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Grind

PL2

Well?  
lolwarlol

I do apologise.


Fire away.
Grind

Errrr.

Torres or Drogba?

* Welcome back, BTW. *
lolwarlol

Drogba, Torres has not been at his best for a long time, Drogba is stronger than him in play and character.

Thanks.
Grind

PL2 wrote:
Drogba, Torres has not been at his best for a long time, Drogba is stronger than him in play and character.

Thanks.


Terry or Ivanovic?
lolwarlol

Terry, i like his chocolate oranges.
Grind

PL2 wrote:
Terry, i like his chocolate oranges.


Yes. They're much better than Ivanovic's caviar neuticles.

Less salty.

Lampard or Dempsey?
lolwarlol

That is too easy. What site is that dog looking at in your avatar?
Plastic Man

PL2 wrote:
That is too easy. What site is that dog looking at in your avatar?


And more importantly why would a dog have typed "soapy tit w@nk" in the google on-screen search box ?
Grind

Plastic Man wrote:
PL2 wrote:
That is too easy. What site is that dog looking at in your avatar?


And more importantly why would a dog have typed "soapy tit w@nk" in the google on-screen search box ?


Prolly something due to it being bath night.

She's a dirty bitch, that Annie.

* If another photo gets taken (assuming the ASPCA haven't arrived in the meantime), I'll make sure she's looking at Reg. *
Sir Bulldog Craggwood

where have you been and what have you been up to PondLife2?
lolwarlol

I have had a temp job for a month in London, i have had contact with a family member i have not seen in 16 years, not a lot more to report than that.
bearing

PL2 wrote:
I have had a temp job for a month in London, i have had contact with a family member i have not seen in 16 years, not a lot more to report than that.


Well it's nice to have you on board PL2, we used to have a PL on here a while ago.
lolwarlol

I've seen his posts, what a cunt.
Grind

PL2 wrote:
I've seen his posts, what a cunt.


With a bit of effort, I'm sure you could beat him though.  

Hope all's well - I suspect you've had a strange time away from here.  

Oh, and how's the, errr, view from the window?  
Grind

And where did you bury PL?
lolwarlol

Just threw him in a skip down the road, fuck him.
Carp

Yeah fuck him.
Forest

Couldn't you have put him in a recycling bin? this planet is dying because of people like you.
lolwarlol

you just wasted some cyberspace with that pointless observation.
Forest

AHH FUCK!!
lolwarlol

i started writing this but run out of steam and ideas.....





“Morning Darlin” was the greeting, “Arseholes” was the response. This was nothing extraordinary. This had been the norm for the last six years. Terry would wait outside Pilkins Newsagents having been in and got his copy of the Mirror and his snout. Des would drive up in the van that had long seen better days, and had required a tax disc all its life,  pull up without looking at Terry and wait for his passenger to get in. Terry and Des had worked together in the building trade for all their lives, but together they had worked for Worple Builders for six years. Des had worked for them for the last twenty. He’d been there from the start. Anyone who came into contact with Des found this out very quickly, quicker than a member of the T.A tells you they are a member of the T.A and that is fucking quick. Both would tell you that the thing they loved about the building trade was that no two days were the same, they would have both overlooked the amount of stuff they did that was the same day in and day out. The everyday rituals that had to be adhered to. There was the morning pick up and greeting. The way that Terry would open the van door, take the paper from his back pocket and place it on the dash board before getting in to the van. The way Des always had Radio Two on the radio even though he told you he hated all the DJ’s on that station and all the music they played. Terry would always push one of the buttons to change the station on the vans own make radio and Des would shout “Arsehole!” before switching it back.
It is true that the work day to day was varied. They had been called upon to do just about every conceivable job. They had built entire house extensions, dug the footings for numerous rotary washing lines, taken out numerous rotary washing lines, fitted new windows, doors, roofs, drains, gates, walls and so on and so on. Once in the early days they had been sent to a house to brick up a fire place just two years later they were called back to the same house by the new owners to unbrick it. Des, naturally, explained that everyone in that particular story, apart from him, were all arseholes.
Greetings done and radio switched, then switched back, they proceeded off down the road. Des didn’t need to stop for breakfast he’d been up, like every morning of his life at 4am. He’d woken, smoked a rollie, went downstairs in his work strides and vest, rolled another smoke while he waited for the kettle, made a cup of “Splosh” smoked his rollie and looked into the garden at the birds arriving at the well stocked bird table. Splosh, rollies and feeding birds filled the next hour whilst he gave his mind the time it required to wake up, which was an hour after his body had already found it’s feet. Though his house was in fact clean it gave the impression that it was not. Everything in it was mismatched, Four different chairs sat around a kitchen table. Three chairs never got used. Every door on the kitchen cupboard was a different colour or type of wood. In his front room his armchair did not match sofa, neither worked with the carpet that had nothing to do with the curtains. The house contained over thirty ashtrays. Not a single cup, plate or glass matched another. Des couldn’t care less about it and since no one but him and the meter people had ever stepped over the threshold in the fifty years he had lived there.
Worple Builders employed over forty people all told, three of them knew Des’ surname the rest called him Darling Des or Des Arseholes. Des could be accused of many things, and was, by all that worked there but a more reliable, knowledgeable worker you wouldn’t find. Headhunting is not a term used in the building trade but firms all over London, some much further away, had attempted to lure him away. All had promised more money, double in some instances, none had succeeded. Most people in the building trade knew of these attempts, everyone at Worple builders knew about them only two people in the world knew why they were never accepted. Terry wasn’t the other one.
“Where we going Des?” Terry asked, as was the norm. “Greenwich” came the usual one word answer. “What we doing?” came the usual, obligatory secondary question. The answer came with the usual opinion piece attached. “Got to price up a patio, I mean, what arseholes want a patio priced up in October? Oc-fucking-tober I ask you. Arseholes”.
“Yeah right” Terry agreed though he was thinking of why it was not allowed but because the fifteen minute rant wasn’t worth listening too, because, simply, Des knew best he didn’t question it.
“What is this arsehole on about?” Des growled. The arsehole in question was the radio DJ. Des had this knack of looking like he was listening to nothing but was in fact hearing everything. At least five times a day he would ask the same question about a DJ on the same station and every time the response from who was ever with his was the same. “I don’t know. I wasn’t listening”. More than once this knack had caused an awkward moment. The last time to memory was when there was a meeting between the customer, Des, Terry and Baby Pete (Pete Tolley, son of Old Pete Tolley the founder of Worple Builders). They were all on site at the customer’s house. They were out front all looking up at the roof. The work and price were agreed now is was the diary filling part. The customer was just explaining why this week or the other was no good for whatever reasons when Des piped up “What is this arsehole on about?”. The customer, stunned, stopped in their tracks. Des turned and walked the 15 paces or so to the van. In this time both Baby Pete and Terry said at the same time to the customer, “Radio!”. “He’s talking to the bloke on the radio”. The customer only swallowed this because it was explained to them with no panic, done in such a matter of fact way. Des came back from the van like nothing happened and asked “We sorted yet?”. They were.
The drive to Greenwich was going to take at least two hours because of the endless stream of arseholes on the road. The bus driving, taxi driving, commuting in cars, cycling, pedestrian arseholes. Bus lanes, traffic lights, pedestrian crossings and lollypop people all got their arsehole label too.  Two hours was ample time for Terry to discuss what was on telly last night, how the Spurs were doing, what that politician was caught doing now. All these reports would be responded to with the normal bog standard reply. Arseholes. The DJ made a few more arsehole comments and played records by arseholes for arseholes. Terry would roll Des’ fags for him without thanks, though they weren’t requires, and also in the knowledge that Des could do it whilst driving anyway. Des would light them though.

On this fine Oc-fucking-tober morning the sun was screaming through the windscreen. It highlighted the huge amount of dirt and dust that smothered both the inside and outside of the glass. The entire dash was smothered in old stories that were plaster, adhesive and sand. Remnants of Terry’s many spilled cans of Dr Peppers trapped a lot of the dust in what looked like islands on a slightly less dusty black plastic ocean. The tax disc holder on the windscreen was in a permanent state of peeling off, it held a hand written note that said “TAX DISC STOLEN, WAITING FOR REPLACEMENT”. The various clocks and dials were unreadable. When the van wasn’t driving toward the sun its broken glassed door mirrors reflected the sun a thousand times each. The heater was the single greatest heater ever fitted in a van by this manufacturer. No other van that either men had been in had a heater like this. In the back of the van was disaster area mock up with tools, barrows and materials strewn about the place. Dents, lumps and bumps covered every inch of the interior and exterior. This van looked like a pile of shit but ran like a dream. Yes, it was a typical builders van. Not once in their 10 year relationship had Des been pulled by the police for the lack of tax disc or had he called the van Arsehole. The van was the only thing that Des had ever spoken about with any affection at all. The sweetest, kindest words to ever roll out of Des’ mouth were always about the van. “She’s a goodun that girl” he would say. If he was in the van he would rub the driver’s side arm rest on the door as he said it. If he was by the van when he said it he would pat the nearest part of it. If he was no where near the van he would put his hand in his pocket and with regular ease, his fingers would search out the key to it, and he would give it a little rub. Though he would say it often, no one ever noticed. It was so out of keeping with the rest of his conversation that those kind words were like kittens tied in a bag and thrown in to the silent depths of the canal never to be heard. If Des could have bathed it and put it to bed like an infant at night he would have. He never went as far as vocalising this though.

They pulled up at the house, nice house, fuck knows why they wanted to ruin it with a patio. His job wasn’t to question the customer’s wants and desires, his job was to supply those wants and desires and not call them an arsehole, at least, not in their earshot.  Des always let Terry go knock on the door, he knew that he wasn’t what was called a “people person”  He didn’t know what a people person was, he knew that he wasn’t the type to let you tread all over him then thank you for it after. He knew he wasn’t the type to tell you how nice you looked when you looked like shit. He knew that he wasn’t the type to tell you that you looked nice when you looked nice. Perhaps people that did do those things were people persons, He called them arseholes. If any of the people persons was tell him he looked nice, which they were never likely to do, we would reply “Oh arseholes”. He sat in the van and watched Terry walk up the path to the door. He thought Terry was ok, he could be an arsehole but he was by no means the worst arsehole on the planet. There were millions of people in front of Terry on the list of the world’s greatest arsehole. Des had met most of them and told them that they were arseholes. Terry was actually ok as arseholes went. If you accept the fact that all the people that had ever lived, except one, were arseholes, then you have to accept that there are levels of arsehole. Terry fell in the most favourable group. This was also the least populated group. Of course Des would never tell Terry this, that would make him an arsehole. No, he had been enough of an arsehole in his life, He had tried to draw a line under his arsehole days. Like a man with cancer who is desperate to give up smoking but cant, he satisfied himself with the fact that he had cut down an awful lot. There was only one person who was not considered an Arsehole. Des had seen him most days of the last twenty years. He hardly ever spoke to him and never spoke of him.

Terry left the middle aged looking woman at the door and made his way back to the van. “He’s going to say something stupid” Des thought to himself.
“She’s in” Terry said.
“Correctamundo”, Des muttered to himself. Terry told him that the middle aged woman, Mrs Chapman, was offering them a cup of tea.
“Tell her what I want, get her to open the side gate, I’ll meet you round the back.” What he wanted was a cup of tea made in a very specific way. It is in a bone china cup if possible, if not it doesn’t matter because you have already ruined it. You put three tea bags in and only take one out. You add three sugars and threaten the whole thing with milk. The spoon only comes out when the liquid is all gone. In the early days Terry found it quite painful to give this instruction to customers. The normal customer when they offer you tea thinks they are rolling out the red carpet. They never expect to hear how red the carpet should be and what direction it should be facing. Terry quickly learned how to get around this. When a customer offered and once it was confirmed it was required, Terry would inform the customer that they have just made Des’ day. “He loves his tea, he’s a bit fussy about it, but the better the tea, the harder he works”. This was always delivered with a “Between you and me wink”. They nearly always obliged. Des would always thank them if it was good. He’d send Terry back with the cup if it wasn’t bone china, empty of tea though. Unknown to him at this point, he would be thanking Mrs Chapman himself, she in turn would be thanking Terry returning the wink.

Des gave it five minutes; he gathered his tape measure, pencil, pad, calculator and mobile phone. Switched off the van radio, took the keys out of the ignition, shut the doors, locked the van and walked up the path toward the gate. He wandered through the open gate. Mrs Chapman was there with Terry, Des nodded his hello and asked. “What do we want?”. While Mrs Chapman went into great detail about the patio she wanted, the stones she wanted laid, the colours, the reasons she wanted them Des inspected his tea. Every now and then he would say “Ok” or “Right, right”. Mrs Chapman continued to explain the mood she wanted to capture, what friends would be coming, their dietary requirements, how she would clean them. Des pushed the three tea bags around the fine bone china cup with the nicely weighted teaspoon. When he thought Mrs Chapman had said enough he deftly whipped one of the tea bags out of the cup with the spoon and shot it at high speed just a foot or so by Mrs Chapman. Her initial yelp was only punctuated by the teabag slapping the compost heap behind her. Des gently laughed, it wasn’t a mean laugh, it was a polite chuckle, one that Mrs Chapman joined in on. Terry was always too nervous to laugh when Des did this. Des always did this. He always found the place the tea bag could go that would not cause offence but you never saw him looking for it. Terry could never help feel that the act itself was going to cause offence. It never had, it was never going to, only because of the little laugh that followed it.  

“Did you get all that Terry?” Des asked.
“Oh yeah”, Terry replied.
“Nice one cocker, now then, it butts up to the back wall here yes?”
“Please” said Mrs Chapman,
“It goes to about there does it?” said Des. As he said it he was flicking a ten pence piece in the air. He’d finished asking before it landed. Land it did. He didn’t appear to have looked at all.
“Exactly! Yes!” a stunned Mrs Chapman said.
This whole exchange seemed to take place without taking his eyes of his tea. He now drained this tea. He did it in such a time that it was just a bit too long for comfort, by about twenty seconds.
“It’ll cost £450, it’ll take two and a half days but you’ll be told a full three. Once it is down the only thing you’ll ever have to do is sweep the crumbs away from the lovely meals you’ll share on it away but you could let the birds collect them for you” he said.
“Er…..right….are you sure? That seems quite a bit of guess work if you don’t mind me saying?” Mrs Chapman said nervously, though immediately her confidence was bolstered by the memory of the tea he just drained.
“Oh yes” Des said, “The birds will have no problems cleaning up here”.
“No, er…..sorry, I meant the price; you seemed to pluck it out of the air” Mrs Chapman said with her bargaining head on.
“It is spot on Madam, but I’ll leave Terry here to show you the workings out whilst I go to the van and phone through to base to arrange for the governor to come out and arrange a start date. Tomorrow ok for you?”, he said all this looking straight in her eye, not in a challenging way but just a matter of fact way.
“Er….yes….that should be fine…”
“Great stuff” Des said, “Thanks very mush for the tea, it was delish. Terry, I’ll see you in the van. I’ll see you about ten or tomorrow morning”
“Right oh” Said a rather perplexed Mrs Chapman. She was unsure that their business was finished at that point. She really wasn’t satisfied by the way this little man had measured out the job in hand and then priced it.
Des handed the pen, paper and calculator to Terry and fumbled about his pockets for his mobile phone as he walked off. He knew exactly where the phone was but it was something he liked to do, it gave the illusion that you were now busy thinking about something, you were less likely to be interrupted that way. It never failed before and it didn’t fail today. Terry went through the more detailed estimate. This started with using a tape measure to actually measure the area, then the pen and paper to list out all the separate ingredients, the price of each one and what the total was. The total was £450. Mrs Chapman was never unhappy about the amount of money she just wasn’t happy how it had been estimated. Now it had been done in a fashion that she was happy with she became even more amazed by the little man and his funny ways.
Forest

Enjoyed that.

But £450 is well cheap.
lolwarlol

Thanks, i didn't know the price, you can edit that bit if you like.
Plastic Man

Forest wrote:
Enjoyed that.

But £450 is well cheap.


Do you do patios, Mr Forest?

BTW - a very enjoyable read that, Mr PL2. You should persevere. You might get a short story or TV prog out of it.
Grind

When do the gay dinosaurs show up?

* I enjoyed it too. *
bearing

So when do we get part two?
lolwarlol

I was hoping someone else could write it or at least give me some ideas, i was going to kill one of them, it's dramatic isn't isn't it? but obvious.
Plastic Man

PL2 wrote:
I was hoping someone else could write it or at least give me some ideas, i was going to kill one of them, it's dramatic isn't isn't it? but obvious.


Let me get this straight...

You've written the first two or three pages and want someone else to write the rest, or at least you the plot lines?
smiling badger

That was really good. Keep it up mate.
Dont kill either of them off. Too dramatic and obvious. Suppose you could put a body under the patio, though.
lolwarlol

ooh thats good Badge!! Cheers.
smiling badger

PL2 wrote:
ooh thats good Badge!! Cheers.


No worries. Give us a shout if you need a hand or some inspiration.

Think that Des could have a bit of a dark side to him..
Plastic Man

Clacker wrote:
I think you should continue it, PL.

If you want plot suggestions, a little Carry-On-style hanky-panky gets my vote.


Mr Lifetoo - you have clearly demonstrated that you have it in you to write a damn good story... the ideas, the narrative, the skill to construct and tell the story and hold the reader's attention.

What you apparently lack is the belief, the drive and the determination to finish it.

Why don't you aim at knocking out another 3 to 6 pages of narrative and flog it on to one of the women's magazines for their short stories.

You've got a great opening. Think of a middle, a twist to the plot (his mum, who's cremated remains he kept in his pocket, was the bastard love-child of celebrity builder 'Handy' Andy Kane [(c) EoO VII]?) and a happy ending (suggesting that Mrs Chapman was angling to enjoy the pleasure of his pork sword, but finds out at the last minute that she's actually his long lost sister [(c) EoO VII]?), and you could be a few quid to the good...

First you need an agent...
fartcatcher

very good PL2. Pleased you didn't use PL1 btw as it brings back unhappy memories for me.

I think you should entitle the book/TV series 'Arseholes'

It would certainly get people's attention.

Plenty of dramatic opportunities when digging a hole:

discovering oil/gold/uranium/secret passage/body/unexploded bomb/spaceship

Breaking into a sewer/tube tunnel/cave/other dimension/volcanic chamber

i think unexploded bomb would be my favourite.
Carp

It's wank fuck him
Grind

Shortly followed by exploded bomb.
lolwarlol

Carp wrote:
I had a wank


Takes all sorts.
Grind

PL2 wrote:
Carp wrote:
I had a wank


Takes all sorts.


At least it had a happy ending. Bless.  

How about the price charged for the job is the same price used for a hit on the bloke who's going to be buried under the patio/used as a dramatic water feature? Just before the gay dinos arrive, obviously.

Again, 450 quid is possibly a bit cheap.  
lolwarlol

Maybe i'll Terry and June it. Neighbouring priest looks over the fence just as their trousers fall down then the boss turns up. Ooh Vicar! Ooh eck!
Grind

And then, "Ooooh Stegosaurus!"

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