Bluse Rinse Dragons Part II
This will make more sense if you can be bothered with this Blue Rinse Dragons part I

The wispy apparition of the Lingerie Lady of the Line obviously represented a sort of lace trimmed gauntlet to the old bats. Stalls had been set out, battle lines drawn. This first became evident when they started to mow further and further into my lawn. The old buggers were quite literally cutting my grass. They always conspired together, frantically rushing around the garden in tartan slippers, always at dusk - one mowing, one cable bashing. I’m not a petty man; well I am actually so clearly this was going escalate.

The flats had a white slatted fence about 6 feet high at the division point of the properties, but this barely extended onto the back lawn – 20 feet at most. Whereas the lawn stretched a good 50 or more feet further off into the distance. To make matters worse my side was an end terrace so I had another large garden area and parking for 3 cars at the side of my place. They had no such luxury, so this was probably an issue of hot contention for them too, even though neither of them had cars.

The wonky line that veered further into my lawn, now twice a week during the height of summer, was getting on my tits. Then plastic bottles filled with water started appearing everywhere. I had to ask – to which I was informed with the sort of confident air in such matters that only David Attenborough should have access to…

‘The bottles keep YOUR cats out of our garden’
‘Eh?’
‘Their reflection, it scares them off’
‘Does it really? How ingenious!’

I said this while casually observing over her shoulder my tortoiseshell moggie Chloe. She was lying on her back in a distinctly louche manner lazily prodding one of the plastic bottles. I had also at one stage witnessed one of the old trouts propping up a few house bricks against the fence at the far end of the garden. On further enquiry I was informed (incredulously as though I was an utter cretin):

‘It keeps cats out – cats are too lazy to climb fences’

But it was the lawn thing that really pissed on my pizza. So one Saturday morning, courtesy of HSS Hire, the sort of ubermower that Wembley groundskeepers have pictures of, have taped inside their lockers, arrived on a trailer. One very noisy hour later the lawn was like a fucking pinstripe Savile Row suit specified in lurid green.

I knew however the wine from this sweet victory would soon run dry. So the following weekend they were in for another little surprise.

If you ever need to put up a fence really fucking fast - then I suggest you check out these guys. www.metpost.co.uk/

When the bloke arrived from B&Q to deliver my order I got him to leave the posts, 16 pound sledgehammer, fence panels, clips and other related paraphernalia stacked up ominously in the back garden. Then I went for a pint.

By the time I came back they were out in the deckchairs perched on the vehemently disputed border, knitting - knitting long polymer strands of pure black clicking hatred. An empty crisp packet blew across the garden like tumbleweed. A lone crow mocked the scene from its gallery on the rooftops. I stubbed my cigarette onto the lawn, dead on the borderline. Grinding it in with my foot I squinted into the sunlight, and snarled...

‘Can't hang around ladies, things to do’

Whang – the first metal post spike pierced the lawn and plunged into the soft black loam like a javelin through a badly coordinated Olympic official. It was like pushing candles into a birthday cake. A few taps on the wooden post with the sledgehammer, couple of clips here and there, and low! The first birch lap, pressure-treated panel was up. At 6 foot it was considerably taller than me, and these old biddies were struggling to hit 5 foot in two pairs of support hose. And there it was, a magnificent all seeing Pagan monolith draping its cold malevolent shadow deep into their chintzy territory.

They went absolutely, vein-popping, batshit mental. Literally running in and out of their flats, shouting insults from upper windows.

‘You can’t do that, this is private property’ one shrieked.
‘Yes it is, and this half is mine' I smiled sweetly.
‘You don’t own it; I’m phoning Mrs Cantremeberhername (my landlady).’
‘No need, I have in writing from her that she approves of the fence, would you care to see?'.
‘You need planning permission’
‘I don’t’
‘You do’
‘I don’t – it is classed a temporary structure, and as it is less than 7 feet in height therefore I don’t need permission from anyone except the landowner – which I have’
‘It’s on the wrong boundary’
‘Not according to this copy of the deeds (flip, flap, unfold) – care to see? In fact I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but that part of the end of the garden is also actually mine – right up to the back fence’

She was fucking apoplectic by this point – the bit at the bottom of the garden was her favourite spot for deckchair surveillance – it actually looked into my living room.

Then her son arrived.

‘Tell him Malcolm, TELL HIM’

I explained the situation to the clearly long suffering bloke. He apologised and gave me his number in case I needed it. Then smiled weakly as he tried to assure her it was not a police matter and I was not deliberately destroying the value of her property. So I continued to put the line of fence panels up at an impressive rate. The mad old witch now had to be physically held back by her son. Then the other old bint who had been quieter up till now suddenly opened her upper window and screamed…

‘You’re not even married it’s disgusting’
‘Why don’t we elope?' I suggested. 'Blue hair really does it for me?'

As the last panel went up I stood back and took stock. Just as I was about to pop another beer I heard a clattering from the mad old bats garden shed. Then perched on ancient stepladders, craning and wobbling awkwardly around the last panel, I saw a frazzled mop of blue hair attached to an alarmingly purple face glaring round the fence – so far down the garden I struggled at first to see which poisonous harridan was there screeching the now immortal line...

‘I can still SEE you you know! I can still SEE….’

I can only assume at that point the ramifications of a person of advancing years clambering onto an antique ladder suddenly became distinctly apparent to the old bitch.

I moved out 18 years ago. Fence is still there though.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 11:06, 12 replies)

www.b3ta.com/questions/messingwithheads/post1503780
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 11:11, closed)

you have these all saved as word documents, right?

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 12:06, closed)

He will be releasing his third novel in June.

( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 12:09, closed)

they're pea roasts. original posts are still here on B3ta and on my profile - cut'n paste innit
i have a number of the longer rambles on word somewhere, whether i can find them is another issue altogether
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:04, closed)

tell you what?
don't.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:07, closed)

tell you what...
keep being a cunt, it suits you.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:19, closed)

I'm sure this would make an entertaining short film
(SillyMoo, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:03, closed)

How dare you come on here,
posting amusing stories? Where's the bullying and undiagnosed autism?

Good work - loved both stories.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:44, closed)

Nice
Although I was very surprised to hear that the fence was still standing. I myself used Metposts to erect a fence, and the stupid fucking things started snapping and moving about in the ground after about 6 months. I have had to replace about 8. And trying to extract the metal root of one once the box bit has sheared away is nothing short of impossible.

Cuntposts would be a better name.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 13:57, closed)

that only improves the scenario
although i'd be surprised if both the old bats aren't long planted in the ground themselves by now
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 14:14, closed)

Re(met)posts or not,Still a joy to read.
( bane, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 14:07, closed)

I don't get how you managed to type so much text so quickly between the time you posted these two.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 18 Jan 2012, 14:47, closed)