Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Not On Your Nellybert

50% of our petrol is illegal

Nelly’s Garden continues to run on legal fuel. Ask Big Hans at Hayes Garage bottom of the Dreen Road. He’ll tell you.

Found via Slugger

It's A Bit Parky Out There

It’s been awfully cold recently. Yesterday I had to face freezing fog in order to take Matty on an emergency run to locate missing medication. Those damn fools at the Health Centre had forgotten to order her sleeping pills and she’d endured two sleepless nights. Never mind that on the coldest night of the winter she turned off the central heating and popped off to bed at 8.30pm as is her habit then shivered the whole night through. Never mind that her sleeping tablets barely contain enough dope to send a kitten to sleep but that she feels she needs them anyway. You can get addicted to placebos y’know.

My spoken advice – stay up later, keep the heating on longer, buy an electric blanket.

My unspoken advice – take to the drink, smoke dope, chill…

It was still awfully cold so while I waited for Matty to pile on the going out layers and have a bit of a dither I started reading this story about street prostitution in Belfast. Being a country woman I don’t get to see many street prostitutes although there is supposed to be a brothel in Spide City quite near to where I work. I’m told that the ladies who work there look like any other ordinary housewife you might see in a fruit & veg shop. Through my work I’ve met a few women who’ve worked in the sex trade and by far one of the most ‘successful’ ie, lifetime career rather than brief foray, looked like the sort of neat and pleasant wee woman you’d see working in a provincial accountant’s office.

But still I imagine that street hookers would present a more glamorous image. That fishnet stockings, high boots, low tops and short skirts kind of thing. But it has been awfully cold recently. The Sunday Life had a picture of a group of some of the women ‘plying their trade’. Not a fishnet to be seen! Instead they were, to a woman, wearing trainers, heavy denim jeans, big jumpers and padded jackets. Each and every girl had a money bag round her waist of the kind that look like little aprons. They looked far more like a convention of market traders than a group of hookers. So is this normal? Or is it just the weather? Or is it a Belfast thing?

I promise I won’t make assumptions about anyone who comments on this post.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Keep Off The Grass

I fear that Hannah has become citified. I was telling her this evening about a walk I’d been on with the dogs through the fields and she said, “I can’t walk in those fields Mum. I keep tripping on the grass.”

Tripping on the grass?  What have I reared?

Unless it’s some different sort of tripping on grass she’s talking about.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

On Being Fat

Poor Rob. Never mind that he writes a mighty fine blog. Never mind that he’s got himself an awesome book deal. What he does mind (a lot) is that some pikey-ex of his is putting it round the internet that he’s fat. And apparently he’s not. He’s a veritable man-mountain; he’s a brick shithouse but he’s not fat.

But if he was he could blame it on a virus. It’s true, it really is. I read it in the Sunday Times and I got it here.

Being fat has got nothing to do with glands, genes, or gluttony. You catch it like the common cold. It’s an illness! It’s an epidemic!

But. Twenty doesn’t agree. And when I have a think about it I don’t agree either. The simple reason is that all the fat people I know, including myself, do like to eat a lot. And that all the very fat people I know eat a hell of a lot and don’t shift themselves that much.

So I shan’t blame a virus for my being as fat as a fool, or as Bert so sweetly puts it, ‘a fat wee fucker.’

Turtle Talk

http://www.turtle.ie/

I saw this in the paper today and thought to myself, ‘Wouldn’t you think the sister might have mentioned this to me seeing as she only lives a stone’s throw from Cuas Harbour?’

But no. I have to read about it in the Sunday papers just like any body that doesn’t have kin living underneath Mount Brandon.

As it says in the article Cuas Harbour is where Saint Brendan the Navigator is supposed to have sailed from when he set off on his epic voyage to discover America. And naturally enough the brother-in-law (Scruff’s dad) is called Brendan, it being a favoured name around the Dingle peninsula. As these wee Australian visitors once reported after a visit to the sister’s house, “Dad, Brendan’s really great. They’ve even named a mountain after him!”

Saturday, January 28, 2006

The Notice


The Notice
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
May 2006!

This major construction work is taking place half a mile from this barrier.

The owners of the Galgorm Manor Hotel do own part of the land that the path is on but they didn't pay for the path nor do they maintain it.

Public money built that path for ordinary people to enjoy and now that pleasure is to be removed from us for at least four months.

It's not on.

The Closure


The Closure
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
I took this photograph today but I came across this rather business-like barrier yesterday. It's about 8 minutes into the walk and there are no warnings or signs at the beginning that let walkers know that their way will be curtailed half a mile before the Galgorm Manor Hotel.

I'm very pissed off about it and so are a lot of other people.

The Plaque


The Plaque
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
This plaque explains the funding of the path. As I said it's six years old today.

It was public money built this path.

The Millenium Riverside Walk


The Millenium Riverside Walk
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
Like Ed's blog the Millenium Riverside Walk has a birthday today. It is six years since the then mayor of Ballymena opened the walk to the public.

The walk follows the River Maine from the centre of Cullybackey to near the Galgorm Manor hotel. It takes me 20 minutes to walk it so taking my little legs into account I reckon it is roughly a mile in length.

It's a beautiful and popular walk all year round and particularly lovely in spring.

The Mechanical Contrivium: Trivia about Nelly's Garden

The Mechanical Contrivium: Trivia about Nelly's Garden

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Nelly's Garden!

  1. Human beings are the only animals that copulate while facing Nelly's Garden.
  2. US gold coins used to say 'In Nelly's Garden we trust'.
  3. The fingerprints of Nelly's Garden are virtually indistinguishable from those of humans, so much so that they could be confused at a crime scene!
  4. It can take Nelly's Garden several days to move just through one tree!
  5. If you toss Nelly's Garden 10000 times, she will not land heads 5000 times, but more like 4950, because her head weighs more and thus ends up on the bottom!
  6. Nelly's Garden can eat up to four kilograms of insects in a single night!
  7. Without Nelly's Garden, we would have to pollinate apple trees by hand.
  8. All gondolas in Venice must be painted black unless they belong to Nelly's Garden.
  9. Nelly's Garden can be found on a Cluedo board between the Library and the Conservatory!
  10. India tested its first nuclear Nelly's Garden in 1974.

Found via Ed.

He's still at large but Bert has made a start on the box we're going to keep him in.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Oh. My. God.

So Chantelle won Celebrity Big Brother. Who'd a thought it.

Waiting in the wings was Jodie Marsh contemplating the column inches to be gained from associating with her new best friend.

Also in the background was Mr George Galloway, the well-known MP, with an insincere smile plastered over his fat face.

As for Mr Pete Burns - a face like a fur hatchet describes him nicely.

Thank heavens it's over. Now Beowulf and I can have our lives back.

So Near And Yet...

Grrr. Hours trying to install broadband and now find myself defeated by which bit of wire needs sticking in where? Is there a word (like dyslexia) for wire confusion? I wish I had an Ed or a Mr Bolan tucked away in the attic for times such as these.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Fairy Gold

A Cullybackey man calls his accountant.

Hello Margaret, it’s Willy Moser* here. Have ye them returns ready for yer boy in the tax office?

That’s good. Now what about this letter ye sent me? Ye say yer man’s lucken tae see receipts for thon roof tiles I sowl?

Not a tall. Ye know what them boys buyin’ Bangor Blues is like. Ye just phone them up and they come round and buy them aff ye.  

Name? Not a tall. All I know is he was a wee boy about two and a half fut tall wearin’ a wee green suit and smokin’ a clay pipe. He had a long white beard and a wee green hat way a feather in it if that’s any use tae ye.

Cheque? Not a tall. He gi’en me cash. Fairy gold he callt it.

*some names have been changed

George And His Chums: Part Eight


Hark! What's that sound?

Why that's the sound of careers foundering on foolishness and dying in anguish.

Is it? I thought it was the Big Bother theme tune.

Last night George Galloway, that well-known Champion of the Underdog, launched a vicious verbal attack on Preston and Chantelle. Their crime was telling lies, dressing up like capitalists, smoking cigars and quaffing champagne.

Without pausing to draw breath George then started a tirade against Barrymore for 'showing-off' and hiding cigarettes.

I don't know what he'd say if he was in that house with a tyrant or a war-criminal. I dare say he'd probably kill them with his bare tongue.

While this (debating) was going on the MP's acolyte Mr Pete Burns sat glued to his hero's side, quite open-gobbed with admiration and seemingly unaware that his face was turning green and melting under the Big Brother lights. Barrymore and Galloway were going at each other like..like... like two tired and emotional three-year-olds at the tail-end of a birthday party.

Afterwards Barrymore 'showed off' and George had a massive sulk whilst sucking on his dummy, I mean cigar stub.

George used to be known as a Demon Debater.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Fairy Cakes And Other Disasters

I am on holiday this week. I don’t expect that it will be that relaxing because I have a lot of worrying to do. Now what, you may ask, could I possibly have to worry about? Well – try this for size. The big England-based organisation that I work for is changing its focus. Changes in funding legislation mean that the current emphasis on providing particular services to the client group is going to cost the service-provider more. So they are pulling the plug on us and by this time next month I may be redundant.

It’s getting a bit late for the cavalry to arrive but we are still hoping we’ll be taken over by another organisation. And if we’re not then thirty colleagues and I are going to be signing on.

Today I have been doing what Bert refers to as ‘arsing about the house,’ and what I would describe as working my arse off cleaning up the squalor and mess created by him and the dogs.

Last night I came home from 25 hours in Spide City to find that he hadn’t washed a single dish. But he and his dogs did do the Moyle Walk so I suppose that was all right then. It was even all right that they brought home about ten percent of the Moyle Walk and distributed it around the house through the medium of their dirty boots and paws.

We were having Swisser round for supper so it was just as well that I was in the mood for chopping, dicing and baking. For starters we had my delicious parsnip soup. This was a double pleasure for me. The first pleasure was that Swisser loved it. The second pleasure was that Bert didn’t love it but had to eat it anyway for fear of looking like a philistine in front of Swisser. He doesn’t agree with any soup that isn’t a salty broth and thinks parsnip soup is far too sweet. With the soup we had rich soda bread with added cheese and herbs.

Then we had chicken casserole, which Bert created and it was pretty good too. We were having fairy cakes for dessert because they’re quick and easy but last night they weren’t just as quick and easy as they ought to have been.

The first problem was running out of butter but Bert solved that by phoning Swisser who was en route with a request to bring some. Meanwhile I assembled all the other ingredients. Swisser took her time. Bert said she’d probably got lost which has happened before. Take her off her beaten path and she gets very confused. Eventually she turned up full of tales about helping to catch a runaway white horse. She’s always got some crazy excuse. Anyway I stuffed everything in the Magimix and turned away to check the oven. Suddenly an awful thump! I turned round to find that the mixer had bounced off the worktop and had fallen into the kitchen bin. Disaster! But no. Miracle! The Magimix had dropped in the right way up and was still mixing away inside the bin. The bun mixture was saved. But we were still not out of the woods.

I scooped the mixture into the bun cases and popped it into the preheated oven. And waited. And waited. And waited. After 10 minutes I caught on that I was grilling the buns rather than baking them. So they didn’t rise. But I iced them anyway and we ate them every one whilst watching George Galloway prancing about in a shiny red leotard. Swisser and I both agreed that he’s not in too bad a shape for a fifty something but that he can’t dance for toffee.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Ruth Kelly's Hard Week: My Thoughts

I still think that teachers have got more to fear from their pupils than pupils have to fear from their teachers. Are teachers supposed to be saints? Or are they supposed to be teachers?

So how about parents taking a bit of responsibility for their children? Hey! - just for the novelty of the thing. Because if parents don't the government will try to and the results could be nasty. Nastier.

Right On Bert. Not.


I was telling Bert about how much attention Paddy gets from small children when I take him out for walks in the village. I remarked that, for some reason, little ones seem to be very attracted to him. I proposed that this might be because he has the look of a cartoon dog. Bert suggests, “He’d be a good dog for a paedophile then?”

Thursday, January 19, 2006

George And His Chums: Part Seven

I thought George would be gone by now. But he isn't.

He was doing well for a while but his fellow contestants are starting to get the measure of him. And it seems that he's finding it harder to best Big Brother than the US Senate.

That was a stroke of evil genius getting him to nominate three others whilst the rest of the house watched. His face when he realised what BB had done to him was priceless. He didn't handle the aftermath very well either.

And what was that about championing the underdog George. You just sat there in silence (plotting your next move?) while the vile Pete Burns tore into Traci.

Speaking of Pete Burns - I have no problem with men expressing themselves through costume. Why not? Why shouldn't males wear make up and dresses? But show a little decorum Pete. Put your saggy bum cheeks away. Nobody wants to see them.

And the ageism. You'd think Mister Burns was a youngster himself. Called the 50 something actress a 'dried-up husk, ' when the only thing that's keeping him from dessicating is botox and collagen.

I'm sure it's bad for my soul watching this stuff.

Scruff Checks It Out


The Scruffy One
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
Scruff belongs to my sister Tricia and her hubby Brendan. The reason we are looking after him is because Trish and Brendan are travelling in South East Asia for a while.

Scruff is a man's dog. When he is at home (the Dingle Peninsula) he goes to work every day with Brendan. They drive a digger (backhoe to you North Americans) and Brendan reckons Scruff could handle it all by himself if it wasn't for his lack of opposable thumbs.

While he's here he goes to work with Bert. Today they were in the fields lifting trees. There is pipe-laying going on at the bottom of the lane and Scruff's ears pricked up when he heard the bump-bump-bump of a digger bucket, He trotted off down the lane to see if it was Brendan. When he saw that it wasn't he trotted back up and paid it no more mind.

So if you happen to get the length of an internet cafe, Trish and Brendy, be reassured that Scruff hasn't forgotten you.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

George And His Chums: Part Six

My mother always said that you shouldn't mock the afflicted. So I won't. She also said that you should always tell the truth so I will.

George has managed to escape the public vote. He has done this by lying, conniving and back-stabbing. He has also employed a fair amount of cunning political tactics. He is eminently well-qualified for this. In the short-term.

But to get back to my first paragraph. I will not mock Pete Burns for he is afflicted. He is afflicted with selfishness, foul-mouthedness and the dress sense of a half blind and drunken hooker. He is a nasty piece of work. I don't want to see his skinny withered arse hanging out of his hot-pants one more time. I don't want to see him adjusting his ball-bag one more time. I want him gone. Obviously not enough to actually vote him out but enough to hope.

There Matty. I only mocked a little bit and I told the truth.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Evil NIR

Hannah has a new enemy although she remains at daggers drawn with her old enemy Evil Nat West. She declared war on Evil Northern Ireland Railway yesterday evening after one of their vile and smelly trains refused to let her off at Cullybackey. The door wouldn't open and before she knew it she was whizzing off to Ballymoney.

All that after a hard day at Nixt! and an evening session with the dentist. She had been so pleased to make the train as, ever the considerate daughter, she wanted to save me the trouble of picking her up in town.

But oh! The rage. Apparently she gave the poor guard a right earful. And her with the frozen mouth and all. I bet he was scared. He refused to take any responsibility at all. All I could do as she raged all this down the phone to me was agree with her that NIR were evil and their employees all stupid. And of course their trains are crap.

Bert the Wonderful volunteered to pick her up in Ballymoney. By the time he got her home she had calmed down. A little.

Stuff


Tonight's Dinner
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.
Since the New Year started I have been doing stuff. I have been doing a lot of baking and cooking. I have been doing a lot of sorting out. I have been doing far too much eating and drinking but I think I may have just 'caught myself on'. I have been Scruff-minding, Hannah-driving and putting in an hour or two in Spide City.

I have been letting my hair get far too long (anybody recommend a good hairdresser?)

Pictured is tonight's dinner. The pie is bacon, leek and cheese, the pastry home-made and delectable. I also made fairy cakes from the Nigella book and iced them too roughly. The cake cases were too small and the cakes spilled everywhere. I shall do it again. They were delicious though.

Monday, January 16, 2006

I Put A Spell On You

This post is for all you married and cohabiting women out there. It’s a little witchy spell I want to share with you.

HOW TO BRING YOUR WANDERING MAN BACK HOME

You will need a cauldron of boiling water, a broom and a floor mop. To the cauldron of boiling water you may add any of the following potions or powders. Do not mix these potions or powders for the results may be catastrophic and you could blow up your happy home. You should add to the cauldron of boiling water PARAZONE or FLASH or MR MUSCLE.  Next take your broom and thoroughly sweep your floor. Then take your floor mop and dip into your potioned or powdered cauldron. Use your floor mop to clean your floor. When the floor is beautifully clean lean on your floor mop and admire your handiwork. It is at this stage that your man will arrive home and will begin stomping all over your lovely clean floors with his big dirty feet.

Works for me every time.

The Boy Can't Help It







Who has secret crush on you? (whats his\her name`s first letter)



Someone, whos name starts with J, has secret crush on you!
Take this quiz!








Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code


Mmmm. The boss's name starts with J. I hope his wife doesn't read this blog.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Swisser Creates A Stink

Bert: There’s a bit of a funny smell in here.

Swisser: There is! I didn’t like to say anything but there is a bad smell in here.

Bert: It smells like silage effluent.

Swisser: It smells like rotting flesh.

Nelly: I can’t smell anything. But then I’ve got this cold. Can you smell anything Hannah?

Hannah: I can’t smell anything either.

Swisser: Well I can! I noticed it as soon as I came in but I didn’t like to say until Bert mentioned it. It’s definitely something rotting.

Bert: It smells more like silage effluent to me. Maybe one of the dogs was rolling in something.

Swisser starts sniffing the dogs. She then starts lifting cushions and smelling the sofas. Nelly looks on bemused.

Swisser: It’s something rotting. Flesh rotting.

Nelly: Well if it is you must have brought the smell of it in with you on your feet because I thoroughly cleaned this room yesterday. I had all the sofas out and hoovered and mopped everywhere.

Nelly is starting to feel a little bit pissed off. She goes into the kitchen and starts washing up.

Nelly: Maybe what you’re smelling is cabbage. I let some cabbage get burned when I was making supper.

Swisser: Yes! Maybe there’s something rotting in your fridge.


Swisser rushes into kitchen, opens the fridge door and starts sniffing the contents.

Nelly: It’s hardly going to be the fridge reeking out the room next door. Anyway don’t you think it’s a bit rude to go around sniffing people’s fridges?

Swisser: Oh right. Suppose it is a bit.


Swisser returns next door and begins to tell a tale about being chased around the roads at Coleraine University by an irate car dealer from Limerick.

Nelly picks up a large sharp knife and eyes it thoughtfully before replacing it in the cutlery drawer.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

George And His Chums: Part Five

Peeps I have worrying news to impart. George's charms are beginning to work. They love him now. Especially the big silly trannie who is his number one fan. As George himself has said he's not at all displeased that the great British public has chosen to keep "a leading left-wing politician over a page three trollop."

Well he might be a big man in the House but it's the wrong House.

Financial Advice

Whilst coming out of Poundstretchers one spotty spide says to this other spotty spide

A Bounty and a 7Up! That would have got you a pint. You should watch your money better mate.

Hard Times For Pearlie

SATURDAY

I was footerin’ aboot ootside last Saturday dinnertime and I went to go back into the house and I caught my toe on that oul ramp and went down a rattle. I thocht Nelly or Hannah wud a seen me but they didnae but lucky enough the postman was in the yard and he came over to me and says, “Did ye fall dear?” Well I felt like saying back tae him. “No. I didnae. I’m just lyin’ here takin’ a bit of the sun,” but I didnae. It wasnae too bad. I banged my toe and scratched my knee and the worst thing aboot it all was I tore my tights and they were nearly new ones that Nessie had bought me for Christmas the year before last. So I just went on up to Lizzie’s anyway for I’d toul her I’d go up and gie her a han’ oot for she’s only after a cataract operation.

SUNDAY

The oul toe was as sore as anything and I couldnae get tights on nor a shoe neither so I just wore an oul sock of Stanley’s and harpled aboot the best I could. Tae tell the truth I wasnae much use to Lizzie a-tall. I cud only get aboot sideways but Lizzie made a quare laugh of it and called me Sidewinder.

MONDAY

I put on an appointment with the doctor and phoned Bertie tae bring me home for it for I was no use a-tall tae Lizzie. Harplin’ aboot on the stick was as tiring as a days work in the moss and there was a big blood blister on my toe had it twice the size. Bertie came and brocht me home. Of course with all the innin’ and ootin’ o’ the car Stanley’s sock was soaken so I asked Nelly to get me one of Bertie’s. There wasn’t a shoe aboot the place would have went on me so Nelly suggested I put a plastic bag roon me fut to keep it dry. Anyways the doctor lanced the oul blister but he toul us we’d have to go to the Casualty for an X-ray. It turns out the bone is cracked and I’m tae watch meself I don’t get an infection for Bertie says it could end up with me havin’ the fut off and that’s what comes of slipin’ aboot in his oul’ deck shoes.

TUESDAY

I didnae go to my club in Broughshane and I’ve Nelly and Bertie in and oot mekkin’ me tay and all. Nelly’s hopeless at cookin’. She’s always messing aboot with the food and she knows I only like plain food. Anyways she says she’s makin’ a roast dinner and she’ll be bringin’ me in some. I says all I want are two plain proota and a bit of butter but then Bertie lands in with chicken and carrots and roast proota as well as the boiled proota. I says to him, “Sure I said I only wanted proota,” and he says “Well give me it then and I’ll scrape the rest of it into the dog’s dish and just leave the potatoes,” but I toul him to let it be I might eat a bit of it. Then nixt thing he was in with rice puddin. Nelly destroys rice puddin. She puts raisins in it and cinnamon and cream! Everybody else goes on aboot how nice it is but I’d rather have plain rice done in a saucepan on top of the stove. I took it anyway.

WEDNESDAY

I’m a wee bit better the day. Nelly’s away to work. I don’t know who’s going to help me on with my corsets tomorrow. I couldnae get doon to the nurse to change my bandages for they were having a training day. A lot of oul nonsense. Ye’d think they’d all be well enough trained by now.

THURSDAY

I got my bandages lucked at the day. It was a day’s work getting’ in and oot of the car and no joke tryin’ to houl meself up with the stick in one hand and and tryin’ to houl the plastic bag on my fut with the other. I heared Nelly sayin’ to Bertie that I lucked like Anthony Chair playin’ Richard III but I didnae understand a word of her oul nonsense. By the time I got intae the hoose I was pounded. Nelly got me another sock for my fut. I’ll gie her this – that idea aboot cuttin’ the fut out of my tights to get them on was brave and good. I asked her to get me my apron and she says, “What d’ye want an apron for? Sure ye’ll be doin’ no work tonight.” And I says, “Och I need my apron. I’m coul without it,” and she starts to laugh and says she’ll be puttin’ that in her blog for sure. Half times I don’t know what she’s meannerin’ on aboot. She’s not near wise.

FRIDAY

I’m feelin’ much better today and have been able to get oot a bit more. I was able to go over to the bin myself. It wasn’t that I had any rubbidge to put in it but Bertie was over this mornin’ interferin’ in my kitchen and he’s threw oot my pasteboard collection, all my empty margarine tubs and my Sheba containers. He says, “I don’t know what you need to have all that crap sittin’ aboot and I can hardly move in that kitchen.” He says that if I was left to myself I’d be as bad as our Nessie who’s never threw away a loaf paper in her life. He’s a cheeky brat. I sent word over that I was able to get my own tay now and not tae bother. It took me ages to gather up those margarine tubs and the Sheba containers wud hae made great ashtrays. What odds if I don’t smoke. Ye'd never know the day somebody’d be in luckin an ashtray.

Friday, January 13, 2006

George And His Chums: Part Four

Well it seems as if George's constituents are going to have to manage without him for at least another four days. Meanwhile the nation has been disturbed and traumatised to see the MP for Bethnal Green and Bow acting out his pussy fantasies with the actress Miss Rula Lenska.

Meanwhile Chantelle has shown herself to be a skilful negotiator between warring factions during the Quorn Wars and Pete has joined the George fan club. Jodie was given a merciful release and in the Times Barrymore was described as "the old man who weeps in the shed."

Faria is still going on about Sven (her only claim to fame) and Maggot has yet to come out of his shell or metamorphise into a bluebottle. That is what maggots do, isn't it?

Happy Birthday Ganching



Happy birthday. Sorry I sent your card to the wrong address. It'll be heading to 16A, Ganching Road, London N4. I did not use a recent photo so as to protect your identity. Instead this one from the Swinging Whatevers in which you are the spitting image of the venerable and esteemed ancestor Father Joe. I hope you are having a lovely day.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Serves Me Right

Karma has come upon me. On Monday I mocked Bert and his man flu. "How come I never get sick?" I taunted.

Now my throat feels like it is filled with broken glass. Still... a nice cup of tea should help.

Day off work? Nonsense. Being sick is what holidays are for.

George And His Chums: Part Three

George's plan to 'get down with the kids' is not working out. They all hate him. His only true chum appears to be the elderly ginger actress. She asked him what Saddam was really like.

All the others either dislike him intensely or find him boring and dull. Even Jodie Marsh said he was a big gype. Or at least that is what she would have said had she hailed from Norn Iron.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Last Night I Went To Bed With Paul McKenna...

...a glass of Jameson's and a ginger biscuit. I figured that this was OK as after seven days Paul will have changed my life and I won't be needing as much whiskey. Or ginger biscuits.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Nelly Cries Her Eyes Out

If there is one thing I really don't appreciate it is bad news the minute I get in from a 25 hour stint in Spide City. Yesterday I got back at 4 and Bert wakes up and says to me,

We're a dog down.

What! Which dog? Where's Scruff?

Scruff's OK. He's away out with Hannah and Zoe.

Where's Rosie. What's happened? Is she alright?

Her and Paddy have been away since 8 this morning. Paddy's back about half an hour but there's no sign of Rosie.

What! And you're lying there!
So it's on with the wellies and out to the fields. I'm out roaring ROSIE! ROSIE! I wish I could whistle but I can't so I just plod around the perimeter of the fields shouting out for her every 5 minutes or so. Nothing. I'm imagining her shot or worse. What's worse than being shot? Being half shot lying, dying like a dog (literally) in a ditch. This image is so heart-breaking that I start sobbing. I hear whistling coming from the planting. Bert is out tramping the fields too and whistling (lucky bugger that he can). I'm sobbing and shouting. After half an hour I decide to give it up. It's starting to get dark. I'm hoping that she'll be in the yard when I get back but she's not.

So I wander around the house distraught. I end up on the sofa and I'm crying my eyes out. I never cried this much when Danny (best dog ever) died. Hell I never cried this much when Daddy died. Then this brown thing appears at the door. Doesn't even look ashamed. She's not supposed to be brown. She's supposed to be black and white. But she's brown as mud. Was I pleased? I was. Sort of. It meant I could stop crying.

Bert and Hannah are crap at looking after the scunging devil dogs. It takes me to keep them at home.

It was only when I went out to call Bert home than I properly realised that the poor bloke was poorly. He had man flu. And he still went out dog-hunting. That's how scared of me he is.

George And His Chums Part Two

George is bemused by his fellow house mates. He finds the younger ladies astoundingly potty-mouthed and he is beginning to think he's not quite as 'in touch' with the youth of today as he thought he was. He finds it very perturbing that no-one has as yet attempted to drink of the fountain of wisdom that is George Galloway MP. Why no-one has even asked him what that fellow Blair is really like.

This view from the Springhill sofa is put by Bertie boy.

"That George Galloway is a hateful bastard."

Meanwhile Nelly cringes behind the Springhill sofa at the woefulness that is Ms Jodie Marsh.

I would like to nominate a surprise guest a la Jackie Stallone. Welcome to the Big Brother House Dr Ian Paisley MP. Now that would be a show worth watching.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

I'm Just A Girl Who Can't Say No...

...which is why I'm in Spide City this weekend. It was supposed to be my weekend off, my only weekend off in a six-week rota, it was supposed to be the easy week where I claimed all my time-owed-in-lieu and relaxed in my newly guest-free house with Bert and the Banana.

And it could have been a seven day week if I hadn't refused shifts on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

They're restless too in Spide City. I'm expecting mayhem tonight. Hope I'm wrong. I'm too tired for mayhem.

My dream shift - I go in. The person I relieve has done all the work so I can take it easy. The atmosphere is relaxed and peaceful. All around ladies sit chatting pleasantly, sipping tea, doing needlepoint and making scrapbooks. There is a delicious smell of home baking coming from the kitchen. All the ladies have an early night.

My nightmare shift - I go in. The person I relieve has done nothing, (because she too has had a nightmare shift) so I have to work like a dog. The atmosphere is tense. All around ladies sit glaring at each other and screaming abuse, throwing tea around and threatening to kick each other's heads in. There is a miasma of cheap fag smoke and the reek of rancid trainers coming from the kitchen. All the ladies go out drinking and on their eventual return keep me up all night fighting and smashing delpht* The police bring me two referrals at 2am.

That's them fighting and smashing plates. Not me

George And His Chums: Part One

Befitting his importance George was the last to enter the Big Brother House. He wasted no time in organising the others into introducing themselves. He started off the introductions thus, "I'm George Galloway and I'm an MP." Everyone was dead impressed that such an important person had chosen to join the fun in the Big Brother House except the Americans who didn't know what an MP was. Some of the younger members of the household were to be found later in the Diary Room trying to find out who, exactly, the MP guy was. It was obvious they'd never heard of him before. George's decision to enter the Big Brother House has not been before time.

George has brought a pet/parasite in with him. It is a little furry caterpillar that he keeps on his top lip. Maybe it is a parasite as I have not seen him petting it yet. In fact he was trying to smoke it off with a big stinking cigar (a gift from Saddam) but the wee brute wouldn't budge.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Car Crash

Obviously you are much too cerebral to pay any attention to tellytrash such as Celebrity Big Brother, but in case you accidentally catch a glimpse, (and drop dead of apoplexy) I'd better warn you that one of your least favourite politicians is taking three weeks off (he'll never last three weeks) to show the great British public what a helluva nice guy he really is.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Trinny, Susannah, Swisser and Bert


Not very many people knew (until now) that Bert is very keen on the makeover programme What Not To Wear. He is particularly keen on Trinny. Apart from the lissom Trinny other reasons he enjoys the programme are - plentiful opportunities to see ordinary ladies in their underwear and he does love watching Susannah poke and prod at her victim’s bouncy bits. And then his eyes moisten when, at the end of the programme, the victims appear made over, radiant and as beautiful as they can be.

Since Bert has become a What Not To Wear devotee his fashion sense has heightened considerably and I have been advised to bin a couple of items of cherished clothing. Mind you the clothes that I binned were bad. Really, really bad. Think poor Norfolk pig-farmer bad, think bag-lady wouldn’t be seen dead in bad, think not even fit for lining the dog basket bad.

Now everyone is getting into the act. I bought two new tops yesterday one of which I was going to wear to a party later on that evening. I tried on the red flowery one. Swisser said, “No. Absolutely not.” Then I tried on the beige one. “Yes, much, much better,” she said. Then she casually picks up the red one and dropped it in the bin! “Can’t I even wear it to work?” I pleaded. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s hideous.”

So I told Bert that she’d ‘Trinny and Susannahed’ me. He was delighted. “Did she poke and prod at your bouncy bits too?” he enquired. “No,” I answered “She didn’t take it to those lengths. She knows I’d of cowped her if she’d tried that!”

So then we thought it’d only be fair if Swisser ‘Trinny and Susannahed’ him too. She gazed him up and down then pronounced, “Mmmm. It’s definitely shirt out over your jeans. Either that or do your flies up.”

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

The Visitor's Book

As I cannot be arsed to think up a new post I have decided to post some seasonal extracts from the pages of Nellybert’s Visitor’s Book.


…. We arrived on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately (once again) Bert went to the wrong airport. How was I supposed to know that Belfast City is the one in Belfast? Anyway Ma should have done her research properly. Everybody knows that flights from Norfolk come into the wee airport…

…. It wasn’t too awful a visit. As usual there were way too many scary aunts around. I just hid behind piles of cushions and dogs. Nelly gave me a very strange present….

…. The night I stayed there were so many people there I only got a sofa. It was my birthday too! That panelling in Nelly’s shower room is fabuloso. My projectile vomiting wiped off a treat…

…. If I weren’t an animal-loving vegetarian I’d shoot that fucking cat. Pissed all over me just as I was getting off to sleep….

…I toddled over for the New Year’s Eve party and had just the one drink. Nelly said it was a triple brandy or something like that. Very nice. But you should have seen those young ones. Bottle after bottle of stuff they were drinking. I never seen anything like it. Mind you I would have liked to try that red stuff the weans were at. Hardy Breezer they said it was called. Nelly had that oul camera out. She knows I hate getting my picture took….

…Nelly and me made pizza and salads then I played a game were all the dogs were sharks. They needed new shark names so Rosie was Peter, Scruff was Trevor and Paddy was Paul. Mammy had to chase me all round the house to try and get me to go to bed at half-twelve. Nelly tried to help her but Mammy dunted her out of the road…

…Nelly and me went for a walk and talked about life and stuff and I was telling her all about being a first-year at Slemish and about all my teachers and friends and stuff. Nelly started girning later about how we all get crumbs in the butter and spread it all over the surfaces. She kept getting me to make her coffee.

NB: Other visitors included Zoe, Dave, Jean, Jonny, Tricia, Brendan, Sadie, Naoise, Mel, PP, Jenny, Marty, Jazzer, Barbara, Martina, Ian, Lee, Martina, Caoimhe, Penny, Scruff, Macy and last, but not least, Gracie.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Funny Or What?








the Ham

(47% dark, 46% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style:
CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | LIGHT


Your style's goofy, innocent and feel-good. Perfect for parties and for the dads who chaperone them. You can actually get away with corny jokes, and I bet your sense of humor is a guilty pleasure for your friends. People of your type are often the most approachable and popular people in their circle. Your simple & silly good-naturedness is immediately recognizable, and it sets you apart in this sarcastic world.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Will Ferrell - Will Smith




The 3-Variable Funny Test!
- it rules -

If you're interested, try my latest: The Terrorism Test







My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
















free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 65% on darkness





free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 62% on spontaneity





free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 45% on vulgarity
Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Bedknobs and Bastarding Broomsticks

Over the Christmas period my houseful of twenty-somethings have watched,

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
101 Dalmatians
The Parent Trap
Toy Story
Jimmy Neutron and many, many more.

They went out to see The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Bert finds this very baffling. When he picked me up from work on Friday I asked him what they’d all been up to. He replied,

They’re all lying about watching Bedknobs and Bastarding Broomsticks.


So while he and I were busying ourselves preparing rooms and beds for the Banjo invasion I ran this theory past him.

In your twenties you are not that terribly far away from childhood. And Christmas is a time that is strongly associated with childhood so if you find yourself in a parental nest over the holiday period it feels natural to regress to the cosiness of childhood. And for this lot that cosiness is associated with lots of children’s telly. Bless. For they’ll all be getting turfed back into to the harsh realities of adult life this coming week.