If I appear calm, together and unflustered I really cannot explain why. I should be hysterical, trembling with fear and squirting liquid shit, but for some weird reason my body just hasn't given to that. All I have is a kind of hollow feeling in my stomach, and a top half, that with no prior warning, suddenly erupts into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Not happy laughter, though, this sounds much more like I'm crying.

I knew venturing out was a mistake, I fucking knew it! The day felt weirdly off from the start – kinda fake looking and staged. Then when the Garbo Tranny stepped out from his door, said “Morning Mr Spencer,” and shot me a look like I was a sexual innuendo, I knew a bizarre wind was once again blowing through town. Even at Morrison's it showed. When I paid for 14 frozen pizzas, a six pack of cheap pink toilet paper and 15 tins of Rabbit and Gravy dog food, the checkout girl, sat there in a Scream Halloween mask, handed me back my Loyalty card and said “That'll be twenty five years, please sir.”
“Twenty five what?” I asked astonished.
“Awww hahahaha, deary me,” she rolled back giggling in her chair, pointing a long-nailed finger back at my face, “gets 'em all the fuckin' time. Ahww ha, don't mind me, just 'aving a jiggle, a little one of me jokes. Classic! Twenty five pounds DEAD, please sir. Hahaha!”

I payed, gave her a curious look and left in a hurry. Then I just wanted to be home, locked safely back away from the scrutiny of the world. Catching a sight of the Morrison's bum, flopped back in a soiled doorway with his eyes all askew and a pile of vomit sat obediently on his chest, only made me quicken my pace further. It's just a pity I never ran.

As I strode on briskly past No.38, the door was pulled shut and the Garbo Tranny was nowhere to be seen. I thanked someone for that small mercy and then I was home, fumbling for my keys as I pushed open the gate. That's when I froze, absolutely horrified and dropped my shopping in shock. Marlowe, in the yard, a window box upturned on the floor, and four squidgy smelly wrapped bundles laying on the soil. When Marlowe saw me, my panic, he let out a vicious warning snarl and before I even had time to react, he whipped something up out the dirt and shot off with it dangling from his mouth. And then I realised what that 'something' was. The only part of John I hadn't managed to cling-film. Marlowe had just shot off with his genitals.


  1. Mrs Winthrope: Do you remember our exchange in the comments of #157a? here's a recap. You said:

    ...Just as well those bloody remains are wrapped in cling film. Otherwise (a) Marlowe would have scoffed them or (b) They would have grown into little John-triffids

    I replied:

    Abigail, ...you almost stumbled across something quite big in your comment, but I think it's maybe just passed you by. I will not tell you what (even if you ask) as it will come out soon anyway.

    Well now you know what you almost stumbled across. maybe you forgot that the clingfilm ended without me having wrapped the genitals. x

  2. I did forget that.

    And so did you!

    Unless you subconsciously want to get caught.

    Well, given what you've implied about Marlowe's owner, it's no surprise he likes a bit of dick in his mouth...

  3. Abigail: I was thinking exactly the same about Marlowe/Bartholemew. And don't forget this isn't the first time the dog has zoned in on a penis, he went after mine once in the yard:

    He[Marlowe]kind of slid in to me, finishing in a sitting position with his nose pushed right into my groin area. Then he started licking and sniffing. Hoping it might lure the green-eyed monster out in John, or at least even things up after Brian's earlier grope, I let him have his wicked way for a moment.

    So yes, it certainly looks like he is picking this up from home. X

  4. Dear Tristram,

    Another priceless episode in the saga that 'Mrs Dale's Diary' wanted to
    be, but could never dare to speak its name!

    Equally priceless - the idea of John's 'family jewels' dangling from
    Fido's maw.

    I just hope Marlowe eats his tea - and doesn't come bounding into Mr
    Bartholomew's sight, with what (hopefully) will appear to be half a
    pound of Walls' best pork sausage in his gob. Otherwise, your goose
    will surely be cooked!

    I just love these cliff-hangars - I am beginning to understand the
    notion of edging - as you keep me on the edge of my chintz sofa!

    G =]

  5. 'Your goose will be surely cooked'

    see 37.

    The relations to my posts are uncanny

  6. ...so maybe I can add 14 to the list.. :)

  7. Gurney: Unfortunately Marlowe will not eat rotten meat and so as you probably know by now he did indeed plop John's 'Walls banger' down in front of Mr bartholemew. But my goose isn't cooked just yet, and I still have faith in my window boxes. If you love cliffhangers, you'll wear your chintz sofa bare come the very final post. X

    @ Lena: Oh, I love Roald Dahl! Not so much his adult fiction but his childrens stuff is in a class all of it's own. As a child i'd hang out my window through the early hours of the morning reading Dahl's books. Only by the light from the street lamps could I see the words. In those moments, magic and blue moons and BFG's really did exist. I also love Quentin Blake's illustrations, and really do not enjoy Dahl's books half as much when not accopmanied by them. I have a signed book by Quentin Blake here (Angel Pavement).

    I don't believe in coincidence, so any relation between your own posting would have to be magic. I enjoy that idea much better. I love the little flat shoes you have. If I was a girl, I'd wear shoes exactly like that. Oh, and you have your fathers nose. X

  8. Hi Tristram,
    Ah my shoes! They were a present from Sally. My dad broke his nose when he was younger and it has always been crooked ever since but thanks! Thanks for sharing your thoughts on Roald Dahl, from things I have wrote today, it is strange that he has appeared in this way. Magic.. I think your right. :)


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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