Berk

Oaf! That's what he is. The lummox I mean. What a ridiculous great lumbering buffoon of a man he is. He ruined everything on Friday night. I went out a-hunting and caught me a fine juicy mouse but rather than dispatch it there and then on the mooring I decided to take it home and share it with the humans. No doubt, I thought, they would be most impressed at my skill and dexterity in catching the beastly thing and would watch in glowing admiration whilst I administered the fatal bite. But no. Ange started screaming at me like you wouldn't believe which obviously distracted me from the mouse and then the lummox prodded the creature thinking it to be dead and then reacted like a big girls blouse when it got up and scurried away under the wardrobe. He was too slow and inept to catch it. I gave pursuit of course but by then it was too late and we had a live one running loose on my boat.

I gave them both the meowing of a lifetime to let them know in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of them. Ange continued to berate me whilst the lummox began to hopelessly move furniture in a vain attempt to recapture the rodent. I ignored it all and continued to remain vigilant in case the mouse should reappear - it didn't. The uproar caused by the humans had obviously startled it into finding a good hiding place. I had to wait until gone ten o'clock before it resurfaced and I pounced like a good 'un when it did. Unfortunately it's alarmed squeaking alerted Ange and the berk once more and after quite a tussle he managed to get the mouse off me. 'Sod it' I thought to myself, 'have the wretched thing if it means that much to you' and I let him keep it. But do you know what he did then (and this really gets my goat) he marched it outside and released it in the undergrowth!!!

I was incandescent with rage let me tell you. Two and a half hours I waited for that mouse and he lets it go. I'll have him, don't you worry about that. The pair of them had better watch their step form now on. They turned a simple little mouse hunt into an absolute farce with all their squealing and carrying on. It was as bad as that time the scouse hippie took that vole off me. Who do they all think they are?

In future I shall dispatch my mice before getting onto the boat and I might even consider leaving one in the lummox's slipper again. Let's see how he likes that.

P x

Mud

It's everywhere and I'm reaching the end of my tether with it. You can't move on my mooring without your paws being caked in mud. Then when I go onto my boat it gets trampled everywhere. My towel is covered in muddy pawprints, as is the table, kitchen cupboard, couch, armchair, pouffe, bed etc etc. In fact anywhere I decide to put my gorgeous paws. And it does nothing for my luxuriant fur. Yes, you could blame it on all the heavy rain we've been having but I much prefer to blame it on those two. Particularly the lummox. What's the improvident lackwit playing at? Why doesn't he get his fat arse out there and do something about it? Instead he just comes home after a days work and sits on it - his fat arse I mean, not the mud. I've tried meowing at him on countless occasions but the berk just thinks I'm being cute and keeps asking me what the matter is. I'll tell you what the matter is oh large one - I'm sick of all the bleeding mud. Now get out there and do something about it.

To be honest I'm getting sick of his hopelessness and have started to snub him, choosing instead to make a big fuss of Ange all the time, sitting on her lap for hours on end until her legs go numb, diving onto her fromm the window sill when she's asleep, butting her with my head when she's trying to read and all other manner of catty cuteness that she loves. No doubt this is making the lummox immensely jealous but he's no-one to blame but himself. But I'm not a cat to harbour grudges. As soon as he gets out there and gets rid of all that mud I shall allow him to make a fuss of me once more. And, in due time, I shall sleep on his chest again (with clean paws).

P x

Yule

That's it then. It's been and gone and I survived it gentle reader. The humans (as I predicted) gorged themselves on high calorific foods, washed down with copious quantities of strong drink and are now discussing dieting come the new year (yeah right). The day began with a frenzied attack upon the presents. Why they go to all that bother to wrap things up only to tear the paper to shreds a few days later is beyond me. Surely it would be much easier to just hand the gifts over cat like. Whenever I make them a present of a freshly dispatched mouse I don't pfaff about wrapping it in paper and daubing sticky tape and tags all over it. No, I give it as it should be given - on the living room floor for all to see and admire. You know, there is so much they could learn from us cats if they only took the time.

Following the paper shredding they then drank the beverage known as sherry in a sizeable quantity. This made them go rather giggly and a little blurry eyed. Stick to milk my friends, stick to milk. No one ever went blurry eyed over a glass of semi-skimmed. They then, thankfully, went over to the cottage to feast, leaving me to have my boat in peace for the remainder of the day. The lummox had the foresight to light a coal fire before going in order that I should remain toasty warm in their absence and it was quite gratifying to know that he can do something right now and again. They returned many hours later, bloated with food, reeking of liquor, full of wind and rather tired.

But I missed it all and slept blissfully throughout the day. How Snowy, Sooty and the dog managed I neither know nor care suffice to say they probably disgraced themselves by begging for turkey and gravy at the table and not having the dignity to stay aloof from it all. Anyway, that's it for another year. I believe there is going to be a party of some descript on New Years Eve at the cottage and again those other two and the dog are welcome to it. I know what I'll be doing and it rhymes with 'peeping'. TTFN

P x

Lunacy

The mad spend fest known as Christmas is fast approaching. To any cats out there who are unaware what exactly this means I'll tell you. It's a time of year when most humans go berserk and spend seven or eight times more money than they actually earn. Most of the following year is then given over to trying to financially recover from this mania with the exception of the annual summer holiday to Torremolinos or some other overly hot Mediterranean destination where further fiscal stupidity, that they can ill-afford, takes place.

During the Christmas period you can expect your humans to behave in all manner of odd ways. They will dress differently for one thing. All of a sudden the simple idea of going for an evening out becomes an excuse for them to make complete fools of themselves by donning pointy red hats with white trim, adorning their necks with hairy metallic ropes, wearing garish musical ties that defy explanation and pullovers that look like an explosion in a knitwear factory.

Whilst dressed in this ridiculous manner you can then expect your human to return home from their night of revelry in a state of utter dishevelment, throwing their guts up and getting rather tired and emotional about it all. The next morning they will hate themselves with a vengeance and vow never to make the same mistake again. This is usually a lie, they will do it again. It's all very strange.

Then we come to food. A lot of it to be exact. Your human will eat at least twice their own body weight in high calorie comestibles over Christmas and then moan about their bloated carcasses for weeks to come afterwards. They will eat food that is simply unavailable at other times of the year, mainly involving compacted dried fruit in some form or other. They will eat turkey. Quite delicious it is, but then won't even look at another turkey for the next eleven months. And before cooking the turkey they will shove raw sausage meat up it's arse. This means that the sausage meat will not cook properly but they will still eat it anyway and then wonder why they end up racing each other to the toilet for the rest of the afternoon. They will put metal coins into puddings, alcohol into custard, and wrap pork products around other pork products and consider themselves normal. NORMAL!!! Also, at this time, Brussels Sprouts will be consumed in vast quantities and we all know where that can lead to don't we. Enough said!

And of course there's the Christmas pop music. Sorry, did I say music? What I meant to say was slushy old pap that for some reason gets them all misty eyed and nostalgic for the 'good old days'. Ok, some of the songs are just about bearable but others are stomach churningly offensive slices of tired old schmalz that are more likely to bring a lump to the back of the underpants than to the throat. And yet, they seem to delight in listening to the same old guff year in, year out. Never anything new. Oh no! The same old same old every Christmas. And yet, they wouldn't touch any of these songs with a barge pole for the rest of the year. Utterly bewildering it is.

I could go on but I've made myself nauseous now at the thought of it all. So I'll just finish off with these words of moggy wisdom to all my feline readers. Avoid it all. Get yourself to the bedroom or some other darkened space and sleep through it all. It won't be easy as they can get very cacophonous, but do try. I must admit that my pair aren't too bad so it'll be quite easy for me. But to all you cats out there who have to endure all that nonsense my thoughts will be with you.

P x

Work

The lummox has returned to employment, and about bloody time too if you ask me. All he does when he's here is make a lot of noise and disturb my beauty sleep. For the record, between the hours of 07:30 and 18:00, Monday to Friday, the bed belongs to me and me alone (it belongs to me full stop if truth be told but being so benevolent I allow that pair to sleep in it at night) and I reserve the right to use it during those hours in an undisturbed manner. But oh no, he always starts drilling or hammering or sawing or buggering about in some noisy way and without being too blunt about it, he gets on my tits. I mean to say, is it asking too much for a cat to have a bit of peace and quiet for ten and a half measly hours? No, I didn't think so either.

But now the bed, the boat and the mooring are mine all mine during the day because the overweight oaf has gone to work. I'm not sure what he does exactly, ponces about in some office somewhere I think he said, but it's more than likely to be menial work that even a low-foreheaded, knuckle dragger such as him should be capable of. And it's absolute bliss. I can loll about to my heart's content without noise or disturbance until the pair of them come home again of an evening. I'll say one thing though, I've got therm trained correctly because the first thing they do when they get in is to light the fire in order that I shouldn't have to get out of a warm bed and go through to a cold living room. So praise where it's due, no-one can accuse me of not handing out the kudos when it's called for.

Hopefully, now that he's finally bringing in some brass I'll be kept in the finest food that money can buy and at the moment that means tins of tuna. So get to work lummox!

P x

Flatus

Gas, wind, farting, flatulence, guffing, letting rip, blowing off, letting off, coughing in your rompers, tearing the sheets, cutting the cheese, giving a Bronx cheer, call it what you like, I know what I calls it - a Scouse hippie filling my boat with abdominally produced methane and making my eyes burn for the best part of a week. And do you know what the lummox presented him with for tea one night? Go on, have a guess. No? Well I'll tell you - a big plateful of sprouts. What on earth was he thinking? He may as well have forced hard boiled duck eggs down his throat, it couldn't have been any worse. The effects, as you can no doubt guess, were quite, quite shocking, almost paralysing. Particularly to someone of my refined and gentle disposition. Honestly, it'll take weeks for the miasma to clear. And then they laughed like a pair of naughty schoolboys about it the following morning. I rose above it all of course and treated them both with the contempt they fully deserved. The lummox should've known better and will pay for his indiscretion in due course (I left him a little gift last night - hee hee!).

And the noise!!! I didn't get a wink of sleep at night and had to make up for it by lying in bed until six in the evening to catch up. Honestly, he was rasping and trumpeting away all through the wee small hours, tossing and turning on the couch and grunting with subliminal pleasure at each tremendous, great blast. How there's any glass left in the windows I'll never know. I mean, it's bad enough when the lummox farts himself awake and makes me jump but this was taking it to dizzy new heights.

Fair's fair though, the Scouse hippie (I believe his name begins with R, to be honest I wasn't paying much attention) has worked very hard and where the lummox has failed he succeeded and there is now a healthy and ample store of firewood to keep me cosy throughout the coming months. So thanks hippie I shan't forget it but then I shan't forget the brass band impressions either. Next time lay off the sprouts or better still tell the lummox to not even buy any, you have been warned

P x

Paw

It really is just too easy at times. We cats know every trick in the book about how to turn humans into soppy, gurgling saps. I won't deny that we like a bit of fuss now and then on our terms and we let the humans know this by doing adorable things that make them stop whatever they're doing, however important to them that may be, and start stroking and cossetting us to our hearts content. It works on at least 98% of humans, allowing for the factor that there will always be a stoney faced git somewhere who is worried about getting cat hairs on their lap. Sod them I say. But my two in particular are such an easy target that I've devised a method so simple in it's execution that I hardly need to raise a paw. In fact that's exactly what I do, raise my paw.

I jump onto the kitchen table or the arm of the couch, meow once or twice to get their attention and when they're looking I lift my left front paw in the air about an inch and then wait for the flood of praise and molly-coddling that inevitably follows. They go berserk with it and if I should raise it again they end up in a positive ecstasy of frenzied feline frottage that after a while gets a bit too much. Ange in particular though seems to know what a cat likes and gives some marvellous all over body scratches that even I have to admit send me into throws of delight. The lummox isn't as good although I have to hand it to him that he knows what to do with my cheeks (facial) and seems to have an unending vigour when it comes to rubbing them.

The amazing thing though is the ease with which I get all this to happen. I've known lesser cats that have had to meow, purr, rub against legs endlessly, play with toys and make buffoons of themselves in order to get what they want and whilst it's true that all these techniques work in the end, I think you'll agree that I've got it down to a T. Raising my paw, that's how easy it is folks.

P x

PS. I'm off out now for a pawdicure (hah! see what I did there!)