Of all the people I met in Little Fuckington - the weird, the deranged, the useless - one often revisits me in my dreams. Not the fever dreams where I see monsters and demons and Myrtle Tuttle’s hogweed decoction. The special dreams.
That Little Fucker is Thelma Frontbottom. A woman free of the constraints of life, of worry. A woman who charms and tantalises and shimmies her way into hearts and underpants. A woman whose Foo-Foo captured the very soul of Little Fuckington and led her to a career in entertainment.
This is Thelma.
Thankfully Foo-Foo was found being ravaged by a street cat that once belonged to Eugene Weegie-Jobby until it (the cat) determined a better and cleaner life was to be had in LFs grimy alleys. The fully-plummed tomcat, who Eugene had named Jonty Bawsack, shared prawns pilfered from Tosslobster Seafoods with Thelma’s confused Foo-Foo in between spirited shafting behind the bins while a half dozen rats watched in awe.
One could argue Jonty Bawsack is a true LFer, having fully embraced the lifestyle.
Foo-Foo was returned to Thelma by a Tosslobster employee and he was thanked most enthusiastically and wetly way beyond the end of his shift. Foo-Foo was also given a once over by vet Ham Shandy and found to be “intimately tender but otherwise unharmed”. The ravaging tomcat has since been seen in Fuckstanley Woods buggering large squirrels for nuts.
Farmer Goodfanger, who responded to Thelma’s plea on Facebook in his own very Northern way, will be back in future posts in a particularly hilarious exchange with Roger Frontbottom - husband to Thelma and all-round tosslobster.
Next, a letter written to the Little Fuckington Complaints Court and the subsequent replies.
The baubles which Thema refers to were added to the pole as a festive decoration and then remained beyond what was acceptable and indeed, tolerable. As did Helmut himself in my opinion. Here is his uniquely wanky response to Thelma’s request of the Court.
There are few people who ever seem to challenge Helmut Fuque-Witt - possibly because he owns an unknown number of “decorative” firearms and bladed articles, as well as a tank which is parked at the rear of Belle-End Cottage (a cottage in name only, it’s a massive lump with a gilded facade, much like Helmut himself), but this tremendous woman had a damn good go.
Lady Garden is old guard Fuckentonian - like Helmut’s wife, Lettice-Clamidia, whose surname he adopted to bolster his limp heritage - and she therefore takes no shit from wannabes.
I had cause to spend a glorious Saturday with Lady Jane, exploring the botanical delights of Little Fuckington and its surrounding countryside. She knows her bush from her bole and her seed from her spore. I learned a lot. We took our poodles swimming in Lower Muff and Danny Glover was giddy as sticky willy (the plant, not the LFer).
In coming weeks, I will unfortunately share documents that show the above exchange between Thelma and the Court was orchestrated by her husband in an attempt to prevent what was inevitable at that point. A terrible, torrid love affair.
In the meantime, here is Thelma pleading with private investigator, Dick Cinn to get to the grubby bottom of some salacious photographs. The use of the word “gentleman” here should be taken very, very, so extremely as to be flappy, very loosely.
I once attended a poker session with Amophelia Nutz (Roger Imslow’s drag persona) and I can tell you there was so much poking, I was left looking like I had contracted measles, but only on my arse cheeks and inner thighs.
Here’s Dick responding to Thelma’s desperate plea.
Dick once found me in the boot of a Honda Jazz in the carpark at Fuckananny Woods. I didn’t even know I was lost.
I had sweated so much, my face was shrivelled like a knackered apple and Dick had to perform emergency urination on me. To “rehydrate you, my dude” he said. I would later wonder why he hadn’t gone to either of the twenty-four hour food trucks that park by the woods and have large containers of water.
The penultimate Thelma bit is again from the LF Facebook group. This time it’s a post from one of the Handyman Hugh’s - Janus not Jarce - after he received some unpleasant reactions to work done on Thelma’s back entrance.
and so we come to the end of this Thelma-centric journey. There will be more to come, but for now I leave you with this Local Colour online post about Thelma’s most enduring escapade - her performing pussies.
That my lovely Slackers, is all I have for this post. Nobody can take much more Thelma than this anyway. Not even me. And I like cats.
NEXT TIME:
Before we head into some of the truly terrible shit I encountered in LF - supernatural shit that would be, and tons of it - I’ll share a glimpse into the sort of businesses that take root in the village.
Until then,
Benetton