Tomorrow is another year

I thought that humans only went a bit funny over that Christmas thing but I was wrong. I had forgotten that last year was quiet as owner went swanning off somewhere on New Years Eve and didn’t reappear until half way through the following day, leaving me to sleep peacefully in his freshly laundered underwear.

This afternoon owner has been carefully decanting that funny purpely liquid gin stuff which fascinated me so much when he made it in September.

He says it is made from damsons or something.

This can only mean problems for a small cat and as it is far too dangerous to be out tonight what with all that army ordnance going of in the dark and bottles being thrown at me, not to mention projectile vomit on my fur. I will stay in. My intelligence tells me that this is a wiser move than it might at first seem.

Mustafa Iqbal has decided not to open the kebab shop in town just in case of some unprecedented attack by Chav types, and although weekends mean good pilfering in the gutter outside his place (its quite an art to differentiate between Dona meat and puke in the dark), I am not tempted to investigate tonight.

What’s more I have carefully secreted the carcass of half a duck behind the sofa in the living room. Owner has been looking for it since Christmas day but every time he gets close to finding it I quickly stuff it down the lav for a while. I will devour said carcass later before having a good rest, I’m feeling a bit wiped out anyway. See you later.

So This is Christmas

Apparently this week it is something called Christmas. It has happened three times since I was born on 21 April 2003. I can only remember this happening twice before. Prior to this I was very small and my only recollection of the event was being trapped by the claws of my left front paw whilst examining the ceiling from the top of the draylon curtains in the lounge.

As far as I can tell, this Christmas thing is something that makes humans go a bit funny. At least if my owner is anything to go by. The house has been filled with terrible smelling liquid in bottles which makes my eyes run and makes owner do some very strange things.

I have decided to stay well clear of the stuff, but whilst I was prowling around in the dark of the kitchen last night I found some empty glasses with what was left of a very nice yellow liquid in them. Tasted very good. It must be something for me, because it’s called advocaat, (wish people would learn to spell cat properly).

My father Mr Whoppit used to have a good time at this time of year. I know that he used to sample that strange liquid that the humans drink at Christmas, but I don’t think it was good for him at all.

I think I will stick to milk.

We are safe....

Last night I was out for a while with Orlando, the Ginger Tom who lives down the road. He tells me that they have now caught ‘Jack the Kipper’, in Suffolk. So thats a relief. I dont care for Weirdos.

I am always wary of strange characters who stagger out of public house doors and vomit on my fur late at night when I am on Pilfering Patrol, and boy racers on the by-pass, oh, and the wood on the edge of town is a bit scary, so I always make my presence felt by Meowing Whistling Jack Smith’s ‘I was Kaiser Bill’s Batman’, as loudly as I can when I walk through there.

Orlando is a bit of a criminology buff. He reckons we are lucky we weren’t around in the East End of London in the Sixties.

Last night, as we shared a saucer of milk and a bit of chicken skin at the back of Tesco, he related the dreadful deeds of the Stray Twins.

They reeked havoc among the gangland criminal cat fraternity and were responsible for the murders of Cat ’The Hat’ McVitie, and Tortoiseshell Cornell, in the Blind Bugger pub. Their reign of terror was brought to an end when they had their flea collars felt by ‘Kipper Read’ of New Scotland Yard.

So, now that it’s safe to prowl the streets again I think I will see what’s in the rubbish skip behind the freezer centre in the High Street tonight.

This is my Life, (with apologies to Billy Joel)

I was born on April 21st 2003 at 7.15 pm Greenwich Mean Time, in a cardboard Epson Stylus printer box under my owners computer desk, the son of Mr Whoppit who is sadly no longer with us. The reason for my existence has not yet been established, but investigations are continuing.

I live in a large mansion (by cat standards at least), in England with my Owner and deputy handler (owners son), my Mother Mrs Kat, and a large black thing that Owner refers to as a 'Cross-Labrador' whatever that is,

All I know is that it has a massive appetite, and takes my cat food without asking.

I decided to start this blog because the feline populous are badly represented in the world of technology.

From time to time you may have a little trouble reading my posts. This is because the computer industry hasn't yet developed a keyboard large enough for my paws, and although my nocturnal skills are far superior to yours, I still have to type everything in total darkness in owners downstairs office after everyone else including the black thing have gone to bed. I apologise for this.

I also have to turn on the computer with my nose. And sometimes the button sticks, so bear with me.

Whackit

Welcome to Mr Whackit's world.......

Hello, I am Mr Whackit, its all about me, so come and take look at the world through the eyes of a small Domestic Shorthair Ginger Tomcat who loves cat food, cat behaviour, cat psychology, cat napping, and the leisurely feline life.