The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chapter fifty three.

Thursday night. Oh dear. I have made a lamb curry and Irene has boiled egg sandwiches. Jonathan says he is going to sleep in the spare room because he isn’t going to have any peace with the both of us on stream tonight. Phew! Made it through the night with either of us farting. Some years ago my brother was on one of his usual trips for the New Year in Aberdeen. The party had been going for several days and there were many casualties on the way. One of the merry makers was sat on a bar stool totally drunk and asleep so the boys bought a Mars Bar and put it down the back of his trousers. He woke up and staggered off to the toilet. While he was in there he realised what they had done, so he staggered back into the bar and stood there for a few minutes then all of a sudden shouted “Oh no!” and stuck his hand down the back of his trousers getting Mars Bar on his hand. “Oh Hell, I’ve shit mesel’” he said, sticking his fingers in his mouth. There was a rush for the door and the revellers who were not in the know went outside to deposit many pints of the foaming ale and possibly a few nippy sweeties. Moral of the story? Don’t fall asleep in a bar in Aberdeen over the New Year and don’t take everything at face value. It’s now a week since I have been off the chemo and I am starting to feel pretty good apart from my backache. Irene made me walk down to the club and fetch the car – I had left it there from Wednesday but at least I remembered it was there this time. The chemo brain seems to be abating. She’s complaining that I am telling lies about her. Well everything on here about her is all true. The question has been asked about how she puts up with us. I wish someone would ask the same question of her. Burping and farting all over the place. She let one go the other night and said that it was wasted because I didn’t appreciate it. She would rather go and sit in the club with the other witches where they can all have a rip snorting farting night together. Most people use text messages to communicate – they fart instead. It’s cheaper and no-one can understand a word they are saying. She has tried to open an account on cancer backup to get her own back but so far hasn’t managed it. God help me when she does! Antony has texted me – do I want to go and see a Lancaster bomber and Spitfire taxiing on Bank Holiday Monday. Of course the Lancaster carried the bouncing bomb and Lyndsey says if I mention the bouncing bomb she will push me under the propellers of the Lancaster. I don’t know what their aversion to it is all about. Just because it was tested at Reculver near where my mother was born. A lot of our ancestors are buried at Reculver church which is only fourteen miles from Faversham and Lyndsey has been to Faverham so she must have some affinity to the bouncing bomb which was invented by Barnes Wallace after he watched his son skimming stones from a beach. Irene doesn’t want to go – she’s not interested in Lancasters or Spitfires or the bouncing bomb. Sometimes I feel like I am fighting a losing battle. Unlike World War Two, which we won because of Barnes Wallace and his bouncing bomb! Went out to the club last night – it was Bash’s birthday and the place was packed. Nice to see the place doing well. Irene showed me a bingo board which had written on it “My name is Picko but I am not just a name. I made these bingo boards for all of us. Ta.” The man is obsessed, that’s all I can say. Well this “big boy” won’t get caught using one of his boards, I can tell you. He’ll be wearing dresses next! It’s the club company Annual General Meeting and some of the members have given the board of directors a hard time. It’s so easy doing the job that there was no ballot for director and there are not even enough volunteers to man the committee. I have now finished my “proper” week off – I have a blood test on Wednesday followed by the consultant on Friday. No doubt I will be back on the chemo-radiotherapy treadmill.