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Visited Sludge yesterday morning at his Cowbridge one-bedroom flat which he likes to describe as an apartment or pied-à-terre. In a town full of Simons and Sophies who invest much of their time necking poncy Waitrose wine whilst devising new tax evasion schemes, his home is a contender for its premier hovel. He lives in the top half of a former semi that's accessed via a side entrance which leads to a grimy staircase.
He greeted me wearing his familiar vest that appeared to have gained fresh food stains down its front since my last visit. Beyond the front door is a semi-circle of others that lead to a bedroom, kitchen, toilet and lounge. Above the former is a small portrait of a grinning Emlyn Hughes. Beneath it is a sign in bold red lettering which reads THIS IS ANFIELD. I haven't seen inside there but his proud boast is that every scrubber in the Vale of Glamorgan certainly has.
He quickly ushered me into the lounge. It would provide a perfect setting for a Shelter charity appeal advert. In one corner atop a crumpled blanket snoozed Throbbing Gristle, his dopey looking, lop-eared hound. The rest of the space is dominated by a mismatched three-piece suite. "Take a pew," mumbled a distracted Sludge, but it was easier said than done as the sofa was strewn with magazines, none of which would be found at a respectable address, so too one of the chairs. The other one looked the best bet as the seat was free. However, what appeared to be an half-eaten cheese and pickle sandwich rested precariously on one arm, and as I motioned to remove it Throbbing opened one eye to emit a low threatening growl. I imagine he had bagged it in his mind's eye for when he was feeling peckish.
It seemed I had interrupted Sludge when rearranging his massive DVD collection that filled a bookcase. Amongst the titles I caught sight of were: Humongous Hangers, DD Dutch Dumplings, Magnificent Mammaries and Unbelievable Udders. "I like big titties," he remarked with a smirk. "Getaway," I said sarcastically, "I'd never have guessed."
He stood near the rear window that overlooks the gardens of a row of nondescript houses below. He was preoccupied gazing through binoculars that are likely bigger and more powerful than Field Marshall Montgomery used to survey North African landscape for signs of a sneaky German counter-attack during World War II.
"What are you looking at?" I asked. "Number six's washing line," he replied urgently whilst jabbing a finger in its general direction. "What for?" I pressed. "Well," he answered somewhat crestfallen, "the strumpet who lives there always pegs her knickers out every Tuesday morning, weather permitting, but none are fluttering in the breeze today." He explained that following months of careful monitoring he was sure that she owned just four pairs of drawers and by a process of elimination would know which garment was round her Aris. I enquired why he was interested but his response isn't suitable to reproduced here at this family-orientated site.
What a rotter that fella is! :facepalm:
He greeted me wearing his familiar vest that appeared to have gained fresh food stains down its front since my last visit. Beyond the front door is a semi-circle of others that lead to a bedroom, kitchen, toilet and lounge. Above the former is a small portrait of a grinning Emlyn Hughes. Beneath it is a sign in bold red lettering which reads THIS IS ANFIELD. I haven't seen inside there but his proud boast is that every scrubber in the Vale of Glamorgan certainly has.
He quickly ushered me into the lounge. It would provide a perfect setting for a Shelter charity appeal advert. In one corner atop a crumpled blanket snoozed Throbbing Gristle, his dopey looking, lop-eared hound. The rest of the space is dominated by a mismatched three-piece suite. "Take a pew," mumbled a distracted Sludge, but it was easier said than done as the sofa was strewn with magazines, none of which would be found at a respectable address, so too one of the chairs. The other one looked the best bet as the seat was free. However, what appeared to be an half-eaten cheese and pickle sandwich rested precariously on one arm, and as I motioned to remove it Throbbing opened one eye to emit a low threatening growl. I imagine he had bagged it in his mind's eye for when he was feeling peckish.
It seemed I had interrupted Sludge when rearranging his massive DVD collection that filled a bookcase. Amongst the titles I caught sight of were: Humongous Hangers, DD Dutch Dumplings, Magnificent Mammaries and Unbelievable Udders. "I like big titties," he remarked with a smirk. "Getaway," I said sarcastically, "I'd never have guessed."
He stood near the rear window that overlooks the gardens of a row of nondescript houses below. He was preoccupied gazing through binoculars that are likely bigger and more powerful than Field Marshall Montgomery used to survey North African landscape for signs of a sneaky German counter-attack during World War II.
"What are you looking at?" I asked. "Number six's washing line," he replied urgently whilst jabbing a finger in its general direction. "What for?" I pressed. "Well," he answered somewhat crestfallen, "the strumpet who lives there always pegs her knickers out every Tuesday morning, weather permitting, but none are fluttering in the breeze today." He explained that following months of careful monitoring he was sure that she owned just four pairs of drawers and by a process of elimination would know which garment was round her Aris. I enquired why he was interested but his response isn't suitable to reproduced here at this family-orientated site.
What a rotter that fella is! :facepalm:
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