Tag Archives: Primark

The Descent of Man – Part 1

Sometimes I think I survey the state of the neighbours behind me that live opposite what seems to be a parallel timespace continuum. It’s like witnessing Neanderthal man with his primitive approach to civilised living. It’s thanks to Primark that they are not wearing animal skins and sewn together pizza boxes.

One of the activities that unites the majority of the males is playing with fire. For most of them it takes the form flipping a burger or turning a sausage in between beers and most likely telling their womenfolk that they’ve cooked a meal. Given that most of the ladies are themselves salad dodgers, their contribution is usually in the form of opening a cardboard burger box, running a knife through a bread roll and fetching the ketchup.

Mr Scruff, in his guise as the God of Hell Fire is positively obsessed with fire – an activity I’ve touched upon in earlier blog entries… See Mr Scruff’s Tangoed Chopper and Mrs Scruff gets mad, real mad.

Last summer, a time which we Northerners define as that period of only slightly less rainfall and being able to unbutton the vest you’ve been stitched into since October saw Mr Scruff become an official nuisance albeit primarily to my neighbour.

He had taken to nightly wood burning sessions which had increasingly annoyed my immediate neighbour. The window seals on the Barratt properties aren’t exactly an airtight fit and so the smell of smoke pervades the house even when the windows are closed. I have actually bought a chiminea myself, being partial to the odd glass of chilled wine alfresco so I was also out in the garden. My neighbour’s top floor window opened and he had a go at Mr Scruff. When someone begins a conversation with “oi mate” it’s never going to end well. To be fair,my neighbours young son was seriously ill and had to be kept cool so he was under a strain from that and being forced to keep the windows closed because of the smoke made him react quite aggressively. Mr Scruff mewed piteously and said they haven’t got much money and it was their way of relaxing. You could almost hear the violins playing as he described his poverty stricken existence conveniently ignoring his almost new Focus sports parked outside etc. The window was slammed shut and then Mr Scruff’s head appeared chad like over the fence! He could have had the line “wot, no fires?” written below him.

After telling me he’d had a “bollocking” from my neighbour then asked if we had a chiminea. It was tempting to reply “what? Like this one I’m sat in front of?” but he offered me a free supply of wood for it! Not needing the volume that he did and having already bought a net of seasoned wood  so at least it didn’t cackle and spit or spew carcinogenic fumes from the glues we politely declined and he returned to his fire.

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Posted by on March 21, 2012 in The Scruffs


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Yeah but no but yeah

I can’t fathom the obsession with the colour pink among the young females here (see pic below) but it is rife. On wash days, this estate must contribute more than it’s fair share of pink tinted water into the water courses eventually destined for United Utilities.

Actually, there is a peculiar technique to “pegging out” the washing here that I’ve never before witnessed. In all but a few circumstances, the neighbours bring the wet washing out draped around themselves in the style of voluminous togas and attempt to heave it on to the washing line roughly between the pegs which remain permanently attached to the line. Mrs Scruff, who is the main exponent of this technique has only recently acquired pegs – just the twelve though. I didn’t imagine that you could even buy them in such a small quantity so I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Scruff has brought them home from the tip. She remains unworried about wiping the line first although I imagine that’s because her washing usually ends up impaled on the rough edges of her tatty larch lap fence and so there is no point.

Oddly, the laundry is not the sole preserve of the lady of the house and so it is not unusual to see an overweight, football shirt wearing male replete with buzz cut or whatever the latest terminology is, draping his own grey jogging bottoms over the line.

Most don’t seem particularly concerned about taking the dry washing inside so it often suffers a few days of continual rain and further drying. I don’t suppose it’s so important to consider whether that would make it more difficult to subsequently iron given that most of the laundry has such a high lycra content and therfore never comes within sniffing distance of a Tefal Ultraglide.
Coming next – “The Debt Man Cometh”
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Posted by on September 12, 2011 in The Scruffs, Uncategorized


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