“I say Carruthers have all the dreadful shenanigans with the missus calmed down yet?  I know it’s been so very tiresome for you of late.”

“Tell me about it old chap.  I just don’t understand the woman one tiny bit. Just last evening as I was thumbing through Town & Country whilst partaking of my port and cigar nightcap do you know what she did? Well there I was off with the fairies when she entered the lounge clad……… shall I put it…….clad in just her riding boots and hat. She…Deirdre that is….lingered longer than I thought appropriate in the circumstances at the door; ran one hand up the door frame and put a finger to her lips then winked three times – three times no less – at me!  What a-to-do I thought to myself so I asked her if she had something in her eye thinking if she had I could perhaps assist with the extraction of the offending item when she simply stormed orf in a huff slamming the door behind her. What do you make of that?”

“I’m guessing she must just have popped orf to the bathroom in order to apply a little Optrex – I find it a jolly fine product when it comes to having a rogue eyelash about the eye you know.”

“I suppose that might just be the case yet the previous night as we were in bed – me ensconced in War & Peace as is my want of late – she asked me to take a look at her tablet thing whereon I saw that she had been watching a squalid video of a naked man and woman copulating no less. And I might add the couple were enacting such copulation in a position that most certainly was not the missionary! Anyway, thrusting the bleddy thing in my face she asked if I should like to ‘try this.’”

“Very strange if you ask me. I mean you’ve got an IPad and if my memory serves me well Deirdre uses the Google Nexus thingy if I’m not mistaken?”

“Correct old chum. Basically that was my riposte. I simply advised her that with me having the Rolls Royce of tablet thing why on God’s earth would I wish to even consider having a pop on her inferior thingy. Illogical in my book.  Once again she took of her leave in petulant fashion and slept the night in the guest quarters.”

“Perhaps the vapours are afflicting her once more?”

“Could be I suppose yet this morning as I was at breakfast she said, her words verbatim mind, ‘I want to get the Pope to canonize your knob.’ I merely replied that nothing, not even my ‘knob’ could receive sainthood unless it was dead and had performed a miracle once previously.  To which she sighed and then uttered these words, ‘I rest my fucking case.’ How very, very rude of her!”

“Bleddy right it was. Mind you, you must be a saint putting up with it.”

“It gets worse. She then told me she was ‘gagging for sex.’ Well that was the last straw. I said in no uncertain terms that insofar as I was aware it was neither my birthday nor was it Christmas morning. That shut her up. The very idea of it! Shall we venture toward a liquid lunch?”

“What a splendid idea.”



  1. Mike! Oh how I love this character! He’s hilarious. But I really must venture to ask if perhaps Dierdre had merely suggested the Pope bless Carutthers’ doorknob? Or perhaps I’ve ventured toward too much liquid lunch?

    1. Deirdre – the wife – has only been featuring these past couple of posts yet I am hoping she is the perfect foil for Carruther’s insensitivity to all about him. I like her yet feel sorry for her at the same time. Thanks for the comment.

  2. Very funny…but I do feel sorry for Deirdre…I’m pretty sure Carruther’s know is just about dead already, but I doubt it has ever performed any miracles. I do hope Deirdre finds a way to get some action one of these days. Anyone who can survive living with Carruthers deserves a little reward me thinks;)

    1. Poor Deirdre – British stiff upper lip and all that. Carruthers an insensitive buffoon (also so very British). Where will it all end – maybe she can fall in love with Tiffany? That would be interesting in terms of how Carruthers would cope with his missus and his secretary having an affair – or would he read it wrong and not notice. You know this one might just have legs – thanks for that!

      1. I wasn’t gonna say, but my mind too saw Deirdre and Tiffany become ‘a thing’ with Carruthers being completely obvlivious to it, despite a great number of ‘baffling’ clues no doubt;)
        Have fun with those legs!;)

      2. I think I replied to this more or less on the comment to you on the next Carruthers post. Shirley has had me keep back the affair thing a little longer as it should be the highlight of the ongoing soap opera!

  3. Well at least he finally saw her naked, riding boots not withstanding. I think Deidre needs to send him back in his cardboard time machine to see how his parents did it again and perhaps this time he should stay longer to take notes. Poor Deidre is going to end up with the pool boy is Carruthers doesn’t get around to taking care of things at home. Loved it! 😀

    1. I think I have accidentally had Carruthers set up to play the stereotypical Brit – in terms of say how other nations see us – with all his reticence regarding matters carnal. Couple that with his blind indifference to the obvious (another Brit trait) and you end up with a wife who is slowly going insane! Or simply has the ‘vapours.’

      1. Perhaps that is how the French see us Brits i.e. devoid of romance and passion etc. Another great sentence though Rachel, ‘…most of the British men I’ve known were all pervs!’ Opening line for a limerick?

    2. LOL! Well, I do have a snappy comeback but I don’t want to say it publicly. 😉 As for the limerick, it does seem like it would be a good line, however I can’t think of a single rhyme for pervert!

    3. Every Brit that I’ve know’s been a flirt;
      They would chase anything in a skirt;
      They’d sit girls on their knees
      As they begged of them, “Please!”
      And as such, every one was a pervert!

      1. LOL! See? I knew it! You could teach poor Carruthers a thing or two.

        On a different note, I told my son to look out for G on Facebook to see if they could get talking after G finishes his tests. He replied, “Oh cool!”

      2. Cheers – a week to go now and the stress he’s under – and freely shares with us the bastard – is over. I’ll give G the heads up on this one.

      1. Sorry about the delay – I knew I had it written down somewhere. Herewith the key extract;
        The agents I liked the best were the ones with a sense of humour. The ones who could go out each boring day and always come back with a funny story. The agent we used for the East End of London and Essex, yet another bloke named John, was one such man, who, over the years and even now when I am long out of the industry, has become and stayed a good friend. There is nothing I like to indulge in more than the drollery of a true story. John had thousands of them. My personal favourite which still makes me chuckle today is a bit racist in its content yet it did actually happen – so, in some ways it being factual gives it a credibility a fictional story could never have. This story is all about stereotypes.

        John, as was, and as still is his way, had, one Saturday afternoon in the late Eighties, found himself in a pub on the Isle of Dogs. A lot a scallywags, villains and hooligans live on the Isle of Dogs. It has a culture and narrative of its very own. Picture John, a cockney and a not too tall balding man with darting eyes that seem to speak leaning against the bar with his umpteenth pint in his hand, a little bored as his mates have gone back home for lunch. He is idly watching the overhead TV in the bar. It being a Saturday there is sport on; athletics to be precise. The event John has just chanced upon is the 4×100 metres relay. England’s team of four runners are all black. Rumour from around the bar is that England cannot lose. We are red hot, odds on favourites and no one is running a book – no point, we’re going to win handsomely. There is a hush in the bar, the race kicks off and, as predicted the England squad take a commanding lead. At the final baton change for the home straight we are metres in front of our closest rivals. Then disaster. Our best sprinter, Linford Christie drops the baton. The whole field rush past and we have lost. Sitting in the corner away from the others is a little old man in a flat cap smoking a roll up and sat in his usual position, under a portrait of Winston Churchill, pint of mild and bitter in hand. In the general silence in the wake of the disappointment of defeat John overhears the old boy pipe up, saying, “If had been a fucking handbag he wouldn’t have dropped it!” If ever ‘less is more’, that one line conveys the whole story of racial tensions in the inner city environment.

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