Edition 32: Mr Fox - Kiss My Hoop!!

Good afternoon Negative Soundbyters! It’s a lovely Summer’s day; I’m up in my study writing to you and Mrs H is having a rest. Baba H is really beating her up. He moves around in her belly like a hamster on a wheel; constantly changing position and generally being a bit of a nuisance! Is this a portend of things to come I wonder? Apparently I was a “busy” child! Possibly Baba H will have tired himself out when eventually he decides that he has had enough and graces us with his presence. Um…ja….unlikely!

We are now into the final stretch with just about four weeks to go. I have now been told by Mrs H to consider what I will need for the hospital and begin preparing my bag. I thought this a bit strange given that I am not giving birth but then I realised that Mrs H will be relying on me for moral support throughout and a hand to squeeze all the blood from as she pushes what amounts to a large coconut through the eye of a needle! And there I thought I would drop her off at the hospital; she would have the baba and I would pick her up again – no mess, no fuss….JUST KIDDING!

I have decided that I need a yoga mat (for some stretching but more likely in case I need to catch a few ZZZZZZs on the floor), some comfy pants, a shirt with buttons (so that I can open them up and have some skin time with the little man when he arrives), underpants (or “briefs” in modern parlance) and a toiletry-or-two. Sorted. Mrs H hasn’t signed off this list, but what else does a man need at the actual birth?

I need not worry what the baba will need; Mrs H wouldn’t entrust me with that sort of responsibility. I keep coming back to the fact that humans have been giving birth to babies for thousands of years. Baba H doesn’t care if it’s dressed in Sainsbury’s 100% cotton or the White Company! This line of thinking does not resonate with Mrs H though and you know what, she’s the one whose done all the heavy lifting over the past 10 months, so who am I to be chirping from the cheap seats?!? Pipe down Hoddy!

Events of geopolitical importance?

I see that Jezza was a big hit at the Glastonbury music festival where he promised to bankrupt the country to rapturous applause and adulation from those who had all paid a few hundred quid to get shitfaced, weave, bop, head-bang, sing and get shitfaced again. It boggles my mind that there is not a voice out there credible enough to send the man packing. But as we stand I might as well get my pipe out and start smoking what was in abundance at Glasto – Jezza isn’t going anywhere! Eish….

Best I focus my energies on Mrs H and Baba H….:)

Big Love Hoddy X

Foxes.

Foxes live in London. And it pisses me right off. They are not sweet furry little animals. For the most part they are a bloody nuisance and as far as I am concerned should be – how can I say this without being lynched by “animal” activists – “dealt with”. It’s not like there is not plenty of countryside for them to mess around in, yet they choose our streets as their home.

I lived opposite Wandsworth Common for many years and I would often wake up to the sound of foxes calling to each other usually for “mating” purposes. It’s a sound which leaves one’s blood running cold. It’s as if Lady Fox is the victim of some rampant sadomasochistic pyscho with a bushy tail such is the high-pitched scream that accompanies the gentle act of lovemaking in the fox-world. Apparently though it is not painful and can be described as the foxes “love song” according to naturetalksandwalks.co.uk. “Love Song” my mangy ass; I would prefer to listen to Jezza talking about the virtues of socialism than listen to foxes “singing” to each other! Such was the height of the horse that I got onto over this that I phoned Wandsworth Council to complain about these disturbances to my beauty sleep. The Council expressed as much interest in my fox issue as Jezza in understanding the laws of supply and demand. Basically there is nothing they can do. If you “relocate” one fox population, it is quickly replaced by another. The Fox, like Jezza, is untouchable.

Foxes also Indian food. I walk down to the station every morning and on bin day it looks like somebody hasn’t bothered to deal with their rubbish in accordance with Lambeth Borough Guidelines. But for the most part they have; it’s the bloody foxes that have sniffed out a sumptous chicken masala or an enticing lamb madras and have decided that Wednesday is curry night on Barrow Road. They just need a couple of Poppa-Doms, a Naan bread and a few Signha Beers and job done! It’s nuts.

But my favourite is these pests’ toilet habits. Mrs H and I have just recently had the area outside our front door made good after the whirlwind of destruction (otherwise known as our builder) had finally finished all the major works. It’s a lovely little area; freshly painted with manicured hedges and stone gravel laid on the ground. But some bastard fox now sees it has a giant litter box where he can take a crap in private, no doubt post his Wednesday night curry. Yiissee it gets my blood boiling to step out of my front door on a crisp morning only to find a steaming poo sitting atop my new gravel. I might as well put the Sunday Times out as well so the bugger has something read…..my oath!

All this would be just about acceptable if I lived in a stone cottage in the middle of a field in Surrey but I don’t – I live in the City which is wild enough as it is – without me having to deal with foxes as well! I thought about making a scare crow and planting it outside, but I have a feeling Mr Fox would just laugh (no scream), have a shit and cruise down to Brixton for steak night!

OUT!

Pic of the Week:

Not sure that seeing from these windows is that straight forward!