Occasionally, when someone has done something spectacularly evil that has affected me, I put the Curse of Ironside on them. This doesn’t involve any burning of babies, sprinkling of bat’s pee, or even cackling chanting. It seems to be enough that I just put the curse on them. I’ll be walking along, peering into my little plastic bag in which I keep the parking money, and just as I get to the machine, say, I might think: “Oh, I think I’ll pop a Curse on them” – and that’s it. One person contracted Hepatitis C, which was bad enough, and many others have died. Usually, however, at a great age. I put the Curse of Ironside on Marje Proops, for instance, because she had once done me down spectacularly over a job, and then, blow me, if she didn’t pop her clogs. Admittedly it took a while. She died at the age of 85, but I felt a quiet pleasure as I felt that the Curse had worked after all.
Continue reading ‘Grannie Annexe April 2008′
Had a very unnerving experience the other day. I went to one of those street parties – no, not like the Silver Jubilee thing with trestle tables and sausage rolls and bunting, but rather a kind of open day for posh antique shops. You roll down around six-ish and you can wander into any shop you like and pick up a glass of wine and a canapé and stare at Victorian samplers costing hundreds of pounds (wishing all the while that you’d bought more of them when you could have got them for 6d in the sixties) and then you wander down the street and pop into another one and repeat the whole process. It’s a kind of upmarket bar crawl. And the whole street is lined with Rolls Royces with chauffeurs sitting on the bonnets having cigarettes, and wandering around are any number of fat cats with broad pin-stripe suits and silk handkerchiefs sprouting from their top pockets.
Continue reading ‘Grannie Annexe March 2008′