12 days of Christmas

December 25th 2017
So, I met this guy at the office christmas party last week, he seemed like a bit of fun, maybe my judgment had been clouded by the second bottle of wine. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun, the following day he text me eight times, I mean eight times, I though he may get the message if I continued to ignore them. Oh no, he text me twelve times on the Sunday, I still didn’t reply, I even thought of changing my mobile number, and all that palaver. Then on the Christmas Day, He turned up at my door with a fucking partridge in a pear tree. I only have a window box outside my kitchen window, I live on the eighteenth floor, the pissing thing didn’t fit in the lift, I mean a fucking partridge in a fucking pear tree. This guy is starting to worry me.

December 26th 2017
I was right to worry, first thing Boxing Day morning, he was banging on my front door at 8am, who the fuck wakes up that early on Boxing Day?. So there he is, he’s only got a bloody massive wire cage, and inside, two turtle doves, come on man, what the fuck do I need two turtle doves for? Noisy bastard’s, shitting everywhere. Got the council on my back about that fucking bird and tree, they say it’s a danger to safety, blocking a fire exit, wankers. We are too high up for me to lob it over the balcony, and I’ll be fucked if I am going to wrestle it downstairs, and that bloody partridge squawking all day, ‘my shit don’t stink, look at me in my pear tree’ look on its fucking face, bollocks to you. Now I have to look after two turtle doves as well? Might call citizen advise tomorrow.

27th December 2017
Still looking for that christmas lay in I promised myself on the last day of work, he was knocking on the door this morning at 8am, again. This time with a cage bigger than yesterdays, inside, three french hens? Three french hens, I don’t give a shit where the feathered fuckers have come from, I don’t need them, I don’t want them. So now I have three french hens to add to this ever growing menagerie, on the plus side I get fresh eggs, and a few Sunday lunches, I like eggs, but not enough to woken at day break each and every day.

28th December 2017
This morning, before I put my war paint on, hair in curlers, siting there having a smoke and tapping the ash in to my musli bowl, there’s a knock at the door, guess who it was? That fucking bellend! And what fucking delights has he bought to me? You will love this one, I heard a strange noise as I sat there dragging on my fag, I had no idea what it was, what was it? It’s that fucking twat again, only got another wire cage in his hands, bigger than the first two cages, four fucking calling birds, I ask you, four fucking calling fucking birds. I am allergic to feathers, now I own ten fucking birds, surely this guy must have escaped from somewhere, some nut house is a patient short of a full bunch. Toss-pot, my spare room is beginning to look like a wild fowl sanctuary. I am bloody worried what this nutter will bring me tomorrow, his meat and two veg on a sesame seed bun I hope, hold the secret sauce.

December 29th 2017
Finally, a break. Today that twat turns up with five gold rings, bonus, 18 carat gold, lovely, they will be in an envelope on its way to ‘cash my gold’ by the end of the week, christmas bonus, hopefully pay my bar bill on New Year’s Eve. Maybe this shows a change to my luck with him? Maybe I can go in to the new year cash rich, got the birds up for sale on eBay, not much interest, no watchers and I have started the auction at £0.99. Give them a week then I will be stuffing the smallest bird in to the next sized bird up and continue until I run out of birds, and roast them for lunch, fucking things, more gold rings please.

December 30th 2017
Normal fucking service has been resumed, ARGH! I COULD SWING FOR THIS PLEB!! Six, read it, yes, six fucking geese, I mean they are the fucking noisiest off all the birds in my back room, and to be fair, I am running out of room for any more, but that is not the worst part, they can open the door and run wild in the flat, I am doing nothing but either stepping on goose eggs, or goose shit, this lovely home of mine is starting to smell very rural. Their morning barking is upsetting the neighbours, I am sure I will end up on a neighbour shamming show on Channel five at this rate, I am selling them on eBay, as a group, cant be arsed to write out six individual sales. I am pulling my hair out with this dude now, he was not even that good of a shag, two pumps and a squirt, so he has not even got that going for him.

December 31st 2017
Fuck my arse with a twelve inch rubber cock! He really has lost the plot, no, he has never had the plot so I guess he has set fire to the script and shat on a camera! Twinkle toes this morning, banging on my door, he has only got Seven swans, speechless, seven fucking swans? They can kill a man or something like that with their wings, or whatever. There is not enough room left in the spare room, these winged assassins are swimming in the bath, all my nice bubbly stuff, candles lit, just about to pop a toe in, swans! Not one swan, or two, threes a crowd? Seven is a fucking invasion, where the fuck did he find seven swans? I had a rude email from eBay telling me I could not sell livestock on there! Where would you buy swans?

January 1st 2018
Now he is really taking the piss, seven maids milking cows? Had to leave them all out on the landing outside. I don’t have the room for the seven maids, as for the bloody cows, I thought they would all run off, but apparently they cant walk downstairs, load of bolllocks, if you ask me, lazy fucking things. Got my brother coming over with his replica ‘Kill Bill’ sword tomorrow see if we cant turn at least one of them in to Sunday roast and stews. Had the EHO on the phone residents complaining about having to walk through cow pats on the landing, I told them if they think the cow Shit is bad, they wanna look at the bird shit inside the flat. As for those bloody swans, they used all the hot water yesterday, had to wash my lady bits in the kitchen sink with a Brillo pad and hot water from the kettle, how that for an exfoliate, bang on.

January 2nd 2018
I have taken on a solicitor after this mornings goings on. He is going to feel the blunt edge of a scabby knife if he don’t knock this shits off. Nine fucking ladies, nine fucking ladies! Oh no, not your average ladies, good on a night out, stab any one giving you the evil’s, so you don’t get your outfit dirty (cant return them if they get dirty, and who wants to be seen in the same dress twice), someone to share a kebab with at 4am hold your hair back as you puke at 5am, no. Not this prick, what kind of ladies do you think he got me? Fucking dancing, fucking nine dancing tarts, all make up and super white teeth, prancing about my fucking living room cant even watch the TV past them and the fucking noise of their great big flat feet, I’m going to go insane. Had a call from channel 5 this morning asking for a reply to the claims from the neighbours that I am a nightmare tenant, fucking cheek of it.

January 3rd 2018
Will I ever get a break, this morning I have ten peers of the realm jumping around my flat, one burst in during my morning shit, scared the life out of me, put me right off my stroke and ended up with more paperwork than I am happy with, rubbed my arse red raw. They don’t stop, just leaping all over the place, the vibrations of them and the dancing tarts has danced the TV off its stand and has been trampled in to oblivion in the melee that is now my front room. Geese escaped again today and air bombed the dancing laddies and the leaping lords with effluent, which in turn has pebble dashed the walls as it has flown off them with the inertia of hitting a moving target. I can not stand it anymore, its too noisy to sleep, its far to deep in bird shit, I cant step out side because of the cows, the only refuge left to me now, is my bedroom. Still not heard back from the solicitor, when we spoke yesterday he reckoned it will all be over in a few days, I will be a drooling fool in a few days, I cant sleep for fear of what will arrive tomorrow, I have to wear earplugs to blot out the noise of birds, bints and tosspots in the other rooms.

January 4th 2018
Didn’t drop off to sleep today until gone 5am, next thing I know after finally drifting off, fucking musicians, eleven of the cunts, and not some nice gentle instruments, no, they are all playing pipes, I ask you, fucking pipes! There is a guy with bag pipes over there, a trio of South American’s with pan pipes, half a dozen assorted folk pipes and a fucking Flageolet in the front, what’s worse is the pan pipes are playing ‘Eleanor Rigby’, the folk pipes are doing ‘Scarborough Fair’, the bag pipes are on a rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’ and the twat on the Flageolet is trying to bang out ‘Joe le Taxi’. It’s just all too much, I cant take anymore, the Solicitor is convinced it conforms to a seasonal pattern and still believes it will be over by tomorrow, he is forgetting I have to live with all these gifts. He would help me if he had to come up here in his designer black brogues and Italian silk, what a prick, it will all be over soon, here is my bill £900, thank you very much. Well he can get like Donald Duck and stick his bill up his arse! I could have gone to a fortune teller for than kind of bullshit and only paid £30! Wanker. Then just after all these pipers had found a corner of the flat to play in, there was a council guy from the housing department with an eviction notice, got to vacate the flat on 20th January ‘happy fucking New Year’, leaving the flat in the same condition as I received it, no chance, I will pack my stuff, what’s left anyway, and I will leave the chaos behind for the next tenant.

January 5th 2018
Oh you fucking prick, you played your trump card to shoot the moon today, you, you, absolute prick. Twelve, go on count them, twelve cock wombles playing an assortment of percussion. I have some bongos over there, snare drum or two over here, some sterile electronic drums over there, I can feel the bass drum booming through my being like it was playing in my intestines, there a hint of conga drums at the back, and multitude I cant name. Like the pipers, none are playing the same beat, its all just noise. I cant hear myself think, the ear plugs block the noise, but the boom of percussion vibrates through me, leaving my mind to “name that song…..”, you cant name that song, its many songs, its like a band of epileptics in the orchestra pit being illuminated with strobe lighting. All this from a knee trembler out the back of Chicago’s, by the bins, on the night of the Christmas party, I am going out later, find where that knob rot lives and I am going to torch his house with him in it.

A piece of Padauk set in the Mixed wood bowl. More on Bespoke Woods Facebook page

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