Looking Back Over My Shoulder

You may have read recently on the whqttt.com journal that el stoopido here left a box of historical love letters from girlfriends past on the marital bed last week. Explained hurriedly to Mrs. Sergei (who knew about them, but had forgotten) that I'd rescued them from a flooding loft the night before.

The strangest thing about the whole affair was what happened next.

The very next day, the main writer of all those letters, L.R., a girlfriend from 20 years ago this year, suddenly wrote to me once more. Whoosh. Actually, it was on the subject of a missing boy from the Tsunami disaster, whose parents she was trying to find, but that did not lessen the shock of getting an email that day.

After a couple of mails to-ing and fro-ing between us, L.R. sent a current picture of herself and her sister, looking just as I remembered the pair of them, but minus the Gothic garb and make-up. Brought lots of memories back. Particularly, it reminded me of the time when we exchanged small gifts: she sent scented notepaper, and I sent back a small bag of Blue Stratos talc, at the time my favourite. I never knew that her mother found this sweet-smelling gift, and managed to convince herself that I was trafficking cocaine...only a timely intervention and a hurried explanation prevented the matter from going to the authorities.

It's so wonderfully cathartic speaking to old friends - you can just be the person you were all those years ago, without the cares and worries that play such large parts in your modern life. It's also pleasing to know that someone you cared about found happiness in her life, just as I have in mine.

So thanks L.R, and keep in touch.

Sergei

Please Do Not Litter

Very advanced, the Catt People were. Highly, technically and mentally advanced.

They lived many thousands of years ago, before even the ancient Egyptians - in fact, the Egyptians took a lot of artistic licence and broke several copyright rules when they etched those supposedly original pictures on the walls of the great tombs. Never mind about getting sued though, because the Catt People had died out several centuries earlier, and therefore had no standing in Egyptian law.

The Catt People are not recorded in many books of historical reference. Their artefacts do not appear in the great museums of the world. Their very existence has been hidden, brushed over, and all traces removed by some very shadowy backroom figures representing the governments of the globe. If you look up Catt on the web, all you will find are references to Mike Catt the England Rugby forward, and lots of misspelt categories on small unimportant websites. Nothing about any ancient civilisations here. Or anywhere.

So what has happened? Why the big fuss? Or lack of it, anyhow? Who are these people who want it all under the carpet, with nary a mew to be heard in opposition?

I'll tell you now.

Infiltrated throughout every nook and cranny of every major power's leading political establishments, there are the last known survivors of the Catt people's ancient and mortal enemies - the Dogg People.

Again, nothing has ever been recorded about this mysterious and wild-roaming race either. They come and go down the corridors of power like wraiths in the night. Pausing only to wipe a computer record here, scratch a file there, destroy some homework, or stain an important memo. They leave no evidence behind them except perhaps the odd furball or chicken feather. The Catts don't stand a chance.

So I've decided to trumpet the Catt's cause. Give ear to my cry, readers. This campaign will almost certainly affect you in one way or another.

'Catts of the world Unite' is the slogan I've chosen to spearhead the PR push. 'No More Pussying Around' is another I thought of, but didn't think people would take me seriously on that one. Some of my backers wanted to mount a presidential campaign in the US, but I'm advising against this. With a Dogg already in power, it could prove just too risky at present. Alongside the main thrust, there will be other, more subtle shows of strength. We already have our elder PR statesman, Tom, in place at Scraatchi & Scraatchi, and he has started muddying certain pools in the City. His finest flyer, now appearing all over the major conurbations from lowly tavern walls to posh mews, is a master stroke. Kitten Needs You. Particularly effective, I thought. The Catts Protection League has discretely joined our cause, by training their strays to whisper subliminal messages into their owners sleepy ears at night. Marvellous.

A major blow to our movement came late last year when Humphrey, our distinguished representative at No.10, was said to have been 'retired to the country'. Utter rubbish. The truth is that he was caught scanning through some of the PMs sensitive documents in the Downing St. office, and was duly neuterelised in the interests of National Security.

So here is the main message.

We may be few who have made this cause come into being, but we mean business. The original owner of this blog was blackmailed into writing this for us. We know he likes a nice bit of Pussy every now and then. We wouldn't like Mrs. Sergei to find out now, would we? So he writes in our cause now.

Our demands are simple:
1. Write a new clause into every contract for employees of all petshops that they must wash their hands and cut their nails.
2. Vets must have warm hands, and use kid-leather gloves.
3. Catts must have the vote.
4. Proper welfare for cute kittens.
5. No more stupid names like 'Tiddles' or 'Ginga'. They're just not funny.
6. Launch a fatwah against Garfield - treacherous b*stard.

These are the demands. Meet them. Or else we'll think of something really horrible to do to your expensive carpets.

Signed: Mogadon

Too Many Cooks?

I heard that a certain well-known celeb chef was visitng a local restaurant over the weekend. Apparently, it was The Italiano's turn to feel the heat of Rordon Gamsey's attention, and it caused a ripple amongst the politer circles of the town.

The restaurant itself is well known as the place to go when one wants to impress one's lady-friend. The gentle air of the camp Maitre D' and the sommelier's sensual touch of even the cheapest bottle of plonk makes one feel so wanted - nay - cherished.

So, one wonders, what on earth were the management thinking of when they invited the sharklike Mr. Rorden Gamsey over for canapes with cheese and pineapple.

Well, perhaps they have sussed out that whether the honourable gourmet gave them a good or a bad write up, the attendant press and/or notoriety would put them on the map for years to come.

Funny thing is, I heard that once word got around that Roaring Rorden was on site, the crowds melted away like so much butter in a hot pan. Not because of the chef's notorious bad temper, or his pugnacious looks.

No.

It was probably the fact that the cameras might just have recorded some of the less permanent couples at some of the shadier tables, and they might not want their official other halfs to know about the Swingers Club that meets there every Saturday evening.

Sergei

Facial Shrubbery

Do you know...I've been called many things in my life.

But since I've grown a half-hearted beard over the last week or so, I found colleagues and relatives attitudes have changed enormously.

Apparently, I'm now a Yeti, a Beardie-weirdie, a slob, scruff, unkissable, Chav (now that hurt...) and, perhaps worst of all, Terrorist.

So if I promise to shave it off tonight, do I go back to being plain old Sergei?

Terrorist? Because I have grown a beard?

That's actually not very funny.

See hair for details...

Bargain Buckets

There is usually a very pleasant scent that wafts down the escalators at my Tube station every morning. As one disembarks from the train, a crispy bacon and porky sausage breeze assaults ones nostrils. Not entirely unpleasant, as one might imagine.

An additional tang assisted those two this morning. KFC.

Now there isn't a KFC for some distance, so this was intriguing. Reaching the main concourse, my eye was caught by a brand new poster liberally spread along the underpass advertising the latest Colonels Sandwich.

Surely not?

Has poster art reached the highest point ever, with scratch-and-sniff posters? I walked closer. And closer. Defininately a smell of fried chicken. With an increasing sense of disbelief, I stood right up to the poster and sniffed. Fried chicken again.

Can't be!

Oh.

I see.

Some party-goer from last night has left a half-eaten bargain-bucket of wings in the underpass - perhaps he felt sorry for the rats.

I hope to God that no-one was watching me too closely this morning...

Rainy Days and Mondays

It wasn't before I left for work. It wasn't when I got to the station. It wasn't when I changed trains.

It was when I walked out of the Tube, about 500 yards from work.

My phone rang.

Mrs. Sergei. Urgent. SMS message followed fiercely by two missed calls. At 8am in the morning? Uh-oh.

Hastily returning the calls, I discover a panting and panicky-sounding better half trying the get the kids ready, eat breakfast, and mop up a sizeable puddle of water in the living room.

As I don't remember installing a swimming pool in that particular room, I think I can safely assume that something has gone very wrong.

Home again, home again, lickety-split.

I find the ballcock valve, that finest of double-entendres has stuck in the down position. To use a technical term. It's overfilled the large tank of water in the loft, overpowered the overflow pipe, soaking everything in the immediate area, immediately below the area in Ivanovitch Jr's bedroom, also the Pink Princess's carpet has gotten itself a good dose of damp. The hall carpet has taken on a deeper shade of blue. The freshly painted living room now has fantastically gothic spire and steeple patterns etched into the cream walls.

In short, something that caused so much aggro and pain today, I managed to fix for £3.58.

Mystic Meg never predicted that for Aquarians yesterday. Although perhaps such a calamity is entirely appropriate for a water carrier...

Sergei

Learn From History

It's amazing how many people never learn from history.

For example, a mate of mine once got pulled over for being over the DD limit, about three weeks after his previous ban for the same offence had expired. In the few months leading up to the end of the ban, he had bought two rally cars, spent thousands rebuilding them.

Didn't learn you see.

I'm not talking about the DD ban.

Oh no.

The rally cars.

Opel Manta's.