Ginger's Blog

A Very Ginger Christmas

2009-12-13T04:03:00.000-08:00

Can’t stand ‘uman ‘olidays. Take larst Christmas:
‘Im indoors wants to go in fer a competition, dressed up in a daft red costume, an’ prancin’ about bein’ jolly.
I wants to clean me whiskers.
‘Ah! There you is, you manky ol' mog!’ ‘E greets me, polite as ever, an’ grabs me by the scruff so’s ‘E can stick a pair of ’and-made antlers, and a pointy ‘at on me ‘ead.

Wiv SuperGlue.

Then ‘E stuffs all me paws through the sleeves of a little red jacket, and buttons me into it, like an ‘otel bellboy. So now I looks like a small fat ginger letterbox, wiv ‘orns.
I’m ‘avin a bad furday, but ‘Es got ‘is mind set on ‘is competition, so ‘E tucks me under ‘is arm and takes me down the Church ’All.
‘And what are we today?’ coos an ‘airy old lady at the table wiv bowls of cream an’ mince pies.
As if she couldn’t tell.
‘Santa Claus and ‘is reindeer, Rudolf,’ ‘E says, ever so proud of ‘isself.
I registers me surprise, ‘since when?’ I squawks.
But ‘E doesn’t want no passing comments from me, so ‘e squeezes me froat like a lemon, and me protest comes out like I’m a mewlin’, an’-soon-to- be-pukin’, kitten.
’Oh what a dear little puss!’ says the old lady, an’ tries to tickle me under the chin.
So I does the only sensible fing.

I bites ‘er finger.

There’s serious hettikette in chin-ticklin’, case you didn’t know. Both parties ‘as to be in agreement. It’s in the rules, see?
So there she is, blood drippin’ onto ‘er cardi, screamin’ like a siren, and I joins in, wiv the antlers fallin’ over me eyes - still glued on, mind.
Then I then starts swingin’ me ‘ead, to bang ‘em off on a table leg. But it’s one of them wallpaper tables wot collapses if you swings a cat at it, so down it goes, mince pies an’ cream rollin’ all over the floor.
Well, never one to miss a hopportunity, I bats a few under the next table. Mince pies goes down quite nice if you ‘as an ‘andy puddle of cream to chase ‘em down wiv. Scientifik fact, that.
I’m ‘alfway through me second mince pie when there’s a blood-curdlin’ yell from behind, and ‘E grabs me tail, an’ yanks me out, cream drippin’ off me whiskers, antlers swingin’ like a pair of furry pendulums, with me little red coat ‘ poppin’ buttons like champagne corks.
‘You bleedin’ cat!’ ‘E roars, one hand ‘oisting me up by the scruff, wiv the other set to wallop me bum.
But then a strange thing ‘appens.
Dead silence falls all over the Church ‘All.
It was that quiet you could hear me larst button poppin’, rollin’, and stoppin’. Everyone froze like they was playing musical statues.
Even ‘Im. Stands there like one of ‘em marble ‘eroes ‘E does, puss-in-‘and instead of a javelin, and I doesn’t wriggle neivva, ‘case he launches me inta tomorra.
‘Don’t think I’d do that, if I were you!’ says a very posh voice belongin’ to a man all dressed up like a penguin, a big gold chain round ‘is neck.

‘Sez ‘oo?’ comes the reply.
‘E's got the social graces of a baboon, but ‘E does know when ‘E’s met ‘is match. Mostly he thumps first, and arsks questions arfta. More of an action man than a finker, really.

‘Put the reindeer down, sir!’ the man advises. ‘Slow-ly...!’

So ‘E lowers me onta the floor, like I was made outa china, an’ the ‘airy old lady brings me a nice saucer of milk. This time she doesn’t try none of that cootchy-coo, so I purrs a bit and rubs against ‘er legs. I always finks ‘umans needs encouragement when they learns their lesson.
But then whadduyouknow! Me ‘orns gets snagged in ‘er tights! And all of a sudden she’s tellin’ me certain fings I never knowed before, an’ didn’t need to know neivva.

‘You stupid bloody cat!’ she yells, all ‘er Christmas cootchy-coo gone out the winda. ‘Look what you’ve done now, you clumsy creature! Reindeer, my derriere! These tights were new on this morning, sent by me sister in America. You’re a health hazard you are, and you oughta be put down!’
I couldn’t ‘elp noticin’ as she tried to kick me off, ‘er manners ‘ad slipped somewhat, along wiv ‘er lovely grey wig. But me ‘orns was ‘ooked good an’ proper inta those wrinkly old tights, so we’s in a free-legged race now, whether we likes it or not.
Well, she runs up the middle of the Church ‘All, towards the toilets, shriekin’ - wiv me gallopin’ along beside ‘er, and a cheer goes up from the onlookers.

‘Rudolf to win!’ yells one of the punters, and everyone shouts and claps.
I does win, too.

Down comes ‘er tights, wrappin’ around ‘er ankles like she’s been lassoed by the Lone Ranger, an’ does she go sprawlin’!
‘Er wig goes flyin’ off ‘er head like a furry frisbee, leavin’ ‘er bald as a coot.

chunks of me own fur parts company wiv my ‘ead and all, cos the ‘orns is well-stuck to those Norah Batty’s. Leaves me wiv two bald patches behind each ear, but I’m past caring cos I’m a free moggy now, an’ not no one is goin’ to stop me leavin’ that Church ‘All!

I jumps the tables wiv one bound and ‘eads right out the winda.
Only fing was, it was winta, right?
And the winda was shut.
So, I knocks meself out cold, and wakes up later to find I ‘as a rosette pinned onta me collar. Special award for most hentertainin’ entry!
‘E’s standin’ there beamin’, like ‘Ed done all the work ‘isself, and I ‘as a very narsty ‘eadache.
So Christmas? If you calls that an ‘oliday, you can keep it.

Paradise Lost and Regained, I'd say

2009-09-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

Ginger by name, moggy by nature; that's me. Ovverwise
known as the scourge of 'Ackney. Well, I as to do a bit
of scourgin' now an' then, just to keep up me reputashun,
but if you wants the Dawg's Almighty trufe, I aint wot I
used to be – not since I developed this ‘lurgy to fevvers.
'Ow 'umiliatin' is that I arsk yer? Wot sorta cat 'as a
‘lurgy to 'is favourite dinner? ‘Course, if you finks
all birds is innocent victims and all cats is narsty 'preditors,
you might say that's justice for yer, but you doesnt know the
'alf of it!
I 'as birds linin' up on me winda’sill just to take the Jimmy Riddle.
I seen sparras doin' twittery little snorts and fallin’ right off the
telephone line from larfin’.

An’ big birds ain’t no better neivva, snobby lot. They finks fevvers
is better than fur. Why? Cos their ‘eads is stuffed full of ‘em,
that’s why. I met one only larst monf. Fick as a stick 'e woz.
The 'ouse nextdoor ‘ad stood empty for years see, but the garden
woz a Paradise for wildlife - including yours truly. But then,
New People moves in.

They ‘ad a telly programme come and film that 'ole Paradise being Lost!
You'd fink they'd be ashamed of theirselves obliterating years of
careful neglect like that in jus’ two days, but no, they brings in
a digger, and digs a dirty great 'ole wot they fills wiv water -
like they needed an outdoor barf or somefing. Then they dumps
a load of rocks round it.

"Must be a sauna," sez Puzzabelle, polishin’ 'er claws an' blowin'
on 'em fer some reason. She’s got the bearin’ of a queen, but
'er brains would embarrass a barnacle.

Well, the next day there was real live raw fish swimmin’ in the
pool, jus’ waitin' to be snapped up fer dinner, like an ‘igh-class
restaurant. Posh nosh or wot? I finks a caff next door wiv a
fleet of fishes, ‘AS to beat a bunch of randy rats and wild
flowers, don’t it?

Well, next morning I was lurkin' behind the rocks, wondering
which fish took me fancy fer breakfast, when this great grey
shadda’ blots out the sun. I takes a gander at the intruder,
and there 'e is, all tall and tidy in a grey and white outfit,
standin’ on one leg - pretending to be a statue - water lapping
round 'is knobblies. A class act all right. Fair took me breaf
away, all them 'uge feavvas rufflin' in the breeze. Enough to
make me sneeze for a month, so I shouts,

"Oy, BigBird!"

"You talkin to me?" 'e asks, posh and distant, like 'es 'olding
'is beak. Fellas wiv big 'ooters is like that.

"Yes I woz talkin' to you!" I snaps, at a safe distance mind coz
I'm guessin' those lanky shanks are stronger than they looks.
"Did you want to say something, apart from OY? 'E made that sound
posh and all.

"What you doin' eyeing up my fish?" I demands, polite as ever.
Well.... 'E wasn't to know I lived next door.

"Oh! I was landin’ and standin’!" drawls BigBird, over-statin'
the bleedin' obvious.

"Well this ain't 'Eathrow, mate!" I sez, gettin' ready to scarper
‘case that beak skewers me one remainin' eye.

"Just dropped in for a snack. Didn't know you did KOI in Hackney!"

‘E sounded quite impressed. And so was I - real fancy fish then!
But I doesn’t let on.

"Well, this ain=t no la-di-dah pit stop for posh birds, neivva!
You can't just come and 'elp yourself whenever you pleases!"

"And who is going to stop me?" 'e arsks, turnin' to stare at me.

'E 'ad a point. I could see lightnin' strikes be’ind those beadies,
and I didn't fancy me chances if 'e chose raw moggi over sushi
fer breakfast.

"Well, maybe we could ‘elp each ovva," I sez hobligingly, shiftin'
well back out of range.
"You, help me?" 'E made it sound so unlikely I bristles all over.
"I gotta plan," I sez, bold now.
"Oh yes?" 'E sounded that disdainful I knew I 'ad to get 'im then -
no matter wot. I smiles, ever so ‘ospitable.
"I’ll go to the ovva end of the pond an’ jump in – and chase
the fish towards yer. Like a seal." sez I.

‘E finks, an’ then gives me the nod.

"Ready?" I arsks, sneakin' round to the far end of the pond near
the fence. Course, I 'ad no hintention of wettin’ me paws, but
I knew a fella who’d bite yer legs for the chance.

"Bonzo?" I whispers, and a shiny nose pokes the slats aside.
"Fancy a Big Breakfast?" I arsks, and 'is eyes lights up like
it's Christmas.

Then 'e charges fru the 'ole, into the water, barkin' and
yellin' for all 'es worf, and the 'eron launches 'iself into
the air - cursin’ quite loud if I ‘eard correct.

Well, I nips fru the fence and back to me own garden as the
New People rush outside. What a to-do! I watches, all innocent,
from the upstairs winda as they pats Bonzo and nails up the fence.
‘That'll fix the lahdi-birdie-dah!’ I finks.
But the next mornin' when I nips over the wall, blow me down,
there's that pesky ol’ bird AGAIN!

"Oy! Wot you doin= back 'ere?" I arsks, none too 'appy about 'is cheek.
But 'e doesn't even answer. "Oy, BigBird I'm SPEAKIN'to you!" I sez.

Still no reply.

So I sneaks nearer.

Then I sees the fish!

They's swimming right round 'is feet! And even stranger, me nose
ain’t even twitchin’ this time!
The New People 'ave only gone and got theirselves a plastic
Free-From-Feavvas 'eron, to scare off that norty old predator!
So I sez, ta very much and takes the hopportunity to 'elp myself
to a Big Breakfast right under 'is knobby knees.

Paradise Regain’d I’d say, wiv knobs on.

Femme Fatale From Fulham

2009-07-07T03:39:00.000-07:00

Femme Fatale from Fulham

Now, ‘im at ‘ome, always sez, “nevva take a woman inta yer bed unless you
knows where she’s bin,’ which is all right for ‘umans, coz they ’as beds,
an they spects to be a good while on their backs, if you know wot I mean,
so beds makes sense.
But we ‘as to take advantage of the moment, we doesn’t get the chance to
sit about asking questions and checkin’ out the ‘istory of every female what
comes down our alley, does we? We sizes ‘em up and carpe diem, it’s over
in less time than it takes to open a winda and lob a bottle. We ‘as that timed
down to the second, else there’d be no kittens born nowhere in the Great
Metropo-lice. Disaster that.Bigger than floods an' famine, no cats.

But 'umans ‘as the nerve to complain ‘bout the racket we makes when we
goes about our procreatin’, which I’ll ‘ave you know we does as a special
favour to ‘umankind so’s we can cull them rats they keeps feedin’ and
fattenin’. Nevva mind our noise, wot about the noise of twenty windows
screechin open, and the filthy words wot comes out of them?
Puts us right off our stride, so lengthy courtin’ ain’t somefing we does
as a rule. But then there’s hexeptions to rules hain’t there? Has to be
hexeptions or yer can’t prove it can yer? And one of them hexeptions
‘appens now and then right down our alley.

Puzzabell she’s called...Feline Fatale of Fulham. Soft white fur from
tips of ‘er fluffy white ears, to tip of ‘er fluffy white tail. Walks wiv
a wiggle, glancin’ sideways now an’ then, but mostly jus’ pretendin’ she’s
out for a little stroll, when wot she really wants is a little roll, know
wot I mean?
But we all pretend right along wiv ‘er. She gets you like that.
Dunno why. Won all those medals at Crufts she ‘as, and ‘er nose is all
scrunched up posh like she doesn’t like the smell of our alley, but she
keeps coming down it for some reason, so it can’t smell that bad can it?

Like a bloody orchestra it is when Puzzabell goes walkabout. Vocals
from firty feline froats garnishing the midnight air wiv such ‘eartfelt
amorosity - it’s enuff to make yer fur stand on end wiv hanticipation.
Then the windas shoot up, screechin’like violins, the ‘umans are boomin’
and squallin’ like trombones and bagpipes, but best of all, is the tympani.
That’s me favourite section in an orchestra, specially on a cloudless night.
There’s a real clarity I always fink to the sound of a well-aimed brick ‘ittin’
a row of glass bottles in the dead of night. But there’s nuffin’, absolutely
nuffin, quite like the sound of a dustbin lid frown like a frisbee and ‘ittin’
the flanks of a randy cat.
Now that is class! Wiv a really good shot you gets
two sounds for the price of one: First off, there’s the dull thump like a single
drum beat, then an ‘alf beat pause as ripples of rage in ‘is froat roars like an
angry frog, twisting midair to a curdling catawaul wot’d make Pavarotti proud.
Goose bumps or wot? Brrr!

Guaranteed to raise the windas a second time is the dustbin lid cantata,
then comes a rousin’ chorus of ‘uman verbals screechin,
squallin and sqwarkin’ which takes it to a crescendo worthy of that Mr. Albert
‘All. It’s a ‘Land of ‘Ope and Fury’ all right when Puzzabell’s in town.

Puzzabell’s Proms we call ‘em. Everyone turns out for one of ‘er do’s.
But wot you ‘umans nevva get to see is the common or garden skullduggery
and skirmishin’ beneath the bushes, does yer? Scufflin’ and such, fightin’
fer prime position, wiv Puzzabell sitting in the middle of the rhododendron
ring. I’ll bet you’ve nevva seen a real cat fight ‘as yer?

We all sits round the edges of the ring, goading each other on, till one poor bugger
stalks into the centre, ‘ormones doin’ the okey cokey, fancying ‘is chances
with Puzzabell. She just sits there, cool as a cream cake, not even ‘er tail twitchin,
bathed in moonlight, baby blues blinkin and winkin like some sort
of secret signals, an’ then, jus’ when ‘e gets wivin reach, she does that
‘fing’ wiv ‘er tail... Must be the ‘quivalent of the Missus taking off ‘er
undies in front of ‘Im on a Saturday night, coz ‘E always gets distracted
at that point too.

Then she pounces all of a sudden, one in the eye!
Missus or Puzzabell, same difference.
Game over, bar the screechin.
‘Oo says ‘umans and cats aren’t alike?

Tried it once meself with Puzzabell. Now, I just watches the other buggers
wiv me one remainin’ eye. We ‘as more one-eyed cats down our alley than
is strickly speaking normal - even down the East End, but then we
hentertains a Femme Fatale from Fulham and you ‘as to pay fer a class act,
don’tcha?. Badge of honour that one eye. Bloody nuisance and all.
Wimmin!

Ginger on the Virtues of Small Mice

2009-06-21T13:44:00.001-07:00

I always sez that nuffin, nuffin beats a small mouse. ‘Cept me, that is.
Take the other day. There I was, minding me own business,
licking me bollocks on the bed, when ‘E comes in an’ kicks me.
No good reason. It's jus’ wot ‘E does.
’What yer bleedin’ doin you manky ol cat?’ ‘E asks politely,
bootin' me off the bed wiv 'is 'obnail boots like
David Bloody Beckham.
‘E could see purfeckly well wot I was doin’ so why did
‘e ‘ave to arsk? Anyway, there I was, flying through the
air like a flamin' trapeze artist, and the winda ‘appened
to be open. Out I sails, singin' fer Ingland, and I was
just at the peak of my flight, when me mouf met a sparra
at the peak of ‘is.

Co-incidence or wot?
‘Snap!’ goes I an' lands on the dustbin with a mouf full
of fevvas. Shame the lid was off - mustard from the chip
paper made me squall, so the sparra did a somersault out
me gob, and scarpered.

So wot was I gonna do now?
Outside, no dinner.
Rainin'.
Gettin’ dark.
‘Ow was I gonna get back indoors? E'd never let me back in.
But She might...

So I puts my little plan into action. Bit of a genius me.
I finds m'self a little mouse.
‘What’s the bleedin’ use of that?’ I ‘ears you ask. Ah!
That’s where me cunnin' comes in. I doesn’t harm the mouse,
oh no! I takes it tender-like in me mouf, climbs the front
steps, pushes the letter-box open just a tidge, and drops
the mouse inta the 'allway. Then I goes round the back,
cleans me whiskas, and waits.

It don’t take long. All of a sudden there’s a screech from
‘Er.
‘Mike! Mike! There’s a bloody mouse in the ‘ouse! Where’s
that bleedin’ cat when you need ‘im?’
The back door opens and I’m hinvited back in, nice as you please.
‘Get in ‘ere you blasted moggy and do yer bleedin’ job!'
'Er screech would've made a peacock proud.
‘Wot, me?’ says I, all innocent, checkin' to make sure
I's truly welcome.
'Well? Getta bloody move on!' she yelps. So in I slinks,
lookin’ dead furtive, cos that’s wot they likes to see
in a furr-ocious ‘unter.

I creeps along the skirtin’ boards, trackin’ that little mouse.
Course, it runs into the livin room, and that’s why a small
mouse is better than a biggun - On account of the lampshades, see?
A big mouse means you ‘as to leap ‘igher. And there’s nothing
wot gets you thrown out the back door faster than knockin off
a lampshade when you pounces.

And in case you didn’t know, there’s a direct connection
between the size of a mouse and the ‘ight of its leap.
Maffematical see? And the older I gets the less I wants to leap.
That’s maffematical an' all. I’m a maffematical sort of cat.
That’s why I keeps givin ‘em mice. They gives me stuff.
I gives them stuff. An eye for an eye - like that Almighty
Dawg says in ‘Is Great Heavy Book.

She ‘preciates a good mouser, any rate. Once I catch ‘Er little
mouse and hexicutes it, she gives me a saucer of milk and
lets me stay indoors in case there’s another lurkin in the skirtin.
E knows I’m up to somefing, but 'E can’t work out wot. So we
eyes each other up, wary, suspicious, til she gives ‘im 'is
saucer too. Never drinks tea straight from the cup like most
‘umans. Always ‘as to tip it into ‘is saucer and slurp it up.
‘Oo sez cats and ‘umans aren’t alike?