The second coming

Well, major changes once again in the world of this particular puppy, but before I get to that just give me a moment or two to bring you up to speed on the events of the last few months.

Biggest event was the long man, clippy cloppy woman, little people and I going on our first family holiday together. When I heard we were going away I took a look at the holiday pictures from the pre-puppy days and so was looking forward to sun, sea, sand, sangria and sniffing. Dreams of far flung, exotic locations filled my nights in the run up to our departure. Imagine my disappointment when, early in the morning on the day we were to leave, I was bundled into the back of the metal box thingy, crammed between a suitcase, a rucksack and a fishing rod, and driven hundreds of miles across the most inhospitable terrain this side of Kandahar to spend a week in a bloody tent at the foot of an enormous mountain. I thought we'd joined the Mudjahadin until I saw the launderette and playground.

The little people and I had a fantastic time climbing up the aforementioned mountain, known as Snowdon and apparently the highest mountain in the country. It was very exciting, with gun men and helicopters and explosions and white knuckle near misses, but we survived to tell the tale. Honestly. Check it out here.

Another major event of the summer was the arrival of another of those bloody horrible, smelly Vespa things. This one intended for the clippy cloppy woman so she could join the long man on his noisy, smelly rides. I don't know if it's a coincidence but the long man, soon after this purchase, decided he didn't want his Vespa any more and has put it ip for sale. He's since bought an enormous beast of a motorcycle, a Triumph, saying he needs it to get to work quicker. I doubt "need" comes into it. It's bigger, faster, heavier and scarier than the scooter it replaces. That man seems determined to take the most ridiculous chances with his personal safety. That's all well and good, but does he take into consideration what might happen to me after he's crashed through the pearly gates backwards and in a fireball? Does he balls.

And now for the BIG news. Okay, I'm being a bit sarcastic here, and you've probably guessed already, but the long man and I have, once again, been exiled to the dirty old town of Salford. The long man and the clippy cloppy woman had spent much of the previous several months arguing about really important matters. It got to the point where you'd have been forgiven for believing that they were only happy when they were shouting. Not great for the nerves I must admit but the house was just about big enough for me to avoid them pretty much all of the time. Then one Sunday evening they had a massive bust up about a pizza and the long man being "stupid". In all honesty I can't see as how the long man had a leg to stand on arguing against that particular point but argue he did. The result... Salford. Not just for him, for me too. I don't even LIKE pizza and I wholly agree that he's as bright as a bag of spanners, but did that save me. Harrumph.

So here we are, shivering our hairy arses off and eating a lot of toast. I must say, he's taking it really rather well. He doesn't smell half as empty as he did last time, and he's not moping around the place feeling sorry for himself this time which is a blessed relief. I swear if I'd had to put up with that crap again I'd have torn the chip out of my own neck and turned myself into the rescue centre.

The long man and I spend a lot of time walking around since our return. One of my favourite walks is to Swinton precinct where there is a very nice chap who sells, amongst other things, all manner of dried pork products passed fit for canine consumption. Earlier today we took a little trot down to see him and the long man bought me a big bag of pigs ears. I do love pigs ears, almost as much as I like biscuits, but I got to thinking whilst munching on my luncheon, who is it that has taken it upon his, or her, self to start amputating ears from swine? Grateful as I am for my pork based treats it does seem odd to me that someone would be so cruel as to mutilate animals in such a way. Can you imagine the conversation in the sty after the ear harvest?

"Hey, Porky." Says Applesauce.

Silence.

"OI, PORKY!" she repeats.

Silence.

"POOOOORRRRRRRKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYYY". Applesauce yells.

"What?" Replies Porky.

"POOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYY!"

Still, all this aside, they are very tasty indeed. And I suppose it would be silly to eat the whole pig all at once.

It's snowing in Salford today. I do love the snow. I love the crispy crunch as I bounce through it. I love the cool crystals of ice between my toes. I love the clean, fresh streets after a new flurry. And most of all, I love turning the snow in the garden from virginal white to dirty yellow. Enjoy the little things, it's very important.

Reserved parking

Yes, yes, yes, I know. The time between my blog entries is getting longer and longer. It's not that I don't care, it's just that the summer has brought with it so many new and interesting opportunities for fun and merriment that I simply don't know whether I'm coming or going at the moment.

The little people recently spent a week down south in Brighton with their father, whilst the little long man came to my house to spend a week with HIS father. Talk about musical parenting. The little long man took up residence in the little peoples room and is no where near as careful about ensuring the door is closed properly, allowing me unrestricted access to all the chewy little people things. I have had a fine old time stealing and stashing away for safe keeping as much contraband as a baby puppy can carry. Of course most of my booty has since been reclaimed by that infernal clippy cloppy woman and the long man but, due to the shear scale of my felony, there are still a fair number of pieces of prime swag lying as yet undiscovered around the house a whole fortnight after the return of the gruesome twosome.

The long man has, at long last, gotten out from under my paws and started his new job as a carer for the mentally bewildered. He seems to think that the Karma of his noble toil will in some way balance out all the crappy things he's done in the past and benefit him spiritually. My hairy arse it will. I doubt very much he would ever be considered for Sainthood at any rate. It's only a matter of time before he commits some form of indescretion again and spoils it all. It is to be hoped that he cares for his ward better than he cares for his best friend (That's me just in case you're in any doubt.) or he'll be back down the job centre faster than you can say "it was an accident" or "corporate manslaughter".

The long man and I haven't been making our usual visits to Worden park of late. Partly because of him now having to work for a living rather than being kept like some kind of third rate gigolo by the clippy cloppy woman and partly because the chap from the council that looks after the park has told us we're no longer welcome. In my opinion said individual is nothing more than a jumped up little jobsworth with a Napolean complex. It was a particularly hot day when last the long man and I visited our most favourite park in the whole wide world and, as you all probably by now are very well aware, I do love a nice swim. Swimming is one of my most favourite pastimes and these two factors combined led to my decision to cool down by plunging headlong into the pond where the flappy, feathery flying things that float live. They, that is to say the flappy, feathery flying things that float, are not what you would call the most sociable of creatures. Bloody ignorant little sods if you ask me. And so, as I dived gracefully, athletically and majestically into the cool, clear water they went absolutely berserk. Flapping and quacking and generally making a right kerfuffle. All these shenanigans brought the aforementioned Gestapo, sorry - council, officer careering through the trees toward the long man.

Now what the long man lacks in sense he more than makes up for in stature and so, as the petulant parky got closer to the long man, his pace began to slow until he came to a stop no more than two paces from the long man, who then took two paces forward forcing the local government representative to crane his neck backward if he wanted to continue his tirade. A tirade which was met with the long man's gormless, slack jawed, glassy-eyed frown.

For some reason at this point the jackbooted, litter picking midget's tone took on a much friendlier and far croakier timbre as he explained that dogs swimming in the nature reserve was prohibited and asked if the long man would mind awfully asking me to depart. Now I'm sure the long man in no way meant to come across as a pedant, however after pointing out that a dog is indeed perfectly natural and then enquiring as to just exactly where the bloody signs informing us that the pond was a bleeding nature reserve were pedantic is exactly how he appeared. The upshot of the conversation being that the long man and I are no longer welcome in that part of town. And so it was with heavy heart that, after he'd emptied the poo bag he'd been carrying on the path, and I'd emptied my bowels on the crazy golf course, we left.

Here comes the summer

There is absolutely no excuse for my recent absence from the world wide web and my legion of adoring puppy fans. No excuse whatsoever. The important thing however, so far as you lot are concerned, is that I have returned. I can picture you now, sat in front of your monitors, big cheesy grins plastered across your faces, eagerly anticipating the news of your favourite canines latest whirlwind adventures. And since, as previously mentioned, there is no excuse, then I dont have to sit here struggling to think one up just to placate you. I've been gone, get over it, I'm back, rejoice.

Before I start filling you in on the comings and goings of life in Leyland I'd just like to take a moment to say how lovely it has been to see so many of you in the flesh of late. It was especially nice to see those of you who turned up to the garden party held in my honour last weekend. And whilst on the subject of said party, I feel obliged to apologise on behalf of the clicky ankled lady for her behaviour. Anyone would have thought the party was for her benefit the way she tried to hog the limelight. And what on earth was she doing continually banging on about being another year older? For crying out loud, at her age surely another year on the tally stick is nothing to go shouting about. You were all very kind to humour her though, for which I am eternally grateful.

And now back to my blog. Let's start with the weather, the weather is always an ice breaker, and quite literally so at the moment. The weather, now that we have entered the portion of the year known as summer, has taken a turn for the better and no mistake. Phew, what a scorcher. No more ice. Gone is the snow. It's hello blue skies, light nights and balmy afternoons. Snoozing in the shade. Long lazy walks. Plenty of fluids and a good deal of moulting. And I love to live so pleasantly, live this life of luxury, lazing on a sunny afternoon in the summertime.

The scratchy chinned man has come to live at my house now. Apparently his special friend turned out to be none too special. There must be something in the water, because hot on the heels of their separation came the news that the little long man has also joined the land of the lonesome. Still, at least the little long man and his lady weren't living in sin and therefore he isn't here knocking my karma out of kilter and ruining the feng shui like his feckless brother. It's a bloody good job too, since there isn't enough room to swing a cat in this dump as it is. Well, technically there IS enough room to swing a cat, but you'd keep banging it against walls and door frames which, although fun, is kind of frowned upon by the authorities. Camerons Britain eh? It's political correctness gone mad I tell you.

The scratchy chinned man's arrival has presented something of a dichotomy vis a vis my sleeping arrangements. On the one hand the long man has become somewhat accustomed to waking up with me by his side. He gets a big kick out of it, and I love him for that. The problem, to be frank, is that bloody clippy cloppy woman and her pig headed refusal to share the bed. I don't see the problem, there is plenty of room for the three of us, but she can be such a selfish cow at times. I have to wait for her to vacate the room before I can climb up onto the bed, whereas the scratchy chinned man sleeps alone, has no problem whatsoever with me joining him AND I get to spend an entire night on a proper mattress, which is doing my back and posture the world of good. Now as I'm sure you are all aware I am not the most sentimental puppy that ever pooed in a park, but the long man and I have become really rather close in recent months. As a result I am finding it increasingly hard to disregard his feelings and have spent the last few weeks having to drag myself off the scratchy chinned man's bed at daft-o-clock in the morning when I hear the clippy cloppy woman go for her morning ablutions and transfer myself into the loving arms of the long man. The duplicity of my actions is rather exciting in a way, but it's also disturbing my sleep pattern which isn't helping my beauty regime. If only I could get the clippy cloppy woman to start sharing with the scratchy chinned man then all our problems would be solved.

BARC to the future

Being as I am left all on my bloody own for dirty great chunks of the day I get to listen to the radio a lot, Radio 4 being my favourite station. As a result I am beginning to get really rather clued up on current affairs and have begun to take a great interest in this politics malarkey. I don't claim to be an expert on the subject, but I have become very interested in the upcoming general election, which isn't as you might imagine a military gentleman but is in fact some kind of competition, akin to the X-Factor but without Simon Cowell, in which the person who comes across as the least dislikable, who tells the most attractive lies and who smiles at the most children is the winner. The prize - you get to live in a place called London, rent free, and more importantly you get to be the boss of the Army. And the Navy, and the Air Force too. It occured to me the other day that being the boss of the Army, Navy and Air Force would greatly help in my plans for a New World Order. I have therefore, after much consideration, decided to form my own political party and to stand for election myself. Now obviously I know that you, dear reader, and all of my other puppy fans will without a shadow of a doubt vote for me. That goes without saying. However, even with my small army of fans I doubt that I would get enough votes to secure an overall majority and might force a hung Parliament. That just isn't enough. I want my paw to be the only one on the button of our nuclear detterent. I don't want to have to bother arguing with any one else over it. I would rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

And so, in an effort to win over the rest of the population, or at least to win over fifty one percent of them, I have worked tirelessly all morning to pen a manifesto, and publish it here for your perusal. You will notice, I am sure, that unlike the manifestos of all the other major parties mine is not simply a simpering tome filled with empty promises, unattainable aspirations and assorted delusions. I promise to be honest, open, to the point and succinct.

And now to the manifesto itself...

1) Health.

We could save a huge chunk of money by all being just that little bit more careful and trying our best to have fewer accidents. The money we then save could be ploughed back into the National Health Service and spent on things like, ermmm, tablets. Oh, and biscuits. Biscuits are proven to be of great therapeutic benefit to the sick and infirm.

2) The economy.

The long man has a big bottle in his bedroom into which he puts all the coins he finds on the floor when we are out on our walks. If we all did this we would all have a big bottle of money. Sorted.

3) Policing.

If we all stop stealing things and murdering people we wont need the police so much. This is something of a no-brainer. The police could then concentrate on the scurge of modern society, that being the gangs of feral cats plaguing our streets and pooing in the passage next to my house.

4) Defence.

The army, navy and air force WILL respect my authority. As a result, so will all of you, my subjects.

5) Education.

Instead of being given one biscuit when being trained to sit/lie down/shake paws etc. all puppies will be given two biscuits. Puppies like a nice biscuit. Believe me, I know. The extra incentive will ensure improved results and happier puppies. We will pay for this measure by increasing taxes on cat food, kitty litter and squeeky mouse toys.

6) The environment.

There is a growing problem with cat poo in the passage next to my house. I will undertake to stamp out (Not literally of course, that would make even more of a mess out there.) this problem by passing legislation to ensure that cats are in future exercised ON A LEAD and accompanied at all times when outside their homes by one of their people, who must be armed with a poo bag. Any cats found to be wandering around the streets willy-nilly without a human chaperone will be rounded up and transported to a detention centre on the Isle of Dogs. And shot.

I trust I can count on your vote on May the Sixth, and remember....

A vote for Ronnie is a vote for me.

Watching paint dry

Welcome, dear reader, to the fiftieth entry in my now legendary and universally adored blog. Thanks to you all for your support.

And now that the platitudes are out of the way I'll crack on with my inane ramblings.

Firstly, as much as it sticks in my craw to have to admit it, I may have understimated the long man. Either that or, as is more likely, I have very much overestimated the quite obviously tin pot organisation to whom he'd applied when looking for his new job. He's only gone and got the position, leaving me wondering just how many backsides he has had to sniff to swing that one. Oh, and get this, a man's best friend is, supposedly, his dog. Ergo, I am the long man's best friend, but did he bother to tell me about his little bit of good luck? Did he buggery. I only found out about it via Facebook. Bloody typical.

For a change, and a very pleasant change indeed, the news that he has wrangled himself a half decent job has kept a smile on his face. The clippy cloppy woman took a couple of days off work as the weekend approached and continued her love affair with the noisy, sucky thing and the tins of smelly stuff. I wouldn't mind quite so much if not for the fact that I heard her mention she wants to move house. If that is to be the case, then why the hell does she have to keep cleaning this one? Pointless in the extreme if you ask me. Shame she never asks me, I could make her life so much easier if she did.

The little people have gone to stay with their father for a couple of weeks. Apparently this time of year is called "Easter" and is some kind of religious festival where, as far as I can ascertain, people celebrate a magic rabbit that lays chocolate eggs. Religion is something of a mystery to me, I just can't get my head around it.

On Friday I was sent to stay with Audrey et al in Salford so that the long man and the clippy cloppy woman could (surprise surprise) go off gallavanting around North Yorkshire to a place called "Whitby" on that damned Vespa of theirs. As far as I can figure they planned to drink lots of that stuff that makes you wee a lot and wobble, eat burgers and then sleep in a field. They really know how to have a good time eh?

My weekend was possibly marginally more fun than theirs. Also marginally more fun than having your tail nailed to a plank. In case you've missed the sarcasm here let me be frank, it was crap. It was as boring as a boring thing, and then some. Audrey stayed out of the way for the most part, she's not daft. The shouty woman spent most of the first day smearing that coloured stuff all over the walls in the kitchen and left me to my own devices. I just lay in the doorway and watched.

The clicky ankled lady spent most of her time making "tut" noises and getting in the shouty woman's way. Getting in the shouty woman's way is not to be advised. Unless you like her being more shouty than usual. I personally am not even keen on the level of shoutiness she already seems to have attained. My nerves were in tatters.

Once all the colouring in, tutting and shouting ended I retired to my favourite spot in front of the hot, flickery, burny thing in the clicky ankled lady's living room, anticipating an evening of quality time and biscuits. I do like quality time. And biscuits. Next thing I know, the clicky ankled lady gets her coat on and buggers off out for the evening without so much as a by your leave. And there was I thinking the whole point of my having to stay the night in Salford was so that I would have a little company. I might as well have just stayed at home.

The following day wasn't as bad though. Obviously riddled by guilt the long man and the clippy cloppy woman decided to treat me to a lovely, long walk around Worden park for the first time in ages. Not before time too. Free of the lead at last I made it my mission to get as dirty and stinky as I possibly could before getting back in the metal box thingy, and let me tell you - Worden park in April was designed for getting a puppy filthy. I was chest deep in mud at several points during the walk. The river at this time of year is much deeper too, more than deep enough for swimming in. I was having a fine old time bounding through the undergrowth, squelching through the marshy bits and diving in and out of the stinking water when the long man decided he wanted to play with that bloody tennis ball of his. He took it out of his pocket and proceeded to throw it around with gay abandon. I have now, however, put an end to that particular annoyance. I accidentally on purpose managed to lose it in the river. It took me two attempts, the first time it bobbed to the surface for the long man to retrieve. But the second time, being the clever puppy I am, I ensured that I put a hole in the damned thing first so that it sank like a brick. I did feel a pang of guilt when I saw the look on his face as he realised it was gone forever, but I soon got over that. Life, dear reader, is too short for regrets. And it is too bloody short for chasing tennis balls around.

I'm getting a bit of peace and quiet today since the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have gone over to Salford to arrange with their ne'er do well friends an open day for the scooter club next Sunday. Whatever keeps them out of my fur is all good so far as I am concerned, just so long as they don't expect me to be going to the open day with them.

Who cares?

The long man has embarked on what I consider to be a futile attempt to better himself by changing career. He has thus far done what I can only decribe as a plethora of crappy jobs, and in my opinion that suits him down to the ground. I cannot for the life of me imagine him in any position of responsibility or any position that requires a degree of common sense. Sense of any description, where the long man is concerned, isn't very common at all. Bloody rare in his case. For instance, he loves playing with his tennis ball and always brings it with us when we go to the park. Then he'll proceed to throw the bloody thing away and immediately want it back again. And does he go and get it himself? Does he balls. Muggins here has to go and fetch it for him. So, off I plod, find the damned thing, take it back to him and drop it at his feet, and what does he do? He only goes and throws it away again. Moron. Anyway, as I was saying, he wants a change of career so guess what he's applied to be, a CARER. Him. Caring. Looking after others. Ha. How in the world is that going to work? I'll tell you this, he had better not be expecting me to go to work with him and spend all my time pulling him out of the sticky stuff. I like my mornings listening to the radio and my afternoons watching loose women on the telly thingy whilst licking my lady bits and snoozing. Following the long man around and reminding him to breathe is very low down on my list of priorities I can tell you.

In between his pointlessly completing application forms for jobs he has little or no chance of getting the long man has also been spending a lot of time piddling about with his Vespa. Taking bits off, swearing, putting new bits on, swearing when the new bits fall off, phoning his friends to find out where he's going wrong, putting the fallen off bits back on and then swearing before taking them off again because he forgot to do something else. I'm beginning to have something of an attention deficit where he is concerned. After finally getting the scooter looking and sounding exactly like it looked and sounded immediately before his meddling, at daft-o-clock on Sunday morning, he destroyed the peace and tranquility of another lovely Leyland Sabbath by popp-popp-popping away up the street in a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His mission, along with his friends, was to deliver a seventy nine pence Easter egg to the childrens hospital in Carlisle. I've checked, that is a round trip of one hundred and eighty four miles, and all to drop off a piece of cheap confectionary. Very noble I'm sure, but how much did the fuel for this mammoth journey cost, and more to the point how many poor little asthmatic kiddies were caused to suffer because of the scooterists selfishly pumping god knows how many cubic metres of noxious gasses into the atmosphere?

Meanwhile, free of the long man's sycophantic simpering, the clippy cloppy woman and I took the little people to visit the cat lady and the black furry coat woman. I do enjoy going out with them, and they get a big kick out of it for which I love them all the more, but the journey to the cat lady's house is not the most pleasant. Especially with Wing Commander clippy cloppy at the wheel. It's best described as a roller coaster ride of terror. She seems to use the accelerator like an on/off switch. At least in the new metal box thingy I am situated at the very rear, keeping me a far as is possible from the front which will be the point of impact when the inevitable catastrophic collision, for which we are long overdue, occurs.

The long man returned late in the evening and was walking rather gingerly, like a rider who'd had his horse stolen, and wincing whenever he sat down. Serves the damn fool right, riding all over the place at his age. He proceeded to regale us with the most mundane tales about, well, quite frankly I don't know what they were about. I tend to switch off whenever he starts banging on about most things. I really couldn't be bothered paying attention.

Tomorrow the long man has to go to Manchester for an interview with one of the companies he wants to work for. They must be mad to even consider him. Perhaps they're just toying with him, letting him down gently or are really, REALLY desperate. He's got more chance of seeing a rocking horse take a poo than getting a job with even the tiniest bit of responsibilty. Let us hope that, when the inevitable rejection letter lands on the mat, he will learn his lesson and apply for a more suitable position. Ideally part time and in a biscuit factory, giving him plenty of free time to shower me with gifts of heavily staff-discounted biscuits to which he would have access. Since I don't have fingers, puppy fans, I beg of you to cross yours on my, I mean his, behalf. Thank you, and ta-ta for now.

How clean is your mouser

The clippy cloppy woman is a big fan of a program on the telly thingy called "How Clean Is Your House" in which two rather ropey looking old dears go around to peoples homes to patronise them and play with faecal matter. They give you tips on how to keep your house spick and span. These so called tips, however, invariably mean you have to get your hands dirty. Well, I have come up with the perfect, faecal-matter-under-the-fingernails free way of keeping your toilet in a pristine condition. Just follow these ten easy steps to a perfectly polished pan....

Step one. Lift both the lids of your toilet and pour in a couple of capfuls of shampoo.

Step two. Get a sack and a can of tuna fish.

Step three. Place the opened can of tuna fish just inside your open back door, then crouch behind said back door with the sack.

Step four. Wait for a passing turd burier to attempt to steal the tuna.

Step five. Jump on the feline fish felon and stuff it into the sack. (I recommend wearing gloves for this part.)

Step six. Empty the sack into the toilet and quickly slam shut both toilet lids. (You may need to stand on the lid at this point.) The cat will self-agitate and make ample suds. (Don't be put off by the noises emanating from the toilet, these are noises of pleasure and the cat is in reality having a great old time thrashing around in there.)

Step seven. Flush the toilet four or five times. (This provides a "power wash" and a rinse.)

Step eight. Ensure any doors between the bathroom and the outside world are open. (Also, be sure no one is standing between the bathroom and the outside world.)

Step nine. Stand behind the toilet, as far back as is possible, and quickly lift the lids.

Step ten. The cat will rocket out of the now gleaming toilet and run outside where it will dry itself off. After completion of this procedure both the toilet and the cat will be sparkling clean.

I dont get paid for any of this stuff you know? It's all part of my altruistic nature. A service I provide, free of charge, totally gratis, to my legion of puppy fans. I don't require payment, or even gratitude, just the thought that someone, somewhere, is using my method, that they have a sparkly, shiny lavatory and that a cat has suffered greatly is payment enough for me. (Although if any of you fancy sending me a biscuit I wouldn't refuse. I do like a nice biscuit.)