24th March 2020
Day 1 of Lockdown.
I tell you what, I wish I’d never signed that damn contract!
I’m ninety fucking six for Christ’s sake! I shouldn’t have to do this shit.
But, I was off my tits and that bastard Francis Williams knew it when he offered me this job.
“Come be a beverage dispenser at the Talun Chronicle.’ He said, ‘Great rates of pay, a fantastic working environment and an annual tattoo of your choice!”
And I believed him.
The only truth in his offer was the bit about the tattoos. But even then, I don’t really think a free annual tattoo performed with an old biro and a toffee mallet by a man called ‘Crazy Eye Johnny’ in a filthy basement could be referred to as a ‘perk’.
But I was young and stupid and, as I said before, off my nut, so I took Williams at his word.
To be honest, when I first met Francis Williams I was a little enamoured by him. He had such bearing!
Like an aristocrat he was.
One eye, a hooked nose and syphilis. Just how I like my men.
The withered leg that forced him to walk everywhere in ever decreasing circles was just the icing on the cake. He went everywhere in a waltz!
I was tidying away the teacups in a large conference room when I first saw him and it was love at first sight.
Then he walked out again and I was crestfallen.
But then he walked back in!
Unfortunately the conference room had many doors along all sides and his waltzing walk had him coming in one door, circling to the other side of the room and being forced to walk out of another.
He came in and out of that room ten times before his wayward legs finally allowed him to approach me.
Each time he entered he would wink at me and bow before looking very confused as he headed out of another door.
His last exit saw him enter the garden area where the frog collection was housed. I heard a large splash and some muttered curses and when Francis re-entered the room moments later, he was drenched, covered in algae and had a prize Kleptomanian Pocket Toad perched on his head.
This was in Germany back in ’45 and I had spent the last five years as tea lady to Adolf Hitler. I didn’t even know there was a war going on until hundreds of heavily armed men hove into view!
Little Addy was just a nice young man with a penchant for Earl Grey as far as I was concerned and it definitely beat milking cows on the slopes of Mount Shitslide with me old Dad.
Especially as me Dad didn’t even have any cows, just bulls.
It was a daily struggle filling the pails and I hated every minute of it. The bulls seemed to quite like it though.
I was trying to milk Harold, the biggest of our bulls, when a moustachioed guy in a dapper uniform wandered over the crest of the hill. He was muttering something about a faster face and a promised wand, I wasn’t really paying that much attention to be honest, but he noticed me and came over to chat.
“Vat is sturdy fraulein like you doing masturabatering ze massive man cow?” he asked.
“It’s just what I does.” I replied as Harold kicked me once more in the bosom. I was used to that though, breasts like a pair of cannonballs me. Have to be when you spend your life getting booted in the boobs by excited bulls.
“Do you not have ze dream of better thinks?” he said, scratching his arse.
My mind wandered to the glamourous ladies I had seen serving tea on a recent bucket buying trip my father and I had taken to New York.
They were so beautiful!
All lace and frills and stainless steel tea urns. I looked at them in awe and ever since then had dreamed of having my own tea urn.
“I want to be a tea lady!” I gasped.
Long story short, he was in need of a tea lady for his fortress in the mountains and offered me the job there and then. To be honest, I think he was impressed by my mighty bosom. I saw him glance several times at the skill I had in balancing a bucket on each breast.
I walked to the family home, gathered what few possessions I had, punched my dad in the earhole and left for a better life with Adolf.
A few days later I was blissfully dispensing hot beverages for the upper echelons of the Third Reich.
They were a funny lot.
Always going on about pig dogs (whatever they are), invading some Belgian waffles and they all seemed to have ex-girlfriends called Anne who lived in Austria.
Several years went by with me in a state of permanent bliss. I brewed the tea, served the tea and then cleaned me urn. Happy days they were.
Obviously, years later I learned of the horrors of World War II that were happening at the same time I was so merrily dusting my doilies and balancing me bourbons.
At the time though, all I saw was a bunch of overgrown boys in uniforms playing coits and staring at my massive boobs. It all seemed so harmless.
Then Colonel Francis Williams and his lot turned up, slaughtered everyone they could see in a grey uniform and whisked me away to England.
Williams told me all about Adolf and his mob and what they’d been up to. I denied it at first.
“Not my little Addy!” I said.
But it became indisputable when I saw the wreckage and destruction wrought on the cities of Europe.
When we arrived back in England, Williams and I went out on the lash.
I got pissed as a fart, licked the back of too many toads believing them to be jellied sweets of some kind and Williams offered me a job.
He was going back to his civilian role as a reporter for a newspaper and he made it sound just as glamourous as the lives of the tea ladies I had witnessed in New York.
I signed a contract and have spent the rest of my life here, in this dingy office, with its weird resident creatures, badly concealed supernatural doorways and its creaky ceilings.
The third floor loo leaks too!
I didn’t read the contract of course.
I grew up wanking bulls so I never learned to read. That and I was tripping my head off from all the frogs.
Years later, after finally learning to read at St. Murgatroyd’s Online School of Stuff, I learned my contract lasted until ten years after my death (on the off chance I was resurrected as a zombie) and entitled Williams to basically order me to do whatever he wanted.
Bastard!
You can be assured that my initial amorous intentions towards Williams faded quite quickly after I started working at the Chronicle.
It hasn’t been so bad since Bradley Williams took over from his Uncle Francis. At least he’s not an absolute dickhead.
I would go as far as to call him, not quite a friend, more of a person I don’t want to kill every day.
He likes his tea so he has that going for him. Anyone who likes a brew can’t be all bad in my opinion. And this job still beats wiggling a bull’s wang around for twelve hours a day.
I still have that damn clause in my contract though, despite my best efforts to have Bradley change it.
He says he simply can’t.
‘It’s written on human skin and inked in blood.” he says, “There’s nothing I can do unless you happen to have twenty virgin Geordies to sacrifice and appease the Great Demon of the Lower Tyne!”
Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a Geordie virgin so I am pretty much stuck with it.
So that’s why I’m here. Writing this stupid log. If I don’t, Alan Shearer is entitled to my kidneys and half of my left leg and I quite like at least one of my kidneys.
Some stupid virus comes along, the twats at Whitehall think the only way to stop it is to make everyone stay indoors and muggins here gets told I have to live in the office until it’s over.
‘Someone needs to polish the ducks and feed the giraffes.” said Bradley, “And there has to be someone to watch the black doors or anything might come through and we don’t want that, remember the last Christmas party?”
I do. And I really do not want a repeat of those events. I only just got the stains out of my bloomers.
So I have to live in the cupboard under the first floor stairs and keep this stupid log of events for the management, whoever the fuck they are.
I ain’t ever seen no management. Not one time.
I heard Bradley getting an earful down the phone a few times but that could be anything. That guy is always up to something nefarious and getting himself in trouble.
But, a contract is a contract, rules is rules and a door is sometimes a jar, or something. I have to do this shit or my immortal soul ends up on a never ending hen party in a Newcastle nightclub and fuck that for a laugh.
So…
Day 1.
My spirits are good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
I had to beat a small, hairy thing to death with a mop for trying to steal me chips and some massive, slimy thing with suckers has taken up residence in the stationary cupboard.
I’ll sort that out tomorrow.
Everything is normal.
Day 2.
My spirits remain good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
Chucked the corpse of the small, hairy thing out the window as per company policy.
Used the Fiery Sword of Matthew to wage battle with the Sucker Thing. It didn’t go well. The damn thing is so slimy it put the sword flames out!
Without the fiery part it’s just a rather dull, rusty old sword. I would have been better off with the mop.
Sucker Thing managed to smash one of the shelves in the stationary cupboard with a flailing tentacle and scattered paper all over the floor.
I slipped on a loose leaf of A3 and landed head first on a glue container which spewed its ancient contents everywhere.
After that, it was all bit of a blur.
The glue fumes made the whole thing a little bit surreal and I could swear at one point both me and Sucker Thing were both trying to beat ourselves up.
Sucker Thing was attempting to do macramé and I wandered off looking for a cheeseburger.
Almost let the bastard out!
When I finally regained my senses and headed back to the cupboard it was half way out with a stupid look on its face. I eventually managed to beat it back into the cupboard with a four-hole punch and some well-placed staples.
I need to rethink my strategy and try again tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll give Mathew a ring cos that sword has to still be under warranty.
They shouldn’t just go out like that right?
At the very least it should be mentioned in the instruction booklet that it’s not to be used in the presence of gunge.
Already annoyed with this. I miss my dog and the local takeaways are all closed so I can’t even get a decent curry.
Covid 19.
The worst sequel ever.
Covid 1 – 18 were much better.
Day 3.
My spirits remain good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
Matthew said that the flame going out on the Fiery Sword is down to ‘improper usage’ and that, therefore, the warranty doesn’t cover it.
He’s damn lucky we’re in lockdown or I’d be straight round there and stick the sword right up his arse. See how he likes that. Does his warranty cover ‘insertion into Matthews’?
Sucker Thing has been quiet today so I let it be. I think it’s addicted to the glue fumes.
I had a peek through the key hole and it’s just lying on its back, giggling and staring at its own tentacles.
Oh well, at least one of us is happy.
I’m getting addicted to social media!
There’s not much else to do.
People are going a little bit bananananas.
I was reading all these crazy conspiracy theories about it and I had a weird thought.
What if….
The Covid 19 conspiracy is true but not the way everyone thinks?
It’s not the virus.
It’s the tests. They are using those to gather everyone’s DNA for biometric based security or something.
No one’s looking at the tests and no one has a problem with getting one.
It’s just some snot, right? What could be wrong with that?
But, like a good magician, everyone is distracted by the virus. Misdirection.
Had a go at making my own curry this evening. Failure is not the word.
It melted the pan AND the cooker!
The third floor kitchen is now unusable.
It didn’t taste too terrible though but you need a lot of naan to help it down.
Not too nice when it comes out the other end though.
About five minutes after you eat it!
The third floor bathroom is now also unusable.
I threw what was left in the stationary cupboard to see if that sorts Sucker Thing out.
There’s a patch of mould in the staff canteen that is starting to look suspicious. I tried cleaning it a few days ago but it growled at me so I left it alone.
I think it’s planning something.
Day 4.
My spirits remain good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
Some ectoplasm drips on lower basement black door hinges. I addressed it with some WD40. Seemed to work fine.
In the absence of the Monks of Plugoleum I don’t know what else I can do.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
I don’t know if I am imagining things, but there seems to be less ducks now.
Or some of them have moved. Something is different. Can’t quite put my finger on exactly what.
The mould in the canteen has recruited an old coke can. I have no idea where it came from. But it’s furry now and looks like it’s been hitting the gym hard.
I’ve locked the canteen door. Someone else can deal with it.
I’m currently wondering how people who can’t spell, use proper punctuation or string together a coherent sentence can somehow get a different understanding of information relating to Covid 19 than people who have letters after their names.
And why those same people jump on social media to exclaim that they know better than everyone else because they are obviously so much more intelligent than the rest of us.
Given that the correct assimilation of printed information is directly related to the ability to read and comprehend, could they consider the fact that they might be getting the proverbial wrong end of the stick?
You know, ‘cos they’re a bit thick.
This evening I walked into the second floor kitchen, for another attempt at home made curry, to find Sucker Thing standing at the oven cooking up a big pot of something that smelled amazing!
Chicken Jalfrezi or my name’s not Anne!
It actually isn’t, it’s Eric.
But that’s a long story for another time.
There was a little bit of discomfort as I opened the door and we both stared at each other.
Sucker thing started to raise his wooden spoon threateningly but I quickly diffused the situation by offering up a bag of rice and a pack of ready to eat, garlic and herb naan breads.
Whatever Sucker Thing has for a brain got the idea and it smiled. At least I think it did.
It’s hard to tell with a face full of suckers.
Either way, it beckoned me in and I decided I would sit at the table and see where things went.
Sucker Thing was a demon in the kitchen! Having fourteen arms is a real bonus when it comes to cooking!
Before I had even sat down, Sucker Thing had relieved me of the rice and naan breads and simultaneously prepared a pot of boiling water for the rice and a lightly oiled baking tray for the naans while also continuing to stir his pot of curry and add several herbs and spices!
I’m pretty sure a few of his tentacles were doing a crossword too!
We eventually sat down to eat the best tasting curry I have ever had!
I’m ashamed to say I slept with Sucker Thing later that evening.
We naturally started on the lager after the curry and one sucker led to another….
I think I may be in love!
Day 5.
My spirits are very low!
Sucker Thing has disappeared!
I found a gunge covered note on my bed this morning and Sucker Thing is nowhere to be found.
I have no idea what the note says, I don’t speak Sucker Thing.
On top of that, I seem to have put on a lot of weight overnight.
I am obviously unhappy but at least we had that one wonderful night together.
I hope Sucker Thing returns but I doubt it. I have been down this road too many times in the past.
One night of passion with me and all men suddenly seem to have something pressing to attend to in a different country.
Oh well.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door hinges continue to drip. The WD40 obviously didn’t solve the problem. I stuck some duct tape on it. Usually one or the other works.
As me old Mam used to say:
“What the fuck you absolute shit stains?! I ain’t ready to go in no retirement home yet!!”
And also, more pertinently:
“WD40 for when it should move but doesn’t and duct tape for when it shouldn’t move but does.”
Left a voicemail for the Monks of Plugoleum.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
There’s definitely something going on with those ducks.
I haven’t checked on the mould in the canteen today.
What harm could a bit of mould and a furry, old coke can do?
People are now allowed out on ‘essential trips’, so I went down the high street to stock up on some supplies.
It’s like Victorian London out there. The shops are all price gouging despite it being completely illegal!
Bloody footpads!
I’m starting to get really pissed off with businesses using the pandemic to cut their costs while still expecting their customers to pay the same amount for reduced services.
Really? Every company out there is receiving ‘high volumes’ of enquiries?
And it’s not at all because they saw an opportunity to make a little extra cash?
Less staff to pay to answer all the enquiries and blame Covid for it because in a lockdown suddenly everyone needs to make a complaint to Sony?
Although I found myself in that exact situation today when my minidisc player began skipping. I phoned them only to be told that their customer services department don’t deal with customers.
It’s apparently ‘not their department’!
Then those same companies love to tell us that they are doing all they can to help their customers through this difficult time.
(But only where it doesn’t take too much effort or cost too much, obviously.)
“Stay at home but still come shopping but don’t touch anything or breathe and stay at home but come and spend money but don’t. After all, ‘Every little helps…us.”
I constantly wonder how Tesco misses that last word out of their slogan. I used to work part-time for Tesco and I know first-hand what their friendly slogan really means.
The people who pick your shopping for home delivery?
They are instructed to pick the worst of everything with the least amount of time left before the sell by date runs out because they know home shoppers can’t make the choice. Send the dross out for deliveries and keep the fresh, good stuff for in store customers who manually choose their items.
Every little helps……Tesco.
The last bit is there but it’s in text so small that you need a microscope to see it.
In the last few days I have had two companies tell me they cannot help me via e-mail because they are experiencing ‘high volumes of enquiries’ but, they add helpfully, I can still phone them.
Okay. You don’t have enough staff to answer e-mails but there’s plenty of people there to answer the phone?
E-mail enquiries are for ‘vulnerable customers’ only, but anyone can phone?
Smells like bullshit to me.
Can I really believe that businesses have not come to the conclusion that anyone with an enquiry or complaint is less likely to sit on hold on the phone for an hour, while paying for the privilege, then they are to fire off a quick e-mail?
The aforementioned cuts in staff because they can all now completely ignore their customers and blame Covid equals more money in the shareholders pocket through wage cuts.
And let’s not forget that every call made to their non-geographic numbers earns the business a little bit of cash from the phone company.
If anyone complains, they are viewed as insensitive, so no one does.
Want a conspiracy about Covid? This is it. Price increases, services cut, no one gives a shit anymore and they just throw the same crap at you if you say anything.
“Well, you know, it’s Covid innit? Nothing we can do (snigger).”
Somehow I think that, when I phone the government and say I am not paying my income tax because of Covid, it will fall on deaf ears.
Seriously, why are we all paying the same tax when all the services are running at 50% or less?
Why are people paying the same taxes when almost everything is shut down?
Customer service is an essential part of any household utility. Yet you now cannot contact them.
At all.
Ever.
Pay your fucking bill though because while Covid has impacted everyone’s lives, it has apparently impacted businesses more than the public, even though the businesses only exist because of the public.
It seems that the relationship we all have with services has changed.
Before, we paid for services and those services were provided and maintained.
Now, we are still required to pay the same amount for services (despite everyone being negatively affected financially – not just fucking businesses), yet the services are now eroded to their basic level.
Am I cynical?
I miss my Sucker Thing so much.
Day 6.
My spirits are good. I have quickly gotten over my lost love; Sucker Thing.
He ain’t ready for this jelly anyway.
Girlfriend got booty and no shortage of homies who want a piece of this.
I am concerned I might be pregnant though! My stomach is massive now!
But it could be too much curry.
I consulted some of the old books in the library and a dusty old grimoire mentioned that supernatural sucker things sometimes lay their eggs in humans and that the incubation period in these situations is usually very, very short!
Is that why he legged it?
I was sick this morning and have been craving coal and grape jelly all day!
The black doors remains closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door is bowing out ominously. I haven’t heard back from the Monks. I left another voicemail but it seems they are not considered key workers.
The giraffes have been fed.
The ducks have vanished! All of them! Just gone!
I looked everywhere but there’s no sign of them!
Went out to the shops again as I forgot a few things yesterday.
I got into a fist fight with a rampaging group of pensioners who were going from shop to shop buying all the toilet roll they could find.
I only wanted a few rolls but it got ugly in Somerfield’s. There were tartan shopping trolleys and shawls flying everywhere!
Of course I came out victorious. I may be 96 but I once bit off Mike Tyson’s head in a bar brawl. I still have it somewhere.
The one he has now used to belong to a monkey called Martin.
You have to be impressed with how they sewed it on though. It’s almost imperceptible!
I managed to pocket a few rolls of two-ply and scarper before the filth arrived and arrested everyone.
My hands stink from all the sanitiser!
Pretty sure there’s a positive conspiracy going on here.
Shops and supermarkets are deliberately providing hand sanitiser that smells like something died in it to encourage hand washing.
Once people get home, they have to wash their hands to get the smell of the sanitiser off.
The mould has vanished!
Day 7.
My spirits are good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door is creaking and making very weird noises. I think it might give any day now!
I still haven’t heard back from the Monks.
Bradley said there was a sealed envelope in his desk that I should only open in dire emergencies, one of which being the breaching of the black doors.
I don’t know whether to open it now or wait until it actually blows. But by then it might be too late!
The giraffes have been fed.
The ducks remain A.W.O.L.
I have no idea what happened to them. I hope it doesn’t come out of my paycheque!
I’m dumbstruck by the conspiracy theories that are being peddled around social media.
Is the conspiracy really the conspiracy?
The conspiracy is put out there, to get people to believe in it, to distract attention from the real conspiracy?
It would explain why the Illuminati/Grey Aliens/Sinister Government Agency, while being all powerful and in total control of the world, lets dumbasses discuss the ‘conspiracy’ on social media.
And why Alex Jones hasn’t been covered in jam and stapled to the back of a truck full of wasps.
The conspiracy is that the conspiracy is a conspiracy and even that is a smokescreen for the real conspiracy which is, in itself, another conspiracy.
All I know for sure is that, if you write the word conspiracy a certain number of times, it starts to look like a really weird word.
Cons Piracy?
Conservative Piracy?
They’re pirates, but they are all for a capitalist system of governance?
They’re pirates, but they only stab you a little bit and are primarily interested in bankers bonds.
“Pieces of eight percent interest on stocks and shares.”
The mould has returned!
Don’t ask me how but it has somehow managed to create an armoured vehicle out of some old office equipment!
I was sitting down to a nice meal of coal and beech nut chewing gum, around lunchtime, when there was a sudden, massive explosion behind me.
I was thrown forward over the table, landing on my mammaries and being thrown high up into the air by the rebound.
As Newton’s lesser known 4th law of motion states:
‘A huge pair of norks, strengthened by many years of bovine kicking, will rebound with thrice as much force as imparted by the initial impact.’
It’s a very specific law and rarely has any use in the scientific community.
What most people don’t know is that Newton himself grew up on a bull milk farm. He was a bit of a hero of mine when I was younger and I have studied this period of his life extensively.
The young Isaac often watched his large breasted mother being catapulted over the garden hedge after a particularly eventful milking and it was these events, though very traumatising to his young mind, which made him initially think about his laws of motion.
He also theorised several contraptions to aid in the milking of bulls although, sadly, few made it past the theoretical stage and those that did were quickly denounced by the Church as instruments of the devil.
‘Newton’s Patented Bullock Ball Buster’ was the only one of his designs which produced a working prototype. It was extensively trialled at a secret location just outside Swansea.
The bulls liked it very much, eventually queueing up at the field gate for their turn. The queue began in an orderly fashion, the bulls were very English about the whole thing.
Newton and his assistant actually began to believe they had inadvertently built a machine capable of, not only milking bulls, but also of lining them up in a highly organised way.
Further research was hurriedly done on the farm’s kitchen table about the possible military applications.
If bulls could be coerced to queue so readily, perhaps they could also be trained to carry firearms and fight the French.
But this wasn’t to be as it all kicked off outside. Some of the bulls were tired of waiting for their turn and a huge bull brawl broke out.
Several of the animals died and one of Newton’s assistants was badly gored up the butthole.
The machine itself, though reasonably successful in its primary function, was mothballed and never saw the light of day again. Newton himself gave up on the pursuit of the perfect bull milking machine and got really interested in apples instead.
So, as Newton’s 4th law states, my trajectory following the boob bounce was much higher and further than my initial impact.
I ended up doing a triple somersault and landed at the far side of the room, facing the way I had been flung, where I slid backwards on my buttocks into a vending machine. The vending machine, as if stating its own displeasure at these events, dispensed a large number of Walnut Whips onto my head.
I looked back towards the explosion. The dust and smoke was clearing and the mould machine appeared slowly through the hole it had blown in the wall.
I could see it had built this death machine from an old photocopier, a couple of CRT monitors, some computer keyboards and one of my old, wobbly wheeled tea trolleys!
The mould was sitting atop the machine in an old coffee cup with the words ‘Worlds Greatest Lover’ emblazoned on the side. I really doubted that was true. The coke can was wearing a tiny army helmet from an action man and was sitting on the front of the machine wielding a large gun fashioned from an old fire extinguisher.
As I watched, the coke can made a small movement, there was a loud report from the weapon and a computer mouse flew out the end of the barrel.
It hit the vending machine above me and exploded. I have no idea why it did that but I’m not very good with technology.
Maybe all computer mice explode when you shoot then from a fire extinguisher with the end cut off. I really have no idea.
The vending machine exploded in a shower of glass and Skittles and I threw myself face down on the floor.
The mould machine advanced further into the room and I looked up to see the coke can taking aim once more, this time right at my head.
I said a quick prayer to the great gods of tea, Lapsang and Souchong, and waited for death.
Death did not come.
There was some skittering noises and a flurry of activity from the other side of the devastated room. I glanced up.
The Ducks!
They had suddenly appeared and were kicking the shit out of the mould machine!
I watched in awe as they viciously dismantled the mould machine bit by bit until it was just a heap of broken glass and plastic.
One of the ducks, I think it was the leader as it was the only one wearing a hat, had pinned the coke can against the wall and began to crush it into a wafer thin sheet of aluminium, eventually letting it fall lifeless to the floor.
The other ducks were eating the mould.
I could hear its whimpers of agony as the merciless beaks pecked it into oblivion.
It was all over in seconds. The ducks lined up in front of the leader and then marched out of the hole in single file. The leader looked in my direction, gave me a winged salute, winked, and followed his compatriots.
Left me to clean up the bloody mess!
I found the ducks back in their original place later that afternoon, once again motionless.
I gave them an extra thorough polish.
So the mould menace is gone but now I’m terrified of the fucking ducks!
It’s only been a week and already I think I’m going barmy. I have almost had enough of this.
I’m now pretty sure that Sucker Thing impregnated me with his spawn and that’s a real turd in the tomatoes.
I can feel the damn thing wriggling around at night.
Day 8.
My spirits are very low.
Turns out I was pregnant with Sucker Thing’s offspring.
I woke up this morning in agony and a very small Sucker Thing escaped my womb a few minutes later.
It slid out like it was covered in butter and tentacled across the floor to hide in the corner.
It was literally covered in butter half an hour later.
Took a while for me to catch it, slippery little thing, but I eventually cornered it under a desk and scooped it into a hessian bag.
I whacked it over the suckers with a cricket bat until it stopped moving, then sautéed it in salted butter and ate it for my breakfast with some toast.
Tasted a bit like calamari.
You may think me cruel but I am too long in the tooth to be looking after a kid right now, especially one which is destined to grow into a terrifying twelve foot tall monster covered in suckers and gunge.
I ain’t got that sort of time.
I felt a little guilty when I sat down to eat. I shed a few tears as I mopped up the last of the juices with a crust. What more do you want from me?
Aside from a little acid reflux and an attack of wind mid-morning, problem solved.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door is still in danger of bursting open.
I went in Bradley’s desk looking for the emergency instructions but all I found was a self-help book on how to make your penis bigger, a shit stained dolls head with a shocked expression, a letter from Queen Elizabeth II expressing interest in the purchase of a motorcycle and a strange selection of tiny, little suits.
The only thing remotely resembling some instructions was a crumpled up post-it note with the word ‘RUN’ scrawled on it.
Wanker.
I did get a message back from the Monks of Plugoleum but all it said was:
“We regret to inform all our customers that the Monks of Plugoleum have gone out of business due to the Coronavirus outbreak. We would advise all customers with supernatural doors to contact our sister company, the Abbots of Costello who can be reached via 07833 837211.”
But all I get when I call the number is a busy tone!
I have tried, since the lower basement door started creaking, to contact Bradley, but he simply can’t be reached!
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
I left a bag of grapes near the ducks by way of thanks for saving me from the mould machine. They were all gone when I went back later.
I think people are starting to ignore this lockdown.
The phone’s been ringing all day and there seems to be people everywhere on the street outside.
Seems a bit weird that, given the current situation, no less than 3 different groups of people knocked on the door today trying to sell me shit.
None of them social distancing, playing the usual door to door sales games, (the in your face, way too close, foot in the door shit) and none of them wearing masks.
Seriously, what’s the point?
We are asked to wear masks and social distance and all that crap but businesses are still sending people door to door to sell their useless stuff that no one really wants anyway.
Has no one ever heard of Typhoid Mary?
“Sure, come on in guys, let’s chat about my long distance telephone service provider. Want a coffee? Oops, I accidentally put Covid 19 in it!
Oh well. You can go and give it to my elderly neighbour and every other household you visit today.
S’alright though, cos I got a tea towel tied around my face, I’ve washed my hands so many times now that I only have the bones left and I am staying away from everyone I love.
It’s really nice though, to have mine and everyone else’s sacrifices thrown right back in my face ‘cos Crazy Steve wants to sell his roman candles.”
I think I may be living in a really bad comedy movie.
La-la-la-la-let’s solve the virus problem with a singalong!
Maybe if we inflate some sheep’s bladders that will help!
Ohh, wait!
If we get blinkers, fell some yoghurt and tic tacs. Rinse them all to a dark apple and telegraph a monkey, that’ll will reset the whole thing and we can all go back to how it was!!
Where’s the Batphone? I need to speak to Boris. Or Banjo. Or BooBoo, or whatever his name is now.
I’m gonna get my ‘kiss me quick’ hat, my dark glasses and gonna go and sit in the middle of a motorway on a deckchair.
I violently shit myself at 7pm. That’s the last time I eat fried sucker thing.
Day 9.
My spirits are good.
Yesterday’s unexpected bowel evacuation seems to have done wonders for me! There was some stuff came out of me that I ate back in the sixties!
I feel positively energised now. Light on my feet and fit as a fiddle!
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door is slightly open, only being held closed by the chains, and there’s a strange purple smoke wafting out of the gap.
It smells like Parma Violets.
I got a bit close and some ghostly skeleton hands tried to grab me and pull me inside. There’s no way I was fitting through that gap though and after about 45 minutes of cursing, straining and sweating they gave up and let me go.
My huge boobs save the day once more!
Still only getting a busy tone at the Abbots of Costello. I have no idea if that means they are very busy or if their phone’s been disconnected.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
I was visited by some turd from the police today who gave me a bollocking about not being at home in lockdown. He didn’t want to know about the giraffes, the doors and the ducks. He said I wasn’t in a job that meant I could still go to work.
I told him to fuck off.
He was a little shocked and initially thought of arguing with me but then he saw the golf club I was brandishing and thought twice about it. It probably didn’t help that it still had blood stains on it from the last lot of door to door salesmen to visit.
He apologised for bothering me and wandered off to arrest an old lady for wearing a crocheted hat.
I wonder?
If I get a job as a locksmith, does that make me a key worker?
I crack me up!
Uneventful evening. There was a small alien incursion but they were all instantly killed when I farted. I had kippers for breakfast. You don’t want to stand too close to me when I’ve been eating kippers. Especially if you’re an alien with three noses!
I gathered all the corpses up and chucked ‘em out of the window as per company policy.
The council still haven’t picked up the small, hairy thing’s corpse I chucked out there last week. The lazy fuckers!
Day 10.
My spirits are good.
The black doors remain closed and the hexes are holding firm.
The lower basement door is still slightly open and I can hear odd whispers coming from the other side.
It sounds like the voices are talking about ‘Coronation Street’.
You wouldn’t think you’d get televisions in mist wreathed, ghostly, alternate dimensions. You definitely wouldn’t think you’d get decent reception of ITV!
I gave up on trying to contact the Abbots, I really can’t be bothered anymore.
The giraffes have been fed and the ducks have been polished.
It was all over social media today that the rules surrounding lockdown have changed!
We can apparently all do stuff, sometimes, but only some stuff, sometimes.
But also all the time.
But we have to wear masks.
Unless we don’t.
Things are very confusing.
Go to a pub or restaurant if you like. Spend a few hours with a bunch of scummy strangers who think covering their faces when coughing is only a thing for other people.
Touch many objects that have been touched by other people who will happily piss on their hands in the toilet and go straight back to eating without washing them.
It’ll be fine. As long as you leave by 10pm.
The Coronavirus is a bit of a night owl and doesn’t get out of bed until half ten. As long as you are home by then, you’re safe from infection.
Scientists have confirmed Covid 19 is a lazy bastard.
S’all good.
At breakfast today I became suddenly aware of how much food we waste in the Western World.
After rattling a knife around in the bottom of a Marmite jar while that last bit of brown stuff eluded me (I’m sure it was giggling) I realised how many Marmite jars are thrown away with plenty of good Marmite still in the bottom!
THIS IS A SERIOUS ISSUE!!!!
Fuck Covid 19, think about the Marmite!!!
I’ve really had enough of this shit.
I left a voicemail for Bradley and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he wants his giraffes fed, his ducks polished and his weird doors monitored he should do it himself.
I went down to the lower basement and the door is wide open!
I have no idea what kind of beasties are now wandering around this place but I’m not sticking around to find out.
Fuck this place, fuck those black doors, fuck the giraffes and fuck the ducks.
Anne has left the building.
I’m going to the shop for a fresh jar of Marmite and I’m heading home to eat so much toast that I may explode.
