SMELLS LIKE SPLEEN FAGGOTS

Although afflicted & cursed with many an ailment, my biggest personal health problem is my sense of smell.
Unlike a colleague who, along with the liberal lefty whinger Lucy Mangan, has anosmia (no sense of smell whatsoever), I have the complete opposite.
I can smell a cigarette from over 100 yards on a still day, and I know when a nappy needs changing way before the mother & child do.
I empty my kitchen waste on a daily basis, and wash out my wheelie bin fortnightly.
I can smell anything that has been rightly or wrongly flushed away, or washed down a sink.
And in springtime I can smell bluebells before they are in bloom.

Although some would think this a minor super-power, I consider it an affliction.

As a writer of many poems in my past, it's easy to see which of my senses made the most impression on my work.
One of the principle reasons for no longer attending pop festivals was the 'overwhelming stench of shite & doughnuts'.
I would refer to my domestic situations (and past girlfriends) in terms of aromas and whiffs, and the analogous use of bleach in my later work said more about my addictions than any reference to illegal drugs.

So it is today, with great pride, that I present to you my Top 10 Most Offensive Smells.

I have been harbouring a lot of this information for several months, but deep inside I knew there was at least one smell missing.
Because of its lack of appearance in my life for many a day now, I had forgotten how utterly repulsive this odour was.
It is so vile and obnoxious, that I have deliberately encountered loss and pain as a consequence of its recent renaissance.

For those of you reading this that do not currently reside in the UK (Hi Russia! Hi Taiwan!) we have recently  had the wettest summer on record.
We have had flooding on a major scale, and very little sunshine.
The temperatures however have remained pretty constant.
As it is technically warm, nearly every great British citizen has turned off the central heating.
We should be drying our laundry on clotheslines, balconies or Hills Hoists (Hi Australia!), but due to the persistent rain, we are merely marinating our clean garments on cold metal radiators or clothes-horses.
And whilst taking the time to ensure my washing is clean & conditioned, and my washing-machine is fully functioning (totally clean fluff filter/no black mould/vinegar & baking soda applied), after 24hrs of sitting in its own cold, wet lethargy, my laundry has 'that smell'.
I have washed & re-washed several tea towels, only to throw them out yesterday.
I refuse to dry my dishes in a rag that smells like a 1st Year university student without an umbrella.
I grab every opportunity to peg out my bundles, but the rain just keeps coming, and that adds to the problem with its own particular odour.
I'm even considering buying Febreeze - this was never an option in my household before!

And as a consequence, this is my Number 1 Most Offensive Smell.

YANNY MAC'S TOP 10 MOST OFFENSIVE SMELLS

1. (See above)
2. Muck-spreading with human waste
3. Cider, weed & doughnut fuelled human waste, left to simmer for 5 days.
4. Mutton.
5. Money.
6. Rape Seed.
7. Sugar beet extraction.
8. Brothers Bar Flavoured Cider.
9. Any cigarettes smoked before 6pm.
10. Single mens' trainers/socks.

Campaign Update (Assange's Birthday Party & Asbestosis)

So the reason we can't have a Wetherspoons is because of too much asbestos.
When did product quality or customer care become part of Tim Martin's remit?
Now we've got an empty pub, slap-bang in the centre of town, that no-one wants, and may be a danger to public health.

The King's Head stood there for nearly 400years without any problems.
JD Wetherspoon came along, and fucked Beccles into a hole.

The checkout manager at Tesco is a rude cow.
Yesterday she closed two tills, as I was obviously approaching them, without a word of apology or consideration.
If it wasn't for their Value cider, I'd boycott them.

Julian Assange was 40 on July 3rd. We invited him to our Birthday Cricket game on the common, but he declined to attend, favouring a party with Vivienne Westwood and the girl who plays the lead in Australia's 'Rocky Horror Picture Show'.
I'm not sure if they slept over, or if Jules drank so much, he lost his moral-compass, but he did end up nicking some of our cricket attendees.
I just wish he would get over the whole 'Ricky Ponting' thing.

Dad's Gone To Tescos

I woke up feeling chipper despite the snow
I sledged my way to Tesco
I wobbled a bit on the icy-cobbles home
and out-interviewed the media
with a trolley full of toilet-roll & cider.

Day Two (of possibly five)

The Ashes Hat-Trick hangover goes beyond four cups of tea Woman’s Hour Tweet Email Tweet again And four chilly trips for a wee. The decision is to retire early Declare. And seek warmth within The duvet The wife The cat & the kitten The alarm set & ready for 5-30am. By the end of Question Time You know you’ve done fail. The cider The fire The wicket The piss in the snow The sound of Aggers chuckling at Movember, McCririck Geoffrey's lack of patience and Mr.Cricket. At midnight I hear the click And whirr Of the Economy 7 And I know I’m now in it for the night.

The Bottle's Gone

I found it hard to leave the house today.

Having spent most of yesterday on the 'Sunrise Coast' in Southwold, having healthy fun on the reconstructed pier, eating overpriced fish&chips and drinking Adnams beer (before 6pm!), we left the pub mid-afternoon, in order to search for early bluebells in the woods.
As we left, a group of nondescript lads started pointing & sniggering.
I always like to soothe my aching paranoia by staring straight back, usually to confirm that it's me they are addressing. Sure enough, as I passed them, their heads followed my path, and one let out rather a large guffaw.
I haven't been guffawed at since the early 90's, so I inevitably started to check my appearance for signs of mirth-provision. My fly was buttoned, my nose was clean and I had steered myself & my companions away from the very few pieces of dog-shit, littering Southwold's golden paving stones.
As far as I was concerned, I hadn't been this un-funny since Aisle16 shared a Glastonbury performance tent with The Poetry Cubicle, and I scared off (bored off?) the bulk of audience with my rant about fanzine writers & bloggers.
I put the lads' reason for hilarity down to sunshine, beer and general fuck-wittedness.

But decided to stay in for the best part of today.
I was bruised, albeit secretly.

Having succeeded in writing one poem, hoovered the house (groundfloor only), washed-up, completed two washing cycles & at least one witty reposte to Facebook statii, the late afternoon ennui that is 'you have no booze in the house so go buy some quick, before Co-Op shuts, you dickhead', enveloped me like a badly written metaphor about a duvet.
Hurriedly, I threw on my cycling clothes (I have a 1940s delivery bike a la' Granville-OpenAllHours that requires the wearing of wartime fashion tank-tops & de-mob trousers, with bicycle clips) and I bone-shook my way to this side of a Rainbow.
As I pretended to lock up my bike in the designated area, two very-descript girls began to giggle and point.

What now?!

The one who didn't look like someone I'd like to hang out with, giggled & prodded her accompli, and gave the impression of a hyena in a dentist's chair - beyond the natural urge to be an animal but full of intense pain at the sight of my visage.
The little one (who really wasn't old enough to warrant less than a clip 'round the ear) decided to put me out of misery.
"Ain't you heard of a haircut mate?"

It was my hair!
People were laughing at my hair.

For those of you reading this who don't know me, (and at present I have 4 'followers', 3 of whom 'don't know me')
I have spent somewhere in the region of 25% of my total lifetime earnings on my hair.
I am a potential shareholder in Toni & Guy. I have more 'product' in my bathroom cabinet than sauvignon. I have embraced every one of the last 30years of 'do', from a 70's Donny Osmond, thru' a skinhead, then an 80's back-combed mess, and the inevitable 'I wannabe Liam' and subsequent metrosexual.
I have maintained my hair.
My hair has been an ongoing project.
My hair has defined me.
And no-one (except maybe siblings, parents, maths teachers & priests) has ever laughed at my hair.

As I pulled away from the Rainbow, 2nd gear, frustration & 2 litres of dry cider weighing down my wicker basket, I got to thinking about why I felt so upset.
I've been retired now for just over 9 months.
In that time I've reconnected with the things that really matter to me.
I garden, I forage, I potter and I procrastinate.
And in this seemingly never ending lifetime of possibility, I think it's fair to say that I've 'let things go'.
My paunch is paunchier, my man-boobs more so.
My clothes are suspect, my fingernails rustic.
And my hair.

My hair has obviously become laughable.

I spend hours on end, bleaching teaspoons & toilets, but I no longer peroxide my hair.
At 42, the bleach-bottle's gone.
The bottle's gone.
But tomorrow, I start sharpening the scissors........