Labrador Wars: The Incident of the Apple

loyalty war

‘Did you give Ringo an apple?’ asks Dawn.

‘Eh? Did I Hell,’ says I.

‘Sounds like he’s eating one.’

I see brown paws protruding through the living room door frame, and we go investigate, to find our Labrador Ringo at the bottom of the stairs, on his side, scrabblingly scoffing at a mess of apple and spit with all the aggressive shamelessness of a cocaine addict snorting at a spilt gram.

‘Ringo – where did you get that?’ I ask.

He knows the game’s up, he knows he’s been caught in possession of contraband, but he’s mid fix and just does not care.  ‘I’ll get this inside me and then I’ll just buzz through whatever they throw at me in the nick,’ his junkie mind says.

‘I didn’t give it to him,’ say Dawn, heading for the kitchen, where she notes ‘there’s no way he could have got up onto the side to get at the fruit bowl with all that stuff in the way.’

‘I didn’t give him one either,’ I say, ‘although I did earlier get an apple for breakfast and put it on a side somewhere for later consumption, might have been in the living room.’

‘Well that’s it then,’ says Dawn.

‘Bloody Hell, the opportunist little thief!’ I say aloud, as Ringo slinks into the room, coming down already. ‘Shame on you, Ringo,’ I say in my best Nigerian baritone, finger on his nose, ‘Shame!’

He bows his head, then turns to jump onto the sofa where Dawn’s now sat.


Ringo flits his eyes at me and away again as, lying on the sofa, he noses into Dawn for protection.

‘Awww … he knows he’s done wrong, don’t you Ringo,’ says Dawn.

‘Does he Hell, look at him, steals food and then guilt-trips his demand for protection from justice!’

‘*Tsk* don’t listen to him Ringo,’ she says, as Ringo puts on his best ‘poooo–o-o-r me’ expression.

‘Oh for God’s sake, can you not undermine me in front of the dogs!’

Ben-dog, our older, black Lab, meanwhile is watching all this from the vantage point of his bed in the corner, then seeks to capitalise on Ringo’s fall from grace and he goes over to the sofa and growls for Ringo to surrender his seat on the sofa – a position that criminals have no right to! – surrender, jackanape! he growls.

‘Ben! Come here and be cute!’ I say.

He glances at me, sniffs, then turns back to the sofa and starts pawing at the cushion, ‘get off now.’

‘Come on Ben!’

He doesn’t even look over, but growls and paws until Ringo slinks off the sofa with the backbone of Neil the Hippy, while Ben brusquely pushes past him to take his place, which is what it’s all about, he just wants Dawn’s strokes.

‘Well thanks, Ben, I see where your loyalties lie,’ say I.

Ben doesn’t reply, instead as he settles into the warm spot left by Ringo he stares at me as nonchalantly as possible, while Ringo lies along the base of the sofa, as meekly and pitifully as he can muster, still somehow holding onto his claim for the moral highground of self pitying victim.

Right, thinks I.

‘Awww…. Ringo … aww… come here, Ringo, come here, come here and be cute.’

Ringo raises his head and looks at me, ‘really? You want me over?’

‘Come here Ringo, yezh yezh,’ and so eager to believe all is forgiven, he comes and keels onto his side at my feet.

‘Goood boy Ringo, yes you are, yes you are,’ I say, slapping his tummy, and massaging his head.

Ben continues to stare, shoulders fixed in shrug position.

‘Goood boy Ringo, yes you are, yes you are,’ say I, slapping Ringo’s tummy and ruffling his fur.

Ben just stares.

‘Who’s the cutest dog, Ringo, who’s the cutest? You are, yes you are, the cutest!’ Ringo’s on his back, paws aloft, eyes shut tight.

Ben just stares.

Goooood boy Ringo, cute boy Ringo, yes you are, yes you are,’ say I, slapping and ruffling.

Ben glances towards Dawn, who responds with a couple of strokes to the head, but no more.

‘Ringo Ringo wingo wingo wingowowogowowowooooo…’ slap-slap-slap-ruffle

Ben looks at Dawn and raises his nose high, a sign for ‘strokes – NOW’, but she’s reading.

‘Ringo Ringo wingo dingo ooozhiwoozhiwoozhiwoo … yezh yezh yezh…’ ruffle-ruffle-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap

Ben’s nose is as aloft as can be, and Dawn strokes under his chin, then resumes reading, and Ben drops his snout and looks at her, then at me, then at her, … and then at me.

‘Ringo Ringo wingo wingo wingowowogowowowooooo…’ slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-stroke-slap-stroke-ruffle-headshake

Ben’s eyes are boring through me until suddenly his can contain his jealous rage no more: ‘WOOF! WOOF WOOF!!!’ Ahhaa…. Ben has blinked! I win, and I cackle accordingly. Ringo scoots away to lie at the foot of the sofa as Ben continues to bark, envy still coarsing through his veins.

Another round of brinksmanship, Robin – 1, Ben – NIL. Then I see Ringo …

‘Awww … Ringooo… come back over here, come on,’ I implore insincerely, but he won’t. He just looks at me sulkily, if not shamefully. He knows he’s been used, yet again he comes to realise only now, at this late hour, that he was never the prize, but only a pawn in a never-ending loyalty war.


Brilliant IKEA butter dish – lampshade combo

if I say so myself


PS: IKEA fessed up to the error of the ways, and I’ve accepted £4.50 from them as recompense and to punish them for their sins.

Dear IKEA,
we bought a butter dish from your shop and the lid’s too small to fit any standard UK butter pack. You can see on the attached picture that the lid or cover or dish-hat or whatever it is sits atop the butter like a lampshade, it’s like the butter’s trying to hide or something.


I’d like a refund please.
Also I wanted to send this by email so I wrote it in the online email box thing on your website, but when I clicked to read the privacy policy and then returned to this page all the info I’d put in had been deleted, which is a complete faff, but more to the point, I can’t send you this email unless I agree…

View original post 163 more words



Let the witch hunt begin.
Let the pyschopathic grave robbers, pornographers and war mongers of Fleet Street and News Corps lead it.
Make the tens, hundreds of millions of those worldwide who have or have had depression apologise for this heinous act.
Because for sure that is the depth of ignorance we shall plumb with this.

One half of a wank-duo speaks out

Labour would cap the amount of profit private firms can make from the NHS in England, Ed Miliband has said as he launched the party’s election campaign. He pledged to halt the “the tide of privatisation” he claims has taken place in the health service since 2010 and ensure a “proper” level of funding. Private firms will have to reimburse the NHS if they exceed a 5% profit cap on contracts, he told activists.

Is this a halfway-house compromise or simply a smaller ziggurat of shit than left by the Tories?

Miliband or Cameron?

‘A toss-up between two tossers is not an election, it’s a wank fest,’ says Robin Tudge 

Britain exporting to the world

indonesian idiot

Indonesian girl wears tribute deely boppers to the lost Zayn of 1D – Yes love, you look that stupid

Who’d have thought stupidity could have such global reach?

O no hang on I’ve forgotten about Clarkson’s fan base, with a greater range and following than Al Qaeda and IS combined, terrorising the world with their astoundingly oafish sense of entitlement, brains addled by their own farts, saying ‘mwe mdont care about violence in me mworkplace fuckin underrings meh im ungry meh clarksons funny wen ‘e ‘as a go a’ wogs mehehehe thass wot we want ahh licence fee to fund mehehe pulse on middle ingland, meheh, cars, farts, wogs, meheheh, oi wanka wheres me dinna *punch* murrrghh’.