My company respects the many varieties of Ruthenian public holiday, and the recent four-day Feast of St Trjaxodjev gave me a chance to catch up with the recordings made by my domestic closed-circuit television security system.
The recording of our daughter Arianrhod's room solved the mystery of the whereabout of my father's Luger, and the two cameras mounted in the potting shed provided me with more information that sanity allows about No Good Boyo's morning ablutions - information that I am happy to share.
On surfacing from the remoulade of breasts and megalomania that is his subconscious, Boyo's first act is to grasp the shifting contents of his underpants - assuming gravity, decay or rodents had not already disposed of such garments.
I postponed discussion of this matter until a few moments before Boyo was about to address the Caversham Conservative Association. He seemed genuinely surprised and confused, until I recalled that this is his default reaction to anything I say.
"It's primæval behaviour," I remarked.
"Ta, love!" he beamed, proudly wresting the microphone from my hand.
This need for reassurance that one's lower depths are intact is clearly a male instinct - like lying, inept concealment, blondes and recourse to drink.
Cardinals fearful of Pio Nono's Evil Eye would shield their privates in his Papal presence, while cricketers and "rap" genre singers like Mr 50 Cent continue the practice to this day, albeit with less reticence.
During the "questions from the floor" session after his address to the local Tories, Boyo eventually agreed with my insistent inquiries as to whether he called those pallid parts his "crown jewels".
The mood of the meeting was with me when I urged him for the sake of the Monarchy to reclassify them as "state secrets".
10 comments:
A public viewing of Boyo's "meat-and-two-veg" would rock the British establishment to the core. This was the term that he himself gave me for the male genitalia.
Sdaly, Mrs Boyo, this is how it is. I automatically also do check ups - nothing more, you understand - when in states of semi-sleep, and Mrs Dilo watches with vague fascination at the seemingly pointless rearrangement activities under the bedsheet.
Speaking of Ruthenians, you will be unmoved to know that my excellent ethnomusicologist acquantance Dumneazu has recently mined some fine nuggets from the (barely extant) Ruthenian-Hungarian-Jewish-Gypsy musical interface.
I like you Mrs Boyo. You are someone to learn from.
Sx
Boyo is clearly an archetype for men everywhere. Either that or we're all the same. Coincidentally, I have just finished a post on my own blog about a time I ill-advisedly but inadvertently confronted my mother-in-law while clad in less than was decent.
So Boyo's given up on the UKIP plan then has he?
Does No Good Boyo sleep in the potting shed, or just refresh himself there? Two things that define a man - his shed and his clumps.
Gentlemen, I find your confessionals touching - albeit not in the literal sense that you prefer.
Gyppo, I am happy to advise you that Boyo has given up on UKIP on the grounds that the Conservatives look alarming close to winning an election and therefore provide more fertile ground for his entryist fallacies.
I have little time for such Trotskyist diversions, especially as Boyo claims to be a Maoist, and felt the dialectic demanded my urgent intervention.
My Bananas, "meat and two veg" is among the more endearing appelations Boyo applies to his malleable parts. In the unlikely event of your ever meeting, I implore you not to let him enact a tableau vivant that he calls Foghorn Leghorn Superheroes. Seriously.
Gadjo. Thank you for the charming link. This is precisely the sort of music that my uncle Pytkabor fought hard to ban during his memorable two days as Minister of Culture and Segregation of the Révaý government of Subcarpathian Ruthenia.
MC, I have designated the potting shed a zone of toleration. What Boyo does there is a matter for him and the Thames Valley Police, to whom I forward my CCTV tapes with transcripts from all the languages involved.
Scarlet, you are right.
Was the potting shed an air-raid bunker in a former existence? Just curious.
One of my student colleagues used to refer to his nadjers as "the last turkey in the Christmas shop." His then-girlfriend was known to mutter the word "chipolata."
I mentioned to my family that I really would like to have a potting shed. They pointed out the state of my house.
With such a mania for surveillance you must work at Caversham Park Mrs Boyo! I should inform you however that it ceased all spying activities a few years after the war. The Caversham conservatives are lacking a Maoist, but with the direction the party is taking it may soon be an obligatory requirement.
::wendy:: and Kevin, you are both dreamers. Our potting shed was once merely a potting shed. I have since recacinated its masculinity with a coat of Texas yellow paint.
Belgium is not so far away, Daphne. Oh, can I have that copy of Le Soir once you've finished it? And your coffee's getting cold.
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