Why does it always happen to me ... and Davy Jones?

Now, first off, let me reassure you that you're not going to get a post gloating about what a brilliant holiday I had. It always seems to be the way: you spend your day at work, then you sit in traffic on the way home, then before you have your dinner you have to clean the toilet and pick up the dog/cat/child pooh from the kitchen floor, then you settle down to the computer while the cold icy rain bounces off the windows and read some twat gibbering on about how their exotic holiday was the best thing since sliced bread.

To make it worse, the bastards then post pictures like this, telling you its the view from their private balcony at a five star luxury hotel that cost less than a cat litter tray in the Western world.

Well, trust me, that isn't going to happen here.

Some might recall that before we jetted off on our luxury sunshine break to temperatures of around 36 degrees, which was bearable with that nice sea breeze, there were a few issues with the Field Plot. When I returned home, tanned and well relaxed (did I mention I'd been away), I discovered that problems have been resolved, and although the project has been down-scaled, I still have a full size plot, which is good because I spent a few evening sketching out plans on napkins while downing the ice cold beer that cost next-to-nothing.

I also discovered that my bastard nasty bastard shitty bastard neighbours had sold their house. Good riddance to bad rubbish. That's what I scrawled on the Sold board outside their house, while Mrs IG shook her head in disappointment.

I also found my final seed delivery on the doormat, and then I found a huge chunk of cash in my pocket because despite eating caught-that-day prawns and lobster and sea bass and snapper, it was so cheap I hadn't really spent any of the money I took with me.

Did I mention I'd been away?

Now, you might be wondering what the post title is all about, so I shall reveal all. Many years ago I lived in a town house in Camden, and on a sunny day a friend and I used to climb onto the roof with beer and guitars, and make up songs about people who passed by. These were shit songs, really really shit songs. No, they were. Trust me.

One example was penned after a pizza delivery man went past looking rather angry. It was a simple little number that went like this.

You dirty geezer, you dirty geezer,
You don'ta like-a my pizza;
You dirty bastard, you dirty bastard,
You don'ta like-a my pasta.

Another was the snappily titled "We work at the BBC; Brian, Rolf and Me".

One favourite, which came to mind just after my return, was "Why does it always happen to me?"

Raped and beaten and left to die, out in the ice and snow,
Her body was found by the man in the van delivering groceries for Tesco.
In the back of the van he raped her again, and broke all her fingers and toes,
And with her dying breath she kicked out her leg, and crushed my tomatoes.
Why does it always happen to me?

You see, like I said, really shit songs!

Now, you might wonder why, after a lovely holiday of low cost high luxury (did I mention I'd been away?), returning to find the Field Plot is going ahead and that my bastard neighbours are moving, I have anything to whinge about. To be honest, I didn't think I would either, but it came like a bolt from the blue.

I was in the kitchen when Mrs IG said it.

"Davy Jones is dead", she said.

I heard the words, but couldn't react. My mind went into overdrive, and that song came back to haunt me. Why does it always happen to me? I sat stunned in a silent moment. Everything, even my breathing, the coarsing of blood through my veins, my very metabolism, froze for a second. I was numb.

Then the thoughts started. Strimmers don't grow on trees, you know. Okay, it was a cheap one, but he borrowed it and now I'm going to have to find some way to get it back. I'll have to see his wife, and she'll be in mourning and all weepy, and I'm going to have to talk about how he's in a better place, and things like that.

Then I'll have to work around to it. How can I bring it up? "Last time I saw him he wanted to do the garden. He was talking about it, but he needed a strimmer. He was going to buy one, but it didn't make sense for one day in the year, so he borrowed mine. That strimmer, the one he has somewhere kicking around the house, is mine. Normally I wouldn't mind, but I've got the new plot to clear."

It might be a little unsubtle. His widow will weep and wail, but I bet she'll go out of her way to keep my strimmer. After all, a decent strimmer is an asset. Maybe I'll wait until after the funeral. Mind you, someone might see it and think: he won't need that any more. They'll take it and I can hardly knock on some stranger's door and demand back the strimmer. What if someone inherits his stuff; they'll take my strimmer and I'll never get it back.

It is my strimmer. I haven't got any paperwork, but I'm sure I've got a video of the Brother trying to get a cat with it. It'll look bad in court, but surely that constitutes proof of ownership? Maybe I'll just knock on the door and tell her I need my strimmer, and when she says he died I'll act shocked, but suggest I take the strimmer anyway.

So, from a point of happiness I was suddenly down a strimmer. I said as much, and Mrs IG asked what the hell I was babbling about. I explained that Dave Jones had my strimmer, and she spoke thus.

"Not Dave Jones from the pub; Davy Jones from the Monkees, you idiot."

I thought I'd never heard him called Davy before!

Talking of monkeys...

Did I mention I've been away?

On a more serious note, the death of Davy Jones did remind me of one thing. Many years I went out with a girl who all my friends told me looked like one of the Monkees. We argued a lot about that, and I disagreed, but then I saw her face!

Okay, I'll get my coat!