people I have to make an awful confession to you but I have a most unsavoury streak, a real evil sense of humour, I cut a line straight over the road to where Ron was and without looking at him or speaking I sat down beside him, I knew what he would do and I wasn’t disappointed after a few seconds dead eye he stood up with a flourish as if to make a statement which anybody in the position of an onlooker could read and interpret, so I stood up too, still without looking at him and walked to the kerb, Ron sat down again as I had fully expected he might so I turned back and sat back down next to him, I was enjoying myself immensely, Ron was muttering [at 6 decibles] something about women who can’t make their minds up whether they want to go or stay, Ron stood up even more emphatically than before taking hold of the handles of his pram, I stood up too, now all along as I told you I never once looked at him but I was watching him out of the corner of my eye and I saw with more satisfaction than I can tell you that his mouth fell open at this point and he grabbed his pram by the handles and stomped of complaining bitterly about “certain people.” The next time I saw Ron I was passing by the Guildhall and he was leaning on the rail overhead as I passed by he bellowed down to me “oy, aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?” I said “hello Ron is it your birthday then?” he said “nah, but never mind it’ll soon be christmas.” That unfortunately was the last time I saw Ron but at least he had forgiven me for “kicking his pram” and with Ron forgives was forgets. 

   

CATCHING THE BUS.

I am not really a weepy person in fact I’m a little toughie really but I must tell you about another time when I did have a little cry. I was way down Oxford st in London and I had arranged to meet up with a friend at Marble Arch at 5.00 pm and we would grab a burger at Macdonald’s there. It was 4.50 pm now so perilously close and I do like to be punctual, how lucky then to spot a no.8 bus as I approached the bus stop, if I ran and if the conductor [it was one of the few remaining London buses with an open rear passenger entrance] and so there was a conductor, surely if he saw me running he would wait for me before ringing the bell, alas I was still some yards away when he took off, bah, “go on love, you can catch him if you run” shouted the spectators or spectator at least, I thought “yeah, why not, I can catch him if I run” so I took off after the red varmint and put a bit of speedo with it and it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that I managed to get up to him and grab hold of the verticle hand rail just at the very second he decided to change gears and motor “vroom” he went and my little legs left the ground.

Catching the bus

Gentle people you make think that flying like a flag behind a no.8 bus in Oxford st. is fun but it has snags, one which the bus conductor, with the prescience normally only accorded to prophets and seers and suchlike far sighted folk, saw at once. He knew that if some Sunday driver was to cut in front of “our bus” then the driver would have to slam on the anchors and with all the laws of gravity and stuff my little shins would come crashing down on the running board. He looked down at me now and spread his arms and with a smile so sweet that had I been better positioned I would have bitten him for he said “I’m sorry sweetheart but you’ve got to let go.” And so I did have to let go, and so I did let go. OUCH. 

WORK EXPERIENCE

Susanne, go to the kitchen.. NOW!” so said my boss, and just in case you think she was being exceptionally mean, I had probably better explain.

I was on work experience from school at a certain catering venue, and on this particular occasion we had to “rise above ourselves” as we had been told at the function prep meeting for we were putting on dinner for one of Britains very top catering organisations, everything had to be “spot on.” People often think I am being humble when I go to them and beg and whine and plead “for heavens sake,please don’t put me up front, I’ll scrub pots and do the dishes and mop the floor, ANYthing but please don’t put me up front.” do they listen? oh no, so consequently there I was all dolled up and in my black and whites serving the coffee, the evening up until that point had been a splendid success, there was a general hum of cordiality and satisfaction as we flitted prettily between the tables, even I was beginning to believe the evening would pass without any major mishap. That is just when disaster struck, I’ll never forget her [nor her me I'm sure] she was wearing such a pretty chiffon evening dress as I approached her, as we had been shown at the 1/2 hour training session, to her right side, I was coming at her diagonally from the left wiv me coffee jug poised at the ready. My little luvvies how often have we been told that when dealing with people in large numbers we must always be prepared for the unexpected to happen, people do not always behave in the manner we anticipated they would, and this is just the little gem of wisdom I forgot, for just as I was coming toward her from behind she decided to make a shift backwards in her chair towards me, I know what you are thinking, you are thinking “ah such a slow witted, numbed brain clot as this girl obviously is, she did not stop quickly enough” so you might think but you would be wrong, indeed nothing could be further from the truth, I stopped dead in my tracks, I stopped, the coffee jug stopped, but the coffee did not stop, it kept moving forward. I poured her coffee alright, suddenly a coffee stain remarkably like the map of Britain appeared before my dismayed eyes, it occurred to me in some remote spot of my numbed brain how well coffee and pink blended together. How I could wish it were one of those mis-haps that happen and nobody notices so you just carry on and pretend it didn’t, but we are discussing red hot freshly brewed coffee here, right between the shoulder blades, that made her squirm, she went rigid in her seat her shoulder blades almost touching each other. I was struck dumb with horror, she never once took her eyes off me as she rose from her chair and walked by without a single word towards the ladie’s room.

Me Dad has always said about me “that girl will never die in her bed.” Indeed I do seem to be the sort of person that things just happen to, besides some of the things I have shared in Yack 1 & 2 which I swear to you on my dead dog’s life are utterly true and not even exaggerated, I have put an all metal blade through a main feed cable [ carrying 11,000 volts] causing an arc that took half my hair off + eyebrows, it also caused all the fuses to shoot out like bullets and thwack against the wall as well as blowing up a neighbours telly and putting the lights out in North London for 30 seconds. I wasn’t even wearing rubber gloves however to compensate for this I was stood on a metal framed gas heater in my stockinged feet. The knife which as I have told you was all metal simply melted in the heat generated by the flash and welded itself into the cable, I was able to knock it off later with a wooden rolling pin. POOH POOH you say if anyone was ever born so witless and braindead or was just plain drunk enough and besides themself with freezing cold as I was, you say such a person would have been turned instantly into a frazzle fried fishcake and hurled across the room like a flicked flea, na ah you say, didn’t happen. Well all I can tell you is that it did and apart from having to wear a balaclave for a week until a semblance of normality returned to my hairline and eyebrows, here I am alive and kicking to tell you about it.

Snakes alive!

I wasn’t going to tell you that story at all, nor was I going to tell you about how I crossed the road in front of a stationary bus to be picked up on the bonnet of a taxi zooming up on the inside lane, and there I was, perched precariously on his bonnet, hair streaming in the breeze until he applied the anchors and dumped me unceremoniously in the road. I was going to tell you about some of the more mundane things that happen, seemingly just to me, not just once in a lifetime but almost everyday I walk out of my house, besides the wasps I told you about I’ve been attacked by 2 swans 3 alsations an adder [Britain's only poisonous snake] I jumped a ditch in a local copse and landed 6 inches away from his head as he was peacefully basking in the autumn sunshine, luckily he was as shocked as I was at such a rude awakening and it was a question of who lunged 1st as he sprang up into a most wrathful coil with a hiss of indignation and I just beat him into a backward hop with only a split second to spare. Unfortunately I landed in the ditch in a little nettle patch. I’ve been chased by a billy goat, a stallion, bitten by a old sedate mare, spat on by a llama. My friends wouldn’t dream of going out on a night’s fun without taking me along with them, they even bring the popcorn along so they can sit back and enjoy the entertainment that is sure to come their way. That’s what they say “if she’s coming you had better bring the popcorn.” And all these things are just a little example there is so much more. And you say “what do you do when a llama spits full in your face,” I know what I did, I spat right the heck back at him and he had it hanging from his eyelashes.