Christmas, Turkeys, Lofts and Sunday Drivers

Yes, I know I'm always banging on about Sunday Drivers. I can't help it. They are the bane of my existence. So here we go again....

Christmas is coming. I know this, not because of the tinsel or the fairy lights or the fact that the radio is playing Fairytale in New York over and over again, but because the Sunday Drivers are out midweek. Yes, in the run up to Christmas Sunday Drivers actually leave their bungalows to venture out into the big wide world. The only other occasions during the year that they travel midweek are for their MOTs, doctor's appointments and visits to the crematorium. (Not usually in their own car though.)

Anyway, earlier this week I was stuck behind two Sunday Drivers (a group outing obviously) travelling at 40 mph on an A Road (60 mph speed limit). Usually when this happens I have to suppress the desire to conduct daring and suicidal overtaking manoeuvres. However, on this occasion my first thoughts were...

When are the last posting dates?

Do I have time to buy Christmas cards?

Have I got last year's Christmas cards I didn't send? (Yes.)

Where are the Christmas decorations?

Where is the key to the loft?

Could I actually get in the loft without being buried alive?

How long would it take to launch a search and rescue mission if I didn't return from the loft within 24 hrs?

How long could I survive nibbling on tinsel and waxworks of baby Jesus?

Do miracles happen??

You see, I know from years of experience that Christmas is getting dangerously close when Sunday Drivers have propped open their garage doors with their crutches and fired up their Ford Cortinas. The reason they do this is because... they are about to pay their annual visit to the butchers to pre-order their Christmas turkey.

Yep, a Sunday Driver must have a Christmas turkey and woe betide any Sunday Driver that does not have a turkey because Christmas is not Christmas without a thirty five pound turkey, spuds and some lukewarm Brussel sprouts.

By the way, the pre-ordered turkey is the one which the Sunday Driver will later collect at precisely 9.05am on Christmas Eve causing massive congestion in all town centres across the whole nation. This is because all those poor people who work and who only have Christmas Eve to collect their turkey will also be in town collecting their turkeys. If ever there was a time for the Second Coming this would be it. God wouldn't have to worry about the nation being entranced by a rerun of Morecombe and Wise or the X factor final he'd just look down from the heavens and see the whole nation queued up patiently waiting for the butchers to open at 9 am on Christmas Eve. Easy pickings for conversion.

Hey, People! Who fancies a trip to heaven or a three hour wait behind the Sunday Driver with the wind problem?

I know what I'd chose.

Okay, I know some of you are thinking that one day Mrs T will be a Sunday Driver and then I will get my comeuppance.  However, I have it on extremely good authority from Captain Kirk that by the year 2030 when I am 65 years old transporters will be the mode of transport and turkeys will be extinct. I will therefore be able to zap myself into the local pharmacy for some genetically engineered mutant turkey look-a-like flavoured supplements without inconveniencing anyone at all during the run up to Christmas.

"Beam me to the Pharmacy, Scottie. And don't forget to make it at the front of the queue!"
(By the way that's a pom pom hat on my head - it's what old people wear on their heads in the UK. Unless they're from Scotland where mostly they wear tartan berets- except when they're at a football match when they just put their kilts over their heads.)

Well that's it for today. I am off to order a turkey.

Ps I made that stuff up about hats and the Scots. Everything else on this blog is completely true.

The End is Nigh!

The day is coming. Yes, it is!

No, I'm not about to preach that the end of the world is approaching; I mean the day is getting nearer when I no longer have to do the school run.

Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

Sound the trumpets, wave the flags and blow the horns. Notify the Queen! I will be a free woman at last!

(Well, from 8am to 4pm anyway.)

Yes, finally, after 14 years of the school run, my two younger sons will be catching the school bus from the end of our road and my eldest will (hopefully) be going off to university. Believe me, as this day draws closer you've never seen a happier woman than Mrs T - except perhaps Demi Moore when she hooked herself Ashton Kutcher. (That was before she realised the cost of the extra childcare.)

Okay, okay get out your exercise book Mrs T...

I am not jealous of Demi Moore
I am not jealous of Demi Moore
I am not jealous of Demi Moore
I am not jeal..........

Look, there is something to be said for having an older husband! Umm.. When I discover what it is I'll let you know. In the meantime, what can I say?

I have an aversion to slippers.

Anyway, in preparation for Young Sam leaving the bosom of the family I have spent the last week or so researching second hand cars. And blimey, what a nightmare! I haven't even had time to blog what with the endless searching, insurance quotes and test drives.  Of course, Young Sam would happily settle on anything with 4 wheels - but when I suggested a scooter with some extra wheels he didn't take too kindly to the idea. Pity. I kinda liked the idea of him scooting down the bypass at 60mph - I think actually seeing daylight and breathing air instead of living in that darkened room with the fetid odours of decaying salami sandwiches would have worked wonders for his acne. Still, what am I to know? I'm only his mother.

However folks, since Yours Truly is forking out for this car I have noticed that Young Sam has been slightly more appreciative of my cooking. Hmm..what a duplicitous fellow. Does he think I can't work it out? Anyway, little does he know that I have plans for him this summer;

I am going to teach him how to cook! (No laughing please.)

Yep, the best Young Sam can presently do is warm up a tin of soup. And if, horror upon horrors, I should ask him to make a cup of tea he looks at me with a face like the president of BP might have when he finally realises the UK shareholders aren't going to let him have a bonus this year. Yep, you know the look that says;

What? I'm innocent! I swear to God I screwed that cap on really tight; it's not my fault it was a toothpaste cap! I blame my secretary she didn't send me a memo that I needed a bigger cap....."

Said the actress to the vicar. (Sorry couldn't resist that. Too easy.)

WARNING, WARNING, WARNING, I AM INTERRUPTING THIS POST FOR A NEWSFLASH WHICH I JUST HEARD ON THE RADIO....

TOM CRUISE IS IN NEGOTIATIONS TO MAKE A SEQUEL TO TOP GUN!

May I suggest we all cover our eyes and ears now before this catastrophe of film making is unleashed upon the world.

Hmm... I wonder; do they use midget replicas for those action sequences? Do you think the props man glues together Airfix models of F11s and then tells Tom to hop on in? Hmm...just curious....

Anyway, back to Young Sam. So I'm going to teach him how to cook. Now folks, I have actually tried teaching him before but he never takes me seriously. So this time I think I'll start with some of my simple recipes such as;

1. Pizza. Take off wrapper. Put in oven. Stand next to it so you can rescue it before it starts to burn.

2. Cheese omelette. Whip up 3 eggs with a little milk. (Remember to remove shells first.) Put in hot frying pan. When it looks a little firm add cheese and fold over into a pancake shape. When that fails mash it all up and make it into scrambled egg. Serve with beans.

3.Chicken curry. Dice up some chicken breast and fry in a little oil. Open jar of sauce and tip on top of chicken. Simmer for 30 minutes. When 27 minutes have passed, open packet of rice, place in microwave on high and cook for 2 minutes. Perfect.

4. Tuna and pasta speciality a la Mrs T. Boil some pasta, when cooked rinse under cold water. Add some tinned tuna and salad cream. Chill in fridge and Hey Presto one culinary delight!  (If feeling adventurous, add some tinned sweetcorn.)

5. Angel Delight. Open packet and whip contents with half a pint of milk. (If you pour in too much milk serve in glass as a milkshake.)

So that's my easy recipes. Not too too difficult to handle I feel. My spaghetti bolognese might prove a little more difficult - I have problems with that stringy stuff.

Anyway, don't think I'm stopping with just cooking folks; I also have plans to teach Young Sam how to clean the bathroom!  Now I have actually being making hints about his lack of bathroom cleanliness for sometime by using the following subtle remarks;

1. Oh my God...what is that?!

2. Bloody Hell...someone pass me the air freshener.

3. Cough, cough, splutter, splutter. SAM!!!!! Would you mind opening the window, I can't reach because I'm having convulsions.....

4. Sam..... do you have a problem you want to tell me about?

5. It's alright everybody; I've just fenced off the bathroom.

6. If that's a slug trail then I'm Coco the Clown.

7. I've only got rubber gloves Sam, not body armour.

8. Jesus, and I thought meconium was bad.........

9. HELP! There's a python down the toilet!

10. Pass the gas mask Sam; I'm too young to die.

11. Have you got a dead rat up your arse Sam?

12. So how's the experiment going Sam? Is is safe to turn the lights on?

And so on....

But so far he's just not getting the message. Now I don't really want to call my own son thick ...

But he's thick.

But is that intentionally thick or unintentionally thick? Is he pulling a fast one on me Readers by ignoring this problem? Hmm...Mrs T is perplexed. But one thing Mrs T does know is that all the males in her house have the same problem......

You know, I think I'm going to become a lesbian and move in with a woman. Bathroom cleanliness issue instantly solved.

Okay, I could have a problem in that I actually prefer men but well sometimes where needs must.....

Right... so I'm looking for a woman who is prepared to do all the cooking and cleaning and just let me slob around and do whatever I want. Any takers?!

Vacuum Cleaners, Fleas and Men's Habits That Make Me Mad.

I was over at Paul Burman's site the other day gloating about the sudden death of a number of Paul's electrical appliances which had caused him a lot of anxiety. Alas, I should have known better - especially after my posting my blog Pride Comes Before A Fall. Yep, you've guessed it - as soon as I turned on my vacuum cleaner the blasted thing started making weird noises and emitting sulphurous odours. Yep, it kicked the bucket - good and proper!

I can't complain though about my old DCO2 (limited edition) Dyson vacuum cleaner - 12 years of sterling service. Dysons are so powerful they can even suck up up fleas! Don't ask me how I know that - I just do.  Of course, I've never had fleas in my house but I had a friend who did and she swore that a Dyson was better for rapid flea removal than any lethal potion. In fact, my friend was so good at  flea extermination she auditioned for the part of Ripley in Aliens. She didn't get the part though - some two bit actress by the name of Sigourney Weaver who had a DCO3 and a large water pistol got the job instead. Huh. Hard to imagine Sigourney Weaver saying Get away from her, you bitch better than me my friend who is exceptionally eloquent. Hmm... life can be a bitch a times....



Anyway, after the demise of my Dyson I mulled over the potential replacements. Being a philosophical soul, as you know, I came up with a few serious questions about electrical appliances in general;

1. Why do manufacturers always give products silly identification numbers? Now a DCO2 is relatively simple - but boy, some of those washing machines and DVD players' serial numbers are mind blowing! For example; I regularly see identification codes like DW121WCS28, DWE19121WD28 and WD122CWS27.  Now I don't want to state the obvious but all these long codes don't make it easy to recognise products when you're trawling though the catalogues. And have you noticed how these identification numbers always have a combination of the same letters and numbers and just when you think you found your DW121WCS28 at a bargain basement price on the net you realise it's another model because one stupid digit is wrong? Yep, this identification number process really screws me up. Why can't they simply call them  A, B, C, D, E, F ..... and so on. I mean how many models does a brand have? Come on, get real manufacturers; I don't want a degree in quantum physics just to work out your identification codes!

2. Okay, if it's not codes it names. And no, manufacturers don't have simple names like Basic, Standard and Luxury. They have names like; Featherlight Deluxe Senorita, Classic Gold Senor or Platinum Supreme Madame.

Now I don't want to sound facetious but really I couldn't give a monkey's arse about these names! And I'm intelligent enough (no spurious comments please) not to fall for the marketing ploy that wants me to believe that if I buy the Featherlight Deluxe Senorita vacuum cleaner I will suddenly become a light footed flamingo dancer swirling around my lounge with a sexy looking piece of suction equipment. Look, I know I'm bonkers but even I don't imagine myself making out with my vacuum cleaner! And well, whilst I know sometimes some more adventurous gentlemen are partial to vacuum cleaners I have absolutely no intention of sucking up to my breasts - not only do I not want breast reduction but neither do I want a conical shaped bra like Madonna.

3. Why do men always name their pieces of electrical equipment or cars? Are they bonkers?? For example Mr T calls his car "Bess." Excellent - you cannot imagine how many times I've heard how "Bess" has got Mr T through typhoons, hail storms and appalling blizzard conditions. Yeah, but what I want to know is can Bess make a beef hotpot, wash Mr T's shirts or clean the toilet?

 NO SHE ****** CAN'T!!!!!

And it's not just cars is it Ladies? Nope, every piece of machinery has a name! For example, take the tradition amongst pilots and soldiers to name their aircraft and tanks. Madness, complete madness.  Not only does the darn thing have a silly identification code like M4A1(76)W ( that's a genuine Sherman tank) but then they go and call it something daft like Matilda or Marilyn. Yep, I just love the idea of calling lethal weapons something so soft and fragrant as a woman....

Aw schucks, whata day I had! I took out two Panzer V Tiger IIs  and I was just about to go in for the kill on  a Panzer V Panther when a Limey in a MKII Matilda II pulled up alongside and nailed it in the turret! By that time the worst was over, so I climbed out and I was yelling at the Limey when we both noticed that the Krauts had called their Panzer "Helga." Man, we creased up! I ain't never laughed so much - so I went back and patted dear old Mabel. Why you'd never get me call my old girl anything as stupid as "Helga"...... 

Men. Don't you just love 'em!

Anyway, I know you're all interested to know what I'd call call my car, vacuum cleaner and a few other appliances if I named them. So here we go;

Car = The Death Trap
Vacuum Cleaner = Sucker (Possibly with the occasional slip of the tongue.)
Cooker = The Instrument of Torture (abbreviated to T. I. T.)
Washing Machine = The THING
The television = Mr T's Love Machine
My Laptop = Cupid
Vibrator = Brosnan

Oh and on a final note, here's a piccy of my late DCO2 limited edition sucker;

Umm.. I think you can tell from the colours why it was a limited edition!

And here's it's replacement; a Dyson DC19 Precision Bagless Cylinder;

It looks a bit space age doesn't it? Hey, that's okay - next time there's a dressing up day at school I'm going to strap it to Master Ben's back and send him as Buzz Aldrin.

The School Run 2 ( The Bitch is Back.)

Now should you have been a brave enough person to have already read my previous School Run tirade or to trawl back and read it now you’ll know that The School Run is not my favourite time of day.

In fact, today may be the actual day that I am summoned into school to be reprimanded for Young Master Benedict not only repeating my colourful language but also his possible expulsion for his accompanying interesting gesticulations.

Yes, a very naughty man in a pickup truck thoughtlessly obscured my vision in two separate incidents; one on the central reservation of a highly dangerous road. I was not happy bunny at all; I was a very cross bunny indeed. By the way I don’t look like a bunny; it’s a metaphorical English expression. (Although I admit I did have plastic surgery to relocate my ears but I kept catching them in the car door so I had the operation reversed.)

However, I have been working on a series of viable of excuses to give the headmistress which are;

1. I have Tourettes Syndrome; I actually need sympathy and understanding. (Breaking down in tears and asking for a cup of lukewarm tea.)

2. I am going deaf; therefore regrettably I cannot gauge the level of my own voice and speech that would normally be muttered under my breath in a dignified manner is unduly loud.

3. I am teaching Master Benedict sign language and his interesting gesticulations are a poor interpretation of the number two.

4. Master Benedict is in training as an air traffic controller; his two fingered gesture does not have rude implications. In fact it means; “Do not land; one of your wheels is missing.”

5. It was not me ranting; the radio was airing an episode of the Jerry Springer show/ Question Time at the House of Commons/ A private conversation between His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and his horse. (This is also metaphorical analogy.) Anyway; I haven’t decided yet; I like to fly by the seat of my pants. (And on a windy day I can travel miles.)

6. I had seen a steam engine and was unable to prevent myself from contorting both physically and mentally into extreme behaviour which was regrettable but nevertheless fully understandable. (You may need to read my previous blog “You thought I disliked football? You haven’t heard me rant about steam engines,” to fully appreciate this serious disorder.)

7. There was a football wedged under my brake pedal and I feared for our lives; any woman fearing death is allowed to “speak from the heart.” My accompanying gesticulations actually meant “Don’t throw balls in the car Master Benedict because now we only have two seconds to live.”

8. Master Benedict had found a mouldy old sweet down the back of the seats and the fluff which had attached itself to it was causing him to choke. In his distress he misheard me. I was in fact saying; “Suck! Suck! Suck!”

9. I am suffering from repetitive finger-strain injury; unfortunately my fingers now spontaneously do as they please; It is a serious medical condition and I have already been hospitalized on a number of occasions in order to have my fingers surgically removed from my nose.

10. Master Benedict is a compulsive liar; I said nothing whatsoever; he must have heard it somewhere else. In addition, he’s not my son and I don’t even know who he is.

If you have an alternative excuse please leave a comment or email me at Jane@Italka loadofrubbish.co.uk

In the meantime I have decided to take some serious steps to counteract bad driving;

1. I am going to mount a tannoy system on my car and follow the offenders around broadcasting to the world their driving offences.

2. I am also going to erect an anti-tank gun on my car; I believe it will have a greater “impact” than merely ramming offender and the added bonus of less damage to my car.

3. I am going to put a sticker on the back window which reads “Premenopausal Woman on board; cut me up at your own peril.”

4. I am going to put stickers on the side of my Volvo like they did on the side of WWII Spitfires for every boy racer I successfully “take out”. I will be known as either “Bomber Turley,” “The Blue Volvo,” or perhaps just “That Crazy Bitch.”

5. Eat some more chocolate.

Ps I reversed into a car on Monday.

© Jane Turley 2008

Oh God, it's nearly time for...( tense Hitchcock music plays dramatically)...The School Run.

I hate The School Run. It’s a wicked and cruel device inflicted by men who mainly drive to work ON THEIR OWN in their clean cars with relaxing music playing and pleasantly humming. Whereas us women are frequently left in such a state that we have to consume entire bars of chocolate on our return or in my case not able to do the housework until about 30 minutes before hubby comes home because I’m so stressed out. (Or possibly both….he… he…he) Of course I’m seriously worried about tomorrow when The Run begins again as I’ve given up chocolate as part of my New Year Resolutions… what am I to do? I may have to watch one of those abominable morning chat shows where some idiot admits having an incestuous affair with his sibling and doesn’t understand why it’s wrong.( On the other hand I’m not that stupid so maybe I’ll just watch a rerun of Starsky and Hutch instead.)
Now in one way or the other I’ve been doing the school run for 12 years because unfortunately I managed to conceive my children at irregular intervals; I have three sons aged 16, 9 and 6. I blame Mr Turley, of course, because as all women know anything to do with childbirth is ALWAYS a man’s fault. Anyway, it’s a long time to have been doing The School Run I can tell you and the end is not yet in sight. (Deep sighs of regret.) How many hours of my life is that? I’m not even going to calculate it because I might feel suicidal… especially when I consider the effect on my waistline.

Here are some of the reasons why I don’t like The School Run;

1.Well obviously it is preceded by the horror of having to get the children ready. I’ve learnt that it doesn’t make the slightest difference what time you get up YOU WILL NEVER BE READY TO LEAVE ON TIME. Or on the one in a million occasion you are indeed ready a relative (who should know better) will ring just as you are opening the door and ask you a banal, stupid favour. To which you will politely answer “Yes” when inside you are screaming “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I DO ALL DAY? SIT ON MY ARSE?”

2.The effect upon my car. “Car” is the wrong description really. Something like “A moveable object containing various degrees of litter, bags, balls (assorted), books, crayons, tennis rackets, karate suits, football boots, portable entertainment systems (i.e. swords, daggers, machine guns and bazookas) decaying food, non decaying food, clothes, drinks, small annoying children, large annoying children and an irate woman.” Yes, I pray to God that people will never ask for a lift so that I do not have to be subjected to the abject humiliation of admitting that my veneer of middle class sophistication is a complete lie.

Oh yes here’s a tip… when your child writes “Benedict Turley was here” in red felt tip pen on the leather seats you have a pretty good idea who wrote it….

3.I’m suffering from increasing road rage. Now you see I’m premenopausal which means I’m beginning to lose my patience with inconsiderate drivers. I also drive to school on a very dangerous road where there is plenty of room for boy racers to do as the please. (Which is of course makes it more dangerous.) Every morning I observe reckless overtaking, people on mobile phones and I’ve even witnessed one person with the newspaper spread out over his steering wheel. Nerd. Now I drive a Volvo estate which is comparable in car terms to a Panzer Tank and one of these days I’m just gonna blow a fuse and blitzkrieg one of those boy racers… in the meantime I look forward to the day when I am called into school and reprimanded for Master Benedict repeating some of my words that he may have regrettably heard like “One of these days arsehole I’m gonna ram you and your no good poxy little Renault Clio,” or “Outta my way you tosser!” Yes, I’m afraid The School Run has had a dire effect on my language. Pity, I’m such a polite gal really.

4.I have to listen to the radio. This is because within a week of getting my Volvo Master Benedict shoved Barry White’s Greatest Hits in the CD player and there it has remained. I’ve tweaked it, poked it, and cursed at it but it will not come out. If only Master Benedict had shoved in the Spice Girls at least I might have stood a chance of removing it…

Now I don’t mind the radio because it keeps me up to date with latest tunes and I can therefore pretend I am ten years younger but it also means I have to listen to THE ADVERTS which is like waving a red flag to a bull. When I am driving to school the only thing I am thinking of buying is an Uzi machine gun and the only thing I am planning is a divorce settlement… nothing else… so I wish they just quit trying to flog me stuff. Oh yes…and the children always talk over my favourite records or over the newsflashes. It’s very frustrating when you hear; “Sadly today…… blah, blah, scream, MUMMY, Ow! He pinched me. GET OFF!…….has died.”

WHO HAS DIED?
WHAT WAS THE WORLD CRISIS?
WHAT WAS ROBBIE WILLIAMS LATEST TUNE CALLED?

I give up; I’m destined to be ignorant on these important matters but if you want a list of satisfying chocolate please do let me know.

5.The School Run is the predecessor to the Return School Run which is closely followed by The Sports Club Run, The Extra English Run, The Extra Maths Run and various other Runs. All of which lead to the Lets Get Home So Mummy Can Open a Bottle of Wine and Get Drunk Run….. need I say that this last Run is the highlight of my day...

© Jane Turley 2008