It started with the birth of a fly, and ended with the death of a fly. I am unable to confirm whether the beginning and end of the chain of events involved the same fly, as they're not easy to tell apart. On the 'fly version' of the game "Guess Who" they may well randomly wear hats or glasses and some may sport a beard or a tash, but in real life, a normal fly has the standard characteristics of a fly, and the only variables are the size, noisiness and speed of the cunt.
For the purpose of this brief account, and chain of events, I am taking the start point as Friday - the day on which the flies first appeared and dished out some annoyance. I have no idea of the life cycle of the BSF (Bog Standard Fly or Bastard Shitty Fucker - take your pick) and whilst I am positive I once knew, I cannot be arsed to research this. Instead, I will henceforth concentrate on activities which, when appropriate, shorten the life-cycle of the things - violently! So, on Friday, in the large upstairs bathroom, I encountered a fly. It fucked about, dancing around the small window panes, darting behind the wooden slats of the blinds, and then shooting off to the window on the other side of the room for a repeat performance. I was not amused when a pal joined in; not my pal, you understand, but BSF number two.
Most of you will be aware of the battery operated swatters, shaped like a tennis racquet, and able to zap a fly with the power of two AA size batteries that deliver, according to the markings, 1.5V each. Does two together make it a dose at 3 volts, or what? [Ha ha ha, get it?] Physics 'A' Level seems like thirty years ago, probably because it was! Who gives a shit (excluding the fly) because the spark certainly has the desired effect and the crackle manages either to kill them outright, or they frazzle and burn for a few seconds. The outcome is a dead fly. On Friday, I'd yet to see more than half an hour of tennis from the Wimbledon Championships, but I was keen to get into the swing of things with a smash or two in the bathroom, especially as I was holding a mini tennis racquet.
Unfortunately, at lunchtime on Friday, the racket broke. I'd fortunately killed one of the flies, but the other has escaped punishment. I say 'punishment' in terms of 'sudden violent death', which is perhaps a bit more ruthless than the word suggests might be the case. The head snapped away from the handle - not completely, because a wire still linked the two plastic parts, so that power was still transferred to the wire mesh that formed the 'strings'. Alas there was no easy way of making use of the implement in this new 'dog leg' form, and so with some reluctance I laid it to rest. However, seeing as I'd some years before purchased half a dozen at once (£1 from the pound shop) I was aware of a spare that was still left. It had been out of circulation for a year or two, having been hibernating in Junior's bedroom for some time, probably next to a pair of unwashed socks and the seventeen items missing from the dinner service that Mrs MWSC discovered a week ago.
I swapped the batteries over some time later, after a trip to the loo revealed the presence of three flies. I suspected that open windows and the warm weather, intermingled with downpours and a muggy feel to the air were all conducive to helping flies exist and piss me off. Anyway, I was now charged and ready to exterminate. For anyone not used to using the racquet-style swatter, I should note that apart from the potential electrocution function, the plastic implement also works quite well as a club, what with it being about 760 times the size of a fly. Extra skill, though, is required in this house, because the windows throughout the property are of a style that's fucking inconvenient - multiple small panes of glass. I've no idea which king (probably a George) was around to nudge the architect in a certain direction a hundred years ago, but he was having a laugh because we now have hundreds (literally) of panes, and the wooden frames that separate the panes create crevices into which a fly can shuffle to just about escape the curved head of a tennis racquet - standard, or mini-electric!
After some efforts to club and/or electrocute a couple of flies, I was mildly pleased to have secured the area, but a final bastard was behind the half-raised slats on one of the large windows. It made a dash for the shower cubicle (not to wash, of course, because a fly cannot exert enough pressure to push the button on a Gainsborough 8.5E, let alone turn the dial to select a comfortable water temperature) and I made a move myself. I was prepared, although I'd not gone to the lengths exhibited by Andy Murray in his match with Marcos Baghdatis on Saturday, where he managed to wipe his face with the towel after each and every point. That level of ritualistic uselessness would not be sanctioned or tolerated in this household. No, I was fully prepared without having expected constant help from a ball boy or ball girl after each swish of my racquet. In theory they should actually be called towel boys and towel girls, as they spend more time offering a towel than providing three balls and waiting for the player to discard the one whose ethics and appearance are questionable. I was ready without extra help - ready to play.
The swing of the racquet whilst in the firm grip of TMWSC put a strain on the plastic construction, and for the second time in a day, the fucker snapped. I was so disappointed. Unlike Andy Murray, I did not see when I looked over at the chair in the corner of the room a large Adidas bag holding 11 spare racquets. I decided that it was time to call it a day. I resolved to purchase replacement racquets the following day, from the local high street. A Saturday stroll in the pedestrianised area would take me past three pound shops, dotted around the 14 charity shops. I would top up my supply of batteries as well. I was fired up and ready to put things right - and catch the BSF that had avoided my wielding of the racquet.
Saturday
A fairly early rise (8.10am) on a Saturday afforded me time to purchase newspapers and get up to speed on all manner of events in the world. With my lottery ticket purchased, and crossword done, the television decided to offer up a Holiday Showdown, on ITV2, and I completed my use of newspapers and supplements to the moaning and whinging of families sampling the delights of Blackpool and Dubai - quite a contrast at all levels. A bath then allowed me to reminisce about the previous day's bathroom tennis and a feint buzzing served (haha!) to volley home the point! It was time to shop.
I parked up in town in the 20-minute zone and went into Wilkinsons. Cleaning stuff was needed, as was canary food and dog treats. After this minor excursion, I thought fleetingly about a wander towards the pedestrianised area, but somehow managed to dismiss the thought without much delay.
A trip to Morrisons turned out to be annoying. The bitch/cunt/cunt/bitch/fucker/cunt/twat [delete as appropriate] in the black hatchback who nicked my space by driving like a lunatic in the wrong direction and manoeuvring like an epileptic cock was less than welcome. I wished her ill and moved on, to park in a free space some 30 seconds' walk away. Morrisons on a Saturday is not quite Helmand Province, but fucking close! There were twats everywhere, hogging the aisles (passing a pig in a passage etc etc) and the noise level was awful. I loaded up the trolley with what turned out to be £101 of stuff and picked a checkout that was not manned (or womaned) by someone on a pilot scheme who was not up to the job. Mrs Helpful was helpful, and offered carrier bags of the 'strong' variety, after apologising for the shit ones not being available. She did not, of course, use the word 'shit' in her relaying of the situation, but it's what she meant.
The Carlsberg lager caused a problem, but after a supervisor was called to kick shit out of the checkout terminal, and insert a key (they always do this, and I often wonder why the fuck a key is not given to every till operator to save the need for supervisory input that amounts to an unlocking but no supervision!) the scanning was allowed to continue. The cause of the hiccup was my purchase of 4 items on offer. Each was a double pack of Carlsberg - two 15-can boxes cellophaned together at £15. It would have been rude not to take up the supermarket on this generous offer, so I duly picked up 4 - so 120 cans for £60. Any cunt can work out that 50p per can is cheap. The real problem was NOT the beer. The socially responsible Morrisons had no limit, it seemed (despite the panic attack by the till) on beer, but my intended purchase of 5 packs of toilet tissue was clearly an outrage. What the fucking hell was I thinking, buying 5 multipacks of Kleenex Velvet in a supermarket? Admittedly the sirens did not go off, and the Stasi did not arrive to torture me to within a centimetre of my life [we've gone metric, you know] when the quota per shopper was so clearly exceeded. Yes, it's true - buy as much fucking beer as you like, and drink it for seven days solid until you get the shits to a worrying degree. However, try to buy more than three packs of loo roll and you're labelled a cunt whose crimes are possibly in line with those of the people in Thailand waiting to be shot for drug trafficking! Morrisons? Arse wipes!
Back at home, I was able to relax (after making fajitas for the evening meal) and watch a bit of tennis. This was where I learned about Murray's proclivity for wiping his face every minute with a towel proffered by a towel girl, and was thus qualified to give details in the aforementioned notes on the Murray v Baghdatis match. Rather than watch the match to the very end, I decided to sample the numerous cans of Carlsberg, after the kerfuffle in obtaining merchandise from Morrisons. While I think of it, I was given a fucking ludicrous token that I still have - it reads: "Save £5.50 when you spend £130 in store". What the FUCK? Since when did the stakes get raised to that level? In recent weeks/months/years, the industry benchmark has been a "£40 Shop" and it's been used by all supermarkets as a spend level that qualifies shoppers for discounts. Now, for no apparent reason, the shits at Morrisons seem to think I'll be enticed into a store on the promise of five-pounds-fifty off, as a reward for handing over £130. Get real, you tossers! Your last offer was £5 off a £40 shop. 50p more for a spend increase of £90 is a fucking joke - we're not in the Euro zone, and whilst most of your shoppers form the grey brigade, I'm not one of them and I'm not senile.
Sunday
I was up late on Saturday night/Sunday morning (3am) so sadly did not get out of my bed till lunchtime on Sunday - most unusual, seriously! Still, my lethargy, under-the-weather-ness and 'playing catch-up on sleep' was acceptable because Sundays are designed for exactly this approach, unless you're a religious tit and set yourself a goal of morning prayer and self-righteous guff. As a non-participant, I was fine. The flies, though, were still in command. This was evident when I bathed later that day, after some gardening. To be accurate, it was not quite gardening, but more 'weeding' and clearing the borders of the block-paved driveway, where weeds, nettle and mini trees had sprouted a while ago. The strenuous activity meant a short soak was appropriate. However, I was suddenly aware of my failings - I did not buy any 'zappers' from the pound shop, and was thus not equipped to electrocute two flies who were now pissing me off. Further, I would on principle NOT be purchasing anything from the Cunt-Op ("Good with food" - shit with everything else, and the fucking food, if the truth be known) including fly spray. So, jus before running the bath, I decided that a rolled-up towel might do. I actually selected a floor towel.
Next did a good line in towels and bath mats, a while back. I know this because Mrs MWSC was encouraged enough by the offering to purchase a job lot. So, the ribbed (steady now!) version of a towel that constitutes a robust floor covering to plonk feet on after exiting a bath became my weapon of choice. I rolled the beige, heavy material into a bendy but substantial cosh, and checked the window area. There was the cunt - the BSF buzzing like a rabbit [if you don't get that, then your loss, I'm afraid]. I lined up the towel, and . . . . . .
The window pane was, I believe, a small section of 2mm glass. The house is old, and many of the panes conform to standards and what was the norm many years ago. So, no 6mm toughened safety glass, nor the standard 4mm version, but a thin half thickness (yet mottled/obscured) version that cannot easily withstand the coshing action of a rolled-up Next floor towel wielded by an irate MWSC, and whipped to produce a force of 175lbs/square inch at the point of impact - exactly half that of the maximum pressure that can be exerted by a parrot's beak. The glass moved from the vicinity of the bathroom to the driveway below in a matter of a second.
Mrs MWSC called upstairs, alerting me to a possible break in my a gang of marauders - a gang which was announcing its arrival by hurling missiles at the house and the hundreds of small panes of glass just begging to be broken. "It's me," I called down, mildly miffed that there was a big hole in the window above the bath. I went downstairs, and Mrs MWSC was all ears when I explained how my fly swat effort had put out a window. I swept, but Mrs MWSC took over, after I went for the dustpan and brush. I think she was minorly annoyed about my grumbling over the cigarette ends outside the back window that were now mingling (in a non-animated way, of course) with broken glass. "The good news is that I got the fly," I confirmed, as a way of justifying this episode in our lives.
Mrs MWSC mentioned to Junior a few minutes later the goings on. He was playing a game on his X-box or something similar, and she posed him the question: "I don't know who's the biggest culprit - your father for smashing a window while killing a fly, or me for not sweeping up some fag butts." Junior was completely unfazed by any element of the revelation, and without moving his gaze from the screen, was unable to side one way or the other; "Hard to say, really - as bad as each other." Mrs MWSC was dumbfounded that Junior had not thought it the least noteworthy that TMWSC has just demolished a window pane while attacking a fly, and that the announcement has not merited even a flicker of emotion/amusement/worry/surprise/interest.
With the bath full, I rested for a short while, washed, and then got out to watch Spain v Italy, while continuing to polish off some more cans. As I left the bathroom, I heard a buzz. I killed two flies, having decided that I would not be put off from my mission. I again used the rolled up heavy mat, but exercised caution.
Monday
Today I left the house at 7am, and as it turned out, would not be back home until six-thirty. At lunch time, I stopped at Tesco for a sandwich, and bought a can of Raid - a fly spray that kills the cunts in 30 seconds, so it is claimed by the manufacturers. I boycotted Morrisons and did not use the coupon I'd received on Saturday, entitling me to 6p per litre off my fuel. I knew the pump price would be 2p more than the Shell station, and that 25x4p would mean a £1 saving. Considering how much I'd saved on lager, I thought they could piss off.
It is now 10.55pm and I have killed the last fly. Well, to be fair, it's break dancing on the floor in the corner - and doing quite a good job on the water-resistant laminated flooring. Whether the 30 second claim is accurate or not, I am not really bothered. It would be nice to know if this last flay was the first one I saw on Friday, or whether it was a colleague who joined in later. In any event, the Friday killing of a fly has been followed up just now by the killing of a fly, drawing to a satisfactory conclusion this extended chain of events. Roll on winter.
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