Sunday, May 29, 2011

Drugs and Bedpans

I had to go to the vet today. I've been sneezing like a human with his head in a snuff pot recently. I think it must be the cold weather here in good old Blighty. Either that or the cocaine. Anyway my male staff dragged me to the surgery where once again I had a horse thermometer (see my previous post ) shoved up my bottom passage and a dirty great needle stabbed into me. The former made by eyes water and the latter made me squeal like a girl and wet myself. All very undignified. Anyway the upshot of it all is that the vet thinks I'm just being a wimp, and to punish me has given me some bloody awful tasting antibiotics. Bastard!

Anyway I'm feeling better now and my staff has been painting my favourite vegetables with the antibiotic liquid. He thinks I don't notice, but I'm not as stupid as he is. So it's either antibiotic flavoured capsicum or go without, and I've never been one to go without.

We're going to the horsepiddle again today to visit my male staff's mum. Apart from the fact that I'll be shoved down the front of my male staff's trouser again in order to smuggle me in I'm rather looking forward to the outing. Once we're settled next to his mum's bed my male staff usually undoes his fly to allow me to poke my head out and eat some of his mum's grapes. It's a shame Badger couldn't come too as he just loves grapes, but someone had to stay back in Australia to keep my female staff under control. There would certainly be plenty of room down the front of my staff's trousers for both Badger and I. It's not as if there is much else down there, as I have found from my own bitter experience.

I have to admit that while I enjoy visiting horsepiddle, I find the whole ritual more than just a little strange. Every day my male staff, his dad, his auntie and yours truly pile into the car and drive to the hospital. After the first couple of days everyone ran out of things to say. My staff's mum's day revolves around drugs and bed pans and as for the rest of us, well, our days revolve around preparing to visit the horsepiddle. How much can anybody say about that sort of existence. So we all sit in a rough semi-circle around my staff's mum. My staff's dad hobbles around using a dickensian contraption called a walking frame, is stone deaf and habitually says "Eh?" to everything that is said, even if it's not said to him. My staff's aunt recently tripped over a garden hose and face-planted into a pile of gravel. Consequently the poor old thing's face looks like it's been attacked by a particularly stroppy cat. Then of course there's my male staff who sits there with a large, hairy creature poking out of his open fly. They all sit there gazing at his mum, trying to think of things to say that weren't said the day before - and the day before that. The only moderately normal person amongst them is my staff's mum. The rest of them look more like they should be in horsepiddle than she does.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Seven Deadly Sins

While I've been busy trying to keep my male staff out of trouble as he travels the world, my female staff has been living the high life back in Australia. She's been shopping, dining out and taking joy rides to Brisbane on the train. I can understand why she likes the train - it's always so entertaining. On this most recent journey she was accompanied by a nice lady wielding a Watchtower magazine which contained a full page description of each of the seven deadly sins. A short time into the journey the nice lady leapt to her feet and began a religious rant that would have done Ayatolla Khomeini proud. She then proceeded to rip pages from her magazine and hand them very generously to her fellow passengers. My female staff received the page concerning the deadly sin of gluttony. At this point she decided to do less dining out and more shopping in the future. Having distributed the seven deadly sins the nice lady sat down next to an elderly gentleman and threatened to stuff what was left of her magazine up his nose. All the passengers were terribly disappointed when she disembarked soon afterwards. The rest of the journey was rather boring.

My male staff, his sister and his dad have all been rather upset lately and I've been hard pressed to raise their spirits in spite of all my endearing cuteness and vibrant personality. You see my male staff's mum is very ill in horsepiddle and it fell to him to deliver some rather bad news to the rest of the family. He and his sister share the same perverted sense of humour and I overheard him telling her the following sad but apparently true story.

A while ago in the British army there was a certain Regimental Sergeant Major Stone. It was RSM Stone's habit to give the soldiers bad news about their family while on parade. He would stand the regiment to attention, puff out his barrel chest and yell out at the top of his voice something like.
 "Private Jones. Your mother has been run over by a bus and killed. Take five days leave and go to her funeral." Naturally poor Private Jones was very upset at this, as was everyone who received tragic news in this manner. Eventually the RSM's superior - Colonel Blamey came to hear of the way RSM Stone dealt with these delicate matters and he called him into his office.
 "Now look here old chap." he said "You're going to have to be more subtle with the men when delivering bad news. Try taking a more gentle approach." The RSM saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched from the office. A week later the regiment were on parade again, lined up neatly and standing stiffly to attention. RSM Stone strode up and stood before them. Puffing out his chest he bellowed
"All men with living mothers take one pace forward........ Where the bloody hell do you think you're going Lance Corporal Bates?

Yep. Sometimes if you didn't laugh you'd cry.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Try Not To Bite Anything

Isn't it just bloody typical? I fly all the way to London stuck inside my male staff's suitcase with a pair of undies in one ear, a sock in the other and a toothbrush up my bottom passage, and what do I find? Wills and Kate are on honeymoon, doing whatever weird stuff humans do on honeymoon and weren't able to meet me at Heathrow airport.  The disappointment was devastating. My staff had to console me with an extra large piece of lettuce and the promise of more when we got to my staff's Mum and Dad's house.

What's England like? Well, it's almost as peculiar as Singapore. For a start it's both hot and cold at the same time. This time of year if you stand in the open you get simultaneously blasted by a cold wind that feels like it's come straight off the North Pole and burnt by a surprisingly hot sun. It's like standing between an air-conditioner on full blast and a single bar electric heater. Anyway, it's a relief to be out of Singapore's humidity, but it's going to be quite some time before my fur returns to normal.

Well, pretty much the first thing I learned about England is that their politicians are as dopey as their Australian counterparts. One of the first things that David Cameron's Conservative/Liberal Democratic government did when they were elected was to cut police numbers. The second thing they did was to enact a whole lot of new motoring laws which makes offenders liable for on the spot fines for offences like tail-gating and driving a better car than the chief inspector. Of course the problem with these new laws is that there are now no police to enforce them, so they might just have well have made it an offence to urinate in your own kitchen sink, or to wipe bogies on the underside of your dining table. They're a good idea in principle but pretty pointless if there's no one around to enforce them. Parliament's time would have been better spent getting people back to work so that there is more tax revenue to pay for such boring things as policemen. But then what do I know? I'm just a guinea pig, a guinea pig with royal connections maybe, but still just a guinea pig.

This afternoon my staff took me with him to see his poorly Mum in horsepiddle. As soon as went through the door we were confronted by a female thing dressed in a white circus tent, with a face like Mike Tyson - only not as pretty. She yelled "You can't bring that filthy animal in here!" I replied that my staff is quite clean and that he in fact had a shower only a week ago before he left Australia. However, I then noticed that she was pointing at me. I was outraged naturally - speechless in fact. My staff just shrugged and said he'd leave me in the car. Once we were back outside the horsepiddle, my staff said not to worry and that he's smuggle me in. At that point he shoved me down the front of his trousers.
  "Try not to bite anything." He told me. "And don't wriggle around, you'll arouse suspicion." Believe me, suspicion was the last thing I was worried about arousing. So we sat there chatting to my staff's Mum. My staff unzipped his fly so that I could breath and eat some of his Mum's grapes. I'm just glad that the savage nurse who first met us didn't see what was poking out of his fly, let alone the fact that he was feeding it grapes.

After a while my staff's Mum said that she was thirsty so he volunteered to go to the nurses station to ask for a jug of water. He zipped up his fly, leaving me with a small gap to peep through. He then approached the nurses station where several Mike Tyson lookalikes were seated.
  "Excuse me," he asked one of them politely. "Would you mind getting my Mother a jug of water, she's a bit thirsty?" Well, all the Mike Tyson lookalikes looked up at once and fixed my staff with a look of disgust and contempt as if he'd just said "Excuse me ladies would you mind showing me your knockers?" Nevertheless half an hour later a jug of water appeared at my staff's Mum's bedside. The whole afternoon was jolly good fun and I hope I can go to the horsepiddle again tomorrow.


Friday, May 20, 2011

A Human Teenager

My male staff has been to Singapore a million times, so you'd think he could have warned me about it. The moment he let me out of his suitcase the humidity was like being constantly slapped in the face with a hot, wet towel. My fur immediately went limp and flopped in a greasy, lank curtain over my face so that I looked like a human teenager - not at all attractive.

The whole place has a strange smell too. It's a potent combination of decaying vegetation, diesel fumes, clove cigarettes and over-boiled rice. Singapore is about as crowded as Pamela Anderson's bra too, and nobody looks where they're going. They're all far too busy talking on their cell phones or madly texting. I'm amazed that they're not constantly crashing in to each other, and yet they don't. It's almost as if some invisible magnetic field is keeping them apart. Just as one texter is about to collide head on with another, something repels them like opposing poles and they spring to one side at the very last moment and continue texting safely. It's truly astonishing.

We're staying at an ultra-modern hotel in Little India. I guess windows must be old fashioned in Singapore because our tiny room doesn't have one. The room's so small that I'm not really sure what to do with all my bush chocolate as there isn't an unused corner of the room in which to deposit it. Consequently my staff keeps treading in it and it then sticks to his bare feet to be transferred neatly into his bed. Never mind, it'll be a nice surprise for the maid when she comes to change his sheets in the morning after we've checked out.
Little India's interesting. it's full of swarthy little men who sidle up to my staff and say "Pssst." It's a passable impression of a leaky blow-up doll - not that I have personal experience of blow-up dolls, leaky or otherwise you understand. Anyway my staff just ignores them and eventually they either give up or deflate altogether.

So, all in all I'm not at all surprised that many Singaporeans are a little odd. (See and ) All that humidity must seep into their ears and short circuit something in their brains. So anyway, tomorrow morning it's back into the suitcase for me for a flight to London to see Wills, Kate and my male staff's poorly Mum. I hope she's not allergic to guinea pig fur.


Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Guinea Pig From Hell

Well, I've just returned from deepest, darkest Africa. Once again I was stuffed into my male staff's suitcase, only this time it wasn't nearly as cosy because I was surrounded by dirty socks and underwear. At least I didn't have put up with the appalling service and inedible food meted out by the airline. I had a good supply of lettuce and a lot more legroom than my staff, who's complaining could be heard even above the noise of the engines.

As promised by my staff we went bush once he's finished his business (Guzzling wine and stuffing his face with biltong.) in Durban. We stayed in something called a lodge which was in something called a game reserve, though I didn't see any games. Here I wasn't confined to our room and was able to go on "game drives" with my staff. (Still didn't see any games.) I did see lots of strange animals though including a large, lumpy faced thing with tusks that looked like a guinea pig from hell. We were told it was a warthog. There was something called a lion who looked very friendly and cuddly, but my staff refused my invitation to stoke it. Then there was a big, grey wrinkled thing with ears the size of a bed sheet and an enormous floppy nose - no not my male staff. Best of all was the rhino which I had been looking forward to seeing ever since we arrived. I was disappointed not to be met by one at Durban airport and even more disappointed not find one in town. Nevertheless, it was worth the wait. We were told he was a black rhino, though he wasn't, he was grey. I think the guide might have been a little colour blind. Maybe the name simply refers to the animal's wonderful sense of rhythm.

On the way back to Durban airport we passed a cluster of round buildings that were supposed to represent a traditional zulu village of bygone times. I was surprised because I had no idea that the zulus of previous centuries were so sophisticated. There was a traditional zulu casino with traditional neon lights, a traditional zulu petrol station and a traditional zulu car park full of traditional zulu cars. Funny, I don't remember Wilbur Smith mentioning any of these things.

So now I'm back home and suffering from what my staff calls jetlag. I keep wanting to sleep in the middle of the day and I wake up in the middle of the night and start yelling for my breakfast only to be told that it's two in the morning and that I should go back to sleep unless I want to be deported back to Africa and fed to a warthog - charming! Nothing much has changed while I've been away. Badger is fatter and has been perfecting his psycho stare, which I must say is coming along nicely. The budgies still chirp all day and disturb my beauty sleep, which I have to confess I don't really need and my female staff still goes out to work in a health field even though the weather is getting quite cool now and all the recent rain must be making the field very muddy.

My male staff has to go to London next week to see his Mother who is very sick in horsepiddle. He's promised to take me, and I have mixed feelings about that because while I'd like to see the Queen and Kate and Wills and the rest of the Royal gang I'm not so sure about entering a horsepiddle. It seems as though anyone who goes into one of these places gets sick. Look at my female staff's Dad for example. He went in about three weeks ago and got so sick he still hasn't come out. Wish me luck.   

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Comedy Class

This post is coming to you live from Africa. My male staff decided at the last minute to take me with him to an African travel trade fair in Durban. It was a comfortable flight for me at least. He packed me into his checked-in luggage along with his clothes, so I was very cosy thank you very much, and I had a virtually unlimited supply of lettuce, though I didn't appreciate the somewhat rough handling dished out to my bag by the baggage handlers. Going round in circles on that bloody conveyor belt made me feel pretty queasy too. Not as queasy as my male staff will feel when he finally unpacks and finds twenty hours worth of bush chocolate amongst his clothes.

Okay I've been in Africa a whole hour and not seen a single rhino yet. I thought I did once but it was just a fat geezer with a big nose. I'm not sure what the plan is for this afternoon. Hopefully my male staff will have a shower and change his clothes. He smells worse than a hyena on heat. Not that I know what they smell like but I imagine it's not good. The wrinkles in his clothing make him look like the back end of an elephant, so I'm hoping he'll change them too, if he can find some that aren't smeared with bush chocolate. Ah! The joys of travelling. At least he has my company now. Apparently a fat, oozy chick sat next to him on the plane, squishing him into a corner, so that every time he moved his hand during the night he came up with a fistful of lard. That'll teach the cheapskate to fly comedy class.

I've been watching the hotel telly while my male staff has been out all day at the trade show. Thought I'd better not watch any of the adult movies because my staff might not appreciate the cost. I have however been watching an American evangelical preacher, which is almost as good. This guy was waving his arms about in his crisp white suit, yelling that when humans go to heaven they will be stripped of their clothes by St Peter at the pearly gates because God did not intend humans to wear clothing. All I can say is that I hope I don't end up there. It won't be a pretty sight at all and the chances of bumping into Marilyn Monroe are somewhat overshadowed by the likelihood of running into a fat wrinkly dead dude like Winston Churchill.

finally today I'd like to relate a conversation that I happened to overhear while waiting in the bar at Brisbane airport. It was a bit muffled of course because I was packed away in my male staff's bag with a sock stuffed in one ear and a handkerchief in the other. A young chap had obviously taken a liking to a girl in the bar. I heard him say. "You're very beautiful. I bet you're an airline hostess aren't you?" The girl seemed to ignore him but he persisted. "Okay", he said. "Will you talk to me if I can guess which airline you work for?" Still no answer from the chicky babe so he continued. "I'll say a few airline slogans and you nod if I get it right. Singapore girl, you're a great way to fly." Nothing.  "The world's favourite airline." Nothing. "Fly smooth as silk." Nothing, but then suddenly the chicky babe spoke up.
  "Look you creep. What the fuck do you want?"
"Ah ha!" the young chap exclaimed. "I knew it! Qantas!"

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Osama bin Hiding

The big news today is that my male staff is about to venture out to do the weekly shopping. This is sure to put him in a foul mood, firstly because it means spending money and secondly because it means spending hours in a supermarket checkout queue with all the other old, fat people. As usual his return from the shops will be accompanied by muttered curses and the slamming of doors and then either Badger or yours truly will be dragged from our comfy bed to be stroked until his blood pressure returns to normal. This usually takes a couple of hours and it's a miracle that Badger and I have not got great bald patches from being over stroked.

The other miracle of note in the news this week is the one supposedly performed by Pope John Paul II. He cured a Nun of Parkinson's Disease and it now looks like he's being fast-tracked to sainthood. Saint? Good grief! This is the man who swept countless instances of child abuse by the clergy under the holy carpet and refused to sanction the use of condoms even if it meant millions of people could be spared the misery of a slow death from HIV/AIDS. Perhaps he could be made the patron saint of paedophiles. Whoops! Did I say say all that out loud? Never mind. Nobody will ever hate me with a face like mine.

The third important news item this week was the death of Osama bin Hiding or whatever his name was. The US military attacked his luxury mansion and shot him in the head. Now we in the West will have to look for another bogie man. Maybe that's why we're currently having a pop at Gaddafi, or am I being too cynical a piggy? Anyway, no wonder it took ten years to find him. We searched every cave in Afghanistan and Pakistan only to discover that he's been slumming it in a million dollar villa next door to a Pakistani military base, watching re-runs of Seinfeld, sloshing back gallons of Budweiser and playing basketball in the backyard with his bodyguards and senior Pakistan military offices.

I got into dreadful trouble with my staff last night when I ejaculated on Badger's back, although I fail to see why this is such a sin. Why do they think is fur is so glossy? I think I would have got away with it but my male staff decided to pick Badger up for a cuddle before his fur had dried and became immediately suspicious when he stroked Badger and received a sticky, wet hand for trouble. I have to admit that this may have been a tactical error on my part and has probably called into question the future of my testostricles once again. Well, I suppose I'd better get off the computer before my male staff returns from his shopping expedition. If he finds me tapping away on his laptop he may start to suspect that the reason behind his recent excess download bills are due to my piggy porn viewing. I can thoroughly recommend , and