Penelope
Бангаранга
I'd WONDERED where that MYSTERIOUS WAFT OF PIGSHIT WAS COMING FROM!
Thursday finds entire forgotten cupboard filled with Moopiqué (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Penelope
- Start date
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hyperwoof
Guest
I've taken Anadin. I was canned yesterday. I've been expecting that for a while, but it's still not a nice experience, especially when carried out remotely by managers in a building 25 meters from the one you are sat in because they won't do it to your face. Whoop 
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hyperwoof
Guest
Have I killed this thread again?
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hyperwoof
Guest
It’s time to send the big guns into this thread:
Santaliger007
Kingbluewhales007
Chill day today bizzy ish tommrow cann figer out price dis nuts allright u get lot £119 think zoom in
Ligers roxs tru dat
Ligers roxs tru dat
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hyperwoof
Guest
It hasn’t stopped raining since sun up. I have finally had to go out into it to get a train. The weeds in the front garden look like they are in heaven.
big ron
King of moopy
- Pronouns
- He/him
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2004
- Messages
- 39,301
Yeah I’m in the new Berlin (Stockport) and I’d really like it to pack the fuck in now. I have trenchfoot
floppet
Spider murderer
Mr F rang me at work at half past nine this morning to ask whether I knew the council were cutting down my squirrel tree? I was not. Ridiculously the council have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to cut down the hawthorn tree that's on the other side of my back fence. The tree only grows over my shed in the corner of my garden, none of the branches or foliage is over the park and it's the tree where the squirrels sit, it provides pollen for bees and berries for all kinds of wildlife and there's no reason to cut it down, the only sunlight it blocks is mine just after dawn. Ten feet away from the hawthorn is a massive sycamore, taller than my house. Its branches also hang over my garden, it fills my gutters and garden up with leaves and it's just awful. I've been on to the council at least once a year about it, asking them to come and remove the branches over my garden but they continually refuse because it's a healthy tree.
Anyway, the tree surgeons wanted Mr F to open the back gate so they could come in the back garden to start chopping it down, unfortunately the back gate hasn't been opened since we moved in in 2004 and it's wedged shut. Then they asked whether they could remove one of the fence panels ... one panel is under the hawthorn so can't lift that one out, one has other branches growing over it and the other is under the sycamore. All the while it was bashing down with rain and I'm on the other end of the phone heartbroken because I love that tree. Finally got a text at 10am saying they'd gone away again due to the weather and will return some other time.
I have asked Mr F to chain himself to the tree tomorrow.
Anyway, the tree surgeons wanted Mr F to open the back gate so they could come in the back garden to start chopping it down, unfortunately the back gate hasn't been opened since we moved in in 2004 and it's wedged shut. Then they asked whether they could remove one of the fence panels ... one panel is under the hawthorn so can't lift that one out, one has other branches growing over it and the other is under the sycamore. All the while it was bashing down with rain and I'm on the other end of the phone heartbroken because I love that tree. Finally got a text at 10am saying they'd gone away again due to the weather and will return some other time.
I have asked Mr F to chain himself to the tree tomorrow.
I love a Floppet post that takes me into her world
My lovely you need to publish these as short stories
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hyperwoof
Guest
I’m in the cinema to see Disclosure and there is an entire advert about pooing during Labour.
floppet
Spider murderer
Thankyou. Honestly though I only put them here because Moopy's a captive audience and I don't want you all to forget I'm around, pretty sure nobody would be interested anywhere else.
jyxz
User
Chapter 1
Mr F rang me at work at half past nine this morning, and the moment I heard his voice I knew something was wrong. He had that tone — the one he reserves for genuine emergencies, like when the boiler exploded in 2011 or when he once thought he’d lost the cat (the cat was asleep in the laundry basket).“Do you know the council are cutting down your squirrel tree?” he said, in the same voice someone might use to announce a death in the family.
I did not know. I did not know anything except that I was halfway through a cup of tea and trying to pretend I cared about a spreadsheet. Suddenly the spreadsheet meant nothing. My entire morning rearranged itself around the words cutting down.
He explained, breathlessly, that a team of tree surgeons had arrived in the park behind our house, all hi‑vis jackets and clipboards and the faint air of men who enjoy wielding chainsaws. They were standing around the hawthorn — my hawthorn — pointing at it as if it were a problem to be solved rather than a living, breathing, berry‑bearing miracle.
This hawthorn has been there longer than we have. It leans over the corner of my garden like an elderly relative who has chosen my shed as their favourite armchair. It is the tree where the squirrels sit, the tree where the bees hover drunkenly in summer, the tree that produces berries for every bird that passes through. It blocks no one’s light except mine at dawn, and I am never awake at dawn, so frankly it’s doing me a favour.
But the council, in their infinite wisdom — and I do mean infinite, because their capacity for nonsense is boundless — have decided it must go.
Meanwhile, ten feet away stands the sycamore. The monstrous, towering, leaf‑vomiting sycamore that looms over my garden like a malevolent deity. It is taller than my house. It drops leaves into my gutters with the enthusiasm of a toddler scattering Lego. It has been the bane of my existence since 2004. I have contacted the council about it every year, asking them to remove the branches that hang over my garden like a threat. Every year they refuse, because it is “healthy”.
Healthy. Yes. Helpful? No.But the hawthorn — the gentle, shy, wildlife‑supporting hawthorn — that one must be destroyed.
Back on the phone, Mr F was narrating the chaos. The tree surgeons had asked him to open the back gate so they could get into the garden. Unfortunately, the back gate has not been opened since we moved in. It is no longer a gate. It is a geological feature. It is fused to the earth. It is, essentially, a wall with aspirations.
They then asked if they could remove a fence panel.One panel is directly under the hawthorn — the very tree they’re trying to kill — so that’s impossible.One has other branches growing over it.And the third is under the sycamore, which is basically a leafy death trap waiting to drop a branch on someone’s head.
All the while, the rain was absolutely hammering down. Proper biblical rain. Rain that makes you question whether you should start building an ark. And I was at work, on the other end of the phone, heartbroken, imagining my poor hawthorn trembling in the storm like a condemned prisoner awaiting execution.
At 10am, I finally got a text from Mr F saying the tree surgeons had given up and gone away “due to the weather” and would return “some other time”.Some other time.Like a threat. Like a promise. Like the villain in a film who disappears into the mist but will inevitably return for the final showdown.
I told Mr F he must chain himself to the tree tomorrow. I am only half joking. If necessary, I will join him. We will become local legends. People will bring us flasks of tea and sandwiches. The squirrels will sit on our shoulders like woodland familiars.
I did not know. I did not know anything except that I was halfway through a cup of tea and trying to pretend I cared about a spreadsheet. Suddenly the spreadsheet meant nothing. My entire morning rearranged itself around the words cutting down.
He explained, breathlessly, that a team of tree surgeons had arrived in the park behind our house, all hi‑vis jackets and clipboards and the faint air of men who enjoy wielding chainsaws. They were standing around the hawthorn — my hawthorn — pointing at it as if it were a problem to be solved rather than a living, breathing, berry‑bearing miracle.
This hawthorn has been there longer than we have. It leans over the corner of my garden like an elderly relative who has chosen my shed as their favourite armchair. It is the tree where the squirrels sit, the tree where the bees hover drunkenly in summer, the tree that produces berries for every bird that passes through. It blocks no one’s light except mine at dawn, and I am never awake at dawn, so frankly it’s doing me a favour.
But the council, in their infinite wisdom — and I do mean infinite, because their capacity for nonsense is boundless — have decided it must go.
Meanwhile, ten feet away stands the sycamore. The monstrous, towering, leaf‑vomiting sycamore that looms over my garden like a malevolent deity. It is taller than my house. It drops leaves into my gutters with the enthusiasm of a toddler scattering Lego. It has been the bane of my existence since 2004. I have contacted the council about it every year, asking them to remove the branches that hang over my garden like a threat. Every year they refuse, because it is “healthy”.
Healthy. Yes. Helpful? No.But the hawthorn — the gentle, shy, wildlife‑supporting hawthorn — that one must be destroyed.
Back on the phone, Mr F was narrating the chaos. The tree surgeons had asked him to open the back gate so they could get into the garden. Unfortunately, the back gate has not been opened since we moved in. It is no longer a gate. It is a geological feature. It is fused to the earth. It is, essentially, a wall with aspirations.
They then asked if they could remove a fence panel.One panel is directly under the hawthorn — the very tree they’re trying to kill — so that’s impossible.One has other branches growing over it.And the third is under the sycamore, which is basically a leafy death trap waiting to drop a branch on someone’s head.
All the while, the rain was absolutely hammering down. Proper biblical rain. Rain that makes you question whether you should start building an ark. And I was at work, on the other end of the phone, heartbroken, imagining my poor hawthorn trembling in the storm like a condemned prisoner awaiting execution.
At 10am, I finally got a text from Mr F saying the tree surgeons had given up and gone away “due to the weather” and would return “some other time”.Some other time.Like a threat. Like a promise. Like the villain in a film who disappears into the mist but will inevitably return for the final showdown.
I told Mr F he must chain himself to the tree tomorrow. I am only half joking. If necessary, I will join him. We will become local legends. People will bring us flasks of tea and sandwiches. The squirrels will sit on our shoulders like woodland familiars.
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hyperwoof
Guest
I live on a v leafy road with a row of big trees. Recently a bunch were hacked at rather artlessly due to some or other tree disease - to space them out and protect the others. I get why, but it feels lile a v. hostile act.
