Historically Plan B's are less imaginative than Plans A's but generally more successful. They do away with all the fancy trimmings and get straight to the point. My plan B was no different.

When John woke up this morning, fumbled for his glasses and put them on, he turned to find me pert upright and sitting cross legged on the floor like a yoga student.
“Morning Darling,” I smiled “Sleep well?”
John did not reply. Instead he gave me a murderous glare. Breaking 'strict rule' no.6 he shoved a Benson in his mouth and lit up.
“What's the time?” he asked
“8.30, Brian will be passing soon.”
I watched John as he desperately tried to think. He looked like he was being questioned for murder. “Tristy, I'm parched, d'you wanna put a brew on?”
“Already done,” I said “was up with the cock this morning.”
John thought some more. “Er, have you... er, checked your window boxes this morning? I think I heard drunks in the yard through the night... and I had this really weird dream that somehow I'd knocked Jaw's bowl onto...”
“The plants are fine, Jaws is fine,” I butted in “now come on Darling I want to see this trick of yours... the one where you get out of bed, dressed and into the chair – all by yourself. It's huge progress, not many paraplegics can do that after 3 weeks.”
“Oh, so that's it, ha! You really are pathetic... it's all about that... your JEALOUSY!”
“Uh huh, and being taken for a complete pinnie! And you'd better hurry because Bri...”
“Stop it! Just stop with that! mentioning his name, where he is and how I will miss him. I won't! You wanna see magic, huh... you really wanna see some fucking sorcery?” John screamed, ripping back his bed sheet. For one moment I thought he was gonna stand up and start tap dancing, but instead he kinda pulled himself to the edge of the bed and then rolled off making a humongous thud as his body hit the floor. Propelling himself forward with his elbows, he inched slowly towards his pile of clothes. He looked like a kitten which had had it's back legs squashed.

I watched Johns efforts in disgust, his white y-fronts caught up the crack of his arse, as he slowly dragged himself along. Then he had hold of his jeans and was stretched forward trying to put them around his feet. But where he couldn't move his legs both limb ended in the same hole. Trying again he did manage, but it was a difficult and strenuous thing. Now leaning back he tried to pull his trousers up. He got just past the knee before realizing it was impossible. He would have to lift his legs to get them on. In pure frustration he rolled back over onto his belly and once more started elbowing himself forwards – this time towards his wheelchair.
“But your trousers aren't on, John! They're half falling off!” I cried. John ignored me, he was too busy holding onto the chair, trying to wrench himself up into the seat. Of course it was useless. The wheelchair just kept moving back and out the way. John started cursing, accusing me of having released the handbrake. At one point he almost got his chin on the seat, but the chair suddenly shot back, leaving John to smash face first into the floor. In absolute failure he laid there cursing. “I can't do it! Not with you looking! You put me off... you fucking sick home-coming homo queer!” Then John turn around and speaking as if each word was punctuated by a full-stop he said:
“You.fucking.shit.fly. So.you.want.to.play.games, huh?” Like the follower I am, I followed his eyes down to his crotch and watched in horror as a piss patch broke and started spreading out across his pants. The dirty bastard! As a punishment, knowing it's me who has to wash him, he had purposely wet himself. Furious I grabbed hold of John's right arm and started pulling him across the bedroom floor, burning his side on the carpet. I heaved him up, slumped him in his chair and started pushing for the door.

The sunlight hit like God himself was outside. Brian's smiling herpes cracked face, which was waiting at the garden gate, dropped in horror when he saw what I wheeled out. John was crumpled in his chair, topless, without his glasses, his trousers around his ankles and his pants soaked in pee. As I said, Plan B's are without the fancy trimmings. I shoved John towards Brian, screamed “Fucking take him, he's yours!” then returned inside and slammed the door. Surprisingly I didn't feel at all bad for what I had just done. On the contrary, my heart was palpitating with excitement. I swung a shoulder forward in the campest manner possible and buzzing with post-war victory I went and put the kettle on.


  1. Nothing like a nice cuppa after a confrontation, Tristram xx ... and John
    You dirty twat!!

  2. This is getting *REALLY* exciting! (I'm on the verge of hysteria!)

  3. @ Widernesschic: God, I ouldn't beieve what he done today! Still at least it wasn't a number two, he must be saving that up for a proper argument! X

    @ Amak: oh thank you! Things are gonna heat up in the next month or so. X

  4. Trist hey darl, i thought he'd get better after our little chat the othr week but seems he's getting more out ofg control than ever. Did he really lay there and pee himself? I can't believe it, really. D'you want me to have a word? maybe take him out or something???

    Hey, listen, don't forget i'm up in court on the 2nd... fingers zipped it'll just be a huge fine and some points. i'd ask you to come along but know you've too much on your plate right now.

    keep your chin up... things'll be ok... promise. Mwah mwah mwah!!! Just like they do in Montpellier! XXX

  5. i'm.reading.evry.word.you.conniving.backstabbing.shits.


    Aarghh Aarghh Aarghh!!! just.like.they.do.in.the. psychiatric.ward.

  6. This comment has been removed by the author.

  7. Bravo!

    That took long enough.

    Or maybe you're playing it like I do with the nephew: let them get ridiculously over-confident - then Strike!

    Even the Nerdettes are happy -


    At last another number to hold world-wide Nerd Skype conferences about...

  8. John!

    Invite me!

    I can help you!

    And TBG tells me that if I'm number 108 I will be blessed, since 1+0+8=9 and 9 is the luckiest number ever.

    I see I've automatically translated his excitement to 'blessed' which is not a word that ever passes his pale bloodless lips.

    Can't for the life of me remember the equivalent Nerdette word for 'blessed'.

    Sorted? Appled?

  9. Mrs Winthrope: I think John gone electric will drive me nuts. Tomorrow may very well be a turning point with no road back... for anyone. X

  10. @ John: feel the pain!!! 107 followers too!!! Frrrppp!!!

  11. Abbeygale: No-one supporting Mr. Spencer's lies gets to cum inside my grotto! Anyway, you'd never believe the truth, not you or any of the other flat-headed degenerates who follow this blog. Just because a man breaks down in public doesn't mean he's telling the truth. Tristram Spencer is a fraud and his cocks not worth the space it's lonely in!

    Tramp the Dirt Down: My side of the story invited.readers.only!

  12. Dear John

    Dear Dear John

    To quote one of my oldest friends, Mr. Montgomery Burns:

    You have made a very powerful enemy.

    You have forced me to take sides.

    I am now the 108th 'follower' of the other half of your twisted sado-masochistic queer affair.

    But it could have been you!

    Now I'll never see the secrets behind that forbidden blog wall.

    Unless of course the Nerdettes can find a way to hack in.

    Wonder what we'll find there?

    Suicide notes to you from celebrities?

    Written in your own hand?

  13. 'Tramp the Dirt Down: My side of the story' will be made public in the new year. There'll be no celebrity suicide notes. Amongst tales of hving my bladder kicked in, every monday there'll be a guest post all about wheelchair access in public buildings. We'll be naming and shaming CEO's all over the land.

    Ps: Thank God for Electric battery packs!

  14. 'Tramp the Dirt Down: My side of the story' will be made public in the new year'.

    Ha ha - like Mandleson trumped Blair I will trump John -

    'Tristram, MY Tristram'

    by Abigail Winthrope

    is on sale now.


Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October

Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
Cheap jam sponge or something a little more exciting? How will Mr Spencer celebrate his 32nd year in hell?

Trolley Dash August 2010

Trolley Dash August 2010
Did Tristram accidently pick up a REAL bargain?

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'
Scrap metal or has John been 'tagged'. Is Tristram Spencer really the only fated man in town?

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland
Will Tristram finally be brought to account for his love of Babs? And: is 25 years hard labour enough?

An Influx of Pigeons

An Influx of Pigeons
Is there still some hope for the fated Mr Spencer?
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