Ye Olde Linoleum Shoppe

Wednesday 14 December 2011


It is only the seasoned archaeologist who truly understands what procedures and instruments are needed to successfully involve oneself in what is commonly known as an excavation. An unworldly university graduate comes fresh to the slaughter of field archaeology with callow notions about trowels and measuring tapes only to discover, in a very slow and painful fashion, the true nature of the implements needed for a dig (please forgive my use of the vernacular.) In the following blog I will attempt to tease out the main utensils needed to successfully propel oneself, in an agreeable arc, directly through an excavation and onwards into the dark hopeless void of unemployment on the other side.
No excavation begins without a generous dose of valuim washed down with a half bottle of Sore Leg Vodka. Valium's enthralling effect allows the user to attend a site meeting with a sweaty scrounging developer (who we hereafter only refer to as Mr.J.S.) and plant a kiss on his well picked nose with the words 'You are my beshtest friend inna hole whurl.'
During the previous building boom a refreshing cocktail of viagra and cocaine did win over the hearts of many archaeologists, but the chin bruising precipitated by this remarkable cocktail forced it's early retirement.
When it comes time to begin the delicate onsite task of topsoil removal there can be no doubting the efficacious nature of a few sticks of our old compeer Monsieur J. Elligneet. Since Northern Ireland's terrorist groups have decamped into the more solicitous environment of politics the British Isles explosives market has been flooded with intoxicating choice. A dozen sticks of TNT hammered with a mallet securely into the earth, and then combusted, always provides an amusing display not unlike fireworks, but with mud and gravel instead of sparks. - And you will stand there smiling, high as a kite on valium and not giving a shit as a cloud of filth ascends heavenwards, while your disgruntled developer chum Mr.J.S. screams and runs for cover.
Once the topsoil is safety orbiting the earth, the onerous niceties of stratified remains can be dealt with posthaste under the blunt blade of a big yellow bulldozer, (bones and timber always crunch satisfyingly under the loving embrace of diesel powered caterpillar tracks.) The previously mentioned sweaty developer with look on with grudging approval as you wave goodbye to all his planning difficulties, allowing you to pop another few valium, kiss his noggin and enquire whither those pale encrusted blemishes on his pants came from.
And there you will stand, with your midden faced, whoremonger pal, Mr.J.S. as the subsoil bleeds out from under the servile grind of the dozer - and you will make quite a pair, him fumbling in his greasy pockets and you swimming in the arms of Morpheus. Tra La La!
An end of site party (well lubricated with vomit) ensues and we move rapidly on to the post-excavation work . . .
Oh Post-Ex! Ahahahaaa! That is a good one, (wipes tears of mirth from eyes.) Post-Ex my hole! Those terrorists you bought the TNT off want their money and that's where the post-ex shekels have to go!

That dear readers, is how to properly conduct an excavation!

Better make that two packets of Diazepam please Mary, yes, and a whole bottle of Sore Leg.

Until NEXT WEEK, Christmas is approaching and I am positively damp with excitement.



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I am a descended from a long line of conga dancers. I occasionally wear shoes. I gave up going to the toilet twenty years ago - it's a filthy habit. I have a pet bunny called Mucky - he's a filthy rabbit.